review
Literature for a cause

Ijra tenth issue is a well-rounded literary magazine
By Dr Abrar Ahmad
Urdu literature, these days, is astir with the issue of its relevance and role as an agent of change in our society. The question of “social responsibility” of a writer is voiced far more loudly during troubled times and, undoubtedly, it has become extremely valid during recent years.

 

Master of poetic imagery
Ahmed Faraz was a master of poetic imagery, a pan humanist of the rarest sort who was bold enough to experiment with many genres of poetry
By Naveed Abbas
Ye khawab hai, khusbo hai, khe
johnka hai ke pal hai
Ye dhund hai, ke badal hai ke saya
hai ke tum ho
What is the worth of life’s work of a man or his words that came out of sheer sensitivity for his fellow people’s plight—one really wonders.

 

Zia Mohyeddin column
Fings aint not they used T’be

Looking at the shop window of a men’s boutique in London, I see that suits with narrow lapels and narrow trousers are in vogue again just as in the hippie age. Come to think of it there was no such thing as men’s fashion in England before 1960. The nobs had their special outfits for special occasion: plus fours for golf, striped jackets, white flannels and boaters for a regatta or a visit to the lords, tails and top hats for Ascot and dinner jackets for formal dinners. The middle class men wore three piece suits, a bowler hat and carried a rolled umbrella to work. Most of the ordinary people dressed in sports coats (now referred to as jackets) and flannels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

review
Literature for a cause
Ijra tenth issue is a well-rounded literary magazine

Urdu literature, these days, is astir with the issue of its relevance and role as an agent of change in our society. The question of “social responsibility” of a writer is voiced far more loudly during troubled times and, undoubtedly, it has become extremely valid during recent years.

There are certain other aspects inherently attached to this responsibility that need to be addressed. It was Albert Camus who wrote in Myth of Sisyphus: “Considered as artists, we perhaps have no need to interfere in the affairs of the world. But as men, yes.”

Are the artist and the man in him two separate independent entities? Perhaps. Considering the literary values, a creative piece needs to fulfill the demands of formal standards and expectations born out of tradition and its universally accepted parameters.

The more talented authors succeed in striking a balance when they attain both literary and social relevance. Faiz is one such example as compared to Habib Jalib whose political struggle dominated his literary pursuits.

It may be noted here that by creating alone, the authors spell out their intent to re-make the world, under any political influence or without it. Creative arts in fact always serve as the tools of resistance. If anything more decisive is to be done, then obviously it is the “man” who needs to come to the front and fight.

In Urdu literature, Anjuman Taraqqi Pasand Musanaffeen (The Progressive Writers Movement) of 1936 remains the sole example of a coherent and well-organised literary movement aimed at socio-political objective. It was led by exceptionally gifted literati and had a clear ideology i.e. Marxism for propagation in the ranks of the authors. It succeeded in creating a clear and vibrant wave that swept across the subcontinent. The movement finally faded away but not without leaving its impact.

A couple of years back, a cluster of some brilliant intellectuals from Karachi joined hands to work for “literature for change”. Ijra was the periodical published by these charged souls as the prime tool of propagation and effectively getting the message conveyed to literary circles.

Shaheen Niazi was the patron-in-chief and Ahsan Saleem, a celebrated modern poet, the editor. Those in the editorial board included Enwar Sajjad, Shakeel Aadalzada, Sabir Zafar, Syed Ayaz Mahmood and Fahim Shahnas Kazmi.

Ijra’s tenth issue has recently hit the bookshops. Each issue of Ijra offers two editorials addressing this “change” and the role of literature to make it happen. A special section is reserved for some select intellectuals to give their opinion and this format has been consistently followed since the initiation of the magazine.

In the issue under review, Shaheen Niazi in the opening article defines an “intellectual” and his role as a responsible member of society that is facing some real threats to its existence. He speaks of the errors of judgment committed by the intellectuals in the past — reminding us of the American intellectuals who applauded the atomic bombing of Japan as a national triumph. Niazi is bitterly critical of the apathetic attitude of our own literati during the dictatorial regimes in the past and implores them to rise to the occasion this time at least. Ahsan Saleem is also critical of the indifference of our creative lot. He also reminds the readers how through the World Congress of 1935 in France, a firm response was registered to combat the challenges of the time.

As a guest writer, Qazi Akhtar Jonagrhi sees no possibility of success of the movement in a society, which has a miserably low literacy rate and considers the massive defence budgets in the region responsible for it. He goes on to observe:” Where an author gets his book published from his own pocket, where no book receives advertisements and literature is the passion of the select few, where religions extremism dominates everything — are we justified to dream of bringing about a change through literature??”

Zaki Ahmad in his essay, “Insaan Aur Aalmi Mazahib” pleads for a scientific approach towards interpretation of religion. In his opinion mysticism can work as a bridge between science and religion. He goes on to expand on it in the essay.

The remaining sections are similar to the other contemporary literary magazines. In the section of translations, Dr Mohammad Hanif has contributed with the translation of “What Must Be Said,” a controversial poem by Nobel Laureate Gunter Grass, written against the handing over of a U-boat to Israel by the German Government that may facilitate an attack on the nuclear installations of Iran.

Shaheen Mufti gives an exhaustive introduction of the Korean poet Chang Soo Ko with fine translations of his select poems.

In the poetry section, the offerings of senior poets like Rasa Chughtai, Aftab Iqbal Shamim, Asad Mohammad Khan and Anwar Shaoor and of some young promising poets like Adnan Bashir, Tauqeer Taqi, Ali Zubair, Ahmad Atta, Qaiser Munawar and Shabbir Wazish make it a representative section of our current poetic scenario.

Five short stories by Qasim Khursheed are pleasant reading while Rashid Amjad recalls his friend, the late Mansha Yaad, in a tender captivating account. Ali Taha writes on the late Shehryar.

Ijra Issue 10

Edited by: Ahsan Saleem

Publisher: Beyond time Publications

Pages: 576

Price Rs 400

Email: ijrakarachi@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Master of poetic imagery
Ahmed Faraz was a master of poetic imagery, a pan humanist of the rarest sort who was bold enough to experiment with many genres of poetry

Ye khawab hai, khusbo hai, khe

johnka hai ke pal hai

Ye dhund hai, ke badal hai ke saya

hai ke tum ho

What is the worth of life’s work of a man or his words that came out of sheer sensitivity for his fellow people’s plight—one really wonders.

 Few words evoke such awe and respect as the poetry of Ahmed Faraz commanded. Endowed with a rare intellect and transcendental vision, his poetry lives and will certainly continue to impact our social psyche for a long time to come as works of all great men of similar standing have done over the ages.

His poems and ghazals are reminiscent of his classic diction:

Ye meri ghazlen ye meri nazmein

Tamam teri hikayaten hain

Ye tazkare tere lutf ke hain

Ye she’r teri shikayaten hain

Mein sab teri nazr kar raha houn

Ye un zamanoon ki sa’aten hain

Faraz, a master of poetic imagery, a pan- humanist of the rarest sort, alluring composition of magnetic expressions, sublime blend of life and love, was bold enough to experiment with many genres of poetry and is credited with creating a distinct style, rhythm and diction.

Romanticism, realism, human rights, political oppression, mythology, nostalgia, haunting romance and a belief in the supernatural are some of those themes that find frequent mention in his effortless poetry.

His poetry is bitter and sweet; imbued with love for the common man, and strong revolt against a system that denies human rights and freedom of speech.

Faraz was awarded Hilal-e-Imtiaz 2004, in recognition of his literary achievements. He returned the award in 2006 after Musharraf came into power. “My conscience will not allow me if I remained a silent spectator of the sad happenings around us. The least I can do is to let the dictatorship know where it stands in the eyes of the concerned citizens whose fundamental rights have been usurped. I am doing this by returning the Hilal-e-Imtiaz forthwith and refuse to associate myself in any way with the regime,” from the  statement issued by Faraz.

Columnist par excellence Khalid Hasan once said; “Are we going to lose Faraz, the supreme poet of romance, whose poetry we have loved and lived with all these years? It is a horrible thought and I want to banish it”. His thought-provoking style is reflected in these lines:

Shahr walon ki mohabbat ka mein

quayal houn magar

Mein ne jis haath ko chuma wohe

khanjar nikla

Faraz was a tall, mild-mannered Pathan with a wry sense of humour and looks that still win him a gushing female following. Born in Kohat in a Pushto-speaking family, Faraz did his masters in Persian and started his career as a scriptwriter for Radio Pakistan.

Faraz started his poetic career as a romantic poet but soon began to concern himself with the stark realities of the time. The Progressive Writers Movement also influenced him; this influence showed itself in his liberal humanism and his rebellion against political oppression and exploitation.

Faraz suffered imprisonment and persecution under Zia rule and was so heartbroken that he left the country like Faiz and lived in exile for six years. His great poem Mohasra remains one of the most powerful indictments of military rule. Who else but Faraz could have written: Peshavar qatilo tum sipahi nahin.

Faraz knew the art of maintaining equilibrium between a theme and its aesthetic expressions. His ghazals and related love poems were, and are, distinguished for both these qualities i.e. an unusual degree of intensity of feeling combined with ingenuity of expression to establish its own distinctive style. This brought him immediate popular acclaim, particularly among the youth who felt in this part of his writings the pulse of their own heartbeat.

The legendary Faiz Ahmed Faiz once said; “Faraz is the most facile poet because it provides the poet with a lavish store of ready made images, symbols, metaphors and other imaginative paraphernalia perfected by the great masters in Urdu and Persian to choose from and to pass as his own.”

Faraz was the people’s poet. He always proclaimed; my pen is the trust of my people:  “my pen is the judge of my conscience.” His tribute to a pen is classically inventive:

“Qalam surkhuru hai

Ke jo us ne likha

Wohi aaj mein houn

Wohi aaj tu hai

Qalam ne likha tha

Ke jab bhi zabannon pe pehrai

lagey hain

Tuo bazu sanan totley hain

Ke jab bhi laboon par khamoshi ke

talay partey hon

Tuo zindaan ke diwaar-o-dar boltey

hain

Kejab haraf zanjir hota hai

Shamshir hota hai akhir

Tuo amir ke taqdeer hota hai akhir

Ke jo harf hai zisst ke abroo hai

Qalam surkhuru hai

Ke jo us ne likha”

 

 

 

 

 

Zia Mohyeddin column
Fings aint not they used T’be

Looking at the shop window of a men’s boutique in London, I see that suits with narrow lapels and narrow trousers are in vogue again just as in the hippie age. Come to think of it there was no such thing as men’s fashion in England before 1960. The nobs had their special outfits for special occasion: plus fours for golf, striped jackets, white flannels and boaters for a regatta or a visit to the lords, tails and top hats for Ascot and dinner jackets for formal dinners. The middle class men wore three piece suits, a bowler hat and carried a rolled umbrella to work. Most of the ordinary people dressed in sports coats (now referred to as jackets) and flannels.

And then came 1960, and Peter Cook, that supremely gifted young satirist-cum-stand-up comic, who set a new trend by wearing short overcoats, bum-freeze jackets, narrow trousers and winkle-picker shoes. I think many of the boutiques that sprang up in Carnaby Street, located in London’s Soho district, took a great deal of inspiration from Peter Cook’s attire which was a mixture of a mixture of “Mod and hippie.”

What can I say about Peter Cook? He was the genius who could tap a flow of zany verbal inventions for as long as he wanted, turning an audience so weak with laughter they could hardly respond to any act after he finished his impromptu monologue. His appearance in the revue called “Beyond the Fringe,” which became the talk of the town, shot him to stardom. The revue was written and presented by four young graduates, fresh from Oxford and Cambridge all of whom were absolutely brilliant, but I have not hesitation in saying that Peter Cook outshone them all.

Cook’s life-long friend, the playwright, Alan Bennet, records in his memoirs that even when some of his talent for verbal exuberance deserted him, Peter Cook never complained about the generation of comic writers who had drawn their inspiration from him. Nor did he ever resent that his colleague, Dudley Moore, had gone on to great success in Hollywood and he hadn’t. The only regret he ever voiced was that in Fairfield Connecticut, he had saved David Frost from drowning. This is the kind of wit you don’t find nowadays.

* *  *  *  *

The scruffier parts of Birmingham, Sparkhill and Sparkbrook, used to have many junk shops which stored apothecary’s jars, slightly damaged stained glass windows, odd-shaped teapots, paintings with sylvan scenes, fishermen’s gear, old tennis balls, oriental ivory artefacts and other knick-knacks. Somewhere in these shops you found a couple of cardboard boxes full of second-hand books. They were all marked sixpence each.

The books on the top of pile were always thrillers but sometimes, digging deep into the box, you could come across a real gem. I was once lucky enough to find a set of five beautifully bound editions of “Discovering Antiques” for half a crown.

Such shops have all been converted into laundrettes, and stores selling electronic gadgets. Thus when I found not a single junk shop in the patch of Sparkhill that I used to visit, I hummed “Fings ain’t they used t’be” and quickly reminded myself that I was falling prey to the most common malady prevalent among people of my generation: extolling the virtues of by-gone days.

Fings was the title of a musical that ran in the West End for over two years. It was about East End life, which is why everyone spoke cockney. I went to see it because it had been directed by Joan Littlewood, the left-wing director, who had set up the Theatre Workshop and, with a group of like-minded, dedicated actors, had taken up residence in Theatre Royal Stratford East. Joan Littlewood was called “The Mother of Modern Theatre”. Her productions of Oh What A Lovely War and A Taste of Honey had made such an impact that they were transferred to the conservative West-End where they ran for years. 

I didn’t think much of Fings. It didn’t have the same bite as her other work. Even the music by the renowned composer, Lionel Bart, wasn’t particularly exciting except for the title song — which became a catchphrase — and still is.

* * * * *

Our teen-agers don’t like to eat home-made food any longer; they prefer to eat a stodgy pizza. I often wonder whether this is because their mothers have forgotten how to cook or because they feel that eating a burger (which in our chain restaurants tastes like muesli wrapped in cotton wool) elevates them to a better class.

We have even forgotten the taste of water. We drink water from a plastic bottle which has no taste. I often yearn for water poured into a katora ( a paper-thin silvery bowl) out of a surahi, that exquisitely shaped and carved earthen vessel, which is almost extinct nowadays.

I don’t know whether it was the clay in which water was stored, or the wafer-thin silvery substance of the bowl, or the mixture of a precious metal and the humble clay, but the taste of water was as divine as the taste of Mai Jhando’s roti.

As a school-boy, I used to take home-made dough my mother had prepared to the open maidan where the tandoor was situated and watch, fascinated, as the flames leaped and danced on the crinkled, leathery face of Mai Jjando, who presided over the affairs of the tandoor.

She first prodded and pummelled the ball of dough and then, expertly expanding it into a perfect round shape, leant forward into the mouth of the tandoor to place the roti on the inner wall. My heart leapt every time she did this for fear the flames would devour her. I used to be so absorbed watching her that I never knew when the day’s dusky light turned into and night. She would scoop the last roti with an iron rod, lift it with her charred hands, immune to burns, give it a twirl and flick it towards me to catch.  I did, but never without squirming up because the roti was too hot to handle. She would then give me a toothless smile.

I would wrap the roti along with the others in the printed square cloth which we called dastarkhan and walked home. I don’t remember ever resisting the piquant, appetising mouth-watering aroma of the roti. By the time I reached home I had eaten half the roti.

All things evocative like a piece of music or the taste of bread take you back. The fantasy of a past more beautiful, more blessed than the present, is a standard mode of human condition. Who doesn’t long for a past when all our yesterdays, we think nostalgically, were carefree?

 

 

 

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