Roguish verses of a gentleman
By Mushir Anwar
HARRIS KHALIQUE who writes English and Urdu verses with equal felicity is not someone you would describe as a promising poet, a greeting generally used for neophytes. He is already far gone into this utterly useless activity to make a profitable retreat. Nor can he be named among those whom indulgent critics categorize as this or the last century’s new voice. A rising star? No. A messenger from the deep, a rhymer of hymns, composer of national ditties or revolutionary ballads? Hardly. But a poet — that indeed he is; one who knows his way about town; has his shadow with him, intact; his identity secure in his name, his references and his loves all alive, dated, and with proper mailing addresses. But if no great ideals, no transcendent thought, no social, political, cultural or literary mission inspire his verse, what then is he a poet of?
I would surmise, and I am not being brash or cheeky, Harris is very much a poet of what remains, not just the remains of the day, but the remains of life proper, the humdrum existence, the tedium and the ordinariness of things, and the joy that is there in being commonplace, even banal — stuff few amongst his contemporaries would consider worthy of the Muse.
People and places for example. Malik Mastoor Marjan and his hermit of a daughter who would chatter the world away making an omelette and then say not a word till next morning; Mohammad Mohtashim Rangoonwala and his shady brood of friends who were good hearted and thought dishonesty required much vastness, variety and creativity; or Saadat Khan Baloch, rickshaw driver of Old Golimar who had six mirrors in the vehicle to watch adolescent lads twirling the down of their moustaches; and Razia Sultana of Korangi K area who became aware of her passions all by herself, got an ordinary job in the Uni Center and recieved proposals only from widowers. There is Ali Mohsin MBA of Khalid bin Waleed Road who didn’t like religious people but his father was a pious man who had chronic pruritis. Sabeen Ahsan Akhtar of Defence Phase-II, a divorcee who hated the neorich, detested her cousins and one, Shahid, who smelled of garlic. But she had an eye on the fairish youth in the office, but he was poor and too much of a virgin, a brother of plain looking sisters. Her only friend was an editor who bad mouthed her subjects but had such sweet lips. Sabeen believed in reincarnation, her own specially.
It wouldn’t be a fair sampling of his world of men and matters if this gaudy chintz that amuses the eye is not lifted off the small agonies that lie hidden underneath. Harris