I have tried to induce in myself a nostalgia, some sort of emotion, on the 10th anniversary of the fall of Babri Masjid and have drawn a blank. In another context, Wordsworth talked of the loss of that ‘visionary gleam’. Possibly, something inside me has dried up. In my years as a journalist I have reverted repeatedly to my village, Mustafabad, near Rae Bareli, where my earliest sensibilities were shaped by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and, above all, my father and mother. Ours was a Muslim home, a mosque dominating our courtyard. But the cultural derivatives of this Islam were set against a broad Hindu civilisational framework. It was not something we discussed. It was something we lived. Our marriage rituals were rituals of Avadh and therefore, I dare say, Hindu. If one of our cousins was in the family way my mother would arrange for Aseemun to be around for the childbirth. How could a baby be born in our house without Aseemun singing in her full-throated style, my mother’s favourite sohar, song sung at childbirth in our villages. Allah mian hamare bhaiyya ka diyo nand Lal (Oh my Allah give my brother a son like Lord Krishna). The controller of ceremonies, both at weddings and at childbirth, was the nawan, or the barber’s wife. Whether Hindu or Muslim, she brought into the rituals and the festivities the cultural elements of the Hindu countryside. Even our religious poetry was occasionally cast in a Hindu ambience. The greatest epics on various aspects of the tragedy of Karbala were written by Mir Anis who is regarded as the greatest master of Urdu diction. These poems, or Marsias, are the staple at most Moharram congregations particularly in areas around Avadh. Even though all of Anis’s characters like Imam Hussain, the prophet’s grandson, Abbas, his brother, Zainab, his sister and a range of sisters and daughters-in-law, are historically Arab, Anis has delineated his characters as quintessentially Avadhi. In their speech and demeanour they come across as Indian. Bano-e-nek naam ki kheti, hari rahey/ Sandal se maang, bachchon/ Se godi bhari rahey (May the parting in Bano’s hair always carry a streak of sandalwood and may her house always be filled with the laughter of children). My grandmother could actually recite passages from Padmavat, the classic in Avadhi written by Malik Mohammad Jaisi. This epic again is dotted with Hindu lore. Wali Dakhini or Wali Gujarati was another favourite set to tunes by Aseemun. Koocha-e yaar ain Kashi, hai/ Jogia dil wahan ka Vaasi, haai (My beloved’s neighbourhood is exactly like the holy city of Kashi; and the yogi of my heart has taken up residence in that city). Yes, this is the same Wali Gujarati whose grave was levelled by the rioters in Ahmedabad and today traffic plies over it. But traffic of another type plies over the grave of another poet, possibly the greatest of them all, Mir Taqi Mir. A railway track runs over his grave at Lucknow city station. Uske farogh-e-husn se/ jhamke hai sab mein noor/ Shamm-e haram ho ya ki diya/ Somnath ka (His light permeates through all — the lamp at Kaaba or the Somnath temple.) Ghalib’s house in Ballimaran remains ignored. Remember his adoration for Varanasi? (Varanasi is like a beautiful woman admiring herself in the mirror of the Ganga, mornings, evenings and afternoons). In fact in this long poem, ‘Lamp in a Temple’, Ghalib describes Varanasi as the ‘Kaaba of Hindustan’, somewhat in the same vein as Iqbal’s description of Lord Rama as the ‘Imam of Hindustan’. How many more poets must I list? Does anybody remember poetry in praise of Lord Rama by Abdul Rahim Khan-e-Khana? That somewhat ravaged monument at the entrance of Nizamuddin East in New Delhi is his tomb. And what of Saiyid Ibrahim Raskhan’s unparalleled adoration for that ‘naughty boy from Gokul’ or Salbeg’s lyrics on Jagannath never sung better than by Sikandar Alam. Or Nazir Akbarabadi on Krishna Raas, Mahadev, Guru Nanak. And if you have had enough of the 19th century let me introduce you to modern poets. Krishn ka hun pujari/ Ali ka banda hoon/ Yagana shaan-e-khuda/ Dekh kar raha na Gaya (I am a pujari of Krishna and a devotee of Ali/ I cannot help myself when I see the wonders of God). Just in case you didn’t know, the longest running serial, Mahabharat, which almost transformed Hinduism into a congregational religion, was written by Masoom Raza Rahi. And why restrict ourselves to literature? Ustad Fayyaz Khan had a series of compositions but of none was he more proud than: Manmohan Braj ke Rasiya (Colourful Krishna in Braj land). Visit Ustad Alauddin Khan’s house in Maihar and you will be witness to one of the great spectacles of composite culture. The great master said his namaaz five times a day but his music he derived from Saraswati, who adorns all the walls of his house. When my friend Raghu Rai and I visited Malikarjun Mansoor, Gangubai Hangal and Bhimsen Joshi, prominent on their walls were photographs of their respective gurus, Manjhe Khan and Ustad Abdul Karim Khan. Ibrahim Adil Shah, the King of Bijapur in the 18th century begins his great work on music Kitaab-e-Nauras with Saraswati Vandana. Had Dara Shikoh not translated the Upanishads into Persian, the transmission of Hindu thought to the West would have had to rely on some other route. I have not even mentioned Khushi Mohammad, the pujari who looks after Goga Merhi temple in Ganganagar and Adam Malik from Baktot village in Pahalgam who discovered the Amarnath shrine. One third of the proceeds from the shrine to this day go to the descendents of Mailk. But in the 10th year of the destruction of the Babri Masjid, none of this seems relevant. Would Modi, Singhal or Togadia understand any of this? They were not around when I went out and made 50 short films on these themes. Oh the passion with which I undertook the expedition. Except for my cousin Jimmy’s mad pursuit of these themes, I was alone even then. Today I feel different, probably lonely and there is a difference. Write to saeednaqvi@expressindia.com
