An ode to Faiz

The drive to Mall Road is a journey in itself, and a sunny Friday morning found me traversing the double road with an almost manic excitement. Posters of a smiling Faiz in polaroid black-and-white looked on as cars sped by to the Alhmara Arts Council. Splattered across the intersection on the roads, “gulon main rang bharey”, said one poster. “Bol key sach zinda hai”, another read. Old men dressed impeccably in suits and silver-haired women in saris could be spotted a mile before the U-turn to the Alhamra gates, where the first Faiz International Festival was to mark the 32nd death anniversary of the great poet.

Lahore, for the past month, has been engulfed in an upheaval of sorts as the Punjab government seemed willing to sacrifice some 620 trees and cultural landmarks of the city for the Orange Line, which was meant to overshadow both Shalimar Gardens and a portion of the Post Office building. The Faiz International Festival couldn’t have come at a better time. The three-day festival was divided into panel discussions on Faiz’s life, his friendships, recitals of his poetry; and others on the greater South Asian sphere of literature and arts. While terming the festival “international” may have been an enthusiastic overture, since the speakers and performers of the event were mostly Pakistani, for those familiar with Faiz’s work, his poetry is anything but limited by a state. Colloquial, universal and emphatic in its relation to the human spirit, Faiz’s poetry looked upon reality as subjective, rather than empirical, and it is in the simplicity of his lyrical composition that his poems are seen as verses that have transcended socio-political barriers and elevated the emotions of the common, oppressed man. Faiz was thus an internationalist, but also a passionate patriot. It is sufficient to say that if the test of patriotism was in writing taranas (anthems), then Faiz was neither poet nor patriot. But then again, who else could have uttered words with more pain, love and hope for the elusive goddess of freedom?

Personal anecdotes turned the festival into a mélange of reverence, laughter and immense love for Faiz

Day 1 of the festival opened with discussions primarily dissecting and highlighting the many facets of the poet’s persona. Faiz Key Nayaab Khatoot, the launch of Dr Imran Zafar’s research thesis that compiled a plethora of letters written to and by Faiz, shed light upon the man, father, husband and friend behind the poet. The conversation veered towards a look into Faiz’s more vulnerable moments, his letter addressed to his Cheemi (Saleema Hashmi) was read aloud to a crowd that consisted more of young people than any other age group. We witnessed Faiz’s witty repartee to his friends, particularly Ahmed Qasmi, who complained of the poet’s laziness in writing back. “My love is in my letters, not in my heart”, was Faiz’s humbling reply. What was striking was the sophistication and grace with which Faiz matched his replies according to the age and intellect of the recipient of a letter.

Faiz loved his city, evident from his many works and letters. We witnessed Harf e Mano Tau with Intezar Hussain. Seeped in nostalgia and anecdotes of youth, Hussain reminisced about Pak Tea House, the Metro hotel and excursions on Mall Road till the late hours of the night, the consequent ramblings, the mushaairas with his comrade Nasir Kazmi, reading and reciting Faiz’s work. Poignantly, it was pointed out that Lahore had seen its fair share of greatness with three generations of the continent’s greatest poets and storytellers dwelling within one time period: the likes of Manto, Rashid, Faiz, Intezar Hussain, Nasir Kazmi, Mustansar Hussain Tarar, who adorned Lahore’s social scene in the early 20^tth century. The latter, Tarar, held one of the most widely attended talks of the three-day Faiz festival. ‘Novel ka fun’, an energetic attempt by Tarar to realise and define the dynamics of novel-writing in the modern age, elicited an erudite discussion on the novel being redefined as a rebellion against science and the constraints of time, and in its most superior form, superseding its maker in intellect. Manto and Faiz, both self-proclaimed dissenters against rigid grammatical constraints, each in their own work, used multiple variations in linguistics. Faiz at times used both Persian and Urdu, liberally and interchangeably.  Faiz’s own poetry was pocketed with Urdu-Punjabi transliteration of the likes of Hafez and such, whose poetry he saw as a hinge between the classical and modern ghazal. Most renowned was the verse with which he chose to end his speech upon receiving the Lenin Peace Prize: “Every foundation you see is faulty except that of love, which is faultless.”

The irony of having a Faiz festival in English was not lost on many

However, it was the personal anecdotes from Faiz’s life, narrated to packed crowds by Dr Arfa Syeda, Zehra Nigah and Muzaffar Ali that turned an otherwise academic environment into a mélange of reverence, laughter and immense love for Faiz. Zehra Nigah recalled the time when some ardent poetry enthusiasts with little literary flair would probe Faiz into reading their works, only to have him subtly tell them, ”Try Punjabi poetry, this does not seem to be your style”. A soft-spoken critic who always smiled, in the words of Muzaffar, even at the barrage of ill-will and accusations thrown at him by those who viewed his revolutionary declarations with scepticism. Humbleness, Muzaffar Ali reiterated (and nidaamat) were Faiz’s forte, along with his unwavering conviction to stand against the exploitation of the weak. For this, he spent years in prison and lived in exile, wandering from country to country. “Har ik ajnabi sey puchain jo pata apnay ghar ka”, he would ask of strangers on his travels. What stole the show were Noor Jehan and Tina Sani’s melodious voices interspersed with Faiz’s own rustic and husky recital of his work. Here, the programme directors must be lauded for finding the perfect balance between literary arts and a monotonic emphasis on books and writings. The Tarz group, for instance, in a workshop focused on South Asian music and its history, was a joy to be a part of, mostly because it offered its attendees more than just sitar and sur-baazi.  Yousaf Kerai on tabla and 17-year old music prodigy Shahroze Hussain on sitar demonstrated first some soulful, moving renditions of Faiz’s seminal mujh sey pehli si muhabbat and Amir Khusrau’s verse, and later played around with the frequency to subtly demarcate the difference between Western pop and the rich South Asian raags. Later on, the following two evenings found Ali Sethi and Tina Sani performing at Falettis. Their powerful renditions of Faiz’s verses left every eye in the grand spacious halls filled with tears; the mere strength of voice and words brought meaning and understanding: “hum dekhain gay, lazim hai key hum bhee daikhain gay.”

The irony of having a Faiz festival predominantly in English - with all but few sessions in Urdu - didn’t seem lost on many. As Pakistanis, even when we do feel the need to adhere to our culture, we ultimately bow to the acceptability and universality of the English Language. Moreover, the substance of academic work in the Urdu language is abandoned; even Faiz himself is found more in foreign journals and languages than Urdu itself. It may also be pertinent to mention here that Faiz’s drama scripts for the BBC in his last decades, his English prose writings represented by his editorials in the Pakistan Times and his profound, passionate eulogy for Jinnah upon his death, are still works that are sadly considered obscure territory for students and readers of literature in this country. Perhaps this is because the awareness created of Faiz’s work, like that for all famed literary giants, has been limited to his famous published works that are quoted, translated and read time and time again.

When Faiz was released from prison in 1955, he lamented that ‘the dream of Pakistan was in shambles’. More than 60 years from the time in which these lines were spoken, we as a nation have collectively sunk even deeper into the quagmire that Faiz predicted with chilling accuracy. The imagery of darkness is so striking in his poetry, but more so are the first glimmers of dawn, vigorously pulsating through the daagh-daagh ujaala of his beloved homeland. Maybe it would be ‘un-Faiz-like’ for us to give up on hope then, for in his own words in the early days of independence, he said: “Nijaat-e-deed-o-dil ki gharri nayi, chaley chalo key who manzil abhe aye nahi”. It is not the hour for us to be freed from the struggle of our time: let us keep striving for we are still far from it.

Fatima Ayub is a writer and student of law, based in Lahore. She tweets at @Functuay and may be reached at fatimatariq370@gmail.com