In the early years of post-Iqbal history of Urdu poetry, one finds two distinct streams flowing alongside each other — the two streams eventually mingling and generating powerful cross-currents.

One stream is that whose sources lie in poets such as Azmatullah Khan, Miraji, Noon Meem Rashed, and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. These pioneering modernist figures fundamentally transformed or even, in some cases, shunned that resilient genre of lyrical poetry called ghazal.

But, perhaps most important, they consciously imbibed Western influences, while sometimes — and this may at a first glance seem paradoxical — digging deep into the indigenous Indic traditions. And a rich flow of free and open verse radiated forth from their creative imagination — something that nurtured the now-burgeoning prose-poem culture.

The other stream, in contrast, continued, by its own inertia, in the age-old classical tradition, with its tropes, techniques and its complex poetics — a tradition in which the ghazal has the pride of place. Both on the temporal and substantive scales, this tradition weighs heavy, ranging from Wali Dakani of the 17th/18th century to Dagh Dehlavi who lived in the 19th/20th century.

So we still hear around us the ringing echoes of the voices of, for example, Hasrat Mohani, Seemab Akbarbadi and Jigar Muradabadi, all writing ghazals in the classical mode. Among them there is a sound of glorious ghazals that rose from the Bengali milieu of Dhaka — the golden voice of Andaleeb Shadani, who died two years before the 1971 debacle.

Allow me to take a personal aside here.

In creative arts, restrictions and rules often play the role of spurs. Rather than standing obstinately as hindrances, blockages or dead ends, they open for the creative artists new vistas for innovation and clever circumventions.

A very long time ago, my father Allama Muntakhabul Haq came home after giving a lecture at an institution called Jameeatul Falah, established by Dr Ameer Hasan Siddiqi, a historian who served as Dean of the Faculty of Arts at the University of Karachi.

My father had an unusual relish on his face. Upon the proddings of my mother to explain his excitement, he told us that he had just met a poet from East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) who had read a colourful (rangeen) and bejewelled (murassa) ghazal in the presence of the well-known historian Dr Ishtiaq Husain Qureshi, Vice-Chancellor of the university, and challenged a formulaic belief of historians — the belief that history repeats itself:

Jhoot hai sab tareekh hamesha apnay ko dohrati hai
Achha, mera khwab-i-jawani thorra sa dohraye tau

[It’s a lie — that history always repeats itself
Alright then, let it repeat the dreams of my youth!]

Indeed, this verse is from the same ghazal that has a dancing rhythm in its catchy metrical arrangement, studded certainly with such glowing verbal gems that it was sung repeatedly by top ghazal singers — Fareeda Khanum and Jagjit Singh among them.

In creative arts, restrictions and rules often play the role of spurs. Rather than standing obstinately as hindrances, blockages or dead ends, they open for the creative artists new vistas for innovation and clever circumventions. Didn’t Ghalib say, “freeze the ocean, and it’ll become a vast desert”?

Andaleeb Shadani of Dhaka, whom we have all but forgotten, is in many ways unique in his own classical chamber. One great innovative step he takes, whose reflections we see in Jaun Elia, is to equalise the feelings of the lover and the beloved.

Traditionally, it was only the lover who suffered in agony during his sleepless nights, while the beloved slept in the luxuriant comfort of soft pillows in silken covers. This lover-beloved equalisation is a pioneering and signature step.

From the same famous ghazal I quoted above, listen to this:

Apni barbadi ka tanha ek humien ko ranj nahin
Apnay kiye par aakhir aakhir woh bhi kuchh pachhtaye tau

[I’m not the only one to feel the pain of devastation
In the end, she too felt the remorse of what she wrought!]

In Andaleeb Shadani, both lover and the beloved suffer equally:

Meri yaad ne chheen lien teri neendein
Mera dard kitna dil-aazar ho ga!

[You lost your sleep, thinking of me
How heart-wrenching must have been the pain you
felt for me!]

Within the vicious restrictions of the classical ghazal, this poet from Dhaka has accomplished many other innovations too. Being an expert of prosody, and having an extraordinary grasp of the phonetic rhythms of the Urdu language, he chooses metres and sound patterns that create a lyricism that is practically unmatched in the latter-day ghazal, a characteristic of his poetics that make him stand out.

Andaleeb Shadani’s innovative imagery is also aesthetically unique. One finds, for example, celestial bodies and cosmic phenomena — twilight, rainbow, stars and, particularly, the moon and moonlight — adorning his ghazals throughout.

These lyrics are a precious gift from Dhaka.

In writing this article, I have benefitted from the studies of Nazir Siddiqi.

The columnist teaches at the Institute of Business Administration Karachi.

All translations are by the columnist.

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, August 18th, 2024