LONG before the advent of the hippy culture, Lahore had its fair share of very genuine hippies who were dubbed as Bohemians in those days, of which the famed poet and revolutionary Zaheer Kashmiri was one of the most obvious.
He lived on Beadon Road adjacent to Luxmi Mansions, hawk nosed, with bright red shoulder-length hair and a French cut goatee. Wearing a matching communist red tie he would emerge from his abode quickly on a 50 CC German bike and frighten the wits out of us kids because the engine of the motorbike made such awesome noises, made even more intimidating by the man with flowing hair whom some contemporaries called the red Shakespeare due to his attire. Later on Munir Niazi who has a knack of calling people names according to their idiosyncrasies lovingly dubbed him “The Golden Scorpion”.
Baba Zaheer Kashmiri was very staunch in his progressive views and as was the fashion in those days he believed that religion was the opium for the masses. One of those days as he emerged from Beadon Road some zealots of Jamat-e-Islami who were protesting against the Ahmadis confronted him, and asked what they were asking every body, “Do you believe that our Prophet (Peace be upon him) was the last Prophet sent by Allah?” To this, Zaheer Kashmiri very casually answered “You are talking about the Prophet, I don’t even believe in Allah”.
The agitators could not believe their ears and instead of thrashing him they smiled and said to each other “The man is raving mad, let him go”.
The same flamboyant Zaheer Kashmiri who spent his last days in a dingy street and in great misery, wrote his most famous couplet in my autograph book:
Hamain khabar hai ke hum hain chiraghe Akhre shub
Humarey baad andehra nahin ujala hai.
The generation of the Fifties venerated and loved three poets amongst all, Sahir Ludhyanvi, Akhtar Shirani and Abdul Hamid Adam. Their couplets and nazams vibrated in our youthful innocence and their poetry represented each and every emotion we felt, however, it was beyond my teenage resources and my Rallay bicycle to reach these favourites. But Faiz Sahib was upcoming and I decided to obtain his autographs.
In Lahore’s scorching sun, I stationed myself outside the offices of The Pakistan Times. And after a number of hours, I saw Faiz Sahib descend the stairs of Progressive Papers Ltd; I approached him and presented my autograph book hoping that he would write my favourite, Rat Yun Dill Main Teri Khoi Hui Yad Aai. But much to my disappointment he wrote:
Hum Parverishe Loho Qalam Karte Rahain Ge and that too in his abominable handwriting.
“Sir, please honour me with your rubai, Rat Yun ...” I begged.
It was very hot in the mid-day Sun and Faiz sahib wanting to get rid of me as soon as possible, scratched his balding head and said:
“Bhai woh to hamain yad nahin” and left.
I was not going to give up that easily so I remembered that particular rubai by heart and the very next day when Faiz sahib was coming down from his office I was there to greet him, grinning from cheek-to-cheek.
I presented my autograph book to him almost without his consent and said, “Sir if you do not remember your own kalam I will help your memory, now please write down my favourite rubai, Rat Yun Dill main ... while I recite it you.”
Faiz sahib meekly obliged.
Many a years later, during an exclusive sitting after dinner that lasted till the early hours of the morning I narrated this incidence to Faiz sahib who had come to know me rather well by then and claimed that I was the person who made him write poetry. Faiz sahib, who very rarely went beyond a smile, laughed like a child and then said, “Well Tarar sahib, now I remember that rubai, would you like me to recite it?” It was indeed a memorable moment.
I was also fortunate enough that there came a time in my life that some of those literati who adorned my autograph book personally read papers about my meagre contribution in literature. What more could a person want in a lifetime?
The politician part of my autograph book is rather feeble because the gentlemen playing the game of politics then and now are not my favourites; only Mushtaq Ahmad Gurmani and Feroz Khan Noon add a little spice. However, it is the cricketers part of it which is still very precious to me, most of the cricket legends of those days are enshrined in my little book, including Pakistan’s Fazal Mahmud, Mian Saeed, M.Jahangir Khan, Hanif Mohammad, Shakoor Ahmad, Shujauddin (of the Lukky Kabootri fame) Imtiaz Ahmad, Wazir Mohammad, Alimuddin, Wallis Mathais, Khan Mohammad, Maqsood Ahmad, Zulifqar Ahmad, Mahmud Hussain and Miran Bux.
I was a witness to that “tragic” incidence when, during an India-Pakistan Test match, at Bagh-e-Jinnah, Lahore, our dear Maqsood Ahmad went out of his crease to hit Gupta at the score of ninety nine and was stumped by wicket-keeper Tamhane. The hearts of the Lahoris stopped, how mean of a Hindu not to allow a Muslim to complete his century? Everybody hated Tamhane for this meanness. Rumours say that our Merry Max was always merry while maxing, I mean batting.
Although the ink is fading, I can still make out some of the names of those in the Indian cricket team, Lala Amarnath, Poly Umarigar, Roy, Borde, Patel, Bhandari, Gupta, Tamhane Ramchand and the spin wizard, Ghulam Ahmad. I had the opportunity of meeting the great cricket commentator Maharaj Kumar of Vizzianagram who signed my autograph book as “Vizzy”.
There is another cocktail of Test cricketers including Brian Close, John Reid, F. Titmus, Thompson, Tony Lock, Jim Laker etc. If you want to find out the year and the series detail, kindly contact the cricket guru Mr Omar Qureshi.
However, it was my “English Hunt” that provided me with great trophies to decorate my autograph book.
In the summer of 1957 the West Indian cricket team arrived in England and I had arrived the previous summer. When they came to Nottingham to play a Test match. I dressed myself properly in a recently acquired tuxedo, if you please, equipped with my German camera, flash gun and two dozen flash bulbs, I presented myself at the desk of hotel where both the teams were staying “I am the sports correspondent of the daily The Pakistan Times from Lahore and would like to cover the English and West Indian teams,” I boldly declared.
The desk clerk was duly impressed although he did not have the foggiest idea as to which newspaper I was representing or where on earth this Lahore was. I was, however, ushered in.
Most of the English team was in the bar where I chatted with them, shared a drink (orange juice, perhaps) and took their photographs. Amongst my victims were Sir Len Hutton who was bowled by Khan Mohammad for a duck in Oval; Peter May, Tom Graveney, Godfrey Evans and many others. The West Indian team was rather scattered and even then I bagged the three W’s i.e.; Walcot, Weeks and Worrel. Besides them, I found Mr Garfield Sobers, who was not very sober. The famous pair of Ramadin and Valentine was there who, sadly, died recently. Rohan Kanhai became a friend and invited me as a personal guest to the Test match where bands of Calypso singers sang in chorus “Ramadin And Valentine” and I also joined them. We exchanged a few letters and then Kanhai and I lost touch with each other.
Now, after almost fifty years what do I do with my autograph book? The ink is fading and with it the names of all those greats who once ruled the world of cinema, sports and literature because fame is a mistress of doubtful character. “An autograph book is like a stable where along with Arabian horses, mules are also found” wrote Ibrahim Jalees in my autograph book dated 13.7.56. Do you think I have some mules in my collection? Even if there were, with the passage of time, they have become Arabian horses for me.
LONG before the advent of the hippy culture, Lahore had its fair share of very genuine hippies who were dubbed as Bohemians in those days, of which the famed poet and revolutionary Zaheer Kashmiri was one of the most obvious.
