Our Songester Ahad- Pied Piper of Downtown

Ahad- the Pied Piper

I knew no Kashmiri poet in my primary school days.  I had not heard of any poet or poetaster. There was no poet teacher in the primary department of our school; even if there might have been one he was living a life of anonymity.   I think, I only knew one songster and some troubadours- who passed through lanes of our Mohalla. The songster lived somewhere near my birth burg and the troubadours (Ladishah)– arrived into the city from some nearby villages.

The only poet, I knew was lean, fair-complexioned, bespectacled teacher Pitamaber Nath Fani.  One of his poems was sung by us at the morning assembly. Yes, like many other friends knew names of many Urdu poets.  Allama Iqbal and Altaf Hussain Hali topped- their poems were recited at the school assemblies. True, we recited their poems at high pitch at the morning assemblies- but hardly understood many of them. In our prayer book,  other than Pitamber Nath Fani’s poem there were two more Kashmiri poems by Abdul Ahad Azad and Ghulam Ahmed Mehjoor- I and my pals remembered these poems and read them loud at the morning assemblies and even to ward off fear in dark lanes in the evening- but I hardly understood meaning of these poems like:

“Sahabo Sath Cham Me Chani Wath Maa Asalach Hawatum”-

I never understood what Sahabo means- so was true about other poems and psalms. I doubt if I understood the meaning my most favorite ‘morning poem’, Lab Paa Aate Hai Dua” and most of the Hali went above my head. It was strange no teacher ever explained us these poems that we recited at the morning prayers.

I don’t remember exactly who often said to us,  ‘great literature is born in turmoil, turbulences and during freedom struggles.’   ‘I think it was either Urdu teacher Ghulam Muhammad Shah (Shah Sahib) or our English teacher Ghulam Abbass (later on an IAS officer).  Abbas Sahib often used to say that the sufferings and miseries are grist to the minds of poets- pain and agony gives wings to their soaring imagination- great poetry is born out of agonized situations.’     Abbass sahib- who those days was under Marxian influence. He often repeated these words, leaving behind  indelible impression on my mind.  I read some literature written during the Russian revolution- without understanding much of it.

Like a ghost these words have been haunting my mind- suffering, pain, agony and torment has been an alienable part with people of my generation but I am dismayed at my teacher’s ‘golden sentences’ failing on touchstone of literature of my land. My “masters”- prophets of words and phrases not having immortalizing my suffering- theirs, should I say “in-excusable” o “criminal” silence like a barb ache’s my heart. In mid nineties we saw some literature being produced- but other than some stories by Akhtar Mohu-u-Din and some less known short story writers we hardly can claim twenty years turbulence having spawned any great literature. Some thematic poetry embellished our literary landscape but no great work was born..The epic poem (math-navi) Laila wa Mustafa by Miriza Gulam Hassan Beg Arif printed in early fifties was reprinted. Some devotional poetic collections were published.

The agony and pain found its way in folk literature. The traditional marriage songs (wanawun) that cascaded with joviality, hilarity exuberance and titillation in early nineties changed into “ballads”- they lost the  excitement and liveliness. The “heroic tales” of slain and militant leaders became part of folk literature- it is different that the trend proved ephemeral and died within a few years.

Yes, in my childhood I did not seen any poet other than my teacher at school- but I knew a songster who was no less than a pied piper of Hamelin for children’s of our locality.  He was my poet- poet laureate. His name was Abdul Ahad- a tall, lanky man with profusely oiled long curly hair. A jute or cotton bag slanged from one of his shoulder. In one hand he would always carry a tinned cone shaped mega phone for singing songs. In one hand he would always carry a book of songs where from he would recite the poetry. I don’t know if he recited poetry of any great poet or it was poetry of some small time poets that he sang- but he was a source of great attraction. The moment he would come in our street it were not only boys and girls that jostled out of their home. I would often see woman protruding their necks from windows like swans out of coops.

I think it was mostly noon time when he would arrive in our Mohalla- today I realize it was not works some good poets that sang but of some poetasters who wrote about on the relation of mother-in-law and daughter law, dowry and other such issues. He also recited marriage songs- I think the small booklets that he sold cost one or two annas- and women would buy these booklet mostly published by Ghulam Muhmmad Noor Mohammad Tajrian Kutab. I remember, I along with my friends followed him through many lanes and many times he would get irritated and whisk us away.

I think, it was in 1958, when Sheikh Abdullah  was released from jail that he sang songs hailing him as greatest Kashmir hero- I don’t know if I have ever heard him singing a song in praise of Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad.

This tradition I think lived up to mid seventies. How old this tradition street singing had been in our part of city. History books do tell us about lots of Persian and Kashmiri poets. But there are no stories about these poets selling their collection by moving from street to street, Mohalla to Mohalla and lane to lane, reciting their  poems.   It is only songster Shahri, who sang songs of Mehjoor that has found place in our literary history- I don’t think Ahad has found a mention even in foot notes of our history- and perhaps will not.