I apologize in advance for not posting this, as a comment on Professor Tiwari’s article on Amrita Pritam. The reasons are, though she is erudite, she is averse to controversy and debate (as my attempts with comments to stimulate debate’s failure shows) and there are persons who frequent this website, who believe that any comments on any article should follow the adage that “brevity is the soul of wit”.

Since my desire is to promote genuine debate and I believe that ideas and information cannot be really conveyed by sound bites, I have chosen this controversial path at the risk of even more criticism and condemnation. Equally importantly, there are many crucial points which the previous article did not bring out or inform about, which would allow genuine debate by informed participants, to voice opinions. I beg Professor Tiwari’s indulgence for this transgression, in view of my intentions, my fervent desire to stimulate genuine debate, and not cheering, sycophancy and repetitious inconsequential incontinence.

History is replete with men and women who have been frustrated by their unrequited love or been incarcerated in a relationship, while desiring and craving for another, reciprocated or unreciprocated one. Faiz, who only gave an excuse for not being able to offer the all encompassing love like before, in “Aur bhi gham he Zamaane me mohabbat ke siwaa”, does not even come close to Sahir in his words.

Zindagi sirf mohabbat nahi, kuch aur bhi hai
Zulf or rukhsaar ki zannat nahi, kuch aur bhi hai
Bhukh aur pyaaas ki maari hui is duniyaa men
Ishq hi hi ek hakikat nahi, kuch aur bhi he
Tum agar aankh churao, to ye haq he tum ko
Maine tumse hi nahi, subse mohabbat kiyi he.  

The options in such situations are only two. Either one rebels against the norms of contemporary society and pursues an illicit relationship, heterosexual or homosexual and pays the price of the rebellion with the certainty, arrogance and conviction of Henley’s “Invictus” or one succumbs to the constraints of contemporary cultural convictions and commits suicide, like Alan Turing (perhaps Oscar Wilde) or sublimates life like Meerabai. All of these are acceptable and deserving of praise, sympathy and even condemnation and criticism, depending on points of view about morality and right. The reality is that they are so commonplace, that they deserve mostly a nod and indifference.

And what makes Sahir, not only a genius, but in theory at least a man of character, is the other ghazal which became a song in the film “Gumraah”.

Chalo ek baar phir se, ajnabi ban jaye ham dono

Na main tumse koi ummeed rakhoon dilnavaazi ki
Na tum meri taraf dekho galat andaaz nazaron se
Na mere dil ki dhadkan ladkhadaaye meri baaton mein
Na zaahir ho tumhaari kashm-kash ka raaz nazaron se
Chalo ek baar phir se..

Tumhen bhi koi uljhan rokti hai peshkadmi se
Mujhe bhi log kehte hain, ki yeh jalve paraaye hain
Mere hamraah bhi rusvaaiyaan hain mere maajhi ki
Tumhaare saath bhi guzri hui raaton ke saaye hain
Chalo ek baar phir se..

Taarruf rog ho jaaye to usko bhoolnaa behtar
Taalluk bojh ban jaaye to usko todnaa achchha
Voh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumkin
Use ek khoobsoorat mod dekar chhodna achchha

For a real retelling of these tragic stories with any relevant meaning, the purpose and message, which is deserving of praise and even retelling is, whether that personal “Samudramanthan” (churning of mind and soul) generated either any Amrit (ambrosia) or Halahal (poison), which has a lasting and important message, emotional and intellectual, or concern for humanity in general. Amrita’s “dil ki kashmokashm” produced no great literature. The despicable sacrifice of young women and their love in the history of humanity, for the benefit of powerful men’s political, pecuniary and nefarious goals, has been the sordid story of humanity for millennia, since recorded history, and still prevalent in Islamic and even Hindu societies. If the apocryphal story of Pritam’s final attempt to make the tryst physically meaningful are true (which is doubtful), it became a farce because of her cop out due to her inability to betray her inherited, customary and conventional principles for the new avant garde norms and Sahir’s physical inability.

I think that a better analogy is in Margaret Mitchell’s, “Gone With the Wind”, in the relationship between the stupid Scarlett (like Amrita Pritam) ruled by her emotional infatuations and equally torn Ashley Wilkes (restrained by honor, but equally by the fact that there was nothing intellectual about Scarlett to love), who is tempted by his carnal lust, but restrained by his intellect and character, but still chooses the right path without regrets, rather than the moping but chaste Amrita Pritam and the pragmatic, selfish but incapable of understanding, Scarlett O’hara. Disaster at the end, like in Madam Bovary or Anna Karenina, is predictable knowing male human nature and all human history, and thus for Amrita Pritam, but unfortunately without any meaningful contribution to life, literature or substance, by Amrita Pritam, except a tired retelling of an often told tale.

Sahir was indeed a great poet and an atheist with an attitude, who even looked at the Taj Mahal, as an ostentatious exploitation by Shah Jehan of his riches, to shame us common lovers and our inability to erect such monuments for our own equally great love. Incidentally, consistent with the penchant of many talented men and women and notoriously prevalent in most totally untalented men of an Islamic persuasion, though an ambition of a large majority of all men of all persuasions, is the desire to plant their seed in as many wombs as possible and not only for the laudable purpose of attaining partial immortality. Sudha Malhotra, a talented artist was equally enamored with Sahir.

My point in this ruthless criticism is that such things are neither uncommon nor deserving of telling, unless and until the “manmanthan” (churning of the mind) generates a gem, genius, a qauntum leap of civilization or a masterpiece of art, literature or invention. Otherwise, they fall into mere tidbits of useless gossip, which is what all the writings of Shobha De can ever hope of only dreaming to aspire to.