The hard job of picking your own best poetry Name and fame of the kind many lesser poets have enjoyed through hard PR work, presence, availability, appearance in TV `mushaeras’ or shear good luck has not been our good friend Parto Rohilla’s lot, now in the eighth decade of a life well lived in which he has hunted, played tennis and chess and mostly kept to a Spartan regimen of monogamy, teetotallership and selective camaraderie. It does not seem he misses it or loses a night’s sleep over it but it does look like he draws much satisfaction from his work itself and would feel amply rewarded if a just appraisal came from some one whose word carries weight. Dr Jamil Jalebi’s judicious and open hearted acclaim for his remarkably creative translation of Ghalib’s Maktubat-e-Farsi though coming earlier with the book’s publication would still assuage any hurt Intezar Hussain’s parsimonious review may have caused in so reluctantly putting in a good word for a work of such labour and lasting value. It should be hard for poets to pick the best of their verse for a handy selection but they may be tricked into such an exercise if you ask them to choose the verses they would like to be remembered by. Whether Intehaey Shab, Parto Rohilla’s latest collection of verse, is such a selection from his poetical work, his best in his own view or something he would gift to posterity as his last or lasting remains, only he can tell. But he does not. Though he has made the selection himself, he has written no explanatory note about the criteria of choice or if these ghazals, dohas or nazms just happen to be his own favourites. If the latter is the case which it seems to be, I would say it is good. The poet is not judging himself; he is presenting himself, in his Sunday best as it were, to you; as he would to his sweetheart; submitting that part of his work that he feels no hesitation in owning. Surveying his poetry, Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi is impressed by the fidelity to the genre’s culture and atmosphere that Parto manages to maintain in his dohas but moving on to his ghazals and nazms the old master discovers his craftsmanship in the ease and facility with which he handles all forms in their true spirit. He also notices the remarkable variety of expression and narrative that comes from not only his firm grasp of language but is a product of the diverse subjects that he dwells upon in his verse. Qasmi does not hesitate to say that few Urdu poets possess this variety of subject and expression that Parto has in his command and which makes his artistic position unique. He is certainly not among those poets who spend their whole lives in the pursuit of a single passion and become repetitious and thus restrict the confines of their art. Parto, on the contrary, has much to say that prevents him from being tagged to or pegged in a circumference of feeling and thought. He moves on and explores new grounds. Qasmi also notices the element of informality, directness and spontaneity in his verse which he thinks is grounded in his personal experience unlike poets who employ ambiguity to close the distance between their thought and perception. However this informality of tone does not cross the bounds of culture just as his realism does not mar or subdue the aesthete in him. The awareness of the present reality and what is happening in the world around him, in the realm of culture, politics, society and economics is the source which keeps him provided with a constant supply of themes to contemplate and give vent to in his verse, particularly his nazms in which he appears to be a man in search for something, an inquisitive poet looking for answers to his questions. But the world in which too much importance is given to man often leaves him puzzled, wondering. This, in Qasmi’s view is a fortunate state for a poet to be in. His font of inspiration has no danger of drying up. A fair and comprehensive summation this of Parto Rohilla’s work by a many-sided great figure of Urdu literature which explains why the poet has included it as introduction to his book in spite of having a number of very effusive comments from professional critics. His nazm especially has received appreciative attention of critics and gems like ‘woh serv qamat woh sar kashida’ ‘kabhi lagta hey mein ek jheel mein hoon’ and that remarkable piece of rendition of American poet XJ Kennedy’s poem —- Nude descending a staircase (zina-e-chob per ek larki brehna badan) at once raise him above several much fussed about poets of nazm. Writing about his poetry and personality, one reviewer, Dr Zohra Azam, gravely errs suggesting Parto Rohilla possesses a diverse personality. What does that mean? Because he hunts, plays tennis and chess and enjoys the company of friends does not make him a multi-dimensional person. Rohilla the hunter is no different from Rohilla the chessmate and Parto the socialite. All three and the poet are comfortably packed in a very disciplined, methodical, regular, punctual Mukhtar Ali Khan, retired civil servant, who may have seldom slept late, eaten his lunch at tea time or dined near the midnight hour. It should not be hard to suspect that he writes poetry also on a time table, perhaps first thing in the morning, after breakfast and changing into something decent with matching socks. Considering he might be the perfect opposite of the poet’s Bohemian model, could this be one of the contradictions Mumtaz Mufti has juxtaposed in his line up of opposites counterpoised in his person? But Mufti is merely waxing rhetorical. Parto Rohilla and Mukhtar Ali Khan are smoothly poised in a well rounded personality.
Name and fame of the kind many lesser poets have enjoyed through hard PR work, presence, availability, appearance in TV `mushaeras’ or shear good luck has not been our good friend Parto Rohilla’s lot, now in the eighth decade of a life well lived in which he has hunted, played tennis and chess and mostly kept to a Spartan regimen of monogamy, teetotallership and selective camaraderie. It does not seem he misses it or loses a night’s sleep over it but it does look like he draws much satisfaction from his work itself and would feel amply rewarded if a just appraisal came from some one whose word carries weight. Dr Jamil Jalebi’s judicious and open hearted acclaim for his remarkably creative translation of Ghalib’s Maktubat-e-Farsi though coming earlier with the book’s publication would still assuage any hurt Intezar Hussain’s parsimonious review may have caused in so reluctantly putting in a good word for a work of such labour and lasting value.
