The lost art of conversation

You were a regular at the informal get-togethers that used to take place routinely at Ali Imam’s Indus Art Gallery in the seventies and eighties. The gatherings were attended by luminaries from the world of art, culture, music, cinema, television, literature and poetry. Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Habib Fida Ali, Muhammad Fayyaz, Gulgee, Curt Hillfram, Wahab Jaffar and Sadequain were regular attendees. The focus of the meetings was on making good, meaningful and intelligent conversation: little else was of interest to these people. Such conversation appears to have disappeared from Pakistani social gatherings. Conversation is no longer celebrated as a social art in the country. Indeed, Pakistanis seem to be incapable of engaging in real conversation today. Why has this happened?

This sad development has taken place because people who are capable of making worthy conversation are no longer a part of our society. A lot of the ones you mention are either very old, or ill or both. A number of them have passed away. Several have been marginalised socially and a few live in abject poverty.

The art of conversation is not easy to master. It requires sound education, original ideas, independent thought, intellectual maturity, extensive knowledge, acute observation and a healthy mind. No one in Pakistan has - or even values - these attributes today. Feigned awareness, shallow knowledge, borrowed ideas, an irrational focus on money, power and influence, and a fierce desire for high social standing have replaced the qualities that are required to talk well. Conversation is, but one, casualty of the continual moral, cultural and intellectual decay of our country.

A career in television was not lucrative up until recent years. The vast majority of your work was done when payments from television were meagre and not enough to support a decent living. You stopped working for television at about the same time when money started rolling in. Why did you do that?

I never worked in television to earn money. No one in the early days did. Each one of us worked because we were fascinated by the medium and the tremendous opportunities of expression that it afforded. We were passionate about working for television and ours was no ordinary passion: it was one that bordered on insanity.

Times were different. The nation was different. I was young, enthusiastic and energetic. I had a lot of time and a decent ability to write. My passion to work for television was genuine. I wanted to exploit the full potential of the medium. Money was not even on my mind. Now that there is money in the field, the medium has attracted a lot of people whose primary motivation is to gain fame and fortune through television. The priorities of producers have changed. The interests of viewers have changed. I am not able to work in the environment that we have today. Making money should be an incidental, perhaps welcome, advantage of working in television. It should not be the main goal.

"Conversation is, but one, casualty of the continual moral, cultural and intellectual decay of our country"

Did you continue to watch television after leaving the field?

Yes, occassionally. I still watch it every now and then.

Do you enjoy it?

No. Watching television today is a very frustrating experience for me.

What frustrates you about television today?

I get frustrated because a medium as powerful as television is being used almost exclusively to deliver cheap entertainment and embarrassingly biased news coverage. Television needs to be used for education, instruction, imparting knowledge, and, of course, for entertainment. What we have today is a sad, almost criminal, misuse of the medium of television.

Your style of educating and conveying your message was very different from that of, say, Ashfaq Ahmed and Bano Qudsia.

I am very different for writers like Ashfaq Ahmed and Bano Qudsia. I respect the intelligence of viewers and trust them to pick up subtle and understated messages. I believe in restraint and delicacy. I dislike didacticism. I have no desire to preach and sermonize. I enjoy adding substance to entertainment and completely integrating my message with the stories that I tell. My strength is my ability to spike comedy with satire, sarcasm, intelligent observation, and wit. Standing on a pulpit to deliver lectures is not my cup of tea.

The words tanz (satire) and mazaah (humour) almost always appear together in Urdu language.

Yes, they do.

A tinge of satire is needed to make humour effective. It stimulates one’s intellect. It forces one to think. It makes humor meaningful. Humor without satire, meaning and substance can make one laugh but accomplishes nothing else. Such humour is of no use. Comedy that does not make a statement, be it political, social, cultural or religious, is frivolous and largely useless. It is not for intelligent people.

You are one of the most celebrated writers of comedy in Pakistan. Competent acting, writing or direction: what do you think makes comedy work?

I believe that all three are needed for comedy to work.

Your comedy relied very heavily on the written word. The fiqra (sentence) appeared to be of paramount importance in your writings.

Not exactly. The ability to discreetly include a message in a well-written, funny and concise sentence is of paramount importance.

Your most famous work is Alif Noon. The comedy series had two main characters – Allan played by you and Nanna played by Rafi Khawar. Allan was devious and deceitful whereas Nanna was innocent and gullible. Why did you choose to play the obnoxious character yourself and let Rafi Khawar play the one that was likable? 

Rafi Khawar and I were very different people. Our histrionic abilities were different as well. He could not have played Allan and I would have failed as Nanna. Correct casting was one of the reasons for the success of the series.

Nanna had a recurring line in the series: Allan, tum bauhat kameenay ho (Allan, you are a wretched person). You played the character so effortlessly that the character of Allan seemed to be an extension of your own. Are you a wretched person in real life as well?

No, not at all. I am much worse.

You had a long association with Rafi Khawar. The two of you played the title characters in each one of the four runs of Alif Noon. What kind of personal relationship did you have with each other?

The truth is that I am the one who made Nanna (Rafi Khawar). He had talent and ability but was struggling to get recognition, when he approached me and asked for work on television. I recognised his potential as an actor and trained him. We had a very long, close and productive association.

Were you friends?

No. Our interests, sensibilities and ideas were very different. We were close but we were not friends.

Rafi Khawar had a tragic end. He killed himself after a disastrous love affair with starlet Baazgha. Did you see his suicide coming before it took place? 

Yes, I did. It was obvious that he was headed towards disaster. She did not care for him one bit and made his life a living hell.

"The truth is that I am the one who made Nanna (Rafi Khawar)"

Did you ever intervene and try to get Rafi Khawar out of the miserable situation?

I intervened. I did all that I could. He used to discuss his troubles with me in great detail. He knew that the woman was going to ruin him but was far too smitten to walk away. His grief, helplessness and unhappiness was palpable. It used to make me cringe. I spent countless hours trying to convince him to end the relationship. There were times when he seemed to agree with me but he never had the strength to end the affair. It is a truly hopeless situation.

Nanna (Rafi Khawar) had a very innocent public persona. Was he that innocent in real life as well?

No. No one is as innocent real life as Nanna was on screen and in the eyes of the public.

He liked to sing as well.

He wanted to sing but did not have any singing talent.

You migrated to Pakistan while in your teens. Did you ever regret the decision?

No, not even once. I have had my ups and downs in my life in Pakistan but there has never been a single moment in my life when I have wanted to call another country home. I love Pakistan. I love it very dearly.

What is it that you love about Pakistan?

I love the people of Pakistan. They are loving, warm and caring. I have received a great deal of love and respect from Pakistanis, perhaps more than I deserve. The country has taken care of me. And it has given me a lot: respect, recognition, awards, a decent livelihood, a chance to grow and some wonderful friendships – that I am very thankful for.

You had a brief tryst with communism as a young man. Why did you move away from the ideology?

I did not give up on communism. No one ever does. Communism is more a philosophy than a movement or ideology. It does not require one to subscribe to the ideas of everyone from Lenin to Marx and from Stalin to Trotsky. As one learns more and grows, one adopts some and discards others. It is not necessary to become an anarchist or a rebel to believe in communism. One just employs doctrines that make sense to him and that he believes in.

Why did you not teach writing, acting or direction to your son?

He did not have an interest in writing, acting or direction.

Rafi Khawar, as you said, learned comedy from you. Did you have other students?

Of course, I did. Everyone who works in the field of comedy in Pakistan is my student. There are those who formally learnt comedy from me, and those who did not: both follow my style.

Ally Adnan lives in Dallas and writes about culture, history and the arts. He tweets @allyadnan and can be reached at allyadnan@outlook.com