Shaukat Kaifi
This is a collection of articles archived for the excellence of their content. Readers will be able to edit existing articles and post new articles directly |
Shaukat Kaifi
October 15, 2006
REVIEWS: Comrades forever
Reviewed by Uneza Akhtar
South Asian scholarship in general and Urdu in particular has largely ignored the potential of mining the history of women as an indigenous part of society. Shaukat Kaifi’s Yaad ki Rahguzar serves as a potent reminder that discussing the silences and ellipses of the individual gives a deeper insight into lives of women and men from different communities, and embracing these differences, especially in these trying times for minorities, is a quiet accomplishment of the memoir. Shaukat Kaifi’s memoirs shine a beacon into the diverse upper middle class Muslim backgrounds of Hyderabad, Lucknow, Mijwan and Mumbai simply by offering an account of a woman evolving through her fierce quest to uplift herself intellectually.
This desire is fostered though a revolutionary poem “Aurat” recited by a handsome, young poet Kaifi Azmi in a mushairah. The seed of love and comradeship nurtured by a steadfast will and a wide-eyed curiosity for life, catapults Shaukat Kaifi out of the restraining provincial mindset of Hyderabad and into the invigorating secular world of poetry, politics, theatre and films in Mumbai in 1947.
Drawing on memories, Shaukat Kaifi lends her female gaze to the commune where she began her new life with Kaifi Azmi, noted poet and member of the Communist Party of India. In this retelling of life, where the camaraderie of the commune members who lived Spartan yet enriched lives with high ideals to free the masses from poverty and illiteracy, Shaukat deftly recreates the utopia of the era.
She worries as she watches Kaifi writing a poem a day to sell it for publication to support his young bride, frets over the banal menu of the comrades and cooks up a storm to earn the title “comrade” by satiated members. But it’s here, too, that she is transformed into a woman with a mission. Comrade P.C. Joshi, tells her that a comrade’s wife can complement her husband “only if she works and earns her own money.”
Inspired by his sage advice, Shaukat dove in at the deep end and soon made her mark as an actor of calibre essaying memorable roles first in theatre and later in films. What is appealing about her narrative is that despite her professional achievements, Shaukat comes across as a “shishya” or student, always eager to learn even at the prime of her career. She is equally generous with crediting her growth to theatre and film stalwarts like Prithviraj Kapoor, Alyque Padamsee, Zohra Sehgal, A.K. Hangal, Balraj Sahni and Mira Nair.
Embellishing her account with umpteen anecdotes, Shaukat gives a fascinating glimpse of theatre groups she worked with such as the Indian People’s Theatre Association and Prithvi Theatre. She rues the fact that, “as people we have neglected documenting our art for posterity.” Plays that are embedded in people’s memories survive, only to perish with them. These plays were about the bane of communalism, partition and human resilience in the face of adversity. The evanescence of her plays are redeemed by her film portrayals in movies such as “Garam Hawa”, “Umraon Jan” and “Salaam Bombay” which are enshrined in viewers’ minds and will continue to charm film aficionados forever.
Shaukat Kaifi’s life has been coloured with talented people, all gifted in their respective genres — poets, filmmakers, actors. The book takes the reader into the lives of poets and intellectuals like Sajjad Zaheer, Josh Malihabadi, Sardar Jafri, Ismat Chughtai, a group of people who despite their own neediness and struggles, were staunch humanists and whose vision of humanity segues with their actions. It’s little wonder that Shaukat nurtured the actor and activist in her celebrated daughter Shabana Azmi by example.
A significant portion of the book is devoted to Kaifi — the poet, lyricist, son, father, comrade, friend and companion. Shaukat revisits her life without any philosophical musings spanning 55 years with “her Kaifi”
Shaukat Kaifi’s memoir unreels against the backdrop of her life’s love — Kaifi Azmi who not only let the woman in his life fulfill her potential, but valued and honoured her individuality. A significant portion of the book is devoted to Kaifi — the poet, lyricist, son, father, comrade, friend and companion. Shaukat revisits her life without any philosophical musings spanning 55 years with “her Kaifi”; yet as the ink dries on the pages of her life’s story, what emerges is the story of a remarkable woman who persevered with a dignity and panache in the face of life’s heartaches nursing Kaifi and had the will for making the most of what life offered.
She writes with honesty and literary flair. The letter she wrote to a two-year-old Shabana while touring for a play is a poignant, literary gem. Her account of Kaifi’s struggle despite his illness, to put his small village Mijwan on the road to development is proof that it’s possible to move mountains, with a compassionate companion.
Shaukat Kaifi’s life has been an open book, but the telling of her own life with its personal triumphs and heartbreaks is a unique love story. In the end, what shines through is her indelible humanity, courage, and her reservoir of love and devotion as comrade to Kaifi Azmi and as role model to her children, Shabana and Baba Azmi.
Yaad ki Rahguzar
By Shaukat Kaifi
Maktaba-e-Danyal, Victoria Chamber 2,
Opposite Jabees Hotel, Abdullah Haroon Road, Karachi-74400
Tel: 021-5681457, 5682036
Email: danyalbooks@hotmail.com
223pp. Rs350
Shaukat Kaifi II
October 29, 2006
EXCERPTS: Starting out
A memoir, this book captures the experiences of Shaukat Kaifi who marries an intellectual giant. She also writes about the famous personalities who entered her life at different stages
Shaukat Kaifi writes about her husband, Kaifi Azmi, and the early days of their marriage
In 1948, when my first child was to be born, Kaifi took me to his home in Lucknow. His elder brother, Achan Bhaiya, and his elder sister Wajda Baji lived there. Although I did not wear a burqa and belonged to the Sunni sect, while Kaifi’s family were old fashioned and Shia, they welcomed me with great love. I stayed with Wajda Baji because she doted on Kaifi. It was the same Wajda who used to read out Mir Anees to Kaifi when he was a child. She had a good knowledge of homeopathy and often used to treat people. She, Achan Bhaiya and his wife Dulhan Bhabi, all gave me an affectionate reception.
It was my first visit to Lucknow, a city that was a stranger to me. The people of Lucknow spoke and intoned Urdu in a beautiful way. There were two Lucknows within the city. One was old Lucknow and one was new Lucknow. Wajda Baji’s house was in old Lucknow. There too the environment was interesting. Achan Bhaiya used to live in Daliganj. He was a lawyer and he used to pay all my expenses.
Munish Narain Saksena, who was from Lucknow, was there on a visit those days. Frequently, he used to come on a bicycle to Baji’s house. Kaifi would rent a tonga. Curtains used to be hung on both sides of the tonga, and Kaifi and I would sit behind them. Then, with Munish riding his bicycle alongside the tonga, we would all three go to Hazratgunj. We would get off at the coffee house there, where we drank coffee and had interesting conversations. On the way back the curtains in the tonga would be dropped off at the laundry.
When Baji found out about our doings, all she said to me was, “Discarding the purdah is considered a vice in our family.” I made no answer.
Kaifi’s father was a landowner in a small village of Azamgarh called Mijwan. He and Kaifi’s mother came to Lucknow to see me. Kaifi’s whole family accepted me with great warmth. None of them uttered a word that overtly or covertly expressed criticism or bitterness. They were simple and loving but old fashioned people. They were opposed to sending girls to school or college, and were great supporters of purdah. Father would always clear his throat loudly before he entered the house so that if someone were lying down, she could sit up, or if a husband and wife were sitting together on a bed they could sit primly apart; and so on.
My first son was born in a Lucknow hospital on April 26, 1948. Wajda Baji and Mother were with me in the hospital. When the child was born, women from the rooms nearby came to see him. “Aunty, is it a boy or a girl?” they would ask. Mother would make a face and answer, “It’s a girl.” That startled me and after the women had left I said to my mother-in-law, “But Amma, it is a boy”. She put her finger on her lips and whispered, “Sh sh, don’t speak so loudly.
The child will catch the evil eye. The women here are very quick to give the evil eye!” I was amazed to know how important a boy was supposed to be. But thinking of it today, my past amazement turns into grief as I see that nowadays girls are denied entrance into the world. Today the girl child is aborted from her mother’s womb, and this custom has become so prevalent that many towns are now almost devoid of girls. Boys can’t find girls to marry. On the one hand science has made such progress and human life expectancy is growing, but on the other hand there is so much ignorance. How very unfortunate!
Four months after our arrival in Lucknow, Mother and Father invited us to their village, Mijwan. So, accompanied by Kaifi, I took my four month old baby to Mijwan.
In Mijwan, Kaifi’s family house was quite large but the village itself was tiny. We had to get off at Shahganj railway station and take the subsidiary line to Phoolpur, where we left the train and journeyed for two kilometers in a palanquin. There was no road to Mijwan, and we travelled through the fields. The village was so small that it had no shop, no electricity, and no piped water. The source of water was a well from where it used to be carried to the house. For fetching water from the well Father had employed a family whose profession was to card cotton for filling quilts, pillows, etc.
They lived on his land. Rahmatia, the wife, elegantly adorned with silver jewellery, used to bring the water to the house. We had a maidservant by the name of Tulya who used to cook the food. Swarms of village women would come to see me, and I as the newly married daughter-in-law had to sit shyly in their presence, with my head bowed. All of them admired my looks, but one of the ladies, as she was going out, blurted, “She is a patch on Aunty’s bloodline.”
We stayed in the inner room of the house. Since there was no electricity, a large cloth fan was suspended from the ceiling. The room also contained a table, a chair, and two beds. My child and I used to sleep on one of the beds in the afternoon. Meanwhile, Kaifi, with his head bent over the table, would be busy writing poetry. He would also wrap the string that worked the fan round his foot, and keep pulling it as he wrote. In the village, nobody ever did anything for his wife, so his young friends in the village would tease Kaifi endlessly, mimicking his pulling of the fan’s string.
One day Kaifi’s mother complained to him, “Atharwa (Athar Husain Rizvi was the name he was known by at home) aren’t you the same boy who, when a guest was leaving, would hide yourself and cry so much that your shirt would be soaked with tears? And now when you are in Mumbai you don’t write to us for months!”
We had been in Mijwan for four months. To be confined to the house for so long could have vexed me had it not been for the anecdotes about Kaifi’s childhood that his mother and Wajda Baji recounted to me, which I found very interesting.
One day Wajda Baji narrated with a laugh, the following episode: One day, around 4 o’clock in the evening, Father and his friend Babu Khan were chatting in the sitting room. Athar (Kaifi) had been playing outside with his friends. Heading for the interior of the house he passed through the sitting room but neither greeted nor took notice of Babu Khan. His behaviour offended Father, and when Babu Khan had left he called Athar to him and asked him, “Why didn’t you salaam Babu Khan when you passed by him?” Scratching his head Athar replied that he had not seen him. “Never mind,” said Father, “it happens sometimes. But now just go out and salaam each one of the palm trees in front of the house.”
Athar blanched at this command because there were more than 150 palm trees outside, but there was no way he could ignore Father’s orders. He shed tears as he salaamed each tree and it was dark before he had finished. Father meanwhile was drinking tea, and when Athar was done with salaaming and shedding tears, Father invited him to have some tea.
Baji laughed aloud when she had finished, “That’s what Father’s training was like.”
Another day she told me, “You know how sensitive Kaifi is? If something hurts him, he will never say so till doomsday. And, he will never ask for anything. We sisters had been strictly instructed that one of us should stay with him while he ate his food in the kitchen, and see to his needs. This was because if we did not do so he would rather go hungry than ask for food.”
I always bore in mind what she told me, and for ever afterwards I used to put the food on Kaifi’s plate with my own hands. Giving him his medicines, taking him to the doctor, were my responsibility, or later, the children’s. Kaifi never spoke to me of his health problems or other troubles. I have never seen anyone else with such a remarkable power of endurance.
Yet another story Wajda Baji told me about Kaifi’s past was that he did not wear new clothes on Eid. He used to say that the reason why he did not was because the farmers’ children never got new clothes. — Translated by Amina Azfar
Excerpted with permission from
Yaad ki Rahguzar (The Highway of Memory)
By Shaukat Kaifi
Maktaba-e-Danyal, Victoria Chambers 2,
Opposite Jabees Hotel, Abdullah Haroon Road,
Karachi-74400
Tel: 021-5681457, 5682036
Email: danyalbooks@hotmail.com
223pp. Rs350
Shaukat Kaifi, widow of Kaifi Azmi, is a theatre and film artiste. She is also the mother of the actor/activist Shabana Azmi
Shaukat Kaifi III
Rebel with(out) a cause
By Intizar Hussain
A distinguished mother from the ranks of the progressives of the 30s and 40s tells her heroic story of begetting a child in defiance to the orders issued by the party. The party had issued orders for abortion. But the pregnant lady refused to carry them out and gave birth to the child who, when she grew up, came to be known as Shabana Azmi.
The defiant mother is known to us as Shaukat Kaifi who, though an artist in her own right, appears sandwiched between two big glamorous personalities: the film star’s glamour her daughter is possessed with and the glamour of a revolutionary poet that her husband carried with him.
In fact, the 30s and 40s may be seen as an age under the spell of a great romance as expressed in the romantic passion for a Marxist revolution. The Progressive Writers Movement came out in the wake of this romance who, on their part incensed with this inspiring concept of social revolution, created in their poems and stories the myth of a romantic lover - a young, penniless revolutionary pining away for the love of a beautiful virgin who is the daughter of some wealthy seth or nawab. Their admiring readers identified this fictional lover with the author himself. So we have here poetry of the kuch gham-i-janan, kuch gham-i-dauran variety.
Interestingly, Kaifi Azami, as portrayed by Shaukat Kaifi in her autobiography, Yaad ki Rehguzar, is very close to this image of a romantic lover. Of course, here the pangs of separation are brief and mild. Kaifi, in this account, appears to be providing for young souls, the role model of a revolutionary lover.
This autobiography carries with it the flavour of a romantic novel. In fact, it can be read also as an autobiographical, romantic novel. How romantically she recollects her early years imagining herself steeped in bright colours and the sweet smells of flowers. This world becomes more colourful when a few revolutionary poets, heroes in her time, pay a visit to Hyderabad and one from among them attracts her attention, in particular, stirring new emotions in her. Kaifi, as depicted here, appears much more accomplished in his romantic whisperings as in his revolutionary outburst. It was love at first sight on both sides.
Paying homage to Shaukat Kaifi, Salma Siddiqi has, in her preface, discovered in Kaifi the resurrection of the heroine of the masnavi ‘Zehr-i-Ishq’. She may be right. After all, she is in a better position to understand this situation because of her own experience. However, I was reminded of another autobiography, that of Hameeda Akhtar Husain. From her account, we know that the educated girls in Aligarh were no different from those in Hyderabad. They, too, had nurtured the same kind of romantic fondness for young revolutionaries.
However, it is strange that our esteemed revolutionaries have not thought fit to speak about this aspect of their life. It was left for the begums to recollect in their old age those happy moments of their life and narrate them for our benefit.
Equally strange is the fact that none of those who wrote about the movement has cared to keep a record of these romantic ventures, which speak of its human aspect. They stand in contrast to what speaks poorly about this side of the movement. One such event has been narrated by Shaukat Kaifi in this regard. She tells us that the first child born to her had died. Now, again, she was in the family way. But the Party, insensitive to her motherly feelings, decided in its meeting against the birth of the child and ordered her to undergo abortion. Even so, Shaukat Kaifi showed the courage to say no to the Party’s order and had her child who is now known as Shabana Azmi.
With this defiance on her part, Shaukat Kaifi stands separate from Kaifi Azmi, who while writing poetry never thought of making a departure from the party line.
However, except this rare movement of defiance, she appears perfectly reconciled to the ideologically inspired discipline and to the life of austerity along with her husband, who had chosen to devote himself to the cause of revolution as defined by the Party. The selfless devotion to the cause seems to have imparted a grace to the personality of this man, who has been so finely portrayed here. Shaukat Kaifi is possessed with a talent to portray people and their environment in a realistic way. The downtrodden people, in particular, attract her attention. A number of such characters picked out from the Bombay populace, living in wretched conditions, and from the rural populace of Azamgarh have been portrayed with affection and sympathy.
And also we have from her a fine portrait of Prithvi Raj Kapoor. She had the opportunity to see him at close quarters during her years in Prithvi Theatre. Shaukat Kaifi is primarily a theatre artist, though she has also to her credit some admirable roles in a number of films. But now with the publication of this autobiography, she can also claim to have good writing to her credit.
