Memoirs and autobiographical accounts of one’s times, places one saw and the people one met, like Kishwar Naheed’s hot selling Shanasaeyan Ruswaeyan are important as they provide a micro dimension to social history. Coming from this prolific writer’s pen who harnesses a poet’s imaginative license to the sharp eye and frank tongue of a socialite, the account sizzles here and sparkles there with the blunt irreverence which she has cultivated as a hallmark of her life style.

Shanasaeyan is a lively chronicle of Lahore’s literary scene that revolves around the author as like the honey bee she flies from flower to flower collecting an assorted mix of nectar for itself and carrying the garden on its wings for all to witness its vernal springs and autumnal afternoons. There is an intense purpose in this chase, a hard to understand passion to know and make friends with the great literary names of that period when she is just struggling to doff the traditional veil and enter the male world as an equal. Her poetical career that she had been nursing for some years is launched under Sufi Tabassum’s tutelage who gives a rude surprise to her mother with an unexpected visit to her house on the very next day of their first meeting. While the gesture infuriates the old lady, the budding poet is enamoured by its informality. It is this kind of bohemian life her heart had yearned for and this was how she was going to live the rest of her days. But those who know her know she is anything but a bohemian. A strict discipline governs her life, a work regime that would make a robot of anyone turns her day into a productive picnic. She seems to take much joy in her work, in the huge parties she throws for the ever lengthening train of her friends and acquaintances and in the long and frequent journeys she undertakes leaving the comfort of her cozy apartment. How fortunate she is, one wonders. to be so engrossed in her act or how lonely she must be to so stuff her life? Happiness, is it indeed a choice that one can make?

Kishwar Naheed’s Faiz, Josh and Quratul Ain are all beings seen through shifting peepholes. Now they fade into focus and you see them in flesh and blood and now they disappear in a scene crowded with hangers on who are up to their own tricks or the locale changes and you see them in another company. She watches Faiz Sahib releasing the smoke of his cigarette gently into the air and when one expected a close up of her dream poet the camera pans to introduce a list of names — Hari Chand Akhtar, Jagan Nath Azad, Nasir Kazmi, Shehzad Ahmad, Sibte Hassan and Josh. She runs around bringing glasses for the assembly at Sufi Tabassum’s house of which she says she had become an integral part. You have glimpses of Faiz returning home with his Lenin Prize, and from Beirut to his Model Town house that is no more. You hear him reject modern free verse and she tells you of his touching concern when she became a widow. Yet for all her adulation Kishwar doesn’t fail to mention the compromises Faiz had to make with the Establishment. It’s a method of quick cuts. In every cut it is Kishwar who is dealing the cards.

Not only writers and poets among whom Jamila Hashmi, Intezar Hussain, Ahmad Faraz, Habib Jalib, Iftikhar Arif, Saqi Faruqui and Sibte Hassan get exclusive attention of her prickly pen, we have painters Shakir Ali, Ali Imam, singers Noor Jehan and the various Ustads, cinema personalities, TV producers, radio people, the whole lot of them in close interaction with the author. The stories and anecdotes interlace from page to page weaving a tangled patchwork, a collage of actors and events creating a moving spectacle of Lahore’s cultural life, and the general scene in Pakistan depicting the social and political decline, the corruption of institutions and the growing alienation of civil society from the rough and tumble of power wielders.

Shanasaeyan Ruswaeyan is different in this sense from other books of the genre such as the biographical sketches drawn by Manto, Ahmad Bashir, Dr Aftab, Dr Aslam Farrukhi that as character studies would more fittingly fall in the category of literature proper. Kishwar’s work is more journalistic in form and content. It is a record, an undated diary, a who-is-who and who-is-what kind of enumeration that together stage the national art burlesque. It is going to be valued for its broad umbrella coverage. But one essay that stands out for its subdued tenor, its cutting irony, its feeling but unsentimental treatment, is the pithy account of her married life with Yusuf. In two calm pages she sums up 24 years of a bristling companionship. It is a writer’s piece.

Seen from another angle these jottings are not actually about the men and women one thinks she is talking about. No matter how high up or great they might be, Faiz, Rashid, Insha or Shakir, Noor Jehan or Salamat Ali, they are all but the characters who have played a role in the drama of her life. It is her life they are a part of. But crowding one’s life with so many illuminati, so many giants and pygmies of their calling, knowing all of them, does that make any difference? Have they added to her stature as a writer and poet? Is she what she is because she knew them or can she stand alone, on her own two legs? Perhaps she can. Bunching them all in her assured grip, she has no hesitation in saying: “Bad as I am, so too are they, my friends.”

Talqeen-e-aitmaad woh farmarahe hain aaj,

Raah-i-talab main khud jo kabhi mu’atabar na the,

Nairangi-e-siasat-i-dauraan to dekhiye,

Manzil unhain milee jo shareek-i-safar na the.

These verses, written 53 years ago by then a lesser known but promising young poet, were repeated so often by political leaders that these almost became proverbs. Ironically, most of the politicians using these verses in their speeches did not know who had composed them.

Today, the man, the poet, is dead. Mohsin Bhopali passed away in Karachi on Wednesday morning after protracted illness.

Born in 1932, Mohsin belonged to that generation of writers who saw the dawn of independence, went though migration and made Pakistan their new home. He migrated to Pakistan soon after independence and settled in Hyderabad, Sindh.

Hyderabad, which had always been a cradle of literature, was reinforced by a whole generation of gifted writers, including Qabil Ajmeri, Akhtar Ansari Akbarabadi, Himayat Ali Shair, Maulana Girami, Mohammad Usman Diplai, Dr Tanveer Abbasi, Ali Mohammad Majrooh and, of course, Mohsin Bhopali.

After schooling, he did his diploma in civil engineering from the NED Karachi and later Masters in Urdu from Karachi University. He worked as an engineer but a poet always lived within him.

He began his literary journey in Hyderabad, wrote poems, attended mushairas and took an active part in cultural activities of the city. In those days, City College was the centre of literary and cultural activities and Mohsin, along with a group of young people, set up Arzung, an organisation to promote culture. From its platform, many plays, tableaus and concerts were held.

Being a government employee he had to travel a lot but he never ignored his poetry. The first anthology of his works, Shakista-i-Shab, appeared in 1961 which included his poems from 1948. It was lauded by literary circles. He also had many literary encounters with his contemporaries which sometimes resulted in crisp poetry from all sides but that did not pollute the literary atmosphere.

Jahil ko agar jahal ka inam diya jaaye,

Us haadesa-i-waqt ko kiya naam diya jaaye,

Maikhane ki toheen hai rindon ki hatak hai,

Kamzaraf ke haathoon main agar jam diya jaaye.

Political situation in the country forced many poets to keep quiet, but Mohsin stuck to his commitment. He continued to say whatever he thought should be said.

Banaliya hai unhain phir se nakhuda hum ne,

Jo chhor aaye the gardaab main safeenoon ko.

Ghairoon ke zulm ka jo kabhi tazkirah hua,

Apnon ke beshumar karam yad agaye.

Besides nazm and ghazal, Mohsin also tried other genres of poetry, including rubayee, translations from Haiko and blank verse. He also composed poetical short stories. He had about nine anthologies to his credit, including Shakista-i-Shab (poems, rubayees and ghazals -- 1961), Jasta Jasta (rubayees – 1969), Nazmane (poetical short stories – 1975), Majra (poems, ghazals and rubayees – 1981), and Gard-i-Musafat (poems, ghazals and Haiko – 1988) and Manzil.

In 1988-89 he contracted severe throat infection and the Academy Adabiyat and National Bank sponsored his treatment in Glasgow where he underwent a surgery. The infection had affected his vocal cords and he could speak with a lot of difficulty. However, he continued to write till end.

After retiring from government service in 1993, he kept himself confined to his home and attended only literary gatherings. He had an attack of pneumonia a few days ago and could not recover.