By Anjum Altaf
For many years, I sat with a teacher of Hindustani classical music, not learning myself, but watching him explain the complexities of the art to others. When guiding a student through the vilambit phase of a raga, the teacher instructed him to envision a child asleep: the singer should aspire to pouring honey into the child’s ear, to give it the sweetest possible dreams without waking it up. (Translating this instruction into English deprives it of much of its charm, unfortunately.) Once the student began the drut phase, the instructions underwent a dramatic change. In the drut, the listener must be kept awake and engaged, unable to turn away from the music. Instead of vilambit-style vistaars, the singer was told to use sargams and taans, to be like a firecracker. The two parts of the raga are completely different, as are the pleasures they offer the listener.
I belong to a group that exchanges thoughts on Urdu literature, and one topic of discussion has been the poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz, the difficulties of translating his work, and its place in the canon. A comment by one of the other members is worth quoting at length, not because I intend to write a direct response but because it brought some of these thoughts about music to mind:
I just wondered if we can’t use this thread to discuss in all seriousness the reasons why Faiz saheb has proved to be the most phenomenally popular Urdu poet of all times, especially in this age of mass-media and multi-media consumption of culture. Many of us would readily agree that there are at least three or four other Urdu poets who are ‘greater’ than Faiz, but who among us can deny that Faiz has attained the widest popularity of them all, especially with a politically sensitized radical fraction among us. But what are his politics if not ever sweetened and sugarcoated by that dreamy and sonorous vagueness that [some] seem to complain of? ‘Yeh vo subah to nahin’ is fine and very radical — but what is ‘ki mil jayegi kahin na kahin’ if it is not evasive twaddle? And what is ‘magar kya kije’ — is it volition, a conscious decision to reject and turn away, or just helplessness?
I have of course myself been lured and charmed by Faiz for long enough but more and more I have begun to feel that he is just a little too easy, and too slick. And worst of all, he is no innovator — just a compendium of all the traditional qualities of Urdu verse, most of them good and some not so.
Leaving aside that the verdict of “twaddle” is clearly subjective, the fact remains that Faiz is indeed one of the most popular Urdu poets of all times and we have not been able to explain that phenomenon, other than to say that we think he ought not to be, given that there are at least three or four other Urdu poets who are “greater” (again subjective) than him.
As a raga has different parts, each of which accomplishes a different goal through its particular qualities, perhaps different poets are about different missions. Faiz then might be the poet par excellence of the vilambit, pouring honey into the ears of his listeners to make them dream the sweetest dreams possible – thus we have made him the poet of revolution, the harbinger of our desires and passions. Faiz can bring to life a scene, an image, an environment that then becomes embedded in the memory of the reader or listener. The words create the dream and carry the reader along with them.
The other perennially popular Urdu poet is Ghalib, who could be considered the poet of the drut. In every couplet, Ghalib creates layers upon layers of meaning; miss one word and you have missed the message. Ghalib can make you rethink your entire worldview in the space of a few words. People quote Ghalib when they wish to make a point, Faiz when they want to evoke an image. Both Faiz and Ghalib do what they do very well, and their verses are engrained in the memories of millions.
Another of the very greats, considered “greater” than Ghalib by some, is Mir – in whose work one can find verses as profound and laden with meaning as Ghalib’s, and others that are as evocative as Faiz’s. Mir’s greatness perhaps stems from the fact that he is equally a poet of the vilambit and of the drut.
A musical performance works through the vilambit and the drut and frequently climaxes with the tarana, the final, exhilarating phase of the performance, which leaves the listener breathless, without the energy to remember anything. This might be the territory of Josh Malihabadi; the relentlessness and power of his words can be overwhelming, but they leave the listener in a state that could be best described in Urdu as ma’uuf, benumbed. They are not words that are remembered, but words that are, in the moment, rapturous.
The metaphor of the raga suggests to me that popularity, the fact that a particular poet’s verses linger in the memory, is a measure of greatness, but not the sole measure. The performance of a raga is incomplete without any of its sections, but for a successful performance, each section must be different and accomplish its own goals. The canon of our poetry would be incomplete without the “greatness” of either Faiz or Ghalib. As we accept the differences of vilambit and drut and tarana, listening to each for its particular gift, we have to take our poets for what they give us.