My encounter with Jalib

Chowk is great. Despite the occasional nuisance of a Jay or a Farangi_kush it feels like a home away from home. Reading some of the responses rekindles memories one would otherwise lose to the dust of time. Yesterday, I noticed that somebody had submitted a very poignant verse by Habib Jalib.

JO SHAKS TUM SEY PEHLAY YAHAN TAKHT NASHEEN THA

USKO BHI KHUDA HONAI PEH, ITNA HEE YAQEEN THA

I read it slowly at first. Read it aloud the second time and all of a sudden a vivid scene started playing on the canvas of my mind. It was maybe ten years ago. I was a fresh-faced teenager in a University back in Lahore. We had gone through strikes and frequent university closures due to gun-battles amongst various student groups. But now Benazir had come back into power. Student political parties had been allowed to function again. The future all of a sudden looked bright. Those were heady days. We decided to invite Habib Jalib for a poetry recital (mushaira) in the University. Jalib, as he was commonly known, was our second favorite poet. Faiz was in vogue and Munir Niazi was passe. Jalib was unique in the sense that he required almost no intellectual pretense on the listener’s part. He was daring yet understandable. He was a poet for the masses.

I and a friend of mine (lets call him Ali) were assigned to pick up Jalib from his home and bring him to the University. The mushaira was supposed to start at six in the evening. It was autumn and days had shortened considerably. The shadows were already lengthening when we reached Jalib’s abode on the outskirts of Lahore around five or so. Our arrival seemed to cause quite a stir in the Jalib household and although it was not a particularly big house, we felt quite lost in the guest room as people ran to and fro with a medley of voices barking out orders. It turned out that Jalib refused to set foot outside the house unless his clothes were starched and ironed to perfection. He sent out who I presume was his grandson three times to the “dhobi” till he was satisfied with his clothes. It was already six by the time I first saw Jalib. A short nondescript man in his sixties with almost no hair on his head, he looked very frail and needed help to walk about. He was coughing profusely and for a minute I thought it may not be such a great idea to take him to the recital. He seemed to pick up on my thinking and announced that although he felt a little weak, he couldn’t wait to talk to “Pakistan’s future”. That was enough for me. We got into the car and started driving toward the university. I made some feeble attempts at small talk but for some strange reason when it came Jalib’s turn to say something he’d start coughing and I would lose my train of thought. Ali decided to be a little bold and asked Jalib if he wanted some libations after the mushaira!! I was aghast. But to my surprise Jalib was not offended at all. He said he’ll think about it but for now he’d like a 7-up to clear up his throat!! 7-up for some reason turned out to be very rare commodity along that stretch of the road. Sprite and sugarcane juice seemed to be the drinks of choice. Jalib’s thinking was along the lines of “7-up or bust”. Needles to say we found 7-up for him not once but three times during the one-hour journey.

There was a sizeable crowd in the University hall and they gave Jalib a rousing welcome when he took his seat at the dais. I was still concerned about Jalib’s ability to recite his favorite poems without breaking into tortuous bouts of wheezing and coughing and I arranged to have some 7-up instead of water placed in front of him. To my utter amazement, upon taking the mike the old man’s voice took on a vigor which I normally would have associated with a much younger person. He started slowly but surely and then his voice seemed to draw sustenance from the appreciative audience around him. He recited some of his poems in the traditional melody(“tarranum”) associated with the old school. Others he went through at a dramatic pitch with a gleam in his eye that seemed infectious. The audience was captivated. They had him repeat some of his verses five or six times and he did so without any lack of zest or emotion.

A particular poem that brought down the house was a thinly disguised attack on Benazir and her policies. There was a wonderful play on the word Benazir that evoked raucous applause and laughter. It was an inspiring performance by a maestro in the twilight years of his existence. It was about 10 PM when people were finally persuaded to let go of him. I helped him into the car. He waved to the people as we drove away. Jalib was exhausted. He told Ali that as much as he wanted to drink, his doctor had strictly forbidden him, so he’ll find solace in 7-up instead. He hastened to add that he had done some of his best work under the influence and it’s not necessarily a bad thing for a budding poet like Ali to do the same. Ali seemed to lose all inhibitions at the suggestion and decided to recite some of his poetry for Jalib to judge. Jalib, however did not show the slightest bit of enthusiasm and after a few attempts Ali gave up. He decided another tact. Here are some exchanges between the two of them.

Ali: Sir, what do you think of Iqbal?

Jalib: Great poet. But a philanderer too.

Ali: Sir, what about Anees and Dabeer?

Jalib: What about them?

Ali: Who do you think was better?

Jalib: Greater minds have tried to figure that out. They were both shias weren’t they?

Ali: So?

Jalib:I need a 7-up.

Ali: Do you think you are the greatest Urdu poet alive?

Jalib: Woh Kamina Faraz bhi to zinda hai. (That jerk Faraz is still alive isn’t he?).

Ali: Do you think that the sacrifices you’ve made for the cause of democracy will help Pakistan?

Jalib: Benazir was a small kid when I used to go see her father. She is useless. Pause......So was her father.

Ali: Why do you say that?

Jalib: I need a 7-up.

We did stop for 7-up. It turns out that the “khoka” we stopped at was occupied by some very dangerous looking gentleman and the only currency bill I had was a 500-rupee one. The little boy who served the cold-drink disappeared with my entire month’s allowance and I grew increasingly flustered at the menacing glances of the occupants of the “khoka”. Jalib sensed my discomfort and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have given him such a large bill”. Normally I would have mumbled something innocuous in reply but for some incomprehensible reason I said something I didn’t expect myself to. Maybe it was my subconscious self that equated Jalib with democracy and the common man or maybe I was itching for some meaningful conversation. Something akin to snatching a piece of greatness from the dreary existence they call life. I blurted out in a voice dowsed with a heavy dose of youthful exuberance “But sir I thought you were a champion of democracy and the man of the street. Don’t you think a man on the street can be entrusted with a 500 rupee bill? I think it is the common man that holds the key to the future prosperity of Pakistan”. I swear I can replay the next twenty seconds just like that scene in “The Matrix” where Kaeanu Reeves goes airborne in his fight with Samuel Jackson. Frame by frame. Jalib looked at me a little condescendingly and then strangely enough his visage softened. He, then turned his head away into the darkness and in a calm yet detached voice answered “Array beta: is umar mey bhi jhoot boolon? Is mulk ki taqdeer hi kharab hai” (My dear, should I lie even at this age? This country is doomed). We didn’t really talk after that.

I left for the US a year or two later. I read in the newspaper while I was there that Habib Jalib had died from complications due to asthma. He didn’t receive any help material or otherwise from the government in his last few years. The pillage of the country continued in the name of democracy while the common man stood by idly. Maybe it was all for the best. The poet of the masses didn’t really need to suffer anymore.