Poet of Madanpura’s mill workers

A stamp was issued in his honour recently, but Mumbai seems to have forgotten Majaaz, writes Taran N Khan

Young Asrar ul Haq Majaaz’s Urdu verses made him such a heartthrob on the Aligarh Muslim University campus that groups of girls drew lots to decide who would marry him.

Some of them slept with his name under their pillows. Those who had no hope of a union with the brilliant poet vowed to at least name their sons Majaaz. It is not known how many finally did follow through on their vows, but history hasn’t managed to produce another poet like Majaaz (1911-1955).

That is probably what motivated the Department of Posts to issue a commemorative stamp in his honour recently, an event that passed by without so much as ripple in Mumbai — which is ironic since the city can lay claim to at least some of his angst, and hence his verses.

It is a little known fact that Majaaz spent part of his life in Bombay, reciting verses for its mill workers in Madanpura. Somewhere along the way, he is supposed to have penned these lines, from a poem titled ‘Awara’:

Shahar ki raat aur main nashaad-o-nakaara phirun / Jagmagaati-jaagti sadkon pe awara phirun / Ghair ki basti mein kabtak dar-ba-dar maara phirun / Aye gham-e-dil kya karun, Aye vahshat-e-dil kya karun

(Through the city night, I walk grief-struck and aimless / On these bright, wide-awake roads I stroll without a home / How many doors do I knock on in this city of strangers? / O my heart’s grief, what shall I do? O my heart’s turmoil, what shall I do?)

This could be the unofficial anthem of the much-reviled ‘outsiders’ of Mumbai. “It was only after I stepped into Mumbai city that I truly understood the poem ‘Awara’, wrote Marathi writer Madhav Maholkar.

The connection between the poem and the city was further strengthened by Shammi Kapoor walking the streets of Bombay, singing these verses in the mellow voice of Talat Mehmood, in the film Thokar.

There is more than a touch of cinematic tragedy to Majaaz’s brief life. Born into an affluent family in Rudauli, Barabanki, his first collection of poems, Aahang (1938), established him as a rising star in literary circles.

His verses fused the romantic tradition of Urdu poetry with the revolutionary impulse of the times. He saw women not as objects of romantic fantasy but as a hamsafar, an equal traveler on the road:

Tere maathe pe yeh anchal bahut hi khoob hai lekin / tu is aanchal se ek parcham bana leti to achchha tha.

(The veil on your forehead is very beautiful but / It would be better if you turned this veil into a flag) / These ideas eventually coalesced into the Progressive Writers Movement which reached its zenith in Bombay. Through the 1940s, the streets of the city were thick with idealistic poets. Some came to work for the communist party. Others were drawn by the talkies.

Unlike his compatriots, though, Majaaz never made Mumbai his home. But drawn by the presence of friends as well as employment prospects, he visited the city intermittently.

During the day, he would do the rounds of the film studios, chafing at being treated as an unknown. In the evenings, he would delight the audience at the mazdoor mushairas in Madanpura.

Maholkar quotes an incident from Josh Malihabadi’s autobiography to show how Majaaz never really took to the ways of Bombay’s film circles. Majaaz and Sahir (Ludhianvi) went to see a producer for work on a film called Hoor-E-Arab (The Arabian Beauty).

It was a hot summer afternoon and the poets were kept waiting outside the producer’s air-conditioned cabin while his paramour went in. Majaaz was extremely upset by this treatment. An acquaintance appeared and asked why it was taking so long to see the director. “Because,” Majaaz retorted, “the hoor is inside, and we are out here, sweltering in the sands of Arabia.”

During his Bombay visits, Majaaz often stayed in the Party commune on Walkeshwar Road. SM Mehdi, a party worker and commune resident, recalls that one day Majaaz approached them with a complaint: someone had stolen the Rs500 he had received as payment for some writing work.

The embarrassed hosts made enquiries. It turned out that Majaaz had spent the previous evening at the local bar. He had, in a characteristic gesture, given the money as a tip to the bearer and then forgotten all about it.

This was 1946-47. By then, Majaaz’s life had moved through a downward spiral, brought on by a doomed romance, alcoholism and depression. It was also the time when the dream of independence had soured in the violence of Partition.

“Once”, says Mehdi, “while we were at the party office, a riot broke out on the street. Majaaz, looking out from the roof, saw a Pathan being knifed to death by a mob. The sight made him hysterical with grief. We just couldn’t calm him down.

Finally, we started reciting verses.” As the young poets worked their way through couplets, their neighbour came running up. “Are you crazy”, he shouted, “Reading Urdu words when there is a mob outside? Do you want everyone to know there are Muslims in the Party office?”

Majaaz died at the age of 44 in Lucknow, after a group of friends left him alone in a tavern on a freezing winter night. At the end of a tumultuous life, he left only three volumes of poetry: Aahang (1938), Shab-e-Taab (1945) and Saaz-e-Nau (1945). But his influence is far wider than is suggested by this slim legacy, and his voice has found resonance across the years.

In the recent film, Khoya Khoya Chand, lyricist Swanand Kirkire pays him oblique tribute by paraphrasing verses from ‘Awara’. Ironically, the poem that has come to represent Majaaz’s vision of Bombay was apparently written before he visited the city. Nevertheless, it speaks of a city of light, lost dreams, and a restless spirit.

Even if it was written in Lucknow, the image has enough of Mumbai to be claimed by the city as its own.  k_taran@dnaindia.net