Mayank Chhaya Daily

Shruti, Smruti, Snehlata and I

My mother Snehlata.  (Photo: MC)

Today is Snehlata, my mother's, 92nd birth anniversary. She passed away on May 3, 2018 at 87. It was a long life that she lived as if it were a festival. 

She used to be greatly amused every time introduced her to my friends as "Meet Snehlata, my mother." The normal practice is to simply say, "Meet my mother" as if mothers should not have names except the ennobling universal honorific "Mother." I would then tell her that she was also an individual with her own ambitions, desires, angst, aspirations, anger, and a whole lot of other emotions that the rest of us have. 

To reminisce about her, I reup a piece I had written on October 9, 2019. Here it is:

There are two recurring themes in India’s Bhakti poetry, both drawn from Vedant—Shruti and Smruti (hearing and memory). They are fundamental, even primal, to our existence. As a child growing up in an utterly liberal, compassionate Hindu family in Ahmedabad, this time of year meant nine-nightly recitation of a particular stotr or ode (स्तोत्रम् in Sanskrit). It is addressed to a particular goddess which in our household the goddess was Amba but popularly it is Mahishasur Mardini, someone who slayed the buffalo-demon.

In many parts of India, roughly around this time of year there are nine nights of celebration heralding the primordial female energy or Shakti as embodied in variously imagined goddesses. Gujarat, of course, is famous for its nine nights of traditional dancing known as Garba.

This is where both Shruti and Smruti come in this morning. It is such a marvel how the two together can evoke nostalgia that includes both the visual and the olfactory. The predominating visual is that of my mother Snehlata and grandmother Shobha making wicks out of cotton and lacing them generously with pure ghee. The wicks would be mounted on small brass lamps and lighted. Simultaneously, an incense powder on a clay vessel with a handle —called Dhoop—would also be lighted. This is where Smruti kicks in for me.

Mother used to recite the stotr which began with:

न मत्रं नो यन्त्रं तदपि च न जाने स्तुतिमहो

न चाह्वानं ध्यानं तदपि च न जाने स्तुतिकथाः ।

न जाने मुद्रास्ते तदपि च न जाने विलपनं

परं जाने मातस्त्वदनुसरणं क्लेशहरणम् ॥

Na Matram No Yantram Tad-Api Ca Na Jaane Stutim-Aho

Na Ca-[A]ahvaanam Dhyaanam Tad-Api Ca Na Jaane Stuti-Kathaah |

Na Jaane Mudraas-Te Tad-Api Ca Na Jaane Vilapanam

Param Jaane Maatas-Tvad-Anusarannam Klesha-Harannam ||

I am translating this bit with my limited understanding of Sanskrit.

I neither know the mantra nor the instrument, nor alas the prayer (laudation)

I do not know your invocation through meditation nor through recitation of your glories

I do not know your many states nor how to reach you through just emotional beseeching

However, I do know that even through my imperfect remembrances of you I will overcome my afflictions

Being an autodidact singer the strotr was recited by mother quite strikingly. What helped her was the intrinsic cadence of all great Sanskrit poetry. It was hearing (Shruti) that for nine nights, year after year, that embedded it into my Smruti (memory). So much so that even today—this morning for, instance—I just recalled all of it without any effort.

I say this only to illustrate that Shruti/Smruti have nothing to do with whether one is religious or has faith. I am none of those and have never been. I am just perpetually curious about the universe without feeling the overpowering need to anthropomorphize it via religion, rituals, prayers or faith. That notwithstanding, it is a tribute to the brilliance of the poetry that after 50 years I still remember this particular stotr as recited by my mother. It was composed by the great eighth century Hindu theologian and poet-philosopher Sri Adi Shankaracharya (788-820). In a sense, what I am remembering is nearly 12 centuries-old. It was handed down the millennium via Shruti and Smruti.

It is a great tribute to the astonishing power great poetry that it becomes so widespread and so enduring. One particular line that Snehlata used to frequently invoke from the stotr was

न मोक्षस्याकाङ्क्षा भवविभववाञ्छापि च न मे

Na mokshasy aakanksha bhav vibhav vachhapi ch na me

I neither desire Moksha (ultimate liberation) nor worldly fortune

As a child, who was not invested in what was being recited, I used to greet with a sly smile the line which I knew would signal the conclusion of the stotr.  It was

नाराधितासि विधिना विविधोपचारैः

I do not worship you with rituals as prescribed 

This morning I could recite the whole stotr without much difficulty and smell the incense wafting in our home 50 years ago. Like I said, Shruti and Smuti. Amd add Snehlata to that. 

“I am Shashi Kapoor. I am an actor."

Shashi Kapoor in Ivory-Merchant’s ‘Heat & Dust’

Today marks the 85th birth anniversary of the actor and producer Shashi Kapoor. Here is a piece I originally wrote for this blog on December 5,2017, a day after he passed away at age 79.

December 5, 2017

Cutting a dashing figure in a three-piece pinstripe suit Shashi Kapoor stood in the large porch of a famous bungalow in Bombay’s Juhu area. His right hand was in the pocket of his pleated trousers and left dangling from a lower pocket of his fully buttoned-up vest. The only detail missing was a retinue of obsequious servants. In the city’s polyester humidity Kapoor did not seem to be breaking into a sweat.

As I alighted from a taxi outside the iron gate of the bungalow ‘Radhika’, he appeared to sense that I was the journalist he had given an appointment to that morning. As I climbed up the few steps he stretched out his hand and said, “I am Shashi Kapoor. I am an actor.” “Mayank Chhaya,” is all I said. That I was a journalist was implicit.

I knew about Kapoor’s habit of always introducing himself by name but the way he did it with me came across as mildly mischievous humility. I was amused, especially by the part “I am an actor.” Later, he wove that reference into a context while talking about his much written about insanely busy career as an actor. He shot continuously in three shifts, prompting his more illustrious eldest brother Raj Kapoor to somewhat chidingly describe him as a “taxi”; as in someone who plied the roads being hailed by anyone and everyone as long as it paid.

He had seen me get out of a taxi earlier. “"Raj ji (Raj Kapoor) mujhe aaj kal taxi hi kehte hain, (Raj Kapoor calls me a taxi these days). I am, of course, an actor,” he said.

By the time I met him in 1986—and the only time I did—Kapoor was one of Hindi cinema’s biggest stars but wore his success lightly. He looked a tad older than his 48 because he had become somewhat neglectful of his own health after the death in 1984 of his wife Jennifer, whom he dotted on. Without being prompted by me he pointed at his portly bearing and said, “This is not for a role. Jennifer would not have let me become so fat.” He joked that his body worked for that particular role because he was playing a wealthy businessman in a movie whose name he did not seem to remember.

“I am an actor who does what is expected of him by the director,” he said.

Without the famous last name, Kapoor might have remained just a trophy star leveraging his remarkably good looks but he came from Hindi cinema’s most illustrious family where his father, Prithiviraj, and brothers Raj and Shammi had been among the biggest names. He drew upon his considerable talents to give some truly memorable performances. (I refuse to enumerate them here. It is just too much detail.)

I remember having observed that his eyelashes were so lush that he could lend some to some of his fellow actresses without noticing the difference. He guffawed. He said he had inherited his father’s features. Shashi Kapoor frequently looked like a spitting image of Prithviraj (See the latter’s photo below).

Prthviraj Kapoor 

From what I remember the most of that interaction was a star untouched by the trimmings of his success. Being the youngest of the three Kapoor brothers, Shashi had seen glamor for such a long time—his whole life, really—that its lures had no effect on him. That unselfconscious attitude mixed with his extraordinary good looks and charms made him even more likeable than he might have been otherwise.

One of the questions that I remember was about how he managed to juggle so many assignments without messing up the details of a particular character. I was taken aback by his candor when he countered, “What details? You just create them as you go along.” Lest anyone underestimate his craft, it was the response of someone who had been at it from his childhood and had internalized the process. At the same time, he was quite humorously self-aware of how much of his work in the 1980s was eminently forgettable. “I need money to make my own, more credible movies. It is a good balance. I respect this work and that,” he said.

Although Kapoor’s career was full of instances of his impressive acting chops, he never really projected himself as a brooding, serious artist. He knew that acting was predominantly about being in the moment and not necessarily a doctoral dissertation.

I spent about two hours on the set of the movie he was shooting that day and whose name he appeared not to remember. I watched him give perfect single takes with rather involved lines and emotions. During one of his many returns from these takes he remarked that that ease of remembering lines had come to him having seen his father theater stage days. Performances were always in the Kapoor ecology and for Shashi Kapoor, being the youngest of the three brothers, particularly so. That was one main reason why he never seemed like a labored, rehearsed performer.

All stars the world over often come to be distilled into a few memorable scenes and lines. For him it was from the 1979 movie ‘Deewar’ (The Wall) where he was paired with Amitabh Bachchan and with whom he did more than a dozen movies. The scene and the lines are so iconic for Hindi cinema audiences around the world that they need no introduction. For me it would be enough to say “Merey paas ma hai. (I have mother with me).” The measured, succinct tone with which Kapoor, playing a morally upright police officer, delivered that one line in response to a rather grandiose boast by his wayward, smuggler brother, Bachchan, remains one of Hindi cinema’s most defining moments.

Even though “Merey paas ma hai” has now become a cinematic cliché in India, it is also a great example of a no-fuss actor-star delivering from the gut of his lifelong exposure to the craft. 

I surprised Kapoor by deliberately not asking about that line. “You have said and done it. There is nothing more to dwell on,” I said. On that note, we shook hands. That was 31 years ago.(Now 36 years ago) I never met him after that.

Dalai Lama’s thrilling and life-threatening escape from Lhasa, 64 years ago today

The 14th Dalai Lama fleeing Tibet into exile with Khampa (men from the Eastern province of Kham) bodyguards in March, 1959. (Photo/OHHDL)

By Mayank Chhaya

Sixty-four years ago today 24-year-old Tenzin Gyatso, better known as the 14^th Dalai Lama, escaped from his 1000-room residence of the Potala Palace on a harrowing three-week journey to India. Close to six and half decades after being forced to flee in the face of threats to his life, the Dalai Lama is as far away from his former home as he has ever been.

Although Tibet’s tensions with China were steadily building up since an army of 80,000 soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army had crossed the Drichu river east of Chamdo in October, 1950, it was on March 10, 1959 that things came to a boil for the Dalai Lama.

On November 17, 1950, the 15-year-old Dalai Lama was officially enthroned as the temporal leader of some six million Tibetans. The next nine years witnessed Sino-Tibetan relations steadily deteriorate with Beijing intensifying its stranglehold on what is one fourth of China. According to the Dalai Lama’s official biography, “The next nine years saw His Holiness trying to evade a full-scale military takeover of Tibet by China on the one hand and placating the growing resentment among Tibetan resistance fighters against the Chinese aggressors on the other. His Holiness made a historic visit to China from July 1954 to June 1955 and met with Mao Zedong and other Chinese leaders, including Chou Enlai, Zhu Teh and Deng Xiaoping. From November 1956 to March 1957 His Holiness visited India to participate in the 2500th Buddha Jayanti celebrations. When the young Dalai Lama was taking his final monastic examinations in Lhasa in the winter of 1958/59 disheartening reports of increasing brutality against his people continued to pour in.”

It was on March 10, 1959 that Chinese General Zhang Chenwu invited the Dalai Lama to attend a theatrical performance by a Chinese dance troupe. On the face of it, it was an innocuous invitation. However, when the Chinese authorities revised the invitation new conditions that no Tibetan soldiers should accompany the Dalai Lama and that his bodyguards be unarmed, alarms went of in the Potala.

Here is an excerpt about what transpired from my authorized 2007 biography of the Dalai Lama ‘Man, Monk, Mystic’ published in close to 25 languages worldwide.

“I remember as 1959 began I was so preoccupied with the finals of Geshe Lharampa, [the doctorate in Buddhist philosophy with emphasis on metaphysics]. Metaphysics is a very tough subject and requires a lot of concentration. Even the Dalai Lama has to study seriously. He cannot cheat and pass,” the Dalai Lama said, laughing. “But I also had the events outside the Jokhang (temple) on my mind. Lhasa was not happy those days. People were angry at the presence of the PLA.”

On March 1, 1959, two junior Chinese army officers paid a visit to the Dalai Lama at the Jokhang, is the spiritual hub of Tibetan Buddhism. Built in 647 during the rule of Songtsen Gampo, the temple was also a place of learning for the Dalai Lamas. The ostensible reason for the visit by the two soldiers was to invite him for a performance and tea at the Chinese army headquarters. They wanted him to commit to a date right then. “I said I could do so only once the ceremonies surrounding my final exams were completed,” the Dalai Lama said.

Tempa Tsering (the Dalai Lama’s brother-in-law) put the invitation in perspective. “This visit was extraordinary for many reasons but I can tell you the two most important ones. For one invitations of such nature are always conveyed through the Kashag [the Tibetan cabinet]. For another, such parties were normally held at the palace and not at the military headquarters. Something was not right about that invitation,” he said.

 “In those days of 1959 there was something odd in Lhasa’s air. You could sense that we were in serious trouble and that had nothing to with just the presence of a large number Chinese troops. They were merely symptoms of the time,” the Dalai Lama’s elder brother Thubten Jigme Norbu said.

Five days after the two junior army officers met the Dalai Lama at the Jokhang, General Tan Kuan-sen, one of the three military bosses of Lhasa, called the chief official abbot to inquire when the Dalai Lama would attend the performance at the army camp. After some back and forth March 10 was fixed. March 8 was Women’s Day on which the Chinese general Tan Kuan-sen used to hector the people of Lhasa and threaten to bomb monasteries unless the Khampas relented in their attacks.

On the morning of March 9 two Chinese officers visited the commander of the Dalai Lama’s bodyguards., requesting that the commander meet Brigadier Fu at the military headquarters. What Fu had to tell the commander was portentous. Fu said the Dalai Lama’s visit to the army headquarters from the Norbulingka Palace would have to be without any ceremony. No bodyguards would be allowed to accompany the Dalai Lama and no Tibetan soldiers would not be allowed inside the headquarters.

“That seemed like a clear signal since His Holiness was always accompanied by a retinue of 25 armed guards on such visits. People of Lhasa would invariably line up the route of his journey. What the Chinese were asking us to do sounded very suspicious,” Tsering said.

 “I was told by my aides that the Chinese were up to no good. I did not want to make an issue out of it since I wanted to gauge the Chinese mind,” the Dalai Lama said. However, Lhasa’s citizenry thought otherwise. On the day of the scheduled visit some 300,000 Tibetans surrounded the palace in order to prevent the Dalai Lama from visiting the Chinese headquarters.

“I remember the huge crowd outside the palace. I remember people were quite anxious. I remember that they did not want me to leave the palace because they feared for my safety. They thought I might be forcibly taken to Beijing to attend the Chinese National Assembly. Looking at their emotions I had no choice but to decide against the visit to the army headquarters,” the Dalai Lama said.

That decision turned out to be fateful. From that point onward life started spiraling out of control in Lhasa. Two days later thousands of women took to the streets carrying banners “Tibet for Tibetans”. A delegation of women presented an appeal for help to the Indian Consulate. An Indian diplomatic source, who was present at the time, said, “Although the people in Lhasa seemed feisty and determined to take on the Chinese, it was obvious to anyone who bothered to go beyond the obvious that the Tibetans had already lost their land to the PLA. I knew we were seeing the last days of an autonomous Tibet.”

With the Dalai Lama turning down the invitation, the battle lines were drawn in Lhasa between the Tibetans and the Chinese. Mimang Tsongdu members went around barricading narrow streets even as the Chinese troops were fortifying their positions.

The Dalai Lama and his aides began to plan a move that was to change his life and the history of Tibet for ever. They decided to escape.

“I knew my stay in Lhasa was no longer tenable. In my private moments I felt sad that I had no option but to leave,” the Dalai Lama recalled nearly 40 years (t is 64 years now) later, sitting on an ochre-colored sofa in his private study in McLeod Ganj one afternoon. He looked reflective, nostalgic and somewhat emotional. “You see too much was going on for me to stay. My aides thought if I had to leave in order to stay alive.”

According to Tibetan records, on March 15, 3000 of the Dalai Lama's bodyguards left Lhasa to take up their positions along his likely escape route. The Khampa tribesmen, whom the Chinese wanted the Dalai Lama to rein in, deployed some of their most trusted men at strategic points. Nearly 50,000 Chinese troops were breathing down in Lhasa armed with heavy arms and outnumbering the Tibetan forces several times over.

On March 17, Lhasa woke up with knots in its stomach.  Something seemed amiss. By the afternoon, the Chinese gave up all pretense of a “peaceful accession” of Tibet. The army fired two mortar shells at the summer palace of Norbulingka. Their rounds fell short of the palace walls but landed close enough for the Dalai Lama to make up his mind.

“Everybody in the palace said I ought to leave immediately. I was not sure since I wanted to stay back for the people of my country. I was told if I stayed alive I could still make a difference,” the Dalai Lama said.

The penultimate hour came at 10 p.m. that night. In an action fraught with symbolism the time the Dalai Lama was forced to discard his ochre robes and instead wear a soldier's uniform and carry a gun. He set out on the long journey to India. Two days later fierce fighting broke out with poorly armed civilian Tibetans engaging the Chinese troops in hand-to-hand combat. Hundreds of shells were fired at the Norbulingka. Tibetan sources say thousands were killed in the next few days. Two hundred members of the Dalai Lama’s bodyguards were executed publicly by a firing squad. Three of Lhasa's most important monasteries, Ganden, Sera, and Drepung were bombed and severely damaged. According to one estimate over 86,000 Tibetans were killed in a span of a few days in the aftermath of the Dalai Lama’s escape.

After two weeks of treacherous mountainous journey on horseback, the Dalai Lama and the officials accompanying him reached the Indian border at Khenzimane Pass on March 31, 1959. 

The more I gather, the more it scatters

Ben Whishaw as Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Tom Tykwer’s ‘Perfume: The Story of a Murderer”

I am in the mood to repost something I had written 12 years ago about my strong olfactory sense.  So here it is:

July 17, 2011

I am no Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Patrick Suskind’s ‘Perfume: The Story of a Murderer’' but I have had my moments. And here I am referring strictly to the olfactory genius of the protagonist of the novel and its fantastic movie version of the same name. What becomes of Jean-Baptiste as he goes about trying to capture feminine fragrances to create the ultimate perfume is revolting and terrifying in a tragic way. Mercifully, that did not happen to me.

Before I began using nasal drops every night to subside my inflamed passages more than 30 years ago, I was gifted with a particularly sharp sense of smell. In a way this runs in the family as all my siblings have demonstrated some degree of elevated sense of smell. For instance, I remember all of us could tell from a mere whiff  whether the daal in the neighbor’s kitchen was any more safe to eat. This was before the middle class in India could afford refrigerators.

However,the excessive use of the nasal drops has very significantly blunted my olfactories over the years and I no longer consider myself out of the ordinary. So when I first saw Tom Tykwer’s brilliant 2006 film version of Suskind’s 1985 novel, I thanked in my mind the manufacturers of the nasal drops. Who knows where my sense of smell would have led me?

These thoughts came to my mind while reading an article in The Boston Globe by Courtney Humphries about a growing movement to preserve smells and their history. The movement may also lead to recording for future generations smells that may be lost because of natural attrition. It has been known that while smells are by their very nature ephemeral, they do remain embedded in one’s memory for a long time. “Smell is unique among the senses in the way it is processed by the brain - olfactory information travels directly to a brain region linked with the hippocampus and the amygdala, sites of memory and emotion. Scientists have suggested that the way smell is processed makes smell memories particularly strong and persistent,” Humphries reports.

She also mentions James McHugh, an assistant professor of religion at University of Southern California, who while studying Sanskrit as part of his dissertation at Harvard found detailed olfactory information in ancient and medieval texts. Based on McHugh’s descriptions of some of this literature, perfumer Christophe Laudamiel created “two scents that represented a Brahmin’s ideal - clarified butter, milk, mango blossoms, honey, and sandalwood - and his worst nightmare - smoke, rotting flesh, alcohol, and garlic.”

Despite having lost a lot of my olfactory sharpness I am still primarily driven by smells and fragrances. In what their French makers might consider sacrilege, every morning I splash and spray two or three different kinds of colognes and perfumes. Since their quantities vary randomly, they create a new fragrance everyday. Some of my mixtures sometimes contain a hint of what my wife wears and that invariably brings me great compliments from people irrespective of their gender. One of these days I am going to add a dash of toilet freshener to see what that does.

Speaking of fragrances, let me end today with these charming lines from poet Alam Taab Tashna’s ghazal ‘Voh ke har ahd-e-mohabbat.” The lines go:

मेरे पेहलु में वोह आया भी तो खुशबू की तरह

मैं उसे जितना समेटूँ बिखरता जाए

(Mere pehlu mein voh aya bhi to khushboo ki tarha

Mein usey jitna sametun voh bikharta jaye.)

She came to me like a fragrance, The more I gather it, the more it scatters

Note to self: That’s the power of smells and fragrances. They waft from the ancient to the medieval to the modern and from laboratories to literature to movies to poetry and yet not be fully captivated.

Here is to the exceptionally eclectic Jhaverchand Meghani

Jhaverchand Meghani’s at his newspaper desk

(Photo: www.jhaverchandmeghani.com)

I had written this piece on August 28, 2016 on Jhaverchand Meghani's 120th birth anniversary. It works just as well today on his 76th death anniversary.

August 28, 2016

There are those who are more than the sum of their parts. The great Gujarati folklorist, poet, novelist, journalist, singer and thinker Jhaverchand Meghani (August 28, 1896-March 9, 1947), whose 120th birth anniversary falls today, was one of them.

Speaking of his parts, he wrote 14 novels, four plays, nine collections of poetry, 19 biographies, 11 short stories, 11 folk songs, 13 folk tales and 13 collections of folklore and literary criticisms. These add up to create a Gujarati cultural icon whom Gandhi described as “Krishna’s flute” and a “national poet laureate.” While he was creating all those works, he was also immersed in India’s campaign for independence. Sardar Patel called him a leading figure in India’s struggle for independence who spent his entire life in that pursuit.

Meghani led an enormously rich literary, cultural, political and social life that led him to the colossal figures of his time, including Rabindranath Tagore sometime in 1933 in Bombay. According to Meghani’s official website, the great painter Nandlal Bose had heard Meghani sing his own Gujarati folk songs and was enraptured. He persuaded Tagore to meet Meghani while in Bombay. Their meeting was an unqualified success with Tagore being spell-bound by Meghani’s literary and musical passion. The website quotes Tagore as saying, "Much as I wish to visit Gujarat again, I am afraid I won't be able to make it. Why not, then, you come over to Santiniketan ? We shall compare notes and publish jointly English translation of selected things. Do therefore come. But, yes, in winter --- not summer when the heat is scorching over there."

Meghani’s journalistic connection came in the form of his assignment as a columnist at the Janmbhoomi newspaper in 1934. As part of his passion to  “raze the walls of discrimination” between the educated and the unlettered, Meghani’s column titled ‘Kalam ane Kitab’ (The Pen & the Book) encouraged readership outside the scholarly domain to get involved with literature.

When one thinks of Gujarati literary giants such as Meghani and scores of others one feels how skewed the reputation of the state has been because of its historically flourishing mercantile and entrepreneurial culture. There is a legion of non-Gujaratis who would never suspect the state of having any connection to a world-class literary tradition. Meghani and many like him would be happily counted among world-class figures.

I have a collection of his novellas. This morning I chose a random short story titled ‘Shikar’ (The Hunt). It is a story about how a group of men are tasked with having to scare a leopard out of a forest into the open so that a local governor—presumably English—can then hunt it down. It is a simple story but Meghani tells it with such literary relish even though it barely stretching 2000 words. In describing a patch of an extraordinarily fertile land, he begins by saying, “Time must have used lightening as a plough here.”

He vividly describes the leopard, which is resting in the morning after a rich nightly hunt. “A long leopard is panting and resting in the hollow of a tree, its white stomach spread and puffing like a cushy mattress.” The leopard, of course, has to be driven out of its slumber without being harmed because the governor must not be denied the pleasure of having hunted it while it was alive. As the advance hunting party approaches the forest with much commotion, Meghani writes, “He (the leopard) does not respond to every noise but does occasionally bare its dagger-like teeth and shake his head as if mocking and saying ‘With which cow have you set up my engagement (In the sense of wedding) today?’”

The leopard is very hard to move away of its domain and out into the the thinning forest line where the governor and his party is waiting ready to shoot. Eventually, a member of the advance hunting party has to skillfully shoot the beast into one of its legs. He limps out to be shot by the governor and others. As the animal emerges from the woods, Meghani has the governor say out triumphantly in English , “Yes! There..there’s the milk white stomach. Shoot.” They all do indiscriminately because there was no need to take a precise aim on a wounded leopard.

“Before the day-end at the edge of the forest ten motors (motorcars) kicked up clouds of dust. The dust settled back again into the lap of the earth. The sun went to the sun’s house…..” And then Meghani ends with a characteristic literary flourish about those last remaining men of the advance party: “The villagers carried the carcass of the dead day and returned to their village.”

Here is to the great Jhaverchand Meghani.

"In the heart of darkness, my dear, I always spread light"

Today marks the 41st death anniversary of Professor Raghupati Sahay 'Firaq' Gorakhpuri. Not that such anniversaries mean anything but as pegs go it is as good as any to hang a piece on. I had done an impromptu post about the great poet-teacher on June 13, 2013. I am republishing it. As it happens with all great poets who create a large body of work Firaq too gets distilled down to a few verses. The one that I remembered this morning is:

तुम मुखातिब भी हो,करीब भी हो

तुम को देखें के तुमसे बात करें

(Tum mukhatib bhi ho, karib bhi

Tum ko dekhen ke tum se baat karen)

(You are here and you are near

Should I gaze at you or should I talk?)

June 13, 2013

Raghupati Sahay ‘Firaq Gorakhpuri’ has long been one of my favorite literary figures. Regarded as one of the most important names in Urdu poetry, literary criticism and language scholarship, Firaq, which means separation in Urdu, was one of those naturally charismatic people. A thinker of subtle but charming self-absorption, he was at equal ease teaching English literature (his professional calling) and creating and reciting his Urdu/Persian poetry.

It is a pity that there is a sparse audio-visual record of Firaq because he was such an effortlessly cinematic figure and could have lent himself to a terrific full-length documentary feature. I have seen few people who smoke cigarettes with such relish and yet such detachment at once.

There is a short documentary about him, which was made by India’s Films Division in 1971, available on YouTube. He was already 75 then. Born in 1896, he died in 1982 at 85. There are also a couple of other sessions from a different video about where he holds forth on how language often rises from much more intimate sources such as individual families. (See the video above). It has one of those rare stimulating conversations carried out by Firaq, unmindful of and unselfconscious about the presence of TV cameras. With his cigarette dangling he discusses finer points of language.

He makes a couple of striking points when he says, "Bhasha ka base illiteracy hai. (The base of language is illiteracy) aur literature kehte hain brilliant illiteracy ko. (Literature is brilliant illiteracy).” He also says that brilliant literature should not be defined by the use of words that ordinary, perhaps even illiterate, people do not use.

“Great literature aur brilliant literature wahi hai ki itne bade bachche ko jo labz malum hai us se who Gita likh le,” ( Great literature and brilliant literature is one where the words that a child this small knows can use to write the Gita),” Firaq says.

He illustrates his point about the accessibility of great literature by giving the example of Charles Dickens and how his cleaning lady could enjoy his books in her free time. He says the great Hindi writer Premchand and Surdas both had this facility.

I admit to not having read Firaq much but from whatever little one has read one can infer his intellectual depth. I say infer because Firaq was a great proponent of being able to infer when one is not well-versed with something.

Obviously gifted with a charming sense of humor and great skill as raconteur, Firaq’s presence at poetic conventions was a major draw. There are a couple of places in this documentary where Firaq opens his recitation with humor. In one he describes how a man falls inside a well. A poet happens to pass by and he too falls inside the well. Rather than looking for ways to rescue themselves, the poet declares that he would recite some verses from his poetry. The other funny incident that Firaq narrates is about a haunted house which no one wanted to buy. A poet, unable to find any home for himself, decides to buy it. He then drives the ghosts away by reciting his poetry.

There is so much to quote from Firaq’s great body of poetic works but for the purposes of this post I would like to cite just one throwaway line from this documentary.

ज़ुल्मात के सीने में हमदम

मैं रोज़ चराग़ाँ करता हूँ

(Zulmaat ke seeney mein humdum

Main roz charaghan karta hoon.)

In the heart of darkness, my dear

I always spread light (His literal words are ‘I light lamps everyday’)

Firaq’s poetry was also defined by the influence of nature, something he said he was inspired to do by the likes of Wordsworth. Perhaps I am wrong but one no longer finds this level of erudition and this finesses and sophistication in articulation of great ideas that the literary giants such Prof. Sahay commanded with such lightness of touch. He had once said that a civilization like India has had to balance for millennia before it acquired its greatness.