It was raining since morning. I had walked home from school drenched and, having eaten my lunch, was lying on the charpoy under the thatched roof of our railway quarter in Tiger Pass, Chittagong. I loved the rain. The man at the small tea house in Deevan Haat across the railway tracks put the record on his gramophone and K.L. Saigol’s voice drifted in with the rain –
“Aye katib-e-taqdir mujhe itna bata de, keon mujh se khafa hai tu, kya maene kia hai.” A strange sensation – was it eleation, or sadness – came over me. In the three minutes the song was over. I felt lost and overwhelmed and was not interested in the next song. So I went out and walked in the rain.
After fifty years I still sing this song.
Those were the good old days of rapturous film music. Songs composed by Punkaj Mullick, R.C. Boral, Anil Biswas, Naushad, Shayam Sunder, Ghulam Haider, Khemchand Parakash, S.D. Burman and others, and sung by K.L. Saigol, Punkaj, Jugmohan, Hemant Kumar, Khursid, Shamshad Begum, Lata Mangeshkar, Kanan Bala, Talat Mahmood, Muhammad Rafi, Manna Day, Noor Jahan and Mukesh were so much a part of our lives. Today, in the twenty first century, these good old songs still touch the strings of the heart. Isn’t it strange that none of these composers and singers could be replaced by anyone seen remotely coming at par with them in melodic creativity and tenderness?
We came to Karachi in 1950. There was no gramophone in the house and the only time we could hear a song was when the radio was switched on. Soon I was on my own. I walked the streets of Karachi and made new friends. For the first time in my life I went to a music programme where M. Kalim sang a number of K.L. Saigol’s songs. I had heard those songs in Chittagong – where the clouds came over dark and thick and brought torrential rain. Days rolled by. The musical experience unfolded – layer by layer – and it was a journey into ecstasy! On the amateur stage of Karachi were singers such as Rahat Ghaznavi, Ahmed Rushdi, Ishoo Jagiradar, Deborah Daniel, Madhu Almas, Pervez Dastur, Dinaz Minwalla, Latif Kapadia, S.B. John, Patloo Sisters, M. Kaleem, Habib Wali Muhammad and others. They drew large crowds and people heard them with attention. On a higher pedestal were Mehdi Hasan, Iqbal Bano, Farida Khanum, etc. They enthralled the audience. Bulbul Chaudhry, his wife Firoza and Ghanshyam taught classical dance at the well-attended art schools run by them. Karachi bubbled with musical passion and people hummed and smiled a lot. Artistes from across the border came over frequently. Life in other cities of the country, particularly Lahore, was equally joyous and full of cultural energy. We were far from anxiety and fear. Memorable film music was being composed by Feroz Nizami, Master Inayat, Ghulam haider, Rasheed Attre, Khursheed Anwar and other. (Paayal mein geet hain cham cham ke and Ulfat ki nai manzil ko chal aa are reminiscent of that time). I was now a somewhat serious listener. I recognized a few raags and qualified for an occasional invitation to enter studio 9 of Radio Pakistan, Karachi and sit respectfully in a corner. A beautiful new world opened up before me. There it was – the galaxy! Ustad Bundoo Khan, Ustad Habib Ali Khan, Ustad Zahoor Khan, Ustad Nathoo Khan, Ustad Macchoo Khan, Ustad Umeed Ali Khan, Ustad Manzoor Ali Khan, Ustad Ramzan Khan, Ustad Kabeer Khan, Ustad Asad Ali Khan, Ustad Umrao Khan, Ustad Nazar Hussain, Ustad Allah Ditta, Ustad Shahamat Khan, Habib Uddin Khan … They sang and played exhilarating music and they had calm and attentive listeners in front of them – bureaucrats, businessmen, elite of the town, students, ordinary citizens like me.
What, then, went wrong? When I ponder over it, it is difficult to point the accusing finger at any single person or incident. I suppose the downfall of classical music in this country has been brought about through a sustained and collective effort! I may be wrong, but if we divide the fifty years of Pakistan into different periods, the following picture emerges.
From 1947 to 1958 we witness the comings and goings of a number of civilian governments in our country. During this period our musicians, though still recovering from the trauma of migration, are young, full of hope and in great riaz (practice). They are making their presence felt in the challenging environment of the newly acquired Motherland. Ayub Khan declares martial law in 1958. After seven years India and Pakistan go to was. Indian films are banned in Pakistan. From now on artistes would have to obtain NOC to visit the country. In this period (1968) we also witness the setting up of a “standing committee on art and culture” by Mr. Qudratullah Shahab, Education Secretary of the Government of Pakistan. Why was this necessary? And what were the Terms of Reference of the Committee?
In 1969 another General takes over. The two countries (India and Pakistan) fight once again. The conflict is bloodier this time and East Pakistan becomes Bangladesh. Pakistani artistes, Shahnaz Begum, Firdausi, Runa Laila, Deboo Bhattacharia, Firoza Bulbul and others become “foreigners” overnight. Once again NOCs and visas are required to perform a common art. I fell, this was the time when the creative vivacity of our musicians turned into despair and bitterness. Our poor performer had also become antiquated by this time. He had lost a few teeth that would make him not “quite presentable” on the magic screen – television! Previously, the tea rooms in radio stations hummed with animated discussions on the eligibility or otherwise of a particular sur in a particular raag; now our friends sat in the deserted tea room, bored and dejected, and cursed their fate. They remembered their well known gharanas and lamented the lack of knowledge and sensitivity on the part of the so-called elite of the city for classical music. In 1971 Mr. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto takes over from Yahya Khan. A new breed of babus and bureaucrats replace the hundreds of sacked babus and bureaucrats. We now watch an enthusiastic (and needless) patronage of folk music on television and radio. No one tells the policy makers that fold music does not need any sarkari sarparasti since it is like a khudrau pauda which thrives in its natural environment. On the other had, classical music being a delicate and fastidious art, neesds official patronage.
ZAB’s innings are over in 1977 and the great Champion of the Faith enters the arena. He has his eye on Pakistani culture as well. He sets up a “Committee of Noted intellectuals” to recommend to him what should be the culture of the Islamic republic!.
The committee assiduously suggests that classical music, dance and sculpture are repugnant to Islamic culture! The electronic media, the most loyal slave of the establishment, promptly puts classical music on the back burner. We witness pathetic scenes in the corridors of radio and TV stations where noted singers and instrumentalists run after petty producers for programmes on radio and TV.
It may be noted that this is the period when most of our Ustads die of heart failure. With the passing way of the Grand Masters, a number of major classical instruments such as Vichtr-Veena, Sarod, Shahnai and Sarangi become almost extinct in Pakistan. It is not yet over. After eleven years, democracy comes to Pakistan and we now have to watch the “performance” of our two “popularly elected” Prime ministers. For ten years! Neither of them have any truck with something as subtle and sensitive as classical music. Obviously, they do not believe in rooh ki ghaza dn it never occurs to them, or to their Ministers of Culture, that the indigenous fine art of classical music must also survive for the enrichment of Pakistani society. Government policies on arts and culture remain the same as in the days of General Zia and others. But an needs music, whether you like it or not! If there if famine and bread is not availale, you eat grass. Water too makes its own course. A new crop of long-haired, hip-swinging, guitar strumming performers take to the musical stage of Pakistan. They have a field day. They succeed in creating a market for their product and provide the much needed entertainment to a thirsty populace. The excited TV producers, most of them with no education in classical music, find themselves in a lot more charming company than the toothless Ustads. They go all out to patronize pop art and turn the young performers into celebrities overnight. To add insult to injury, some TV programme presenters deliberately give shabby treatment to the fortnightly raag rung programme – not introducing the artist properly, not announcing the raag which is being presented, not mentioning the structures of the composition and accompanying rhythm, pacing the programme at the odd hour of 11:30 p.m. or midnight, (when most of the viewers have already called it a day and gone to bed), winding up the telecast in the middle of the performance and so forth. The indifference towards things too fine and arty by dictatorial regimes (which believe in regimentation rather than free expression) is understandable. But in a democratic dispensation, with freedom of expression guaranteed, the situation should have been made more conducive for the old culture. There is no doubt a semblance of state patronage in the shape of rewards and awards given on 23rd Marach. But again, I can cite many eminent names, such as sitarnawaz Ustad Imdad Khan, Ustad Wilayat Ali Khan, saranginawaz Ustad Hamid Husain Khan, tablanawaz Ustad Khurshid Khan, Ustad Asad Ali Khan and others who were never considered worthy of receiving the Pride of performance Award!
The insensitivity of the affluent private sector is also remarkable. While in the neighboring country hundreds of music institutions are funded by the private sector, in Pakistan not a single music school has ever been established by this section of Pakistani society. Let me conclude my lamentation with a quotation from Tagore: “Music and fine arts are the best media of national self-expression. The country which does not have its own music or arts remains inarticulate forever.”
