A TRIBUTE TO KAIFI AZMI
Dr. Visho Sharma has been kind enough to send me this guest post that pays tribute to a legendary poet of the subcontinent who was committed to his principles and ideology throughout his life. RR
Jo bejaan khilonon se bahel jaati haiy
Tapti saanson ki haraarat se pighul jaati haiy
Paaon jis raah mein rakhti hai phisul jaati haiy
Bunkey seemaab hur ek zurf mein dhul jaati haiy
Zindagi jihad main hay sabar kay qabu main nahin.
Jannat ek aur hay jo murd kay pahloo main naheen.
Uski azaad ravish pur bhi machalna hay tujhey
Zeest key aahni saanchey main dhulna hai tujhey
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhey.”
These verses are from the Urdu poem “Aurat” (Woman) written by the famous Urdu poet from India , Kaifi Azmi. What is remarkable is that Kaifi wrote this poem in the 1940s before the independence of India . In that era when the Indian society was very traditional and very much a man’s world, such thoughts were almost unheard of. But then Kaifi was always decades ahead of his time.
The same Kaifi rebelled against his traditional aristocratic family from Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh when in 1947 he married a beautiful woman Shaukat, whom he discovered in a mushaira in Hyderabad . Also in that feudal era he asked Shaukat to join the theater company in Bombay . In those days it was unheard of for a Muslim woman from a respectable family to work in theater. But that was typical of Kaifi and his lifelong ethos – sailing against the wind and the current..
Kaifi who was born as Syed Akhtar Hussain Rizvi, grew up in the village of Meejwan in Azamgarh district, where his father was a learned and well to do zamindar (landowner). There was no road connecting Meejwan to Azamgarh city. News of the world travelled into the village with occasional travelers, who travelled for several days from the city.
Kaifi has recounted that as a small boy in Meejwan he would often wander into the jungle and marvel at the beauty of the puff of cotton wool trembling out of a dry shell on a Babool tree. And on the way home he would watch with fascination the village potter at work, turning earthen clay into shapes and forms. How does cotton wool burst out of a tree? How does clay form into beautiful shapes? He first put such thoughts into Urdu poetry at the tender age of eight, which surely startled his father. At age eleven Kaifi startled many elders in a mushaira when he recited his first ghazal, “Itna To Zindagi Mein Kisi Ki Khalal Pade “.
But more surprise was in store for his father. Kaifi was sent to “Sultan al Madaris” a well known religious seminary in Lucknow , to be trained as a Moulvi (cleric). But he soon rebelled against the men who were to initiate him in the principles of his religious faith. He formed a students’ union and staged a year long strike demanding that the archaic teaching methods be changed. The strike was successful but Kaifi had to leave the seminary. As Kaifi grew into a youth he realized that there were bonded laborers in his village. He was not allowed to play with the children of the laborers. Even at that time, he recounted later, he felt that this servitude was a dehumanizing shackle.
Perhaps Kaifi’s first impression of literature commemorating the need for a just society came from his grandmother, who used to read stories of earlier era to him – of just kings and martyrs for the cause of righteousness. These stories were the first protest literature that left an abiding impression on young Kaifi. As Kaifi grew into a formidable poet, he wrote more and more about the gaps of inequality in society – that separate rich from poor; men from women; messiahs of God from believers; and so on.
His was not the voice of the poet who sings, but of a poet who rages like a lion who knows the depth and ferocity of the jungle, his landscape. In Bombay where he moved to in 1943, he was among the very first band of intellectuals who had given up their feudal moorings to become larger men. The same year he became a member of the Communist Party of India, and a member of the Progressive Writers Movement, and since then a committed activist. Those were the days of fervor, the spirit of revolution and idealism. Yet in Bombay he also wrote a lot of enchanting romantic poetry that became the unforgettable lyrics of many a successful Bollywood movies. For instance his enchanting ghazal:
“ Kiya ghum hay jo chupaa rahay ho
Itna jo tum muskuraa rahaiy ho.”
1943 was also the year when his first collection of Urdu poems, “Jhankaar” was published. Some of his other anthologies of Urdu poems are: Aaakhri Shub, Sarmaya, Awara Sijday, Kaifiyat, Nai Gulistaan. Some of Kaifi’s best poems are: Aurat, Makaan, Daaera, Saanp, Bahrupni. The first movie for which he wrote lyrics was “Buzdil” , released in 1952.
The unpredictable Kaifi struck again after acquiring fame as a poet and intellectual in Bombay . In 1984 he moved back to his ancestral village of Muzgaon , which is still reachable from Azamgarh after a slow and tortuous journey. It is a far cry from the glamour and intellectual life of Mumbai. Yet Kaifi continued to live there and built a school for the children of the village. As the curious village folks will routinely gather around the small gas stove in his house, Kaifi will feel at peace with himself. The same Kaifi who could not bear to see the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross in a church in Mahim, a suburb in his adopted hometown of Bombay, without getting agonized by the realization that the statue was writing in pain – the subject matter of his famous poem, “Masiha” (saviour).
Kaifi passed away peacefully on May 10, 2002, at his home in Meejwan village, far from the hustle and bustle and the perpetual rat race of the megapolis of Bombay – the city that he took by storm some fifty years ago. Today Kaifi’s countrymen from a variety of ethnic and religious backgrounds remember him fondly for his love of life, his marvelous literary creations and his struggle for the causes of the common man – his very special jihad.
Dr. Visho Sharma is an Emeritus Professor of Social Science and Sociology Kalamazoo, MI.
All My Posts, India, Poetry, South Asian Literature, Urdu, Urdu Literature
Brilliant! Thanks for sharing
I have been intrigued by Kaifi Azmi’s work since falling in love with the words of the song “kuch dil ne kaha” penned by him. His immortal words “Dil ki tassali ke liye jhooti chamak jhoota nikhar/jeevan tau soona hi raha sab samjhay aaee hai bahar” have helped me on numerous occasions in getting a grip on reality and my own sanity when the “materialisitc” desires of society have threatened to rob me of them.
Great post. Thank you for sharing.
KAIFI AZMI & Hyderabad ! (from what i heard)
AZIZIA Hotel (Restaurant) Nampally [Beside the Railway Station], was a bee-hive for writers and intellectuals. Subsequently ORIENT Hotel (Restaurant) became the hub of intellectuals. In those days, Restaurants were called “Hotels” as there was no proper 5-Star Hotel in Hyderabad… (The oldest Hyd. Hotel was “Rock Castle” at Banjara Hills. Rabindranath Tagore stayed there prior to its becoming a “Hotel” (it was a Nawab’s Private Residence then) and wrote a poem called “Koh-Saar” on Banjara Hills)…
Kaifi Azmi got married to Shaukat Begum, who i think… resided in Malley`pally ! (Pally is like “Nagar” in Hindi). Malley`pally is 1 or 2 kms. from Naam`pally ! Kaifi Azmi stayed for some time in Hyderabad (with his in-laws); off and on… as he did not have a full time job !
Friends of Kaifi in Hyderabad were : Ismatullah Baig (FIKR Hyderabadi) son of Farhatullah Baig (writer : “Dehli ka Aakhri Mushaira”)., Soviet-land Awardee Niyaz Haider Niyaaz (formerly Niyaz Haider ‘Nakaam”)… Kaifi, Fikr and Niyaz Haider… were all unemployed… Makhdoom was the most qualified of the lot… he was M.A. and working. In Urdu Literature., Makhdoom Mohiuddin and Majaz Lucknowi stand out as unique persons… Makhdoom and Majaz complement each other… and there are great similiraties between them. One major quality both Makhdoom and Majaz possessed was “integrity” and “character”. Makhdoom had a huge influence on Kaifi Azmi… (and so was Faiz Ahmed Faiz). Makhdoom had fire., but no bitterness. Majaz had the same quality. Fire but with Romance !
Kaifi Azmi’s skill lay in his Nazm… and we all know it. He had a most beautiful, effective voice… which he used to the hilt for delivery (throw of words). Kaifi Azmi was kneaded intellectually in Hyderabad… [Sarojini Naidu cried... when she heard Kaifi recite a poem.. on the roof of her house.... probably titled "Angeethi"].
Azizia Hotel… Royal Hotel… Orient Hotel… these were the places where he would sit for hours… reciting his poems… and having intellectual discussions… over endless cups of tea and luqmis. There are endless “chhota-mota qissas” (minor domestic stories) about Kaifi Azmi in Hyderabad… nothing unique… just a life of middle-class struggle for existence… However one thing must be documented. Even in the midst of the most difficult phase of struggle for “survival”, Kaifi Azmi never compromised on his dignity. Therein lies the beauty of the man.
His source-springs were purely Islamic History and Islamic Thought. No matter what he went on to say and write thru-out his life… the core of his being drew its inspiration from Islam… Islamic History… Islamic Ethos… Islamic Architecture… and Islamic Vocabulary. He had a broad world-view… and he based its structure on Islam… sometimes it was not an easy marriage.. and there were contradictions… but he lived with them.
During Kaifi Azmi’s peak period of literary productivity., there were far superior poets living… Each one was uniquely gifted… Sahir Ludhanvi stood out and was a towering figure. He had the unique ability to say things in a very direct and simple manner. Infact Sahir had declared that Kaifi was no “Shair” at all.
Kaifi Azmi, essentially was made to be a Journalist. Life and its turbulence for survival made him into a poet (and song-writer in Hindi cinema)…
Hyderabad gave a lot to Kaifi… in every sense of the word… and that includes (included) Shaukat.
Very nice write-up on Kaifi. Thanks for sharing it here.
In tribute to Kaifi Aazmi, a modern age Ghalib.
A Ghalib’s Ghazal Translation in English, by Syed Shahab Uddin Ahmad (Late).
All hopes elude and prospects fail,
When death must come, why then these sleepless nights.
There was a time when heart I smiled away,
Now naught there is to win my smile.
I know that piety goodness breeds,
But O! the heart reluctant feels.
Something there is that holds my tongue,
Else what cannot the words convey.
Why should I not wail in anguish?
My love searches for me when my wailing stops.
The stain on my heart cannot be seen,
Nor the odour coming out of it can be smelled.
So lost in the maze of thoughts I dwell,
Not knowing ought of my own self.
I long for death to come, but woe?
It only seems to flit away.
How will you Ghalib Ka’ba face,
Ashmed of self you do not seem.
In memory of late Kaifi Azmi.
Three English Translation of Ghalib’s Ghazal By My Late Father S.S.Ahmad
O! cup bearer store not thy wine for the morrow,
And thus belittle the boundless bounty
Of one, Who has promised to serve on Reckoning Day,
From the Fountain Divine, to Heave’n bound souls.
Abased today why we must be, for till
The Yestermorn the haughty angles were
Despised for disobedience to man?
O! why alone the mystic songs
Our senses stun,
Lo! when the self-same notes come out
From all the reeds and wires and drums?
Age rides a galloping steed;
Unbridled and saddleless it is,
Then who can say when it will stop?
So little of self I know, as much
Aware about others I am.
When all creations manifest the Omnipotent
I wonder, why should nurture hope
To witness Him on Judgement Day?
Probabilities on realities thrive
Like drops and waves and bubbles
Which, on the existence of the sea depend.
Her coyness is a ruse;
Thus exposed more than veiled
She is to her dear one.
Hasn’t done with cosmetics yet,
The mirror is insight always under the veil.
What we think is manifest, is yet unknown,
He is still in dreams, who is awake in dreams.
Ghalib! the scent of Friend
Comes from the Friend’s friend;
And I am engrossed in the Truth
In my obedience to His disciples commands.
——————————————————————-
February 3, 2010 – Wednesday
An English Translation of Ghalib’s Ghazal By My Late Father S.S.Ahmad
Many a form under a mould is hid,
Only a few as a rose or tulip shine.
Even to me were known the revelries,
But with the youth have fled all these,
And now their very thought is growing dim
Like figures in the limbo of oblivion.
The corpse bearer of the universe at day,
Behind the curtains were, but lo!
At night what stirred their hearts
That they, their veils did throw.
Tho’ Jacob asked not for his son in the prison,
His eyes like holes in the walls grew lusterless.
The Egyptian queen might be displeased
With all her rivals, but was
Happy with the ladies of Egypt
As, they were lost in admiring her proud choice,
The moon of Cana’n.
Let streems of blood ooze out of my eyes
On sep’ration eve, and I will think
That candles two are lit to shed their light.
My vengeance I will take on these beauties
In Heav’n, if God turns them there to houries.
Peaceful slumber, sweet dreams and restful nights
For him are meant,
On whose shoulders thy tresses have
Scattered been.
As I wandered into the grove,
As if, a school’s teaching session began;
The nightingales on hearing my laments
Began reciting my ghazals.
O! God those gazes are piercing my heart,
Which to my misfortune
Have turned to eye lashes.
I restrict my laments and they
My heart did fill and served
To mend the tear of my neck-cloth.
I have exhausted all my well wishes
To bless the gate keeper,
Now how shall I respond
To her welcoming absuses if
At all I go to her.
The Wine’s necter for him who holds the cup,
The lines of his hands are all, as if turned
Into veins thro’ which the life blood runs.
I believe in Unity;
My religion is non observance of rituals;
When sects dissolved, arose,
Bases of pure faith.
If man becomes accustomed to grief,
They lose their pangs,
And I in constant hardships comfort feel.
If Ghalib thus will mourn, then you beware
Desolution will spread on every place.
An English Translation of Ghalib’s Ghazal By My Late Father
Whose daring drawings
The pictures are complaining of;
Each one of them draped
In paper raiment is?
Ask not about the arduous, die hard
Struggling, lonely life;
The restlessness from dusk to dawn
Is cutting like a sweet water – course in the rocks.
Behold the fervent fond emotions bursting forth!
Indeed the cutting edge is found
Away from sword’s heart!!
Awareness may lay its snares
To listen to it, all along the way,
Yet, the meaning of my writings
Will ev ‘r elusive remain.
Even in confinement O! Ghalib
Restless I am, as if, tortured
By fire under the feet;
But the ring of my fetter is witness to
The heat of blazing fire.