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profile promise A
life of art Truckers’
worldview
profile You cannot be
prepared well enough for interviewing someone like Anwar Maqsood.
Punctuality and preparation take a giant leap out the window the moment you
find yourself standing next to the man himself, leaving perhaps only one
thing to be checked out of the list — nervousness. “It’s an honour,” I
tell him. He nods. “You visit Lahore often?” Another nod. Small talk
fails me and I desperately hope for the real interview to start.
No one knows the power of words like Anwar Maqsood; little wonder he
uses them cautiously. He was in Lahore recently for Aangan Terrha’s
performance at Alhamra Art Centre. Setting aside the notepad
he was drawing on, we start talking about a career spanning well over four
decades. The background noise of the cars muffled with his low voice reminds
me suddenly that I have known him for so long, watching my parents enjoy his
jokes even when I could not. He seems quiet for a man
who has had so much to say in the forty-five years of his writing career. He
speaks through his characters — from the pesky housewife to the high-end
fashion designer, from the beggar to the elitist politicians. The great body
of work includes Fifty-Fifty, Aangan Terrha, Showtime, Silver Jubilee,
ShowSha and Loose Talk. This grey-haired man was a household name even
before a layman could even spell private channels. His brand of humour
raised the bar so high, it is still unmatched. “I would never make Zardari
sit on a donkey and dance. It’s just not me.” “I improvised the humour
because I wanted to appeal to the young crowd and I believe one has to adapt
with time.” He is referring to the stage reincarnation of his classic
1980s television drama Aangan Terrha. He has rewritten and improvised the
script; only this time it’s a stage hit with over a hundred shows in
Karachi and Lahore put together. More than four decades of writing and this
is his second attempt at theatre after last year’s Pawney 14 August. “My
passion for theatre aside, I was always apprehensive of writing a play for
stage. I mean look at the work being done. Even those who are doing a
reasonable job don’t attract the audience; shows only run for a few days.
But when these young people (Dawar and his team) insisted I wrote Pawney 14
August.” Bringing Aangan Terrha to
stage was a risk, given Maqsood’s aversion to sequels. “I believe when
your pen tells you to stop, you should stop. Look at Tanhayian; even with
the same cast and story line, they couldn’t even come close to the
original because people have associations with the original cast and play.
Qabacha, for instance, was in his twenties back then and now he is in his
fifties; it can never be the same.” When asked to write more
episodes, he drove away with the cast of Aaangan Terrha in the iconic scene. “I said I won’t even
touch Aangan Terrha; it’s my favourite child.” Nervous of turning his
favourite child into a disastrous remembrance of its past, he eventually
gave in to the young team whose motivation and ambition moved him. “The
future belongs to these people, I could’ve brought the old cast back but I
believe in making way for fresh blood.” With his sardonic wit,
eloquent lines and showmanship, Anwar Maqsood quietly passed on from being a
master satirist to an unmatched icon in the 1990s. A columnist, playwright,
humorist, actor and painter — he is a man of many shades. His peers revere
him, youngsters worship him but his grandchildren call him “Anwar”. His humour is not solely
meant for mirth; it goes beyond the arid debates of the ruling class and
touches the right chord with the masses. From dictatorial censorships to the
flashing commode onstage, he has done it all except “anything for the
government. I have always written against the regime”. And, proudly so —
from Zia-ul-Haq in the 1980s and the MQM in 2013, he needs no long march to
say it. Voting for MQM “waqt ka nahin khauf ka takaza hai,” says Akbar
(“Voting for MQM is not an electoral obligation; you only do it out of
fear”). But what happened to that
brand of humour? Maqsood believes in a
strong distinction between tehzeeb (civilised) and behoodgi (uncouth
behaviour): “Both stage and television mirror our society.” These
writers, he believes, have nothing new to say and, hence, revert to the
repetitive pattern of vulgarity. “As a writer, I don’t
criticise other writers but I don’t make politicians wear masks and act
silly. And to watch that week after week is torture.” He is particularly
appalled by the manner of female interaction: “I can’t even imagine
writing those lines in private. One should know where to stop.” But isn’t that because
of the absence of the state’s watchful eye — censorship — something he
couldn’t enjoy back in his days? He sees it more as a social phenomenon
that is reflected through media trends. In his account, scrutiny comes from
within and writers ought to be more responsible. Same rules apply to media.
He is working on a drama about the so-called progressive media. “It is
about journalists and how they sell themselves — how they are a dime a
dozen”. He seems particularly
appalled by the prototype of anchor-slash-kingmaker. “Your job is to ask
questions and that is it.” A true journalist, in his view, is not the
owner’s puppet. Anwar Maqsood doesn’t
feel like writing anymore, thanks to the mediocre drama which has the
audience glued to screens. He objects not only to the saturation but the
clichés as well. “It’s all the same — two daughters-in-law and two
mothers-in-law. Why can’t we do something normal? There is so much to
write about.” While acknowledging the
technical advancement of drama, he laments the dearth of good subjects
resulting in sheer waste of available resources. Anwar’s narrative may be
essentially patriotic — a little too patriotic — some argue, as in the
case of Pawney 14 August. “That is a very negative way of looking at
it.” There is no such thing as too patriotic, he reacts, seeing it as a
healthy way of self-scrutinising. “Quaid and Iqbal question the dichotomy
between the Pakistan they created and its tragic metamorphosis into the
Pakistan we made.” They symbolise the energy and intentions that formed
the basis of this country by raising questions like the redundancy of an
atomic bomb while people are dying of hunger and disease. “My parents promised me
a new homeland.” Anwar’s grandfather was a Commissioner in India and his
family lived in quarters along with millions of refugees in the aftermath of
partition. “No one complained. Then things went from bad to worse, from
one disaster to another. And look at us now. Pawney 14 August was about this
desire to go back to the original dream, the original passion.” He
believes while the world is busy moving forward, Pakistan can redeem itself
by reverting to the past which was “way better in every respect”. He is now writing Sawa 14
August with Ayub khan, Yahya khan, Zia-ul-Haq, Bhutto, Mujib-ur-Rehman and
Benazir as the lead characters. “There is no revival in
Pakistan; we are still caught up in survival,” he snaps back when asked
about the revival of theatre in Pakistan. “Nothing can revive in this
country.” Witty as he is, he
believes corruption should be legalised in Pakistan given the current
economic situation. His eyes glint while
talking about his life-long friend and associate Moin Akhtar. “He was a
class apart”. The two had an association
which is rare in media history. “He was the only person who could go
through my unfinished scripts and insist on doing his preferred roles”. There was a parallel
between him and Akhtar, and Kamal Ahmed Rizvi and Nanha (Khawar). “Rizvi
was a great writer but people remember Nanha for saying those witty
lines.” Saleem Nasir is best remembered as Akbar, he says. “It is always
the actor who takes the lead. All the actors I have written for have been
repeatedly nominated [for awards].” Is he complaining? “No,
because I’m aware of the role an actor plays in individualising and
presenting a character, and all my actors have done very well.” A political commentator
par excellence, Maqsood puts the onus of the forthcoming elections on the
youth of the country with complete faith in their potential and sagacity.
From trusting them with his script to trusting them with Pakistan, he
believes elections 2013 is the final attempt at real change or there’s
little chance for the country he and his family pinned their hopes on. caption Photos by the author
promise Thirty-year old
Yousuf Kerai has been learning and playing the tabla for half his life now.
He has been trained in the art by none other than the tabla maestro, Ustad
Khurshid Hussain. Ever since his return from the United States three years
ago, where Kerai acquired a B.A. in Mathematics and a Master of Arts in
Teaching Mathematics from Bennington College in Vermont (later teaching the
subject for a few years in Richmond, Virginia), he currently teaches at a
private school in Karachi where he also holds the post of Academic
Supervisor. He has been actively
pursuing his music career, and it is perhaps no coincidence that for the
mathematician Kerai, his experimentation with music at times becomes as
transcendental as the numbers he must be dealing with. During his stay in the US,
Kerai had several opportunities to perform with various Pakistani and Indian
musicians and vocalists in different parts of the country. These included
theatre and dance accompaniments and performances. Among others, Kerai
performed at the James Maddison University in Virginia before Archbishop
Desmond Tutu in a ceremony where he received the Mahatma Gandhi Global
Nonviolence Award, and in 2009 he presented a solo performance at the
Pakistan Embassy in Washington DC. Upon his return to
Karachi, Kerai was invited as performer for a workshop on Creative Arts at
the Aga Khan Medical University, alongside his guru Ustad Khurshid Hussain.
Later, he has been a visiting faculty member there, teaching 32 credit-hours
of ‘Music of South Asia’ to first year medical students. The Second Floor
(popularly known as T2f) has been the launching pad for Kerai’s Tarz Group
— a new orchestral style of South Asian music concerts. I have attended
several concerts organised by this group, and each time there are one or two
new musicians introduced in the ensemble (new to the group, but are
otherwise experienced musicians), and the experimentations and innovations
have continued to evolve. Tarz has performed a few times at the T2f, at the
PACC, the Indus Valley School of Arts and Architecture and the FTC
auditorium in Karachi. ‘Hisaar’ and ‘Girah’ are the other two titles
that were given to the Tarz concerts. The ensemble of Girah, the
most recent performance, created magic for three nights in Karachi. I spoke
with Yousuf Kerai, its music director, after attending the last night of the
performance, which was a moving experience. “The motivation behind these
concerts, especially for the uninitiated young listeners, is to first create
an environment where intrigue and awe are created about a performing art and
its existence. With time and momentum it will be an automatic interest and
demand that will develop for such music and then I do foresee setting up a
programme for South Asian music at the school where I am teaching,” he
said in response to a query, and added, “There is a need to reformulate
our music and to show all its richness, making it appealing for the young
and old in the audience”. The Girah musicians were:
father and son sitar-players Sajid Hussain and Shehroze Hussain, violinist
Islamuddin Meer, flutist Rahat Ali, sarangi-player Gul Mohammed Hussain,
vocalist Intizar Hussain, and another father and son duo, Ustad Khurshid
Hussain (who made his brief entry to play the pakhawaj) and Zohaib Hussain
on the tabla. Kerai played the tabla throughout the two-hour concert. Girah began with a Hans
Dhun Quartet, a fusion of western and eastern musical forms. Hans Dhun or
Hamsadhwani (it can be translated as the Call of the Swan), is a raag of
Bilawal ‘thaat’ originally from Carnatic music. It had a rich layering
of the musical instruments and set the tone for Gorakh Kalyan of Khamaj
thaat. It was cleverly and somewhat mischievously named Gorakh Dhanda — an
Urdu term used for something puzzling and complex. Kerai began this by
snapping the fingers of both his hands and creating a unique sound of music
that is perhaps not easy to emulate. It made the audience sit up to see what
surprise he had in store next. He then started playing the tabla, joined by
Zohaib Hussain. They played in 8 beats, heavily inspired by African and/or
Latin rhythms, before they shifted towards the more traditional 16-beat
pattern, Teental. The transition of the performance from the west towards
the east was most interesting as Hussain played a continuous rhythm in the
beginning over which Kerai overlapped sounds that are not typical of the
tabla repertoire. Other compositions
followed, including raag Aiman, aptly titled Samandar ki Lehrein, depicting
the start of the journey into the sea of music. A 14-beat pattern called
Chanchar (or Chanchal) taal was used in this composition by Kerai, further
embellished by harmonic interludes designed by Meer. However, it was Champa-kali,
a rare raag of the Khamaj thaat, sung by vocalist Intizar Hussain, which was
a great pleasure to hear. “This piece shall show you the voice inside the
instrument and the instrument inside the voice,” said Kerai to his
audience, who likes to interject and keep his audience informed and
entertained. As always, it was delightful to watch Sajid Hussain on the
sitar, accompanied by his prodigal son Shehroze, and the jugalbandi of the
voice with the sitar and the sitar with the tabla was riveting. The pitch,
intensity and timbre of Intizar Hussain’s voice were also impressive. A
traditional raag vocalist or musician is at once a performer and a composer,
and if he/she is a master of his art and craft, the singing (or the playing
of the instrument) can be beautiful and exciting and even an hour-long
recital of a single raag holds the listener’s attention. After the playing of
pakhawaj by ustad Khurshid Hussain, who is one of the finest and commanding
tabla players of the country, the last composition was led by Sajid Hussain
in which, once again, all the musicians came together. One must mention the
untiring and commendable efforts of Kerai, who is instrumental in bringing
to the fore the refreshing and impressive musical talent among the young. He
has been mentoring, guiding and encouraging fifteen-year old Shehroze
Hussain, twenty-year old Zohaib Hussain and twenty-one year old Gul Mohammed
Hussain who plays the sarangi — a dying-out and difficult instrument.
Kerai says, “it is imperative that the young traditional musicians
understand the plight of South Asian music in Pakistan and that they learn
to not only identify and diagnose the problems but also prepare themselves
to actively address the lack of musical awareness. They will need to acquire
an education beyond the musical one and at this stage that is where the
struggle stands. The dwindling patronage and the at-best curative rescue
concerts that major NGOs are doing for the last few remaining artists in
Pakistan is not an answer. The young sitar player, Shehroze shows the
greatest amount of promise in this regard and is truly a performer to watch
out for in future.”
A life of
art A book on art is
in essence an extraordinary entity because it builds a bridge between images
and language. It becomes more so if it’s on the art and life of Ijaz ul
Hassan who, besides being a major artist of our times, is equally at home
with words. He has written a book on the Pakistani art along with numerous
catalogue essays and articles in a number of publications. Recently, the Lahore Art
Gallery has published a monograph on his art ‘Ijaz ul Hassan: Five Decades
of Paintings’ written by Dr Musarrat Hasan, with reproductions of his
works, and photographs from as early as 1955 to the most recent period. The book becomes an
important document to understand the thought, practice and socio-political
position of an individual who holds a multi-faceted personality, ranging
from a genuine intellectual to an active politician, experienced teacher to
a fascinating writer; but above all a sensitive painter. The book affirms how the
artist has been formulating his imagery through his keen observation of
nature, and transforming it in a specific scheme. This style may be subtle
but is not simple; it takes an observant eye and intelligent mind to move
away from the impact of nature and transform it according to one’s
personal vision. This is evident in
Hassan’s works, spanning five decades that are spread in the nine chapters
of the book. So
it is no surprise that the artist who is eager to change nature
through a certain way of seeing has been actively involved in changing the
society — through political struggle. The monograph on Ijaz ul Hassan
refers also to the time the painter had to spend behind bars due to his
political beliefs and actions. Pictures of that era and paintings derived
from that experience, along with Dr Musarrat Hasan’s comments and
analysis, are also part of the volume. Despite the role of
politics in his life, the book unfolds that it is only one aspect to define
his life. During his discourses, Ijaz ul Hassan elaborates on the Greek
philosophers, Egyptian sculptors, English literature and Urdu poetry with an
unmatchable ease and command. He likes to discuss the writings of Mao, plays
of Pinter, miniatures of Mughal period and crafts of our region, and
establishes a link between diverse practices and disciplines. Perhaps the greatest
quality in the art of Ijaz ul Hassan is his ever changing views and
opinions; a difficult task since not many amongst us ever review or revisit
our positions and ideas. The book informs how the artist has moved from his
earlier works (1955) to his later style (2012). It analyses the shift in his
thought and the change in his vocabulary, filling in details that are
possible only if the writer happens to be your wife. More than being a text on
art, the book is a complete and comprehensive account of the painter who,
contrary to many assumptions, is always prepared to accept the demands of
new times. I remember once he was talking about the issue of tradition and
modernity, a favourite subject of our art intellectuals, and in his
incredibly entertaining and
original way said: “how can you be so stuck with tradition; if a
man keeps looking backwards, his neck is bound to get stiff.’ The book is the portrait
of a person who looks ahead of his time.
Truckers’
worldview Pakistani trucks
are exhibited in museums in the United States and recently their art has
been celebrated in many art exhibitions in the world. French, German,
American and Pakistani scholars have written on their art in scholarly
journals or magazines. The present reviewer too has written on them but,
instead of the usual subject of art, I have studied the writings on them. During my search on the
literature on trucks, I came across the writings of Jamal Elias with whom I
established contact because his articles were so detailed and factual. He
told me he was writing a book on trucks. I am glad the book has been
published and is a treat to behold. It also fulfills our demand that the
book should come up to the exacting standards of scholarship and brings it
out of the list of coffee table products to the world of the scholar’s
library and the shelves of university libraries. Truck art being a form of
art, the book has 106 illustrations to give the reader a cursory tour of the
world of trucks in Pakistan. It begins with Jamal Elias’s interest in
truck art; this part reads like a story but the author satisfies the
academic demands of the book by a proper review of literature which outlines
the scholarship on the subject. The second chapter, entitled ‘History of a
Dystopic Utopia’, is of crucial importance since it looks at the
construction of the ideological history of Pakistan which is taught to
children. He makes the point that the ordinary people still believe in
intercessory Islam i.e. one in which the saints are venerated and believed
to bestow blessings (Baraka or barkat in Urdu). This chapter, along with the
next on education and its relationship with class, provide the kind of
background knowledge which helps us understand how truck art and writings on
trucks are produced, consumed and perceived in Pakistani society. Among other things it is
suggested that Urdu is the valued language of the world of the truckers. And
these insights help us understand the way Elias uses Pierre Bourdieu’s
concept of ‘habitus’ in the case of the truckers in Pakistan. The subsequent chapters
provide the most detailed description of the world of trucks, beginning with
the transportation system in the country. The relevant piece of information
here is that there are 7, 791 kms of roads; on these roads 2, 283, 381
trucks ply all the way from Torkham near the Afghan border till Karachi and
Gwadar on the Arabian Sea. The author mentions the development of the
National Logistics Cell of the army to convey goods for the Americans in
their war against the Soviet Union fought by their Islamist proxies in the
eighties. He links the pressure of the truckers to the Pakistani
government’s decision to support the Afghan Taliban so that they would
promote the free movements of trucks in Afghanistan. However, he does not
tell us how the creation of the NLC weakened and impoverished the
country’s railways while improving its roads. This would have been a
useful exercise. However, to return to the
subject, delving deeper into the lives of truckers the author provides
information of where the drivers come from, what their worldview normally is
and how they ply their trade. There is a description of roadside restaurants
where the drivers stop and eat. Trucks are decorated in
various styles associated with different regions of Pakistan as well as the
desire to prefer the expensive heavily ornamental style (disco) to the
cheaper relatively Spartan one (sadi). Here, Elias departs from the
established ‘analyses that are sign-based, distinguishing between the
figural and the calligraphic’ (p. 113). Instead, he focuses on the
significance of ‘all the visual symbols on the truck as constitutive of
symbolic meaning. Among other things, he
tells us about the traditional face of the truck with formulaic piety and
the motifs which feminise the truck. He takes up the question of religious
identity in more detail. One finding which is of importance is that there is
a certain type of truck called “The Tablighi Truck”. This is a product
of the recent phenomenon of the rise of Islamic radicalism in Pakistani. The
messages on these, in contrast to the others, emphasise prayers and openly
praise extremist religious organisations such as the Dawat-e-Tableegh. The
other trucks, as mentioned above, still follow folk Islam which is called
Barelvi (intercessory). Jamal Elias goes on to
describe the motifs and pictures which decorate trucks. These too give us a
peep into the truckers’ worldview which favours a magical, semi-mystical
view of the universe. Iconic human figures, however, keep changing as
drivers and artists respond to current political pressures. Religious
devotion is expressed through verses, the pictures of tombs, calligraphy and
the burraq (a mythical creature with the head of a woman and the body of a
horse) but political preferences are indexed to human figures. Ayub Khan,
for instance, has long been a favourite of drivers. And during the first
Gulf War, the picture of a praying Saddam was displayed on trucks. Benazir
too has been displayed on trucks as have other popular figures. This book has the merit of
being the first detailed study of trucking and truck art in Pakistan. It is
ironic that most studies of different aspects of Pakistani society are
undertaken by foreign scholars and not Pakistanis. However, Jamal Elias, a
scholar of Pakistani origin, breaks this cycle to write the first
comprehensive account of Pakistani trucks. The book is recommended to all
readers and it should be compulsory reading for sociologists,
anthropologists and historians of folk art. On Wings of Diesel:
Trucks, Identity and Culture in Pakistan By Jamal J. Elias Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2011 pp. 252 Price GBP 29.99
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