February is the time in Islamabad when winter first feels losing its bite. It begins to get warm in the sun. Shy for showing up before time the yellow jasmine peeps furtively from sunny corners.
An occasional shower brings a temporary chill to the morning breeze but the nip melts away by noon and myenas strut about pompously counting the few dandelions in the grass. Spring has come. The body aches with sweet pains. Desire warms the sap in the limbs. Nature takes a creative turn.
At the TVO centre, which allows sundry literati to use its conference room as well as have a complimentary cup of tea, Harris Khalique who affects an air of jaunty dilettantism but is a serious dabbler all the same, was reading a selection of late Shahryar Rashed's poems from the Collected Poems his wife Iffat has compiled, to an elite audience of Foreign Office wives and their retired and in-service husbands, that the Asian Study Group's Aamera Hameed, had gathered to launch the book.
Readings of English poetry tend to become solemn ceremonies as probably the convention is to sit motionless and as far as possible appear not to understand a word or line of the verse.
This indeed may be so but honesty of this kind besides being undiplomatic can be highly disrespectful to the poet concerned. Fortunately it was a company of the late poet's colleagues who had shared time with him in Paris - (Oh to be in Paris when. I forget the line) and could recall and share their exotic memories with the local rest of us.
One comment that came up again and again and was offered as a measure of Shahryar's personality was that he was his own man who owed nothing to Noon Meem Rashed, his and modern Urdu poetry's illustrious father.
I think it was an improper way of paying tribute to a son. In his essay My Father that he wrote for Dr Aftab Ahmad's authentic book on Rashed, which Intezar Hussain translated into Urdu and which I am here rendering back into English, he is full of tender thought and sentiment for his father and accepts with a kind of regret that "had we, brother and sister, given him a little time, he would certainly have brought us up with great care. What did I get from my father.
A lot. I could have got more. But I remained rebellious for as long as he was alive. One reason was that I avoided his shadow. Living under this shadow meant that I was Noon Meem Rashed's son and that's all." But though that was not all, it is not hard to see he became very much his father's son, a poet.
One evening Kishwar Naheed had us over for lunch that she had cooked for Jaza al-Ehsan Jaza, a poet visiting from Kenya to introduce her first collection of poetry which she had been composing all the years since the sixties when she settled down in East Africa.
Next evening her book was launched at a very well arranged function. Prof Fateh Mohammad Malik welcomed her late arrival on the scene as a pleasant change since the 'in thing' was to launch a couple of poetry collections before becoming a poet. Jaza took her time waiting for the vintage to mature.
One saw that in the deceptive simplicity of her expression. Ahmad Nadim Qasmi, in his flap note to the maiden book, also detects this absence of amateurish exercise in her verse. Then her thought also is contemporaneous embodying the basic human emotions and feelings that make poetry so relevant even in this mechanical age.
Iftikhar Arif corrected those critics who described the sense of loneliness in her verse as a poetry of exile. He said that voluntary migration to another country was different from exile and banishment or exodus of a community to another land for survival.
It was a good distinction to draw as Jaza's estrangement is something a poet could experience anywhere, in one's own country and that women in particular feel living away from home with in-laws.
What amazes one in this context is the total omission of Africa from her view. She takes no notice of its land and people among whom she has been living for the greater part of her life.
There is great poetry in that land and a strange dignity in its people that one finds missing in our own servile populace. The Blacks are a cool lot. But we have a problem of attitude.
I remember General Zia telling a gathering of Pakistanis in Zimbabwe that though the Africans were black they were good-hearted! We take this kind of thick-skinned racism for granted and hardly ever notice it. One could live with it if we stopped cringing and crawling before the Whites.
"The task before writers today is to oppose imperialism, racism, colonialism and neocolonialism and love the people of East and West and support with full force those who are struggling for freedom, democracy and human rights," said Faiz Ahmad Faiz whose birth anniversary was celebrated by the Pakistan Academy of Letters on a breezy afternoon.
"On whose side are you?" He asks the writers and tells them to distinguish between friends and enemies of the people, those who are struggling for their emancipation and those who wish to keep them enslaved.
"Are you satisfied with the creative work being done in Pakistan?" He asks: "Do the writers of today have the same ecstasy, the same agony that the writers of the sub-continent in the pre- independence period had. Do their words have the same beauty of expression, the same sublime thought and clarity.
Does their life and personality has the same harmony, the same courage, truthfulness, the same love, the same compassion and the same optimism about the future?" - Extract from message published in Ehtesaab, Lahore No.1., 1979.