After the death of Allama Iqbal, the greatest Urdu poet of the 20th century by consensus amongst the literati, many eminent poets emerged on the horizon of Urdu poetry. Amongst them the notables were Firagh Gorakhpuri, Josh Maleehabadi, Noon Meem Rashid, Sahir Ludhyanvi and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Though no one could reach the exalted heights attained by Faiz, each left his imprint on the cornucopia that is Urdu poetry.
Sahir Ludhyanvi created a distinguished niche for himself because of the radical and defiant contents of his poetry, and for breaking new ground in writing film lyrics. A highbrow may frown at this suggestion, but the lyrics he wrote for films, by themselves, merit a place of honour in the annals of literature. Let us take a brief look at his poetry.
The most striking features of the poetry of Sahir (which literally means ‘enchanter’) are intensity of thought, utter sincerity, pathos for the downtrodden and a novel treatment of his subject matter. In his immortal poem Taj Mahal, Sahir refused to sing of Shah Jahan’s grandeur and the love he ostensibly had for his queen. For him, the Taj Mahal is symbol of a tasteless proclamation of love, more exhibitionist than real. Instead, he eulogized the skill of the artisans who built the Taj Mahal and lamented at the poor reward they must have received. Finally, he arrives at the grand finale by concluding that the great emperor, with the help of his enormous wealth, ridiculed the love of the poor and the deprived.
In another great poem, Chaklay (brothels), he places a mirror before the honourable and the respectable to show them the scars caused by an unjust and hypocritical society. He holds the double standards and the outward piety of the East in contempt. His scathing criticism of the pious acquires a deafening pitch in the poem. Sarcasm is an essential component of Sahir’s armoury of social criticism.
In Madame, he is manifestly trying to appease the lady’s gnawing conscience because the poor have been called uncivilized. The thinly-veiled words of appeasement contain a bitting criticism of social norms, determining what is civilized and what is not. Sahir also sang songs of love, but they were never divorced from the tribulation and melancholy which were his fate individually, and collectively that of his generation — a generation which grew up during the tension-ridden period between the two great wars and participated in the struggle against colonialism.
Sahir, however, earned his popular acclaim and fortune by the lyrics he wrote for films (a sad commentary on the literary scene of his time). He made a stupendous contribution to this genre of verse. Right from his early days, he dreamt of becoming a successful film lyricist. When he decided to try his luck in the field, he encountered incredible impediments. He was already a famous poet, but no filmmaker was prepared to risk this untried songwriter because his poetry was considered too literary and cultured to be popular amongst the masses. Finally, the great composer, S.D. Burman, realized his potential and gave him the assignment of writing songs for his film Naujawan. The songs were a resounding success and they carried the film, which was otherwise mediocre, to box-office success as well. One success followed another with films such as Baazi, Jaal, Piyasa, the list is almost endless. He remained in great demand till his premature death at the age of 59 (October 25, 1980).
Sahir was born Abdul Haye in a conservative family of Ludhyana. His father, Fazal Din, owned average-sized land holdings. He had two interests in life: pursue carnal pleasures (reportedly, he married 13 or 14 times) and to follow various litigations in court.
It was customary for Fazal Din to divorce his wives after a short period of marriage. This is what happened to Sahir’s mother, Sardar Begum, as well. But her case acquired a convoluted dimension by virtue of the fact that she was the only one amongst more than a dozen of his wives who gave birth to a male child. Fazal Din wanted to acquire custody of Sahir, but his mother stalled all the efforts of her former husband. During the course of litigation, the father took the position that Sahir was not his legitimate son. His contention was accepted by a lower court, but finally turned down by the Lahore High Court. The court restored Sahir’s status as the only son and heir of Fazal Din’s estate. The mother was designated as his guardian. Under the prevalent Agrarian Laws, Fazal Din could not sell any part of his land without the permission of the guardian. Whenever a piece of land was to be sold, Sardar Begum, as the guardian, charged some money from the prospective buyer. This arrangement lasted till Partition.
In 1947-48, when Sahir had shifted to Lahore, they once again had to lead a life of destitution. The situation once again changed drastically when Sahir became a much sought after film lyricist. His pecuniary circumstances wildly vacillated from one extreme to the other.
Another consequence of his early life experience was his extreme love for his mother and hatred for his father in equal measure. This is the quintessential Oedipal situation. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) describes the situation which gives rise to the Oedipus Complex in the following words: “Being in love with one parent and hating the other are among the essential constituents of the stock of physical impulses which is formed at that time, and which is of such importance in determining the symptoms of later neurosis.” Freud named this complex after the great legendary figure, Oedipus, who killed his father, Laius, married his mother, Jocasta, and blinded himself when the truth about his parenthood emerged, as recounted most famously in the play, Oedipus Rex, by Sophocles. It might be noted here that Greek plays, specially tragedies, were usually on subjects that everyone knew and considered important. The legends on which they are based may or may not have historical validity, but they certainly have psychological validity. That is one reason why the play written in 400 B.C. continues to attract theatregoers to this day.
The upshot of this complex, in Sahir’s case, was the emergence of a number of phobias. The most prominent ones being the fear of marriage (gamophobia) and the related one: that of women in general (gynephobia). Sahir was blessed with a poetic gift and his interest in the fair sex was only natural. His phobias concerning women manifested in the nature and extent of his relationship with the women who came into his life. According to Sahir’s intimate friend, Faizul Hasan Chaudhry, his first love was a Hindu girl by the name of Prem Choudhry. Tragically, she died of tuberculosis in youth and along with her, their love. Sahir was dejected for a while and wrote the poem Marghat (Hindu place of cremation).
Soon, he found another love, far stormier than the first. It was a Sikh girl this time, Aishar Kore. She was gracefully attractive, an embodiment of femininity. Sahir had already made his mark in extra-curricular college activities with the reputation of being a poet. Their infatuation grew into adoration. Just before summer vacations, when she was about to leave for her village, they decided to meet one evening in the college alone. No one knows what transpired between them. But the college chowkidar saw them and reported their meeting to the principal. As a consequence, both Sahir and Aishar had to leave the college. After a brief separation, the two once again renewed their relationship, courtesy another friend. They kept up their love by frequent correspondence and infrequent meetings.
After a while, Aishar Kore revolted against her father and reached Lahore where Sahir was now living. They spent a night together, but for unknown reason, left Sahir just the next morning, this time to go to Bombay because she could not possibly go back to her parents’ village. In Bombay, she met up with an old flame, her cousin, and later married him. The mystery of the girl taking such a bold action as to leave her parental house, joining her love for a nocturnal rendezvous and leaving him the very next morning remains unsolved.
The most documented love of Sahir was with a poetess and a novelist of Punjabi language, Amirta Preetam. Both had heard of each other before they met in a mushaira. She was so impressed that she invited him for a cup of tea at her place. But the faint-hearted Sahir could not dare go to her house alone. On his earnest pleading, his friend, Hameed Akhtar, accompanied him. They were well-received, but Sahir sat there uncommunicative, smoking endlessly.
When Hameed Akhtar stopped accompanying him, he sought the help of other friends for calling upon Amirta. He was deeply in love with her, but did not have the courage to confess. She, too, adored him and made its full-throated declaration in her autobiography, Rasidi Ticket. She has recounted many incidents of her infatuation for Sahir.
In 1946, while pregnant, she thought so much of Sahir and looked at his picture so frequently that her newborn son resembled him. But her love remained unrequited. When Sahir’s new collection, Aao Ke Koi Khwab Bunain (Come, let’s weave some dream) was published, she remarked that Sahir could only weave dreams but never espouse anyone. There were other women, such as Lata Mangeshkar and Sidha Molhotra who loved Sahir, but their love ended in disappointment. Till his last days, Sahir remained a bachelor.
Another incident which is indicative of his phobia-prone character concerns his flight from Pakistan soon after independence. Right from his college days, he was a Progressive and a Communist-sympathizer. At the time of Partition, he decided to shift to Lahore. Sajjad Zaheer, on the behest of the Communist Party of India, also migrated to organize the Communist movement in Pakistan. Fearing arrest, he was carrying out his mission clandestinely. Sahir met him through his friend, Hameed Akhtar, and remained in contact with them. His morbidity led him to believe that not only the two but he himself could be arrested any time. At this juncture, Hameed and Zaheer decided to go to Karachi without informing Sahir. Sahir convinced himself that they were arrested and decided to run for his dear life. It was June 1948, and it was burning hot. Sahir donned an overcoat, felt hat and dark glasses for his escape, little realizing that his garb had made him all the more conspicuous, and he was shadowed by the special police. He ran away from Pakistan fearing arrest, once again a baseless fear.
Sahir achieved all the fame, fortune and respect he wanted. He was highly decorated and received many national and international awards, including India’s highest, Padma Shiree, and the Lenin Peace prize from the Soviet Union. Countless women were his ardent admirers, keen to shower their love and affection on him. But Sahir’s early-life experiences, which gave rise to his numerous psychological problems, never allowed him to enjoy the fruits of his success. He was lonely and forlon. His only solace was his mother, for whom he had overwhelming and abiding love. He respected her and gave her everything he had. Great tragedy befell him when she died in 1976. Her death battered Sahir’s already-fragile psyche.
He took to heavy drinking. That refuge, too, was denied to him when he had to stop it under medical advice. He turned into a recluse, mostly cloistered in the four walls of his house. He became ill-tempered and spiteful, who took macabre pleasure in insulting his friends. Thus, he got caught in the vicious circle of morbidity and loneliness and died a dejected man.
How can the will be called free?
Who was it that did knead my clay? Not I
Who spun my web of silk and wool? Not I Who wrote upon my forehead all my good
After the death of Allama Iqbal, the greatest Urdu poet of the 20th century by consensus amongst the literati, many eminent poets emerged on the horizon of Urdu poetry. Amongst them the notables were Firagh Gorakhpuri, Josh Maleehabadi, Noon Meem Rashid, Sahir Ludhyanvi and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Though no one could reach the exalted heights attained by Faiz, each left his imprint on the cornucopia that is Urdu poetry.
