Of cities and their souls
This does reflect reality to some extent, for there is certainly a palpable competition between the elites of the two cities – and it is no coincidence that it is the elites who mainly produce and inform much of the media.
For the average Karachiite of the chattering classes, the world ends at the toll plaza and anything beyond probably exists, or so they’ve heard, but they’re not going to believe it until they see it. As for what lies north of the provincial border, the map might as well say, “Here be dragons,” the dragons in this case being Lahoris in starched shalwar kameez.
On the other side of the coin, Lahoris view their southern cousins with mistrust and more than a touch of disdain. Karachi may be the city of opportunity where the streets are paved with gold, they sniff disparagingly, but where’s the history and heritage? As for culture, they point out, it’s clearly missing in action and regrettably presumed dead. Moreover, die-hard Lahoris point out, look where it’s got them: for years, Karachi has been plagued by communal and ethnic conflict, there’s no city infrastructure to speak of and the standard of life is at rock bottom.
Yet there is in Karachi a sense of urgency and determination not found in any other city in Pakistan. Where Lahore is amusedly generous and rooted in its history, Islamabad is stern and uncompromising. Karachi, however, has all the purposefulness of a nuclear reactor: tremendous harnessed power and the constant danger of melt-down, its citizens the frantically pumping pistons and smoking cogs that keep the whole machine together on the edge of the catastrophe curve. In this city, more than any other, one gets the sense of being just two steps ahead of disaster. If Karachiites are slaves to Mammon, it’s because being truly urban, they have no comfortable village failsafe to fall back on.
As a result, Karachi’s citizens have little time to waste on frivolities. This is evident in, for example, the difference in the way Lahoris and Karachiites give directions. The former will stop and rub his chin; his gaze will unfocus; he’ll ask why you’re going there and wouldn’t you rather go elsewhere? He’ll remark that you’re clearly a stranger in the area.
The directions he’ll eventually give will concern his own favourite route, invariably through back-streets and shortcuts, and involving lots of instructions along the lines of “turn right at the third tree from the left after the place where the statue used to be.” Half an hour later, you’ll be hopelessly lost in twisting and increasingly narrow alleys, pleading with passers-by to tell you where the statue used to be and whether they cut down the tree.
In Karachi, on the other hand, people will either say that they don’t know your destination, or give you the easiest route along main roads.
Lahore is, on the whole, homegenised — perhaps its sense of calm lies in this relative sameness in background (mainly feudal or business), racial stock (Aryan descent or Punjabi) and language (Punjabi or Urdu). The person next to you may be a complete stranger but is probably only three steps away from being a relative. The city of sand, however, is like Terry Pratchett’s creation, the city of Ankh-Morpork. Different communities, languages, religions and ethnic backgrounds come together professionally to create order out of potential anarchy. This is the most remarkable feature of Karachi.
That said, however, the city’s notorious water and electricity problems, poor traffic and urban planning, the endless sprawl of katchi abadis and high-rise housing stand testimony to the manner in which this once grand city has been humbled. Vestiges of its old splendour still exist, in the soaring ceilings of Frere Hall or the graceful dimensions of old Saddar where, on a Sunday, you can still see how beautiful a downtown it must once have been. But Karachi has faced attack on so many fronts that its grace has been all but lost.
Cities are organic entities, each one with a palpable soul and character. Karachi is a city that clings to life by its fingertips. It doesn’t die because it simply refuses to give up. In terms of economy, urban planning, infrastructure, and communal peace, it couldn’t have been more badly damaged had there been an active plot afoot to squeeze all life out of it. Yet Karachi carries on, refusing to collapse under its own weight and spitting defiantly at the aggressor. Despite the damage that has been inflicted upon it, its soul comprised of the millions of citizens who keep its wheels turning and refuse to give up remains intact.
— hmumtaz@dawn.com
Murtaza Niazi – a neglected artiste
Murtaza Niazi, who is not only a good singer but also an Urdu poet, comes from Mianwali. He served in the Pakistan Air Force for seven years. After taking retirement from the PAF, he made Karachi his home and became a shagird of another little known scholar of classical music, Ustad Mohammad Umar Baloch, of Iranian origin, who had settled in Karachi and worked for the now defunct KMC. Living as an ascetic, he imparted music education to people not for money or fame but to serve the cause of classical music.
Following in the footsteps of his Ustad, and after his death, Murtaza took to teaching music to those who came from the lower-middle class and had talent but could not pay for the acquisition of this knowledge. With great devotion he has been running a school named after his Ustad, “Mohammad Umer Baloch Music Academy” in the old neighborhood of Purana Golimar, Karachi.
It was inspiring to see his own shagirds – Daniel Wilayat on the harmonium, Prakash Solanki on the tabla and Mohammad Ismail on the keyboard – giving him accompaniment while he sang.
Murtaza’s method of teaching is extremely good. I have seen his booklet ‘Qawaed-i-Mauseeqi’, which may be called a short textbook of classical music. He has also compiled a book titled ‘Rus Rung’ – a collection of bandishes in various raags and fixed in different taals. In the realm of poetry, he is known as Mas’hoor Niazi and his poetry collection is called ‘Bazm-i-Kheyal’. He has written and composed many bandishes in Brij Bhasha, which are quite on a par with other famous bandishes sung by classical singers. Here is a specimen of his Urdu poetry:
Manzil ki arzoo hai merey humsafar to phir
Kia khauf rastay ke nasheb-o-faraz ka
Kamil naheen hai sheikh tera zauq-i-bandagi
Paaband hai jo panch pahar ki namaz ka
On at least three occasions in the past, I have unsuccessfully made attempts to persuade relevant people – those who matter – to hunt for devoted and able teachers and provide them with environment conducive to teaching classical music. But, perhaps, honest and able teachers themselves lack the drive and ambition that are basic ingredients for success. Or, maybe, as a nation we have perfected the art of depriving ourselves of services of able and devoted people with true merit. As my late Ustad Wilayat Ali Khan used to say: “Allah ka dia sub kuchh hai, magar qaum ki qismat achhi naheen hai.”
Coming to Murtaza’s performance on Friday, he was asked by the organizers to sing “halki-phulki ghazlen”, which he did. But ghazal is not his forte; his strong point is classical singing in which he has received training. And when he reluctantly sang some classical/semi-classical bandishes and geets, the applause from the audience was spontaneous. His presentation of compositions in Bhopali, Bageshri, Bhairween, Pahari and Jaunpuri were appreciated the most. So, it may be fair to assume that all is not lost as far as musical taste of our people is concerned.
M.D. Tahir — the voice of litigants
He was in the newspaper almost every day. Long before Justice Iftikhar’s legendary public-interest litigation storm hit the world, M.D. Tahir was the lone warrior of public-interest litigation in Pakistan. He was so simple and down to earth, contrary to his media image, that people meeting him for the first time would be surprised, if not shocked.
M.D. Tahir had the determination and fortitude to raise issues on his own. He was least bothered about what others had to say about him and the issues that he raised. No other lawyer would dare to raise or be associated with issues that he raised. For example, think which other Pakistani lawyer would like to represent the rights of overworked donkeys.
I over a period of time learned to respect M.D. Tahir’s initiatives. He had guts. In a society where people are guarded in their expression not to offend the powers-that-be, M.D. Tahir was courageous enough to break free of any such apprehensions and move right on. He never offered a second thought to the consequences that might flow for him on account of filing the petition. As a result, he never made it to any government office or got any appointment that a lawyer normally aspires for.
By the way, he was a busy litigant-lawyer in every sense of the word and it goes to his credit to take time out of his busy schedule and fire petition after petition in court. He had raised several human rights’ issues in courts, though he was never an activist like Asma Jehangir for instance. He had defined his own limits of professional activity and stuck to them. He would raise issues only in courts through petitions, but hardly pursued the same causes by taking out processions or rallies.
M.D. Tahir never looked angry or annoyed with anyone. I never saw him losing temper or misbehaving with anyone. Even in courts he would hardly raise his voice and keep the decorum and respect of a courtroom intact.
Whenever I travel to other cities, one odd enthusiastic inquiry is about M.D. Tahir. He had unbelievable respect and a silent fan following amongst the public all over the country. In a way it is sad that his own news of demise was far smaller than the news of the petitions that he used to file. It at least goes on to prove that M.D. Tahir was raising issues far larger than himself and these issues were matters that the public wanted judicial scrutiny of.
M.D. Tahir lived in a world of his own. Never socialised, never went to parties and was never interested in making speeches. He just worked his heart out. Dreamer and believer, M.D. Tahir deserves respect and recognition from his fellow professionals and other members of the public who even otherwise know of him for blowing the whistle on some of the most important issues close to a common man.
Flying his sword of petitions and often only ending up cutting thin air, M.D. Tahir has moved on quietly. He leaves behind for young lawyers invaluable lessons on self-belief, humility, initiative and guts. May God rest his soul in peace.