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Wonder what Nietzsche — who famously claimed not to believe in a god that could not dance — would have said of Gandhi. The question arose when I went to an old-world type meeting where people were celebrating the centenary year of the late Khwaja Ahmed Abbas, leftist writer and filmmaker.
Iffat Fatima and Syeda Saiyidain have produced an impressive reference guide to his enormous work, primarily as a writer of countless books, newspaper articles and numerous film scripts. It is safe to say that without Abbas there would be no Raj Kapoor.
In the collection I found a letter to Gandhi, in which Abbas had pleaded with the Indian leader to give cinema a chance. Apparently Gandhi was averse to the morality of the cinema.
This tallied with what I found in Kumar Prasad Mukherjee’s memoirs about the musical journey of his father, the renowned musicologist Dhurjati Prasad Mukherjee. The article revealed Gandhi’s impatience with music, an aversion so intense that perhaps even Ayatollah Khomeini would disapprove.
Dhurjati heard Ustad Abdul Karim Khan when he was at the peak of his powers. It was a few days after the death of Deshbandhu C.R. Das. “What an extraordinary gathering that was — Rabindranath Tagore, Mahatma Gandhi, Atul Prasad Sen and Sharat Chandra Chatterjee, the novelist, all were there in Dilip Kumar Roy’s house.”
Gandhi stated that he never saw pictures. In a subsequent statement, he included cinema among evils like gambling.
In between the compositions, Gandhiji would get up to collect subscriptions for the Congress party. Abdul Karim sang Anand Bhairavi and a few other ragas suitably edited for a mixed audience, but thanks to Gandhiji, his mizaj, the mood, was lost.
“I do not think Gandhiji cared for classical music — or for that matter any music other than bhajans, his favourite simple devotional songs,” Kumar says in his book The Lost World of Hindustani Music, quoting his father.
Once Gandhiji attended the famous beenkar Murad Ali’s recital in Ambalal Sarabhai’s house in Ahmedabad. “How do you like it?” asked the host. “Amazing,” replied Gandhiji, “but not as sweet as the music of my spinning wheel.” Tagore’s appreciation, recalls Mukherjee, was saccha, true. He would close his eyes and be lost to the world. Atul Prasad got so carried away on occasions that he had to be controlled. “And Sharat Chandra? When Dilip had gone to invite him to listen to Abdul Karim Khan, he merely asked, ‘Does he know when to stop?’”
There is another story about Gandhi’s aversion to music and musicians. The legendary Gauhar Jan of Calcutta had her own axe to grind with the British who thought ill of her singing profession. Gandhi would not allow her to join the Congress because of her work but would happily accept any donations.
As Hitler declared war on the world, the Indian film industry celebrated its silver jubilee in 1939 and Abbas in an open letter to Gandhi on his birthday, made an impassioned plea on behalf of cinema.
“My dear Bapu,” Abbas wrote. “I crave your forgiveness for intruding upon your time at a moment when greater issues of war and peace claim your undivided attention. But, war or no war, the unceasing now of life must go on in all its numerous channels. Even under shellfire men must love and be loved, make friends and seek comradeship, laugh and make others laugh, entertain and be entertained.”
In two of Gandhi’s statements Abbas had been pained to find cinema mentioned in what he thought were “slightly contemptuous terms”. In reply to a request from the lady editor of a Bombay journal for a message on the occasion of the Indian Motion Picture Congress, Gandhi briefly stated that he never saw pictures. In a subsequent statement, he included cinema among evils like gambling, sutta, horse-racing etc which he would like to banish but which would not be discussed ‘for fear of losing caste’.
Had someone else made the observations Abbas would not have cared. “But in view of the great position you hold in this country and, I may say in the world, even the slightest expression of your opinion carries much weight with millions of people. I have no doubt that a large number of conservative and orthodox persons in the country will be confirmed in their hostile attitude towards the cinema after reading your statement.”
There must be some great evil in cinema the Mahatma does not approve of it, the people would say. And one of the world’s most useful inventions would be allowed to be discarded or left alone to be abused by unscrupulous people.
“I have no knowledge of how you came to have such a poor opinion of the cinema. I don’t know even if you have ever cared to see a motion picture. I can only imagine that rushing from one political meeting to another, you chanced to catch a glimpse of some lewd cinema posters that disfigure the city walls and concluded that all the films are evil and that the cinema is a playhouse of the devil.…”
Abbas was child-like in his petition. “As before, children must rush to their fathers with their problems and their troubles. To whom shall we, the sons of India, go for consolation and guidance but to you — you whom we have come to love and honour like a father? Today, I bring for your scrutiny and approval, a new toy my generation has learnt to play with — the CINEMA!”
The letter raised a key question. Should Indians consider themselves fortunate that they had Nehru and not Gandhi to hone their aesthetic sensibilities? I asked the renowned Pakistani music guru Arshad Mahmood if Jinnah had offered any views on music or cinema. He promised to check it out.
The writer is Dawn’s correspondent in Delhi.
Published in Dawn, December 22nd, 2015
