WHILE rummaging in the heap of books and journals I had brought with me from India, I picked out an issue of Aligarh Magazine. It now appeared to me precious because of its association with Moeen Ahsan Jazbi, who is now no more among us. This is a special issue presented as Jazbi and Asad Badayuni Number.
It helped me revive my memory about my visit to Aligarh last year when Jazbi Sahib was still alive and I had the opportunity to see him for the first and the last time. When, after a few months, I paid my second visit to Aligarh he was no more to be seen. He had passed away after reaching the age of 93.
At the eve of my last year’s visit to Aligarh, I was told by my hosts and friends that the function in which I had to participate will be presided over by Jazbi Sahib. I felt elated. But at the nick of time the organizers of the function received the information that the old man suddenly became unwell and had to go to the hospital.
However, when the function was nearing its end, we were told that Jazbi Sahib had arrived. Soon, an old man helped and supported by a group of students entered the hall and with much difficulty was brought to the stage.
The old poet kept up his promise. Though late, he came and graced the function by his presence. It was a bit difficult for me to follow what he was saying while speaking towards the end of the function. But when a request was made to him for reciting his ghazal, he appeared warmed up. He now no more mumbled and recited his ghazal in his warmed up and clear voice. He had chosen to recite his famous ghazal:
Marnai ki duain kyon mangoon
Jinai ki tamanna kaun karai
This ghazal has a history of its own. It was written in 1933. Jazbi tells us in an interview that one evening he was in a pessimistic mood because of the tension in the house created by the behaviour of his stepmother. He went to the extent of thinking that he should now commit suicide. It was during those desperate moments that he wrote this ghazal. And it was destined to be his most popular ghazal, leaving behind all what he wrote in later years. It mysteriously succeeded in capturing the popular imagination and achieved the kind of popularity that folk poetry enjoys.
His critics have traced his verse-writing to the time when he was still in his ninth year. While in Aligarh, he enjoyed the company of Majaz. It soon turned into a close friendship.
They grew as two poets complimenting each other. During the heyday of the progressive movement, Majaz and Jazbi, each popular in his own way, appeared inseparable from each other. The two names representing a common progressive trend in poetry went together.
However, with the passage of time, Jazbi’s name receded in the background. It was perhaps because of his waning involvement in poetry. In the recent decades, we scarcely felt his presence on the literary scene. He had confined himself in the little world of Aligarh. Now he was leading a secluded life and had stopped writing. He also found himself handicapped because of his declining eyesight, on account of which he lost touch with the written word. At the age of 93, he quietly passed away.
The present special number of Aligarh Magazine appears to be a tribute to the retired poet. A number of distinguished Aligarians are seen here paying tributes to the grand old man of Urdu poetry and of Aligarh. However, I feel more tempted to quote him from his interview.
Here, in reply to the questions put to him by the interviewer, he is seen looking back into his past. The questions put to him evoke in him memories of the years spent in the company of friends and relatives. He, with his long experience of verse writing, talks about poetry and also gives his opinion with a frankness about his contemporaries.
He censures Prof Alay Ahmad Suroor for being diplomatic in his critical judgments. Most of the critics, he thinks, have been trying the tactics of being vague and diplomatic in judging their contemporaries. “But,” he says, “they must know that diplomacy has no place in literature.” Time is the great judge. It is its judgment that counts most in literature.
Jazbi doesn’t much believe in spontaneity or what we call ‘aamad’ in Urdu. He is of the opinion that a good poem doesn’t come out of the blue. It is a laborious job.
“I say on the basis of my personal experience that poetry is an act of craftsmanship. It is a serious job requiring conscious efforts.” And he adds that a poet may well be spontaneous to the extent of one couplet. For the rest of the poem or ghazal, the poet has to take pains.
In case of his own verse, Jazbi appears to be very humble. “I,” he says, “don’t suffer from self-delusion. In respect of my own verse I am far more critical than the critics. I don’t feel satisfied with what I have written although my creative journey has been long and arduous.”
And he ended by saying “Ninety-two years are a long life. Almost all of my contemporaries have passed away. I, too, am on the way to my end. Now when I look back surveying my poetic output, I feel disturbed. Much remained unsaid. There was so much which I could not capture.”
Out of humbleness, he evaded saying what he was able to capture in his verse. It is no less precious than what remained uncaptured and unsaid. He eventually will be judged on the basis of what he achieved and not on the basis of what he aspired to achieve.
WHILE rummaging in the heap of books and journals I had brought with me from India, I picked out an issue of Aligarh Magazine. It now appeared to me precious because of its association with Moeen Ahsan Jazbi, who is now no more among us. This is a special issue presented as Jazbi and Asad Badayuni Number.
