PART TWO

Personalities

He Wanted to Throw All Weapons into the Sea . . .

THEY had lowered him in the grave. The mound of earth over it had been watered and rose-watered. The wreaths and the open flowers followed. Everyone wanted to be around the grave at the same time. The weak were pushed back. But someone had still some respect left for my patron saint from Rawalpindi , Malik Mohammad Jafar.

          Malik Sahib took the 9:20 flight from Islamabad. He wanted to be in time for the Faiz funeral but the plane was late by 90 minutes taking off at 10:50. He arrived at the graveyard when they had already buried Faiz and were about to take leave of him. Someone took Malik Jafar past the milling crowd. I was on the road outside, a good 25 feet away from Faiz's permanent home. I saw Malik Jafar broken down with emotion, and I saw two tears from his expressive eyes (they look bigger when he is wearing glasses) come down separately and mingle with the dust that had reclaimed Faiz. They were beautiful tears, more beautiful than all the wreaths they had brought. Malik Jafar must have cried some more, but I had turned my back on him. Out of the corners of my eyes, however, I saw someone lead him gently away, supporting him on his arm.

          Later in the evening, when I met Malik Jafar again, he told me how it used to be in pre-partition Campbellpur. When someone died in a Hindu-family, his relatives would form a small procession and go round the city streets, gathering people by drumbeat, and tell that such and such had fulfilled himself-" Fulan ibn-e-fulan ibn-I-fulan poora ho gaya hey " is how Malik Jafar put it. Now, I do not know how exactly to translate ' Poora ho jana ' into English; 'completion' is, of course, the nearest literal translation but it does not convey what Malik Sahib had in mind. I will, therefore, leave the matter to you because I am sure you know what he meant. "I know no other man of whom this can be said," Malik Jafar said of Faiz, as we parted company.

          Where does one go from here? There's a feeling of utter inadequacy. Why should I, small, ignorant, and undeserving as I am, be required to write on Faiz? There was this small paragraph in the Dawn  report on November 21.

          "Faiz did not believe in the un-necessary word. He was too well read for that. He spoke where he had to, and then every syllable fell in place, was integral to the man that was Faiz."

          I really have nothing more to add to this, because this sums up my feelings and I am determined today to avoid any adjectives as far as I can.

          The tributes have been written. The editorials have been written. Daily Dawn  has pre-empted me even editorially. On November 22, it said that the lines he wrote for Iqbal could be used for Faiz himself: " Aya hamaray des mein ek khushnawa fakir ..."

          I can only recall four more lines:

Ub door ja chuka heh wo shah-i-gada numa
Aur phir se apney des ki rahen udas hein
Chund ik ko yad heh koi uski adai khas
Doa-ik nigahen chund azizon ke pas hei n.

Notice the last line and if you have had the privilege to sit at his feet, you'll know that Faiz  talked to you more with his eyes than with words. A few words and then those big, big, compassionate, liquid eyes would look at you shyly; sometimes almost apologetically at your ignorance.

          Do please forgive me, if I ramble a little today. The last time I met him was on Friday, November 2, in the company of Syed Abid Ali Shah, a lifelong Faiz devotee. I thought Faiz was looking better than at any other time during the last two years, but I didn't tell him so. I am superstitious that way. Faiz complained why I had not called on him earlier (there had been a wedding anniversary party the previous week at his place). "Barri gher hazrian lug rahi hein aapki."

          Now, I am no one special, but the fact that Faiz should have noticed my absence, made me feel good. That's how generous he could be to men of no consequence at all. Let it be said here that I do not say this because I am humble. I am not. I am just urbane and at times I have, like Faiz, paid a heavy price for this urbanity. It takes but half a second to put a man-any man-in his place, but it is never worth it.

          Therefore, to return to that peaceful morning; I was at a loss, as to what to write on Indira Gandhi assassination. What should Rajiv Gandhi do? "There are many good men in Congress who were alienated by his mother. He should consult them. There's Chandrasekhar, there's Bahuguna and there are others. Let Rajiv consult them. They'll advice him well." Faiz could be as innocent as a child, so he couldn't possibly know that Rajiv would be consulting Bansi Lal and Abdur Rehman Anatulay, and put them on his campaign committee.

          In a few minutes, Alys brought some sherbet that Abdullah Malik had presented to the couple on their wedding anniversary; and Faiz told Syed Abid Ali Shah that he was very much concerned about Ustad Daman. Something must be done to get him out of the dark and dank dungeon near the Badshahi Mosque, in which he was living. I have seen the place and it is terrible. Plans were made to set up a Daman trust of which Faiz would be chairman. Little did we know that twenty days hence we would be talking about setting up a Faiz trust to help impecunious men of letters. Munnoo Bhai even suggested a name- Chasma-i-Faiz . Syed Abid Ali Shah was most enthusiastic and he made many promises.

Daman, in hospital after a stroke, insisted that he should be taken to the Faiz residence, when told that his friend had died. And he cried like a baby. A baby born on January 1, 1900. The last I heard, it was touch and go and a doctor asked me to pray for Daman. How this ungrateful city has treated the Ustad, it loves mausoleums, not men.

          Faiz was interviewed on his 65th birthday for Viewpoint , by my very dear friend Tahir Mirza. This was in 1976. When Tahir asked him about the most creative period of his life, Faiz replied: "I think the period in Amritsar and during the two incarcerations. But one cannot forget the period with The Pakistan  Times  . . . every day's paper was a new creation, as good as a poem. . . ."

          Faiz wasn't sure what had influenced the people more- The Pakistan  Times  or his poetry. If I were to stick my neck out, I would say that it was The Pakistan Times more than his poetry that made him a national hero; then an international figure in the early years of Independence . Now, at the end of his career, of course, he would be remembered as a poet .

          Last week, I was talking of Rajinder Singh Bedi, and promising to do something more on him this Saturday, but I didn't know Faiz would upset my plans. Bedi was among the founding fathers of the modern Urdu short story. Faiz gave Urdu poetry a new direction. He related classical diction to current aspirations, and gave the Ghazal a new lease of life. Both belonged to Sialkot . Both were trendsetters. Both were urban to the limit. You remember when Iqbal was holding centre stage; there were snide remarks from across the Jamuna that the Sialkoti wasn't a poet at all. "Look at his Urdu," they used to sneer. Incensed, the fertile soil of Sialkot gave birth to Faiz. But I plan to rename his ancestral village Kala Qadir as Faiz Nagar. Faiz wouldn't have approved of it, at all. I am sure.

          Now, then, how to take leave until next week? What was his most abiding message? While accepting the Lenin Prize for Pace, Faiz had said:

When the world was agog with excitement at the recent Soviet achievements in space, I used to think again and again that now that we can watch our own planet from other stars, I fail to understand why should we persist in small acts of meanness and selfishness, or try to divide a few pieces of land, or to dominate small groups of men. Now that the door to the entire universe is open to us, now that man can exploit all the riches in the world, aren't there sufficient men of honesty, integrity and vision among us who can persuade all of us to destroy all these bombs, and rockets, and guns, and artillery into the sea, and teach men that instead of trying to dominate each other, they should march forth together to conquer the universe where there's room for us all, where no one need to get into anyone else's hair, where there's limitless space and worlds without number. I am sure that in spite of all the difficulties in our way, we shall convince humankind of the desirability of disarmament.

I am sure that humanity, which has so far never surrendered to inimical forces, will emerge victorious, and war, and hatred, and repression will be banished to give way to love and tolerance. As the Persian poet, Hafiz, had long ago: " Khalal pazir bawad harbina ki mi bini/ Magar bina-i-mohabbat ki khali az Khalal ast."

I refuse to mourn Faiz because he is immortal. Inconsequential and inadequate, as I am, I'II try to be like Faiz if I possibly can. I'II be no Mujavir . That's a promise to Alys. Remember, we looked into each other's eyes that day, Alys, and not a word was exchanged? Words weren't necessary then. They aren't needed even now.

          Just one last word and I am done. A friend told me minutes before I was to file this letter that Freud had once said that great men became immortal because they were loved by millions of nameless men. It gave me some courage. Even so, in my Utopia, small men like myself would not be required to praise Faiz. However, they would be permitted to keep their jobs. Empty praise kills more surely than open censure.

December 24, 1984