Zia Mohyeddin column
My poor ankle
The marble floor of the lobby in the hotel I stayed in Lahore, recently, had just been polished or maybe I was in too much of a hurry, but as I made a dash to catch the lift before its doors closed, my foot slipped and I fell down, landing on my right ankle. The pain was excruciating, not because it was a heavy fall, but because it was the same ankle that was once fractured half a century ago.

Pakistani Adab: Intikhab Shairi 1947-2008

Edited by

Dr Rasheed Amjad

Publisher: Pakistan

Academy of Letters

Pages: 722

Price: Rs 600

Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL) is running many publication projects on a regular basis in an attempt to represent and promote Pakistani literature both at the national and international level. It publishes the journal Adabiyaat regularly and publishes an anthology of best writings every year.

Recently, this activity has picked momentum and a few highly valuable books have also appeared -- one being a series of three voluminous anthologies of poetry and short stories from 1947 to 2008 and of Mazahmati Adab (Resistance Literature) 1999 to 2008, all compiled by Dr Rasheed Amjad.

Pakistani Adab: Intikhab Shairi 1947-2008 accommodates around 600 poets and the ghazals take up about three times more space than nazms. This of course gives an impression as if poetry has flourished at a spell-binding pace in the country. Fakhar Zaman, Chairman PAL and the chief editor, observes in the preface: "This anthology doesn't comprise the best writings but is a selection aimed at bringing forth a generalised poetic scenario of the last sixty one years."

Leaving aside the question of how to choose best writings, one wonders how could such a project truly reflect the creative scene if the priority was to exclude best works. The anthology is understandably an over-simplified picture of poetry of the specified time period and too generalised a selection.

To make an anthology truly representative and valid is a difficult task. Countless poets and authors are at work at a given time, with varied talent, class and commitment. We may easily identify those earning a place above the rest since they prove their mettle and stand the test of time. These are writers who deserve to be termed "representative". Inclusion of every possible name refuses these brilliant authors their well-deserved place.

Dr Rasheed Amjad is a senior short story writer and his relevance in fiction is beyond question. Deputing him for this task was destined to produce results contrary to the prime purpose of the project. He has no inclination or passion for poetry nor has he ever been involved in criticism of poetry. His three articles are included here. One is a generalised comment on the overall literary journey since 1947, while two others "Nazm se Pakistani Nazm tak: Chand Batain" and "Pakistani ghazal: Chand Batain," precede each respective section. Since Urdu poetry is being written in the entire subcontinent, as well as in many other countries, the term "Pakistani Ghazal or Nazm" should have been explained, discussed and defined which isn't even hinted at. In his article on Nazm, Amjad remains extremely limited and text-bookish.

Amjad is quick to dismiss the "prose poem" as a transient rush of blood which, to him, finally settled down to a poetic "softness." This genre was introduced in the early 1960s and has consolidated its relevance and place in our contemporary scene. Our newer poets are practicing this form far more abundantly than they did in the past. It may also be noted that "softness" never left the poem at any period of time. Paradoxically, Dr Rasheed Amjad has included a good number of prose poems in the anthology, perhaps not finding the time to note the difference between a prose and a meteric poem. His article on ghazal is better and at least covers recent developments. It would have been better to have picked up a couple of articles written with a far more objective critical appraisal and included here.

Ghazal and nazm, as forms, have remained the focus of heated discussions in literary circles where ghazal was mercilessly criticised and dismissed, till a few years ago, as an outdated and orthodox art form. Our major poets, however, remained immune to this phenomenon and practiced both genres with almost equal competence. Such poets deserved better representation both in the ghazal and nazm sections. The formula applied here is to include one offering of any and every poet ranging from Rashed to Nazir Naji!

Consequently we find major poets like Majid Amjad, Faiz, Munir Niazi, Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi and Qamar Jamil in one or the other section with just a single piece. Newer poets like Sarwat Hussain, Afzal Ahmad Syed, Yasmeen Hameed and few others receive the same treatment in spite of their proven stature in both poetic forms.

Pakistani Adab: Intikhab Shairi 1947-2008, in spite of the presence of mundane poetry, does hold relevance in many ways. Inclusion of exceptionally gifted poets, who disappeared from the scene as quickly as they appeared, is extremely valuable. A long list of authors is helpful for those -- specifically research scholars and university teachers of Urdu literature -- who need to have a quick glance at poetry of all kinds written since 1947.

Pakistan Academy of Letters deserves applause for addressing a totally neglected field of literature and one can hope to see these projects getting planned in a better and more objective manner in the years to come.

When an event is billed as "Chand Sitaray Talay" and one walks in to realise that it's actually under a marquee, and the only stars in sight are the ones on the stage and amongst the audience, it should be a sign that things may not go according to plan.

Held during the recently concluded Shanaakht Festival in collaboration with Still Waters Publishing in Karachi, Chand Sitaray Talay featured an eclectic mix of the glitterati of Pakistan's literary scene, namely Fehmida Riaz, Mohammed Hanif, Hasina Moin and Musharraf Ali Farooqui, along with the relatively unknown Ilona Yusuf from Islamabad.

Despite not being under the star-lit cover as the name suggested, Chand Sitaray Talay did have a rather festive air about it. After months of doom and gloom, it was rather refreshing to see some new faces at the event as opposed to the usual literary aficionados that inhabit the scene.

The idea behind the event was to have each author bring works from their favourite authors and poets that had inspired them and discuss what it meant to them. Hanif's choices were a few sections from the transcript of Sindh leader Jam Saqi's trial and poems by the poet Najm Hosain Syed, which despite being in Punjabi, drew appreciation from the audience. The transcripts from the Jam Saqi trial had one wondering how it was that history could repeat itself in Pakistan so many times, despite one knowing and wishing for better.

Next up was Ilona Yusuf, a poet from Islamabad, who despite not having a great command over the Urdu language, recited work from Faiz Ahmed Faiz as well as the English translation.

And then came Musharraf Ali Farooqui, and the beginning of the demise of credentials of Feryal Ali Gauhar, the designated moderator of the event. Gauhar began by telling Farooqui that she could not call him by his first name. After having made Farooqui visibly uncomfortable and possibly wondering as to what on earth was going on, Gauhar finally asked Farooqui about the art of translation and the difficulties one faces when translating work, etc. Farooqui recounted his first experience of translating a book of poetry, which eventually became part of his training as a translator, and helped him immensely while translating the magnum opus Dastan-e-Amir Hamza.

The night proceeded with renowned playwright Haseena Moin recounting her love for eminent novelist Quratulain Hyder's works. Moin, whose plays Tanhaiyaan and Ankahi are still the high points of state-run television programming in the 1980s, talked about how she began painting a different side of women in her scripts, and her interaction with eminent novelist Quratulain Hyder and Hyder's influence on her work. Moin's recited a few pages of Hyder's novels perhaps not powerfully as the content demanded.

Finally, Fehmida Riaz, the acclaimed poetess came on stage, and even though, due to a miscommunication, she had not brought any of her favourite works with her, Riaz expounded on her thoughts about literature, history and the current state of today's youth. Riaz, at her most eloquent, passionately spoke about the role of literature and the appalling way authors and intellectuals have been treated in Pakistan at the hands of various administrations. Reciting one of her own poems about the late left-wing leader Nazeer Abbasi, Riaz brought to life the pain that she and others who knew Abbasi felt after his death, and about the mysterious circumstances surrounding the event.

And just when the event seemed to have redeemed itself, Gauhar decided (while shattering the idea that one was not supposed to read one's own work) to give a dramatic recital of a passage from her first novel The Scent of Wet Earth in August. A disclaimer is needed here though, when one says dramatic here, one means to say that it was meant to be so. Instead, it was Gauhar trying to take on different roles simultaneously of the characters in her book, and not convincingly enough.

The literary evening was followed by a performance by the band Laal, who have skyrocketed to fame in recent months with their musical adaptations of Faiz Ahmed Faiz's and Habib Jalib's revolutionary poetry. A brilliant performance followed, and one went home, vowing faithfully, to never meet another man named Musharraf.

The marble floor of the lobby in the hotel I stayed in Lahore, recently, had just been polished or maybe I was in too much of a hurry, but as I made a dash to catch the lift before its doors closed, my foot slipped and I fell down, landing on my right ankle. The pain was excruciating, not because it was a heavy fall, but because it was the same ankle that was once fractured half a century ago.

Up in my room, my mind flashed back to the time when I rushed to Lahore (from London) because my father had had a severe heart attack and was in intensive care in the Mayo hospital. My father recovered, (miraculously, said the doctor,) and I stayed in the country to direct Khawaja Moeenuddin's play, "Lal Qile se Lalukhet." The play having been received rather well in Karachi, I took it to Lahore.

I staged the play at the Burt Institute Theatre, the finest theatre Lahore has ever seen. Alas! it doesn't exist any more. It had a lovely stage, deep and wide, and proper, backstage facilities. Unfortunately, it was too far from the main city. Playgoers in those days were not as mobile as they are today. Public transport was as bad then as it is today. In spite of excellent notice we never got the audience we expected and the play was a financial loss. This was in 1957.

After the run of "Lal Qile" I was at a loose end and so when Fareedoon (I forget his last name) a magazine editor, whom I met through Safdar Mir, offered me the job of an assistant editor, I accepted.

The Cine-View was a fortnightly magazine that had just come out. Its contents, (interviews with starlets, gossip about stars and studios and highly verbose editorials bemoaning the plight of Pakistani cinema), were written entirely by Fareedoon.

Fareedoon always spoke to me in English. He was fond of using high-falution words but he didn't quite know when to use them. He was rather fond of the word "exacerbate" which he used in the sense of "overhaul." "We must exacerbate Pakistani cinema," he often said to me. I can never forget the caption he had written under the photograph of two corpulent mega stars of the day, Sudhir and Ragini: "Do you want to know what is their teleology? Turn to page…"

Soon after I had begun to work on Cine View, Fareedoon, the "exacerbator" of Pakistani cinema told me that he had finalised his plans to produce the "finest film of all times." He had lined up Zia Sarhady, who had recently migrated from India, to direct the film. I might get a part in the movie. He had already spoken to Sarhady about my background -- RADA, Group Theatre etc. He suggested that I should meet the "great director" as he called him. Better still, he would take me along one evening. Fareedoon may have been a solecist, but he was not a prig.

Zia Sarhady had arrived in Pakistan with an awesome reputation. He parked himself in a modest hotel on Kashmir Road. The sun had gone down by the time Fareedoon and I arrived. There were a few chairs on a small, open patch outside his suite. Fareedoon went inside, to see the "great director." I sat for a long time watching darkness getting darker, and trying to count the number of fireflies hovering around me. At last, the "great director" emerged, Fareedoon in tow. He immediately won me over with a broad, welcoming smile, "I am sorry you had to wait, but this producer of ours wants me to go and pay court to Chowdhry Eid Mohammad and I have no inclination to do so. Now, what would you like to drink?" He was short and squat with a large head thickly populated with silvery hair. His face was remarkably creased like Somerset Maugham.

He talked of his association with IPTA. He asked me about my theatrical training in England and the work I had done since. He was an engaging talker and he did not patronise me. I warmed up to him. There was no mention of the "finest film." Fareedoon shifted in his chair a few times in an attempt to broach the subject, but he evaded it skilfully. When I stood up to take my leave, he asked me to see him the next day.

The next time I met him he told me that he had been watching me the previous evening and had decided to cast me in his film to play the part of a man who knew he wasn't going to live long. "He is the key character in the movie." There weren't going to be many lines; he just wanted "expressions." He didn't believe in too much dialogue -- dialogue was anti-film. There was something he had seen in my eyes, and that was what he had been looking for. "This man has money but he squanders it away. Life has cheated him and he wants to cheat life. Do you understand?" I said I did, but I didn't. "Sign him up, Fareedoon," he bade the ever attendant producer.

The contract that I signed was type-written on Fareedoon's letter-head. I was to receive a monthly salary of 1500 rupees for four months. There was no mention of what happened if the film was not completed in four months. It was a mockery of a contract, but I signed it. I was paid 1500 rupees and informed that it was an advance to be adjusted against my first month's pay. The actual work would begin any day. Meanwhile I was welcome to be a part of the audience at the great director's sanctum.

I was anxious to know a little more about the man who wasn't going to live long and I made several visits to the hotel on Kashmir Road in the hope of having a quiet sitting with the great director, but he was always surrounded by young, heavily painted, overdressed girls and their fat chaperones, musicians, and song-writers and one or two journalists. In the presence of this motley crowd he held forth on Cinema and Socialist realism.

"Shooting" began one afternoon at the Evernew studios. Zia Sarhady had given instructions to the make-up man who spent a long time rubbing multi-coloured pastes on my faces and my hair to give me the "haunted look," as desired by the director. I ended up looking like myself with puffy eyes and a blotchy face. To complete the "look" I was given an overcoat, with the collar turned up, to wear over my dishevelled suit. It was a hot summer's day.

There was something wrong with the set and they never got to me on that first day of '"shooting" -- or the next or the day after. I remained on call throughout.

(to be continued)