It is 5.30am on Saturday. My alarm goes off.
“Why wake up at 5.30am on a Saturday?”, I ask myself,
half asleep. I know I must have set the alarm for a 5.30am wake-up. But I don’t
quite know where I am, or what date it is. I had slept well, which is already a
good omen.
I have been sleeping quite badly lately. It is good to know
that I do not need to consult my recently acquired Garmin Vivoactive to know I
had slept well.
For the last six weeks or so, since I had procured this
watch, I felt that it had been trying to control my
life. There were nights when I felt I had slept fitfully, and the watch would
give me a “sleep score” of 30 on 100! There were nights when I would have slept
incredibly badly, and the watch would give me a sleep score of 80/100!
Not this morning, though. I felt refreshed. I knew I had
slept well. I didn’t need my “sleep score”.
It took me a full minute to realize why I had set the alarm
for 5.30am on a Saturday morning.
I had to listen to Pakistan Global Radio (PGR).
******
Over the last few years, I have been active
on an online singing social app called Smule.
I was recently in Hyderabad on a work trip and met up with
Prashant DP – we refer to him as PDP. I was on my way, ‘back home’ and PDP, who lives in Chennai, was on a work trip to Hyderabad. PDP and I could meet only at the Hyderabad International Airport.
As we sipped beer at one of the bars in the Hyderabad
airport forecourt, we talked about many things: Smule was one of the things we discussed. The
very next day, PDP wrote beautifully about his singing demons/inhibitions. In
this essay, he talks about his meeting with me and explains Smule in a much
better way than I can:
“Smule is a platform that
allows people to create music socially, where each user sings one part of a
song and leaves the other part open for anyone else to join in and complete.
The app gives you accompaniment in the background, like a karaoke machine
would, and you are expected to belt it out.”
For me, Smule is an avenue – a platform – where I can lose
myself every day for an hour or so. I thrust my underdeveloped and somewhat
inadequate singing skills on a few unsuspecting souls who “follow” me on that
app.
I sing. I like singing. I like the feeling of liberation and
the discharge of energies. I want to sing songs that set me free. Somewhat naturally, I am drawn to Sufi music.
Over the years, I have sung a lot of Sufi music on Smule. A
few years ago, perhaps after listening to me torture people with my Sufi kalaam-s,
I got invited by a Smule ID/handle called “Pakistan Global Community (PGC)” to
sing for them.
I now sing regularly for PGC. A few “invites” later, I get
invited to, and become a part of the PGC online group on a
chat platform called LINE, where we talk about music and more…. And we sing mostly Pakistani Ghazals, Pakistani Coke Studio songs, and Sufi music.
******
Pakistan Global Radio (PGR) was relaunched last month. PGR
is an online radio platform that features songs sung on PGC by its (mostly)
amateur singers. Once a month, for a few hours, the PGR plays a few songs sung
on PGC by amateur singers who are invited to perform.
And this morning was the second episode of the re-launched
PGR.
And that is why I had set the alarm for 5.30am.
I reach for my phone find the Zeno Radio app and start
listening to the show.
I also know I must get changed into my lycra to start cycling, another Saturday ritual. But the start of cycling can wait this morning.
I must first listen to PGR.
As I tune in, the two radio hosts are winding up the previous segment.
The hosts speak in chaste Urdu. Their language is pure and
rolls off their respective tongues with comfortable ease. They speak musically.
Their words dance to an unhurried, languid cadence. They use some words in Urdu
that I have not heard before. And yet, they speak like it is all an integral
part of their day-to-day lexicon. I wish I had the leisurely, unhurried, and
loquacious command over the colorful and expressive language they seem to possess. Their idiom is chaste, and their pronunciation (talafuzz) is simultaneously
intense and precise as it is magically charming.
The male host, in dulcet tones then poses a “Who am I?” quiz
to listeners.
“I was born in 1941 in Mirpur and started singing in
1962. In 1964 I had a super hit song called ‘Tange Wala Khair Mangda’…,”
the male RJ continues in pleasing 'made for radio' tones. But I
stop listening to the clues. I don’t need to. I am only half awake, but I know the
answer to this “Who am I?”, is Masood Rana.
I drift in and out of sleep.
And then suddenly, the RJs announce a song by a young 9-year-old
called Sampoorna.
The song starts off with a short passage on the santoor. The initial swar progressions on the santoor establish raag ragesri in my mind. Even that short burst sounds lovely, and I am drawn in. Then, I hear two nishad-s and rule out ragesri; it is more khamaj, the parent thaat from which ragesri is derived. Let’s call this ragesri-khamaj for now, shall we?
I am already hooked.
I listen intently. Young Sampoorna's voice is fresh and innocent. I am fully awake. Yesterday’s fog lifted almost immediately. The morning felt pure. There was something fresh and new about this voice. There was an innocence to this voice. It was like dew, and it hung in the air. Fresh. Inviting. Rejuvenating.
Nine-year-old Sampoorna sings Abida Parveen’s
“nahin nigahein mein manzil”.
Abida Parveen is daunting even for an accomplished singer to
attempt and here was a nine-year-old acing it. There are difficult modulations
in the Sufi kalaam. But young Sampoorna handles each of these like a
professional.
You cannot sing like this without utmost devotion to the
craft. Clearly, Sampoorna is talented; but talent, while necessary, is not
sufficient. Sampoorna has studied Abida Parveen’s music with devotion, fervor,
dedication, and perseverance.
I was suddenly filled with positive energy. And then, the
tears started flowing.
The lyrics hit me.
I have listened to a lot of Abida Parveen’s magic, but I had
never heard this song before.
And I didn’t need to reach for a lyrics site to know that
this was Faiz…
******
This happens to me all the time. I am so heavily invested in
the melodic progressions and in the grammar of the music and rhythm, that I
sometimes hardly notice the lyrics. The lyric is almost an adjunct, a
supplement and an appendix for me in most songs. The lyrics are necessary for
the song to form, exist, and come into shape. But the melodic progressions are
what I hear most. The grammar of the music matters to me. The notes that make
up the melody and the progressions are the scaffolds that hold it all together
for me.
Apart from a predilection, a bias, or preference, the
dominance and primacy that I place on the melody and tempo of a song allows me
to connect with, for example, songs from Mali or Senegal. I can engage with the
music of Africa or South America even though I do not understand the language.
A violin passage, a guitar riff, a catchy bass line, a
complex drum roll, or a santoor passage – as in the case of “nahin nigahein
mein” – are enough to hook me in.
Music engages both hemispheres of our brain. The human brain processes speech and cadence/tempo data using its left hemisphere and uses the right hemisphere for processing frequencies. There is therefore a coming together of the entire mind when we engage with music.
However, when I listen to music,
it is almost as though I need the left hemisphere of my brain to only process
cadence, tempo, and rhythm.
But then, when I hear Faiz’s words, I know immediately that there is a harmonious balance. I hear the words too.
It is nearly impossible to destroy Faiz’s poetry.
Even with a somewhat ordinary and simple melody, Faiz’s words
will always shine through.
So, when I hear Sampoorna, I feel inspired and enriched. I
was listening to a young singer who had infused me with energy, excitement, and
hope on a Saturday morning. I was listening to a young aspiring musician re-interpret an Abida
Parveen creation. The presentation was considered, measured, thoughtful, erudite, and studious – even scholarly. Her rendition was also dutifully loyal to the legend’s voice. The song itself
was a new one for me! I bookmarked it and promised myself that I would come
back to it later in the day. And then there was Faiz.
Saturday could not have started better for me.
As I changed into my cycling gear, the PGR program was
coming to an end. The hosts signed off and all of us on the PGC LINE group congratulated the hosts and the promoter. We bid our goodbyes as we prepared to either (like me) start
the day, retire for the day, or just continue with our workday – we are drawn
from all around the world.
The founder of PGC is a kind, gentle, and inclusive individual.
I could not be happier for her and the success of her radio station and her
platform that promotes good Pakistani music content. The two hosts of the PGR
program are wonderful folk too; both are of Pakistani origin. They work hard to
make sure that the many elements come together seamlessly. I congratulate them
too.
Saturday has started well for me.
******
I want to cycle outdoors. But it is cold and drizzling
mildly too. So, I decide to ride on my indoor bike Wahoo trainer! I chose a
50km ride in Belgium that looks interesting: tough and scenic. I haven’t done
this ride before. So, I load it up on my trainer.
As I start cycling, I can only hear the strains of “nahin
nigahein mein”.
Sampoorna and PGR have had a massive impact on me.
And then I listen to Abida Parveen’s version of the song Abida Parveen’s version of the song.
Again.
And again.
And then again.
When I cycle indoors on my bike trainer, I normally listen
to a concert of my favorite singer, Sanjay Subrahmanyan, or a podcast (and
there are plenty of these in ‘cold storage’ for me to listen to) or a playlist
of songs that I wish to learn.
Not today.
I must have listened to Abida Parveen’s “nahin nigahein
mein” some 15 times. Repeatedly. If the melody didn’t hit me, the lyrics
did.
I cry easily when I listen to music. And I cried this morning as I rode “in Belgium” for an hour and 45 mins, along with PGR, Sampoorna, Abida Parveen, and Faiz.
Some rides seem longer than they actually are.
Today, my 50km felt like it finished even before it started, thanks to the PGR
hosts, Sampoorna and Abida Parveen’s “nahin nigahein mein”.
******
I grew up with books. As a youngster, I would always be with
a book in hand, reading. I loved words. I loved language. However, I never dared to write.
“What made it even harder, was that I loved music. I loved how songs played in my head. And they would play there all day long, in dolby digital fullness…”, wrote PDP in his blog, describing his relationship and his connection with music.
He wrote this blog post the day after we had met in Hyderabad.
PDP’s connection with music mirrors my engagement with
writing. We are twins connected by a strange, banal, trite reluctance to
connect with a skill that we both believe we do not possess. His engagement
with music mirrors mine with writing.
I realize, with a chuckle that his words could easily be my own…
describing my relationship with prose.
“What made it even harder, was that I loved reading. I
loved how words played in my head. And they would stay there in my head all day
long, in “Times Roman, Size 18” fullness.”
And yet, even when I tried to write, it would always seem
woeful, pedestrian, simple, ordinary, and gloomy, bereft of anything other than
mediocrity.
PDP and I talked about many things that evening before we parted ways at the Airport: Cricket.
Politics. Activism. People. Music. Writing.
PDP is a polymath, a sage. He is a successful businessman
and a loving family man. He is kind and generous. He can sing, and he sings very
well. He plays the guitar. He is exceptionally witty. He is smart. He is incredibly well-read. But more importantly, has a perceptive, judicious, and
sharp recall. It is merely not enough to read. What’s also needed is sharp recall. He
has it all.
I encourage him to sing and show him the Smule app.
He encourages me to write and promises to send me articles.
We are two lame men; each of us is the other’s crutch.
“You know what? PDP and I should do a podcast together,”
I think to myself!
After we part company, he digs out some of the stuff I have written in the past and reads it. He tells me he likes what I have written in the past and asks why I don’t write anymore. He sends some of my essays and short stories to a few others too and garners evidence and a coalition of support before encouraging me.
He does that by shouting at me!
“Why don’t you write more?” he yells in a WhatsApp text message soon after I return home.
I reply, “’Cos, I suck at it.”
He could have retorted, “You suck at singing too, but
that has not stood in the way of your musical expression, has it?”
He doesn’t do that because he is also a kind soul and does
not particularly like inserting sharp needles into forlorn, vulnerable, and
gammy bananas!
Since then, PDP has been on my case every week. He sends me
many articles on reinvigorating the writing habit.
I do not engage. I am scared to commit. I feel exposed and
naked after I write. It is an unbearable, excruciating, and uncomfortable
space to be in. I need a shell or armor to insulate me from harsh views
immediately after I write and hit the ‘publish’ button on the blog.
Music is a different experience for me. I feel less exposed with
my music, in the way I do about my writing. It isn’t as though I am good at
singing. I am what I am. But I take myself less seriously in my music. I am not
out to prove that I sing well. I am comfortable knowing that I can (and do) sing.
I express. And that is perfectly fine for me. There is a magical blend of irreverence,
pleasure, kindness, munificence, and optimism when I sing.
Not so with writing. Maybe I take it too seriously.
Maybe there is a view that I need to be good at it because I used to read a
lot when I was a young lad. This self-inflicted pressure is immense. It
suffocates me. I feel utterly naked and exposed the moment I finish writing.
And I detest what I wrote the moment I finish writing.
I explain all this to PDP, and he nods sagaciously. He wants me to work with him as I rediscover a love for the written word.
It has been nearly 10 years since I wrote anything. I promise him I will try.
I do. I just can't.
I push his persuasive arguments and his exhortations to a part of my mind that I do not wish to inspect. I procrastinate. Or maybe I want to forget his pleas.
I hope PDP has
forgotten about it too.
Hah! Not PDP. He continues to appeal, counsel, implore, and encourage.
******
I am stretching after my cycle ride “in Belgium” and my
WhatsApp pings.
It is PDP.
PDP: Dei. You wrote something?
Me: Sigh
PDP: Write something this weekend, da.
Me: I ‘picked up my pen’ five times. Truth. But nothing
is happening.
PDP: May I suggest you write about exactly everything you
thought of while you cycled today?
Me: I thought about Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Abida Parveen and
this song ‘nahin nigahein mein’!
PDP: Lovely. Write.
And so, I wrote!
******
The understanding of the meaning of the
lyrics of “nahin nigahein mein”, requires us to understand Faiz
Ahmed Faiz.
We can look at the words in the kalaam in isolation
and try and piece together a literal meaning, but that would ignore context.
Words like farda (tomorrow), or baada (wine), or bevuzu
(sans the ablutions before namaaz) have meaning in a literal sense. These
are words that are included in “nahin nigahein mein”. I am no expert in Urdu,
but I ask people unabashedly. And constantly. There are plenty of online
resources too that assist a deeper understanding.
But context is also as important as the words themselves.
Faiz Ahmed Faiz was a progressive liberal. He was unafraid
to speak his mind. He was an activist way before activism was an accepted and
fashionable pursuit. He combined his revolutionary ideas with a deep sense of
idealized romanticism. He often lived in exile in Lebanon, a long way away from
his ‘home’ and his wife. His poems combined his beliefs for a better future for
his nation and its people. He often combined that with (a) a sense of optimism,
and (b) a deep love for his wife. Once you throw the frames of Sufiyana into
all of this, it is easy to see how I connect with Faiz.
In “gulon me rang bhare”, Faiz requests that “the
blooms be allowed to fill the land with color and asks that the first wafts of
spring be allowed to flow, so the garden can get on with its daily transactions."
Here, the “daily transactions” (‘kaarobaar’) could have many layered
meanings. Let us not forget that Faiz was a committed Communist who had won the
Lenin Peace Prize. He merely craved a just society where business could be
transacted in its ‘gardens’ in a routine manner. He wanted the land to be
watered and seeds to be sown so that a thousand flowers could bloom,
unhindered. Faiz was one of the most celebrated writers of the Urdu language,
having been nominated four times for the Nobel Prize for Literature! He was also
imprisoned by Liaquat Ali Khan (Pakistan’s first Prime Minister) and it is in
this context that the ghazal breathes new life.
And in “nahin nigahein mein” Faiz Ahmed Faiz writes:
Today, I just cannot see how we will meet someday,
But I shall always yearn for thee,
Let it still be my undying wish
I wish to experience the destiny of being with you.
In a later verse, he writes:
In this land of strangers, with no friends or confidants,
I must converse with my own and,
I wish to experience...
Positivity and optimism are alive, despite the gloom and captivity.
******
So, this is exactly what I thought of while I cycled, PDP.
As I cycled on Saturday, after having listened to PGR and
after listening to Sampoorna reinterpret a Abida Parveen Sufiyana kalaam
of Faiz, I promised myself that I would recommit to my goals once again:
I want to be filled with optimism and positive energy. Always.
I want to move away from environments where people
constantly shout over each other; where people gaslight and cancel each other.
I wish to experience…
I wish to experience the joys of singing and learning.
I wish to experience a future where Sampoorna sings
for her manasika guru.
I wish to experience the joys of writing, just as I
experience the joys of music and be unfazed by criticism or judgments.
Un-Faiz’d even!
-- Mohan (@mohank)
