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recognition conversation Two
cities Venerated
form of music
recognition The South Asian
literary world has warmly greeted the news of Intizar Husain’s inclusion
in the finalist list for the Man Booker International award to be given
later in 2013 by a panel of distinguished writers. The international
recognition of writers of South Asian origin writing in English against
those who do not write in English has spurred many bitter debates. Our
colonial legacy makes sure that those with the advantage of English will
continue to have an edge either by hook or by crook. So it was a pleasant
surprise when Shirley Chew of the University of Leeds wrote some 15 years
ago in the Times Literary Supplement, responding to the introductory pages
of Mirrorwork, “To read An Epic Unwritten by Intizar Husain is to note
that some of the preoccupations and techniques identified these days with
the so-called postmodern works, such as Rushdie’s own novel ‘Shame’,
are little more than familiar conventions in the indigenous traditions of
Pakistan and India.” As an editor, Ms Chew had
read a brilliant critique of Intizar Husain’s story (ik bin likhi razmia)
by Ian Bedford in 1993. Ms Chew and her crew were diehard supporters of the
non-Anglophone writing. Through little acts of
activism, and subversion, some of us try to upset the statusquo and
challenge the tyranny that publishing industry imposes on the reader. It is
these persistent acts, however small, that sometimes lead to big events such
as the arrival of Intizar Husain’s name in international literary
corridors. I won’t go into the
irritating thing about the ‘international’ having become synonymous with
the English-speaking world. That, another time! Today we should celebrate,
even if cautiously. Intizar Husain is by far
the most influential and respected writer of his generation. I would even go
so far as to suggest that along with Naiyer Masud, Intizar Husain is the
most important stylist in the domain of Urdu prose, though both represent
opposing poles of the stylistic field. After his first collection
of short stories ‘Galli Kuchey’ (1952), six more followed, and in
between he gave the Urdu reader three novels, ‘Basti’, ‘Tazkrah’,
and ‘Aage Sumandar Hai’. He also slipped in a highly poignant and
layered novella ‘Din aur Dastan’. Along with fiction, he has translated
into Urdu fiction and philosophy from English; has penned travelogues and
criticism; edited anthologies; not to mention his output as a journalist for
dailies both English and Urdu; and stories for children. Born in 1925 in a small
town of Dibai, he moved to Lahore in 1947, and his love affair with the city
continues. Yet most of his writing constantly deals with the enigma of
exile, displacement, migration, the feeling of being an outsider, crisis of
identity, and claustrophobia as etched so expressionistically in the stories
‘Hamsafar’ and ‘Shahadat’. (By the way, noted writer Naiyer Masud
referred admiringly to the buses used in the two stories as Intizar
Husain’s buses, suggesting the psychological horror the buses evoked
couldn’t be replicated!) Apart from Asad Mohammad
Khan, no other writer in Urdu has tested the limits of the language’s
varied registers. If memory serves me right, since I don’t have a copy of
his ‘Tazkrah’ handy, the command and dexterity of the registers as they
oscillate from rustic to refined, from colloquial to formal, and from
personal to collective in the novel, are a sheer joy to a literary mind. For reasons as complex as
human history, Intizar Husain’s fame has been slow to reach the readership
that craves international writers. This was a question I raised when I wrote
the introduction to my translation of his short stories, first published in
Pakistan as ‘Circle and Other Stories’ (2002/ Alhamra) and later in
India as ‘Intizar Husain: Stories’ (2004/ Katha). One obvious reason is the
lack of translators and academics outside India and Pakistan who truly care
for literature and writers living outside the western and ‘developed’
world. Let me explain: Professor Muhammad Umar Memon has done perhaps more
than anyone else to bring Intizar Husain’s fiction to wider attention, but
most of his books have been marketed in South Asia’s English-speaking
world. Second, he is primarily a translator of Urdu short stories into
English, not just an Intizar Husain translator. Professor Frances
Pritchett of Columbia University translated his novel ‘Basti’ in 1995.
It’s been 18 years and I don’t think she has undertaken anything else by
him. And there are those who have translated his short fiction without being
able to read Urdu, relying on collaboration. This paints a dismal
portrait of a state of translations of South Asian languages. Most of the
burden has fallen on those who are not the native speakers of the targeted
language. Another important factor
is our own lack of respect for a healthy literary culture. Take for example,
‘Circle and Other Stories’, published in Pakistan in 2002. Neither I nor
the author ever received any compensation. I don’t think the author even
received a complimentary copy of his own book. Just as Katha in India was
about to publish the same book under the same title, they learned, to their
horror, that another book by the same title but by a different translator,
who knew that I had translated the story ‘Da’ira’ (Circle) for an
anthology she had edited, was coming out the same week. There was panic but
Katha decided to go with a different title. Professionalism on behalf of the
publisher and the translator demanded that they knew how many other books of
translations of this particular writer already existed. As if that wasn’t
enough, a respected Pakistani publisher recently republished that same book
under the same title: ‘Circle and Other Stories’. Intizar Husain’s page on
the Man Booker International Prize has its share of mistakes. For example,
he never wrote for an Urdu daily Firoze, and he is only credited with four
short-story collections, not the actual eight. There are other mistakes as
well. It is hard to figure out who is to blame but the Booker International
folks stress that they don’t accept submissions from publishers and the
winner is chosen by the panellists. So whoever is responsible
for the biographical note on Intizar Husain needs to do his homework.
Otherwise to flaunt such brazen errors is disrespectful to a mind that has
enriched the world literature. Moreover, as if to
celebrate Intizar Husain’s belated arrival on the international stage, New
York Review of Books has recently reprinted ‘Basti’. Finally, the
American readers have a shot at buying his novel to read! As a translator, and a
writer, there is no bigger joy than to see one of your favourite writers
being recognised. Badha’i ho, Intizar saheb! The writer has translated
Intizar Husain’s short-stories published in Pakistan as Circle and Other
Stories.
conversation QM: Giorgio
Agamben in his essay “What Is the Contemporary?” defines the concept of
contemporary as being “not yet” or “too late”; in other words almost
detached with its time. How do we describe contemporary in our context, in
comparison to modern, for instance? Rashid Rana:
“Contemporary art” is an interesting term; it was coined just like
“modern art” was some decades ago. It [modern art] became part of the
vocabulary of masses; yet it was misused as something from the present. That
is the most common definition; whereas we all know that it is specific to a
time period; and refers to certain characteristics that we associate with.
Soon it was time for “post-modernism” to take over “modernism” but
that term remained controversial and ambiguous. There was probably an
evolving need for something else to replace that problematic term. This gave birth to a new
and acceptable term — contemporary. Now the question is: whether
“contemporary” will have a similar fate as “modern”. Will it be used
in general terms or would it mark a certain era with its own
characteristics, and turn into a label? QM: In fact the word
modern existed before modern art, so there will be a time when we would
still be using “contemporary” in the meaning of “new” or “now”
in the age of post-contemporary art. Anwar Saeed: I think the
labels and terms coined by art historians and theoreticians, instead of
describing art, serve more to limit it. R. Rana: Terms are
invented after certain phenomena have taken place. I don’t think terms
necessarily limit the practice; they might limit its understanding. But
there will always be people who are going to redefine them. Iqra Tanveer: Talking
about differences or demarcation, I don’t think you can divorce modern
from contemporary because you can see influences of modern on contemporary;
it is just that the language of contemporary has completely changed. QM: Talking of Pakistani
art, is there a definite line of demarcation between the two or is there a
merger? Ayaz Jokhio: Contemporary
is a merger in its nature; all of the previous techniques, styles or artists
that have survived till today is contemporary. Ehsan ul Haq: Probably it
is the understanding of the word, contemporary, that means whatever that
exists in our times. But when we talk about art, it is a specific term in
relation to art history. It is not about people who are living in
contemporary times. I don’t agree with this concept that whatever is
happening now is contemporary. A.Saeed: In the world,
various things happen simultaneously. It is only here that one is at the
cost of the other. Like the debate or conflict between classical music and
pop music; as if one is against the other. I think this is not the case. QM: I remember Mian Ijaz
ul Hassan talking about this phenomenon or separation of movements. He said
that we are so used to approaching art history in a chronological order and
through terms, that we conceive Realism, Impressionism, Post-Impressionism,
Cubism and Pointillism happening as if one after another but, at one point
in Paris, the artists associated with various movements were living at the
same time. They did not introduce themselves as Cubist or
Post-Impressionists; they were just artists. But when we define art, we
separate it according to formal elements and concerns. Do you think there
are any characteristics, may be formal, which distinguish modern from
contemporary? A. Jokhio: I think it is
the issues which differentiate one from the other, not the genre or
technique. Issues of time are reflected in our works. In that sense,
painting is still a contemporary medium, even though it is thousand years
old. Interestingly, video can become old-fashioned. A. Saeed: In that way, we
need to examine whether there is a change in today’s issues from those of
modern times? A. Jokhio: I think issues
in their essence remain the same, but the way these are reflected has
changed. E. Haq: I would say that
in modern, it is the visual that is important but in contemporary many other
aspects are more significant; for instance the maker, process and cultural
context. A. Saeed: Actually when
artists came closer to their realities; when the boundaries between life and
art became blurred, then contemporary art emerged. QM: But what about
pre-modern eras, especially in societies where art was part of community.
There, the artists used to make objects as part of common experience and
function. To some extent, it was the same during Renaissance when whatever
was produced was easily enjoyed, comprehended and identified with. In the
present age, art or contemporary art for that matter, has turned into an
exclusive activity. A. Saeed: First, let me
make it clear that whatever is being created today is not contemporary; it
is the combination of many things. In Pakistan, there is new streak for
contemporary which means that whatever is demanded by the international
market is being produced here. This is a boom, which is often described as
contemporary. There is no need to make this distinction between contemporary
and modern, since so much is taking place that can not be named. I. Tanveer: As far as
international market is concerned, it is true to a certain level because
what is required by the outsiders becomes contemporary. We have this notion
that whatever is happening on the other side of the world is contemporary
art. A. Saeed: Or all that is
being shown abroad and is successful is seen as contemporary, despite the
fact that there is a variation in that too. QM: Would you like to
include the success of new miniature painting in this because its popularity
and success has had a link with its acceptance in the West. In that sense,
the connection with the international attention does not necessarily make a
genre or practice contemporary; it can work in the other direction too. I. Tanveer: It is only the
context that describes whether a work is modern or contemporary. As for
market, I feel it develops this idea of contemporary art among people, which
does not mean that it develops the contemporary art! At a certain level, there
is no real understanding of contemporary art, but just an idea about it on a
very superficial level. Hence, the artists are assuming this is the ultimate
thing they must be doing. That is why the international market is blamed in
Pakistan. E. Haq: Or for example
there are certain objects which people think belong to contemporary art like
typewriter, which has become obsolete, except when it is used as a component
in the works of contemporary art. A. Jokhio: I feel whether
you classify art into modern or contemporary or even into social or
political, the artist is not classified. I think it is the viewer who is
being classified or the classification is created for the viewer. For
instance, if a political worker reads poetry of Bulleh Shah, he will find it
political, a sufi will consider it mystic, while a romantic regards it love
poetry. A. Saeed: But don’t you
think that the artist should also have an intention, if not definition, for
his work? A. Jokhio: I think an
artist is like a sieve, through which people can pick different elements —
of their choice. It is the audience that pick and select elements from an
existing work. QM: Do you believe that in
Pakistan we have the audience for contemporary art. If so, how is it
different from the audience of modern art? R. Rana: I think
contemporary art pushes its boundaries more than modern art. It is not so
self-referential, not so hung up on sheer formalism. So because of its
acceptance to a wider audience, and also the formats and freedom that the
artist now has, there is more tolerance towards it. In that sense, more
things have been considered art, which were not accepted or admitted as art
in eras gone-by. So, contemporary art can offer something to a larger and
wider audience than before. QM: Yet, on the other
hand, you can say that contemporary art is still an elitist activity,
removed from wider audience or masses. R. Rana: Let me make
myself clear; what I meant with wider audience was that the number of people
who follow art might not have increased substantially but, in terms of those
who are following art, art has become closer to life or closer to their
understanding as a whole. For instance, people had gone to see Rothko’s
painting and then may have felt the pressure to look at art as something
transcendental and spiritual; they may have struggled and felt that they
didn’t get it. Now if they are looking at Jeff Koon’s work, they may
have a different opinion. They may still not understand what the artist aims
for but they will have some kind of engagement with it, which was probably
lacking previously. A. Saeed: When we mention
larger audience or masses in art, we need to examine what do we really mean
by it? Who and where are the masses; and, along with masses, can we see the
idea of art-making with reference to market needs? What is art world? Who
decides this is art and this isn’t? For example the Fountain by Marcel
Duchamp was accepted as art, but there may not be just aesthetic or formal
reasons behind it. Probably it illustrated the market phenomenon. QM: But if Duchamp wanted
to conquer market, he certainly had other ways to achieve this. Personally,
I don’t doubt the artistic honesty of Marcel Duchamp. I think market
itself has a system that accepts every act of provocation or comment of
dissent, and then adapts it in order to sell it. In our times, one example
is that of Noam Chomsky who, despite being a dissenting voice, has turned
into a commodity; his books, originally a critique on the capitalist system,
are bestsellers now in the same societies. R. Rana: It would be
relevant to quote Banksy in this regard. Banksy’s whole approach was to be
a rebel in art and he was doing graffiti without disclosing his name. But
when he became rich and his work started selling for high prices; he said
that this was what he liked about capitalism; that even embraced its
enemies. This is a reality for contemporary art in Pakistan too. caption Ehsan ul Haq.
Two cities “William Titley
often engages with the elements in community to engage directly with place
and people. Thus goes the blurb
accompanying the photo exhibition of this British artist at the Arts
Council. The two hundred black and white images juxtapose Pakistani Lahore
and Indian Chandigarh in a striking comparison. While Lahore is ancient,
steeped in history and culture, with winding and narrow streets alternating
with broad and shaded avenues; Chandigarh is modern. Like Islamabad it is a
manufactured city, not one that grew out of its earth like Lahore. Chandigarh has broad
avenues laid out in grids, it has shiny new buildings and palatial mansions;
its streets are more orderly than most Indian (or Pakistani) streets. Like
Islamabad it appears also to be struggling to become a real human city.
From the images it is easy to
tell that William Titley spent a summer in the two cities. While in
Chandigarh, Titley seems to have favoured the university — a place of
newish pillared corridors shaded by spreading banyan trees; in Lahore he
roamed far and wide, apparently drawn by the lure that comes from the
city’s hoariness and found bare brickwork and beat up buildings with
people to match. So whereas Lahore is a city of crowded streets where things
have not changed for a few hundred years, Chandigarh is spacious without the
press of struggling humanity. In Lahore, the urgent
struggle of life is palpable as men strain under large loads or walk through
the arch of Delhi Gate while in Chandigarh the person (reading a paper?)
under a pillared veranda as it rains outside or the ice cream vendor who
idles with his telephone perched on top of his cycle-van marks the slow
pace. Lahore seethes and hastens; spacious Chandigarh goes nice and easy.
That is how Titley’s lens compares the two. Titley has remarkable
technique with unique angles. His top shots looking vertically down are
intriguing, particularly those of staircases: some of these remind one of
the abstract geometry of M. C. Escher’s drawings. The man has a sharp eye
for shapes and lines and the modern architecture of Chandigarh or the
crowded houses of Lahore are immensely complimentary to Titley’s craft.
Insignificant architectural details make for wonderful compositions seen
through this lens.
A book titled
Lahore-Chandigarh
published by Café Royal Books is the outcome of Titley’s time
spent in the two cities. The images displayed at the Arts Council are from
this book. Though the images give a good overview of Titley’s work, the
accompanying blurb lets on very little about the artist himself. That leaves
a thirst for the book where the writer-photographer tells the tale and
reveals himself and his art in greater detail.
Ghazal Gaiki By Anjum Shirazi Publisher: Sanjh
Publications Pages: 288 Price: Rs 450 Ghazal has been a popular
and major form of music in Pakistan. It probably falls in the middle — if
placed on a higher pedestal than folk and film music and lower than dhrupad
and kheyal. But now, with changing
taste in music and much borrowing and lending, with high culture suffering a
downturn in its fortunes, these categorisations have probably become dated
or do not appear to be relevant. This confusion of
hierarchies could also be the reason for the ghazal developing much more in
Pakistan than in India. It could also be that ghazal was considered in its
literary form as a continuum of the Indo Muslim culture which of course
leaned very heavily on the Central Asian, Persian and Arabic antecedents,
while the impact of local traditions was usually downplayed. Erroneously, it has been
seen as a repository of our musical traditions too while the dhrupad was not
and kheyal with much conditionality. When a spin was put on how to deal with
the inevitability of a shared heritage after Pakistan was created, the
standard discourse had been as follows: in the early years it was stressed
and frontally so that kheyal being the creation of Amir Khusro had something
Muslim about it, while dhrupad expressed a sensibility that was totally or
partially alien to the Muslim sensibility. As the classical forms
suffered in Pakistan, ghazal was considered to be a half way house between
the classical and lok forms and vocalists trained to sing kheyal and thumri
had to apply their virtuosity to the singing of the ghazal. In this
initiative they had the patronage or nod of approval of the cultural
managers of the country. Ghazal flourished in the
county, and its quality improved in terms of music far more than in the
early decades of the 20th century, as it gained popularity but hardly
gathered any prestige. But still no book had been
written on this marvellous scaling up of the form. Seminars were held,
papers were read and some articles were written but the success of the
enterprise warranted a book and now Anjum Shirazi has presented us with one.
Shirazi first ventured
forth as a writer on music when he read a comprehensive article in the Halqa
Arbab-e-Zauq. Ghazal Gaiki is
the extended version of the article that was read in the Halqa about 15
years ago. He has also written Mubadiyaat-e-Mausiqi. Ghazal Gaiki, as the title
suggests, is not about ghazal as a form of literature but as a form of
music. Most people who are into poetry or are writers assume that music is
an interpretation of the written word, and if it happens to be a venerated
form like the ghazal. The assumption is doubly fortified and made
impregnable. It is a form of music and the lyrics are a reference point for
a musical elaboration. Shirazi aptly pointed out
that the ghazal rests somewhere in the middle, where it had to negotiate the
limitations of the lyrical content with the freedom of the musical
rendition. As the ghazal developed
more during the course of the 20th century, the musical dimension appeared
to overshadow the literary content and this is how it qualified to be a
major form of musical expression. As with other forms of
music, particularly the popular folks, there is hardly any documented
evidence about its beginnings. The first references to ghazal as a form of
music, according to Shirazi, had been found during the times of Sultan
Jalauddin Khilji It is generally assumed
that it was sung as fallout to the varied contributions of Amir Khusro. Even
the names of two ghazal singers Nusrat Khatoon and Mehr Afroze are mentioned
without making it time specific and of course its passing reference in Nawab
Thakur’s famous Maraful Naghmaat. The ghazal initially was
sung in three styles: the thumri ang, kheyal ang and mujrai ang. Later as it
became a more popular form of music and as its outreach increased with the
development and expansion of recordings, Shirazi was forced to make further
categorisation where it was being influenced by other forms of vocal music. Besides the three
mentioned above, the ghazal has been influenced by geet, film music, lok
forms, kaafi and qawwali. If it is difficult to define the ghazal as a
literary form, except in very loose terms, it is also difficult to define it
musically, except in a very amorphous manner. One way of doing it was to
divide it into various phases and that is what has been done by Shirazi. The first phase, when a
form takes its shape, is of great importance to the scholar. Shirazi
identifies this phase largely based on the recordings available of great
vocalists like Gohar Jan, Mehmooda Jan, Ustad Fazal Hussain Khan, Allah
Baandi, Imam Baandi, Janki Bai and Malika Jan with some of their numbers
mentioned. While more detail had been provided regarding vocalists like
Ustad Barkat Ali Khan, Malika Pukhraj, Inayat Bai Dherowali, K.L. Saigol,
Master Madan, Kamila Jhariya, Jotika Roy, Mukhtaar Begum and Akhtari Bai
Faizabadi. What Shirazi categorises
as the second phase was probably the most brilliant in ghazal gaiki and it
had to be if it included Mehdi Hasan, Farida Khanum, Iqbal Bano, Ijaz
Hussain Hazravi, Muhammed Rafi, Lata Mangeshkar, Noor Jehan, Ghulam Ali and
Amanat Ali Khan besides many others. The last phase is quite
contemporary because it included vocalists like Jagjit and Chitra Singh,
Anup Jhalota, Bhopinder Singh, Mataali Singh, Suresh Wadekar, Chaya Gangooli,
Talaat Aziz, Chandan Daas, Hari Haran, Ustads Ahmed Hussain and Muhammed
Hussain, Madhoo Rani, Rajinder Mehta, Nina Mehta, Ashok Khoosla, Raaj
Rattan, Saman Yadev, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Gulbahar Bano and Khalil Haider.
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His
projects explore (through playful inquiry) ideas of location, identity and
spatial ownership with a multidisciplinary arts practice including video,
photography, drawing, painting, sculpture and performance.”
