The way it was: Rendering verse
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
Faiz was essentially a romantic. Can anyone make a revolution without being a
romantic? At the same time, can any one make revolution without anger?
A far as reciting his own verse is concerned Taufiq Raffat was the worst poet in
the world. Once on walking into the Lahore Television studios I was met with a
visibly irritated Shahid Mahmood Nadeem. Apparently when Shahid was recording
Taufiq recite his own poems Aslam Azhar, the managing director unexpectedly
walked in on them. He was aghast to hear what Taufiq was doing to the English
verse.
Aslam Azhar scowled at Shahid in disbelief demanding that Taufiq be instantly
removed from the studio. Shahid was embarrassed beyond description. He had with
immense effort succeeded in persuading Taufiq to appear in the literary
programme he was producing. Taufiq was a friendly person, but preferred being
left out of such hassles. He liked writing verse while commuting between Sialkot
and Lahore or in the company of carpenters who worked in the woodwork factory
established by his father at the turn of the last century.
Taufiq’s father was a resourceful man. When he was a young boy of eleven, he
suffered from Tuberculosis. In those days TB was considered a terminal disease
because there was no cure for it. Doctors gave him ten years at the most, but
Taufiq’s father lived to be 91. I met Taufiq for the first time at the Punjab
University, Fine Arts Department. He was a close friend of Professor Khalid
Iqbal since they were in school at Dera Dun. I remember he bought a painting of
mine for twenty-three rupees. I think he should have at least paid me
twenty-five. The amount was not bad for the late fifties, and I was content to
convert it into Winston Newton tubes of paint the same afternoon.
Poets are always eager to recite their verses. There are some, which are even
prepared to pay for the tea if any one is willing to lend an ear. Taufiq spared
you the ordeal and instead amused his friends with country humour, which he
would pick off his carpenter friends. Every time he came to Lahore, he would
visit Khalid Iqbal at the department and much to Khalid’s embarrassment and
our pleasure enriched our repertoire of humour with new inventions. I have never
ceased to wonder at the imagination and modesty of the anonymous wits that have
never ever claimed their authorship to a joke.
Shahid Mahmood Nadeem demonstrated great courage and tact to manoeuvre Mr Aslam
Azhar into the adjacent room and in low voice tried to inform him that the man
was the poet himself. Aslam Azhar was not impressed and shouted as loud he could
in his chaste English accent, “Even if that is so, I will still not have it.
Find someone who can read him properly.” I cannot think of anyone who could
read Taufiq better than Kaleem Omar.
Kaleem is a poet of substance himself, but greatly devoted to Taufiq. I remember
he never lost an opportunity to recite Taufiq to an audience. What a vast
difference it made to the poems when the poet sat silently in a corner drinking
Coca-Cola. Taufiq is no more, but his vibrant images and descriptions of common
sights and things live on. It warms my heart no end that a small painting of
mine of the Commercial Building, which I rendered sitting across the Mall in the
Coffee House, is in his family’s possession.
Faiz Ahmad Faiz had marginally a better voice for rendering verse. But he
managed it much better, stressing words with his husky round voice and stopping
without warning in the middle of a line, to have a puff or a sip. I never heard
Faiz tell a joke, but without doubt he was infectiously adorable. His admirers
and protégés never got tired of pandering to him and claiming his friendship.
Even Murtaza Bashir the Bengali painter who could only manage broken sentences
in Urdu would always insist on asking Faiz at parties, “Faij sahib aik ghajal
ho jai.”
Faiz spawned an insufferable crowd of mediocrity, whose claim to fame depends on
their skill to show off their familiarity with Faiz. I wish they were also able
to put a few lines together, which could penetrate feelings as Faiz could so
easily accomplish. Some of the most boring and tiresome people I have come
across are ones who have puffed at his cigarette butts (Faiz was a chain smoker)
or asked him over for an evening to show him off to their acquaintances.
Faiz never acted precious and usually obliged. I have never come across a person
who would so agreeably accept an invitation and so graciously indulge others and
also amiably allow him to be indulged. He would make himself at home, which
would put the host and hostess at ease. It is a precious gift that Faiz had,
which most celebrities offensively lack.
There are scores of young and old poets, who try to emulate Faiz, which is the
cause of their undoing. Analogies can be often misleading, but this brings to
mind some of the former students of Khalid Iqbal, who are enraptured by the
painter’s work, with disastrous consequences. Khalid is a modern person with a
modern sensibility. He is an objective, rational and enlightened person. He
neither believes in ghosts or metaphysics. He is a man of reason who spurns
ideologies. He is a Shavian cynic who believes in doubting all certainties. The
man’s paintings are not a product of his conscious self, but a bi-product of
his existential being.
There is an Urdu saying which can be translated thus, “A crow that ventured to
walk like a peacock forgot the way he walked himself.” Similarly poets who
adore Faiz forget that he was a product of his own particular circumstances and
concerns. He was obviously a great romantic, which is evident from his earlier
poems.
Even later when he had steadied his heart he remained a romantic. In addition
Faiz was a scholar of Urdu, Arabic, Persian and English literature. In the
creative endeavours he helped himself to any thing which served his purpose. The
one error Faiz made was that he lent an extra life to the Ghazal, which should
have been allowed to die its natural death. By employing the literary
ambiguities and conceits of Elliot and Ezra Pound, he enriched the language of
poetry. He spurned conventional platitudes and while creating new images he
recharged some of the old ones. He replaced the mystique of the cruel beloved
with the romance of the proletarian revolution. He not only changed the idiom of
poetic language, but also broadened its intellectual substance, bringing it
nearer to our time.
Faiz was fortunate to have great artists like Fareeda Khanum and Iqbal Bano and
many others of talent to sing his poems. Taufiq Rafat had only Kaleem Omar.
Compared with the two, Habib Jalib was endowed with a great voice.
I still remember the first time I heard him recite one of his poems at the
Cheney’s Lunch Home. He had a rising resonant voice, which held every one
captive. I have often heard admirers of Faiz criticising Jalib for his explicit
topicality, his overt concern for the events of the day. If poetry does not
distance itself from everyday actual events, they argue, it can regress to
propaganda.
Faiz’s poetry on the other hand by transcending transient concerns is able to
focus on larger issues, which address all “wretched” humans. The supporters
of the other camp assert that Jalib is outspoken and forthright in his poetic
utterances and addresses an audience whose sufferings and concerns are closely
linked with his own.
Jalib’s exasperation with the class system and repressive political culture
and values built up great resentment in him. The substance of his poetic
experience could not be confined within tidy formal patterns. Jalib expresses
his anguish and anger and has little time to ponder over personal suffering or
romantically dilate over events of the time. People have seen how he could
overwhelm hearts and shake mountains. We all remember how his poetry shook the
foundations of the Ayub government, which all the king’s men could never put
together again.
Jalib should be judged for what he was and not what others expect he should have
been. The same is true of Faiz. Faiz was seldom angry. Instead of inciting the
reader to action he tried to alter his feelings. Faiz was essentially a
romantic. Can anyone make a revolution without being a romantic? At the same
time, can any one make revolution without anger? But I must add that while Jalib
used his own musical voice to recite his poetry, Faiz was lucky to have Fareeda
and Iqbal Bano sing for him. When Fareeda sings Faiz, she can with her evasive
presence transport the audience out of themselves.
Even those who should regard themselves as the victims of Faiz’s verse are
enthralled to ecstasy. They are obviously quite dumb. That the first choice of
the rich and the privileged should be to have Faiz’s poetry sung to them is a
form of masochism, which boggles the mind.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist