Oct 17, 2011
Oct 9, 2011
How I became a Bhopali?
How I became a Bhopali?
PART 1: Bashir saab and unki shayari, aur unki hathoon se banaya hua chai ki piyali
October 8, 2011, at around 7pm - while negotiating the daily posts on FB, I stopped at a poetic rendering by a friend. The originals belong to Waseem Barelvi and it reads:
"Tumhaari raah main mitti ke ghar nahi aatay, Isi liye to tumhein hum nazar nahi aate; Muhabbaton ke dinon ki yahi kharaabi hai, Ye rooth jaayein, toh phir laut kar nahi aatay; Jinhein saliqa hai tehziib-e-gham samajhne ka, Un'hi ke rone main, aansoo nazar nahi aatay, Khushi ki ankhon main ansoo ki bhi jagah rakhna, Bure zamaane, kabhi pooch ker nahi aatay."I definitely don't have an overt shayarna andaaz and Barelvi is someone I read for the first time. But somehow the simple process of trying to understand the sher again transported me to 2001 monsoon days of my Bhopali calendar. I also got tempted to post the first ever sher (my favourite) on my FB wall which says: "Shohrat ki bulandi bhi palbhar ka tamasha hain, Jis daal pe baithe ho wo tut bhi sakta hain," by Bashir Badr.
Yes, the memories took me to the doorstep of Syed Mohammad Bashir or the famous Bashir Badr, a master act with words and who has enthralled the poetic world with more than 18,000 couplets. Yes, a decade ago, I was at the doorsteps of one of the greatest poets of our times, bracketed with the likes of Nida Fazli, even though I had no knowledge (not that I have a great deal of it now) on how to read and write Hindi and a big zero on Urdu. My spoken Hindi had been a source of entertainment for my colleagues at least for over a decade now. But for me Bashir saab introduced me to love language, place and people in the most simplest manner, but most importantly to appreciated shayari which in Bhopal apparently everyone seem to do from birth.
It was a windy morning with the sweet smell of rains lingering in the air as I rode past the Upper Lake (the beauty of which I am leaving for another ode) towards old Bhopal to the posh residential locality of Idgah Hills. My pillion was Manish Choure (from Ujjain), our chief designer, a friend who accompanied me to many assignments as well as doubled up for me as a photographer in some of my romantic treks. The official photographer with us was Mujeeb Faruqui (from Bhopal).
The then 56-year-old poet welcomed us into his kothi. The very first expressions and exchanges indicate that Bashir saab is too young at heart, probably younger than this rookie journalist in his early 20s. As he led us in he said: "Come in. I am all alone till my son returns from school." He was talking about his primary school going child from his second wife.
His room is as poetic, books casually placed everywhere. A couple of writing spaces and odd couplets written on loose paper popping out from books urging to be read and rightly appreciated. But I am all at sea, cursing myself as to why do I in the first place decided to meet Bashir saab when I have no idea of Hindi and Urdu prose and poetry? But I was destined to meet him, become his friend and probably learn the language of love.
"So what do you want to know?" asked Bashir saab. I definitely don't have any questions for Bashir saab. I was somehow trying to get out of the business of pagemaking and writing features seem to be a way forward. A visit to Bashir's residence (with prior appointment) is to profile a great poet and his work and make a mark as a writer. And I said: "I don't know anything about you, about poetry, about Hindi and Urdu. But I want to write a piece on Bashir Badr the poet."
My ignorance was not taken as an insult even though I approached him professionally. He is good in English and I was at ease. He smiled at my Hindi. He asked me about me and when he came to know that I am from Assam he took us to his kitchen and said: "For you I will make the tea myself. He asked the help to leave the kitchen and there Bashir saab explaining poetry like A for apple to a nursery kid while brewing tea like an expert and treating me like a tea connoisseur . The tea was poetic too, and should I confess Bashir saab today that it tasted sublime, probably like the flavour of moonlight captured in the dew drop of the 'ek kaali do pattiya'. Maybe it was the magic of those poems you recited and explained during the making of 'Assam special' (he said that). In between I started taking Urdu notes in English, with help in spellings from Bashir saab.
Those first two hours of meeting, sipping tea made by the poet himself and engrossed in his explanations as to what he meant in some of his famous couplets were just the beginning of many a visits during my three years in Bhopal and every time Bashir saab made tea for me. And every time Bashir saab would recite and explain what his poems meant.
We bid goodbye armed with a gift (but of course books on Urdu poetry) each. But the first day of our tryst with Urdu poetry, Hindi language and friendship with Bashir saab needs celebration. It has been a heady dose so far and at midday neither me nor Manish were in a hurry to reach office. Our return journey to 8/1, Malviya Nagar was cut short at the scenic Winds and Waves on the hill overlooking the Upper Lake. The beers and Bashir saab's poetry was intoxicating. Like we can't stop humming a tune which touches our heart.......
A persistent banging on the door of Manish's flat, Raj Apartment, E-7, Arera Colony woke us up. It was raining outside. As Manish opened the door, his flatmate Pankaj rushed in and said: "How they hell you are sleeping at this hour? Aaj office se chutti mara hain kya? I was at the door pressing the door bell, calling you on your cells and banging the door for half an hour?" We checked our mobiles. Some 50-odd missed calls from Pankaj and other colleagues from office.
It was 9pm and as we were travelling to our office at Malviya Nagar in an auto, both of us tried in vain to figure out how we reached Manish's place? And we entered the office probably a minute after our editor took the final call to inform the police about us suddenly going missing while returning from Bashir Badr's residence and probably a minute early before the call was to be made.
I did profiled Bashir Badr. I surprised everyone, but self the most. Thank you Bashir saab for letting me understand poetry without understanding its written script, for calling yourself my friend and finally making me a Bhopali.
*THIS WRITEUP IS DEDICATED TO OUR OLD TIME FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE NASIR KAMAAL WHO COMPLETED HIS JOURNEY RECENTLY
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"Logh tut jate hain ek ghar banane me, Tum taras nahi khate bastiyaan jalane me," --- Bashir Badr
It was a windy morning with the sweet smell of rains lingering in the air as I rode past the Upper Lake (the beauty of which I am leaving for another ode) towards old Bhopal to the posh residential locality of Idgah Hills. My pillion was Manish Choure (from Ujjain), our chief designer, a friend who accompanied me to many assignments as well as doubled up for me as a photographer in some of my romantic treks. The official photographer with us was Mujeeb Faruqui (from Bhopal).
The then 56-year-old poet welcomed us into his kothi. The very first expressions and exchanges indicate that Bashir saab is too young at heart, probably younger than this rookie journalist in his early 20s. As he led us in he said: "Come in. I am all alone till my son returns from school." He was talking about his primary school going child from his second wife.
His room is as poetic, books casually placed everywhere. A couple of writing spaces and odd couplets written on loose paper popping out from books urging to be read and rightly appreciated. But I am all at sea, cursing myself as to why do I in the first place decided to meet Bashir saab when I have no idea of Hindi and Urdu prose and poetry? But I was destined to meet him, become his friend and probably learn the language of love.
"So what do you want to know?" asked Bashir saab. I definitely don't have any questions for Bashir saab. I was somehow trying to get out of the business of pagemaking and writing features seem to be a way forward. A visit to Bashir's residence (with prior appointment) is to profile a great poet and his work and make a mark as a writer. And I said: "I don't know anything about you, about poetry, about Hindi and Urdu. But I want to write a piece on Bashir Badr the poet."
My ignorance was not taken as an insult even though I approached him professionally. He is good in English and I was at ease. He smiled at my Hindi. He asked me about me and when he came to know that I am from Assam he took us to his kitchen and said: "For you I will make the tea myself. He asked the help to leave the kitchen and there Bashir saab explaining poetry like A for apple to a nursery kid while brewing tea like an expert and treating me like a tea connoisseur . The tea was poetic too, and should I confess Bashir saab today that it tasted sublime, probably like the flavour of moonlight captured in the dew drop of the 'ek kaali do pattiya'. Maybe it was the magic of those poems you recited and explained during the making of 'Assam special' (he said that). In between I started taking Urdu notes in English, with help in spellings from Bashir saab.
Those first two hours of meeting, sipping tea made by the poet himself and engrossed in his explanations as to what he meant in some of his famous couplets were just the beginning of many a visits during my three years in Bhopal and every time Bashir saab made tea for me. And every time Bashir saab would recite and explain what his poems meant.
We bid goodbye armed with a gift (but of course books on Urdu poetry) each. But the first day of our tryst with Urdu poetry, Hindi language and friendship with Bashir saab needs celebration. It has been a heady dose so far and at midday neither me nor Manish were in a hurry to reach office. Our return journey to 8/1, Malviya Nagar was cut short at the scenic Winds and Waves on the hill overlooking the Upper Lake. The beers and Bashir saab's poetry was intoxicating. Like we can't stop humming a tune which touches our heart.......
A persistent banging on the door of Manish's flat, Raj Apartment, E-7, Arera Colony woke us up. It was raining outside. As Manish opened the door, his flatmate Pankaj rushed in and said: "How they hell you are sleeping at this hour? Aaj office se chutti mara hain kya? I was at the door pressing the door bell, calling you on your cells and banging the door for half an hour?" We checked our mobiles. Some 50-odd missed calls from Pankaj and other colleagues from office.
It was 9pm and as we were travelling to our office at Malviya Nagar in an auto, both of us tried in vain to figure out how we reached Manish's place? And we entered the office probably a minute after our editor took the final call to inform the police about us suddenly going missing while returning from Bashir Badr's residence and probably a minute early before the call was to be made.
I did profiled Bashir Badr. I surprised everyone, but self the most. Thank you Bashir saab for letting me understand poetry without understanding its written script, for calling yourself my friend and finally making me a Bhopali.
*THIS WRITEUP IS DEDICATED TO OUR OLD TIME FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE NASIR KAMAAL WHO COMPLETED HIS JOURNEY RECENTLY
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"Logh tut jate hain ek ghar banane me, Tum taras nahi khate bastiyaan jalane me," --- Bashir Badr
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