Safdar Hashmi- Natak Jaari Hai

Art is at the center of any political or social upheaval. This is the assertion with which some of the greatest artists of 20th century did set on their journey. One such artist was Safdar Hashmi.

New Delhi, January 4th 1989:

That winter day witnessed a sea of artists, intellectuals and workers joining hands. What was so on this cold January day that brought them together? It was the incident 3 days back at Jhandapur on the outskirts of Delhi that shook an entire nation. Safdar Hashmi was the conveyor of Janam- a theatre group that performed on streets. From rising inflation to workers plight from American President's visits to police violence- Safdar's plays, some drew inferences from Bretch- were varied and touched a milieu of such crisis. Safdar's endeavor at the heart of it, was to start a cultural awakening. It was a movement which sought to make arts as a means of expression for freedom, economic and social justice.

New Delhi, January 1st 1989:

On a day when Delhi haze had quietly settled over its smoke throwing chimneys, in the Industrial area of Jhandapur, Janam was supposed to perform its street play 'Halla Bol' in support of trade union demands; when their adversary Mukul Sharma- a political thug from ruling Congress(I) confronted Safdar and his comrades. He along with his group of men assaulted the actors. They fled. Over a settling sun Safdar and his troupe ran for their lives, but only till Mukul Sharma found them. Safdar Hashmi was ferociously beaten by hockey sticks and cricket bats. He received many blows on his head. Next day, Safdar, as his comrades called him, succumbed to his injuries in a Delhi hospital.

It stunned everyone. Recounting the incident Javed Akhter says that it wasn't that this was one of the first such brazen attacks on artists, but it is just that we couldn't take it any longer. There had to be an outburst. Enough was enough.

On January 4, over fifteen thousand people gathered to bury Safdar. The funeral procession was nine miles long. Every artist, every intellectual, every worker – it was a sight to behold.

Janam returned to Jhandapur, the same day, to finish what they had begun. Dressed in their trademark black, solemn and angry, the players threw themselves into their art and their activism. Among them was Moloyashree Hashmi, Safdar's wife. Reflecting on that moment, Moloyashree wrote several years later.

"We are often asked what made us perform in Jhandapur that day. Why did we go there a day after Safdar died? Was it difficult? And so on. At that time, it seemed the most natural thing for us to do; I don't think it was carefully planned. Was it an emotional response? Perhaps it was – we had lost a dear friend, comrade, companion. But I don't think it was merely an emotional response. We were doing what we had been doing for so many years: performing among the people. And as performers, we felt very strongly, as we do till date, that we should never leave a performance incomplete. The 4 January performance was also Janam's salute to Safdar, the people's artist. And there was also the political context: we had to assert that people's art cannot be crushed by brute force."

It may be of some interest that Safdar Hashmi taught in Kashmir University in mid 70s, right after he completed his M.A from St. Stephen's Delhi.

In solidarity with the organisers of Gallery One, who put a fight against the system. For art shall prevail.

'Safdar Tu Zinda Hai.'

A documentary ‘Natak Jaari hai’ on this episode and the larger message that Safdar wanted to carry forward, directed by Lalit Vachani can be purchased online on the below URL:

http://magiclanternmovies.in/film/natak-jari-hai

This piece was carried in Greater Kashmir's March 6th 2015 edition.

Abba: Growing around an Idealist Grandfather

On sunny summer days, Abba would hold our fingers and walk towards the Grand Mosque every Sunday without a fail. While on the way from our home in Anzimar Khanyar, Abba would ensure to carry corn for pigeons and city doves, from a shop near Khwaje Bazar. Later in the large span of Jamia Masjid’s Bunyanesque gardens, that immediately transmute you into some medieval grandeur of royals, Abba would call the pigeons and feed them. In times, when Father was posted in Anantnag, Abba would take us for long walks over the bund, which ran the span of our ancient river Jhelum, while serpentining deviously through the breezy town. Laden with willow trees that ran thick and dense at some places, while its branches dropped carrying dry hay from a fresh harvest, Abba would ask us to sit and listen to the chirping of birds.  Listening to the songs, hearts of migratory birds that carried, from far off lands, some parts of land whose stories Abba read and lived with him forever. The wind carries music for those who listen, as goes an Arab saying.

It's been 10 years since he left us on a sombre March day. Yet his values and principles stay with us like a fresh spring shower: forever emanating its kindness and love. For a fairly young guy, I used to have long conversations with Abba. Seeing my interest in cricket he would translate some articles written in Urdu into English for me; encouraging us always to read. Abba was an avid reader himself.

He read lot of Russian literature during his formative years which perhaps explained his bent towards Marxist ideology. Few months back, piqued by Abba's interesting intellectual life, I got around talking to one of his old friend- Khwaja Salah-ud-din, who had migrated to Pakistan in '48 and later worked for Voice of America. He is currently based in Washington, USA.

Their memories relate to an era which in the 21st century medium could appropriately be described as ancient because they were still yoked to the colonial rule and their minds were full of romantic dreams, about a society emancipated and wedded to the ideal of the uplift of the underdog. These were the dreams that Abbad and his comrades shared with each other when they would assemble at our house, joined by Khwaja Qalander usually, as well as during the very long walk that they had to take every day to and from  Amar Singh college. That was the time when subcontinent was going through an uneasy transition, preparing to shed its colonial shackles and embark on the realisation of the dreams kindled by the defeat of the monster of Fascism at the hands of the allied forces, says Mr Salah-ud-din. "We were mightily impressed by the decisive role played in this Pyrrhic Allied victory in World War II by the Soviet forces, who routed no less than three hundred Panzer divisions compared to mere eighty that the West had to tackle. This enormous military feat reinforced our admiration for the Soviet system and also became an inspiration for the teaming millions of the newly emerging nations. Socialism thus became a burning topic among the educated class and our group was no exception. The Progressive Writers movement was very popular and we savoured the verse and prose that it generated, particularly favorites like Krishin Chander, Ismat Chughtai, Manto, Faiz and the like. Mikhail Shelakhov, among the Modern Soviet novelist was a favorite too as were his predecessors like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky."

In his later years partly disillusioned with what socialism could never transpire into, through its personality cult figurative ideas, step by step eliminated almost the entire Bolshevik leadership cultivated by Lenin.

Abba believed in equal rights. His generosity was completely unbiased. He dotted on domestic helps, always regarding them as part of the family. Abba would insist them to share their meals on the same dastarkhaan with the rest of the family. There are countless such small gestures and values that Abba without an effort instilled in us. For someone of his times, when women liberation was rarely given a thought in our part of the woods, Abba on his part, always believed that true development of a society lied in how we treat women.  

Religious bigotry and extremism were things Abba always opposed.   Like most of the teenagers with an impressionable mind, I got buoyed and carried away with September 11 attacks, hailing Osama and his ultras as heroes. The obsession was starting to take devious turns, when Abba pulled me back. He would jokingly call me a ‘Foolish Fanatic’.

Everything necessary to understand Abba lies between two stories: the story of a generous man and the story of a man who defied what death brings. These stories run like parallel rivers, amidst a maze of everything that life throws at me- the deceit, the ugliness, utter breakdown of faith in humanity. Of lives we live without love; selfishly. Abba died quietly on that early spring day, walking gracefully into death, accepting death like he accepted life and its fallacies with a smile and hope. He lives in us. Forever. 

Art and its relevance.

Why do we write? For that matter what is the use of any form of art? To earn name and fame? To have our names spoken about in literary events? To gain praise? Or is it what goes around us,  a soul stirring experience leading to a reaction, that we open out on paper, in theatre, in a performance. So much is going around actually: rotten politics, injustice, cynicism and apathy of politicians towards public and in turn the indifference of public towards politics. It angers one. You feel like giving a jerk to people- wake up, don’t pretend to sleep. But it will go in vain. It could be called a propaganda. The vice is deep in us. So what does one do in this helplessness? You resort to writing! Scribbling down whatever disturbs you. For few moments all the lava that is growing inside, you let it out. You feel lighter, momentarily. In certain cases we may see it as a moral obligation towards the society we come from. 

But then the question remains: how far social and political commitment can be merged with literature together? Or should they be merged at all. Shouldn’t we keep them apart. Literature is bigger than politics, it out grows everything, Amitav Ghosh had told Sameer- an editor friend with Khaleej times here, when he met him few weeks back. 

It feels odd when someone Marxist by ideology criticizes the general public for its ordinary tastes. For its lack of understanding, involvement, engagement. When we see injustice around us, and we have cases and stories right from Kunanpushpora to Pathribal to more recent killing of 3 young men in Budgam- we do want to take a moral stand on it. Right? As a human, yes. As an artist? Well lets dissect it further. As an artist one may be averse to such events. That in actual fact means, one man will have two sets of moral commitments. And that is fallible on its own. Good art can only be made, while being honest to oneself, because the soul and the artist ultimately will search for the answer. A decision perhaps has to made at some point of time: To live as an artist or as a human.

In my opinion any form of art: novel, poetry, drama or even movies through which you are able to sympathize with the public opinion, is a weapon in social or political struggle. Art can never be separated from politics. If you observe, Government of every country is using or curbing art to establish its rule. To bring a fundamental change art is an essential and inseparable form. If an artist isn’t politically committed, then his art becomes irrelevant. The choice is artist’s, he can remain neutral, no two questions about it. But the fact also remains, good art and literature especially from 20th century onwards is born under some form of protest. Whether the protest is only political, social or philosophical, is difficult to divulge into and irrelevant too, but in the mind of the artist the power of protest and revolt has been very strong. We’ve number of examples. Garcia Lorca- a poet, theatre director- gave his life fighting against the right wing bourgeois in the Spanish civil war. He wrote: "Outside of Madrid, the theatre, which is in its very essence a part of the life of the people, is almost dead, and the people suffer accordingly, as they would if they had lost their two eyes, or ears, or a sense of taste. We are going to give it back to them.”

In a historic moment when many artists join together, a special type of consciousness and sensibility is born, leading to a movement which will reach the common man’s heart and soul. 

Long live the revolution. 

When you sat among tulips:

Smooth you sit, and roll your languid eyes
the kohl in them carry a purpose of night
Amidst flowers you bloom
this smile when you let

You caught some fancy
while looking left
it is me who is rolling
the wind in the tree.

Undisturbed by the delight
your face gives me
I slowly settle
in these solemn lips.

The wind carries me.

Beyond a Boundary- 25th March 1992

We settled early that day in front of our burly Bush TV set. A bevy of cousins had landed in our house. In Tony Greig’s words ‘it doesn’t get bigger than this’. An entire nation gasped its breathe, Kashmir of ’92- where almond bloom was sparsely visible, and thaw of spring carried blood stains from another wounded winter. Such were those times in our forsaken part of the world. For now though, only one thing mattered. Only one prayer played on our lips: from Makhdhoom sahib to Dastgeer sahib shrine, the early morning Khatem-e-shariefs reverberated with a green swing. 

A huddle was created in our living room- in a house 200 years old, on the banks of what was once a beautiful watercourse: Nallamar. Cricket had caught the imagination and fascination of youngsters like me in Kashmir that damp spring. It was March 25th, and Pakistan was playing England in the World Cup final. 

After winning the toss, Imran, once again making a statement at the toss, in what is now a famous cornered tiger crew neck shirt, chose to bat first. In the team meeting prior to starting the game, he told his players that Gooch looked nervous.  

When Pakistani openers began their innings under a sun swathed Melbourne Cricket Ground; first few boundaries resonated with Narrey Takbeers in our part of the home. It was our burrow today. We were allowed to do any thing. The joy though was short lived, and Pakistan was reduced to 24/2: Sohail and Raja both cooling their heels in the pavilion. It was left to the old war horses to once again resurrect the ship. Javed and Imran built up an ideal partnership, to give a platform for a young dynamite Inzamam- fresh from a match winning knock in the semi-final, to launch yet another heavy-duty attack. He tore the English bowlers apart, receiving a roarous applause from Melbourne to Malkha, all the way. Wasim joined the party too with his little blitzkrieg; 249 on a big ground, with a handful bowling attack seemed enough. Grandfather disagreed. England bat low down, he argued. Perhaps, it was the old evil eye he wanted to deflate. Superstitiousness runs deep when it came to Pakistan, I knew all too well. 

When Wasim got Botham; caught behind the stumps, of what Beefy till this day maintains he never edged, the revelry knew no bounds. Botham was dangerous and nasty, in equal measure. His insulting remark on touring Pakistan few years back, was given a good reply by Aamir Sohail, who nudged past him while he [Beefy] unwillingly carried himself from the crease. The taunt was carried into the following summer, when Pakistan toured England. Skipper Gooch, pleasingly clean shaven that day, fell to a brilliant catch by Aaqib Javed in the deep. Unusual to use such words for Pakistani fields men. This seemed to be their day, got another assurance. ‘That for a world cup final, is a great great catch’, quipped the suave David Gower in commentary box. Graeme Hick- the prodigal adopted English son, widely tipped as the next batting sensation, fell to a Mushtaq googly. Englishmen failed in reading it from the hand, Warne assured us in many next Ashes contests. Lamb and Neil Fairbrother threatened to take the game away from Pakistan, when Imran- he could not possibly get a trick wrong, threw the ball to Fairbrother’s Lancashire team mate Wasim. In two brilliant in-swing dippers, Wasim sealed the game, castling Lamb and Chris Lewis. Gooch many years later conceded that one could possibly only admire such skills. From then on it was just the matter of time, though the oddly built Derek Pringle did give us few jitters, with some lusty blows, allowing Grandfather once again to remind us, ‘Angrezan chhu kahim ti batsman’. But this was Pakistan’s day. Imran, perhaps justifiably too, got the last man. ’It’s up in the air, Rameez Raja coming under it. Pakistan win the World Cup’. The line played day in and out in my mind. It still does. Pure magic. Pakistan were the world champions. 

Looking back at events, and events such as this, prompts one to think that they probably define the whole decree of a generation. Mine for one was totally under its duress. Inzamam was a house hold hero, prompting one of my friend in school to write Haq (Inzamam’s green jersey in WC had Haq written over it) on the back of his crisp white school uniform shirt. This was baptism by fire. And there was no hiding from it. That summer and in many other summers and seasons, we played those scenes over and again. We all wanted to bowl fast like Wasim, bat like Inzamam, somewhere wished to catch like Aaqib in the deep, and run all over the ground in mad hysteria, throwing the ball finally in air, and clamp arms over a team mate. For a people in grips of an ugly war, 25th March 1992 remains forever a mirage in desolate memories. 

Kashmir flood 2014- The Tragic Tale of a Woman

Fates of Kashmir and Habba seem to be entwined. Born into a poor peasant family in the 16th century Kashmir, the mystic poetess - the empress of Kashmir - Habba Khatoon needs no introduction. Married early at age 16, Habba or Zoon was left withered atrophy at her in-laws. A cruel mother-in-law and an indifferent husband could never harmonize with her feelings. But Habba’s bosom was filled with love, and promptly, as in a fairy tale happens, the royal emperor, Yusuf Shah Chak, who was once contemplating by the stream, heard her heart-wrenching pathos. Their eyes met. It's those split-seconds when you disposes yourself of plan or ambition. When you give yourself completely to the golden fate filled moment. The emperor fell for the damsel and married her. The wind man had other plans in store though. The earth that delighted at her bare feet and wind that played with her long hair, soon conspired against this celestial love. Yusuf was captured by the Mughal King and sent to Bihar, where he later died. Leaving Habba again behind. Left to lament his loss, the night wind carried her voiceless cries for years, till she died an unknown death. Waiting for her Yusuf!                                                        

Oneness:

While I was in Kashmir in mid September, trying to do my bit, the overwhelming human spirit in us swelled my eyes numerous times. Young university students had hastily set up a relief camp on KU campus. With no fanfare and gimmicks to take mileage out of, they went about their work quietly; requesting people like me, who were visiting, not to take pictures. Brave human stories were coming out from all over. As it was, nature’s fury had fist cuffed the bourgeois in uptown Srinagar. Partisans, shikarwallahs, factory workers, cart pullers,  jobless youth- without giving two hoots for their own lives, went on about rescuing people from submerged parts of the city. Food supply from rural Kashmir (parts which were dry like Ganderbal, Sopore, Baramulla, Shupiyan)  to Srinagar city was immediately ensured. The absence of government and state machinery was literally never felt. 

                 

Uncertainty:

The mood in Delhi was sombre. Amidst packing relief items, bound for Kashmir, I filled a carton of white shroud. It is unexplainable to put that moment in words, to foresee a fellow countryman being draped in white cloth for his final journey. Kashmir had just witnessed the most devastating floods in more than a century. Past week had been probably one of the longest weeks of my life. Almost no communication was possible with folks back home. We’d spaced out; thousands of us expats here. 

                                               ———————————————

With almost 20-30 flights being operated every day by various airlines, the ATC at Srinagar airport must have been going through some harrowing time. Not that it crossed my mind once. I wanted to be home as early as possible. A late afternoon flight it turned out to be. Just as we entered into the Valley through the Pir Panchal mountains near Banihal, tragedy below was visible. Brown muddy water had submerged almost the entire valley. Due to many aircrafts scurrying for whatever little landing space Srinagar airport has to offer, it gave our pilot a chance to take a detour along Srinagar. He took a right, and kept hovering above The Dal, and the boulevard. Amidst the harkened solitude of this bygone lake; the Lydia air played its tune too. Or was it only me that heard it, in the voyage of my longing. Turning back, we flew across towards the mountains of Gulmarg and Yusmarg. Thin craggy peak of Tatakoti was lit under this mild afternoon sun. It looked like a thin jar, carrying an immortal drink. Like meditating sufis, the mountains were calm, quiet. Tiny little hamlets, straight out of a Charlotte Bronte novel - must have been near Shupiyan - had visible impression of impending fall. Swathed under balmy afternoon Kashmir sun, where thin line of lean poplars run with an air of flourish, a land yellow in summer, its funereal brume rolling over paddy fields, and you felt a deep sorrow, the kind of melancholy you feel when you’re with a pretty woman and the sun is going down. Kashmir the cursed damsel, with a thousand scars perched in her bosom - its air breathing fey, ruined, star-crossed her fate. There is something austere too about her beauty. You can’t help but, fall in love with her. What else does a mad lover anyway do over such beauty?

It was in one of those nights, those long sad nights, when eerie silence from thousands of kilometers far, I could take no longer. Driving late night over a freeway, thoughts and mind securely placed in my sad land, I envisioned Kashmir as a woman. Battered and shredded. You write sad pathos over her, while at the same time admiring her beauty. The descriptions of paradise satisfy the hunger for beauty. We, narrators of flimsy imagination, prose and poetic, know the sky will never forgo its many evidences. A confined woman, and we love her, and we believe she loves us too, living or dead.

Jhelum: A week after it unleashed its fury. 

The Darkest Night: Saturday, 6th September 2014.

Is death looming in Srinagar? Long, painful and poignant.
People wait, held up breathe- for water level to recede.
They can't do much, other than just wait, as slowly and slowly
the crawling death in the face of this brazen fury engulfs them.


Few hastily written lines, hours before Jhelum broke loose in Srinagar.