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Boxing Day (December 26) reminds us of two great modern Urdu poets, Munir Niazi (1928-2006) and Parveen Shakir (1952-1994) who left us on that day. If Niazi was the poet of melancholy and complete estrangement from the ways of the world, Shakir dived headlong into the waters of romance lapping up all its fragrances, and many a heartburn alongside. Even though both were contemporaries, and lived and breathed in the same world in their last years, a gulf of social orientation and individual thrusts of their respective poetry separated the two. Niazi’s ghazal especially was steeped in the classical tradition, say of the Mir Taqi Mir variety, while his diction and context remained modern; Shakir’s ghazal followed the classical Urdu ghazal only as far as the form was concerned, but her idiom resonated with that of Ahmad Faraz. However, both displayed flashes of Nasir Kazmi’s pathos, especially when giving vent to inner pain and anguish.
The greatness of both lies in the fact that they were all-rounders: masters at ghazal, nazm, geet and other genres that can be put to melodic music; and yes, the puritan in Josh Malihabadi would have considered them ‘poets’ even though both played with the language (so sacrosanct to that doyen of the Urdu language). Josh would have forgiven Niazi his linguistic and idiomatic ‘innovations’ because Niazi wrote more nazms than ghazals, a qualification Josh required as essential to lay claim as a poet in the first place; equally, he would have forgiven Shakir her forays into western poetic sensibilities because like Shakir, Josh too was lured more than any other Urdu poet to singing of nature and of its beauty. Shakir also composed verse in English at a time when it was not fashionable to do so; nor did western publishers seek out Pakistanis writing in English.
Between Niazi and Shakir, the latter despite her fewer years in the field as a poet, was more prolific, and sang with abandon of her muse’s tryst with love — both requited and unrequited. Niazi, on the other hand, sang only of subjects metaphysical with an equal abandon— the human condition and its many frailties remaining the core of his focus. Yet, because Niazi had witnessed the rise of Pakistani cinema in his mature years, he wrote, though discreetly, quite a few hit numbers for films — from the all-time favourites, Uss bewafa ka shehr hai aur ham hein dosto, sung by Nasim Begum for the film Shaheed (1962) to Zinda rahen to kya hai jo mar jaaen ham to kya by Nahid Akhtar for Kharidar (1976). In between he penned many hit numbers for Noorjahan and Mehdi Hasan too. Shakir on the other hand did not write film lyrics, for in her heyday Urdu cinema was on the wane, but ghazal singing had become the most popular genre in Pakistan. The incomparable Mehdi Hasan has immortalised a few of her ghazals, the foremost among them: ku ba ku phel gai baat shanasaai ki.
Shakir’s distinguishing mark remains the boldness of her idiom which unashamedly celebrates a woman’s feelings of love, even flirtation, weaknesses and strengths, failures and trepidations which had hitherto remained taboo in Urdu poetry, save in the poetry of Kishwar Nahid and Fehmida Riaz before her (and Attiya Dawood presently). But this comment must come with the essential footnote that Shakir, unlike the other ladies, did not explicitly set out to write feminist poetry. Her emotional triumphs and failings as expressed in the sensual idiom match those of Faraz, Majaz and Firaq, for instance, and not of Sara Shagufta (or Forugh Farrokhzad or Sylvia Plath); she falls short of making a death wish. Flagging feminism, rather exhibitionism of that particular variety as a political statement, totally eludes her; as does gender politics altogether.
Despite her modern diction, so entrenched was Shakir in the Urdu tradition that she paid generous tributes to many classical poets, from Amir Khusro to Ghalib; but Niazi was also among those of her contemporaries to whom she paid her respects by composing a ghazal after his rhyme and metre. Consider the following two verses so very characteristic of Shakir:
Paniyon mein yeh bhi paani aik din tehleel tha/ qatra-e-be-sarfe ko lekin gohar uss ne kiya (Immersed in the waters was this drop of dribble too/ A useless drop that he turned into a pearl); Phir to imkanaat phoolon ki tarah khilte gaye/ Aik nanhe se shagufe ko shajar uss ne kiya (Then possibilities blossomed like flowers/When a tiny sapling he turned into a tree).
By contrast, the following two verses from Niazi’s original ghazal speak of his own disposition vis-à-vis the world that he remained so very weary of, as in uktaaye hue rehna: Meri saari zindagi ko be-samar uss ne kiya/ umr meri thi magar uss ko basar uss ne kiya (My whole life (s)he rendered fruitless/ The life was mine, but [s]he spent it); Rehbar mera bana gumrah karne ke liye/ Mujh ko seedhe raaste se dar-ba-dar uss ne kiya ([S]he led me, to lead me astray/ Wandering [s]he set me from the straight path).
How delightfully different in thought and similar in form, thanks to the sheer beauty of Urdu poetry.
While both Munir Niazi and Parveen Shakir lived their respective lives as sensitive poets, Niazi definitely carried a heavier emotional burden, given the sense of his grief and alienation, perhaps due to his own gradual retreat from the world around him. Shakir embraced a romantic, even if very tragic, death at a young age, with her life cut short by a road accident. While Niazi turned a recluse and died a slow death, as if fated, Shakir’s end reflected the recklessness inherent in the youthfulness of her expression.
Niazi’s following signature verse in Punjabi sums up poignantly the two very varied conditions that he and Shakir experienced: Kuj unj vi rahvaan aokhiyaan san, kuj gal vich gham da taok vi si/ Kuj shehr de lok vi zalam san, kuj sanun maran da shok vis si (The road was tough as it was; I too carried the noose of grief around my neck/ The city folk were cruel as they were; I too had a death wish).
