The King is Here, Long Live the King!

Ever since their defeat in the third battle of Panipat in 1761, the Marathas have been a subdued lot. Till then, they had ruled over two thirds of India, and justifiably cocked a snook at the rest of us mere mortals. Panipat changed all that. Their evolution into the docile, unassuming `Marathi manoos’ of Poona’s Peths had truly begun!

Modest, humble and self effacing to a fault, even their food appears to be apologetic. Try feeding their breakfast of `kande pohe’ or `sabudanyachi khichdi’ to a robust North Indian brought up on his `swimming-in-butter’ parathas washed down with gallons of lassi, and the snort of derision will be heard right upto.. well, Panipat!

But come summers, and everything changes. The tigers begin to roar. Modesty is flung aside, and every Maharashtrian thumps his chest in justifiable pride. The king, they tell the world, is here, and guess what, he’s a Maratha! King Alfonso, called `hapus’ locally, is not only the king of mangoes, he’s the President, the Pope, the Caliph all rolled into one – and take that, you non Maharashtrians!!

Of course the Alfonso is also grown in the costal districts of Gujarat and Karnataka, but it’s the Ratnagiri and Devgadh/Sindhudurg districts in coastal Maharashtra that give you the sweetest, juiciest variety, and make every Maharashtrian thumb his nose at all the other pretenders.

North India has its langda, chausa and the dussheri, the South has the baiganphali and Neelam, the East has the famed Malda mangoes, while Gujarat’s pride is the flaming orange Kesar.  The Pakistanis swear that the Anwar Ratole is actually the `true king’ – but let’s face it - nothing, just nothing comes even close to the Alfonso. The only carp about the Alfonso that I agree with is that it totally spoils you for any other mango!

Buying your Hapus from the market is a task in itself. First, you must decide whether you would like to pay your rent this month or buy a crate of Hapus. Then there is the matter of making the purchase. If you buy six, two must be ripe (ready to eat in the rickshaw back), two threatening to get there, and two must be mottled with green. You will need to inspect the mangoes, prod them, and then smell them, wrinkling up your nose in distaste for the seller, while trying not to pass out with joy at the divine smell.

If you decide to auction your wife's wedding jewelry and buy a crate of hapus, the raw mangoes must sleep in the hay at the bottom until their older brothers, stacked above them, have gone to the Great Orchard in the Sky.

Aamras, basically mango pulp, and ideally eaten with pooris and dry potato sabzi, is the dish for special occasions in May and June. A Maharashtrian knows that he has truly arrived in the world when the aamras on his family's plates is made entirely from Hapus mangoes and not diluted with a few Payaris. 






Of course, the Hapus is best eaten in your underwear. The whole family gathers around the bucket of cool water in which the fruit has been chilled, and then follows the sheer production number that makes the Japanese tea ceremony look like a primary school picnic! The texture of the fruit demands that it be sliced and not sucked like its poorer cousin the Payari. I say hell with the convention, all mangoes deserve to be sucked!

And my technique, derided as `Gross, Pa – GROSS!!’ by my kids is one I shall defend till my dying day. Take a bowl of chilled home made dahi. Add a spoonful of sugar to sweeten it slightly, and beat it to a creamy consistency. Then soften the chilled Alfonso as you would a Payari before sucking it. Then open the top, and squeeze the delicious orange nectar into the dahi. Keep squeezing till the kernel (called `gutli’ in these parts) pops out and plunks into the bowl. Continue squeezing till you’ve extracted the last golden drop. Now discard the skin, pick up the gutli, swirl it around the dahi-mango mixture, and just slurp on it, making a sound that one normally associates with porn movies.. Continue the process till the bowl no longer requires cleaning, and the gutli resembles a parched seed! Truly orgasmic!

Those unfortunate enough to have to ever leave Maharashtra must survive on the pretenders. But as every Maharashtrian knows, if a mango is not Hapus, it might as well be a papaya!

If Only Life Had an Undo Key...

Circa 1975. Abraham and I were both subalterns, married, and posted to Delhi Cantt. He was a medium gunner, and I a Signaller. Since I wasn’t yet 25 (yeah yeah, we all make mistakes!), Abe generously invited us to share the accommodation he had been allotted at Kirby Place.

So Abe and his delightful (if slightly opinionated) wife Susan were the first Army couple we encountered. Susan was a passionate feminist, who could – and often did – voice her opinions loudly and explicitly. She was a regular contributor to `Femina’, the women’s magazine of the day.

When the latest issue invited responses from its readers to the question `If you had to choose again, would you marry the same guy?’, it was quite natural that Susan’s response would be right on top. It stared with a vociferous `No! Never!!!, and then went on to list about twenty seven different reasons why Abe fell short of being Mr Right!  

The fact that Abe was gleefully waving the magazine and showing off the article to all his friends as if he had been declared the `Gladrags Man-of-the-Year’ was typical of the man! There you had Susan in a nutshell. Where any other newly married bride would have been coy, or at least a tad more circumspect, she had chosen to respond pithily in two words – embellished with five exclamation marks! 

The question itself was intriguing. Given a second choice, would you make the same `mistake’ again? And therein lay the nub. You were stuck. If only life had an Undo key! 

Celebrities when asked during interviews if they had any regrets in life, repeat the same imbecilic response “None at all! We’d gleefully make the same mistakes again!” Now either they are lying through their teeth, or they are plain stupid. Me, the list of things I’d do differently is so long, I gave up jotting them down long back!

My favorite `What-if’ game is to go back into the past, and re-enact scenes as I’d have liked them to have been played out. Of course, the benefit of hindsight is a must – without that I’d probably commit the same bloopers again!

With a Time Machine, and the experience gained over six decades intact – this is the crux, mind you - I often go back and do things differently. The blunders requiring correction could be as mundane as opting for a Vespa rather than a Lambretta as my first bike, or as esoteric as doing more than just holding her hand in the darkened West End theatre when we’d bunked a college lecture to see `The Sound of Music’

Is Time travel a possibility even in the future? I fear not. If it were, people from the future would no doubt have visited us by now. But wouldn’t it be great to meet the ME of four decades ago – the guy needed some sense to be knocked into him for sure! Stop lusting after so-and-so, she’s soon gonna be a nasty mother of two of the most obnoxious brats, and will weigh over 14 stone, I’d tell him! But would he have listened? I have my doubts – he could be a total ass in these matters.

And what would be my answer to the question Susan had been so vociferous about, I’m asked. Given a choice, would I marry the same person again?

Well, give me the same children, and I’d say yes always and every time! They’re the greatest thing to have come out of a life that that can be best described in the words the baroness used to describe her wedding night – lots of laughter, lots of fun – and hardly any pain!

Democracy, Pakistan Style!

Elections in this part of the world are always a source of fun and merriment. While Modi and Rahul slug it out in the preliminaries, with Nitish doing his bit to muddy the NDA waters, in neighboring Pakistan the mirth is even more well pronounced.

The world body formally recognizes a country as `true democracy’ if they have two consecutive successful peaceful transfers of power from one elected Govt to the next. Consecutive, successful and peaceful – all equally important catch words. Last month, for the first time in 63 years, a civilian government in Pakistan completed its five year tenure. Assuming next month’s elections go off without a hitch, and power is transferred peacefully, Pakistan will be half way to being called a true democracy!

But the fun has already begun. Post 2008, all candidates need to be graduates – which has led to a huge boom in the fake degrees/certificates market! But like every student indulging in `nakal’ (copying), there is an almost total absence of `akal’ (common sense).

One candidate had to be rejected when the Returning Officer glanced at his application, and asked him “Aap 1972 mein paida huye, aur 1974 mein matric kar liya - kaisey?” The Doogie Howser wannabe was politely shown the door!

Or another case.

"Aap ki degree kya hai?"

"BSc janab"

"Aap ke BSc ke mazmoon (subjects) kya the?"

"Janab mazmoon to yaad nahin hain, kaghaz pe likhe huye hain!"

Next, Articles 62 and 63 of the Pakistani constitution demand that a candidate be a `good Muslim of integrity and honesty’ who practices Islam, and is knowledgeable about the religion. They were passed by the military dictator General Zia ul Haq in 1985 to convince the religious right that he was serious about Islamicising Pakistan.

So Returning Officers - low level bureaucrats - are empowered to grill prospective candidates on their knowledge of the Quran, and their life style. 

Sample these gems..

• How many wives do you have and which one do you live with?
• Do you believe in honeymoon?
• Have you ever stood outside a girls' college?
• Have you ever watched a 'censored' movie?
• When is it compulsory for you to perform ablution after marriage? (Seriously??)
• If your wife, son and a religious scholar are all drowning in front of you and you can save only one, who will it be and why?
• If you're dying from thirst in the middle of a desert and you come across a bottle of liquor, will you drink it up?
• Have you ever had pig meat?

It would have been funny if it wasn't so serious! 

The great white hope for Pakistan is Imran Khan, pitted against the delectable Meera! He promises to sweep the elections in a tsunami like wave, and carry Pakistan into euphoria, like he did in the 1992 World Cup!

Gen Pervez Musharraf has been rejected from all the four constituencies from which he applied, making his much publicized `come back’ a flop show. Believe it or not, he had hired an Event Management Agency to coordinate the event. They actually sold tickets online – for US$ 2,500, you could book yourself on the same flight as the Commando, share a meal with him, and be a part of the tamasha - I kid you not!!

Another high-profile figure to have been disqualified is Ayaz Amir, a newspaper columnist (and an ex fauji, an Air Defence gunner) who hoped to stand for re-election from the constituency of Chakwal in the eastern Punjab province. Amir was rejected on the basis of articles he had written which were deemed to be against the `ideology of Pakistan’ – apart from rejecting the two nation theory, they purportedly encouraged consumption of alcohol, forbidden in Pakistan.

In India, candidates with criminal records, including murder, routinely get elected to Parliament. Frankly, I don’t know which scenario is worse!

Vive la democracy!! Or as they say in Pakistan, Jhamooriyat zindabad!!

Mother Serious, Come Soon

The Annual Technical Inspection of the Unit was due, and we had to host a visiting General for dinner at the Officers’ Mess. Imagine my horror when the Mess Secretary informed me that the only mess cook we had, had proceeded on leave.

“He received a telegram, sir – mother serious!” Major Vikas intoned lugubriously.

“All our mothers are serious, Vikas” I spluttered in disbelief “you think mine is joking??”

In the age of the sms, the BBM, the iMessage and Viber, how many of us remember that vile, obnoxious and utterly despicable messaging system that went by the name of `TELEGRAM’ or, as it was colloquially called, the `TAAR’? Delivered by diminutive postmen in khaki, generally in the dead of the night – oh, what manner of horrors that midnight knock held! And those postmen were such past masters, with expressions that ranged from mournful hangdog to Cheshire cat grin, depending upon whether the news he was carrying was that of a death or a birth in the family! For him, it was the baksheesh that counted!

Personally, my animosity towards the telegram was well founded. My daughter was born in Bhubaneswar while I happened to be in Poona. Those were pre STD days, and we didn’t even have a land-line connection. Also, my father in law, Lord rest his soul, was a great one for sending telegrams. Even in his letters, he’d often stress on the urgency/gravity of what he was saying by adding an acerbic `Khat ko taar samjho!’.

So naturally he sent me a telegram. Now the ability to properly draft a telegram is directly proportional to two factors - the amount of money in your pocket, and the number of words in your vocabulary. Being severely challenged on both counts, the old man wrote `GIRL BORN SERIOUS OPERATION COME SOON’. I rushed as fast as I could, or as fast as one could rush from Poona to Bhubaneswar in those halcyon days of the Indian Railways, when such an enterprise entailed train changes and longish halts at Secunderabad, Vijaywada and Waltair. I reached two days later. The `serious operation’ turned out to be no more than a normal C-section, and both mother and daughter were in the pink. 

When my son was born a few years later in Mhow, I had to trudge all the way from the MH to the single ramshackle post office that served as the nerve centre of that sleepy station. The sole employee there also doubled as Post Master, stamp dispenser, telegraphist, chowkidar and pretty much everything. His only link to the outside world was a single telegraph line to Indore.  He first sat at the counter, accepted my telegram, handed me back my change, then waddled over to an ancient key console that was a true museum piece, and laboriously keyed the message to his counterpart in Indore. Click-click, click-click, and hey presto – the birth of Siddharth Puri was announced to the world at large!  And even though his birth too was via a C-section, no alarm bells were generated!

In the Army, a telegram was considered a pre-requisite, almost a sin qua non, for any jawan seeking leave. It was quite common to find telegrams (WIFE/MOTHER SERIOUS COME SOON) stapled on to their leave applications. As Commanding Officer, I made it a point to junk all such applications, while rewarding the other `non telegram’ ones. Would you guess it - within a month of my taking over, telegrams to my unit mysteriously stopped altogether!

The fauji equivalent of the telegram used to be the SIGNAL, which we Signallers had to process and clear. Those of us who performed DSO (Duty Signal Officer) duties in shifts as subalterns will recall just how intricate it was to correctly route a signal from, say Bengdubi in the North East to Pattan in J&K!

An apocryphal story on Army Signals bears repeating. A GOC was to visit a remote location. A signal was sent from his Headquarters –

VISIT GOC (.) WASHER WOMAN AND OTHER FACILITIES TO BE ARRANGED (.)

Now the operator at the sending end, probably towards the end of a long shift, omitted one vital word, and the signal went as

VISIT GOC (.) WOMAN AND OTHER FACILITIES TO BE ARRANGED (.)

The CO Signals was naturally furious, and ordered the DSO on duty to immediately send an amendment. The young guy, fresh from his Young Officers’ Course, sent this gem  

REFER EARLIER SIGNAL (.) REQUEST INSERT WASHER BETWEEN GOC AND WOMAN (.)

Do they still have telegrams, I wonder? Is the Indian Postal Service still in business? What became of that `All-in-One’ superhero at Mhow PO?

Maybe it wasn’t all that bad, the lack of communication had plenty of silver linings.

Fast forward to the present.

A guy carelessly leaves his cell phone lying around. Of course guys, being guys, are totally sloppy and/or overly sentimental, and never delete those lovey-dovey messages, they like to read them again and again. And of course wives, being wives, will make a grab for the phone at the first opportunity, and feverishly browse through the Message Inbox.

End of story? You’re kidding, right?? Oh, for the days of yore….

The Times, They Are A'Changin!

My daughter Puja and I were at the Command CSD Canteen, and I was lamenting the non availability of `Imperial Leather’, my preferred bathing soap.

“You still use SOAP?” she cried incredulously, making the word `soap’ sound like a four letter word (I know it is, but you know what I mean). “Pa, who uses SOAP (there again, the same sound) these days?”

I glanced around the aisle, ran my eye over the three whole shelf rows choc-a-bloc full of the offending item, and was just about to answer “Well, just about everybody”, when she yanked my arm and dragged me to another counter.

“Here!” she said, grabbing a fancy looking tube from another counter, “use this!”

The label on the collapsible tube said `Shower Gel', and I wondered how on earth it could replace a healthy bar of soap which one could (and did) vigorously rub all over one’s torso. At the risk of sounding an ignoramus, I asked her how one used the stuff. She rolled her eyes heavenwards, and gave me the look one normally reserves for mentally challenged six year olds, and sighed “With a loofa, pa!” 

The shower gel, she explained, was not for the face – for that she picked up another smaller tube called a `face wash’. It was my turn to roll my eyes skywards.

As kids, all we had at home were two basic soaps – a hefty red `Lifebuoy’ bar for bathing, and an even bigger yellow one for washing clothes. The richer kids used Lux, the `soap of the film stars’, which accounted for the fact that they always smelt (or so we thought) a bit like pansies. The Lifebuoy, on the other hand, smelt exactly like what it was billed as – a germicidal. I finally gave up on it only when I saw it being used as a hand wash in the Zoology lab in College, and all the girls (the ones that mattered anyway) crinkling up their noses in disgust at its offensive presence in their lives.

We Army guys, our preferred brands of toiletries (disparagingly referred to as `saaboon-tel’) is normally limited to whatever is available in the CSD Canteen! After Lifebouy, I tried all sorts, including the Karen Lunal inspired Liril. Check out the ad – the sight of the bikini clad Karen cavorting under a waterfall sold me quite a few cakes of Liril in the 80’s. Had to give it up hastily when a pretty young thing asked me why I always reeked so strongly of nimbu pani!

Call me archaic, but I still shave with an old fashioned double-edged razor blade, till recently used a cup soap - migrated to shaving cream after my brother complained that my bathroom smelt like a barber shop, and regularly use talcum powder. Yes, TALCUM POWDER – kar lo jo karna hai!

My son, on the other hand, alternates between shaving gels and foams, uses a Gillette Fusion razor, and has a set of colognes, after shaves, perfumes and deodorants that would be the envy of Priyanka Chopra! To be fair, he is way way too conservative when compared to my son in law, who takes the cake, icing et al. Being metro sexual is one thing, but Sukh is just a product or two short of having his own show in Vegas!

Shampoo entered my life just a couple of years ago – earlier it was plain Shikakai soap. The kids have separate shampoos, conditioners and hair products even your hair didn’t know existed! Sukh has now come upon an `All-in-one’ - shampoo, conditioner, face wash and shower gel – which he can use from head to toe. Of course, you can watch the entire season of `Homeland’ by the time he emerges from the shower!

My nephew Rohit was much the same. After a shower, he’d sprinkle an entire can of talcum powder over his expansive frame, and would then stomp all over the house leaving his trademark Size-11 footprints in stark white in every room. We called his showers `maha mast abhishekams’, and I once seriously suggested he use milk instead of water!

We are a nation of washers, not wipers – which is our biggest bane during our trips abroad. Here too, times have changed. The brass `lota’ gave way to the `mugga’ once we entered the age of plastic, and then of course the hygiene faucet (inexplicably called the `muslim shower’ in some quarters) caused a paradigm shift in our morning rituals. What a cataclysmic change that was!

And post the act, like Macbeth, when we need to wash the `guilt’ off our hands, we now have an obscene range of liquid hand washes to choose from - of all fragrances, colours and viscosities. Not for me, however, the ghastly `hand sanitisers’ that the modern lass carries in her handbag (along with pepper spray and a .22 pistol, if she happens to be in Delhi). I tried one once, and found I needed to wash my hands immediately after, since the sanitiser left my hands feeling gooey (`chip-chip’ if you know what I mean)!

The ubiquitous yellow `shining cloth’ we used to brasso our stars and shine our ammunition boots with is now passé. We have separate micro fiber cleaning cloths for every surface - laptop screens, glassware, and even for spectacle lenses! But believe me, if you really want a sparkling shine on any surface, nothing, just nothing beats an old baniyan!

As a kid, I had to hide my Brylcreem from a dad who insisted on `khopre-ka-tel’. Now, I guess I’ll have to hide a bar of soap from my daughter in favour of a tube of shower gel! 

For years, it was our parents who dictated our choices. Now it is our children. The times, sure, they are a changin’!

Abhi toh main jawan hoon...

Have been trying to translate Hafeez Jalandhari's seminal work `Abhi toh main jawan hoon' into English for some time now. To those of us who love, cherish and swear by those lines, the monumental difficulty of the task is apparent. To translate into straightforward prose, all one needs is a good Urdu to English dictionary. The real challenge is to translate it into poetry that can stand on its own. Poetry that retains the essence of the original, yet is not quite a literal translation. Here is my humble effort. Any comments or suggestions towards improving this effort would be more than welcome.

The fragrance wafts o’er the dew

As flowers bloom, in every hue

A thousand melodies fill the air

As spring is here, in bridal wear

It’s time for cheer, bring out the wine

Come back, the moment is divine

Come fill the cup, don’t turn away

Do not demur, do not delay

Do cast your eye upon the spring

The scene’s a dream upon a wing

As evening falls, dark clouds appear

Across the skies, from far and near

Wine lovers will always have their say

As to the taverns, they wend their way

Off with the skeptic look, my man

For I’m not naïve, nor weak nor van

Heaven can wait, as can piety

For I’m still young, so let me be.

Yes, there’s talk of God, of fear

Of salvation that’s never near

Redemption, and the need to know

The after life, where souls will go

But man of God, do hark my word

Is not your contention absurd

Tell me dear man, hand on heart

Can love and beauty stand apart?

When joy and fragrance fill the air

And lissome beauties, tall and fair

Bewitching smiles, do lie in wait

How can our passions ever abate

Sensuous glances, full of grace

Entice one into their embrace

Guiles of love, and passion’s sway

Can mere mortals then stay away?

Okay, to cut the story short

Your point of view, your kindly thought

I may agree with, I may see

But I’m still young, so let me be..

To walk along the mountain side

Or trek the streams at eventide

To hear the nightingales in song

And blooming roses, all along

And then to chance upon your love

And see all worries, gloom dissolve

I guess it’s written in our stars

Tears or joy, what shall be ours..

These tales of love, these songs of yore

Are ones we have all heard before

Some speak of youths, full of flair

And others may merely be hot air

These skies, these meadows evergreen

Are scenes that no one has ever seen

Bounty in joy, calming in strife

They are the essence of our life

A life that’s short, that’s so finite

And so every breath holds delight

But is the end ever so nigh

No, no, not now, how can I die

I’ve long to go, I’ve much to see

For I’m still young, so let me be..

No bondage, nor freedom shall remain

No rise, no fall, no wax nor wane

No past, no present, no despair

No vows, no promises, no care

Hope and despair, both beguiled

With past and future reconciled

All sense, all logic shall now depart

There’s just the wine, and the heart

Come let the wine flow, let’s rejoice

Oh nightingale, where is your voice

Do sing of joy, draw out our pain

Let just the cup, the ale remain..

Let every voice sing out as one

Drink on, the joy has just begun

A drink, a drink, don’t you see

For I’m still young, so let me be… 

Here is the version immortalised by the mother-daughter duo of Malika Pukhraj and Tahira Syed - whom I liken to the finest single malt and blended Scotch respectively.

And here is the original version in Roman Urdu...

Hawaa bhii khushagawaar hai,

Gulon pe bhi nikhaar hai

Tarannumein hazaar hai,

Bahaar purbahaar hai

Kahaan chalaa hai saaqiyaa,

idhar to laut idhar to aa

Arey, yeh dekhtaa hai kya?

Uthaa subuu, subuu uthaa

Subuu uthaa, piyaalaa bhar,

Piyaalaa bhar ke de idhar

Chaman ki simt kar nazar,

Samaa to dekh bekhabar

Woh kaali kaali badliyaan,

Ufaq peH ho gayi ayaan

Woh ik hajum-e-maikashaan,

Hai su-e-maikadaa ravaan

Yeh kyaa gumaan hai badgumaan,

Samajh na mujh ko naatavaa

Kayaal-e-zuhad abhi kahaan?

Abhi to main jawaan hoon

Ibaadaton ka zikr hai,

Nijaat ki bhi fikr hai

Junoon hai sawaab ka,

Khayaal hai azaab kaa

Magar suno to sheikh ji,

Ajeeb shai hain aap bhi

Bhalaa shabaab-o-aashiqui!,

Alag huay bhi hain kabhi?

Hasiin jalwaa raiz hon,

Adaaein fitanaa khaiz hon

Havaaein itr baiz hon,

Toh shauq kyun na taiz hon?

Nigaah haai fitanaa gar,

Koi idhar koi udhar

Ubhaarate hon aish par,

Toh kyaa karey koi bashar?

Chalo ji qissaa muktasar,

Tumhaaraa nuqtaa-e-nazar

Durust hai to ho magar,

Abhi to main jawaan hoon

YeH gasht kohsaar ki,

YeH sair ju-e-waar ki

YeH bulbulon ke chahchahey,

YeH gulrukHon ke qah-qahey

Kissi sey mail ho gayaa,

Toh ranj-o-fikr kho gayaa

Kabhi jo waqt so gayaa,

Yeh hans gayaa who ro gayaa

Yeh ishq kii kahaaniyaan,

Yeh ras bhari jawaaniyaan

Udhar sey meharbaaniyaan,

Idhar sey lantaraaniyaan

Yeh aasmaan yeh zameen,

Nazzaraahaa-e-dilanashiin

Unhey hayaat aafareen,

Bhalaa main chhorh doon yahin

Hai maut is qadar qarib,

Mujhey na aayegaa yaqin

Nahin nahin, abhi nahin,

Nahin-nahin abhi nahin

Na gham kashood-o-bast ka,

Baland ka na past ka

Na bood ka naH hast ka,

Na vaadaa-e-alast ka

Ummid aur yaas gum,

Havaas gum qayaas gum

Nazar sey aas-paas gum,

Hamaa, bajuz gilaas gum

Na mai mein kuchh kami rahey,

Gadaah sey hamdami rahey

Nashist yeh jami rahey,

Yahi hama hami rahey

Who raag chheRh mutribaa,

Tarab-fizaa, alam-rubaa

Asar sadaa-e-saaz ka,

Jigar meiN aag de lagaa

Har ik lab pe ho sadaa,

Na haath rok saaqiyaa

Pilaaye jaa pilaaye jaa,

Abhi to maiN jawaan hoon

   

Main pal do pal ka shayar hun...

Born as Abdul Hayee in Karimpura, Ludhiana 92 years to the day, on 8th March 1921, he would single-handedly ignite my love for Urdu poetry, and ensure that I also learned the intricate Urdu script entirely on my own. I was in college in the late 60’s, and Abdul Hayee had by then metamorphosed into Sahir Ludhianvi.

Being in our teens, it was naturally the intensity of romantic poetry that really drove us. At Fergusson College, we had formed a society much like the Dead Poet’s Society of the Robin Williams film. Ayn Rand’s highly rightist literature, the intensity of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath’s verses, and the sheer passion of Sahir Ludhianvi – these were animatedly discussed and shared in the college amphitheatre, or over dosas and coffee at Vaishali.

The greats – Ghalib, Meer, Iqbal and Faiz were far too obtuse, and would come much later. It was Sahir and Kaifi Azmi and Balraj Sahni of the Indian People’s Theatre Association and the Progressive Writer’s Association who were our soldier heroes of the day.

In 1969, the Ghalib Centenary was being observed/celebrated all over India, and there was a mushiara being held at Bal Gandharva Theatre, Poona. Sahir was to attend. We managed to wrangle our way into the theatre, and seeing the great Sahir stride into the auditorium was the highlight of my college years (yes, dad – I know, that’s the reason I didn’t do too well, and had to settle for a career in the Army!)

Whereas every other poet on the dais recited glowing eulogies to Ghalib, Sahir stunned the audience by reciting his nazm `Who toh Urdu zubaan thi’ which lambasted the step-motherly treatment given to Urdu, while deifying Ghalib.

Ghalib jisay kehtay hain Urdu hi ka shaayar tha

Urdu pay sitam dhaa kar Ghalib pe karam kyu’n ho

 The hall was aghast, and the moderator Ali Sardar Jaffri got into an open tiff with Sahir, right there on the stage! It was scandalous, and of course raised Sahir’s stature to that of a demi-God in our eyes!

Those were pre Internet days, there wasn’t even TV in Poona – so all we had was books. And woe betide me, Sahir’s poetry collection `Talkhiyan’ was available only in the Urdu script! I grabbed it, and got either my father or my brother-in-law to read it out while I furiously copied the verses in Devanagri. Since my father obviously considered this a total waste of time, and since my brother-in-law was based in Bombay, the exercise was frustrating in the extreme. So I said, hell with it, I’m going to learn the Urdu script!

Sahir was an out and out communist. Even in the Johnie Walker song in `Naya Daur’ he says `Aaya hun main bandhu Roos aur Cheen mein ja ke, kaam ki baat bata di, main ne comedy gana gaa ke!’ Or in this fabulous parody of Iqbal’s Tarana-e-Hind – `Cheen-o-Arab hamara, Hindustan hamara, rehne ko ghar nahin hai, sara jahaan hamara’ from `Phir Subah Hogi’. Note the rueful shrug as Raj Kapoor waves at the beat constable, calling him `woh santri hamara, who paasbaan hamara..'

An avowed atheist, Sahir wrote bhajans like `Allah tero naam, Ishwar tero naam’ (Hum Dono), and in the days when it was fashionable to be super patriotic, he wrote `Jinhe naaz hai Hind par who kahan hai’ (Pyaasa).

Sahir’s contribution to Hindustani cinema was colossal. Take away Sahir Ludhianvi, and what is left of `Pyaasa’? His poetry, of course, outlives him, and still stirs passions. Listen to the soulful `Chalo ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jayein hum dono’, or what became my anthem in life `Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya’ – and you just marvel at the sheer genius of the man!   

For himself, he just shrugged it all off, and modestly wrote in his introduction to `Talkhiyan’…

Duniya ne tajurbaat-o-hafadiz ki shakl mein

Jo kuch mujhe diya hai, lauta raha hun main…