تصویر بشکریہ مصنف –.

جو بھی دہلی جاتا ہے وہ لال قلعہ، جامع مسجد، جنتر منتر، قطب مینار وغیرہ کی سیر ضرور کرتا ہے۔ اگر بیگم صاحبہ ساتھ ہوں تو پھر شاپنگ کے لیے پالیکا بازار اور قرول باغ جیسی جگہ خوشی خوشی یا با حالات مجبوری جاتا ہے۔

میں چونکہ اپنی کتاب، جو مشہور ہندوستانی صحافی کلدیپ نیئر کے اشتراک سے لکھی تھی، کی رونمائی کے لیے اکیلا گیا تھا اور ساری تاریخی جگہ کی ایک دفعہ نہیں دس دفعہ سیر کرچکا تھا تو سوچا کیوں نہ ایسی جگہ جایا جائے جہاں عام طور پر سیاح نہیں جاتے ہیں۔

کسی نے کہا تمہیں تو چٹورپن کا شوق ہے سو پراٹھے والی گلی ضرور جانا۔ انکی بات بھلی لگی سو انتہائی مصروف پروگرام میں سے ایک صبح وقت نکال ہی لیا۔ ڈان اخبار کے دہلی میں نامہ نگار جاوید نقوی اور پاکستانی آرٹسٹ بنی عابدی اور انکے ہندوستانی شوہر نے باری باری اپنی گاڑی اور ڈرائیور میرے حوالے کردی تھی جس سے مجھے بہت آسانی ہوگئی۔ لیکن پرانی دہلی اور بالخصوص پراٹھے والی گلی کار سے جانا مصیبت مول لینا ہے۔

‘کار کو وہاں پہنچنے میں کم سے کم پینتالیس منٹ لگیں گے اور پھر بیچارہ ڈرائیور گاڑی پارک کرنے کی جگہ تلاش کرتے کرتے اپنے حواس بھی کھوسکتا ہے۔ اس سے بہتر تو یہ ہے کہ آپ ہمارے شہر کی نئی زمین دوز ٹرین میٹرو پر سفر کریں۔ جہاں آپ ٹہرے ہیں وہاں سے میٹرو کا اسٹیشن منڈی ہاؤس بذریعہ رکشا صرف پانچ منٹ کا فاصلہ ہے’ مجھے ایک دوست نے مشورہ دیا۔

آج سے دو دہائی ہہلے میں نے کلکتے کی میٹرو پر بھی سفر کیا تھا جبکہ اسکو شروع ہوئے چند مہینے ہی ہوئے تھے۔ دہلی کی میٹرو برصغیر کی دوسری زمین دوز ٹرین ہے لہٰذا میں بڑے شوق سے صبح اسٹیشن پہنچا۔ چاندنی چوک اسٹیشن کا ٹکٹ لیا، کاؤنٹر پر بیٹھی خاتون سے پوچھا کہ کیا ریل براہ راست چاندنی چوک پہنچے گی یا بدلنا پڑے گی؟ انہوں نے منہ سے کچھ نہ کہا میرے ہاتھ ہندی میں تحریر ریل کا نقشہ پکڑا دیا۔ میں نے جب کہا کہ مجھے انگریزی کا نقشہ دیجیے تو وہ جھٹ بولیں ‘بھائی انگریزی میں بھی یہی سب کچھ ہے جو اس میں ہے۔ آپ یہ لے جائیے کیوں کہ میرے پاس انگریزی کا نقشہ صرف بدیسی  لوگوں کے لیے ہے۔’

میں نے سوچا کہ ان سے کہہ دوں کہ میں بھی بدیسی ہوں اور ہندی نہیں پڑہ سکتا لیکن پھر خیال آیا کسی سے پوچھ لوں گا۔ پلیٹ فارم پر پہنچا تو پوچھنے کی نوبت ہی نا آئی۔ وہاں پر دیوار پر انگریزی زبان میں نقشہ آویزاں تھا۔ پتا چلا راجیو چوک پر ٹرین بدلنی ہوگی۔

گاڑی تو چمک رہی تھی، بالکل ایسے جیسے بیس سال پہلے کلکتے کی میٹرو چمکتی تھی۔ آخر یہ بھی تو نئی تھی۔ راجیو چوک پر میں نے ڈیجیٹل کیمرے سے تصویر لینا چاہی تو ایک ریلوے پولیس کے سپاہی نے مجھے روکا اور کہا ‘چلو افسر کے پاس۔ یہاں پر تصویر لینا جرم ہے۔’ میں دل میں گھبرایا کہ اگر اسکو میری قومیت کا پتا چل گیا تو میری مصیبت اجائے گی کیوں کہ چند ہی دن پہلے دہلی میں گنجان آباد جگہوں پر کئی بم پھٹے تھے اور میڈیا نے حسب معمول پاکستانیوں کو ذمہ دار ٹھرایا تھا۔

میں نے اپنے حواس برقرار رکھے اور افسر سے کہا ‘مجھے اس بات کا علم نہیں تھا کہ یہاں تصویر نہیں لینی چاہیئے۔ بہر حال اب آپ کے سامنے میں اس تصویر کو کیمرے سے خارج کردیتا ہوں’ آدمی معقول تھا اس نے کہا آئندہ احتیاط کیجئے گا۔

اس اثناء میں وہ ٹرین آگئی جو چاندنی چوک جاتی تھی، میں جھٹ سوار ہوگیا۔ اور دونوں ٹرین کے مجموعی سفر اور راجیو چوک کے واقعے کو کل نو منٹ لگے۔

چاندنی چوک کے صاف ستھرے اسٹیشن سے اتر کر میں اس گلی میں داخل ہوا جو آگے جاکر پراٹھے والی گلی میں تبدیل ہوجاتی ہے۔ اس پتلی گلی میں جہاں سائیکل رکشہ بھی چلتے ہیں مجھے بے اختیار ‘کھوے سے کھوا چھلنا’ کا محاورہ  یاد آیا۔ اپنے صوبے سندہ اور جنوبی پنجاب کے شاہی بازار یاد آگئے۔ خاص طور پر ٹنڈو اللہ یار کا شاہی بازار جہاں جب کوئی ٹانگا آتا تو راہ گیر دکانوں پر چڑھ جاتے تھے۔ خدا جانے آج وہاں کیا حال ہے۔

بالآخر بچتے بچاتے پراٹھے والی گلی پہنچ گیا، وہ گلی اور بھی تنگ تھی لیکن پراٹھوں کی مہک سے لبریز تھی۔ چند سالوں پہلے یہاں تیرہ پراٹھوں کی دکانیں تھیں لیکن زیورات اور خواتین کے لباس نے نو پراٹھے والوں کو منہ مانگے دام دیکر خرید لیا تھا۔ اب کل چار دکانیں رہ گئی تھیں، شاہد یہی وجہ ہے کہ دوپہر میں لوگوں کا جمگھٹا لگا رہتا ہے۔ یہ سب لوگ قریب کی دکانوں یا دفتروں میں کام کرتے ہیں، شام کو سنا ہے کہ لوگ دور دور سے پراٹھوں سے لطف اندوز ہونے بال بچوں کے ساتھ آتے ہیں۔

تصویر بشکریہ مصنف –.

پراٹھوں کی تفصیلات انگریزی اور ہندی میں بورڈ پر تحریر تھیں۔ مزے کی بات یہ ہے کہ ہر دکان پر کئی قسم کے پراٹھے ملتے تھے۔ سادے پراٹھے، آلو کے پراٹھے، مونگ کی دال کے پراٹھے، مولی کے پراٹھے، پنیر پراٹھے وغیرہ۔

میں نے پوچھا کے کیا قیمے اور انڈے کے پراٹھے بھی ہیں تو جواب ملا کے آدھے میل دور جامع مسجد کے پاس ملتے ہیں۔

ایک دکان والے کو جب میں نے بتایا کہ میں کراچی سے آیا ہوں تو جھٹ بولے آپ ہمارے مہمان ہیں ہم آپ سے پیسے نہیں لیں گے۔ میں نے انکا شکریہ ادا کیا اور کہا کہ میرا پیٹ اس قابل نہیں ہے کہ میں بازار کی کوئی چیز کھاؤں، حالانکہ میرے منہ میں پانی آرہا تھا۔

‘ارے صاحب جی آپ چنتا نہ کریں۔ ہمارے پتا جی جنہوں نے یہ دکان کھولی تھی ایک پیر صاحب نے انہیں دعا دی تھی کہ جو تمہارے ہاں پراٹھے کھائے گا اسکا پیٹ اگر خراب ہوگا تو ٹھیک ہوجائے گا۔’

میں نے انکی خوشی کی خاطر ایک گرم گرم پراٹھا مزے لے لے کر کھایا۔ وہاں کے پراٹھے ہمارے پراٹھوں کی نسبت چھوٹے ہوتے ہیں اور تیل میں تلے جاتے ہیں جس کی وجہ سے وہ زیادہ کرارے ہوتے ہیں۔

برابر کی میز پر ایک مزدور بیٹھا تھا، میں نے دیکھا کے اسکی پلیٹ میں دو سادے پراٹھے، تھوڑی سی بھجیا اور بہت تھوڑی سی چٹنی پڑی ہوئی تھی۔ ‘ہم تو مجبوری میں یہ کھاتے ہیں۔ آج کل بیس روپے میں اور کہیں کچھ نہیں ملتا۔’ اس نے کہا۔

وہاں سے اٹھنے کے بعد میں نے برابر والی دکان میں جھانکا، وہاں پر دیوار پر بڑے بڑے لوگوں کی پراٹھے کھاتے ہوئے تصویریں لگی ہوئی تھیں۔ ایک تصویر پنڈت جواہر لال نہرو کی اپنی بیٹی اندرا گاندھی کے ساتھ تھی، ایک لال بہادر شاستری کے ساتھ تھی۔ بیچ میں پنڈت گیا پرساد تھے۔ یہ تصویریں انہی کے دور کی تھیں۔ انکے بیٹے کو، جن کا نام میں بھول رہا ہوں، اس بات کا افسوس تھا کہ ہندوستان کے صدر ابوالکلام، جن کے وہ مداح تھے، کبھی پراٹھے کھانے انکی دکان پر نہیں آئے۔

جب چاوری بازار کے میٹرو اسٹیشن کی طرف نکلا تو دیکھا کے ہر دکان کے باہر خواہ وہ کپڑوں کی ہو یا کھانے پینے کی مالک کی ایک یا دو موٹر سایئکل کھڑی تھیں جس سے گلی اور تنگ ہوگئی تھی۔

تصویر بشکریہ مصنف –.

ابھی میں یہ نوٹ کر ہی رہا تھا کہ ایک سائیکل رکشہ والا غصے سے مجھ سے مخاطب ہوا ‘بھائی سایئڈ پر چلو!’

میں نے کہا، ‘بھائی صاحب یہاں پر سائیڈ تو نظر ہی نہیں آتی، آخر چلیں تو کہاں چلیں۔’

اسکا غصہ کچھ ٹھنڈا ہوگیا۔ اگر اس رکشہ میں جگہ ہوتی تو میں اسی میں بیٹھ جاتا۔ آگے گیا تو دیکھا کہ رکشہ بھیڑ میں پھنسا ہوا تھا۔ میں آگے نکل گیا۔

آصف نورانی کراچی میں ایک صحافی ہونے کے ساتھ ساتھ متعدد کتابوں کے مصنف بھی ہیں۔

-Photo by author

The best way to see a city is by walking through its streets and alleys and exploring its underbelly. Having seen such tourist spots as the Red Fort, Jamia Masid, Qutub Minar, Humayun’s Tomb and Jantar Mantar on my earlier trips to Delhi, I thought of going to a place where tourists don’t normally go.

I was in the Indian capital to take part in the launch of Tales of Two Cities (not to be confused with Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities), which I had co-authored with a senior Indian journalist and a former diplomat, Kuldip Nayar. The venue was the India International Centre, where my publisher had also arranged for my stay. The launch was well attended and was a big success, I may add, at the risk of being considered immodest.

I had to stay in the exciting city for an extra day because there was no flight from Delhi to Karachi or Lahore. So I decided to make the most of it. I had read about the crisp parathay that were available in what was known as the Parathay Wali Gali, close to the famous Chandni Chowk. A desi foodie that I have always been I thought of grabbing the opportunity of visiting the alley.

During my three-day stay in the city, my friends were generous enough to lend me their cars and drivers. However, had I taken a car, it would have taken me 45 minutes to reach Chandni Chowk and another 15 minutes on foot to the Gali, not to speak of the poor driver’s ordeal of finding a parking spot. So, I took the new swanky Metro, which took nine minutes (in spite of changing from blue line to yellow line at the Rajesh Chowk station) from Mandi House to the Chandni Chowk station.

Parathay Wali Gali (incidentally all four eateries in the Gali spell the word ‘paratha’ differently) is just as narrow as the Shahi bazaars of Sindh. Until a couple of decades ago there were as many as 13 joints specialising in parathas, but as jewellers and ladies’ clothes owners offered lucrative prices, one by one, nine shops dropped shutters.

The four eateries that are left overflow with customers, morning, noon and night. I was advised to be there an hour before lunchtime so that I could capture on my camera more than just the heads of the paratha-buffs occupying the limited space inside the eateries.

-Photo by author.

The menu displayed on the walls boasted of parathas with a wide variety of fillings — cottage cheese, radish, moong ki daal, potatoes and what have you. But they were all vegetarian joints. I inquired about the traditional qeema paratha and was told that Jamia Masjid, which happened to be less than a kilometre away, had eateries around it that also served, among other dishes, non-veg parathas.

The parathas available in the Gali were smaller than the ones we have in Pakistan and they were deep fried, which made them crispier. I was reluctant to try one as my digestive system was not in ship shape. The man frying the parathas in the biggest eatery in the Gali said that a Pir Sahib had blessed the late owner so anyone eating parathas in his shop was immune to digestive problems; if any thing, the parathas would have a curative effect.

Pir Sahib or no Pir Sahib, professional compulsion forced me to try an aloo ka paratha and to say that it was delicious was to state the obvious. I sat next to a man who had a plate of two plain parathas with chutney and a couple of servings of bhujya for Indian Rs20. “I have it everyday because I can’t afford to pay more and people like you come here out of choice rather than out of compulsion,” said my cynical neighbour.

Another eatery, founded by one Pandit Gaya Prasad, displayed pictures of celebrities enjoying parathas in his outlet. The most prominent being that of Pandit Nehru in the company of a young Indira Gandhi. In another picture there was Lal Bahadur Shastri. Prasad’s son claimed that all heads of state and heads of governments had had his or his father’s parathas. “Abul Kalam sahib is the only one who never came here,” he said in English. He was in those days the President of our neighbouring country.

-Photo by author

As I moved out and headed towards Chawri Bazaar to catch the metro, I noticed that every shopkeeper had parked his motorbike outside his outlet, which made the narrow lane even narrower. I was almost overrun by a cycle rickshaw.“Dekh ke chala karo” (watch where you’re walking), roared an irate, grim-faced cycle rickshaw driver. “Bhai sahib, yehan tou na dekhne ki jaga hai aur na chalne ki” (Brother, there is no space to see let alone walk here), I said. My comment made him smile and he gave way, which reinforced my belief that humour works everywhere and Parathay Wali Gali was no exception.

Asif Noorani is a Karachi-based journalist and author of Mehdi Hasan: the Man and His Music.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

-Photo courtesy of TCF

A group of six friends, all in business – young, well educated and affluent – used to meet every weekend and talk of everything under the sun but the one subject that cropped up from time to time was that Pakistan was woefully short of educated people. One day, someone said “Enough is enough. Either we do something significant or stop complaining.” They all agreed and had a brainstorming session, at the end of which they decided to pool in money to open five schools for the poorest of the poor in areas of Karachi where there were no schools, private or government run. That was in 1995, when Rs 12.5 million was a big sum but the target was to be achieved in one year. They may have lacked in experience in the field of education but were amply equipped with professionalism and determination. This was how the NGO, The Citizens Foundation (normally referred to as TCF) came into being.

Today, 17 years later TCF runs 830 purpose-built schools in different parts of the country, providing employment to more than 5,000 female teachers, who are paid reasonably well and a good number of support staff such as drivers and peons. As many as 115,000 students, half of them female, study in co-education schools which have proper buildings and playgrounds. The fees are nominal and the cost of running the schools, thanks to inflation, is quite high. Donations come in from home and abroad.

A group of socially conscious people, who call themselves the Supporters of TCF, are involved in a number of fund-raising activities too. The one forthcoming event that will excite all art lovers is the four-day Exhibition of Contemporary Pakistani Art, will open on November 6 at Mica Gallery in London.

Painting by Ather Jamal.

Two ladies Shahla Shareef and Maliha Bhimjee, who have put their hearts and souls in the project, were able to collect the works of 40 artists. Some of them like Riffat Alvi, who also extended a helping hand in the project, and Samina Raza, gave as many as three of their prize art works. There was at least one artist who made a special painting for the exhibition. He answers to the name of Moeen Faruqi. Of the 40 artists, the one whose is the biggest name in the group is none other than the late Ismail Gulgee. His two calligraphic paintings – both displaying the word ‘Allah’, should be able to attract the most attention at the exhibition. They have been donated by a collector who prefers to remain anonymous.

Painting by Gulgee.

The treasure trove to be put up on display has a wide variety from impressionist work to pure abstract. Some employing exciting bright colours, while some are in brooding monochromes.

Painting by Wahab Jaffer.

Log on to http://www.MicaHub.com for the address and other details.

Asif Noorani is a Karachi-based journalist and author of Mehdi Hasan: the Man and His Music.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

-Photo by the writer

It’s around midnight that I land in Portland, Oregon. Normally, the first thing that I do on reaching a foreign destination is to change the time on my wristwatch in accordance with the local time. On this occasion, I don’t have to because the West Coast of the US is just on the opposite of the globe, so 12 midnight in Portland is 12 noon in Pakistan.

I was told that it wouldn’t be cold in Oregon but the weather, at least for the first four days of my week-long stay in Portland, is cooler than Karachi in January. The cold wind hits me in the face the moment I come out of the airport terminal. I had forgotten to pack my jacket in my handbag but fortunately the bus that is to take me to the hotel is parked not too far.

The Intel International Science and Engineering Fair, where I am a guest from my country, is to begin on Monday morning. So, I have the whole Sunday to get over my jet lag. Sunday evening I decide to go for a stroll. On the elevator I meet a middle-aged man and a young woman, who is carrying striking flowers. They were taking part in the Mother’s Day function. John Wene runs an art gallery, which is at a walking distance, while Oksanna, half-Russian and half-Ukrainian, helps in organising art exhibitions.

Wene takes me to his gallery and shows me the work of a multi-faceted painter – Charlie White, who once owned the same gallery. Wene rents out White’s paintings to banks and other commercial organisations at five per cent of the actual price for a period of three months, and replaces them with another set of painting in the next quarter, a novel idea indeed. I like her work and wish to meet her; she invites me, Wene, Oksanna and her husband Seth Tichenor over to dinner. Within an hour or so salmon and rice are ready. The food is refreshingly different and the surprise item is the cinnamon-rich chai (tea), which, as I am to discover later, is the new craze all over the US.

Seth (pronounced Teth) teaches philosophy and aesthetics in a college. He is quite familiar with the history and the different cultures of the subcontinent. He is not the only one to voice his anguish over the American government’s policy in Iraq and Afghanistan. In the next few days, I run into quite a few Americans who echo the same feeling. “Please tell our Pakistani friends that we are ashamed of what is being done in Iraq,” says Seth, “We have no business to be there.”

-Photo by the writer

The following morning I take, what is referred to as the Max (Metropolitan Area Express), which runs slowly within the city limits like a tram but once it is on its way to the airport it gathers speed like an Express train. Travel within the city is free. The idea is to discourage people from using cars. There are large hooks in each compartment for cyclists to hang their bikes.

I get down from the Max at the huge Oregon Convention Centre, which is the venue of the largest pre-college science fair in the USA. In its 55th year the Intel Science and Engineering Fair has attracted the largest number of participants –
1,429 science students, who have qualified from 41 countries, where the company had had local competitions. Unfortunately, the three boys from Islamabad who qualified couldn’t get their visas on time, but Mahwish Noor, the only girl who succeeded in the qualifying round, made it.

I see her carrying the Pakistani flag at the impressive opening ceremony. It does my heart some good to realise that my country is not entirely unrepresented. Noor sets up her project in the microbiology section of the huge hall.

More than a thousand experts have volunteered to judge the projects. All of them have a PhD or equivalent in one of the 14 scientific disciplines or six years of professional experience in these fields.

The most interesting event in the five-day fair is the session where 10 noted researchers from various disciplines – six of whom are Nobel laureates – answer questions from participating students. Young confident students frame their questions in English, even though for quite a good number of them it is not their first language, and the members of the panel answer them in the simplest possible terms. For someone who has not seen even one Nobel laureate in flesh and blood, it’s a once in a life time opportunity to see six of them and shake hands with three. The other three are surrounded by children and are busy answering their questions even after the session is over.

The prizes are announced in two sessions but the grand prize, which means $50,000 in scholarship for three students, is left for the fifth day when children, their teachers and in some cases their parents, wait for the announcements with bated breath. A Chinese, an American girl from Florida and a German are declared winners amidst thunderous applause. Among the minor prize-winners, announced a day earlier, are kids of two Pakistani immigrants. Unfortunately, Mahwish Noor is unable to impress the judges but it is no small consolation that she is able to display her project at such a prestigious fair. Despite such large participation no discordant note is struck. Everything is so well planned and equally well executed.

The fair is so demanding in terms of time that I can’t get to see the city of Portland but the day after it is over, Seth

-Photo by the writer

Tichenor offers to take me to the Japanese Garden before dropping me at the airport. The young man is quite knowledgeable about the place. He says that it is the finest garden of its kind outside Japan. While walking through its paths I begin to agree with Tichenor.

He points out, what is called, the Poetry Stone, which is inscribed with a haiku, a traditional three-line Japanese poem. The brochure handed over to us at the gate carries a loose translation of the poem – “Here, miles from Japan, I stand as if warmed by the spring sunshine of home.”

Professor Takuma Tono had come all the way from the Land of the Rising Sun to design the garden in 1963. The raison d’etre of Japanese gardens is to provide peace, harmony and tranquility, says the brochure. The 5.5 acre garden on a hillock in Portland does just that. One should spend at least four hours in the garden to enjoy it completely, but I am pressed for time.

Time and tide, not to speak of aircraft, wait for no one so we just go to the Bonsai section, where the exhibits are amazing. How I wish I could carry at least one or two bonsais which are on sale, but the trip back home is a fortnight away. I have to spend a week each with my daughters in Detroit and Little Rock.

As I am dropped at the airport I see the sun peeping from the clouds for the first time in six days. Better late than never, I feel like saying, before melting in a crowd of passengers.

Asif Noorani is a Karachi-based journalist and author of Mehdi Hasan: the Man and His Music.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

A grand musical innings came to an end last Wednesday, on June 13, with the passing away of Mehdi Hasan, an icon of this country whose admirers in sheer numbers are greater across the Wagah border. It was torture to see him suffer from so many ailments for the last 11 years, after he was afflicted by a stroke for the first time in late 2000.
Hasan was born in a village in Rajasthan in 1927 in a family of classical musicians. He practised under stalwarts for hours, an experience which stood him in good stead when he gave scintillating performances, live and recorded.

Hasan was given the title of Shahenshah-e-Ghazal in appreciation of his style of rendering the most musical of all forms of poetry. He was a stickler for perfection, who took great pains to learn the correct pronunciations of difficult words. His yen for authenticity was also reflected in his choice of musical notes and their execution.

To say that he was the king of ghazals would, however, limit his excellence to only one genre of music. He was a virtuoso of
semi-classical music too. He rendered thumri with great aplomb. Similarly, he rendered folksongs with equal ease; not just Rajasthani folksongs but those from other parts of the northern Subcontinent as well. His rendition of sufi music was flawless. A case in point is Ki Janan Mein Kaun Bulleya which is guaranteed to stir the heartstrings.

As a film singer, Hasan impressed the masses but none of his popular film ditties can be termed pedestrian. It was not for nothing that he bagged nine Nigar Awards, six of them in a row, not to mention the many other coveted awards he received in the Subcontinent.

– Asif Noorani
The writer is the compiler and editor of Mehdi Hasan: The Man and His Music which is accompanied by two CDs of rare recordings by Mehdi Hasan.

First published in the Adbuzzzz Section of The DAWN National Weekend Advertiser on June 17, 2012.

I had accompanied Dr Saira Khan, who had made arrangements for the ambulance of the Medical Aid Foundation to take him from his house to the Aga Khan University Hospital daily for physiotherapy sessions. Also with us was a young Indian girl Nandita Bhavnani, who had arrived from Mumbai to see the city of her ancestors. She had been a great admirer of the vocalist. When I introduced her to Khan sahib (as he was often referred to) he said “Jo haq Pakistanion ko meri museeqi pe hai wohi Hindustanio ko bhi hai. Unho ne mujhe kum muhabbat nahi di” (Whatever claim the Pakistanis have over my music, the Indians have it in the same measure. They haven’t shown me less love). I highlighted this comment in my piece on him for Dawn. Atal Bihari Vajpaee was the Indian prime minister at the time and my friend Sudhendra Kulkarni, a journalist turned political activist, showed the article to his boss, who sent a very touching letter to the singer, admitting his great admiration for the maestro.

When I decided to write a book on the singer, I was handicapped by the fact that he was in no position to speak and a member of his family, who called the shots, was not cooperating. He wanted his pound of flesh, since he believed I was going to make loads of money at the expense of his near and dear one.

So, the next best alternative was to get music lovers, those who knew him and others in the profession to give their views, which I transcribed. Collecting music, unheard and less heard, was yet another problem but friends helped. It was my earnest desire to show the book Mehdi Hasan: the Man and His Music to him. I took the slim volume to him sometime in 2010. Speechless as he was, all he could utter was “Ahaa” and later said “Shukriya”. There were flickers of smile on his face, and the work I put in for the book was repaid.

Full marks to Dr Aziz Sonawala, an eminent neurologist, who treated the icon from day one and didn’t charge him any fee, as well as the hospital, where he was treated while his bills remained unpaid. A month or so before Mehdi Hassan’s death, the Sindh Government paid five million rupees to the Aga Khan University Hospital to settle a large chunk of the outstanding bills that had gone up to 5.2 million rupees.

Now the question, why did it happen or rather, if I may be allowed to be blunt, who killed Mehdi Hassan? To begin with, he didn’t manage his finances well. He had a large family, two wives (he outlived both of them) and 14 children and education was not a part of the family tradition. His case was a far cry from the one of Noor Jehan, who was treated by the same hospital and who paid all her bills.

Mehdi sahib was not an alcoholic, but he was not a disciplined drinker either. To make matters worse, he was a chain smoker, who also consumed tobacco in his paan.

Some people close to him used him for raising money. Where did the money go is anybody’s guess. Television channels exploited him too by paying his family and making the poor man sit on a wheelchair, suffering physically. Mehdi sahib was also made to listen to junior singers, who in an attempt to sing his famous ghazals and film songs, made a complete mess of immortal numbers – which was a torture of a different kind for the legend.

All said, the great singer, who had also been a generous soul is gone. His contribution to ghazal gayeki will forever remain second to none. May God rest his soul in peace.

Asif Noorani is a Karachi-based journalist and author of Mehdi Hasan: the Man and His Music.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

Behind every successful married woman is a supportive husband. Zulfiqar Ramzi, stands by her all the time. But now let’s talk about the icing on the Shanaz cake. It’s her debut book, Food Prints: Overview of Pakistani cuisine. It’s not a run of the mill cook book, nor was its launch a routine affair. The event was refreshingly (read deliciously) different from the normal book launches. To begin with, there were a wide variety of mouth-watering snacks from chapli kabab from the north of the subcontinent to masala dossa, a delicacy from the south, now a part of Karachi’s cuisine. All food and drinks (except lassi) were served hot and fresh from counters set up on the lawns of Frere Hall. Guests relived their childhood savouring gola gunda. The list of goodies is large and my space restricted. Before I forget, let me add that Frere Hall’s imposing structure, bathing in floodlights, lent grandeur to the scene.

The event jointly hosted by the publishers, Oxford University Press and BBCL, was meticulously planned by Pervez Iqbal. The mistress of ceremony was an accomplished chef, Shaista, who had been a chef in some well known and some hardly known New York restaurants. She is now doing a show for one of the food channels. She regretted that there was no book on Pakistani cooking. Food Prints, she claimed, would fill in the gap somewhat. No one will dispute that, but one felt that she monopolised the mike a bit too much and spoke mostly in first person singular, even when she was inviting other speakers.

The main speaker of the evening, the author, revealed that it took her seven years to complete the book. First her publishers wanted her to do a book for kids, but she was determined to come out with something well researched and which could be of use to not just Pakistanis but food lovers of other countries as well. Her speech, laced with humour, was lively.

Cuisine like any other aspect of a culture can be properly appreciated if it is viewed in the contexts of history and geography. The first chapter ‘A look at Pakistan’s Geography and Anthropology’ examines the cuisine of each province separately and takes Karachi, the most cosmopolitan part of Pakistan, as a separate entity. This chapter like the rest of the book is interspersed with lovely pictures, some specially shot and some from existing records.

In the next chapter ‘Cooking the Pakistani Way’, Ramzi introduces some local utensils like the karahi, the handi, the tawa, the hawan dasta and the seel batta. She also introduces baghar and tarka, which are different from simple frying. She talks of dum cooking and bhoonna. In yet another chapter she writes about ingredients like elaichi, garam masala, cinnamon, cumin etc. which add distinct flavour to Pakistani dishes.

Subsequent chapters are devoted in detail to the cuisines of different regions. Even a person initiated into culinary art is likely to learn about dishes that he or she may never have heard of. For instance, not many people even in urban Sindh would have heard of Dho do, which is a special thick roti, prepared with masala and garlic paste and consumed with mint chutney. If you move up from Sindh to Hunza, you will run into not one but five seemingly ‘alien’ dishes – Kurutz, Barusshapik, Barus berikutz, Chapshuro and Khamuloot pie.

In the chapter on Karachi, you will get to read about the dishes that the immigrants from India and the people from the rest of Pakistan have popularised here. So if there is ghulawat ke kabab from Lucknow and gola kabab from Delhi, there is chapli kabab from Peshawar.

There are seasonal foods, like those you take on a rainy day or on festivals like Eid, Christmas, Diwali and Nauroz.

Towards the end of the book the author shares recipes of her favourite dishes, which include her and this reviewer’s favourite pizza, the chicken tikka pizza. What a great example of fusion cooking!

The last section outlines the recipes of some very popular dishes, from Dilli ki nihari and Punjab ke paye to sambusa brought by the Tajiks – a cousin of our samosa.

The beautifully designed book was printed in Malaysia, had it been done in Lahore, where they recently printed the outstanding coffee table book Churches of Pakistan, Food Prints would have been affordable. At Rs 2,200 many people will be reluctant to buy it. The next edition of this priceless book, figuratively speaking, should be printed in Pakistan.

The writer, who jointly authored the bestselling ‘Tales of Two Cities’ with Kuldip Nayar and more recently compiled and created ‘Mehdi Hasan: The Man and his Music’ writes and lectures on music, literature and culture. He also reviews books and pens travelogues and humorous pieces. asifnoorani2002@yahoo.com

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

Jagjit had the finesse of Talat Mahmood and the skill which may not have equalled but came pretty close to Mehdi Hasan’s. -Source: Livemaza Photo

Much has been said about the great ghazal singer Jagjit Singh, who passed away this morning, and much more will be said and written about the musical genius. My mind goes back to the late 70s when I, a collector and avid listener of ghazals and semi-classical music, heard the poem Baat niklegi to door talak jayegi. It swept me off my feet. I had never heard him or his name before.

Jagjit had the finesse of Talat Mahmood and the skill which may not have equalled but came pretty close to Mehdi Hasan’s in the field of ghazal rendition. He said Mehdi Hasan was his guru. That showed not only Mehdi Hasan’s stature but also Jagjit’s greatness in acknowledging it.

In 1979 he and his singer-wife Chitra came to Karachi to perform at concerts. Both of them clicked. EMI Pakistan released the recordings of live performances on audio cassettes. To say that they flew off the shelves of music stores is to say the very obvious. Among the places that the duo performed was the Karachi Press Club, where he was besieged by music fans. That was the only time I met him.

During this trip, he took the ashirwad of his ideal, Mehdi Hasan. He spoke warmly about his ‘spiritual guru’ in subsequent years. When I was doing a book on Mehdi Hasan, he was among the first to give his views in print and subsequently recorded his comments for one of the two CDs that accompany the slim volume. The tributes are worth listening to.

In a telephone conversation, he regretted that Mehdi Hasan had been suffering for so long and added that at least he was still with us. “I would love to see him back on his feet and back in front of a mike,” said Jagjit. But the younger singer couldn’t wait for that to happen, he passed away. By the way, Mehdi Hasan’s family members haven’t told him about Jagjit’s demise. He is in no position to bear that shock.

Excerpts from Jagjit Singh’s comments published in the book Mehdi Hasan: The Man and his Music may well be recalled: “Mehdi sahib’s selection of ghazals is remarkable. His pronunciation is flawless and the magic of his rendition is heightened by the impeccable manner in which he enunciates the words. His voice retains its balance whether he touches the low notes or hits the high ones.” If any singer ever came closest to Mehdi Hasan then he was none other than Jagjit Singh.

The writer, who jointly authored the bestselling ‘Tales of Two Cities’ with Kuldip Nayar and more recently compiled and created ‘Mehdi Hasan: The Man and his Music’ writes and lectures on music, literature and culture. He also reviews books and pens travelogues and humorous pieces, and can be contacted at asifnoorani2002@yahoo.com

Comparisons are odious but I think Detroit can be dreary, while Boston is always bursting with excitement. I have written so much in the past about its institutions of learning, museums and libraries that it would amount to repetition if I mention anything here. 

It’s a long journey from Karachi to Boston with changing flights at Abu Dhabi and New York. Leaving home at 2am, I board Etihad for Abu Dhabi at 5. The flight is short and comfortable, the service is good, but while I go through the magazines which are plentiful, I find most people trying to catch up with their sleep. I guess I am the odd man out.

The real journey, if I may so, begins on the flight to New York. Being a frequent flyer, I am updated from Economy to Business Class. The aircraft is full but the attention to passengers is unflagging. With a variety of newspapers and magazines, not to speak of the book that I am carrying, and a wide range of entertainment on the large screen in front of each passenger, there is not a dull moment. An elderly Columbian woman constantly watches English language movies from the black-and-white era. The one which she sees twice is based on the eternal love triangle; It reminds me of the subcontinental cinema of the 50s. An Arab, a seat ahead, can’t resist the comfort of the flat bed which the seat turns into at the press of a button. He sleeps almost all the way through. I don’t, except for a 40-minute nap. A charming Bangladeshi young woman with her infant looks serious but when I greet her in whatever little Bengali that I know, a radiant smile appears on her face. Such is the love for one’s language!

I enjoy talking to the friendly cabin crew, drawn from various countries who speak English in different accents. Earlier, at the Abu Dhabi airport I run into Michael (I forget his second name) an American, who loves mountains and is returning from Skardu, where he went to have a good look at K2; He sounds like a man in love. Michael says he prefers the Karakoram to the Himalayas and gives technical reasons for his preference, some of which go above my non-technical head. “I hope the rest of your country becomes as peaceful as Skardu and its environs,” he says. I can’t agree with him more.

The food on board is delicious and wide ranging. One can order anything any time but with restricted freedom of movement one is not hungry enough.

Landing at the JFK airport, the first shock that I encounter is that the wheels of my hand-carry decide to part with the bag. I sail through the Immigration and Customs. But at the Security Check on Terminal 5, from where I have to catch the Boston flight, a bottle of mineral water and a tube of shaving cream in my hand-carry cause a mini problem.

“OK, if I am not allowed to carry this small bottle of water, at least allow me to drink the mineral water,” I say. “You can, if you like, but you’ll have to go out, drink it and join the line once again,” was the answer I get. “You can get another bottle once you are in the departure lounge or use one of the many fountains,” says his colleague. The tube of shaving cream is cleared because it falls into the permissible quantity.

The flight is a little less Spartan than the American airlines these days, where the fares are low and hardly anything to eat and drink. This one gives cookies and chips in addition to a cold drink. We land at 10 pm.

Maryam, my granddaughter, thinks Nana (maternal grandfather) lives at the airport because that’s where he is picked up from and dropped off after staying with her for a few days. Much to my disappointment, she is not at the airport, but her two older brothers and dad are there. She doesn’t keep long hours so her Mom has to be with her.

My hosts live in a colonial house in Quincy, a suburb of Boston, named after two early American Presidents, a father and son. The 120-year-old house has been lovingly maintained by the grandchildren and great grandchildren of the man who built it. They sold it last year to Maryam’s parents, who take good care of it. People who live in places like Boston heat up their cars in their garages before they go to work in the long winter months. But this one doesn’t have a garage. Much to my embarrassment, I am reminded that cars were not invented 120 years ago.

Maryam’s parents invite some people from UMass (University of Massachusetts) at Boston. One of them asks me if, as a journalist, I felt safe in Pakistan. “I do because I write on music, literature and culture. The worst that can happen to me is to get hate mail if I make a disparaging remark about a performance of someone’s favourite musician or give an unfavourable review to a book someone raved about.”

There is a Jewish family, who is visiting from Israel. The husband is a rabbi. They have both studied at Boston. I ask him if there are people in his country who sympathise with the Palestinians. “You are talking to one,” he says and goes on to explain that the number of such people is not small. We talk about Pakistan as I answer his queries. We don’t touch sensitive issues. Instead we discuss the nuances of different languages. With migrants from different parts of the world in Israel, one hears a number of languages there.

This is the first time I am visiting Boston in summer. The weather is pleasant but the flip side is that the universities are closed. Last time I was here, I spoke to students of a department on the sufferings of the people in Pakistan and India on account of tense relations between the two governments. I have a standing invitation to talk to another batch of students and the faculty when I am in Boston again.

As I write these lines my hosts are preparing to go for Friday prayers at the Islamic Centre. This will not be my first visit. Two years ago I was there at Eid and I enjoyed the multi-racial lunch there.

The time difference between Karachi and Boston works to my disadvantage. I have to meet the deadline and send this blog before it’s Saturday morning in Pakistan.

The writer, who jointly authored the bestselling ‘Tales of Two Cities’ with Kuldip Nayar and more recently compiled and created ‘Mehdi Hasan: The Man and his Music’ writes and lectures on art, literature and culture. He also pens travelogues and humorous pieces.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

While the Mumbai-based Bijaya Jena, a state prize winning filmmaker-cum-actor, and yours truly could communicate with each other in English and a language which is Urdu to me and Hindi to her (Mahatma Gandhi would have called it Hindustani), the other two judges, one an accomplished film director from Kish and the other a film critic from Azerbaijan, had to seek the help of interpreters. Bijaya and I conveyed our views to the fellow judges in English but not without the help of two interpreters. One of them, who spoke in Persian, was reasonably fluent, but his colleague was particularly week. He fumbled for words, particularly when translating from Azerbaijani (also called Azeri) to English and I had the nagging fear that he may not be communicating the ideas correctly, not deliberately, of course. The session which shouldn’t have lasted for more than half an hour, since our views were not divergent, prolonged for two hours. We parted with warm handshakes and exchanges of broad smiles, but that was the most we could convey without the help of interpreters.

Every time I have to wait for a flight at the departure lounges outside Pakistan, I look for someone who can speak English. Thus an American or a Brit or someone from the subcontinent would be my first choice. Once travelling on the Rajdhani Express from Delhi to Mumbai, I was in a compartment with an elderly Muslim from Kerala and a Hindu couple from North India with two daughters.

The Keralite was a pleasant gentleman and generous with his smiles but we could not communicate with each other. On the other hand, the Punjabi gentleman and his wife from the UP were ones with whom I had long conversations. When the husband used a Punjabi word in his conversation, the wife said “Dekhye hamari shadi ko dus saal hogaye hain lekin ye Hindi mein Punjabi mila dete hain.” (Look, we have been married for ten years but he still adds Punjabi words to Hindi). A bell rang in my mind and I recalled a similar ‘complain’ voiced by an Urdu-speaking Pakistani about his wife, whose mother tongue happened to be Punjabi. Both cases could best be described as sheer banter. There wasn’t anything serious about the ‘accusations’.

Back to my fellow passengers on board the Rajdhani, we had interesting baat cheet on a wide variety of subjects from music to mothers-in-law. They had never visited Pakistan so I had many queries to answer. They enjoyed PTV plays and remembered more titles than I did.

Another point to remember is that languages also reflect the culture of the people who speak those tongues. Example: a common prayer for one’s daughter in the northern part of the subcontinent is “Sada suhagan raho” (May you always have a husband to take care of you), whether the person expressing the wish be a Hindu, Muslim or a Sikh.

Many years ago at the film festival in Penang (Malaysia), two of us from Pakistan, me and Satish Anand, who is into films and television production, were constantly in the company of North Indian delegates, The leader of the Indian delegation was Sunil Dutt, a thorough gentleman. A member of the French delegation who saw us together for four days commented that while our armed forces were exchanging fire on the LoC every day, there we were a picture of camaraderie. “I can’t understand this,” he commented, to which Dutt said, “Nor can we for that matter.” Interestingly enough, while the North Indians bonded with us, their countrymen from the South were seen together in a separate group.

People who think of linguistic affinities being stronger than religious similarities argue that one doesn’t practice one’s religion all the time but one speaks a language all through one’s waking hours.

What do my readers have to say on this issue? As for me, all I have to say is that a person is born into a religion and also into a family which speaks a certain language. That’s where he or she has no choice.

Very rarely does one change one’s religion but very often one learns to speak, and often write, another language. Interestingly enough, a person may be bilingual or a trilingual but when it comes to religion he or she can belong to only one creed.

The writer, who jointly authored the bestselling ‘Tales of Two Cities’ with Kuldip Nayar and more recently compiled and created ‘Mehdi Hasan: The Man and his Music’ writes and lectures on art, literature and culture. He also pens travelogues and humorous pieces.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

But not all names bring good luck to those who have to live with them. I had a clerk working for me, whose name was Raees (rich) but the man led a difficult life in the monetary sense. So was a man called Akhtar Nawab. He had neither the finances nor the mindset of a nawab. Haseena is a common name among the fair sex, but most girls with that name are anything but. Haseena Moin was charming in her salad years and is still quite pleasant to look at.

What is true of names is also true of surnames. The one Sharif (noble) who really deserved the surname was Babra Sharif. Even when she was at the peak of her career, the model turned actress (the unisex term actor was not used in her heyday for a female of the species) was on the dot for her shooting. She never threw tantrums like some popular film stars do. She never spoke ill of anybody including those who, out of sheer jealousy, lost no opportunity to make snide remarks about her. When the time came for her to call it a day, she retired gracefully, unlike our politicians in power who are forced to leave disgracefully from their offices.

But not all Sharifs are noble like her. In fact I have yet to come across anyone with that name or surname who could live up to it. Babara used no unkind words for her rivals, but this person (shh! no names please, make your own guess) left no opportunity to pass disparaging remarks about a lady with whom he once played a game of musical chairs. One afternoon he came to the Karachi Press Club, where he went on and on, speaking ungallantly against the first and so far the only woman prime minister in the country. The speech over, a callow journalist not known to be a good judge of human beings, invited the guest to visit the book fair in the club’s backyard. “I am sorry I have an important meeting to attend,” he said and took off in one of the four limos that were parked outside the club.

The same journalist, out of sheer curiosity, followed the fleet of cars on his humble motorbike and you know where did our favourite Sharif go to?  “It’s elementary, my dear Watson,” Sherlock Holmes would have said. Our friend was seen downing a large glass at the Punjab Lassi House at Burnes Road. In those days mobile phones, with cameras, were not available otherwise the young journo would have had a prize photograph.

While on Sharifs, I must refer to the news item that appeared in the June 17 issue of a respected English daily. It had a screaming headline: “Shahbaz richest member of Punjab assembly”. In the introductory paragraph, the report said that the Punjab chief minister has assets of Rs 489.64 million in the country and abroad. The details are mind-boggling. But the question remains, is it merely a tip of the iceberg? Those who follow him, in the list of declarations made in 2010, also fall into the category of filthy rich. These were the figures submitted to the Election Commission by the members of the Punjab Assembly. What would have been no less relevant was the figure of the taxes that they pay. Sadly, those figures which should be abysmally low are not mentioned. Don’t you think such declaration should come from the head of the state and the head of the government also?

Perhaps, mine is a case of jealousy. I still move around in my old and but reliable Suzuki Khyber. I paid more income tax than what the chief executive of the country paid. The tax figures paid by him and some other bigwig were revealed in a report, published in the newspapers according to the NAB, when Gen Pervez Musharraf elbowed him out of his office. I have no bungalow. I live in an apartment. The fault is mine. I was always more interested in books than in lassi. So, why crib?

Asif Noorani, a seasoned journalist, is the writer of three best-selling books including ‘Boom, Boom Shahid Afridi’.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

Take Rehman Malik (no relation of Veena Malik, I hope – for her sake, of course). He consistently issues the same statement after each bomb blast: “We will not tolerate any act of terrorism”. Give the Interior Minister more than full marks, if you can, for his level of tolerance has reached dizzying heights. The awkward fact remains that he tolerates terrorism, not out of choice though.

By the way, Veena Malik’s rare appearances on television can hardly be compared with the frequency with which her sur-namesake is seen on the idiot box. She was, however, in the news when she was hurling bouncers at the fast bowler with whom I share my first name. Nothing else, mercifully enough.

Back to our national characteristics – we also suffer from foot-in-the-mouth disease. We do think and ponder but only after we have played the shot. While on shots, I am reminded of the Pakistan Cricket Board chairman Ijaz Butt, who invited the Sri Lankan cricket team to tour his country, despite a series of bomb blasts. What is more the invitation was sent the very day the CID office in Peshawar was reduced to rubble and the star Sri Lankan batsman Tillakaratne Dilshan had announced his refusal to tour Pakistan.

Who will protect the Sri Lankans if they out of foolhardiness accept Mr Butt’s invitation? Certainly not the police because they can’t protect themselves. No cricket ground would be safe. However, on second thoughts, I add that the safest place in the country, would be Bilawal House for it is heavily fortified. But surely Sri Lankans (and the Pakistani cricketers too) would like to have more than a one man-spectator. During the summer vacations, the three kids of the lord and master of Bilawal House can join him, but even if you add the battalion of servants in the mansion the number of spectators would be woefully small.

While on cricket, one agreed with Doom Doom Shahid Afridi that Shoaib Akhtar should not have announced his retirement while the World Cup matches were in progress. But then if you ask the former fastest bowler in the world to comment on the statement, he is most likely to say Afridi should not have announced his retirement from Test cricket last year at Lords after he played an injudicious shot and lost his wicket. Afridi declared that temperamentally he was not cut out for Test cricket. But after seeing him play the same kind of shots in the shorter forms of the game in recent months one would have expected him to confess that he is not cut out for cricket. Period.

Another cricketer one is tempted to talk about is Imran Khan. For the last few years he has been into politics. These days he is as often on the telly as our friend Rehman Malik happens to be. Last week in a fit of anger (as he is so often these days), Imran Khan proved that he is no animal lover. When a TV host asked him to give his views on the former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, the great Khan referred to him as ‘Amreeki Kutta’. To the best of my knowledge there is no canine pedigree which traces its origin to the other side of the Atlantic.

But then, let’s be fair, we can’t discuss Imran Khan along with Shahid Afridi or Rehman Malik in the same breath. He has done a great job by building a cancer hospital in Lahore and his team is working on another to be built in Peshawar. One hopes Imran’s contribution to education will be second only to his services in the health sector. So what if some people think (not very loudly, though) that he lacks in political acumen. Surely, no one is perfect.

Don’t compare his political career with his cricketing days. In those days, he led his team by example but now one can’t see a team which can be led by example. It’s a one man demolition squad. Isn’t it?

Asif Noorani, a seasoned journalist, is the writer of three best-selling books including ‘Boom, Boom Shahid Afridi’.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

Tina Sani: The favourite poet? Definitely.

 Way back in 1969 when Begum Akhtar was visiting Karachi, the Gramophone Company of Pakistan (later EMI), arranged a music evening with her on their sprawling lawns.

Only hardcore lovers of ghazal and semi-classical music were glued to their seats in the post-dinner session. Faiz was sitting in the first row and Begum Akhtar, noticing his presence, enthused “Faiz Saheb hamare Hindustan mein, khas taur par shumali Hindustan mein aapka kalaam barre shauq se suna jaata hai” (In India, particularly in northern India, your poetry is listened to with great enthusiasm). The next moment she burst into Sham-i-firaaq ab na poochh.

It was, and still is, an honour for any singer to render Faiz, just as it is to sing Ghalib. From Ustad Barkat Ali Khan to Mehdi Hasan and from Farida Khanum to Hadiqa Kayani, not to speak of the thrush-throated Firdausi Begum, almost every singer of repute has interpreted Faiz musically in his or her own manner.

Some film makers included songs based on his poems, the most famous of all was Noor Jahan’s Mujh se pehli si muhabbat, which she used to sing in small concerts but later rerecorded it for the movie Qaidi. 

Then there was the ‘hijacking’ of Gulon mein rang bhare, which the Gramophone Company recorded in the voice of Mehdi Hasan, who had been rendering it in concerts.

Director Khaleel Qaisar had recorded and filmed the same ghazal in the voice of Naseem Begum for his movie Farangi but when he heard the Gramophone Company’s recording, he insisted on ‘buying’ it for his movie. His persistence bore fruit.

In Shaheed, an earlier movie, he had got Masood Rana to render a Faiz nazm, Nisaar mein teri galiyon ke aye watan but the song could not click. Maybe Mehdi Hasan or Ahmed Rushdi could have done a better job. In India, Muzaffar Ali got Khayyam to record the famous Faiz nazm Kab haath mein tera haath naheen for his off-beat movie Anjuman.

The movie could not be released commercially and one reason was that the score of Ali’s film did not appeal to the masses. The second odd thing was that the filmmaker and the composer did not get professional singers to record the songs for the movie, only one of which was a Faiz poem.

Incidentally, the nazm has been sung by Tina Sani for the album which was released last week to mark the birth anniversary of the great poet. The cover version is an improvement over the original.

Iqbal Bano’s repertoire consists of at least two highly applauded Faiz poems Dasht-i-tanhai (so beautifully tuned by Mehdi Zaheer) and the revolutionary Ham dekhen ge.

Farida Khanum had earned her reputation rendering the ghazals of Dagh, and later Faiz, whose Chand nikle, Sab qatl ho ke, Na ganwaon navak-i-neemkash and Yoon saja chand are priceless numbers.

When Talat Mahmood came on a private visit to Karachi in the early 1960s he recorded two Faiz numbers for the Gramophone Company, one of which Donon jahan teri muhabbat mein haar ke ranks among the singer’s best non-film numbers.

No discussion on the musical exposition of Faiz’s poems can be complete without mentioning the priceless album Nayyara sings Faiz, which had brilliant compositions by Arshad Mahmud and Shahid Toosy. It was rehearsed and recorded in a matter of days.

EMI produced the long play record to present to Faiz on his 65th birthday. The sequel which was to be released the following year – 1977, was delayed. Now, 34 years later, it is being released, with some numbers having been rerecorded by Arshad Mahmud.

With Nazneen Abid Ali, Nayyara Noor and Sheharyar Zaidi.

‘What is that one trait in Faiz that you liked most’ is a question I have often been asked. My reply has invariably been, ‘His silence’.

I think that sums up the great man’s personality. It was not what Nasir Kazmi, perhaps, once said that he was lonely even in company. Faiz Saheb was one person who was never alone even in his loneliness. He loved company and he also loved to listen to people.

He was never there to approve or disapprove people. He liked to hear different points of view and gave his own opinion only when he was asked to do so. All that he had to convey he did so articulately through his pen. I can safely conclude that his silence measured the depth of his personality.

In the mid-1970s his house in Block H, Model Town, Lahore, was open to one and all. It was there that as a member of a young team of singers and composers I got to spend some invaluable time and meet eminent men of letters such as Sufi Tabbassum, Muneer Niazi, Ahsan Danish, Ejaz Batalvi, Intizar Husain and Munnoo Bhai, all of whom came to meet him.

We were in those days doing Shoaib Hashmi’s TV programme, Such Gup for PTV. When I say we, I mean his daughter Salima Hashmi, Farooq Qaiser, composers Shahid Toosy and Arshad Mahmud, my husband to be – Sheharyar Zaidi, and, of course, yours truly.

I remember quite distinctly that Faiz Saheb sat on the sofa smoking cigarette after cigarette, while Shahid and Arshad set his poems to music and the two singers, me and Sheharyar, sang them with gay abandon. While negotiating some difficult and even not so difficult notes I would find him smiling affectionately and encouragingly. It seemed he was enjoying those moments no less. His was, I think, the world’s most disarming smile.

A few weeks before his 65th birthday, Shoaib Hashmi floated the idea of presenting him with an LP featuring musical renditions of his poems on February 13, 1976. We were all game. I was to sing all the numbers with Shaharyar joining me on a rare geet that Faiz wrote Barkha barse chhat par, mein tere sapne dekhon. Shahid Toosy and Arshad.

Mahmood composed different numbers and we rehearsed in no time and recorded them at the Lahore studios of EMI. Patras Bokhari’s endearing son Mansoor Bokhari who headed the recording company was a collaborator, if I may use the word. It was a race against time, which we ultimately won and that too without sacrificing the quality in any aspect of recording or production.

Faiz Saheb was visibly happy with the present he got. He showered us with smiles. That I thought was our reward. Nayyara sings Faiz, as the LP was titled, was later issued as an audio cassette. It was also released by the Gramophone Company of India. The album, now available on CDs, has been a consistent seller. It was widely reviewed and continues to be highly appreciated even now.

We were supposed to release the second volume of Nayyara sings Faiz soon after and many tracks were recorded but somehow work on the album could not be completed. I am now pleased to say that the sequel should be in the hands of Faiz lovers in a month or so.

—Nayyara Noor spoke to Asif Noorani