Tangled Up In Blue

...Of A Number Of Things

2012-01-13T15:58:00.000+05:00

What follows is a series of small erm, discourses on anumber of topics that interested me but weren't deemed suitable for furtherelaboration because, let's face it, I'm the laziest fella this side of theIndus. They don't have a common thread running through them and have beenhastily jotted down as I unpack my bags after heading back to my little shed inthe jungle.

The 'Usual'

Most of the things that I've grown to enjoy immensely inLahore were actually my own discoveries ; bookshops, places to eat, places tosee etc that I had stumbled onto in my many exploratory forays. Oneplace however, bears the distinction of not only being pointed out to me by afriend but actually, persuasively prodded towards, and I can safely say thatnever was I prodded towards a more favorable destination. One of the small, nonot small; sizeable pleasures that one can hope to achieve in a long residenceat one place is acquiring a place where, slightly modifying the theme fromCheers, 'not everybody but at least somebody knows your name'. Thatplace for me is the Lahore Chatkhara in Mini-Market, Gulberg.

The fact that after my initial visit, I could be found thereat least three or four times every month bred a little familiarity. This wasreinforced by the fact that I'd always be carrying a pile of books and wouldinadvertently be waiting for someone, something which sort of singled me outfrom the rest of their patrons. The bond was completed by the fact that thefirst time I tasted what I had been ordered by my friend to taste - a plate ofSamosa Chaat and a bottle of Coke - I was so taken that I immediately orderedanother serving and gave the waitress a pretty phenomenal tip. The happy resultis that now, whenever I go there, I am nodded-at by said recipient of mytipping largesse, led towards my 'usual table', allowed to wait uninterruptedfor my 'usual friends' and need only to inform them to bring me 'the usual'. Itmay not be the Anglers' Rest of the Mr. Mulliner stories or the eponymous barfrom Cheers, but trust me, there's great pleasure in being a 'usual'.

The Unbearable Nusrat-ness Of Being

I came late to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Wait, let me rephrasethat, I was a huge Nusrat fan the first 20 odd years of my life but when I'rediscovered' Qawwali some four odd years ago, somehow Nusrat remained on thefringes of my radar. One of the reasons was that I had been warned off him bythe "purists" - back when I was silly enough to pay any attention to them, another was thatevery time I listened to him, my mind would always (unfavorably) compare him tohis father, which I realise now was unfair. However, when I graduallyrediscovered Nusrat, I was immediately entranced by his skill, his emotionalityand (unlike what the purists had blabbered on about) his immense 'ehteraam' forthe Classical idiom. Of course I had to pick and choose from literallythousands of his recordings, but at least I was a Nusrat fan.

Mark the sequel though. It's been more than a decade sinceNusrat passed away. Qawwali has seen a decline and then a slight resurgence butthe influence of Nusrat has remained. Not only has it remained but it has grownso overpowering that I've noticed a (to me at least) very disturbing trend inmodern Qawwali, namely the Unbearable Nusratness Of Being.

The overwhelming majority of Qawwals have realized thatNusrat sells. As a result, everyone has become what can best be described asrather sub-standard Nusrat clones. In doing so, the Qawwals have all butcompletely abandoned their own hereditary style, their trademark items andtheir unique performance styles. The entire Fareedi clan for example - whichboasted such modern stalwarts as Agha Rasheed Ahmed and Abdul Raheem Fareedi -has decided to convert to Nusratism en masse. Gone are the trademark emotive,classical bandishes. Instead, we have cheap synthesisers, alarming vocalhistrionics and wholesale borrowings from Nusrat's repertoire.

Another example is one of the rising stars of the currentQawwali scene, Asif Ali Santoo Khan Qawwal, whose father and grandfather weresupremely talented Ustaads of Qawwali, but who has completely moulded his styleon Nusats, with the result that more often than not, his performances veertowards jumbledness and confusion rather than clarity. Even the ‘Dehli-wala’gharanas of Qawwali, both in India and Pakistan, have also eschewed their usualemotive, nuanced and more measured style for a more ballistic and over-the-topstyle that somehow sounds odd to the ears. The overall result being that whereonce the Punjabi ‘ang’ of Qawwali was a many-textured style with differentperformers binging their own uniqueness to the fore, nowadays Qawwali in thePunjab is totally Nusrated.

Now I know this is an honest-to-goodness rant and that I amobviously overreacting to what is the natural result of the presence of atowering cultural figure who cast a very long shadow, but unless some of thecurrent performers discover their own distinctive voices and look towards theirown personal heritage for fresh ideas, Qawwali will degenerate into somethingmuch less appealing and enlightening and satisfying than it’s supposed to be.And worst of all, the purists will be proven right.

The Joy Of Text

When I go on holiday, I don’t necessarily ‘go on holiday’.Let me explain. Others may use the holidays to catch a bit of much-neededR&R, laze about, catch up on their sleep or generally idle. My holidays arethe exact opposite of that. Averaging only five to six hours of sleep per day,I manage to cram in so many activities into the three or four days off I getevery month that I actually need a day-planner to help me get through all thecommitments. These include getting through the checklist in the previous post,the requisite socializing, shopping, taking care of pending official paperworkand downloading as much music and movies and TV shows to last me the month ormore before I next expect to be home.

Another object that is forced to share this increasedholiday workload is my long-suffering phone. Here in the jungle, the phoneserves as a combination torch and Angry Birds console and that’s it. Nocellphone signals and no Wi-Fi means it lives out the month a shadow of its trueself. But let me get in my car and get within cellphone coverage range on myway home, and Abdul Ghafoor (my phone’s named Abdul Ghafoor) comes alive in themost remarkable fashion. Over the course of the next three or four days, Imanage to make more phone calls, send more texts and do more phone-ly thingsthan most people tend to do in their entire lifetimes. My preferred moduscommunicadi being the text message, which I’ve preferred over phone calls for aslong as I’ve had a cellphone.

The pure pleasure of carrying out conversations over SMS islost on people who take the ability to send and receive texts for granted.But to a person who gets to receive terrible jokes and Doomsday warnings onlyonce a month, the true worth of the medium is evident. It’s hard to describethe absolutely nonsensical bracing effects, after having spent a month or morein complete radio silence, of a conversation like this :

Q. Musab bhai, aap ek kaam keejiye.

Me. Ji janab ?

Q. Aap Nijaam ke bal bal jaiyye.

Me.Ji behtar.

A month after arriving in my jungle hideout, I had managedto procure a phone and establish some form of communication, two months later,I improved that to include what can mercifully be called an internet connectionbut the ability to send and receive texts had eluded me. Because of some oddlyconvoluted logic, phones here can carry out any two of the three activities ofvoice calls, text messaging and internet connectivity, but not all three. So inopting for the ability to sit for hours waiting for the Google homepage toload, I relinquished the ability to text. The result was that on my recentlyconcluded holiday, I took out my textual frustrations to such an extent that Imanaged to crash the Messaging application, which is no mean feat on an Androidphone. This brought home the realization that steps needed to be taken, avenuesneeded to be explored and measures needed to be implemented so that I couldspread out my textual largesse over the entire year instead of treating my phonelike a stock-ticker three days a month and letting it grow fat and lazy therest of the time.

As always, the simplest solution has proven the mostpractical. Doing the required math, I decided that to phones were better thanone. One for calling and texting and the other solely for crawling theinternet. So now mine is the only room for miles with two oddly shapedtelephone antennae on its roof. Now all I have to worry about is how to getenough electricity to charge two phones when there isn’t enough for even one.But that, as they say, is a horse of a different colour.

Classical MusicVersus Lamb Chops

Here’s a question. You know the Festival Of Lights in Lahoreis part of your ‘culture’. Yet you live in Khuzdar, or you’re allergic tolights. Would you then consider it your duty to do whatever you can to preserveand support the Festival Of Lights simply because it’s part of your 'culture' ?

I got to dwelling on this question after reading a Facebookpost, a rather anguished post lamenting the treatment of Classical musicians inPakistan, especially the lack of respect paid them and the impending void theywill leave if not appreciated, supported and given their due ‘ehtiraam’. Thisis sadly very true and the handful of senior classical musicians, with one ortwo exceptions, are living out the last days of their lives in penury, mostlyneglected, with their huge talents and ability going to waste rather than beingtransmitted to future generations. The loss to our cultural milieu will beimmeasurable when they’ve passed away. That much is clear.

Mark the sequel though. Classical music has, for most of itshistory, been an art form appreciated by a comparatively small audience, almostlike Opera or Jazz. The small audience has been, for the most part, discerning,passionate and appreciative. And they’ve had the means to support the art-formthat they appreciate. This has taken the form of court-patronage in theprevious centuries and although now considerably diminished, is still carriedon in the tradition of Mehfils and soirees etc. With these means, thepassionate followers of classical music have managed to get their fill of theirfavorite type of music and contribute to the maintenance and sustenance of theclassical tradition.

Like Opera and Jazz however, Classical music is not entirelyignored by the mainstream. In genres like Qawwali, Ghazal and Folk Music forexample, artists like Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Mehdi Hassan, Tufail Niazi et alhave been instrumental in introducing the lay-listener to a taste ofsub-continental classical music; a feat that has resulted in a widerlistenership and appreciation for this genre. Yet classical music has remained,for better or worse, a rather exclusive art form, appreciated and nurtured by arather small group of fans (at least in Pakistan). This group is well-versed inthe intricacies, technicalities as well as the niceties associated withclassical music. It knows, for example, the etiquette of a ‘mehfil’ and the‘ehtiraam’ accorded an Ustad, and in mehfils where this group is exclusivelypresent, such niceties are usually expected to be followed.

Any art form, however exclusive, cannot hope to remain bothinsular and vibrant. In terms of Classical music, this problem is somewhatrectified by including a sizeable number of lay-listeners in mehfils and therepertoire is designed to include more popular ‘items’ along with the ‘thaith’classical pieces. Another very common trend is inviting these musicians,especially Qawwals, to functions such as weddings, parties etc where theyperform to a decidedly mixed crowd. Now, the point I was trying to elaborate inthe question of the start of this piece comes into play. How is thelay-listener, with not more than a passing interest in what the musicians areperforming, supposed to react? Does he, despite the fact that whatever is beingperformed is flying over his head or that his attention is constantly beingdiverted by the rather delectable looking lamb-chop at the wedding buffet,feign interest and try to treat the music and the musicians with something morethan cursory attention ? Or does he, following his heart (and stomach), headstraight to the group of his friends – with a small detour at the buffet tableof course – and start chattering like nobody’s business, not giving a hoot tothe group of people gesticulating and caterwauling on stage ?

As an enlargement of the above question, unless theclassical musicians have modified their repertoire to include more populistpieces – a step which will more often than not have the effect of alienatingtheir core audience – why should the lay-listener pay attention to this groupof performers, despite the fact that Classical music forms an integral part ofour national culture. Because from the listener’s point of view, in the currenteconomic and political situation, paraphrasing Faiz – ‘Aur bhi gham hainzamanay main culture kie siwa’. And again, perhaps his cultural touchstonesinclude something completely different from those of classical music fans.Perhaps he digs Atif Aslam and the latest Bollywood music, perhaps he’s intohip-hop or death-metal or Naseebo Lal. Why should he give a hoot to the factthat Ustad Ghulam Hussain Shaggan is currently living in a two-room apartmentin a seedy part of Lahore or that Ustad Manzoor Ahmed Niazi is now the lastsurviving member of a legendary generation of Qawwals or that a treasure troveof Classical music recordings is slowly decomposing in the basement of theRadio Pakistan building in Lahore?

This is a thorny issue, for both the listener and themusicians. Should a more populist approach be tried by the musicians andtolerated by the die-hard listeners or is adherence to the classical idiom,coupled with increased patronage by the core group of listeners the wayforward? Because one thing is clear – at least to me- Classical Music,classical Qawwali and all similar art-forms, will have rather limited appeal ascompared to more popular arts unless drastic changes in performance are made.It will always be up to the small yet devoted group of listeners to archive,promote, nurture and introduce this art form, like it has been in the past. Idon’t know who can shoulder the blame if these art-forms continue to decline,but at least it isn’t the wedding guest noisily munching on his lamb-chop andenjoying the company of his friends, oblivious to the fading echoes of what hecertainly doesn’t consider his ‘culture’.

...Of All The Bases And How They Were Hit

2012-01-11T10:44:00.001+05:00

In my five years of surreptitiously visiting and then a year and a half of actually living in Lahore, I had pretty much defined what were, for want of a better phrase , my 'places of interest'. Now that I've returned to square one in that my status has reverted from resident to occasional visitor, I can draw on my extensive (if I do say so myself) and exhaustive knowledge of what I like to come up with a pretty all-encompassing list of all the things that make Lahore awesome.

Now obviously I can't enjoy or experience the literally dozens of sights and sounds and tastes (especially tastes) that make Lahore what it is on these 3-4 days per month trips of mine , especially now that they will be split between visiting the family in Sargodha and what a friend calls 'Lahoring'. So I've narrowed my list down to a 12-point checklist. If on a trip to Lahore, I manage to check the requisite number of boxes, I can consider the trip a success. And as every new tabulatory exercise like this requires a 'type specimen' - a perfect object with which to compare subsequent similar objects, I can safely put forward my current thirteen day hiatus in Lahore (which unfortunately ends today) as the standard against which all future trips will be measured. Without further ado then, here's......

My Lahore Checklist

Visited three closest friends living in Lahore - Check
Gotten together with more friends over Samosa Chaat at the Lahore Chatkhara - Double Check *
Touched base with the in-laws and close relatives - Triple Check
Visited the Data Darbar at least once - Triple Check *
Attended a Qawwali performance - Check
Eaten at at least two of my favorite places at MM Alam Road - Check
Purchased at least a truckload of books - Quadruple Check
Had a plate of Do-It-Yourself Gol Gappay from the Hafiz Juice Centre at Anarkali - Check
Purchased at least two new Qawwali cassettes - Check
Completed all the requisite downloads/updates/fixes that my laptop requires till the next trip - Check
Discovered at least one new place of interest - Check
Misdirected people asking for directions at least once - Check

A word on the Asteriks in the next post ......

...Of Borrowed Resolutions

2012-01-01T01:02:00.000+05:00

2012 is here.

A new year calls for New Year's resolutions. Instead of making my own (lazy bum that I am) I figured I'd borrow some from the king of the troubadours, Mr. Woody Guthrie. All things considered, it's the finest set of rules-to-live-by since the Ten Commandments.

Happy New Year everyone !!

Woody Guthrie's New Year's Resolutions

P.S Where there's Guthrie, there's bound to be Dylan. In keeping with the spirit of things (and the spirit of shameless borrowing), here's Uncle Bob's list of New Year's Resolutions, taken from the greatest radio show ever, Theme Time Radio Hour.

...Winter Has Come

2011-12-14T01:42:00.000+05:00

The year that started with so much promise is ending on the worst possible note. The untimely death of my Mamoo, followed in the next few days by two more untimely and violent deaths in the family has left everyone close to me in a state of profound shock and grief. We've all gone through our grieving rituals - the women by that exceedingly cathartic process that had caused Munir Niazi to observe 'Raunaqain hain maut ki/Yeh ba'in karti auratain', the youngsters by quickly and quietly changing their caller-tunes to Na'ats and Qirats, the men by surreptitiously putting aside family feuds for a few days and the small flock of the bereaved by slowly beginning to come to terms with the vacuum in their lives. Many lives have been irrevocably changed, including mine and my immediate family's. One of the effects has been the family's decision to shift from Lahore -temporarily or permanently - to the hometown, Sargodha, in order to help my grandmother and the bereaved family in trying to adjust to the uncertain future facing them.

For a person with my weird emotional circuitry - an unusual combination of empathy and the inability to display it, topped with a propensity for bottling up and retreating into a coccoon while at the same time longing for someone to communicate with - this has proved an especially trying time. The initial shock of the tragedy was of almost cataclysmic proportions - the way the news was broken to me will probably live as the single worst moment of my life and will haunt me for years to come - and trying to find closure has been hard. I cried - for only the second time in my adult life-, busied myself with the complex set of chores and tasks that surprisingly make up the bulk of the two seemingly disparate but eerily similar major events in Punjabi culture -'marna' te 'parna', and having returned to my place of duty after the completion of my emergency leave, actively remained in touch with most of my family back home via twice or thrice-daily phonecalls. Still, the black dog that has decided to camp outside my door refuses to go away, and frankly I don't blame it. Ultimately, Time will work its twisted magic and something resembling normalcy - or a cheap substitute for it - will return to everyone's lives, before the next seismic upheaval starts the circle once again.

Of the many things I'd planned for the conclusion of this year, one of the important ones was a series of posts on Qawwali, something which'll have to wait for a couple of reasons. First because along with everything else, my laptop -virtually the only thing keeping me sane in the jungle- went kaput three weeks ago and writing on a borrowed laptop (like I'm doing now) doesn't appeal to me. Second, I think I've temporarily lost my taste for music. In fact, the only thing faintly resonating with me and the only thing that I listen to, and I listen to it almost every day, is this ....

Maze Jahaan Ke Apni Nazar Main Khaak Nahi - Bakhshi Salamat Qawwal

...An (Updated) Charity Appeal Of Sorts

2011-11-30T21:55:00.000+05:00

One of the few things that Lahore used to lag behind Pindi in was that you could find Wodehouses in Pindi. In my half a dozen trips to Lahore during my five years in Med School,I'd searched every bookstore I'd gone to for Plums. They either didn't stock him, or had only his school stories, or rarely, a novel that I already had. Pindi on the other hand, took the cake because every old-book shop had at least one Wodehouse. I'll grant that 98.5% of the time, they were the ones I already have, but still....

On my penultimate Lahore trip however, the pattern changed. Not only did I find two new Wodehouses, but also a book I was looking for for a long while (Is two 'for's correct?), namely Richard Usbourne's "Wodehouse At Work To The End". This temporarily stopped me from losing all faith in humanity. When I finally shifted from Pindi to Lahore, things took a turn for the better and Readings (the greatest bookstore ever) decided to stock a truckload of Plums. Out of that truckload, I managed to find another half-dozen that were missing from my bookshelf.

At last count, I have 56 Wodehouse books, along with 25 more in e-book format, which leaves me (according to David Jasen's brilliant "P.G. Wodehouse,A Portrait of The Master") with 16 more before I break even. Judging from the time it took me to get to 56, factoring in the decreasing odds of finding one I don't already have, I figure it'll take me 15 odd years to get to a complete set. And even if I count the 25 odd ones I can find online,that's too long a wait. Drastic measures are needed if I'm to get anywhere near my goal of reading all of the Master's work, and I've thought of one drastic measure that might go some way in helping me ...

This is a Wodehouse appeal. I'll list all the Wodehouse books that I haven't got or I can't find online, and if anyone has any of these books, printed, as part of an omnibus, in e-book form or otherwise I'd be ultra-indebted if they could share it with me. A photocopy, a scan, an e-book, a book-in-the-mail which I'll solemnly promise to return, or an old fashioned sale (at an extra 10% commission), anywhichway it may be, it'll be immensely appreciated.

Bill The Conqueror
~~If I Were You~~
Louder And Funnier
Doctor Sally
Nothing Serious
The Old Reliable
Bring On The Girls
Performing Flea
French Leave
America,I Like You
~~Something Fishy~~
A Few Quick Ones
Plum Pie
Do Butlers Burgle Banks?
~~The Girl In Blue~~
~~Pearls,Girls And Monty Bodkin~~
~~Bachelors Anonymous~~

Here's to a successful experiment...

P.S Thanks to the generosity of friends and readers, I am now in a position to cross a few books off the list. At this rate, I'll be able to cross off quite a few pretty darn soon.

...Wean Yourself !!

2011-11-30T15:26:00.003+05:00

Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes from blood,
Grow into an infant drinking milk,
To a child who eats solid food,

To a searcher after wisdom,

To a hunter of more invisible game.
Think how it would be to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say, “The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
And orchards in bloom.
At night there are millions of galaxies, and in the sunlight,
The beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.”
You might ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer.
There is no “other world.”
I only know what I’ve experienced.
You must be hallucinating.

Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi (RA)

Reproduced from a post on Stray Reflections

...Of A Rather Ambitious Project

2011-11-18T01:13:00.001+05:00

Forty Five recordings.

Six Poets.

Maulana Abdur Rehman Jami

Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi

Allama Muhammad Iqbal

Bedam Shah Warsi

Baba Bulleh Shah

Hazrat Amir Khusro

Nineteen Artists.

Ameer Rafeeq Murkianwale Qawwal

Asif Hussain Santoo, ManzoorHussain Santoo Qawwal

Aziz Ahmed Khan Warsi Qawwal

Bahauddin,Qutbuddin Qawwal

Bakhshi Salamat Qawwal

Farid Ayaz, Abu Muhammad Qawwal

Fateh Ali-Mubarak Ali Qawwal

Ghaws Muhammad Nasir Qawwal

Haji Mahboob Ali Qawwal (RA)

Inayat Hussain Bhatti, SaeenAkhtar And Party

Jafar Husayn Khan Badayuni Qawwal

Manzoor Ahmed Niazi,AbdullahManzoor Niazi Qawwal

Manzoor Niazi, Bahauddin Khan, MunshiRaziuddin, Iftekhar Ahmed Nizami Qawwals

Meraj Ahmed Nizami Qawwal

Mubarak Ali – Nusrat Fateh AliQawwal

Munshi Raziuddin Ahmed Qawwal

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan Qawwal

Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal

The Sabri Brothers And Ensemble

The Warsi Brothers

Four simple rules.

One post for each poet.

Only Qawwali recordings to beincluded.

One version per kalam.

One recording per artist.

...Of The Andaleeb-e-Rumi (Part 2)

2011-10-24T15:09:00.000+05:00

Here's another batch of Mehfil recordings by the Andaleeb-e-Rumi, the late Haji Mehboob Ali Qawwal of Golra Shareef. As more and more of his recordings are painstakingly digitized, edited and transcribed, a veritable treasure is shaping up. And although the true flavour of Haji saheb's art can best be appreciated by listening to entire Mehfils where each Kalam is linked to the others by a common spiritual thread, these individual performances will provide a taste of the diversity of repertoire, the brilliant, almost 'waaiz'aana' andaz, the immaculate talaffuz and the uncannily brilliant 'girahbandi' that were Haji Sahab's hallmarks. As always, he is accompanied by his brother, the late Haji Mushtaq Ali on vocals and harmonium, with Mehboob sahab himself playing the sitar.

Tanam Farsooda Jaanpara Ze Hijraan Ya Rasool Allah (Maulana Jami)

Tu Sultan-e-Sahib Sareer Aamadi

Sakine Dairo Haram Sho Ya Sarre Bazaar Baash

Mandeyaan Nu Gal Laana (Mahiya)

Har Lehza Ba Shaklaan But-e-Ayyar Baraamad

...Of The Shattered Soul And The Lifeless Heart

2011-10-23T01:52:00.001+05:00

Five of my favorite versions of one of my favorite Na'ats by one of my favorite Farsi poets, performed by some of my favorite Qawwals.....

Tanam Farsooda Jaanpara
Ze Hijraan Ya Rasul Allah

Dilam Paz Murda Aawara
Ze Isyaan, Ya Rasul Allah

My body is fragmenting, disintegrating in your separation
My soul lies shattered. Ya Rasul Allah!
Due to my sins, My heart has become lifeless and inconsolable. Ya Rasul Allah!

Choon Soo'e Mun Guzar Aari
Manne Miskeen Ze Nadaari.

Fida-E-Naqsh-E-Nalainat
Kunam Jaan. Ya Rasul Allah!

If you pass in my direction, In my wretched poverty,
I shall sacrifice my soul on your blessed sandals. Ya Rasul Allah!

Ze Jaame Hubbe To Mustam
Ba Zanjeere To Dil Bustam

Nu'mi Goyam Ke Mun Hustam
Sukhandaan. Ya Rasul Allah

I am intoxicated by the nectar of your love
And the chain of your love binds my heart.
Yet I cannot put my feelings into words. Ya Rasul Allah

Ze Kardaan Khaish Hairaanam
Siyah Shud Roo Ze Isyaanam

Pashemaanam, Pashemaanam, Pashemaanam.
Ya Rasul Allah

I've tormented myself, my sinfulness frightens me;
And my sins have darkened my countenance.
I am in distress! I am in distress! I am in distress! Ya Rasul Allah!

Choon Baazoo'e Shafaa'at Raa
Kushaa'i Bar Gunehgaaran

Makun Mahruume Jaami Raa
Daraa Aan. Ya Rasul Allah

When you spread your benevolent arms to intercede for the sinners,
Do not deprive Jaami of your exalted intercession.

(Maulana Abdurrehman Jami )

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Manzoor Ahmed Niazi - Abdullah Manzoor Niazi Qawwal perform 'Tanam Farsooda Jaanpara' at Baba Saheb, Pakpattan. Recorded in the late eighties, this performance is taken from a rather worn-down cassette tape, hence the shaky audio.

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The second recording of this kalam is taken from one of my favorite Qawwali albums, "Jami" by Haji Ghulam Farid Sabri, released by Piranha records. (a must-have album if ever there was one). Of special note is the spirited Sazeena that precedes the kalaam.

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Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan performs the kalaam in Raag Mishra Kafi from the wonderful album titled "Sufi Qawwalis. With a prolonged, beautiful sazeena and preceded by the choicest of Farsi verses, this is one version to be enjoyed for it's mellow, slowly building mood.

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Ustads Fateh Ali Khan-Mubarak Ali Khan sang many versions of this kalaam - I have versions ranging from 6 minutes to 76 minutes - but this one is my favorite. Beginning madhyalay (mid-tempo), with Sarangi and Shehnai in the background, the two Ustads (a title they deserved in every sense of the word) explore and embellish the nuances of the kalaam as the tempo slowly builds to a crescendo.

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The wistful melancholy and intense love expressed in Jami's Kalam is most perfectly conveyed in this version by Haji Mehboob Ali Qawwal, the final one in this series of recordings. In an arrangement different from all other Qawwals, Haji Sahab's Sitar and voice express the longing, the pain of separation and the desire for 'benevolent intercession' so brilliantly that this is probably my favorite version of the kalaam. The slight lilt in the Ya Rasool Allah's and the second metre of each couplet's first verse completely slay me.

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(Note To Self : Quit using the word 'favorite' so often.)

...In Memory Of Jagjit Singh

2011-10-10T12:54:00.000+05:00

Jagjit Singh passed away earlier today. I had known of his unfortunate stroke from the news and was hoping against hope for a recovery but it was not to be. This time, it did not take the news days to filter through to me in my remote location. It was my father who texted me, 'Sad news, Jagjit Singh has passed away'. Which I thought was rather apt, considering it was my father who had first introduced me to the man whose music would play such an important role in what were the formative years of my life.

A lot of who I am today, what I watch/read/listen to/like goes back to the long drives in the family car and especially the car stereo. Faiz and Iqbal Bano, Nasir Kazmi and Noorjehan, Faraz and Fareeda Khanum, Rafi and Lata, Nusrat and Pathanay khan, all were first introduced to me on one roadtrip or another, always with me straining my ears to catch the music and then piping up from the backseat, 'Abbu, please volume ooncha kar dain.'

For as long as I can remember, we have always, ALWAYS had a Jagjit Singh tape in the car. I think we still have one of his earliest tapes somewhere in the house, the one with the desert backdrop and a smiling photo. That was the first tape I know that remained on constant rotation in the tape deck, and for good reason. The ghazals were good, the arrangements were good and the voices of Jagjit and Chitra singh were perfectly complimentary. I still remember one of my favorite ghazals which went ...

Uss morr se shuru karain phir ab yeh zindagi
Har shae jahan haseen thi, hum tum the ajnabi

...and another of his very famous ghazals,

Tum itna jo muskura rahi ho
Kya ghum hai jis ko chupa rahi ho

I instantly fell in love with those ghazals. There was something in Jagjit's style that waas immensely appealing to me at an early age. Or perhaps it was his style, with the smooth, light baritone voice, the unhurried, unencumbered adayegi, the simple and melodious arrangements and the choice of ghazals - ghazals in small to medium 'beher' with a natural 'naghmagi' - that were so universally appealing that they even caught the ears of a small child like me. We listened to those tapes over and over and as was my habit, I memorized them all and began belting them out to whoever would listen, which reminds me of a rather embarrassing incident from my childhood.

Apart from the usual music tapes that were scattered about our house, there was one rather odd specimen. When I was very little, around 5 or 6, I had a tooth extracted and as a reward, my parents bought me a tape with dramatized readings of two children's stories. 'Cassette Kahani' it was called, with 'Bahadur Raju' on Side A and 'Jinnon ki Basti' on Side B. Me and my kid brother would listen to them non-stop, memorizing the dialogues, mimicking the sound effects and laughing our heads off at the silliness of it all, riffing on them in a childhood version of Mystery Science Theatre 3000. One day we decided to immortalize these adlibbed riffs on a tape of our own. We found one, didn't bother rewinding or forwarding it to see if it was blank or not, and started off. We'd start with a story, stop after 5 minutes when we were both tired from all the laughing, then I'd sing a Jagjit Singh ghazal and we'd start again. After we'd recorded 40 minutes of this, we flipped the cassette over and it was then that we discovered that it was a Jagjit-Chitra tape we'd been recording over, and one of mum and dad's favorites. Scared and embarrassed, we immediately hid it in the tape cabinet and bolted. Some weeks later while on one of our innumerable roadtrips, Jagit was playing on the stereo as usual and us kids were snoozing in the backseat when suddenly, the car was rocked by sounds of the loudest, shriekiest laughter ever heard. Me and my brother woke up, bolt upright as we realized that our magnum opus had somehow found it's way into the car stereo. Our parents were initially too stunned to realize that their favorite tape had been desecrated beyond repair, but they soon got over it, pulled the car over and proceeded to give me and my brother one of the Gawdalmightiest tonguelashings we've ever recieved, the gist of which was "You never mess with a Jagjit Singh tape, NEVER!!"

By the time I'd gotten a few years older, we got Jagjit and Chitra's famous 'Ghalib' album - the one they'd done to soundtrack Gulzar's landmark TV series about the famous poet. To say that that album was a watershed is an understatement. Jagjit and Chitra Singh made Ghalib - arguably the most important Urdu poet of all time - at once accessible, enjoyable and eminently understandable. The kalam was rendered with modern sensibilities, melodiously, with perfect talaffuz and complete 'ehteraam' in a manner that made it universally appealing. We used to listen to it constantly, discuss the meanings of various verses, comparing and contrasting with other poets and in the process being introduced to one of the wellsprings of Urdu literature. It was a service to the Urdu speaking world that will long be remembered and appreciated. Sometime later another favorite of mine, Jagjit Singh's collaboration with Gulzar, 'Marasim' came out. Again, the kalam was perfectly complimented with the arrangements and the singing. Ghazals like 'Shaam se aankh main nami si hai' (which Gulzar poignantly quoted as his Facebook status this morning) and 'Woh khat ke purzay uraa raha tha' were instant classics.

Apart from his impressive artistic credentials, Jagjit Singh was also important as an ambassador of the Urdu language an especially the ghazal. He spread the magic of the ghazal far and wide and kept the tradition of ghazal-gayeki alive in India, appealing to both the mainstream listening public and the more finicky conoisseurs. A worthy successor of the genration that included Mehdi Hassan, Talat Mehmood and Barkat Ali Khan, Jagjit with his contemporary Ghulam Ali was the leading light of Ghazal-gayeki in the late 20th and early 21st century. To me personally he was a gateway to the exploration and enjoyment of Urdu poetry, a melodious guide to the nuances of Ghalib, a fond childhood memory that formed the basis of who I am today and a constant reminder of the immense power of art to mould and enrich lives.

While writing this in his memory (it's sad how I've had to document the passings of two of my favorite personalities in a month) I thought it'd be a good idea to listen to some of Jagjit saheb's ghazals, so I cued up the playlist on iTunes and started listening as I wrote. But it didn't turn out to be such a good idea because one minute into his rendition of 'Baat Nikle Gi To Phir Duur Talak Jayegi' I had to stop writing and unsuccessfully fight back tears. It was then that the comprehension of this loss sank in and I realized the important place Jagjit Singh's music held in my life. The man who introduced me to ghazal,Ghalib and Gulzar is no more. In his memory I will carry on what I now realize is an important tradition, there will always be a Jagjit Singh tape near me, in my car, in my iPod or on my PC.

When I can actually feel strong enough to listen to it without tearing up is a whole different story.....

...Of The Qawwalis That Carried Me Through

2011-09-13T19:15:00.000+05:00

Each day for the last three months, when the sun was about to set and the heat had abated to non-lethal levels, I would take my laptop to the roof of my tiny hospital in the middle of the jungle, sit cross-legged on the floor of the terrace and listen to music in an attempt to preserve my sanity. This experiment wouldnt've been possible without smearing myself with gallons of Mospel and ignoring the attentions of bats, spiders, moths and on one occasion, a herd of goats who were exceptionally adept at climbing stairs. But failure wasn't an option. A day spent in isolation, electricity-less heat and unbearable humidity had to end in at least an hour of peaceful and contented enjoyment otherwise I'd go mad.

Qawwali constituted the bulk of what I listened to, and if I say that Qawwali recordings got me through these difficult three months, I wouldn't be wrong. I listened to literally hundreds of recordings, each of which was brilliant in it's own way, but I chose the following to share because they all fulfilled one simple criteria; they all struck a deep emotional chord. Dusk has many different moods, from sombre and foreboding to peaceful and reassuring; and a combination of the isolation, the environment and these recordings proved to be a bewitching brew. I must admit that on more than a few occasions while listening to one or the other of these recordings, I found myself with tears in my eyes, moved unlike I've ever been before. I share these recordings in the hope that some day, somewhere, when the sunset's just right and the milieu of the heart is just right, someone will play one of these and feel like I used to do sitting in the dark on that lonely rooftop.

The first recording I'd like to share is by Haji Mehboob Qawwal and the kalam and the adayegi perfectly encapsualted the state of my heart and mind in those days. A kalaam of Pir Mehr Ali Shah's (RA) son Hazrat Babuji (RA), this beautiful ghazal is sung in a meandering and wonderfully slow and mellow arrangement. In an exception to his performance style, Haji Sahab doesn't adorn this Kalam with 'girahs', preferring to let the words and the melody convey their meaning. My feelings of distance and separation from loved ones, along with the few pleasures of this sometimes 'splendid isolation' found perfect expression in this wonderful preformance.

Majboor Hoon, Lachaar Hoon Aye Jaane Tamanna

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The one group that I listened to almost incessantly was "Fateh Ali Khan-Mubarak Ali Khan Qawwals and Party'. Nusrat's legendary father and uncle are without a doubt two of the very very greatest Qawwals of the last century and I've never heard anyone, not even Nusrat, who comes close to their exquisite, inventive, forceful and wonderfully fluid andaz. The talaffuz, adayegi, use of behlawas and pure technical brilliance these two brothers possessed willl remain unmatched. Of all the recordings I listened to, the one I returned to the most was the one I am sharing below. Recorded in India in the late fifties, with Fateh Ali Khan contributing most of the vocals, this short piece is filled with wonderful little treasures. From the Aye Lo's and the Aye Ji's to the beautiful phrasing to the vacillating taans, this is one brilliant recording.

Khud Daari-e-Ehsaas Ko Thukra Nahi Sakte

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Another favorite of mine is the magnificent "Bakhshi Salamat Qawwal" group, one of Fateh Ali and Mubarak Ali's most talented disciples. They were exceptional proponents of Iqbaliyat, creating some of the most stirring Qawwali interpretations of Iqbal's kalaam. The recording that I am sharing below was an instant favorite the moment I first heard it. The beauty of the kalam is coupled with the Qawwal party's unique style to form a brilliant combination. You can easily hear echoes of the Ustads' style in that of the Shagird. With the shehnai flitting around in the background, Bakhshi Khan's emphatic and almost aggressively forceful style delivering each verse like a hammer-blow to the heart and then exclaiming 'Zara Dekho Ji!' and 'Aaheva' in an almost defiant manner and Salamat Khan and Saddo Khan delivering their trademark vacillating taans, this is undoubtedly one of the best and most moving interpretations of Iqbal ever recorded. I used to put this Qawwali on repeat and literally stomp around on the roof to the beat of the handclaps till I was exhausted. It still remains one of my favorite Qawwali performances.

Mataa-e-Be Bahaa Hai Dard-o-Soz-e-Arzoo Mandi

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Abdul Hamid,Ghulam Kibriya Vehranwale Qawwals aren't a name that would be familiar to many, being one of the many Qawwali groups that regularly performed in and around Faisalabad in the '80s and early '90s. Their style was very similar to another Faisalabad group, their relatives, Maulvi Ahmed Hassan Akhtar Hassan Qawwal And Party. They performed in what we can call the 'thaitth' Punjabi style, with forceful taali and liberal girahs from the Punjabi Sufi canon. What they lacked in knowledge of the intricacies of Classical music, they more than made up for with their almost rustic simplicity and earthy delivery. The following recording features one of the best 'Dohas' I've ever heard, a simple yet appealing melody and wonderful and emotive girahs taken from Hashim Shah's version of Sassi Punnu. Occasional use of the Potohari 'tappa' style brings out the pathos of the text and make it an unadorned yet beautiful performance.

Layi Jindri Main Tere Naa Ve Yaar

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Manzoor Niazi Qawwal And Party has been blessed with two of the most wonderful voices in recent Qawwali history. Manzoor Niazi sahab's unmistakeable soft, mellow and emotive voice is perfectly complemented by his son Abdullah Manzoor Niazi's strong, rich, flexible and extremely melodious one. One of the three pillars of the Qawwal Bacchon ka Gharana, and the only surviving member of the legendary trio of Manzoor Niazi, Bahauddin Khan, Raziuddin Ahmed Qawwals, Niazi sahab's party is one of the top two or three Qawwal parties of Pakistan. The ravages of age have taken their toll on his voice but this recording from 1984 perfectly captures the voices of both father and son at their best. The familiar Khusrau kalam is performed very melodiously, with emphasis on melodic improvisation and both father and son show their melodic abilities, especially on 'Naina Mila Ke'. The spoken word and sung girah-bandi in the latter half of the recording is some of the best and most apt I've heard. I wouldn't be wrong in saying that of all the dozens of versions of this kalaam, this is my favorite.

Chaap Tilak Sab Cheen Li

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I'd like to end this post with another Haji Mehboob Qawwal recording. The mehfil from which this recording is taken is one of my most favorite mehfils, and this recording is the gem of the session. The sound quality is utterly pristine, Haji sahab's sitar and Haji Mushtaq's harmonium are accompanied by a brilliant violin (something that I've heard only in this mehfil). One of the characteristics of Haji sahab was that he was usually accompanied by only one or two hamnavaas, who didn't contribute to the vocals and only took part in the taali, hence the performance was carried totally by the two brothers themselves. Here too, there's only two voices, yet the fullness and richness of the performance is unmatched. Haji sahab's trademark and extremely apt girahs adorn the kalaam at regular intervals, and this kalaam also contains one of my very favorite ones, which Haji sahab emphasizes with a rare 'Shear mulahiza ho'. As a friend had said to me, 'Musab bhai, yeh kalaam jhoom jhoom ke sunne wala hai.' And I can attest that I've done a lot of jhooming to it on my lonely rooftop.

Dil Burd Ze Man Chashme Siyaahe Ba Nigaahe

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My instinctive reaction on listening to/reading/watching something that I instantly love is to instantly share it with others who I know would appreciate it as much as I did. This irresistible urge to share was completely and utterly stifled these last three months, and now when I'm finally re-connected with the rest of the world, I felt I shouldn't waste any time in sharing these beautiful pieces of music in the hope that they may provide the same solace, enjoyment and comfort to someone else that they provided to me these past three month. Happy listening !!

The Great Roadtrip - Of Patron Saints And Ghost Towns

2011-09-13T11:34:00.000+05:00

It is now almost a year since I undertook what turned out to be the greatest road-trip of my life. The term 'voyage of discovery' might be a cliche but that's certainly how I will describe the week or so of traveling that I did in South and Central Punjab last September. What with one thing or the other, I've never gotten around to properly writing about it and sharing some of the experiences, sights and sounds of those six or seven days. But the leisure afforded me by my current location has trumped my innate laziness and I've decided it's about time I got around to it. My memory might be clouded over by the year gone by, but I still remember enough to get the writing juices flowing, and armed with the hundreds of photos I took with my crummy cellphone camera, I think I can finally shape the account of my great roadtrip into something resembling a coherent narrative.

Like every good story, this one begins with a prelude. I had been in Dera Ghazi Khan working in the flood relief efforts for over three weeks and was itching for a break. The workload, though heavy, wasn't the reason I was raring at the bit. I had planned a great deal of sightseeing in and around Dera Ghazi Khan and wasn't getting any chance of going about it. Although the evenings were usually free but travel restrictions meant that I wasn't able to see anything more than the one odd place of interest that happened to be in one of the villages where I'd set up a medical camp. An abortive attempt was made to visit the Sakhi Sarwar shrine; an attempt that turned into something resembling a farce on wheels starring a car that could only go one kilometer at a time before stopping to pant and wheeze, a tape deck that insisted on playing lewd Naseebo Lal songs and a driver that could only understand Pushto, which neither of the passengers could speak.

It was with great relief and a fair bit of excitement that I greeted the announcement that the entire party of around a dozen people would be taking a day off and going on a roadtrip to the nearby hilltop town of Fort Munro, with a stopover at the Sakhi Sarwar shrine. My sightseeing plans were finally starting to see fruition as the traveling party rode out on the Dera Ghazi Khan-Quetta highway. As an aside i would like to mention that I have seen around two dozen cities and innumerable towns all over Pakistan and I have never seen a place that depressed me more than Dera Ghazi Khan. A district headquarter, DG Khan looked more like, I hate to admit it, a pigsty. All the main roads were muddy ditches, the traffic was horrible, the city was skirted by a huge and foul smelling sewerage nullah and the whole place had a weirdly oppressive air. The immense relief I felt at being out on the open highway, away from the mud and congestion of DG Khan cannot be described in words. The road ran through wide plains that slowly rolled up into rocky hills where the road got a little treacherous.

The first stop was the town of Sakhi Sarwar around twenty miles down the road from DG Khan, housing the shrine of Hazrat Sakhi Sarwar (R.A), the patron saint of all travelers, which was rather fitting now that I look back on it. The shrine was located deep inside the town so we parked the cars at a distance and walked through the narrow alleyways towards the shrine. As we got closer, I was greeted by the sight that I would become familiar with in the course of trips to dozens of other shrines; a shrine bazaar. On either side of the path leading upto the shrine entrance were shops selling flowers, multicolored chadars, semiprecious gemstones and 'makhaanas'; the tiny white sweetmeat that is traditionally distributed as tabarruk. The entrance to the shrine comprised a large two-story facade with a central entryway flanked with two yellow-painted panels. The upper story had three beautifully decorated overhanging balconies. The courtyard had a neem tree in the centre and was flanked on one side with a centuries old mosque and on the other by a row of 'hujras'. Facing the entrance was the main shrine complex, with a long covered enclave and a single door leading to the tombs of the saints. The entire courtyard was bordered by an underhanging ledge adorned by beautiful painted tile that is South Punjab's speciality.

The enclave was covered by a wooden roof that had beautiful geometric patterns adorning it in a design that I was later to see at shrines in Ucch Shareef, Multan and Lahore.Inside the tombs there was relative darkness and the unmistakeable scent of incense and rosewater. There were a number of small graves of some of the Saint's disciples and followers, and in the eastern corner of the tomb, the graves of the Saint himself and his sons. We paid our respects and then wandered around into a small room that adjoined the main tomb. Here sat an old man wearing tattered robes who would swat us each with what looked like a bouquet of peacock feathers and demand a rather hefty sum for the priviledge. It was an insight into the rather unusual system of commerce that thrives in and around shrines. After a further bit of wandering, including a futile search for the spot where Guru Nanak Saheb was supposed to have stayed when he made a pilgrimage to the Sakhi Sarwar shrine, we left for our second and final destination for the day, the town of Fort Munro.

Fort Munro is an historically important town. The seat of the government agent in the colonial times, it marked the eastern boundary of the Baloch lands and was the site of a small fort that housed a military garrison. After Balochistan's accession with Pakistan , Fort Munro served as the residence of the political agent. It was supposed to be South Punjab's answer to Murree, a temperate hill-station in the middle of the plains that offered a respite from the weather for the wealthy and the well-to-do. what it turned out to be was something quite the opposite. I'd seen ghost-towns in films and on TV, now was my chance to see one for myself. As we wound up the surprisingly tricky climb, we couldn't see a single inhabitant. There were houses, shops, motels, roadside dhaabas and pan-shops. There just wasn't anyone in them. In a town whose population should've been at least five or ten thousand, we couldn't find a single person.

This inexplicable lack of inhabitants wasn't the only eerie thing about Fort Munro. As we reached the crest of the hill, we saw to our right a body of water too large to be a pond and too small to be a lake. It had a small pier on one of the banks and had a dark, murky and somewhat sinister look. Coming to the top of the main hill, there was a fair-sized plateau that housed a park, remnants of an old fort, deserted government offices and to complete the ghost-town decor, an old colonial era graveyard. Naturally, we made a beeline for the graveyard. There were around a dozen graves, great and small, belonging to the military personnel and their families who inhabited the fort nearly a century ago. This graveyard proved to be the most interesting place we visited in Fort Munro for a number of reasons.

The first grave that caught my eye was that of a brother in arms, quite literally. Horace Allenby Smith was a military surgeon and a Fellow of the Royal Society in the days when it really meant something. The thought of that poor army doctor lying buried thousands of miles from his home in a godforsaken piece of rocky ground on top of a desolate mountain put a lot of things in perspective. There were graves of two or three little children who had drowned in the lake we'd seen earlier. And there was another grave which clearly showed signs of having been opened recently. All in all, the perfect setting for an episode of the Twilight Zone or one of those cheap TV movies they make based on Stephen King stories.

Needless to say, the entire traveling party was thoroughly spooked at that point, so much in fact that when we saw the first living thing we'd seen the entire trip; a goat on a mountain ledge, we half expected it to sprout some wings and come swooping down on us Nazgul style. Thankfully it didn't and even more thankfully we managed to catch the thing. And having caught it we did the civilized thing, namely slaughtered, barbecued and feasted on Herr Goat. After a pwopah meal, the kind that dispels the spookies and puts courage into the hearts of men, we set about exploring again. Not that it did us any good, a deserted colonial era cricket pitch-cum-tennis court being the only thing we saw. It was then that we decided to call it a day on the trip and head back. The highlight of the return trip was a sing along. Trust me, you haven't lived till you've heard a fifty year old Pashtun gentleman belt out 'Bailamos' in a pushto accent.

The trip to sakhi Sarwar and Fort Munro wasn't entirely what I'd envisioned it to be, but it was very important to me in that it proved to be the starting point for all my subsequent explorations and photographing excursions. Three days later I left Dera Ghazi Khan for Multan which was the first stop on my Great Road Trip and when I returned home ten days later, I had traveled nearly 2000 miles and a discovered a new facet to my life.

...On Shammi Kapoor's Passing

2011-08-16T00:42:00.000+05:00

Shammi Kapoor passed away yesterday, and as is usual in this remote location that I currently call home, I only found out today. I was saddened, extremely saddened and more than a little shocked. I mean I know he was in his 70s and a longtime sufferer of renal failure, but he had seemed so hale and hearty until very recently that his death comes as a major shock, at least to me. I hadn't planned to write anything this month but I feel I must express my feelings and thoughts in one way or the other otherwise I might spiral into another one of my black dogs. And since my location precludes what would've been a more fitting tribute to the great actor, namely getting together with some friends and watching his movies and songs, remembering and re-enjoying the hours and hours of pleasure he brought to milllions of his fans, I can try to use my words to somehow pay my respects to one of my favorite actors, and one of my favorite people, the late Shammi Kapoor.

I can remember being a Shammi Kapoor fan for most of my life. I wasn't exposed to Bollywood films very much, especially in my childhoood, but I still remember watching a fair number of Shammi Kapoor films, and more than a fair bit of Shammi Kapoor songs. What had appealed to me even as a child, was the spontaneity, the freshness and the overpowering sense of joy in his performances. As I got older and properly started watching classic Bollywood films, my admiration for his work grew. There is a sizeable number of my friends and possibly a fair chunk of the movie watching public who didn't consider him a serious 'actor' in the Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand mould, thinking of him more as a lightweight (not literally) who was suited for just comedy and a bit of song and dance. I had had the same opinion before I started watching him in earnest, but my opinion didn't last long. There was a vivacity, a natural exuberance, and in films like Brahmachari and Vidhaata, a sense of the melodramatic that was at par with the other 'greats' of that time. That's why I consider him not only a fine performer, but one of the great all-round actors of the Golden Age of Bollywood.

And as for the songs, now they're a whole other story. The Shammi Kapoor-Muhammad Rafi partnership was a match made in heaven. The sheer number of evergreen and immortal songs picturised on Shammi Kapoor and sung by Rafi saheb is unequalled in Bollywood history. The two had more chemistry than any on-screen pair could ever achieve, an affinity so brilliant that you could forget that it was actually a playback singer belting out "Aasmaan Se Aaya Farishta" while Shammi dangled from a helicopter in An Evening In Paris, or that it was someone else and not Shammi singing "Main Gaoon, Tum So Jao" to the cute little critters in Brahmachari. Again, the amount of pure, unadulterated joy that Shammi Kapoor managed to express in the songs was a mark of his consummacy as a performer. He was also the first leading man to incorporate dance - his own trademark style of dance - into the three minute song that was the staple of the Bollywood film. With the jaunty, slightly spastic and ever-so-debonair flicks of the head and jerks of the hips, he was able to communicate an irrepressible joie de vivre to everyone who watched.

Bollywood's answer to Elvis, Shammi also shared the King's unfortunate weight issue, yet for at least ten years - the most fruitful period of his career - he didn't let his weight come in the way of having a grand old time onscreen. He sang, he danced with an exquisite lissomeness that defied logic and he churned out hit after immortal hit all through the sixties. It was only when the weight problem got out of hand that he gracefully changed gears from leading man to character actor and spent the rest of his career as a bearded, benevolent presence in film after film. Kidney failure plagued him for the last two decades of his life, a disease that was precipitated if not aggravated by the same weight issues. But Shammi didn't let an ailment control his life and spent his last years squeezing out as much enjoyment and happiness out of his days as possible, a fact that was borne out by the delightful series of webcasts he made in these last few months titled "Shammi Kapoor Unplugged", a series that I watched eagerly and with great enjoyment. I remember him remarking once that he had dialysis thrice a week, yet on the other four days, he managed to have so much fun that those three days were more than compensated. On his final webcasts, I could see the ravages of age and disease - the laboured breathing, the thinned frame and the raspy voice - but I hadn't thought that they were that serious, which is why his death came as a shock to me.

Life and death are part of the inevitable and vicious circle of life and no matter how much you reconcile yourself to it, the passing of someone special always leaves the geart pained and sorrowful. With Shammi Kapoor's passing a great chapter has closed in the history of Indian cinema. Now only two, albeit two of the greatest - Dilip Kumar and Dev Anand - remain of the Golden Age of Bollywood. Dilip saheb is an infrequent sufferer of health problems and Dev Anand is in his nineties now, so I'm afraid we won't be blessed with their presence for long, but again, their passing will leave the heart sorrowful. Only one thing remains to assuage the heart's pain, and that is the treasure trove of memories immortalized in celluloid that Shammi Kapoor has left behind; memories that might start fading a bit faster after his passing but will never be completely obliterated. The joy he brought - that's a word one has to use often when describing him; joy - to millions around the world, the way he lived his life on his own terms till the very end, and the innumerable memories he has left for his fans are his astonishing and magnificent legacy.

Farewell Shammi Kapoor, and thanks for the memories ......

...Of Another Country

2011-07-28T17:08:00.000+05:00

I've been aware of this malady of mine for a long time but it became painfully obvious around a weeek ago. I was sitting in an empty dining hall, perfunctorily changing channels on a beaten down old television when I stopped on PTV. They were showing an interview with the senior character actor AK Hangal. It was some fifteen minutes into watching it raptly that I came to a realization that I was probably the only person in Pakistan who, at 11pm on a Friday night, would willingly tune into PTV of all channels, watch a rather exhaustive interview with a 94 year old actor whom most people would only barely know of, and not only watch it but nod knowingly every time the words "Garam Hawa", "Homi Wadia" or "Prithvi Theatre" were mentioned. While I was thus a revereein' the interview ended and the credits rolled with Mehdi Hassan singing Nasir Kazmi,

"Bhooli bisri chand umeedain, chand fasanay yaad aaye
Tum yaad aaye aur tumhare saath zamanay yad aaye"

Inexplicably, my eyes grew moist. It was then that I turned off the television in some alarm and left.

Ever since then, I've been trying to figure out this peculiar predicament. Why is it that I live a sort of double life in which the past plays a more important role than the present or the future. Why is it that I will gladly spend days upon days listening to or editing a 40 year old piece of music and consider it the most pleasurable experience imaginable when the very same piece of music will make grown men cover their ears and run for cover. Why do I spend (or did I spend) hours on the internet trying to find a site that will stream Turner Classic Movies so I can sit back and watch Preston Sturges marathons. Why do I know Monty Python jokes better than names of some of my family members?

It's not that I have an overpowering obsession with all things grey and mouldy, it's just that the past is more appealing to me than the present.And when I refer to the past and the present, I mean of course the cultural aspect. I don't want anyone to get the idea that I dream lovingly about the days of kerosene lamps and open air lavatories. It's the cultural, the artistic ephemera from the past that fascinates and captivates me, and I can't seem to find an explanation for it. I have a fairly active social life (or at least I did when I was in Lahore), am fairly proficient professionally and function adequately well in everyday situations. Yet always, and I mean always, at the back of my mind will be snippet of a Rafi song or a line from a Wodehouse novel or a scene from a Humphrey Bogart film. It's a semi-sleepwalking state that I've perfected to such an extent that except for the keenly observant, no one can usually guess that I'm actually thinking of something completely remote from the topic of conversation whenever I'm talking to them. Again, it's not that I have no interest in the present, or like Ignatius J Reilly from The Confederacy Of Dunces, consider everything modern 'an abortion of the highest order". I am a rabid fan of film, literature, television and some of the music of the present day, although I will admit my tastes differ slightly from the average.

Someone once asked Dylan why he played so many old songs on his radio show, "Well, there are more old songs than new ones y'know" was his reply. And I suppose that is an argument that can be advanced in my defence. There are more Rafi songs than Atif Aslam songs, more Wodehouse novels than David Mitchell novels, and according to the law of averages, proportionally more good Rafi songs than good Atif songs and so on. But popular taste, and indeed my taste doesn't work by this logic. It's something else that draws me to what I call entertainment and what others call, in a most appropriate word, "maghziyaat".I guess it's more of what Dylan meant when he wrote in Chronicles, and I'm paraphrasing here, that his world wasn't the world of the '60s, his world was the world of a hundred years ago; the world of the American civil war that he spent hours every day reading about in the New York Public Library. The events in the daily newspapers of the 1860's were to him more relevant and more resonant than what was going on around him. That was also what attracted him to the folksong in the early part of his career, the fact that something was written decades ago yet was still relevant and alive.

I think maybe that frame of mind comes closest to describing my own. I believe music and film and literature from the past aren't things that come with expiry dates or notices that say 'You must be this old to enjoy this.' The fallacy that most people fall into is thinking that the exact opposite is true, that a Mehdi Hasan ghazal is something only 'Uncles' are supposed to enjoy and we'll be damned if we're caught listening to it. The same is obviously true the other way round and the members of one generation are generally averse to partaking in the pop culture of the ones that succeed it. Thanks to modern means of communication and dissimination, the past and the present are both right in front of us, to partake of as much as we like.

I don't know where I intend to go with this discussion ( or this one-sided ramble if you will ), but I started out attempting to identify what it was that makes me so attracted to the past. I think I tried a similar exercise previously, in a rather execrable little poem if I remember correctly *shudders*. I haven't come to any conclusion but I think that if I can somehow balance, however precariously, the demands of what my father often refers to as 'PRACTICAL LIFE" (yes, he uses capitals when saying it), with the demands of say, knowing the names and artistic aachievements of Messrs Jerome Kern, Bulwer-Lytton, Bix Beiderbecke, Rex Harrison and Micheal Bloomfield, I might be able to achieve a rare distinction, a dual citizenship of the present and the past, which as they say, is another country.

...Of Five Weeks

2011-07-25T21:30:00.000+05:00

It's been exactly five weeks since I came here from Lahore. "Here" being the place I'm currently ensconced in (I love that word) and the name of which I can't mention because of reasons too tedious to go into here. I had thought at the outset to write a journal. I thought I could overcome my natural laziness and get down to at least a cursory habit of regular writing, after all I had faithfully kept a journal for the whole six months I was at PMA. I kept at it for a week, writing in pencil because I'd been told that journals are best written in pencil, but eventually complacency interfered. The journal is now being used for jotting down stray thoughts that'll prolly be collected in a blogpost. It wasn't just complacency though. The fact that nothing ever happens where I am living contributed directly to the cessation of my pencilling. And when I say that nothing happens here, I mean just that. Here's a brief rundown of an average day.

Get up around 8.
Shower and such.
See the two or three patients that come to the clinic.
Play video games till 2.
Lunch.
Nap till 6(aka roll around in bed trying to sleep while fanning yourself with a folded up newspaper).
Go out for a bit of exercise (only the first week)/Watch movies/television shows/documentaries on The Dude* till dinner.
Drive two miles to where the inhabitants gather every night, have dinner, do the day's only bit of socialising.
Drive two miles back and go straight to bed.

*The Dude being my laptop, named after the person who's lazy footsteps I seem to be following, Jeff "The Dude" Lebowski.

It's not just my innate introversion and asocial tendency that's led me to spend my days as described above. It's a mixture of being miles away from other people, lack of access to electricity, the telephone, the tv, the cellphone, the internet and other similar modern abominations and yes, my innate introversion and asociality that's turned me into either a modern day Thoreau communing with nature or a slightly paunchy, mustachio'd version of Rousseau's Emily. Yes, mustchio'd. I've decided to keep a moustache in lieu of a pet and I can say it's proving to be a great companion. Many an idle hour has been spent twirling the edges of said fungus while lying on my bed staring at the ceiling. But gentle reader, I hope you don't get the impression that I'm living in a sort of Kafka-esque morass of utter despondency and boredom. There are distractions, a few every day, that help tide the day over and have helped me while away these three weeks.

There's the weather first of all, a weird abomination that seems to have combined the worst features of the weather systems of the Amazonian rainforest and Hell. We have the heavy rains expected in this time of the year, but they aren't just heavy. Every night it pours, turning the dirt roads into slush and making it impossible to leave the room. And inside the room is an entirely different matter. The drip-drip-dripping roof and the buckets on the floor to catch the indoor deluge were something I'd only seen on TV or in movies until now, but being a quick learner, I can now easily place buckets, mugs and glasses at strategic locations within five minutes of hearing the first distant roar of rainclouds. It rains every night, usually accompanied by violent thunderstorms, and every so often as a special treat, we have gales that uproot trees and block roads. The rains are then followed by the most oppressive mixture of heat and humidity ever concocted by Beelzebub or whoever's in charge of the meteorological machinations in this part of Pakistan. A dozen glasses of Energile every hour are required to prevent oneself from dehydrating to death. I use to think Lahore's heat was bad until I got here. On the bright side, one doesn't have to worry about hygiene because at least seven baths are required every day if you want to save yourself from turning into human fly-paper.

Along with the weather, the fauna round here are definitely something to write home about. Apart from the usual domestic menagerie of cats, dogs and goats and the profusion of insects both great and small, In three weeks, I've seen jackals, deer, an ibex or two, baboons, wild boar (who seem to roam these parts in groups of upto 50), wild buffalo, hyenas, foxes and yes, that most common animal around here, snakes. More on the snakes later, I believe they require a separate account because of the special part they play in our social life. At least you can say this about the dumb chums, they really go out of their way to socialize.

The insects were the first to establish contact. One afternoon around three weeks ago, I woke from my nap itching all over. I thought a shower'd fix it but it didn't. A look at my arms and legs revealed that I'd turned a pretty pink, and not only was I pink, I had erupted in an effusion of large wheals and bumps. I realized I was getting an allergic reaction because one of the insects that inhabited my bed, taking completely the wrong view of my sharing the sheets with them, had decided that it was time for us to become more than just friends. I hurrried over to the tiny hospital that doubles as my office and got myself injected with the requisite mixture of steroids and anthistamines that ought've gotten rid of the unwanted effects of insect affection. The pinkness and the itching started going down and I breathed easy. But at around midnight, the itching returned with a vengeance, burning up my arms and legs. I bore it as much as I could, then decided i oughtta get a second shot of the medicine if i wanted a good night's sleep. I got out of my bed and immediately felt the ground give way under my feet. I grabbed at a nearby chair as my heart sank like it'd never done before. I realized that the allergy was worse than I'd thought, and when the sinking feeling didn't pass after a minute or so of horrid waiting, I made a dash for the hospital. Barely getting to the door, I woke up the poor nurses (male nurses dear reader, no need to look at me that way). Got my BP checked and just as I'd thought, it was down to 100/60. I got myself hooked up to an I/V line so that I could get some fluid in me and get my BP up, dozing off to an uneasy sleep only to wake up only an hour later feeling that the itchiness and the queasy heart-sinkingness were returning. A review of my BP revealed that it'd gone down to 80/40 and we'd officially entered scary territory. That's when I did one of the most surreal things I've ever done. Being the only doctor at the hospital, I made the decision that the patient's condition was now beyond my capabilities and that he should be evacuated to the nearest medical centre. I wrote myself a prescription accordingly and called the ambulance, which came a half an hour later and by 5am I was safely settled in a medical ward. The happy result being that my nurses now happily tell everyone who cares to listen, "You'll never guess who was the first serious patient doctor sahab referred? Himself!!"

When I got back, the first thing I did was to get a mosquito net and fix it onto my bed. I mean I was flattered by all the interest the insects were showing, but you have to draw the line somewhere, if you know what I mean. That's when the goats came into my life. There's a herd of mountain goats that can be seen prancing around my lodgings, and I hadn't paid much attention to them. That is until it was, as the writer says, a dark and stormy night. My room has tiny courtyard in front of it, with a roof large enogh to barely keep out the rain. I was sleeping while the tempest raged around me when I suddenly felt he bed shake. For the first week after I'd gotten here, I was plagued by almost nightly nightmares, probably a subconscious response to the change in surroundings. I thought this too was one of theose nightmares when suddenly, my senses were assailed by a curious smell. I thought, I've never had olfactory nightmares, what gives? Waking up and looking about, I realized that I was surrounded by goats, hundreds of them. They were all around the bed, they were under the bed, and one of the more adventurous ones was trying to get into the bed. They were fidgety, loud and smelly. Especially smelly. Still sleepy, I tried to figure out the reason of this hairy convention that had suddenly decided to congregate around me. I knew it couldn't be just my animal magnetism, and it was when I looked around that I realised that a rainstorm was pouring outside and the animals had gotten in around my bed to try to shelter themselves from the elements. I figured it wouldn't be nice to shoo the poor creatures away into the rain, so I pinched my nose and willed myself back to sleep, being woken once or twice again when one or the other of the members of herd got particularly excited. The goats, encouraged by my hospitality, have now become a fixture so that every rainy night, I have to accomodate a dozen or so hirsute quadrupeds around my bed.

The isolation has had its advantages as well. In fact, if it weren't for the weather and all the animal intrusions, I might've grown to like this place. The locals assure me that I've just come at a slightly importune time and if I'd arrived any time except the months of May-August, I'dve found the place heaven on earth, albeit still one overpopulated with goats and snakes. I've managed to do a lot in these five weeks, including finishing six books, one of which I had started thrice previously and had given up on because a)it's a rather difficult read and b) because there were too many distractions in Lahore. And having finished it, I can safely say that "The Confederacy Of Dunces" is one of the funniest, smartest books I've ever read, and one that has given me two of my favoritee fictional characters in Patrolman Angelo Mancuso and Ignatius J Reilly. I've also started brushing up on my Persian, doing it the only way I thought best, by reading Rumi's Masnavi verse by verse and then breaking down the accompanying translation. I've listened to music almost non-stop, to such an extent that my favorite pair of headphones finally decided it could take no more and handed in the dinner pail. Luckily I'd brought an extra pair just for that contingency (at the time of writing, these too have gone kaput) I've been listening to a lot of Jazz and marvelling at the absolute genius of Louis Armstrong, especially his recordings of the late '20s and early '30s. The mixtape a friend gave me before I departed from Lahore hs also been on constant play, as have been two or three of my favorite Qawwals. Lest anyone fear I've been shirking my duties too much, I must inform them that I haven't been tardy on the Qawwali front, having cleaned up and edited the sound on ten or so very rare Qawwali videos.I had also stocked The Dude full of movies and TV shows because I had a pretty good idea of the amount of boredom I could expect, and I'm glad I took that precaution. I can also safely say that Freaks And Geeks is one of the greatest, humanest TV shows I've ever seen.

My situation here isn't entirely an uncomfortable one, but I'm sure I can surround myself with a more homely atmosphere. That's why when I get home on my first leave, along with the requisite amount of catching up and reacquainting myself with such exotic things as running water and muslim showers, I need to do some shopping. Specifically a television and a DTH antenna. Maybe then I can give the Dude a rest and recapture some of my old couch-potato glory just in time for the football season. Who knows, with a couple of posters on the wall, a UPS, football on the telly and a goat or two by my side, I just might grow to like this place. Touch wood!

...Of A New Perspective On Heaven And Hell

2011-07-25T21:23:00.000+05:00

Pop Milton once said, “The mind can make a heaven out of hell or a hell out of heaven”. I've come to somewhat similar conclusions over the past five weeks, as you can read below.

Heaven is having the leisure to finish six books in five weeks.

Hell is being surrounded by people who read Sidney Sheldon and call this activity "bookreading"

........................................................................

Heaven is listening to Barre Ghulam Ali Khan sing Malhaar while the monsoon rages.

Hell is trying to keep goats out of your bed while the monsoon rages.

.......................................................................

Heaven is a cool glass of Energile after a long day in the sun.

Hell is the long day in the sun preceding the glass of Energile.

....................................................................

Heaven is understanding what Ghalib meant when he said,

          "Dil dhoondta hai phir wohi fursat, ke raat din
           Baithe rahain tasawwur-e-Janaann kiye huay"

Hell is understanding what Ghalib meant when he said,

"Girya chaahe hai kharaabi mere kaashaanay ki
Dar-o-deewaar se tapkay hai bayabaan hona"

...................................................................

Heaven is a life free from Pakistani news channels.

Hell is hearing secondhand bad news, weeks after it ocurred.

....................................................................

Heaven is no Sahir Lodhi and no Madni Channel.

Hell is no Coke Studio and no Turner Classic Movies.

.....................................................................

Heaven is living in splendid isolation.

Hell is having nobody to contact when the toilet drain clogs up.

...................................................................

Heaven is finding cellphone signals in the middle of a secluded field after you've wandered miles searching for them.

Hell is realizing that the field is infested with snakes and that the signals aren't strong enough to even send a text message.

...................................................................

Heaven is watching all three seasons of Black Books without interference.

Hell is a place where "Mind Your Language" is considered the pinnacle not only of British comedy, but of all comedy.

......................................................................

Heaven is living where I live.

Hell is living where I live.

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....Of Leaving Lahore And Long Overdue Admissions.

2011-06-17T12:35:00.001+05:00

When I was in Med School, a yearly trip to Lahore was an almost sacred ritual. For a few days every year, spending a sizable chunk of my meager allowance/stipend, I'd grab a bus to Lahore, happily explore the city on rickshaw, meet the few friends I had there and get some shopping done. Summer or winter, I'd make it a point to visit Lahore, even if it meant using false pretences to goad out a permission from my parents. Even though I had lived a sizable chunk of my life in Rawalpindi and hadn't ever LIVED in Lahore, I considered it my , erm my spiritual home if you will. However, when my five years in med school ended and it was time to decide where I wanted to do my house-job, I was in a fix. My family was in Rawalpindi (they'd planned to eventually move to Lahore in a year's time) and I knew and liked the city, but somewhere in the back of my mind was the voice that said, "Go to Lahore!!"

In the end, it was the advice of a friend - a friend of otherwise highly dubious character traits - who implored me to choose Lahore, that, coupled with my parents' decision to bring forward their planned Lahore move ahead by one year, made me decide for Lahore. Looking back, it was probably one of the smarter decisions I've made in a rather checkered decisionmaking history. After spending one whole year in Lahore, I can safely say that I haven't regretted it one bit. I had come here primarily to do my housejob and that I did. It was the most intellectually rewarding one year I could hope for, even better than what most of my coursemates in Rawalpindi had spent. I got the chance to learn at the feet of some of the best teachers in the country and substantially improve my practical and clinical skills. On the personal side, I was lucky to have two of my closest friends -make that three, with the third a recent addition - living literally next door. That meant I was never too hard pressed for companionship.

The exploring/photographing bug bit me at just the right time as I scoured the backroads of Lahore in search of amazing places. If summer had delayed itself just one or two more weeks I'd have visited and photographed just about everything I'd set my sights on. Unfortunately the oppressive Lahore heat (probably the only thing in which Lahore loses brownie points to Pindi) and my tight schedule meant that I still haven't visited or photographed a few very important landmarks - Masjid Wazir Khan for example. Some other time perhaps. It's also been a year where I've indulged almost all my rather varied intersts. I've been to Qawwali performances by the dozens, watched plays and stand-up shows, attended concerts and conferences, and in what must certainly be the highlight of my life so far, met Yusfi sahab. And I've eaten, by God have i eaten. The extra tonnage that I've put on over the last year doesn't do justice to my culinary exploits. In short, I've lived it up - at least according to my definition of living it up.

My one year is now up, and it's time to leave. I'll be moving to a rather remote location in two or three days, as diametrically opposite to Lahore as you can imagine. Even though I knew that I was gonna have to leave Lahore at the end of one year, that still doesn't make the departure any easier. I may be able to live without the food, the exploration or the 'ronaq' but there's one very vulnerable chink in my armor, one that I don't usually let show to others,but one they might notice if they are attentive enough.

When we were completing our training, a newly graduated psychologist joined us for six months. The poor guy had to spend all day dealing with idiots who'd shout out,"Yo shrink, come here and tell me about my personality." And being the nice guy he was, he'd provide them with a rather detailed and unflatteringly accurate description of themselves. One day, when he and I was alone, he asked me why I hadn't ever bothered him with the usual request. i replied that I pretty much knew who I was and didn't need further analysis, thankyouverymuch. He said he'd still tell me one rather important thing he'd noticed about me over the course of six months, it was that I had a 'dependant personality'. I needed people, friends around me to function properly. Without a proper social support structure, I was constantly in danger of collapsing inwardly into a coccoon. I simply nodded my head in assent and left, slightly unhappy that he had discovered my most important weakness.

And that is the chink in my armor that must now confess to. I'll be going to a new place, with a new set of colleagues, which is something I would've been fine with were it not for the fact that the remoteness of my location might make it impossible to establish any contact with the folks back in Lahore, or for that matter anywhere else in Pakistan. Without my 'social support', I'd be a fish out of water, which is a rather frightening proposition. But what gives me some hope is that I've been in a similar situation before. Five years ago when I joined med-school, I was thrust into a group of strangers. It took some adjusting, but after spending five years, I count that group of strangers among some of my very best friends. Maybe this adventure'll turn out the same way too. I can only hope.

What my two year stay at my next port-of-call will lack in friends, it'll more than make up in free time. From people who've served in similar places, I've gathered that killing time is the most important problem one faces. I think I have that covered. There's the extensive study that I'll have to start in order to appear for my specialization exams, then there's the Truckloads of Qawwali recordings that I've been assigned to edit and catalog. There's 160+ gigabytes on my harddrive that I'll devote substantial time to; so that at the end of two years, I ought've listened to all 19571 songs I've accumulated (a daunting task). A trunkfull of unread books goes with me too, none of them related to medicine. With such ample supplies, I think I'm pretty much covered as far as killing time is concerned. And if all else fails, I can still write.

I'll end here, I don't know when I'll get the chance to write again, so readers can consider this another one of my temporary retirements from writing. Consider this also, whether they can read this or not, a thankyou to all the many people who have made this year the most special year of my life. And finally, consider this a thankyou to Lahore, for being so good to me.

....Of The 'Andaleeb-e-Rumi'

2011-06-13T22:44:00.000+05:00

My last post required weeks of spadework and a number of hiccups before I finished it. This one, however, will probably come spontaneously. I had decided that before I go to Kashmir and run the risk of losing access to the internet, I should share some of the rarer Qawwali recordings I had, plus provide a little background about each of the artists and recordings. I thought that'd be it as far as Qawwali was concerned. But today, while packing my trunk and listening to some recordings, I figured,there was time for one more post.

I've sporadically uploaded recordings of Haji Mehboob Qawwal over the past two years or so. He is far and away my favourite Qawwal, for innumerable reasons. The massive restoration project that me and some friends of mine are undertaking in an effort to catalogue, edit, digitize and publish his recordings is going on slow and steady. My friends've managed to bring out Volume One of his annotated 'Bayaaz' for limited publication and are working on the next volume. I would've loved to do a proper post on Haji Sahab and the importance of his work but I don't have permission yet from the 'buzurgaan' who benignly oversee our project. So, as a farewell post, I've decided to gather together all the recordings of Haji sahab I'd uploaded over the past two years into one post. I hope it will bring pleasure to the people (and I know that there are many) who scour the internet for good quality recordings of Haji sahab, as well as the other Qawwali lovers who are curious to know about one of the greatest Qawwals of our age. The recordings below are from various mehfils and represent Khanqahi Qawwali at it's best. Each kalam is sung lovingly and reverently. Haji sahab accompanies himself on Sitar and his brother Haji Mushtaq Qawwal provides support on the vocals and harmonium. The girahs that Haji sahab inserts - his hallmark - are exquisite, apt and serve to amplify and expound the spiritual message of the kalam. Without further ado, Andaleeb-e-Rumi, Haji Mehboob Ali Qawwal.

Araam Ke Saathi

Tori Har Har Adaa

Kyun Na Ashk Baar Hua Karoon

Dil Pareeshaan, Deeda Hairaan Kar Daee

Manam Mehve Jamale Oo

Nasima

Bandi Te Bardi

Kya Se Kya Do Din Main Haalat Ho Gyi

....Of Faded Voices And Silenced Chants

2011-06-11T15:48:00.001+05:00

A week ago, a friend from 'Qawwali Central' in Islamabad was over for a few days. One of the subjects that we got talking about -in between the customary tape exchanges - was the fact that we only have recordings of up to two generations of Qawwals. Apart from one or two recent instances where the third generation of Qawwals has started carrying forward a gharana's name (Rahat Fateh Ali Khan and the young Qawwal Bacchay for example), most of the recordings are from either one or at the most two generations of Qawwals. The earliest available recorded material dates back to the late fifties or early sixties, with the bulk of the recordings from the preceding era either lost or in the collections of some rather miserly collectors (a fact Farid Ayaz sb complained about when I inquired about some older recordings).

This is a pity, because there are a lot of names from the not too distant past that have legendary status in the world of Qawwali, yet the only record we have of them is through recollections of those who have heard them, or passing mentions in books or articles. We have for example, no recordings of the two great Qawwals Farooq Ahmed Nizami and Raees Ahmed Nizami. The earliest available recordings of the original Manzoor Niazi troupe are from the fifties. We know nothing of Meraj Ahmed Nizami's father except that he was called 'Pyaray Khan Sahib'. There are countless other examples of illustrious Qawwals whose music is lost to the ears of the world, drowned out by the ravages of time.

The preservation and dissemination of music from that bygone era is important for many reasons.First, as a window to the culture of the pre-partition era, the few surviving recordings are a brilliant time capsule of the musical styles, instrumentation, language and performance idiom of that time. Second, they represent, if not an ideal then a model from whence modern Qawwali in specific and modern folk music in general, has evolved. And third, as a sociological-anthropological study, the early Qawwali recordings provide an insight into the the arrival of modern recording techniques with all their benefits (wider listener-ship) and handicaps (the three minute time limitation) and their effects on a centuries old art form. What follows is a brief introduction to some of the Qawwals of the pre-partition era whose recordings have somehow survived. Some of them carried on in the tradition of the Khanqahi Qawwali, some made bold new innovations and some successfully achieved the rare distinction of fusing both modern and traditional Qawwali.

The Earliest Years

The earliest Qawwali recordings were made at the time of arrival of recorded sound in India in 1902. Three artists were recorded at that time,Kaloo Qawwal, Pearu Qawwal and Fakhre Alam Qawwal. Contemporary records state that they 'achieved lasting fame and performed widely for audiences in the tens of thousands'. According to Prof. Regula Qureshi,

During the British period the record industry settled for solo songs of a popular devotional type with little evidence of the authentic sound character of Sufi music. Of course, the three-minute duration of these recordings could hardly permit the freedom to repeat and amplify musical portions which is so essential to that idiom. In fact, the early recordings share stylistic traits with contemporary urban entertainment music like charbaiat and nautanki as well as with the music that accompanied silent
films and was later incorporated into film songs . But ultimately the industry did not invent this idiom: it only promoted and projected it, thereby giving preference to what were essentially freelance urban entertainers over the tradition-bearing hereditary qawwali performers who were, and still are, affiliated with Sufi shrines in a quasi-feudal arrangement. Through this preference Pearu, Kaloo, and Fakhr-e-Alam became 'stars' who also performed widely before huge live audiences, both Muslim and non-Muslim, and in settings ranging from open-air grounds to recital halls . They were often dressed in Western clothes and sitting on chairs; Kaloo is remembered for always appearing in an impressively neat Western suit . His photograph embodies a Western-Islamic image with tie, shirt and jacket he wears a Fez, the formidable Pan-Islamic head-dress favoured by elite Muslims at the time.

The recordings of Kaloo Qawwal, Pearu Qawwal and their contemporary Iboo Qawwal are interesting in that most of them are devoid of the takraar or even the handclap accompaniment that is associated with Qawwali. The texts are devotional (hamd or naat) and the singers sing solo, accompanied only by a harmonium (an occasional bulbultarang) and a tabla.

Kaloo Qawwal - Dua Me-kash Ne Di Hai (1920s)

Pearu Qawwal - Mujhe Aap Ki Ik Nazar Chahiye Hai (1920s)

Iboo Qawwal - Jamal un Ka Noorani (1920s)

The Thirties

The success of the earliest Qawwali recordings paved the way for more Qawwals to try their hand at the new medium. The more commercial sound of the early Qawwals influenced the style of Qawwali being performed at the Dargaahs and a new style emerged. Again, Prof. Regula Qureshi,

By the 1930s two recording artists emerged, Azim Prem Ragi and Waiz Qawwal, who also impressed Sufi audiences. While in proper Sufi settings they did not use studio instruments as was done for recordings, Waiz Qawwal used to intone a simple melodic accompaniment on the sitar. The recognition of these performers in Sufi circles is reflected in their names and special titles - Waiz( 'Religious Commentator'), Prem Ragi('Minstrel of Love') - which were bestowed upon them by Khwaja Hasan Nizami, a great Sufi and literary figure attached to Delhi's Nizamuddin Auliya shrine . This fame in turn influenced the diversification of qawwali recordings towards including some genuine Sufi classics, like Azim Prem Ragi's recording of the famous Persian poem Nami danam che manzil bud by the thirteenth century poet Amir Khusrau.

The two Qawwals mentioned in the above excerpt are in my opinion, the two seminal artists in Qawwali history. They were the first to successfully fuse the classical Sufi repertoire and the traditional Qawwali performance style with modern studio instrumentation and the requirements of the gramophone age. Azim Prem Ragi was known for writing most of his own material and mingling it with the classical sufi kalaam. He was considered one of the favorite Qawwals at the Ajmer Dargah and it is said that the Fakirs and Saadhus would come down from the hills surrounding the shrine to listen whenever he performed.

Azim Prem Ragi Qawwal - Daras Bhikaran Hoon Teri Ajmeri Khwaja (1930s)

Ali Buksh Qawwal, also known as 'Waiz' Qawwal was the other important Qawwal of this era. He was a shagird of Tanras Khan (according to Frid Ayaz Sb) and included many of the kalaams preferred by the Qawwal Bacchon ka Gharana into his repertoire. He performed extensively at various dargahs as well as recorded in Bombay and Calcutta. Two of his greatest legacies are the popularization of 'Girah' - the inserted verse - and the use of Sitar in Qawwali. He held the distinction of being the first Qawwal to perform Pir Mehr Ali Shah's legendary na'at 'Ajj Sik Mitran Di', and Pir Sahab (R.A) was so taken with his performance that he gave Waiz the title of 'Sufi'. Later, Pir sahab's son , Hazrat Ghulam Mohyeddin (R.A) sent the young Mehboob Qawwal to Delhi to learn at the feet of Waiz Qawwal. Although Haji Mehboob spent very little time with Waiz, he picked up his two most important qualities - the beautiful Sitar acompaniment and the expert use of the Girah - from Waiz Qawwal.

Meri Nas Nas Haq Haq Bole - Ali Buksh 'Waiz' Qawwal (1930s)

The other great Qawwal to emerge in the thirties was Ustad Muhammad Ali Fareedi Qawwal. He is considered the Jadd-e-Amjad of the modern Fareedi Qawwals - darbari Qawwals at the Baba Fareed shrine at Pakpattan, including luminaries like Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal, Mehr Ali- Sher Ali Qawwal, Miandad Hafiz Dad Qawwals and Sher Miandad- Badar Miandad Qawwals. He was one of the earliest popularizers of the 'Punjabi' Qawwali style. Another of his great innovations was the rearrangement of the Qawwali Party. As Adam Nayyar writes,

Traditionally, the master singer was placed in the centre and given the title of mohri, meaning "leading chess figure". The tabla-player was directly behind him, while the prompter (with the books and manuscripts for the words of the mystic singing) sat behind him at his left shoulder. The mohri was flanked to his right and feft by two singers with harmoniums (avazia), while the rest of the chorus was aligned on both sides in two rows, the better singers up front. Important changes were undertaken by (among others) Ustad Mohammad Ali Faridi. During this period, the mohri or lead singer was placed to the right of the stage. The avazia was to his left and another good siriger to the left of the avazia. The task of this singer was to support the lead singer, have sufficient knowledge of musical theory and to take the place of the lead singer in emergencies. The tabla remained in the central position and was now behind this "backup" singer. The other positions remained the same. This change in placement is generally followed to this day by all qawwal in the Punjab. The creation of the "backup" singer was prompted by the fact that qawwal groups were often named after a leading pair of brothers or a father-and-son pair.

Thall Wich Khari Sassi Haakaan Maardi - Muhammad Ali Fareedi Qawwal (1930s)

Fateh Ali- Mubarak Ali Qawwals are probably the most important Qawwals to have emerged in the thirties. They were revolutionaries in the world of Qawwali. Members of a gharana that stretched back many centuries, they were the first of the Khandaani Qawwals to be successful recording artists. Performing pure sufi kalaam, infusing it with stylings from the classical 'khayal' style of gayaki as well as the traditional Punjabi
style, they played a huge part in popularizing Qawwali among the more high-brow listening audience. They were the first to perform Iqbal's kalaam in the Qawwali idiom, a fact that garnered praise and gratitude from Iqbal himself. Their recordings of Shikwa-Jawabe Shikwa are legendary and remained the template for all future recordings of the kalaam. The two brothers continuously performed till the mid-sixties when Fateh Ali Khan passed away and the mantle passed to a young Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Sadly, I know of no recordings of theirs from before partition.

Fateh Ali- Mubarak Ali Khan Qawwals - Nasima (1952)

The final Qawwal from the thirties that I have recordings of is someone I admit having no information about. If anyone can enlighten me, I shall be exceedingly grateful. Din Muhammad Jallundhri Qawwal seems to have recorded exclusively in Punjabi in the late thirties and early forties. The style is forceful, with simple but effective instrumental accompaniment. Two or three of his recordings are in the form of conversations, eg between Sohni and Mahiwal and Laila and Majnun etc, while the rest are hamds and na'ats.

Din Muhammad Jallundhri Qawwal - Laila Te Majnu (1937)

The Forties

The final pre-partition decade saw a further change in recorded Qawwali with the arrival of the 'Bombay' or 'Narrative' style of Qawwali. Instead of the standard practice of melodic recitation of a selection of verses, artists like Ismail Azad Qawwal and Habib Painter Qawwal popularized the 'Narrative' or 'Storytelling' style of Qawwali. This style involved extended girah-bandi without musical accompaniment, in a narrative or storytelling style. Music was used only during the bridge and the chorus, while the lead singer weaved two or three narratives around them, accompanying himself on the harmonium. According to Prof. Regula Qureshi,

Musically, this narrative style is outstanding for its lack of melodic movement,except for melodic markers at structural turning points in the song. Most conspicuousamong these is the impending conclusion of the inserted girah recitative;it is marked by a conspicuously high register and a quick descent into the refrain. The verses contain a repetitive, even playful, oratory typical of other Indian oral narratives. Indeed, this style of qawwali became highly popular as a non-religious genre, especially in contests (muqabila) between two qawwal parties who, in live performances,outdid each other in improvised verses. In Bombay, such contests were favorite live entertainment in the 1940s, sponsored by Muslim neighbourhood associations. Essentially, the 'story-telling' qawwali represented an expanded influence of popular entertainment on record production; but its lower-class character evoked disapproval from the Muslim elite, begining with elite performers themselves.
Long-time HMV producer of classical recordings G. N. Joshi reports a telling incident from 1952 when the great classical ghazal singer, Begum Akhtar, was almost irreparably lost to the Gramophone Company because an unlettered official made the offensive suggestion that she model her natt recording on the qawwali style of Ismail Azad.

Habib Painter Qawwal - Qadam Laghzeeda Laghzeeda (1940s)

The major departure from this narrative Qawwali style was presented by the last major Qawwal to emerge in the pre-partition era. Kallan Khan Qawwal was one of the darbaari Qawwals at the Kalyar Shareef shrine. He performed Qawwali the traditional way, with handclap accompaniement and based on mostly Sufi texts or na'ats. Incorporating all the innovations made in the preceding decades, he used girahs, takraars and alaaps, fusing the modern and traditional into something that closely resembled the Qawwali we are all familiar with today. He was accomapanied in some of his recordings by his nephew, a young and rather talented Qawwal who would later achieve legendary status as Haji Ghulam Fareed Sabri Qawwal.

Kallan Khan Qawwal And Party - Madina Na Dekha To Kuch Bhi Na Dekha (1940s)

Conclusion

The purpose of sharing these recordings from some of the pre-eminent Qawwals of the pre-independence era was threefold. First, to trace the evolution of recorded Qawwali over the last century and understand the various changes it underwent before assuming it's current form. Second, to provide whatever information I possess about the various artistes that were once superstars but have now been all but forgotten. And finally, to give readers a chance to listen to some beautiful music that despite it's age, still has the power to move and entrance.

In the beginning of this piece I mentioned some 'miserly collectors' who can't stand sharing the enormous treasures of music they possess. I have accumulated a modest collection of 'my' kind of music and despite the protestations of some of my friends - and the dwindling readership of my blog, I can't seem to make myself part of that group.

....Of The Tall, Coquettish Beloved

2011-05-27T18:33:00.001+05:00

Two of my most favorite Qawwali recordings are both markedly different versions of the same beautiful ghazal of Amir Khusrau's, Aye Sarve Nazneene Mun, Az Mun Che Deeda-ee. I have tried my hand at translating it as best as I can, and I must admit I haven't done a very good job. Some of the verbs were a tad too obtuse for me, so I have taken more than my share of poetic license.

.......................................................

اے سرو نازنین من، از من چھ دیدہ ای

یک بار مہر از من مسکین بریدہ ای

اول وفا نمودی و بردی دل مرا

آخر چھ شد کہ آ رض از من کشیدہ ای

آرے بہ سیم و زر ہمہ کس بندہ می خرند

ما بندہ تویم کہ تو بے زر خریدہ ای

فخرم بس است این کہ کمینہ سگ تویم

نازم برآں زماں کہ بہ لطفم وریدہ ای

خسرو تو بس بلند شدی در قرین عشق

گویا بہ پاے بوس سگا نش رسیدہ ای

O tall, coquettish beloved of mine; what change have you perceived in me?

What has caused you to suddenly extinguish the benign light of your favors?

First you displayed affection and whisked my heart away, and now;

What has occurred to make you withdraw the sight of your beauteous face?

Everyone buys slaves, paying handsomely in silver and gold.
Yet I am your slave, one that you bought free of cost.

It suffices my pride that I am a lowly dog living at your doorstep.
I am distinguished in the whole world, because you have blessed me with your pleasure.

Khusrau, you have reached great heights in your journey of love.
Now finally you are worthy of kissing the feet of the dogs of your beloved's alley.

.........................................................

The first is from 1969 and features the four scions of the Qawwal Bacchon Ka Gharana - Munshi Raziuddin Qawwal, Bahauddin Khan, Manzoor Ahmed Niazi and Iftekhar Ahmed Nizami - presenting the kallam in the mellifluous Raag Anandi. This is taken from the exquisite performance - all of which can be heard at Qaul - that I have listened to hundreds of times and still can't get enough of. The slow, contemplative build-up, Bahauddin Khan's brilliant changes of taal and the brilliant collaborative singing make it an absolute gem. I have tweaked the recording a bit to equalize the sound and bring out the vocals. It is unquestionably one of my most favorite Qawwali recordings.

The second recording is by Haji Mehboob Qawwal from the seventies. A departure from Haji saheb's usual declarative style of singing, this version features no girahs. A stately mid-tempo arrangement interspersed with Haji Mushtaq's alaaps and short but beautiful takraars, it makes for delightful listening. Another recording that I've listened to hundreds of times, it ranks with the above recording among my most favorite ones.

P.S, If anyone can improve on my rather primitive translation, please feel free to do so in the comments.

....Of Me And Mr. Dylan, A Birthday List.

2011-05-23T23:03:00.001+05:00

I would've wished that I'd do at least five posts on Dylan's 70th, but being a doctor with 24-hour duties doesn't let me indulge my wishes. Still, as a bookend to my personal commemoration of Dylan's 70th birthday, here's a slightly modified something I wrote two years ago. Happy Birthday Mr. Bob, and thank you for everything.

Dylan's 70 today. I first heard him in '04, when he was 63," just a kid with a crazy dream" as Leonard Cohen says.
Time doesn't permit a 'proper post', but here's a random list of sorts of ten things that more or less chart my personal Dylan story..

First Listen : Late 2004, I think sometime after I had joined med school.

First Song : 'Like A Rolling Stone" from the Manchester Free Trade Hall '66 concert. (Some initiation !!)

First Dylan Record I bought : " Love And Theft"

First Dylan record I downloaded : "Bringing It All Back Home"

Greatest Gift I Ever Got : The complete Dylan discography, Don't Look Back, Bob Dylan : No Direction Home, Pat Garrett And Billy The Kid and the entire 1st season of Theme Time Radio Hour. All at once.

Current Harddrive Space Dylan Occupies : 25.45 gigs and counting.

Average Daily Trips To Expectingrain.com : 15

Number Of Dylan Books On My Shelf : 7

Theme Time Radio Hour : All three seasons. Plus the two compilation CD's.

Number Of Bootleg Albums : 54 (and counting)

Currently Listening To :

Abandoned Love :

Dark Eyes :

Carribean Wind :

Restless Farewell :

Last thoughts On Bobby's 70 : Happy Birthday Bob, keep on keepin' on !!

....Of Me And Mr. Dylan - 'Loyal And Much Loved Companions'

2011-05-22T13:05:00.001+05:00

One of the things I credit Bob Dylan for is turning me into a musical expeditionary. Bob's music introduced me to an amazing selection of people and songs and stories that have given me countless hours of joy. This also had the serendipitous effect of steering me away from the cult of the rabid Dylan fans that Ron Rosenbaum has christened Bobdolators. Because a while into my newfound obsession I realized that Dylan, although the brightest star in the sky, wasn't the only one. Over the years, as I've explored more and more of the musical constellation that Dylan inhabits, I've found that he's surrounded by a large and diverse group of brilliant stars, each shining with it's own distinctive and brilliant light.

The first thing that got me exploring was 'Chronicles'. I'd known for a while that Dylan had written an autobiography but I wasn't sure if I could find it somewhere around Rawalpindi. An inquiry to a local bookstore in Islamabad revealed they stocked it, so I rushed there and got a paperback copy. Having read a number of celebrity biographies, I wasn't sure what to expect. But Dylan exceeded whatever expectations I might've or could've had. It is such an absolutely delicious book, and Dylan writes with the same distinctive style that populates his greatest songs. Both concealing and revealing according to the whims of it's author, Chronicles gave an insight more into Dylan's mind than to his life. If he was stingy in proving accurate details in tems of what-where and when, one thing he was generous in was paying tribute to musicians and artists who had inspired him. On and on he went, name checking everyone from Johnny Cash and Elvis to obscure artists like Karen Dalton and Slim Whitman. I knew I had to listen to these folks, these people who had left such an indelible mark on Dylan's life and music. I also realized at once that it was a nearly impossible task considering the sheer number of people Dylan had mentioned (conveniently and painstakingly listed here). But thanks to Chronicles, I discovered such jaw-droppingly magnificent singers like Karen Dalton (“My favorite singer in the place was Karen Dalton. Karen had a voice like Billie Holiday’s and played the guitar like Jimmy Reed.”), Johnny Ray, Lord Buckley, Dave Van Ronk and countless others.

It was around the same time that I watched Martin Scorcese's brilliant No Direction Home. To me, it was like the continuation of Chronicles. It was Dylan himself, telling his story with a little help from his friends. He was warm, funny and revealing. The archival footage and the interviews - some of them with people who had since then passed away - were phenominal. But what got me buzzed up were the painfully brief audio and video clips of the artists that had been associated with Dylan in one way or the other. Some of the artists and songs referenced in the film were absolutely breathtaking, and the minute I'd finished watching the film (and watching it a second time immediately after|), I set about trying to find recordings from the artists seen in those clips. Suffice to say that today I can't imagine not having the great Odetta , Muddy Waters , The Clancy Brothers And Tommy Makem or Hank Williams.

Most of the artists and songs that Dylan had introduced me to were people from Dylan's youth or from before his time, direct or indirect influences. It was partly because of my daily scouring of Expecting Rain that I started listening to Dylan's peers and contemporaries. I had only known Neil Young as the guy who sang 'Heart Of Gold', but I decided to give him a listen and I was blown away. Suffice to say that within two weeks, ol' Shakey was my hero and 'On The Beach' was one of my favorite albums (it still is). The first time I heard Tom Waits was one of the most earthshakingest experiences of my life, comparable to the first time I'd heard Dylan.These three -Dylan,Young and Waits- remain my musical Holy Trinity. Later, others joined in. Again, I was introduced to them because of their association with Bob. More often than not, they had the misfortune of being saddled with the title of 'the next Bob Dylan'. People like the amazing Townes van Zandt, Warren Zevon, Jeff Buckley, Jackson Browne, Tom Petty etc. Pretty soon, the Trinity had it's apostles and the church was rockin' down to it's foundations.

The final part of my musical education was again carried out by Dylan himself, in what must count among his greatest creations - your friendly DJ , spinnin' the tracks on arguably the greatest radio show ever - Theme Time Radio Hour. The artist name for TTRH on my iPod is 'Uncle Bob', and I think that's the persona Dylan adapted for the show. Since I couldn't get Sirius sattleite radio here in Pakistan, I religiously downloaded the shows on MP3 every week for two years, and they form a priceless part of what I'm not ashamed to call my 'musical education'. Dylan sang a capella , read recipes, mused on all topics under the sun, got taped messages from Tom Waits, and played music from his (and producer Eddie Gorodetsky's) record collection. In each show, I was gauranteed to find one or two absolutely hair raising performances, from artists as varied as Sister Rosetta Tharpe, The Clash, Charlie Parker, Elvis Costello and Los Lobos. It was ballsburstingly exciting for me to listen in each week and discover one brilliant artist after the other. Around the same time that a friend gave me the complete, 93 CD 'Blues Collection' that contained most of the more obscure artists Dylan played on his radio show. (Yes, my friends have impeccable taste). Since then' I've spent many a hour, enjoying the sheer brilliance of people like Professor Longhair, Screamin' Jay Hawkins, Tampa Red, Wynonie Harris et al.

The debt I owe to Dylan for directly or indirectly introducing me to this absolute musical treasure is enormous. It has provided me (and will continue to provide me) company and companionship in times of happiness, loneliness and sorrow. I can't imagine my life today without having listened to any of the artists mentioned above. On this 24th, when I think about Bob on his 70th birthday, I'll be sure to add another thank-you to a long list, a thank-you to Uncle Bob for introducing me to his 'loyal and much loved companions'.

....Of Me And Mr. Dylan - 'Born In Time'

2011-05-21T01:38:00.002+05:00

She’s looking into my eyes, she’s holding my hand
She says, “You can’t repeat the past.” I say, “You can’t? What do you mean,
you can’t? Of course you can.”

I guess I discovered Dylan at the most opportune time possible. I was 17, just finishing high school and preparing to join Medical School. This involved, among other things, moving from Jhelum - a modestly big city - to Rawalpindi - a proper 'big city'. Rawalpindi had, in my opinion, the greatest record store in all of Pakistan - Sadaf CD's - a place that was tragically destroyed in an unfortunate fire in 2008. It was at Sadaf that I bought my first Dylan record, the only one they stocked - The Essential Bob Dylan. In hindsight, it was lucky for me that a compilation album was my first Dylan record, because in these two CD's, I got to hear a pretty good sampling of Dylan's career from 1962 to the end of the nineties. So that I was blown away by the beauty of "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" one instant, and laughing bemusedly at "Quinn The Eskimo" the next. The drunken hilarity of "Rainy Day Women #12 And #35" was followed by the evangelical earnestness of "Gotta Serve Somebody".

Over the course of two hours and two CD's, I tried to digest - or at least swallow - four decades of Dylan, from Blowin' In The Wind to Things Have Changed. The album was on constant rotation on my discman for two weeks, to the point where I literally wore out the discs. I was entranced by the lyrics - not understanding them but nevertheless being moved - , the melody and Bob's singing style. The selections were all from studio albums, so there was a minimum of Bob's infamous live performance mumble-drawl-growl-yelp on display, but still, the voice was something new for me. As I've written somewhere earlier, English music for most of my childhood began and ended with John -Sweet 'n Melodious- Denver, followed by a brief infatuation with boy-bands. Dylan was my first experience of a ,howshallIputit, an unusual voice. It was a voice that for lesser artists would have been a liability, but Bob's delivery, his phrasing turned it into almost a distinct musical instrument. It was later, when I discovered Tom Waits and Neil Young, that I realized that Bob wasn't the only genius blessed with a distinctive voice.

Two weeks after I had bought my first record, I was back in the record store, scouring their shelves for something, anything by Dylan. They had only one other Dylan album - Love And Theft. I wasn't sure if latter-day Dylan would be to my liking or not, but a Dylan record was a Dylan record. I bought it, brought it to my dorm room and popped it on the discman. I was in for a shock, unless I was too addled by my new found admiration for Dylan or latter-day Dylan was just as absolutely amazing- if not more - as the Dylan of the mid-sixties. The voice was clearly shot, but man was he rocking! In one album, he was crooning - in Bye And Bye and Moonlight, belting out the blues in Lonesome Day Blues and Honest With Me, and weaving lyrical magic - in Mississippi and Floater(Too Much To Ask). Here was the brilliant tongue-in-cheek wit of Leopard Skin Piil-Box Hat and Bob Dylan's 115th Dream all over again in lyrics like

Romeo, he said to Juliet, “You got a poor complexion
It doesn’t give your appearance a very youthful touch!”
Juliet said back to Romeo, “Why don’t you just shove off
If it bothers you so much”

Othello told Desdemona, “I’m cold, cover me with a blanket
By the way, what happened to that poison wine?”
She says, “I gave it to you, you drank it”

That's when I discovered 'my' Dylan. To me, he was not a protest singer, a folkie or a folk-rocker, a relic of the sixties or the seventies. My Dylan was a current, relevant artist who was very much a part of the present and not a relic of the past. Over time, thanks to a friend gifting me the complete Dylan discography - to this day, the greatest gift I've ever recieved - , I'd spend months at a time exploring the various eras of Dylan's career, but overwhelmingly, the Dylan I related to was modern Dylan. As I wrote to a friend around this time four years ago :

"It's Bob Dylan's birthday today, the 66th,and I'm sittin here listening to the Basement Tapes,thinking of writing a post 'bout the grand old man... The seventh Harry Potter book,finally time for closure to childhood.Dunno why,but it feels like I've been part of something while reading 'em. I mean,I wasn't there when the Beatles were there,or when The Catcher In The Rye came out,or when the Lord Of The Rings was published,or when whatever happened. That part of our collective conscience has been passed down to us through others older than us.

But this has been going on in front of me,In my own lifetime,and I've taken part in it in a way.I mean,I'll be able to tell my children one day,(highly unlikely)as they pore at my dog-eared copies of the Potter books,"Yeah laddie,I was there when these came out,and I read each one of 'em hot off the presses !!"

That's the case with Dylan as well.His work from the '60s,'70s and '80s,although magnificent,is not that personal.But Modern Bob,that's my personal Dylan.He's all the more personal 'coz he's doing it all in front of my own eyes. When he says, 'The future for me is already a thing of the past", you can almost feel yourself nodding and saying, 'I get what you're saying,man.'. I hope I got the meaning across....."

It was after Love And Theft that I initiated myself into the cult of the Bobsessives. Expecting Rain became my internet home-page, I eagerly read the set-lists and reviews after each Dylan concert and started counting down to the new album that was going to be released, "Modern Times". I remember pre-ordering the album and walking a mile to the record store to get it the day it arrived. It was just half a minute into the first track that I discovered that 'my' Dylan was at it again,

"I was thinkin' 'bout Alicia Keys, couldn't keep from crying
When she was born in Hell's Kitchen, I was living down the line
I'm wondering where in the world Alicia Keys could be
I been looking for her even clear through Tennessee"

As Bob turns seventy, I thank the fates that he's still at it. Still touring, still releasing albums and still keepin' on at what he does best, reinventing popular music, not tied down by half a century of creative output; living up to the challenge he so confidently threw in the brilliant Spirit On The Water :

You think I'm over the hill,
You think I'm past my prime?
Let me see what you got
We can have a whoppin' good time!!

All lyrics Copyright © 2006 by Special Rider Music

In the next installment, I write about Uncle Bob and his extended family..

....Of Me And Mr. Dylan - A 'New Morning'

2011-05-19T13:11:00.001+05:00

"My love, she speaks like silence
Without ideals or violence.
She doesn't have to say she's faithful
Yet she's true like ice, like fire".

Love Minus Zero/No Limit.

I have been putting off Dylan posts ever since I started this blog. There's just so much to say that the thought of writing it all down makes my lazy bones tremble. But now that the great man's turning 70 and it seems that everyone and their mothers have lined up to pay tribute,it only seems fair that I should overcome my procastrination and get writing.. Still, there’s too much to say for a single post. So, laziness permitting, what follows is a series of posts, all of which deal basically with Dylan and how he's affected me…

This first post is about the start of my personal Dylan journey.

I thought I’d begin from the beginning, from the first Dylan song I ever heard. It was “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” and I still wonder how everything would’ve turned out if it had been Dylan himself singing it. As it turns out, it was Rod Stewart. I was in seventh grade and had just bought one of the "Princess Diana Tribute" albums on tape from the local record store. This was immediately after my embarrassing but thankfully short dabbling in Boy-bands (still makes me wake up shuddering at night) and my desire to break free from the all enveloping John Denver.

Of all the songs on the tape, “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” struck me. It was a mixture of Rod Stewart’s ragged “lost boy” voice and the strangely appealing lyrics. It would be presumptuous to say that I understood what the song meant. I didn’t. But I could see the astounding images, see them crystal clear.

“…draw conclusions on the wall.”

“…in ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.”

“The bridge at midnight trembles…”

“The wind howls like a hammer…”

I didn’t know who had written the song, of course. It was only later that I found out. That was the end of that till about seven years ago. By that time I had made up for my earlier misadventures and gradually developed an ear for passable music. What I remember clearly is a series of three events coming in rapid succession that finally got me hooked.

The first was a Readers’ Digest article written by His Bobness himself, about his relationship with Woody Guthrie. Now Guthrie I knew; had read up on him and heard snippets of a few of his songs. Thus Dylan’s name was linked with Woody’s and a relationship had developed.

The second was getting to see Dylan perform. Random channel-flipping brought me to an ubiquitous music channel and there he was. It was a snippet from the MTV Unplugged sessions, hardly the right stuff for a neophyte, and he was singing "Dignity", the outtake from the "Oh Mercy" album. That thin reedy frame,that frumpled mess of hair, those strange, almost Tourette's like twitches and that voice.... this was something new and interesting.

I must admit I was hooked.A quick google of Dylan's name showed one song title again and again, "Like A Rolling Stone". A quick trip to a file sharing site (God bless 'em !!) resulted in a listing of almost a dozen versions of the song (this was before I stopped being amazed by Dylan's chameleon-like re-interpretive skills). I randomly selected one and put it on download. The name of the track was, "Like A Rolling Stone - MAnchester Free Trade Hall 1966". Little did I know that I had, in Dylan's own words, "bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose." I played the song, there was a second of silence before someone said "Play it f*ckin' loud!!" and suddenly, a snare-drum went boom! What followed were eight minutes of the purest, most brain-meltingly alive rock and roll I had ever heard. Guitar licks and organ pieces fought with each other behind the impudent screech-howl that was Bob's voice. At the end of those eight minutes, I was an honest-to-goodness convert. I still think that if I'd heard any other version , even the studio version of 'LARS', it wouldn't have affected me the way that (as I was to find out later) legendary recording did. It was like a 'Corkscrew to my heart' and Dylan had found his way in.

In the next installment, I'll write about how, among all his various faces and phases, I found 'my' Dylan.

...Of Five Forgotten Voices

2011-05-14T15:53:00.002+05:00

One of the many things I try in order to get myself out of ruts like the one I have been in for the past month and a half is to make lists. Lists help me organize the clutter that is my mind and provide me with rudimentary scaffolding on which I can string up the one or two ideas that I may have. More often than not, my blogger's block stems from having an excess of, rather than a dearth of ideas, topics and themes to write about. The photo/video studded posts about my Great Roadtrip remain unwritten, my photographing trips across Lahore remain undocumented and the long-brewing piece on Dylan languishes in the drafts (though that is something I should push to the front of the 'pending' cue given Bob's 70th birthday in less than two weeks time.) So today, on one of those rare occasions called 'a day off', I've decided to force myself to sit down and finish two posts that are all but complete and have only my extraordinary sloth to blame for being kept from the reading public.

The hallmark of a great book is that not only does it enlighten/entertain/inform during the read itself, it opens up new avenues of thought and exploration that go on long after the book's been read. Possibly my most rewarding read of the year has been Raza Ali Abidi's "Naghma Gar", an exhaustive history of songwriting and popular songs in the subcontinent. I've already written about one of the many amazing new songs/musicians/singers that I've discovered after reading about them in the book. A tangential effect has been a re-exploration of some of my favorite musical touchstones from the golden age of Sub-continental film music (which I now think spans three decades rather than just two). One of the things I discovered was that a lot of great music and great talent lies forgotten, and it's not just because of the dusts of time that cover it. Names like Lata Mangeshkar, Mukesh, Kishore Kumar and Rafi sahab, even Geeta Dutt, Manna Dey, Shamshad Begum etc are known to most people with mnore than a passing interest in old film music. But there are certain artists that were headed for obscurity even before their careers were over.

The history of Playback singing in Bollywood has been of two or three towering figures, with other artists restricted to secondary billing. There were Rafi, Kishore, Mukesh and Talat and there were the Mangeshkar sisters, and for all practical purposes, that was it. People like Hemant Kumar, Manna Dey, Bhupinder and Mahendra Kapoor among the men and Geeta Dutt, Suman Kalyanpur, Suraiyya, Shamshad Begum etc among the women were more like bit players in the industry and their contributions, though great, can not compare to the handful of "superstars" that reigned over Bollywood film music. An interesting observation is that there was still a sizeable number of men singing in Bollywood, with each having his own distinctive voice suited for his own type of song. Among the women, the story was different.

The arrival on the scene of Lata Mangeshkar (and what an arrival !!) in 1949 sounded the death knell for the careers of a number of playback singers who had been jointly ruling the roost since the mid '30s. Their more 'mature' voices soon lost favour with cinemagoers who preferred the sweeter, younger voice of Lata. Over the years, as the Mangeshkar sisters strengthened their hold over Bollywood playback, the careers of many promising singers fell by the way-side as a result of a combination of professional intrigue and audience tastes. Some names are still remembered as smaller stars on the firmament, but there are a few who shone so briefly that their names have all been forgotten. That is a pity, because even though they shone for a painfully brief moment, they produced a most brilliant light. What follows is a selection of performances from five of the most gifted singers ever to have sung playback, who are now sadly, all but forgotten.

Mubarak Begum

I first wrote about Mubarak Begum three years ago. At the time, she was living in absolute obscurity. At one time, she was among one of the most promising singers of Bollywood with a number of hits under her belt. But her fall into obscurity was sudden. When I heard of her, she was in her seventies, living in a one room house in the Bombay slums with a daughter who suffered from early onset Parkinson's and a son who barely made ends meet as a Taxi-driver. Thankfully, as a result of efforts of a number of her fans, she has been somewhat rehabilitated. She regularly performs and has a steady (though still small) source of income. I still remember the first time I heard her voice, it was hair-raising, crystal clear, sharp as a dagger and very mellifluous. I've heard a few of her other songs, but the one that still moves me the most is the first one I heard, "Kabhi Yanhaiyon Main Yun Hamari Yaad Ayegi" from the film "Hamari Yaad Ayegi". It's a haunting melody, and Mubarak sings it with immense feeling, making an obscure song from an obscure film by an obscure music director one of the great musical performances of the golden age of Playback.

Jagjit Kaur

Another of the 'niche singers' who made a small but extremely important contribution to the Indian playback industry is Jagjit Kaur. The wife of the great music director Khayyam, Jagjit started singing in the mid-fifties, mostly for films scored by her husband. If I were to use just one song to introduce someone to her work, it would be from 1964's Shagun, which features some of the most beautiful music and lyrics of any film from that era. This isn't surprising considering it was scored by Khayyam and had lyrics by the great Sahir Ludhainvi. It also contains Jagjit Kaur's signature tune, one of the greatest songs in Bollywood's history. Picturised on Nivideta, with the luminous Waheeda Rehman and her husband Kanwaljeet providing the requisite emotional backdrop, "Tum Apna Ranj-o-Ghum,Apni Pareshani Mujhe De Do" is an amazing evocation of the love that's been lost but still lingers in the heart, a tenderness that persists despite betrayal and separation.

Jagjit Kaur kept on singing sporadically, again mainly compositions by her husband. Highlights from her later career include "Dekh Lo Aaj Hum Ko Ji Bhar Ke" from 1982's 'Bazar', which again featured brilliant Khayyam compositions, and her duet with Khayyam on his beautiful composition of Faiz Ahmed Faiz's "Kab Yaad Main Tera Saath Nahi".

Meena Kapoor

From the wife of one great music director to the wife of another. Meena Kapoor was a semi-successful playback singer who started her career in the late '40s. One of her earliest hits was from 1947's Shehnai, "Sunday Ke Sunday" the super-hit novelty/comedy number that Meena Kapoor sung with Shamshad Begum and the film's music director C. Ramchandra. Early in the fifties, she married the legendary composer Anil Biswas and all but left the film industry, instead dedvoting her time to her family. One of her greatest songs was "Kuch Aur Zaman Kehta Hai" for a film that was significant for a number of reasons. "Choti Choti Baatain" was the last film scored by Anil Biswas, it was a labour of love produced by one of Bollywood's greatest character actors, Motilal and starred him and ~~his wife~~, the ravishing Nadira in lead roles. Sadly, the film was a failure and Motilal died before seeing it completed. Thus, it was the bookend to four Bollywood careers that had flourished with varying degrees of success.

Zohrabai Ambalewali

One of pre-partition cinema's greatest singers, Zohrabai had one of those full-throated, deep voices that exuded a sort of rustic maturity that was to disappear from Bollywood following the arrival of Lata Mangeshkar. Her greatest songs were for Naushad and Master Ghulam Haider. The songs of 1944's Rattan are especially beautiful, scored by Naushad in his star-making turn and picturised on Karan Devan and a young Swarnalata (who later migrated to Pakistan to become the country's first female film producer). She didn't sing much after partition, restricting herself to ghazals in stage performances, but her expressive voice lives on in the few recordings that remain. Her greatest hit was from Rattan, a song that catapulted both the singer and the music director to instant fame.

Rajkumari

The final artist in this list is the great Rajkumari, one of the most beautiful voices of Indian film. She started her career as a singing actress in the late '30s but soon had to quit acting because in her own words she 'couldn't keep herself off food' and gained a lot of weight. But a loss for the screen was a gain for the listening public as she concentrated on her voice and soon became one of the pre-eminent singers of the pre-partition era. After partition, her career slowed down to a few songs per year. She however had two superhit films to her credit in the immediate post-partition years, 1950's "Bawre Nain" in which she provided playback for the vivacious Geeta Bali, and 1949's Kamal Amrohi masterpiece "Mahal", a film that heralded a great change in the Indian film industry. It thrust a young Madhubala into superstardom and it provided Lata Mangeshkar with her first, career altering hit. Scored by the immensely talented Khemchand Prakash (who unfortunately died rather young), Mahal was an immaculately produced supernatural thriller and early Noir that still holds up more than 60 years later as one of the greatest films produced in the sub-continent. Rajkumari sang one of the film's, and indeed Indian cinema's most haunting songs, "Ghabra Ke Jo Hum Sar Ko Takrayen To Accha Ho"

Unfortunately, after Rajkumari's career fizzled out, she was reduced to penury and made her living singing in the backing choruses on film songs. It was while she was singing on the chorus for another great Kamal Amrohi film, 1972's "Pakeezah" that she was spotted by Naushad, who thought her condition exceedingly pitiful, having worked with her in her heydey. He offered her the chance to sing one of the thumris he had composed for the film and so Rajkumari sang for the first time in nearly two decades.

Rajkumari lived out her last days in strained circumstances, occasionally going on stage to perform songs from her golden days. She died in 2000 at a broken down house in Bombay.

As a footnote to this list of some of the greatest singers of the 20th Century is another song from Kamal Amrohi's Mahal. It is sung by two of the luminaries mentioned above, Zohrabai Ambalewali and Rajkumari. Everything that made the film a masterpiece is evident in the song - from the haunting melody to the brilliant cinematography to the expressive and emotive performances. Also, the song serves as a final glimpse at the passing parade of Old Bollywood at the brink of a major upheaval, when the faces, voices and names of the pre-partition era were suddenly thrust aside to make way for the new lot that was to rule sub-continental film for the next three decades.

Zohrabai Ambalewali And Rajkumari - "Yeh Raat Beet Jayegi, Jawani Phir Na Ayegi"

...Of A Truly Amazing Find

2011-03-27T19:29:00.001+05:00

Apart from one perfectly horrible day, the month of March has been extraordinarily kind to me. An amazing birthday has been followed by a torrent of wish-fulfillment. I've found some extraordinary things, some of which I had been searching for, for almost five years. These include the phenominal 13-part documentary on American silent film directed by Kevin Brownlow and the rare Jafar Hussain Khan Badayuni album I didn't have in my collection. Yesterday however, I found something absolutely phenominal.

One of the most informative and enjoyable books I've read in the recent past has been Raza Ali Abidi's "Naghma Gar" A history of Popular songs in 20th Century India, it is a labour of love that is a masterwork of scholarship as well as a highly enjoyable read. It has given me a new appreciation of the literally hundreds of songs that I've loved for years and years, introduced me to the characters behind the genesis of those immortal melodies from the golden age of Indian cinema as well as introduced me to artists, lyricists and composers that I hadn't paid sufficient attention to in the past.For example, it was due to this book that I rediscovered the brilliant C. Ramchandra, who I now rank with Naushad and Salil Choudhary as one of my favorite film composers. It is my aim to one day look up all the obscure songs, composers, singers and lyricists that Abidi saheb mentions in his book, thereby exponentially expanding my appreciation of sub-continental film music.

On page 98 of said book, the author writes about the great Kashmiri singer Malika Pukhraj;

"Unn ki woh film ab tak ba-hifaazat mehfooz hai jo Maharaja ne Europe se aayi hui film-saazon ki ek team se banwaai aur jis main Malika Pukhraj ne mehel ke kisi aaraasta kamray main siyah saari pehen kar aur tehal tehal kar gaana gaya. Bartaanvi television par woh film dekh kar andaaza hua ke Malika Pukhraj Maharaja-e-Kashmir ki manzoor-e-nazar yun hi to nahi theen."

My curiosity was instantly piqued by this passage. A rare film of one of the greatest singers of the last century in her prime was something that had to be seen. However, finding it proved to be an almost impossible task. Googling a number of search terms proved fruitless, as did scouring the dozens of internet message-boards that specialize in sub-continental music. Dozens of emails were sent, none of which provided any leads. I resigned myself to using my imagination to recreate that almost mythical recording, losing any hope of finding it.

A few days ago however, on an obscure file sharing site, I chanced upon a video file titled "Malika Pukhraj Rare 1930's", eagerly downloaded it and voila!! There's Pukhraj, the set looks like a 'mehel ka araasta kamra', the dazzling sari is indeed black and she has sung 'tehel tehel ke'. I'm pretty sure I've found the clip Abidi saheb mentioned in hes book (I'll ask the author to corroborate as well).

A delightful little time capsule. the clip is a short film shown as part of a double bill in theatres. Such brief musical films were made in the prepartition era ,mostly by the famous studio Wadia Movietone, and showcased some of the greatest artists of the time, such as this one featuring Ustad Habib Khan and Ustad Ahmed Jan Thirakwa (take a close look at the narrator at the start of the clip, for he appears again in this post). The Pukhraj clip begins with a spoken word introduction by a brilliantined, well attired gentleman which mentions the "super-film" that accompanied this short, 'Kahan Hai Manzil Teri'. The brief introduction is followed by a wide shot of a room with a figure in the corner, seated on a desk. Next we see Pukhraj in her beautiful black sari, writing something on a piece of paper with her back towards the camera. She puts down the pen, pushes away the paper, turns and then.....

The ghazal is typical Daagh, a light composition that would have been sung by the courtesans of the day. Pukhraj sings it in a beautiful, languid style which is terribly expressive. Her voice is clear as a bell, perfectly highlighted by the beautiful sarangi and clarinet accompaniment. The performance is phenomenal, elevating the rather commonplace kalaam to heights of great artistry. The picturization is also charming and seems unforced and very natural. At the time of the recording, she was at her prime, the court singer of Kashmir and a darling of the radio-listening public, and it's not hard to understand why. The Pukhraj we saw on PTV in her latter days ,complete with those trademark shades, had a unique style, adayegi and a peculiar 'pahaari' andaz that was a pleasure to listen to, but still felt somehow 'quaint'. Here though, we see the artiste as a young woman, and boy is she a sight to behold.

...Of Holiday Haikus

2011-03-27T17:30:00.000+05:00

Written at sporadic intervals today, during duty that involved nothing more than sitting in a chair for ten straight hours..

Orange juice and tea

In an air conditioned room

Sarkaari breakfast.

.....................................

A weekend workday,

Borges and Tufail Niazi

Might help pass the time.

......................................

The minutes tumble.

Cricket news on the telly

Interspersed with cows.

......................................

Pleasant company

Distracts me from my reading

As I make small talk.

...................................

Anonymous text.

Embarrassed to ask their name

Reply with a : )

....................................

His face was traversed

By a vengeful scar, a grey

Almost perfect arc.

(Borges)

.....................................

Abdul Karim Khan

Sings Malkauns,his voice echoing

Across ninety years.

......................................

Perspicacity

Pullullation, Pirilence.

Borges loves his P's.

........................................

Fateh Ali Khan,

Shaukat Hussain Khan's tabla.

Khamaj in Teentaal.

.........................................

Eight hours in a chair,

with nothing to do. At last

the cry goes forth, Lunch!

......................................

Ten hour duty ends.

Wouldn't have survived but for

Haikus and Borges.

.....................................................................................

...Of My Favorite Qawwali So Far 2.0

2011-03-18T23:41:00.000+05:00

Two and a half years ago I was introduced to, rather re-introduced to what has since become an obsession of mine; Qawwali. My overarching fascination with this art has led me to become an ardent (albeit amateur) student of Sufism and spirituality as well as provided me with hours upon hours of pure listening pleasure. One of the positive effects of this has been to allow me to write about the various artists , recordings and kalaams that have touched me deeply. On the flip-side, my desire to express in words as well share this passion of mine has turned this into something of a niche blog with the result that I've managed to reduce my already slim readership even further. However, that is of no concern as long as I am able to express and share even a fraction of the joy that Qawwali has brought me.

A year and a half ago, I undertook an exercise whereby I listened to all the versions I had of what was my favorite Kalaam at that time, Hazrat Bu Ali Qalandar (R.A)'s "Manam Mehve Khayaale Oo" and attempted to compare and contrast the performance styles of some of the greatest Qawwals of our time. Over time I've discovered many new artists and new recordings that have reiterated my belief that Qawwali is mainly a performer's art. The repertoire is vast and the opportunities for modification and innovation limitless, hence like Jazz, it's the performer's style that ultimately moulds a performance and contributes to it's aural and spiritual impact. I've also realized that the term "favorite Qawwali" is an oxymoron. However, there are some pieces that are definitely closer to the heart than others, and currently, the kalaam I've been constantly listening to over the past month or so is that immortal Na'at of Maulana Jami (R.A)'s, Nasima, Jaanibe Bat'ha Guzar Kun.

نسیما ! جانب بطحا گزر کن

زا حوالم محمد را خبر کن

بہ حال مبتلاے غم نظر کن

علاج درد دل اے چارہ گر کن

توئی سلطان عالم یا محمد
زروئے لطف سوئے من نظر کن

بہ برایں جان مشتاقم بہ آنجا
فدائے روضہ خیر البشر کن

مشرف گرچہ شد جامی زلطفش
خدایا ! ایں کرم با ر دگر کن

O morning breeze! set out towards Bat'haa,

Inform Muhammad (S.A.W) of my plight

Cast your eye towards one who is afflicted with sorrow

O healer, find a cure for this aching heart

Muhammad (S.A.W); you, who are the Emperor of both worlds

Cast your graceful, blessed glance towards me

It is the desire of this eager soul of mine

To sacrifice itself upon your final abode

Although you have showered your grace on Jami

In God's name, grant him this favor once again.

Maulana Nur ad-Din Abd ar-Rahman Jami (R.A) was one of the foremost Persian mystics and poets. His works include the "Bahaaristan", the biographical treatise "Nafaahat-al-Uns", his masterpiece "Haft Aurang" and his version of the classical Persian romantic epic "Leili wa Majnun". He was an ardent lover of the Prophet (S.A.W) and expressed his love in some of the most beautiful Na'ats in the Persian language, among them Tanam Farsooda Jaanpara, Gul Az Rukhat Aamookhta , Ya Muhammad Ba Mane Be Saro Samaan Madaday, and of course, Nasima, Jaanibe Bat'haa Guzar Kun. An apocryphal Sufi tradition offers a stirring example of Jami's love for the Prophet (S.A.W) as follows,

"It so happened that once this ‘ishq' was at its peak and poor Jami became restless. He composed a wonderful naat in the praise of Allah’s Habib and in the agony of love made a vow to recite that very poem in front of the Prophet’s Mausoleum in Madina. So, gathering some of his many disciples with him, he set off on the long and arduous journey to fulfil his vow.

After many a month of travel, the caravan led by the Imam of Love, Abdul Rahman Jami, reached the outskirts of the City of the Prophet and Madina was only a few miles journey away. As they camped for the day, they saw a rider on a horse coming towards them at a galloping pace. The strange rider stopped in their midst and asked the group, “Which of you is Jami?” The disciples pointed out Jami and said, “That is our leader, Shaykh Imam Abdul Rahman Jami!” So the rider guided his horse towards Jami and, alighting, greeted Jami with the words, “Assalamu alaykum!”

“Wa alaykum as-salam! Who are you? Where are you from and why are you here?” asked the venerable Sufi.

“Jami, I have come here from Madina!”

At the mention of these words the lover of the Prophet (sal Allahu alayhi wa sallam), Jami, took off his turban and placed it the feet of the stranger saying, “May I be sacrificed for these feet! They have come from the city of my Prophet!”

Jami continued, “Good sir! Tell me, why have you come?”

The man went silent for a while and then answered, “Jami what I am going to tell you, you must promise to hear it with a stout heart.”

“I will”, said a slightly bemused Jami, “but tell me!”

“Jami”, continued the rider, “I have been sent to you by the Prophet (Sall’Allahu Ta’ala Alayhi Wa’alihi Wa’sallam) himself"

“Tell me! What does my Master say?” interjected Jami.

“Jami, the Prophet (Sall’Allahu Ta’ala Alayhi Wa’alihi Wa’sallam) has sent me to tell you that he has forbidden you to enter Madina and visit him!”

At these words Jami was thunderstruck, his head swam and his legs gave way beneath him and with an agonised shriek the Shaykh fell to the ground in a swoon. The disciples were terrified that their Shaykh had passed away but after many hours Jami came back to a state of consciousness and he wept copiously. The messenger was still there and Jami asked him, “Tell me O’ bringer of such tidings! Why does my Master prevent me from entering Madina? What sin have I committed? Why is my Medinan Lord angry with me?”

The messenger replied,”the Master is not upset with you. Indeed, he is very happy with you!”.

"Then why does my liege-lord prevent me from visiting him?”

“Jami! The Prophet(Sall’Allahu Ta’ala Alayhi Wa’alihi Wa’sallam) said to me that tell Jami that if he comes to Madina with such love in his heart I will have no course but to come out of my tomb and greet him in person – such would be the recompense for his love! – so tell him not to enter Madina. I will visit him myself! Tell Jami not to come and visit me – I will visit him!”

....................................................................................

Naseema was one of the first kalaams I heard on that wonderful evening two and a half years ago when I was re-introduced to Qawwali. I clearly remember sitting in my friend's dorm room. He had just played me one of Munshi Raziuddin's recordings and I hadn't recovered yet when he said, "Lain Musab bhai, yeh sunain" and played for me Manzoor Ahmed Niazi and Party's version of "Naseema". I listened intently to the initial doha, and the moment the "Kun" of the first verse hit what we call the tabla's 'summ', I was transported!

Manzoor Ahmed Niazi Qawwal

It was later that I found out that Naseema was one of the Manzoor Niazi Party's most famous Qawwalis, however it was the first time I was listening to Manzoor Niazi sahab and I was immediately struck by the unique mellowness and soft timbre of his voice. The ravages of age were apparent but it was still carrying the performance along beautifully. Abdullah Manzoor Niazi's powerful and very melodious voice perfectly complemented his father's. (In my opinion, Abdullah Manzoor Naizi's party, along with the Farid Ayaz ensemble are currently the two best Qawwali ensembles in Pakistan). I listened to the performance again and again over the coming days and weeks in my dorm room and constantly hummed the beautiful arrangement.

The Manzoor Niazi party's performance remains one of my most favorite Qawwalis because of it's stirring arrangement, the wonderful little takraars that the Qawwals interject at the end of each verse and the Qawwals' beautiful adayegi, Manzoor Niazi Sb's being especially appealing.

As I listened to more and more recordings and delved deeper into the Qawwali idiom, I found that Naseema was part of the repertoire of most Qawwal parties, with most following the same arrangement as the Manzoor Ahmed Niazi party. I also discovered that the kalaam had the greatest impact when it was performed at a gentle, stately tempo, almost like the gentle early morning breeze that was being addressed in it. Again, various Qawwals performed it in their own styles, using a variety of Girahs and Takraars to bring out the various emotional aspects of the kalaam, from gentle pleading to desperation to resignation to hope.

Haji Mehboob Ali Qawwal

A performance that takes the gentle and stately route is by Haji Mehboob Ali Qawwal and Haji Mushtaq Ali Qawwal at Golra Shareef. (A rare photograph of Haji sahab is attached, many thanks to the personage who allowed me to post it) A steady tempo, no girahs or takraars, just the two brothers accompanied by tabla and Haji saheb himself on Sitar. Mehboob Qawwal was known to perform two versions of Naseema, one unadorned and the other with "Tazmeen", where each verse is accompanied by a versified translation in Urdu and Seraiki in the same metre as the original. It served the purpose of Wa'az that Haji saheb was justly famous for. I have a recording of that version in my archives and might post it when I have the requisite permission. The unadorned version however, is beautiful in it's simplicity and the meandering, mellifluous arrangement with the Qawwals singing it with the utmost 'Ihteraam', bringing out the innate musicality of the kalaam.

Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal

I have previously expressed my admiration of Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi, one of the greatest Qawwals of his age who remains undiscovered by a large audience largely because like Haji Mehboob Qawwal, he was primarily a Darbari Qawwal who didn't release any recordings commercially. A 'shagird' of Fateh Ali Khan, he was known for his emotive and powerful vocal style and his highly talented and disciplined party. He used girahs to great effect and his performances were known for their gradual increase in tempo, long, sustained takraars and complicated behlaawas and sargams. His version of Nasima contains brilliant examples of all these.Despite my best efforts however, the quality of the recording doesn't do justice to the performance that starts out slow, with a rather measured tempo. The first highlight is the takraar at the 3:20 minute mark that temporarily energizes the piece before gently ebbing back to the original tempo, followed immediately by another takraar. A number of apt girahs including "Har kas vaseela daarad" and "Man Keestam" punctuate this takraar of the first verse. As the tempo gathers pace, Fareedi sahab and his Hamnavaas unleash a torrent of Girahs and Behlawaas before again slowing down at the 18:20 mark.

Each of the subsequent verses is similarly embellished, with the next major takraar coming near the end of the piece at the phrase "Tu-ee Sultaan". The last third of the performance is especially moving for it's use of some very beautiful Girahs from Punjabi Sufi poets including Bulleh Shah, Hazrat Sultan Bahu and Shah Ali Haider all inserted into a rousing takraar of "Ya Muhammad". The performance carries on at the same breakneck pace, each verse being repeatedly emphasized, with the final takraar a brief one at "Een Karam", after which the Qawwali culminates. Although the quality of the recording greatly hampers the enjoyment of this piece, it is a stirring rendition, and one of my favorites.

Ustad Fateh Ali-Mubarak Ali Qawwals And Party

A mention of the 'shagird' naturally leads to the ustaad, with the next recording being of those giants of Qawwali, Ustad Fateh Ali- Mubarak Ali Qawwal. The two brothers were pioneers, popularizers and innovators par excellence in the field of Qawwali. With Fateh Ali's higher register and emphatic delivery perfectly complemented by his brother's vocal dexterity, they were the pre-eminent Qawwal ensemble of the 40's, 50's and early '60s till Fateh Ali Khan's untimely death. Nusrat's style, as well as that of their many Shagirds, carries echoes of this power-house group's performance idiom.

In this very rare recording, the party is accompanied by Sarangi and flute and both brothers beautifully display their vocal dexterity. Mubarak Ali's taans punctuate the Qawwali at regular intervals while Fateh Ali emphasizes the text with choice Girahs. The beautiful girah at 'Dard-e-dil' is the first of these, quickly followed by beautiful improvisation by Mubarak Ali. The following verses are similarly embellished with alaaps, girahs and brief takraars with the sarangi and flute in the background proving a beautiful counterpoint to the vocalists. The tempo remains steady throughout each verse. Mubarak Ali performs one final feat of vocal virtuosity near the end and the performance ends without the tempo flagging for an instant.

Bakhshi, Salamat Qawwal And Party

The final performance in this piece is by another talented 'Shagird' of Fateh Ali-Mubarak Ali Qawwals, the preternaturally gifted party of Bakhshi,Salamat Qawwal Party. In my opinion, the Qawwals most similar in style to Fateh Ali Mubarak Ali were the Bakhshi Salamat party, with an especially similar emphatic style.If I were to choose a current favorite among the various versions of 'Naseema", this would be it. It starts of with a beautiful Clarinet sazeena that is both mellow and full-bodied. the baaja next takes over with the main melody line and the vocals commence with an alaap.

Bakhshi Khan starts with a unique doha ; a verse each in Farsi and Urdu. The almost pleading, aching, lament-like delivery of these two verses is very beautiful. The first verse of the kalaam proper is punctuated in a similar style, with Salamat Khan's phrasing ( Jaaa- NIBE) eliciting the kalaam's poignant theme of longing for the land of the beloved Prophet (S.A.W). The next verse is embellished with brief takraars and alaaps, with the second hemistitch repeated over and over before Bakhshi Khan inserts two girahs, pausing before and emphasising the last words of each in such a way that the desperation and intense longing of the poet is apparent ('Jab dard diya tum ne, phir tum hi dawaa.......KARNA!', ' Ba haale mubtelaae man nazar.....KUN').

The second highlight comes at the takraar of the second hemistitch of the third verse where the Qawwals modify the original text into "Be raahe lutf" and launch into a beautiful takraar punctuated by Bakhshi Khan's cries of 'Aye Ji!'. The final verse sees a takraar of 'Een karam' as the poet pleads his case with growing desperation, before finally, resignedly entrusting the morning breeze, - the Naseem - his message in the hope that it will reach the land of the Prophet (S.A.W) and his pleas will one day be heard.

There are many other versions of this immortal kalaam, both by Qawwals as well as Naatkhwaans, however I've restricted myself to my five most favorite versions. What's obvious in all these performances is how each Qawwal's individual style highlights the various aspects of Jami's kalam and how a single piece of Sufi poetry, despite being moulded and adapted by different Qawwals, still retains it's original message that Jami entrusted to the morning breeze centuries ago.

P.S Apologies for the rather shoddy translation, my Farsi's still at a rather primitive stage.

Cover Stories - Of Pir Adil, The Place That Started It All

2011-03-13T13:49:00.001+05:00

One of the reasons I consider my one month flood relief duty in Dera Ghazi Khan the most exciting and probably most memorable one month of my life is that along with working my socks off in the relief efforts for most of the month, I also managed to squeeze in five or six days of hardcore exploration and travel. Most of this exploration was carried out in a four day whirlwind tour that had me covering 1500 kilomketres and visiting five or six cities in what has since come to be known as the "Great Road Trip". There were however one or two detours that I made before that, on what can be called 'company time'.

On my way to DG Khan from Multan at the start of my duty, I looked up places of interest in and around DG Khan (a thoroughly fruitless and dispiriting exercise) One name kept popping up repeatedly, the village of Pir Adil. It was a village to the north of DG Khan, around 12 km from our base camp. The village housed a Sufi shrine, there wasn't much more I could find out about the place however. It was obviously the shrine of a Sufi saint, but it wasn't obvious what distinguished it from the innumerable others that dotted the landscape. The shrine was of one Pir Adil Shah Bukhari , a 9th century Chishti saint. That, and a vague idea of it's location gleaned from Google Maps was all the information I had about this place.

Our daily ambulance trips to and from Medical camps were more or less a rambling caravan that pitched it's tents wherever we felt we were needed. We had no restrictions of distance or time and there was an almost limitless supply of fuel. This meant we travelled far and wide, covering a radius of almost ninety kilometers, spending eight or nine hours in the field everyday. Usually the trips were pretty straightforward; base camp to medical camp and then back again with no detours along the way. After a week or so, this spartan routine started becoming tedious. I was eager to get some exploring under my belt but wasn't able to get any time off. In addition, my routes usually took me away from the one or two places that were worth seeing, including the Pir Adil shrine.

Around the seventh day of our Medical camps however, we were told to pitch camp at the Dera Ghazi Khan Cement factory, around 14km North-west of the main city. Looking up the place on Google Maps (an app that more than earned it's Official Seal Of Awesomeness over the course of my South Punjab adventure), I found that the route led me pretty close to the village of Pir Adil. I figured this was as good a chance as any to visit the place. After finishing up the day's camp at the Cement factory, I sent one of the ambulances ahead of me so it could take the remaining supplies and the less footloose of the support staff back to the basecamp while I set out in the other to find the village of Pir Adil.

It turned out to be a pretty straightforward path in the end. As the map shows, heading north from the Pakistan Chowk on the Indus Highway for a distance of 8 miles brings you to the Cement Factory chowk. A further 2 miles bring one to a crossroads with a direction pointer showing the way towards Pir Adil due East. A straight metalled track leads to the village a mile down the road.

View Pir Adil Shrine in a larger map

About half a mile before the shrine, as the magnificent white-and-blue tiled dome of the shrine emerged on the horizon,I finally understood what distinguished the place from the countless other shrines all over DG Khan. Driving into the village, all of us in the ambulance let out a collective gasp as we rounded a turn and the shrine came into view. I hadn't yet been to the magnificent shrines in Multan and Ucch Sharif yet, so this was my first exposure to the "Multani" style of architecture, and I was floored by what I saw. At the edge of a large graveyard, surrounded by four low walls, with an impromptu trinket market outside it, stood the tomb of Pir Adil Shah Bukhari. It was a magnificent building, at first sight very similar to the pictures I had seen of the Shah Rukn-e-Alam tomb in Multan.

A quadrangular building ,with a hexagonal second storey topped by a beautiful dome, it dominates the landscape of the surrounding village. The eastern edges are rounded off by cylindrical bastions topped by a small minaret each with a lotus pattern on top. The westerly bastions are more intricately designed, with hollow mehraab-like depressions along their lengths and a slightly larger lotus atop the minarets. The exterior walls are decorated by beautiful yet simple blue-glazed tiles in geometric patterns that vary on each wall. On some there is a crisscrossing brick lattice adorned with blue tiles in the centre of the lattice-work. On others there are groups of geometric patterns ascending the walls in ordered groups. The southern entrance - the one facing the graveyard - has a vertical row of three depressed arches on either side. The eastern entrance is larger and opens into the courtyard of the shrine. Topped by an overhanging ledge, with rows of mehraabs around it, it's a beautiful structure. Three horizontal filigrees circle the four walls on the first floor, with three more on the hexagonal drum that forms the second floor. The edges of the hexagon are topped with slender white minarets that encircle the large white central dome. It was a rather compact but extremely beautiful building and I spent a lot of time admiring it's various details from the outside before entering the shrine itself.

Entering the shrine from the direction of the graveyard, I was immediately struck by something that I'd later realize was characteristic of most of the shrines I'd visit - an overwhelming sense of calm. It was semi-dark and very cool, with a breeze blowing through the open doors. One or two gentlemen were sitting inside the shrine, praying, one of whom I struck up an entertaining conversation with. Sunk into one of the walls was a mehraab decorated in intricate glazed tile that probably served as a prayer spot. Above the mehraab were two quatrains painted on the walls. One was a chronogram that revealed that the interior of the shrine had been repaired in 1343 A.H. the other was a Persian couplet that was faded and thus couldn't be read properly. Between the two inscriptions was a simple floral pattern.

The final resting place of the Pir was right below the dome, which was simply in ornamented from the interior. There were one or two relics, including an inscription on a stone tablet written in Arabic. There was another inscription on a piece of ivory that was well nigh illegible, however the date 1053 A.H was clearly visible at the bottom left.A stone slab with the imprint of a foot was kept in a glass case. The custodians claimed that it was a footprint of the Prophet (S.A.W) that Hazrat Jalaluddin Bukhari, also known as Hazrat Jahanian Jahangasht (R.A) had brought with him from Makkah. the inscription above the print also claimed as such. The Pir's lady wife was buried right next to the main shrine in a smaller chamber which I found at the corner of the courtyard. It was a small domed building, the corner of which was jutting into the courtyard through the walls.Older photographs (rarer than hen's teeth) reveal that it was a small, simple square white structure topped with a dome

I stayed at the shrine for around an hour or so but the ambulance driver and the rest of the staff were getting testy about delaying their lunch, so I had to reluctantly leave. We all bought a few sweetmeats from the stalls outside the shrine as well as distributed some of the remaining medicines and then departed towards the base camp. I was genuinely moved by what was my first visit to a shrine since childhood, and I'm sure the experience of visiting Pir Adil was catalytic in my resurgent interest in and affection for Sufi Shrines. After that brief visit to Pir Adil, I've travelled all over Punjab, paying my respects at many other shrines and tombs, and everywhere I've felt the same ambience, the same feeling of spiritual serenity that I experienced for the first time at that tiny, hidden away tomb outside Dera Ghazi Khan- the tomb of Pir Adil.

P.S The account of my first exploratory trip should I think be soundtracked by what is the da-facto National anthem of the Seraiki belt. In my favorite version of this immortal folk melody; the late, great Pathanay Khan sings the Rohi.

Cover Stories - Of Dialects, Diversions, Digestibles and Deplorables

2011-02-25T17:27:00.000+05:00

At the start of my flood relief tour of duty in South Punjab, mixed with a sense of duty was an overpowering sense of adventure. I was being sent on a very somber and serious task and I understood it's gravity, however it was also my first field assignment and I was going to a part of Pakistan that I had never been to (and one that I would have wished to visit in more happier circumstances). Since I only had a vague idea of what to expect, I called up many of my batchmates who had gone to the affected areas in the first wave of relief efforts in order to get an idea of what I was getting myself into. I was told to expect intense heat (despite it being October), rigorous work and long periods of boredom. "You'll have to provide your own entertainment" was the general sentiment.

The first (and only) piece of instruction we received on reaching DG Khan was, "You and your team will perform the role of a 'Roving Medical Camp'". And boy, did we rove!! Every morning, a caravan of three ambulances loaded with personnel and supplies would set out on a journey of at least 30-40 km to a new destination, making the return journey in the evening. We never visited one place more than two or three times, and since our area of responsibility was the entire Tehsil DG Khan, we managed to visit around a dozen different locations; from the coast of the Indus to the foothills of the Suleiman mountains to abandoned villages and destroyed factories, and occasionally to the havelis and castles (yes, friggin' castles) of the local Sardars.I found these ambulance rides, especially the early morning one with the trafficless roads and the morning breeze highly enjoyable. Each morning, I would pop in my earphones and turn on my iPod. I made it a point of habit to listen to one single album in it's entirety during a single day's ambulance trips. As a result, I can't think of the roads and pathways of DG Khan without hearing faint echoes of Neil Young's 'On The Beach' or Miles Davis' 'Bitches' Brew' or Munshi Raziuddin Sb.'s 1988 Mehfil.

I belong to the Jhang-Sargodha-Chiniot region that borders the Thal desert and considered myself if not fluent, then at least passably well versed in the Seraiki language. Or so I thought. On my very first day's medical camp, I found myself clutching at straws as patients explained their symptoms in the thickest, most unintelligible Seraiki. Initially I thought I was getting the gist of it and tried to plow through assisted by guesswork, but I quickly saw the error of my ways when I realized that the patients who were complaining of 'Phairay' weren't suffering from Vertigo as I had imagined, but Diarrhoea. I quickly recruited a local lad as interpreter and kept him by my side for the next two days while I learnt the ropes. By the end of the month, I was so used to listening to Seraiki that on my first day of clinic duty back in Lahore, I was genuinely shocked when my first patient started detailing his symptoms in English.

Most of our medical camps were 7-8 hours long and the patient population thinned out around the 2-3 p.m mark and that's when exhaustion, heat-sickness and boredom would start creeping in. It was then upto us to quickly find a diversion or risk falling victim to cabin fever. The vicinity was scoured for potential entertainments and more often than not, one was found. A tubewell would be located nearby, dhotis and shorts would be borrowed from the locals, a local farmer would be requested to donate a few stalks of sugarcane and voila..an impromptu jacuzzi-cum-waterpark would be set up in the middle of the wilderness.

My friends and batchmates who had completed their tour of duty in South Punjab kept enthusing about the hospitality of the local population. The first evidence of this hospitality came when on the third day of our medical camp at Jhok Uttra, the father of one of the kids we'd treated came carrying a huge cauldron of home-cooked fish on his head. He'd caught a "Commando machli" - in his words- that morning and graciously had it cooked it for us. The fish was delicious, definitely a member of the Special Services, and was destined to become the first in a long list of similarly erm, piscine tokens of appreciation. "Say it with fish" seemed to be the locals' motto and we didn't mind it one bit....at least not at first. When it seemed that we had been force-fed almost half of the aquatic fauna of the Indus, I respectfully drew the line. It got to a point where, one day, after the announcement of our medical team's arrival in a village, we had to make a follow-up announcement assuring the locals that we definitely, DEFINITELY didn't want any fish.

The locals then turned to another ploy. "Fine" they said,"If fish isn't doing it for you, we have another ploy up our sleeve" The next day, a great big vat full of milk was delivered to us. From that day on, it was the whole food-fest all over, only this time we were being pressed with jugs upon jugs of cold, sweet milk. Again, we received and imbibed all of it with thanks at first, but we had to start the whole 'respectfully decline' routine again when a constant diet of fish an milk began to manifest itself in the form of sleepless nights, frequent daily urges to shower and other signs of "Khoon Ki Garmi" that I needn't go into the details of. Suffice to say that the locals' hospitality didn't just leave a mark on my mind but also on my waistline and what Beach the butler would lovingly refer to as 'the lining of my stomach'.

The hospitable folk of Dera Ghazi Khan cannot be held solely responsible for my gastronomical excesses. I was lucky to be billeted with a group of people that can be best described in that choice Urdu phrase, "Khush Khoraak". All day, all of us would work like pack-mules, but when we gathered for dinner, there wasn't just a feast of reason and flow of soul but a meal of the scrumpciousest food that could be prepared in the middle of nowhere. Twice weekly, there would be night-time barbecues, or alternatively, reconnaissance trips in search of driver hotels (I would like to take this moment to offer an unsoliscited testimonial : the Madina Driver Hotel at Kot Chutta on the DG Khan - Quetta road is the greatest truck-stop hotel in the world) With profuse apologies to my vegan readers, I tasted more members of our winged, hoofed and pawed companions than I could ever hope to. Apart from the aforementioned fish and the more common staples like mutton, beaf and chicken, we were treated to duck, mallard, quail, partridge, hare and veal. It seems only the wily camel escaped being invited to dinner.

Again, most of these delicacies were sent to us by the locals as tokens of appreciation. However, there were some who didn't share the same sentiment. In fact, at one or two places we met with thinly veiled contempt. One of the local Sardars-owner of one the castles I mentioned in the beginning- made it known in his village that any artisan, worker or labourer found assisting our team would have his arms and legs broken. Despite that, he had the gall to smilingly (and forcibly) conducting us all on a tour of his grand mansion, pausing every so often to deliver a Gaddafi-esque stream of consciousness rant on the hazards of universal education, the correct place of women in society, the relative merits of a girls' school versus a dairy farm and why he thought the feudal-sardaari system was the way forward for Pakistan. A week after we finished the reconstruction of a girls' school in his village, we got word that he had uprooted the new water pumps we'd installed and filled the bore-holes with concrete as well as converted the school playground to - you guessed it- a dairy farm.

Cover Stories - Of Days And Nights In DG Khan

2011-02-24T17:41:00.000+05:00

The massive floods that ravaged most of Pakistan in the latter half of last year,although sparing me and most of my near and dear ones, nevertheless left me with a feeling of extreme helplessness, inadequacy and impotence. Even though I was busying myself in helping with the various relief efforts that were being organized by a number of my friends as well as trying to do my bit in terms of monetary and material aid, I couldn't help but think that i needed to do more. Friends and colleagues from all over Pakistan were being rushed to the affected areas to provide medical relief while I was stuck in Lahore. When a month had passed since the start of the flooding, I resigned myself to playing at most a distant tertiary role in the relief efforts and gave up on the idea of working in the field.

Out of the blue, a rumour started circulating that a second wave of medical professionals was being sent to the flood affected areas to take over from where the first batch had left off. My name, along with those of ten of my colleagues, was being floated as part of this team. Sure enough, the rumor was soon followed by an official announcement. I was told I was to leave at two days' notice for a month's tour of duty in South Punjab. With that in mind, I started packing ; three or four pairs of clothes and a dozen or so books. I stacked my iPod with the complete three seasons of Arrested Development and around half a dozen Preston Sturges movies, confident that this arsenal of awesomeness would be more than enough to fight off the occasional attacks of ennui.

I was pretty excited when I left Lahore for Multan,which was the designated staging post for me and my batchmates from various other cities. After a painfully brief reunion with many of my Med School friends and an even briefer night's sleep, I was woken up at 6am the next morning with the information that a vehicle was waiting outside to take me to what would be my home for the next 35 days, Dera Ghazi Khan. On my way to Dera Ghazi Khan, I got my first glimpse of the ravages wrought by the flooding. Roads lay destroyed, fields and crops were inundated, concrete skeletons lined the road and heaped up remains of household items atop mounds of earth marked places where mud huts had stood. It was a sobering and depressing sight that prepared me for the grim task I was to perform over the coming days and weeks.

After my arrival in Dera Ghazi Khan and a perfunctory welcome, I quickly settled into a routine that I was to follow - with one or two modifications - over the next 35 days. There were two doctors sent to Dera Ghazi Khan, me and another colleague from Lahore. We would be up by 7am, have a quick wash-and-brush followed by breakfast and then set off in a caravan of three ambulances to set up a medical camp at a pre-designated location. The ambulances were loaded each morning with a sizeable stash of medicines that had been donated from various sources. We would stop at a Rural Health Centers or a Basic Health Units all over tehsil Dera Ghazi Khan. Our destinations had names like Jhok Uttra, Samina, Haji Ghazi, Nooria Kooriya - tiny villages and hamlets that weren't even on the maps.

While the camps were being set up each morning, an announcement would be made on the village mosque's PA system and the patients would start arriving. In ones and twos at first, later followed by entire clans and neighborhoods so that our average patient load was something like six to seven hundred people per day. People walked, cycled and in some cases, crawled miles to get to the camp. I had never managed workloads as huge as this and for the first day or two, was completely and utterly panic stricken. however, we soon got the hang of it, got our man-management skills in order and the operation progressed smoothly. The day's work would be over when our stash of medicines gave out, which was usually around the 4pm mark. By that time, we were supremely, exquisitely and utterly knackered and the packing-up process would begin. Packing up was a tricky and somewhat dispiriting exercise because of having to turn back (sometimes rather forcefully)stragglers and latecomers because of lack of medicines , especially when we knew that we wouldn't be visiting that specific village again. We'd load up the empty medicine cartons in the ambulances and return to base camp after seven or eight hours in the field.

The first thing to be done on returning to DG Khan would be to ask for a jugfull of what I can safely claim to be the greatest drink ever concocted by the ingenuity of man. Forget beakers full of the warm South and the true, the blushful Hippocrenes; this was the real stuff. If I ever met the gentleman who 'on honeydew hath fed and drunk the milk of paradise', I'd quietly take him aside and offer him a glass of what was rather prosaically called 'Limoo paani' but i think better merited the name coined by Douglas Adams; the "Pangalactic Gargle Blaster". The first time I drank it, I couldn't believe my throat. It was cold, boy was it cold ! It was equal parts tangy and sweet and peppery and otherworldly. Over the course of my 35 day South Punjab sojourn, I must have consumed gallons upon gallons of the stuff and near the end, was so familiar with the nuances of it's taste that I could guess whether it was 'proof' or not just by measuring the layer of froth at the top of the glass. While departing at the end of my tenure, I called aside the sublime genius who was responsible for creating this elixir, warmly grasped his hand, thanked him in hushed,awed tones and gave him a thousand rupee note as a token of my gratitude.

Getting back to the daily routine; after lunch, washing up and a very brief siesta, the afternoon's activities would commence. For the athletically inclined - and as I was to find out to my disadvantage, the disinclined as well - there were daily compulsory, repeat compulsory evening sports. Cricket, Badminton and Volleyball were played at the ungodly hour of 5pm in the blistering DG Khan sun in a misguided attempt at keeping up morale. Participation, or at least attendance was compulsory and for someone as pathologically averse to pointless physwical activity as me, this was the most unpleasant part of the day and indeed the whole month.

These silly diversions ended around eight p.m, after which the entire group gathered for dinner. Here I must mention that my little medical outfit was attached with a much larger flood relief and reconstruction effort that comprised around two dozen other people. Most of them spent the day distributing rations, reconstructing damaged schools and hospitals or looking after administrative arrangements. The complete workforce of our relief operation usually gathered under one roof only once a day, at dinner. Because of this, dinner was more than a meal, it was a sort of reunion-recap-review and coordination conference. The meal itself was a formal affair, you had to dress for it (a fact that I hadn't anticipated, hence the prevalence of tees, sweatshirts and track trousers in my wardrobe) there were three courses and a hierarchically determined order of seating. It was immediately followed by a three or four hour long exercise vaguely labeled 'Conference" that me and my fellow doctor made an early and highly rewarding habit of sneaking out of. The result being that we would be comfortably snoozing in our bed by the time the first of the dead-eyed populace returned from the conference room at 2 or 3 a.m. A good night's sleep and the cycle would start anew the next day.

For the greater part of 35 days, this was my daily routine. It was tough and at times dry and monotonous but there were occasional diversions and distractions, countless indelible encounters and stories and a great deal of culinary adventures that rendered my waistline more Pickwickian than I'd prefer. Then there's also the small matter of the five day sabbatical that I've chosen to call The Great(est) Roadtrip......but that, as they say, is a horse of a different color.

...Of The Secret Chord

2011-01-22T13:12:00.000+05:00

Three performances, one eternal melody....

Main Khud Marne Ko Razi Tha
Mehdi Hasan (with Tari Khan on Tabla)

Wherefore Philosophers say that we have learned

Our melodies from those of the revolving spheres.

The song of the spheres in their revolutions

Is what men sing with lute and voice.

We have heard these melodies in paradise;

Though earth and water have cast their veil upon us,

We retain faint reminiscences of those heavenly songs.

Sambhal Kar Dekhna Barq-e-Tajalla, Dekhne Walay
(Haji Mehboob Qawwal,Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal and Others)

Hence, listening to Music is lovers' food,

Because it recalls to them their primal union with God.

The inward feelings of the mind acquire strength,

Nay, are shown outwardly, under the influence of music.

The fire of love burns ever hotter,

Under the influence of that divine music.

Haman Hai Ishq Mastana,Haman Ko Hoshiari Kya
(Faqir Shafi Mohammad)

(excerpt from Rumi's Mathnavi)

....Of "The Sinews Of The Prose"

2011-01-19T16:14:00.001+05:00

"A good historian will remember that the world is his oyster and that syllables govern the world. He will be read if he can carry the people along with him. If he has a perfect command of the language he can make the long sweep of events into a vivid, moving, pulsating piece of prose. Words should come like water bubbling from a silver jar. And each word shall take it's proper place in the sequence and order of the narration, to draw a scene, or describe the tumult of a revolution or the commotion of a riot, or emphasize the inner significance of an event, or paint the character of a personage. The vocabulary is large, felicitous and varied; and the words, particularly the adjectives and adverbs, stand at attention waiting to be summoned to duty. The sinews of the prose are supple and strong. The story spins itself out with unimpeded ease and lulling fluency. The fertility of phrase is such that veil by veil the mystery of events unwinds itself. Long sentences run with a natural effortlessness, with one clause following another in magnificent succession. The sifted purity of the prose idiom merges with the lyrical surge of argument. everything is clear, unambiguous, stark, meaningful. The reach is long, the descriptive power unruffled by the change of scene, the portrayal revealing, the analysis of motives penetrating and balanced, the impact shattering. In sum, a quick, glinting style like a stream over rocks; limpid, rapid, revealing, flashing, sparkling, hiding nothing, distorting nothing, making dulcet music out of history."

Excerpted from Prof. KK Aziz's monumental "The Murder Of History : A Critique Of History Textbooks Used In Pakistan".

...Of An Unexpected (And Unbelievable) Find

2011-01-19T12:56:00.001+05:00

Two months ago on a trip to Rawalpindi/Islamabad for my Convocation, I spent a day with some very special friends at what I have decided to call "Qawwali Central". At an unassuming house in an unfrequented corner of Islamabad that serves as the office of a Lab Equipment distribution company, I met a couple of friends over a cup of tea and spent four or five highly enjoyable hours listening to, discussing and sharing the whole spectrum of sub-continental classical and devotional music. I sensed pretty early on that I was being initiated into a rather exclusive group of people that treat Sufi Music not just as a part-time means of entertainment but as a passion that occupies a prominent place in their daily lives. We talked about the many projects that each of us is undertaking in our spare time-from cataloging and digitizing cassette tapes to transcribing and editing them to trying to publish the transcribed, annotated Qawwali mehfils in our collection.

And obviously, we listened. I heard several artists and recordings that I was dying to hear for a very long time and they heard what little I had to offer that wasn't already in their possession. Among the various phenomenal pieces of music that I heard for the first time were Gramophone recordings from the '30s and '40s of the two giants of pre-partition Qawwali ; Ali Buksh "Waiz" Qawwal and Azeem Prem Ragi. These two Qawwals hold an almost mythical status in 20th century Qawwali history, being Qawwali what Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters were to the Blues; innovators and popularizers of a centuries old art form who had a profound effect on generations of Qawwals to come. Their recordings were terribly hard to come by and I'd previously had to satisfy myself with reading Prof. Regula Qureshi's evocative accounts of their performances but this time around I had the pleasure of actually listening to them and it was definitely worth the wait.

I left Islamabad with a truckload of new recordings and have listened to them non-stop over the last two months. While listening to one of the MP3s, I came upon a surprising discovery. Unless I was greatly mistaken, I could clearly hear Munshi Raziuddin's distinctive voice on a recording labelled as Ali Buksh "Waiz" Qawwal. Since the recording was very muddy and I wasn't sure what to make of it, I called up the folks at Qawwali Central to clarify. I also sent off emails to a number of very knowledgeable connoisseurs including Abu Muhammad Sb - Munshi saheb's son and one of Pakistan's most eminent Qawwals. From all of them I inquired if Munshi Raziuddin had ever performed with Waiz Qawwal, however I could find no evidence of such a collaboration.

Meanwhile, the folks at Qawwali Central came up with the clarification I was looking for. Munshi Raziuddin had never performed with Waiz and it was actually a mislabeled recording of *pause for effect* the original Manzoor Niazi Qawwal Aur Hamnavaa group performing at Pakpattan. Further proof of the veracity of the information was provided when the gentleman who had actually recorded the Qawwali in the early '60s on a reel-to-reel was contacted and he confirmed that it was definitely the Manzoor Niazi group, and that the recording was made at a Mehfil-e-Sama'a on the occasion of Baba Farid's Urs celebration. So there I had it, confirmation that I did indeed have a truly rare and beautiful recording of the Manzoor Niazi troupe.

Two or three weeks after this I visited Islamabad again and had the immense pleasure of listening to and meeting Farid Ayaz and Abu Muhammad Qawwals where among other things I discussed the recording I had found. I promised that I'd share it with them after I'd edited it a bit to make it more listenable. I've sporadically worked on it over the past month and I think it's in a listenable and share-able form now. A 50 year old amateur recording, it was in pretty bad shape, muddy and distorted with a lot of pop and hiss and variations of pitch and tempo. I've tried to improve it as much as I can and although the end result is far from perfect, I think it's listenable enough to be able to appreciate the performance at great detail.

So without further ado, here is a 27 minute recording of Munshi Raziuddin, Ustad Bahauddin Qawwal and Manzoor Ahmed Niazi performing "Koi Tum Sa Nazar Nahi Aata" at Hazrat Fariduddin Ganj Shakar (R.A)'s Shrine at Pakpattan in the early '60s.

Yun to kya kya nazar nahi aata

Koi tum sa nazar nahi aata

Dhoondti hain jisse meri aankhain

Woh tamasha nazar nahi aata.

Ho chali khatm Intezaar main Umr

Koi aata nazar nahi aata.

Jholiyaan sab ki bharti jaati hain

Dene wala nazar nahi aata.

Jo nazar aate hain, nahi apney

Jo hai apna, nazar nahi aata.

Zair-e-sayaa hoon uss ke ae Amjad

Jiss ka sayaa nazar nahi aata.

I couldn't discern Iftekhar Ahmed Nizami's voice among the Qawwals, an omission that can be better explained by more knowledgable heads than mine.The kalaam is a beautiful one that I haven't heard before and the 'girahs' inserted by all three Qawwals are extremely apt and very moving. The collaborative singing is of the highest order, reaffirming the loss Qawwali suffered when the Manzoor Niazi Aur Hamnavaa ensemble split up. But as in the recording above, the group in all its glory has the power to transport the listener to giddy heights indeed.

P.S For a copy of the recording, leave a request in the comments.

...Of Little Afghanistan And Its Patron Saint

2011-01-10T22:22:00.000+05:00

I never spare an opportunity to offer unsolicited testimonials to that most wonderful of inventions, Google Maps. From my pilgrimage to Rehmat Gramophone House in Faisalabad to my travels across South Punjab, I've relied on Google Maps, and it's never let me down. A few of the places I've visited in Lahore have caused my acquaintances to exclaim, "I've lived in Lahore for 30 years and I haven't even heard of that place. How on earth did you manage to find it?" or variations thereof. The answer of course, is Google Maps. Due to the voluntary efforts of a team of dedicated digital cartographers, I've been able to feast my eyes on some of the most remarkable places in Pakistan.

While I was scouring the maps for places of interest in the Begumpura area of Lahore, a name caught my eye - Khwaja Mehmud's Tomb. I must confess I hadn't heard of the personage before. Google wasn't able to provide me with much information either, except for telling me that Khwaja Saheb's tomb was an architectural masterpiece and a well preserved relic of the Mughal times. So on my recent trip to Begumpura, I decided to follow Google Maps' instructions and look up the elusive tomb. What I had gathered online was that Khwaja Mehmood - also known as Shah Eishan - was that the saint lived during the reigns of Jehangir and Shahjehan and hence was a contemporary of Hazrat Mian Mir (RA).

After visiting the Gulabi Darwaza and the tomb of Dai Anga (which will be written about in a future post hopefully), I took a detour into Begumpura and after navigating a few winding streets, came across the tomb. Adjoined by a mosque and a graveyard (the usual accroutements of a Sufi shrine) and a well-kept park, the tomb stands tucked away between residences and shops. A gaggle of small children were playing near its walls, looked over by a bunch of benevolent elders smoking chillums and playing cards. The whole place gave an aura of isolated serenity that I've rarely felt at other places in Lahore.

Shah Mehmud's tomb is surrounded by residences on three sides, with the fourth occupied by a beautiful park. The tomb is architecturally similar to the rather austere tombs of Hazrat Bahauddin Zikriya, except that it's painted white rather than the tile-decorated red brick of the former. Maybe it's been that way since it's construction, but I think the white colour is the result of our recent penchant for whitewashing everything that we see. A three-story octagonal building topped by a dome, it's an massive structure. The walls are inset with sunken mehraabs, each having tiered trellises that stream light into the interior. The tops of the walls are adorned by 8 slim minarets.

The dome itself is an imposing structure, around 20 feet in diameter with tiered rows of square holes, probably for ventilation and light. Like most of the other buildings in the area, I suspect this tomb also features a "dome within a dome" with the inner dome serving an ornamental function. A filligree pattern runs along the circumference of the dome and it's top is crowned by a large minaret. Pigeons roost in the crevices and ventilation shafts of this 15 foot high dome that can be seen from afar.

A semi-subterranean passageway leads to the absolutely beautiful interior. The rather austere exterior doesn't prepare one for the interior, which is a riot of light and colour. The Saint's final resting place occupies the central position and a chandelier hangs over it. The walls are decorated with floral paintings and delightful Arabesques. There are sunken mehraabs on the interior as well, giving an idea of the solidity and thickness of the walls. The mehraabs have trellises as their centrepieces, with floral designs painted on either side, ascending up to a web-like network of vaulted archlets.The interior of the dome is a beautiful network of geometric designs set on a plain white background. For a building that's safely three to four hundred years old, the interior is astonishingly well preserved.

When I visited the tomb, I was struck by the ethnic composition of the devotees as well as the residents of the nearby colony. Almost all of the devotees I met there were Pashtun, with the hujras adjoining the tomb occupied by three related Pashtun families.Pashto was the language being spoken by the children playing outside the tomb and i could make out fragments of Darri in the conversation of their elders standing nearby. An exploration of the graveyard surrounding the tomb furhther confirmed my assumption that the surrounding population was predominantly Pashtun. A surprising discovery was the graves of two of the wives of Amir Habibullah Khan, the Amir Of Afghanistan . The two royal ladies were buried far away from their homeland, right next to the tomb of this saint at least eighty years ago in what was obviously even then a historically important site.

Conversations with some of the residents of nearby houses confirmed that there had been a fairly large cluster of Pashtun habitations centered around Khwaja Mehmud's tomb for at least three centuries. The Saint himself was a 'Hakeem' and scholar who came to India from Khorasan during the reigns of the earliest Mughals and was a contemporary of Hazrat Mian Mir. He had this tomb built for himself before he died and his tomb served as the unofficial spiritual centre of Lahore's Pashtun diaspora. The population hads been gradually thinning out over the last three centuries so that now there's only two mohallas with predominantly Pashtun populations where once there were a dozen.

The march of history and the demographic shifts that inevitably accompany it have diluted the cultural identity of this unique part of Lahore but Khwaja Mehmud's tomb is an enduring remnant of what was once a vibrant and culturally peculiar corner of Lahore. Little Afghanistan may have started fading at the edges but there's no chance of it completely disappearing so long as Shah Eishan's tomb stands at it's centre.

P.S As a sonic accompaniement to the description of this Pashtun sufi shrine, here's an incredibly rare and beautiful recording of a Qawwali by the legendary Ustad Sarahang of Kabul.

...Of The Potter And The Prince

2010-12-24T15:25:00.000+05:00

Siddhu Kumhaar lived a prosperous and contented life. As "Master Bricklayer And Potter By Special Appointment" to Emperor Shahjehan, Siddhu held a very special place in Mughal Lahore. He had supplied bricks for the construction of some of the Emperor's finest creations-from the Shalamar Gardens to the tomb of Dai Anga. Always the first to be considered when some Amir of the court planned the construction of any building, be it a residence, a garden or a mausoleum, Siddhu and his son, Buddhu were well respected artisans who made a very reasonable living from the produce of their kiln. The kiln was situated close to the Shalimar Gardens in the suburb of Begumpura and it churned out bricks and pottery on an almost daily basis to satisfy the needs of the Emperor's many ambitious building projects.

The kiln was lit on one chilly,windy and wet night. It was freezing cold outside but the kiln itself was warm, with the workers huddling close to the fire as they fed it unbaked bricks. In the middle of the night, there was a rap on the door. One of the workers answered and found an old Faqir standing outside. Shivering and drenched, the Faqir requested the worker to let him inside, into the warmth of the kiln. Rather than taking pity on the old man soaking in the freezing rain, the worker slammed the door in his face and returned to the company of his fellows. The worker didn't know that the Faqir he had refused entry was no ordinary mendicant, but Sheikh Abdul Haq, a favorite disciple of the Sufi saint Hazrat Mian Mir.

Abdul Haq left the kiln, cursing under his breath, praying that the fire that hadn't provided warmth to him on this, the coldest of nights would be extinguished forever. That was the last time that kiln was ever lit. Siddhu's business floundered and he was never able to regain the position he once held. When he died, his son Buddhu took over the struggling family business but was unable to turn his fortunes around and ultimately died almost penniless. When Shahjehan heard of the death of his royal potter, he ordered that a beautiful mausoleum be built next to the kiln and Buddhu be laid to rest there. Thus Buddhu the bricklayer was buried close to the kiln that had been both his livelihood and his undoing.

..............................................................................................

Bhai Buddhu, a Sikh devotee of Guru Arjun Dev had started a brick kiln, but the bricks of his kiln could not be fully baked due to a curse placed on him by a fellow Sikh, Bhai Kamlia. Bhai Buddhu prayed to Guru Arjun Dev so that the curse could be lifted. Guru Dev Ji told him that the curse of a Sikh is final but added that his unbaked bricks would fetch the same price as that of baked bricks. It so happened that that year the demand for bricks soared so high that all the bricks of Bhai Buddhu's kiln were sold and he made a handsome profit. Bhai Buddhu built a Gurdwara as an offering of thanks to the Guru. For a long time this Gurdwara remained under the control of Mahant of Satlani. Under the Gurdwara act of 1927 AD this came under the control of Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee. In 1938 when the building of Sikh National College near the Gulabi Darwaza was constructed, a splendid building for Gurdwara was also built. The building of Gurdwara has collapsed but the tomb of Bhai Buddhu still remains.

..................................................................................................

Yamin-ud-Daula Khan-e-Dauran Khan Bahadur Nusrat Jang was one of Shahjehan's ablest generals. He had helped crush a rebellion at Ahmedabad and was instrumental in defeating the armies of Raja Jhajjhar Singh in Deccan and Noor Singh Dev in Gujrat. His wife died in Lahore while he was away on one of his military expeditions. Overcome with sorrow when he was informed of his wife's death, he chose to do what so many other Mughal noblemen did to express their grief. He had a beautiful mausoleum built for his deceased wife near their residence in Begumpura. A few years later, when he too passed away, his son decided to let his father be buried next to his mother. And so, like his Emperor, Khan-e-Dauran was laid to rest in a beautiful mausoleum originally constructed for his beloved wife

..................................................................................................

These are just three of the contrasting stories that purport to reveal the identity of the unknown occupant of the remarkable tomb on GT Road just opposite the University Of Engineering And Technology. Known colloquially as "Buddhu Ka Aawa" ,the tomb is strategically placed so that it's the first Pit-Stop on what can be considered the scenic route through Begumpura and Baghbanpura ; the last being the Shalamar Bagh.

This beautiful and rather dilapidated building stands tucked away between a market and a gas station, just opposite UET on the main GT Road. A square building constructed on a raised platform, it has four "Peshtaaq"openings, one each side, with a sunken arched panel on the walls to either side. The platform is raised above the ground and remnants of pillars at it's corners indicate that this tomb may have been part of a much larger building that has since disappeared. Like most other tombs of the Mughal era, this one must have stood in a walled garden, the only remnant of which is a tiny lawn surrounding the building.

The square burial chamber is topped with an octagonal drum shaped structure with four arched openings. On top of this octagon rests the dome. The long-necked dome and rather imposingwas decorated with beautiful glazed tilework and mosaics, of which only remnants remain. The margins of the dome are lined by beautiful, brightly coloured floral mosaic designs that run the circumference of the dome. The hemisphere itself carries what remains of exquisite blue and white tiles arranged in chevrons. The rest of the exposed masonwork has been blackened by the ravages of time.

Most of the beautiful glazed tilework and other decorations were torn off during the Sikh Era, a fate suffered by most of the other Mughal era buildings of Lahore. Time hasn't been kind to whatever was left behind by the marauders but the little that remains speaks eloquently of the history, the stories and the lives that are permanently woven into the fabric of Lahore's culture. Irrespective of who it is that rests in eternal repose inside 'Buddhu Ka Aawa', the building is a beautiful relic of that remarkable time and place, Lahore under the Mughals.

...Of The Shalamar

2010-12-22T17:44:00.003+05:00

Shah Abdul Hakeem had seen the young Bulleh Shah wandering the streets of Qasur several times. He knew the young ascetic was searching for spiritual enlightenment in the form of a guide or "murshid". One day, he called Bulleh Shah and said to him, 'The one you seek is in Lahore. Go to him, present yourself to him and pray that he accepts you as his own".

Bulleh Shah left Qasur and reached Lahore. He roamed the streets day and night,his unkempt locks flowing and his clothes in tatters, searching for his Murshid. One day, he wandered into the Shalamar Bagh; the famed vision of paradise that the Mughal emperor Shahjehan had constructed in Lahore,. After roaming the walkways, he chanced upon one of the Baghbaans - gardeners who oversaw the royal gardens - tilling a field in the gardens. Something came over Bulleh Shah and he stopped in his tracks, filled with a mixture of attraction and awe.Something seemed to tell him that he'd reached the end of his quest, that he'd found the Murshid he was looking for.

Anxious to approach the Baghbaan but reluctant to express his feelings openly, the young Sufi closed his eyes and started performing "Zikr"- the silent remembrance of the Lord. Suddenly one of the mango trees - of which there were dozens upon dozens in the Bagh - dislodged all it's fruit. As the shower of mangoes descended close to the gardener, he turned around and on spotting Bulleh Shah standing at a distance, said, "Thief! How dare you steal mangoes from this garden".

Bulleh Shah replied, "I'm standing in front of you. away from the tree. How could I have brought down all these mangoes without even touching the tree?"

At this the gardener smiled, closed his eyes and started performing "Zikr". Suddenly, in front of young Bulleh Shah's eyes, all the mango trees in the Bagh started swaying and in an instant, the ground was covered with mangoes. While Bulleh Shah was staring open mouthed, the mangoes lying heaped on the ground jumped up and re-settled on the branches of the trees.

At this, Bulleh Shah ran forward ,fell at the feet of the gardener and offered himself into submission.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So goes one of the versions of the story of how Bulleh Shah met his spiritual master, Shah Inayat. The Shalamar Gardens were the site of that fabled encounter, and although the mango trees - just one variety among the dozens of types of fruit bearing trees that grew in Shalamar Bagh- are gone, the Gardens and their adjoining regions of Begumpura and Baghbanpura are still at the centre of the cultural, historical and spiritual heritage of Lahore.

Constructed by Shahjehan, the most artistically inclined of the Mughal emperors, at a place "so delightfully adapted to the purpose that it was universally commended", the Shalamar Gardens were designed primarily for the enjoyment of the Emperor on his frequent trips to Lahore. The gifted engineer Ali Mardan Khan -who is buried close to his favorite creation - designed the garden along the pattern of the Shalimar Bagh in Srinagar, with fountained waterways fed by a specially constructed canal from the Ravi called the Shahi Neher. A series of aqueducts and tanks, carrying water transported uphill with the aid of oxen-powered water pumps fed the fountains in a remarkable feat of engineering.

The gardens itself were divided into three tiers. The topmost tier named "Bagh-e Farah Bakhsh" was reserved for the royal family. Along with the Bagh's characteristic fountain-lined intersecting waterways, it has two remarkable structures, the rectangular Diwaane Khaas-o-Aam with the unusual spiculated roof, and the central Barah-dari that overlooks the marvelous cascade that transmits water down to the second level.

Another attraction is the Moorcroft Building, a pavillion costructed during Maharaja Ranjeet Singh's reign for the explorer William Moorcroft. It is equipped with an ingenious ventilation system. The main component of the pavilion is the basement, which has two ventilation openings on each wall that open to the outside just above ground level. It's northern wall opens into a well equipped with a water pump that when powered by oxen, would result in a sheet of water cascading in front of the opening in the wall. Air entering through the well would be cooled after passing through this artificial waterfall and would exit through the eight ventilation windows.

The second level - "Bagh-e Faiz Bakhsh" houses the giant water tank - the Talaab - with its 152 fountains. Water enters it via the Great Cascade, a beautiful scalloped white marble waterway that brings water into the Talaab in a shimmering stream from whence it flows into the pool ,passing underneath the Emperor's marble throne. In the centre of the Talaab is the Mehtaabi, a central platform that oversees the third level of the Bagh, the "Bagh-e-Hayat Bakhsh". The second level houses four beautiful Barah-daris and it's four corners are overlooked by magnificently imposing towers atop the red brick boundary walls.

The "Hayat Bakhsh" houses the exceptional pavilion known as "Saawan Bhaadon" in which water used to cascade down three vertical walls with niches carved into them for placement of oil lamps. At night, water cascading over white marble, with hundreds of oil lamps glowing behind it must've been quite a sight. The rest of the level consists of spacious lawns where once there grew rows upon rows of fruit trees. Sadly, only a few of these are still in fruit.

A UNESCO World Heritage site, the Shalimar Gardens have undergone several renovations and one can see evidence of conservation work still going on in some parts of the Bagh. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking but I hope the conservation process is completed soon and visitors are able to experience the gardens as they were meant to be experienced - a vision of paradise on earth, with lush gardens filled with flowering plants and fruit trees, dancing fountains sending water cascading down waterways that flow in rivulets down the great cascade, with lamps illuminating the Saawan Bhaadon pavilion as visitors marvel at the dance of oil lamps behind a sheet of water and feel what the emperor Shahjehan must have felt when he first visited the Shalamar, as the court historian Inayat Khan wrote :

"His Majesty made a pleasure excursion to those paradise-like terraces. And the gardens and the agreeable pavilions which had been erected about the grounds, which all vied with the heavens in grandeur, were now found suitable to the royal taste. In fact, never before had a garden of such a magnificent description been seen or heard of on earth."

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P.S All photos taken by yours truly. Watch this space for a few more come January, as I can't upload any more in December due to Flickr's obscene 100 photos per month policy.
P.P.S If you're in Lahore and haven't been to Shalamar yet, I can't help but feel pity for you.
P.P.P.S Ustad Vilayat Khansaheb has provided the perfect soundtrack to a walk in the Shalamar Gardens.

Ustad Vilayat Khan(Sitar)-Dhun Punjabi Ang-Kehrwa

Found at: FilesTube

....Of A Novel Approach

2010-12-22T15:32:00.000+05:00

Stop me if you've heard it before, but I think I've finally worked out a way to cure my (now chronic) case of Bloggers' block. As a friend pointed out recently, this inability to write mightn't be because I'm starved for things to write about but because the opposite seems to be the case.I find myself with an embarrassment of riches when it comes to stories, photos, anecdotes and videos collected from all over Punjab over the past three months. It's the sheer size of the stash and the effort required in sorting, organizing and writing that has intimidated me into hibernation.

After having thought out a number of approaches, I've decided to take an obverse approach. Instead of starting from the beginning, detailing my adventures in DG Khan, running over the Great South Punjab Roadtrip, recounting the trips to Pakpattan and Qasur before finally ending on my recent photographing expeditions across Lahore, I'll take the opposite route. Starting from the most recent explorations, I'll work my way back to the day three months ago when i landed in Dera Ghazi Khan for flood relief duties. Interspersed with these photo-travelogue-rants will be the usual doses of randomness that populate my blog.

I've been known to lose commitment in a half-completed post several times in the past because finishing it would involve straying from what I consider (in my pretentiousness) the mot juste, or would require the extra cup of tea (yes, I'm a tea-drinker now. Yes,I'm ashamed of myself) or the extra hour of headache-filled wakefulness that is the crucial difference between the draft and the finished product. This time however, I'm trying to put some more mechanicality into the writing process. I plan to make a habit of writing regularly, with an aim to churn out one or two posts per week. If the quality(yeah, right) of the posts suffers as a result, I won't be greatly concerned. I don't mind a few sputters and stalls before the engine starts chugging again.

So, here's to a new, more methodical and more disciplined approach. Hopefully it'll cure me of the doldrums. If not, then at least I'll have the consolation of knowing that I tried. If my rag-tag bunch of readers decides to bear with me, I can promise an enjoyable ride, albeit a bumpy one.

Books Of The Week, "The Coffee House Of Lahore",KK Aziz, Rumi's Mathnavi in the Qazi Sajjad translation.
Movies Of The Week,"The Social Network", "Easy A", "Anna Karenina"
Music Of The Week,"Khwaja Khurshid Anwar's monumental "Raag Mala"

...Of An Unnaturally Long Hiatus

2010-12-08T21:20:00.000+05:00

When I returned from my flood relief duty-cum-South Punjab exploration trip, I was raring at the bit. I had spent an extraordinary month working in the field as well as another phenomenal 5 days exploring every nook and cranny of South Punjab. I had returned to Lahore tanned and tired, but loaded with photos and stories from my month-long adventure. While I was there, I had even plotted out how I was going to go about writing down the various highlights of my trip; which subjects were gonna get a stream-of-consciousness Jack Kerouac treatment and which would be delivered in a more verite manner (not that I'm adept at either of these).

The stories were accompanied by photos, literally tons of them, taken with my trusty cellphone camera. I was justifiably proud of them and desperately wanted to share them with whoever wanted to see them. These I tagged, edited and sorted in anticipation of publishing them on my blog. Everything was set for a marathon blogging session when suddenly my brain stopped working. I sat in front of the PC for hours upon hours, trying to write but failing to do so. Sometimes it was due to tiredness after a long day's work, sometimes the failure to find the mot juste and sometimes just plain godawful ennui.

The photos I managed to upload on my Facebook, so it hasn't been a total exercise in sloth, but this inability to write has puzzled,disappointed and ultimately depressed me. I've hit writer's (bloggers') block before but this has been a month of absolute, utter barrenness. If what Thomas Mann said is correct and "A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people., then I'm the Tolstoy of my age, because I've sweated hours and still not managed to write a single coherent sentence.

I hope to force myself to write from today onwards, even if it's at the rate of one paragraph a day. Here's to success in a grim struggle.

...Of Fareedi Sahab

2010-09-26T13:22:00.000+05:00

There's a word in Urdu that doesn't have an exact substitute in English, one of many I presume. The word is ہیجان - 'Haijaan' It can roughly be translated as a feeling of unease or restlessness. I've always looked upon music as something that soothes,calms or in certain cases, provides emotional release. I'd never thought that music could produce 'Haijaan'. That was until I heard Fareedi sahab.

My last year of Med School was when I really discovered Qawwali, and it was all thanks to this one friend of mine-who shall remain nameless by his request. Every six to seven days, I would trudge over to his hostels and park myself in his dorm room. The conversation would always start with, 'Musab bhai aap ne yeh suna hai?' to which I'd obviously reply in the negative, resulting in the now legendary remark, 'Chorain Musab bhai, aap ne to kuch suna hi nahi'. It started with Munshi Raziuddin sahab, then Haji Mehboob Qawwal and then to the rest of the stellar recordings in his immense collection. Collectors are miserly folk by nature, and my friend is no exception. It'd take beggings and pleadings to allow me to copy some of the stuff into my iPod, but eventually I built up a fair collection of my own.

One day,while sitting in his room and listening to something by Haji Mehboob, he said, 'Musab bhai, aap ne Fareedi sahab ko suna hai?' There were the customary replies, a negative from me and a 'Chorain Musab bhai' from him .... and then he played me something. I listened in silence as the instrumental prelude -the sazeena- ended. Then came the first verse and I was stunned. I listened in complete silence and I could sense my friend observing the expressions on my face change as the music sunk in. The voice of the performer was so remarkable, the arrangement was so unusual and the accompaniment was so superb that I was immediately floored. I listened to the whole piece in silence and then requested him to play it again. Another listen and I couldn't get my mind off the composition. I asked him if he would give it to me and he declined; which was his usual practice. I went back to my dorm to sleep as it was pretty late at night.

All the way back to my dorm I couldn't get my mind off the Qawwali I'd just heard. It was not that it was beautiful; which it was beyond doubt; it was almost disturbingly beautiful. I couldn't understand why I was suddenly restless, my heart palpitating, butterflies in my stomach. I tried to sleep but couldn't. All night I stayed up,pacing the room and thinking about what I'd heard. I was extremely agitated and more than that, I was surprised at my condition because this sort of trepidation was usually reserved for the last five minutes before a viva voce examination when I knew it was my turn to meet the examiner. Finally around 6am in the morning I phoned my friend, woke him up and told him I was coming over to get the recording from him one way or the other. Something in my tone of voice must've given him an idea of my mental state and he acquiesced. I got the recording and played it continously for weeks and weeks. That was how I was introduced to probably the greatest Qawwal nobody has heard of - Agha Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal.

At the time of my first listen , I had no idea who Fareedi sahab was.When I got much more immersed in the world of Qawwali, I found out some of the rather sketchy biographical details that are available. Fareedi sahab was a favorite pupil of the legendary Fateh Ali Khan (Nusrat's father); a fact that is forcefully borne out by the similarities between the two Qawwal's performance styles. He preferred the more traditional style of hius Ustad over the innovative approach taken by Nusrat, once saying 'Main Nusrat nu aakhya si ke apne baap di raah te aaja, parr uss meri gal nahi manni.' ( I had told Nusrat to follow the path of his father but he didn't listen to me' Fareedi sahab, like his great contemporay Haji Mehboob Qawwal, was exclusively a 'darbaari qawwal', that is he only performed at Sufi shrines and didn't release anything commercially. All his surviving recordings are bootlegs from his performances at various shrines-chiefly Baba Sahab Fariduddin Ganj Shakar's shrine at Pak Pattan and Kalyam Ayan near Gujjar Khan.

Fareedi sahab had a deep, gravelly and distinctive voice and he was accompanied by arguably one of the most talented group of 'hamnavaas' any Qawwal has possessed. His party contained the phenomenal 'baja' players and co-singers Majeed Fareedi and Hameed Fareedi who were the perfect foil for Rasheed's voice. Majeed in particular had this startlingly distinctive voice and lent an unmistakably 'Potohari' flavor to the party's performances. Fareedi sahab was known as a very meticulous performer and was not averse to physically hitting or loudly swearing at his hamnavaas in the choicest punjabi in the middle of performances if he thought they weren't delivering. It's little wonder that his party was considered the most 'disciplined' party of their time.

His performance style was unique, very spirited and -at the tail end of a performance - almost electric. He always tried to achieve the maximum emotional impact, once remarking 'Je mera vass challay te main ainhaan saaryaan de kapray paar ke ghar wapas ghallaan' (If it were upto me, all the listeners would go home with their clothes in tatters). He would always sit to one side of his party. keeping his hands on the harmonium to dictate the notes as he sang. He had a distinctive way of performing, accentuating his singing with his hands, face and sometimes his whole body. In moments of musical excitement, he was known to stand up and sing with his arms outstretched, his face upturned. A couple of people who attended some of his performances tell me that they are unlikely to ever forget the sight of Fareedi sahab singing at the peak of his powers. His longer pieces slowly built up to a series of thundering takraars and alaaps while the shorter pieces were tours de force of blisteringly electric delivery.

Although Rasheed Fareedi was the darbaari qawwal at Pakpattan, he was also a follower of Pir Mehr Ali Shah (R.A) and 'ba'it' at the hands of Pir sahab's son, Hazrat Babuji (R.A). This meant that Fareedi sahab would occasionally visit the Golra Sharif shrine to pay his respects and to perform with his illustrious contemporary and personal friend Haji Mehboob Qawwal. These rare occasions would draw huge crowds and the two Qawwal parties with their leaders sitting at front would be a site to behold. Fareedi sahab's loud, powerful style meant that Haji Mehboob would more often than not have to play catch-up with Fareedi sahab's tempo and notes. Sadly, very few recordings of these mehfils survive, but they are a phenominal glimpse into how two giants of their field collaborated to produce something magical.

Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi passed away around 1987 from complications resulting from Throat Cancer; a disease many of his fans blamed it on his years of vigorous high octave singing that had taken its toll on his throat. After his demise, most of the members of his Qawwali party joined Abdul Raheem Fareedi Qawwal to form another powerhouse troupe who enjoyed a fair amount of success in the late 80's and early '90s. After Fareedi sahab's death, the attendances at Qawwali mehfils gradually thinned out at Kalyam Awan.

Although audio recordings, especially good quality recordings of Fareedi sahab are rare, video records of his performances are rarer still. Barely half a dozen video recordings are present, most in the hands of collectors a thousand times more miserly than the friend I mentioned above. Below is one of the two videos that are available online. It shows Fareedi sahab and his party performing at his son's wedding at Lahore. This was recorded a few months before his demise. His spellbinding performance style is here for all to see, the takraars are amazing, his histrionics enliven the performance to the nth degree and the 'Pa Ni Sa..Re SA Sa' sargam', one of his trademarks, is employed to great effects. Also on display is the awesome strength of his 'hamnavaas', each one of them a singular artist in his own right.

At Fareedi sahab's 'Chaleesvaan' (the 40th day after his death), Haji Mehboob Qawwal sang a wonderful version of Pir Mehr Ali Shah's kalaam as a lament for his deceased friend. It was a fitting tribute from one great Qawwal of his age to another, and it will serve as a fitting end to this short series of posts on some of my favorite artists and performances from Qawwali. I will certainly revisit this subject which is obviously a favorite of mine, but now ,"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things".

...Of Haji Ghulam Fareed

2010-09-16T23:23:00.001+05:00

YouTube is the greatest thing since bread came sliced. The ideal fodder for procrastination as well as a treasure trove of rarities, nostalgia trips and all-round awesomeness. The following videos were the start of one of such nostalgia trips and I thought I'd share them here.

Haji Ghulam Fareed Sabri, the elder of the Sabri Brothers, was one of the greatest Qawwals of the last century and with his younger brother Haji Maqbool Ahmed Sabri, was instrumental in gaining a mainstream audience for Qawwali. With a repertoire at par with his other great contemporary, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Haji Ghulam Fareed and the Sabri Brothers were THE face of Qawwali for well over 30 years. Maintaining a classical andaaz while at the same time innovating over the years, the Sabri Brothers were consummate performers. Like Nusrat, they were woefully over-recorded with a lot of amateurishly produced material available easily. However their recordings over the years for EMI Pakistan are exemplary for their wonderful instrumentation and exceptional adaaigi.

Haji Ghulam Fareed was more than just a performer, being a scholar, and in the last days of his life, a Sufi himself. He was the epitome of what we can call - for want of a better word - 'presence'. His flowing locks, his under-the-breath intonations and the trademark calls of 'Allah' that punctuated the Sabri Brothers performances were charming flourishes that lent his work a more mystical tone. But Haji sahab's greatest asset was his voice. He had a distinctive booming, barrel-organ voice that never sounded out of key and could hit notes as high as the sky one momentwhile navigating intricate alaaps the very next.

Haji Sahab passed away on the 5th of April 1940 in Karachi of a massive heart attack. The following program was aired on PTV a few days after his demise.

A relic of a time when the passing of a culturally significant artist was a national event, this program is touching because of the genuine displays of grief by Haji Sahab's family. Haji Maqbool's tearful recollection of Haji sahab's last moments is a tragic yet beautiful reminder that although they had their fair share of brotherly squabbles, the two Sabri brothers shared a deep love for each other. This video is also significant as it contains interviews of all three stalwarts of the Qawwal Bacchon Ka Gharana-two of whom have since then sadly passed away. While all three brothers-Munshi Raziuddin, Ustad Bahauddin and Manzoor Niazi- offer their condolences and appraise the contribution of Haji sahab in the field of Qawwali, Munshi Raziuddin's comments are particularly interesting.

Maybe it's just me, but I sense a thinly veiled disdain in Munshi sahab's comments regarding the 'populist' nature of the Sabri Brothers repertoire. This would be understandable coming from Munshi sahab as he was the standard-bearer for the more traditional and classical Qawwali idiom, even if it meant significantly less commercial acclaim as compared to his more 'populist' compeers, apart from a rather limited discerning audience. Munshi sahab was known for his dislike of the various 'innovations' that the likes of Nusrat had introduced into Qawwali and maybe that dislike extended to the Sabris.

Haji Ghulam Fareed started actively performing a short time before partition at the mazaar of Hazrat Ali Ahmed Sabir (R.A) with his uncle Kallan Khan Qawwal. Around seven years after partition he joined the Qawwal party his younger brother had started and the Sabri Brothers started. From some of the gramophone recordings of Kallan Qawwal and Party we can get a glimpse of the precocious talent that Haji Ghulam Fareed Sabri possessed. His voice -although not as voluminous as in his later days- is distinctive and his vocal stylings offer a stunning peek into his future exploits with the Sabri Brothers. I'd like to end this piece with one of Kallan Qawwal and Party's gramophone recordings from the late 1940s in which Haji Ghulam Fareed's distinctive voice is unmissable. Following that are the Sabri Brothers at their - if I may use the term - grooviest. The beat is amazing, the baja is played with remarkable elan and Haji Ghulam Fareed looks dashing sans his locks.

P.S I'd give an arm and a leg for the the complete versions of the two Qawwalis shown in the above videos.

...Of The Qaul

2010-09-06T19:25:00.002+05:00

The starting point to this series of posts on Qawwali was obvious to me as soon as I first thought about writing them. Any discussion on Qawwali naturally begins at the point from where Qawwali itself began; Amir Khusrau (R.A) and the Qaul.

The exact origins of Qawwali may be shrouded in the mists of time but one thing is certain, Qawwali as we know it today started with arguably the single most important cultural figure in the history of Muslims in the sub-continent; Amir Khusrau (R.A). The warrior-poet-trader-musician-mystic directly or indirectly influenced the written, spoken and musical expression of the North Indian sub-continent. Even a superficial discussion of Khusrau's divers contributions would take pages upon pages. I'll limit this post to just one of Khusrau (R.A)'s creations, one that serves as the cornerstone of the art of Qawwali.

The Qaul is derived from a Hadees of the Prophet (S.A.W) that was coupled with a brief musical piece known as a Tarana. It was created and performed by Khusrau (R.A), who then taught it to his disciples. It is as follows.

Man kunto maula,
Fa Ali-un maula
Man kunto maula.
Dara dil-e dara dil-e dar-e daani.
Hum tum tanana nana, nana nana ray
Yalali yalali yala, yala ray

Man tunko maula......

With the first half comprising the actual 'Qaul' of the Prophet(S.A.W) and the second half comprising the tarana, it forms the foundation stone of Qawwali. There is slight variation among performers with respect to the first half of the Qaul, with some replacing "Fa Ali-un maula" with "Fa-haaza Ali-un Maula" .The linguistic significance of the phrases of the Tarana has long been debated, with some claiming they are meaningless words used only for their musicality while others claiming they are derived from ancient Persian and Hebrew words. What's beyond debate is the sheer musical power of the tarana when performed by the Qawwal.

I've always maintained that Qawwali is akin to Jazz in that it's a performer's rather than a composer's art. The basic melodic framework and standard mystical or poetic text exists for each piece but the Qawwal is free to improvise either musically or lyrically to enhance the effectiveness of the performance and help the listeners of the Sama'a in achieving the state of 'Haal' . A composition as universal as the Qaul offers an excellent example of the flexible nature of Qawwali, with each Qawwal able to mold the standard composition to his own individual style. There is hardly any Qawwal who doesn't contain the Qaul in his repertoire and each performer performs it in his own peculiar idiom.

In this post, I'd like to share some of the many recordings of the Qaul that I have had the pleasure of collecting. They are by some of the greatest Qawwals of the sub-continent; each infusing the Qaul with their own personal style which is transmitted generation to generation, with certain girahs and bandishes peculiar to that particular Qawwal or Gharana. These recordings provide fascinating insight into the styles,influences and overall performance idiom of the greatest Qawwals of our time.

The "Qawwal Bacchon Ka Gharana" lays rightful claim to being the oldest and most illustrious Qawwal lineage in the sub-continent. Directly descended from the 12 young disciples of Amir Khusrau (R.A) - the Qawwal Bacchay - , members of this Gharana have more or less resisted the more 'commercial' bent of most of their peers in favour of performing the more classical and raag based Qawwali. Even though the two great scions of the Gharaana - Munshi Raziuddin Qawwal and Ustad Bahauddin Khan Qawwal - have passed away, their descendants are vey ably carrying the tradition forward and along with the third great proponent of the Gharana in Pakistan -Manzoor Niazi Qawwal - and his sons, are the pre-eminent practitioners of the art of Qawwali in Pakistan.

In India, the Qawwal Bacchon ka Gharana is represented by the overall head of the Gharaana, Ustad Meraj Ahmed Nizami Qawwal who is attached to the shrine of Hazrat Nizam-ud-Din Aulia in Delhi and regularly performs despite being at an advanced age. In addition the sons and grandsons of the late Aziz Ahmed Khan Warsi also perform a repertoire containing both traditional arrangements as well as more recent compositions. The recordings below represent the Qaul as performed by the members of the Qawwal Bacchon Ka Gharana.

The first recording, form 1969, is remarkable in that all three leading Qawwals of the Gharana - Munshi Raziuddin Qawwal, Bahauddin Qawwal and Manzoor Niazi Qawwal - are heard on it. The recording, slightly edited form the sorce to improve the overall dynamics, captures an astounding performance in which the the taans and behlaavas of all three Qawwals and the accompanying tabla give it a stately elegance. Munshi Raziuddin's vocal virtuosity is at it's peak and the modulated alaaps are a joy to listen to. The recitation of another of Khusrau (R.A)'s Qauls at the end of the piece brings it to a brilliant close.

The second Qawwali is taken from a set of audio-cassettes released in India in 1975 to mark the seventh centenary of Amir Khusrau's birth. A number of spoken word introductions by Prof. Zoe Ansari punctuate this version of the Qaul sung by Bahauddin,Qutbuddin Qawwal and Party. Bahauddin performs this and the other qawwalis on the cassettes in the classical idiom with no girahs whatsoever, with a beautiful sitar and tambura accompaniment. This is a mellifluous piece which slowly gathers tempo as Bahauddin uses his phenominal voice to weave a number of modulated alaaps and variations on the tarana. The takraar and behlaavas at 'Ta na na na' are especially brilliant.

The third recording is a brief snippet from the end of a mehfil by the late Aziz Ahmed Warsi Qawwal from Hyderabad,India. The rather frenzied pace gives the performance an energy and urgency that, mixed with Aziz Warsi's rich voice, is very appealing. The arrangement is slightly different but the style is again the same as the Qawwal Bacchon Ka Gharana. Even though the recording clocks in at only 45 odd seconds, the arrangement and Warsi's voice give it a special grace.

The above three versions of the Qaul represent the classical version with little if any use of girah or Paivandkaari. The next version is by Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, taken from an early Nineties concert in Paris. Nusrat's version is significant for two reasons; first and foremost it gives insight into how a classical piece is molded and modified to suit the sargam and behlaava influenced style that Nusrat epitomised. The second reason is that Nusrat's arrangement -and not the one favored by the Qawwal Baccha's - forms the basis of most other modern Qawwals' performance of the Qaul. The majority of the current Qawwals perform it in Nusrat's style, using most of the same girahs. A number of improvisations on the taraana are followed by the use of some well chosen girahs from both Farsi and Urdu before the Qawwals settle into a takraar of the "Maula Ali Maula" refrain. Nusrat then embellishes it with a few modulated alaaps and sargams - the sargam at 11 minutes is especially beautiful - fitting perfectly with the mood and tonal structure of the Qaul.

The influence of Nusrat's arrangement of the Qaul is apparent in the next recording by Manzoor Hussain Santoo Khan Qawwal and Party. It is taken from the 'Flight Of The Soul-Qawwalis from Pakistan' album from the early Nineties and captures the last days of the original party. They were an exceptional group from Faisalabad who enjoyed their heyday in the late seventies and early eighties and this recording finds them past their peak with several important members having passed away. After leading it for around 25 years, Manzoor Hussain handed over the leadership of the party to his son soon after this recording and now sits with the party during performances only for 'tabarruk'. This recording is remarkable for many reasons; among them the fabulous clarinet accompaniment that was the hallmark of Manzoor Hussain Santoo Khan's performances for 30 years. At places sounding like an alto saxophone, the clarinet weaves in and out of the arrangement very melodically. Another highlight is the delightful verse placed at the culmination of the main Qaul -at around 11:30 minutes into the performance- that is unique to this recording. The Nusrat inspired behlaavas of Manzoor's son, although slightly off-beat at certain points, are reassuring as to the future of the party in his hands.

Aziz Mian Qawwal was probably the most unique voice in Qawwali over the past 40 years. Known as "Fauji Qawwal" in his early days on account of his blustery delivery and electric performance style. More akin to Waiz Qawwal of Lucknow than anyone else, Aziz Mian was an acquired taste. However his performance of the Qaul, taken from a 1979 EMI release, is enjoyable because of the beautiful orchestral accompaniment as well as the slow, elegant preamble that allows Aziz Mian to use a number of verses in place of a single doha. The Tarana is similar in style to Nusrat, but Aziz Mian's stamp is clear in the first recording below.

The Qaul forms the bedrock of not just Qawwali, but also occupies a central music in the sufi music of the sub-continent. Several non-Qawwal Sufi musicians have incorporated it in their repertoires. Abida Parveen - the doyenne of Pakistani Sufi singers - ,possesses a vast repertoire comprising Kaafis, Ghazals, Thumris and a number of other traditional pieces. She has performed the Qaul at the start of many of her performances. The recording below is taken from her performance at the Jahaan -e- Khusrau Festival in Delhi organized by Muzaffar Ali in 2006. Beginning with one of her trademark alaaps and a couple of girahs, she launches into a slow and elegant version of the Qaul which picks tempo during the tarana and builds up to an ecstatic series of improvisations, culminating in the 'Ali Maula' chant that is one of Abida's trademarks.

Finally I'd like to share two of my favorite interpretations of the Qaul. The first is from a concert at Alibhai Auditorium performed by the Sabri Brothers from 1980. The fact that it is a soundboard recording released by EMI accounts for it's exceptional fidelity and clarity. Haji Ghulam Fareed Sabri and Haji Maqbool Sabri are in fine mettle and the 'hamnavaas' provide exceptional accompaniement, both during the choruses and the taraana as well as on the tablaa and dholak. The beautiful modulated alaap by Haji Maqbool at the start of the piece provides an excellent taste of the brilliance to come, with a number of alaaps punctuating the initial part of the Qaul before reaching the tarana. At the tarana, the dholak kicks in with a thumping beat before both the brothers recite a number of charming girahs including a charming spoken-word translation of one of them by Haji Ghulam Fareed. This girah is then used to virtuosic effect by Haji Maqbool who weaves a number of astounding alaaps around it before seguing seamlessly into the tarana. And what a tarana ! Alaaps and behlaavas tumble over each other as the tempo picks up and the two brothers are accompanied by the tabla to beautiful effect.

The tarana leads to a beautiful chorus of 'Maula Ali Maula' before Haji Maqbool and Haji Ghulam Farid's beautiful rendition of another series of girahs, once again returning to a breakneck rendition of the tarana building up to an astonishing crescendo.

Most of the recordings above -as well as performances of the Qaul by other Qawwals - are performed in Raag Shudh Kalyaan or Shyaam Kalyaan. The final recording I'd like to share is by one of the greatest Qawwals of the last century, the late Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal. I aim to write a detailed post on him as part of this series but for the time being, his version of the Qaul is an excellent introduction to his work. It is in Raag Bhopali, as Fareedi sahab explains at the beginning, lending it a more regal and ponderous air. The chorus at the initial half of the Qaul oscillates as various parts of the verse are used for a series of beautiful takraars. The second half of the Qaul -namely the tarana- is again split into two parts with an almost hypnotic takraar on the 'ta na na na' portion. A number of alaaps follow before another takraar, this time based on the 'Ali Maula' phrase.

    This takraar serves as the framework for a number of beautiful girahs, culminating in the famous verse of Hazrat Bedam Shah Warsi(R.A)
             'بیدم یہی تو پانچ ہیں مقصود کائنات
خیر النسا، حسین و حسن،مصطفیٰ ،علی


This verse is next incorporated into a breathtaking, 'Haal' inducing takraar that is maintained at breakneck tempo by the hamnavaas. the takraar abruptly ends in a raag shift that is truly beautiful. The final 10-12 minutes of the recording find Fareedi sahab and his hamnavaas exploring a number of alaaps in Raag Desh and Jaijaiwanti, gradually leading to a slow end to the piece.

These were some of the recordings of the Qaul that I have in my collection. In sharing them, I've sought to illustrate the various performance styles of the pre-eminent Qawwals of the last century and the evolution and modifications this seminal piece of qawwali has undergone in the hands of various performers. The centrality of the Qaul in the sufi music repertoire can further be illustrated by its thousands of versions, performed by artists as diverse as Atif Aslam and the Brooklyn Qawwali Party. Serving as a direct link to the roots of Sufism and Sufi music in the sub-continent, the Qaul is a living, breathing monument that continues to thrive and evolve in the hands of countless musicians and serves as a constant tribute to the genius of it's creator, Amir Khusrau(R.A)

A Preamble Of Sorts

2010-09-06T15:26:00.000+05:00

Motivation - I daren't say inspiration - is often found in strange and unexpected places. It was after sitting in a hardback wooden chair doing absolutely, utterly nothing for 16 hours at a stretch everyday for three consecutive days that I finally decided that I needed to write something. Every three months or so, one of the house officers at my hospital is ordered to devote a weekend to a rather peculiar duty which , in essence , involves sitting in a 8x8 foot air-conditioned room in a chair for around 14-16 hours each day.

Boredom and backaches make for a rather morose weekend and it's up to the captive doctor to find means of distracting himself. My first day on duty was spent in the company of a pair of policemen who took my dazed and bored expression as an invitation to start recounting with obvious relish stories of the various murders they had investigated, taking special care to flesh out the rather graphic descriptions of the various crime scenes. Needless to say, I wasn't bored.

On the second day I'd gotten wise to the fact that I'd have to stop relying on long-winded coppers to keep me entertained. I had my iPod with me and spent 10 straight hours listening to the late Rasheed Ahmed Fareedi Qawwal (more on him later) while reading David Mitchell's astoundingly brilliant new novel. It was during this reading-listening marathon that I suddenly felt the urge to write. My urge hit a snag at the outset due to the fact that I didn't have anything to write on, namely no paper. This gave me ample time to think over what I needed to write and thus I'm at a peculiar position of having a series of four or five posts pretty near mapped out in my mind.

So it is that on this, the third and sadly, penultimate day of my semi-incarceration that I've brought with me ample supplies of paper so I can finally transmit the thought-up posts to the written page. And what I've decided to write about - maybe devote this whole month to - is something that has rather rapidly gained huge importance in my life, namely Qawwali.

I think it would be safe to say that Qawwali now ranks with Dylan and Wodehouse as an all-consuming obsession of mine. Listening to, gathering and sharing Qawwali recordings has become an important part of my routine and has led to friendships and acquaintance with a number of wonderful and well nigh extraordinary people over the last year and a half. It has also opened doors of a huge treasure trove of poetic, musical and mystical knowledge and appreciation. Over the course of the next few posts, I'll write about the various artists and performances that have left me spellbound and that have made Qawwali such an important piece of my life.

...Of Friends In Need

2010-08-25T17:33:00.001+05:00

The fact that I'm posted at CMH Lahore makes it almost impossible for me to physically participate in the ongoing efforts towards the relief and rehabilitation of the millions of people affected by the recent floods, however I've been trying to do my bit in terms of donations, liaison and coordination with some of the exceptional projects being undertaken by friends of mine. I don't think any of us need to be reminded about the scale of destruction and displacement caused by the floods. What needs to be highlighted is the work of lots of motivated and hardworking people who are spending time, money and an enormous amount of effort in trying to lessen the suffering of their fellow countrymen.

I feel great pride in the fact that many of my friends and acquaintances are actively participating in flood relief efforts in individual or collective capacities. I feel their work needs to be highlighted for the purposes of due recognition as well as awareness, so that others can chip in with financial or moral support and initiate or accelerate their own efforts towards easing the burden of the victims of the floods.

CMH Multan has established a Flood Relief Cell and doctors and nursing staff from the hospital are in the field, going to unreachable areas by helicopter and establishing medical camps. Some of my batchmates are at the various medical camps while others are in Multan coordinating the efforts. The news that filters in from them is both worrying and encouraging. In the face of an enormous number of difficulties, they are spending days upon days doing their best to ensure the maximum number of affectees recieve adequate medical attention. Good job Ammad, Javed, Waseem and Yasir.

My college, Army Medical College Rawalpindi has taken the unprecedented step of sending Final Year MBBS cadets to the relief camps set up by Pakistan Army in Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa as well as Southern Punjab and Sindh. These cadets are assisting doctors in providing medical and surgical facilities for the many people in the relief camps. In addition, all of the male and female doctors undergoing BMT in PMA and AFPGMI respectively have also been sent to Sindh and South Punjab for organizing and participating in medical camps and other relief activities. I must express my immense pride in AM College and many of my batchmates who make up the more than 100 strong team of doctors and medical students participating in flood relief. Goodshabash everyone, and may your endeavors meet with great success.

Another bunch of my friends and batchmates have joined Kumak Flood Relief Project in taking medical supplies for distribution in Mianwali. Doctors Taha, Tauqeer, Mustafa and Murtaza are currently in Mianwali, having taken time out of their jobs to treat those requiring medical attention in South Punjab.

The folks at Beaconhouse National University have also organized a concerted flood response program, with teams carrying supplies and medicines already having made their first trips to Muzaffargarh. They are busy gathering donations in cash and kind for further trips to Muzaffargarh and other affected areas. One of the most urgently needed items is mosquito repellent - Mospel and the like- which can save countless people from diseases such as Malaria and Dengue transmitted by mosquitoes. Bottles of Mospel can be dropped off at the Main Gate,Beaconhouse National University; 3 Zafar Ali Road, Lahore. Information about what and how to contribute can be had from their Facebook and Google Groups pages.

SEPLAA have started a number of initiatives for relief. One of them is trying to provide clean water for the flood victims. Its a project in which almost everyone living in Karachi and Lahore (and soon Islamabad/Rawalpindi) can participate. Used mineral water bottles, properly washed, cleaned and filled with filtered water can prove to be lifesavers in areas where contaminated water usage is leading to the spread of water-borne diseases like Gastroenteritis, Viral Hepatitis and most frighteningly, Cholera. Access to clean, safe water for drinking, cooking and cleaning can prove to be the difference between life and death for the millions of people in danger of becoming victims of water-borne epidemics. Washed and cleaned water bottles can be dropped off at the following places.

   DROP OFF POINTS IN KARACHI:

1- House No. 85A, JCHS, Off Tipu Sultan Road Karachi
2- The Second Floor (T2F); 10-C, Sunset Lane 5, Phase 2 Extension, DHA Karachi (3.30pm - midnight drop off timings at T2F)

   DROP OFF POINT IN LAHORE

23- B XX, Phase III, Commercial Area, Khayaban-e-Iqbal,
D.H.A., Lahore Cantt, Pakistan.

More information can be obtained from their Facebook page.

The British Council and FACES Pakistan have started a fundraising campaign for flood affectees and have figured out an ingenious way for citizens of Lahore to contribute. They've started a drive to collect "raddi"- old newspapers,books,paper,cardboard etc - that will later be sold to gather relief funds. Almost everyone has a stack of old newspapers,notebooks or books stacked away for throwing away or giving to the raddi-wala; in this case it can be used to save lives. Two relief trucks loaded with supplies have already been sent and more will be sent in the near future from the proceeds of this collection drive. Raddi and monetary contributions can be dropped off at:
   150 M Block
   Gulberg 3
   Lahore Further information on the Facebook page.

These are just some of the many remarkable projects that some of my friends and acquaintances are taking part in. Each represents the participants' intense desire to help their fellow Pakistanis and decrease the suffering of our brothers and sisters who have fallen victim to this unfortunate calamity of nature. All of these are deserving projects that need your help and support. Please feel free to contact any one of the projects mentioned above and play your part.

...Of An Alarming Change

2010-08-23T14:58:00.071+05:00

There are thought-out, worked-upon posts and then there is hack work to keep the juices flowing. This is probably the latter.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My weekends have changed.

In my five years in med-school, weekends were like pit-stops. We used to look forward to them, counting down the days and generally living a weekend-to-weekend existence. The whole work week was considered a tedious preamble to the really important stuff, namely the weekend.

Sunday was an almost hallowed day and I would go to great lengths to keep it that way. Saturday mornings at the college were spent dreaming up weekend escapades and any study or ward-duty was done grudgingly and with complete disinterestedness. Playing hookey (quite a dangerous exercise considering where I was studying) and trying to get home as early as possible was an accepted practice. Throughout my stay in med-school, I never stayed in the hostels for a weekend unless it was absolutely unavoidable, i.e there were exams or the weekend was -in official parlance- a closed weekend.

The fact that my family moved four times during the five years I was in hostel meant that going home on weekends was a rather tedious and,in hindsight, expensive task. Except for the two and a half years that the family was settled in Pindi , going home generally meant a taxi-cab from college to the bus station, a hundred kilometre bus ride, and another cab from the bus-station to home. This process was repeated in reverse less than 24 hours later for the return journey. This ensured that at least 8 of the possible 30 hours were spent traveling.

What I didn't realize or probably realized but didn't care about at the time was the obvious monetary cost of performing the same ritual week in week out in the face of rising fuel prices and bus fares. All in all, I may've spent in the neighborhood of 50-60000 rupees simply on traveling to and from home on weekends. But here's the thing; looking back I can safely say that the time spent away from the hostels was worth every penny.

Weekends at the hostel were usually mind-numbingly dull affairs with most of my dorm-mates either home or out about town and nothing but 8-10 hours of sleep to while away the time, waking from which I had to endure the hostel-food which descended to unthinkable levels of blandness on Saturdays and Sundays. An unhealthy gloom descended on me every time I knew I was going to have to spend a weekend in the hostels.

Weekends at home were a completely different story, with every hour utilized to its fullest. I wasn't (and still am not) a very sociable person in that I didn't make friends in whatever neighborhood we were living in at the time. Hence there weren't many social calls to pay. I usually stayed home, and if I went out at all it was probably to go to
a) a bookstore or,
b) the now deceased Sadaf CD Store

The lack of a social circle also meant that I could spend my time in catching up on my reading or writing, spending a few hours on earnest undisturbed study or painstakingly downloading the next week's supply of music (those were pre-broadband days). If there was nothing else to do, I'd spend hours upon hours in front of the telly, getting my money's worth out of the couch in the living room,oblivious to the world around me.

Sleep was strictly rationed to the bare minimum. I rarely slept more than 5 to 6 hours on weekends, preferring to sleep off all the fatigue on Sunday night when I was back in the hostel. Afternoon naps were eschewed even in the balmiest weather and it was usual for me to sleep at 4 in the morning and wake up 4 or 5 hours later.

That was then, this is now.

It's almost four months now since I started working on my house-job and there are precious few weekends left. Sundays are working days unless by a freak of nature my name is not on the weekend duty-roster. On the average, I get every sixth Sunday off, with a non-stop succession of workdays in between. Add to that thrice weekly night duties and I have my hands full most days of the month. I can't complain however. The workload isn't unbearable and the fact that I'm finally learning actively after years of passively imbibing knowledge means that I don't consider myself an overburdened drone.

I get around two to three evenings free every week, which is more than what I used to have in Med-school,especially during final year. It's the weekends that have dried up, and that's a tragedy of gargantuan levels. Still, things would be acceptable if the level of activity on those precious few weekends equaled if not exceeded the R&R of weekends past. If I could get a bit of reading, a bit of writing, a bit of listening and viewing done over the weekend, I'd be a happy man.

But the balance of R&R has swung from recreation to rest. Where once sleep was strictly rationed, it has now spread itself over the day to such an extent that I wake up on Sundays at the ungodly hour of twelve in the afternoon, most times only to grab a two to three hour nap in the afternoon. I've replaced Jeff 'The Dude' Lebowski the poster-boy for unshaven slacking. Downloaded music remains unlistened to, movies that were eagerly awaited and downloaded gather dust in the DVD rack and newest contents of my overburdened bookshelf go untouched for months. Most disturbingly, it's been almost three and a half months since I acquired a new car-my first car mind you- and I feel absolutely no urge to grab the keys and take it out for a spin and practice my driving on the only day I have time for it. The result is that even after 3 months of being a car-owner, my driving skills are cretinous at best.

This is an alarming situation and I'm worried over it. Strangely, worrying only makes me want to snooze even more. I can't put my finger on the cause of the blight that has descended on the holiest of days in my calendar. The only reason I can think of is that I unconsciously accumulate fatigue over the weeks and weeks of ceaseless work and the only time I have to unburden myself is a Sunday. Try as I might, I can't maintain the same levels of activity I used to produce in the preceding years. My friends and acquaintances ensure me that what I'm going through is actually a return to normalcy after years of what they consider fairly deviant behaviour. Weekends were meant for sleeping ,they say, congratulating me on the fact that I have finally seen the light.

The sad bit is that I slowly feel myself warming to their point of view.

...Of Empathy

2010-08-11T14:23:00.011+05:00

Do you know what I think? I think Pakistan is a "nazar-battu' for the rest of the world.

We're like a twisted international version of a voodoo doll that keeps getting pins and needles stuck into it in a (futile) attempt to ward the evil eye off of the rest of the world. Pin after pin after pin, Pakistan doesn't find its footing after one disaster before finding itself in the midst of another. I think it's time some other country took over this responsibility. We've had enough, thankyouverymuch.

I've always considered rains a blessing and I can't help but feel terribly guilty when I look back to all the ecstatic rain-related posts I've written.I think it was obvious from the outset that this year's monsoon was gonna be a big one. It wasn't hard to figure out that if it was raining solid sheets of water in Lahore, the monsoon up north would be a thousand times more intense.

I noticed something eerily interesting about the current situation. I remember that at the time of the October earthquake, the whole nation was shocked by the collapse of the Margalla Towers and the loss of life and property it caused. While the attention of the media and the rescue teams was focused on the tragedy in Islamabad, news slowly started trickling in from the north and everyone realized pretty soon that Margalla Towers were just the tip of the iceberg. In a few days it was clear that the scale of destruction was much larger than anybody had imagined.

Cue to 2010. The first inkling of the destructive power of this year's monsoon was the tragic AirBlue crash in Islamabad. Again, the nation was shocked and saddened at the worst aviation disaster in Pakistan's history. The rescue and relief efforts along with a (hysterical and immature) media focused on it while the monsoon continued to wreak havoc. Slowly but steadily, news started trickling in of incomprehensible destruction up North; flash foods that look like solid walls of water sweeping away completely unsuspecting victims, entire villages wiped out while the inhabitants slept and in some cases, people forced to abandon sleeping family members behind in emergency night-time evacuations.

There are a lot of similarities between this disaster and the earthquake but there is also one crucial difference. Remember how the morning after the October earthquake, when the scale of the tragedy had started becoming apparent, the general mood of the public suddenly changed. Encouraged by an exemplary media campaign, ordinary people sprang into action and started the greatest fund-raising and relief operation in Pakistan's history. Aid appeals went out to the general public and relief started pouring in. Granted we had scumbags and carpetbaggers and profiteers aplenty, this is Pakistan after all, but on the whole the national response to the disaster affectees was one of compassion and benevolence.

As I drive around Lahore this time around, I get a heart-sinking feeling on seeing all the relief collection camps by the roadside semi-deserted. The television channels that were once at the forefront of the disaster response are busy making surreal soap-operas of their personal vendettas with the government.All around, I can sense a general feeling of - I would be loth to call it indifference- apathy where once sympathy and empathy existed. The international response to our disaster has also been lackluster, especially when compared to the response to the earthquake or natural disasters elsewhere, but that's understandable. We've become an international example of the "Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf". We've begged and pleaded for so long that when the actual moment of need came, nobody's willing to spare a dime.

But it's an alarming change of mood at the national level, especially when we compare the scale of the current disaster with the previous one. The loss of life in the earthquake was on an almost biblical scale, but compared to the current floods, the area of destruction and the amount of direct and indirect devastation was relatively limited. As Kamila Shamsie wrote the other day, the fact that the floods have affected such a wide geographical swathe has acted as a (perverse) unifying factor for Pakistan. As this graphic shows, the trail of destruction cuts right through Pakistan, with no province escaping unscathed.

It's not hard to see the causes for what some observers are calling "Empathy Fatigue" in the Pakistani public. As Dylan says, Pakistan has seen ' a lotta water under the bridge, lotta other stuff too'. Apart from the obvious political and economic realities of the past five years (which I will not go into for obvious reasons), the nation has been through a lot. The cynical insensitivity and resignation that I wrote about has affected almost everyone to varying degrees. The constant stream of bad news has slowly eroded our ability to
approach anything with hope or optimism. For a while I've been thinking that we've slowly turned into a twisted south-Asian version of the post-apocalyptic dystopia in Masked And Anonymous .

There are signs of a public response to the disaster, but they're too slow and too few when compared to what's needed. Maybe there'll be a snow-ball effect but for now, it's too little. I only hope it doesn't prove to be too late.

P.S Want to help, here's some links.

Al-Khidmat Foundation
Edhi Foundation
Sungi Development Foundation
Pakistan Red Crescent Society
Pakistani Youth
Islamic Relief USA
Various other organizations

P.P.S , Two weeks ago, I attended TEDxLahore and one of the many brilliant ideas I came across was the use of Google Maps to help in aid and humanitarian efforts. Here's a brilliant example of an idea put to work. Missing person information entered through this app can be plotted in real time on Google Maps, helping NGOs and government agencies in rehabilitating missing people. All that's needed is awareness about it's potential.

...Of A Pilgrimage

2010-07-24T13:14:00.002+05:00

This Sunday I went here

From the outside, it may look like just another shop in a random Pakistani market but in terms of folk music in Punjab in general and Sufi music in particular, Rehmat Gramophone House in Faisalabad is Pakistan's answer to the Abbey Road studios. For me as for many other Pakistani music geeks, RGH is an almost mythical place.

Nusrat cut his first records here, his father recorded some of his last. Attaullah Khan Essakhelvi's journey from unknown performer to the darling of truck drivers all over Pakistan started here. Allahditta Loonaywala was a circus singer before he came to RGH to record. Alam Lohar, Inayat Hussain Bhatti, Zahida Parveen, Reshman, Pathanay Khan, Saeen Zahoor...everybody recorded at RGH. Their archives probably contain more Punjabi folk cultural artifacts than anywhere else in the world.

I had been planning to go to RGH for a while now but due to the unpredictable ward-duties timetable that's the bane of a House-Officer, most of my weekends were spent in the wards. This time though, I specifically requested the powers-that-be to give me a day off so I could go to Faisalabad and finally see the place. Thankully, I got the weekend and on Sunday, I left Lahore for Faisalabad at 9.30 in the morning.

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I consider my phone my Swiss Army knife, and the most potent and useful app in my phone is Google Maps. I can't count the number of times it has saved me from the consequences of my terrible sense of direction. Google Maps made Islamabad and Lahore navigable for me, it took me to my Powergliding trip and now it got me right to RGH Faisalabad from my place in Lahore without ONCE having to stop and ask for directions. In short, Google Maps gets the coveted Official Seal Of Awesomeness

I can say for a fact that I loved Faisalabad, especially the whole 'Ghanta-ghar and Gol Bazar' area. Anarkali in Lahore used to be an interesting place, with bookstores, music shops, people selling trinkets, herbal medicines and the like. But now it's just one huge clothes market. Thankfully, the Gol Bazar in Faisalabad has retained its diversity and you find phoolon ke haar sellers right next to multinational banks, and from what I saw, each doing a roaring trade.

I took a deep breath once I entered Rehmat Gramophone House and I was immediately floored; if old books smell an 8 on the awesomeness scale, old records smell an 11 !! Granted there aren't many vinyls at the shop, but they've still got enough to give me an odour-gasm. I had talked to one of the people at RGH a day earlier and they were expecting me. Before I started to give a look and listen to the qawwali recordings I wanted, I asked them to let me wander around the place a bit. RGH is like a museum and it was an experience just looking at the millions of cassettes on the shelves and imagining the treasures they contained. I thought the gentleman in the photograph in the store was the late supernaturally brilliant Agha Rasheed Fareedi Qawwal, but it turned out to be that of the founder of RGH, Chaudhry Rehmat Ali.

My already huge respect for the musical tastes of the people of Faisalabad increased as I noticed that RGH is almost always full of customers. People are regularly coming in with names of Qawwalis or folk-songs written on slips of paper that the staff take a look at and immediately find for them. I didn't see a single customer turned away because they didn't have the recording he wanted.

After my tour was done I requested them to let me see the tapes I had asked them for, the staff bustled off to underground vaults and returned bearing huge boxes filled with cassette tapes, (something that reminded me partly of Gringotts obviously, but also of a brilliant Bill Bailey spiel about the Argos stores). They had the stuff alright, and giving every cassette a whirl on their stereo cleared any doubts about the sound quality (something I'm very finicky about, knowing the hours that go into cleaning a muddy recording) Once I had expressed my satisfaction with the 10 odd cassettes that I'd ordered, I started looking around for other rarer artists that I didn't really expect them to have.

Suffice to say, they had 'em. They opened up their old recording ledgers and let me look at the various artists and recording dates and when I'd picked one, the store staff would go and retrieve the master-tapes to make me a copy. I spent 3 hours there, exploring, listening to and discussing music with possibly the most knowledgeable and accommodating people I've met. In the end, I left with 7 recordings and they promised to parcel me the rest after they'd made copies from the master-tapes. The rest of my stash arrived today and although I know it'll be a long hard slog digitizing and editing these recordings, I'm terribly, terribly happy.

(RGH photos courtesy Sohail Abid)

...Of Rains And Raindances

2010-07-21T08:31:00.004+05:00

The heavens have been merciful these past two days. After one or two false alarms, the monsoon is finally, officially here in Lahore. The terrible heatwave appeared to have ended 5 days ago when a shower of utterly biblical proportions descended on Lahore. I was reminded of the early monsoon showers we used to have in Pindi 7-8 years ago where the rain would fall in bucketloads and it would be hard to differentiate individual raindrops in what seemed like a solid wall of water.

5 days ago was my first monsoon shower in Lahore, and it was perfect,thankyouverymuch. I was in the operation theatre that day and when the rain started, all work stopped. One of our surgeons was so overwhelmed by the weather that he called it an early day and went home to, in his words, "Pakoras and the lady wife". In between operations, I kept sneaking outside to just stand and soak for 2 or 3 minutes, and I wasn't the only one. I was informed that this was the first 'pwopah' monsoon shower Lahore had had in a year and a half, hence the excitement. A healthy 4 hours it rained, after which the clouds took their time disappearing.

I had thought that here at last was the belated start of the rainy season and that there'd be similar showers every alternate day from now on. Having been spoiled by Pindi weather for 5 years, I expected monsoons to be week-long affairs without interruptions. But I should've known that Lahore prefers its rains scattered, with at least 3-4 days of mind-numbing humidity to calm the happy populace down. The three day humidity break more than dampened my enthusiasm for the weather.

But yesterday, awesomeness returned to Lahore. Slowly at first, the drizzle turned to a steady shower and then to a downpour. For 5 hours it constantly rained, and although I was stuck in the clinics seeing patients, I couldn't help but excuse myself every half an hour to stand outside and take in the weather. And it didn't stop there. I was grumbling over the fact that I had night duty in such perfect weather, but I needn't have worried. Just as my night shift was ending, lo and behold, it started raining again. It's been raining for the last 3 hours now, and the roads, parks and open spaces are utterly inundated.

I know there'll be a further bout of humidity when this rain passes, I'm hearing news of rain-related accidents and injuries and I know the water-borne bacteria will have a field-day for the next week or two, but I'd be unfair to myself if I didn't go out and enjoy this perfect perfect weather.

If there's anything that can make the rain even more awesome, it's this.

And if you think Gene Kelly looked happy in that one, take a look at this. The 3 Tenors take on Singin' In The Rain in one of their NYC concerts and the smile on Gene's face is utterly priceless.

Book Of The Week, "The Lost world Of Hindustani Classical Music"

Music Of The Week, The incredible treasure-trove I've found, which merits it's own post.

...Of Death

2010-07-09T15:34:00.000+05:00

Long ago, when the number of people I held dear who had either died or been injured in the almost daily acts of terrorism all over Pakistan became one too many, a hard-edged,cynical resignation overcame me.

When I was very young, I had tried to make sense of why people would want to murder someone who was not only innocent but the very antithesis of violence. I had tried to get my head around the assassinations of Hakeem Muhammad Saeed sahab and Prof. Ghulam Murtaza Malik among countless others. But the five traumatic years that I spent in Rawalpindi finally made me give up the futile effort. Literally every other week, there was a blast within two miles of where I lived. Me and most of my hostel-mates gradually got so insensate that we'd be nonchalantly prepping for our exams amid sounds of gunshots and explosions, popping off to the TV room every 5 or 6 hours to "catch up on the carnage" as it were. The focus shifted from whether there was any loss of life in the most recent incident to whether our exams would be delayed or, even more inanely, would we be allowed to leave the hostel for a night on the town or would the hostel gates be closed because of security reasons and we'd have to take a more, ahem, circuitous route.

I think it's come naturally to me, this cold, indifferent attitude towards death. And it has been augmented, if anything, by my training as a medical student .I've been taught from the first day to think of death as a natural occurrence to be delayed as long as possible, anticipated, prepared for and then forgotten before getting on to the next delay-anticipate-prepare-forget cycle. This fits in perfectly with my attitude towards most of the things that I find troubling.

Lately I've begun to wonder if this strange apathy has been with me from the start, or have I gradually immured my senses. The first death that registers in my memory is that of a childhood friend. 'M' was a hockey player, which is saying something considering he was in 2nd grade. Our school was right next to the train tracks and he lived on the wrong side. I have many memories from back then and one of the most vivid is getting to school and just after the morning assembly, hearing the news that M had been run over by a train. Apparently a strap from his schoolbag had gotten struck in the tracks as he was crossing them and he couldn't disentangle himself in time.

Then there was 'A' in Sargodha who had a congenital renal disease that meant he couldn't come out to play very often and the only explanation his mum used to give us was,"Beta, 'A' beemaar hai." A year or two after we had moved to a new city,dad called up his father to ask how 'A' was doing, he got the shocking news that 'A' had passed away the previous month from complications of his condition.

Both these people had been more than mere acquaintances, being pretty central in my (even then) limited social circle, but I don't remember anything more than a passing sense of shock and a day or two of brooding before I'd relegated their passing to the very back of my mind.

Lots of my relatives have died over the years, from obscure distant relations to people very close to me, and apart from only one occasion,I don't remember myself shedding any tears or going into a phase of depressive remembrance. Such behaviour isn't completely strange because in the rural surroundings that I grew up in, a death and it's subsequent rituals are especially designed to distract (at least the male members of the family) from grief and the act of grieving.

In villages the paraphernalia of death serve as a great emotional buffer. The services aren't restricted to the funeral and the burial or even the 'Qul'. They may involve the 'Saata'(7th day), the 'Gyaarvanh'|(11th day), the 'Ikeevanh'(21st day) or the 'Chaleeyah'(40th day) depending on how long the local custom and the financial situation permit. These forty days aren't spent in ceaseless mourning, at least not by the deceased's next of kin. The formalities and rituals of death, from the thrice daily khaana peena with it's own peculiar rules about when to serve what to whom, to the management of the 'satthar' and the 'mukaan' where the men and women respectively are seated, to the 'bhaajis' and 'manjis' and what not, ultimately serve to help the bereaved family find closure gradually. They also provide the family's extremely reluctant youngsters ample opportunities to be trained in what my father calls 'the real life'.

Of course there is genuine expression of grief, with histrionics and screams and sobs and highly stylized 'baains' that may look very distressing to the casual observer but are essential in providing emotional release, especially to the female mourners. A quiet period of mourning just isn't consistent with our culture and these wails and cries are almost essential. As Munir Niazi sahab said,

رونقیں ہیں موت کی

یہ بین کرتی عورتیں

It's been two months since I've started my house-job, and almost every other day I see patients who are dying. Around half a dozen have died natural deaths on my watch. Death on the wards has it's rituals too. With each, there's a decision on whether to resuscitate or not, followed by the medical confirmation of death, the ahnding over of the dead body and the official paperwork. If I were to be a tad more emotionally affected by it, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do my job properly. I've seen plenty of new doctors overcome by the sheer emotional shock of a person dying in front of them. And in all these cases the judgement gets clouded, the reflexes get sluggish and professional integrity is compromised.

Maybe this clinical hardheartedness of mine isn't such a bad thing after all.