by Zia Mohyeddin

The News: March 14 and 28, 2010

First, the similarities: the same beggars with the same whine; the same rows of torn Hessian tents (housing families) wedged in between and, immediately behind, skyscrapers; the same pavements crowded with vendors displaying their wares, allowing little room for pedestrians to walk at ease.

Food prices have gone through the roof. Don't talk of inflation, says one newspaper, "onions have become the new pearls, tomatoes the new rubies and potatoes the new diamonds."

Racketeers are busy adulterating dals. Milk-sellers are adulterating milk with detergents. We have not yet learnt the trick. My friend, Razi-ul-Hasan from Lucknow informs me, with a sad face that he has decided to buy a cow. Cows don't come cheap and my friend doesn't have any space for a cow in his small house, but he is determined. The life of his children, he says, is more important.

Women have an identical craze about shedding their dark complexion. Hoardings, showing computer-manipulated 'Before' and 'After' pictures of a moon-faced girl, proclaim that their magic Ayurvedic cream will make you fair in no time.

India's population is nearly six times larger than ours which means they have more -- millions more -- dusky girls than we have. I suppose this is why the producers of the miracle creams run such a huge advertising campaign to lure dark females to buy their products.

The highly acclaimed actress, Nandita Das, tells us that in her earlier years she was constantly taunted with remarks like "Poor thing, she is so 'dark" and "You have nice features despite being dark." From the time she became a celebrity, she writes, nine out of ten articles written about her start by describing her as being dark or dusky -- or earthy.

Realising, that every film and women's magazine in the country told them how ugly they were, Ms Das makes special efforts to interact with young college students most of whom are dark like her. Invariably, she is asked the same question: "How come you are so confident despite being dark?"

Nandita Das thinks that with fairy tales like sleeping beauty talking about "Who is the fairest of them all?" the message right from the childhood is clear. In later years it is reinforced in many ways. In popular film songs everyone runs after the gori and the goray goray gaal. The dark-coloured people are kaliyas. One of the most popular numbers still sung with gusto is "Hum kale hain to kya hua dilwalay hain," a blatant and subtle reinforcement that only "fair is lovely."

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The scams too, are similar. Corruption is a part of life in India just as in our country; only the size and scale is different, Bengal, or West Bengal I should say, is a large province which has been ruled by the Communists -- a party that represents workers and peasants -- for more than a generation. The Communists were known for their simple lifestyle.

Today, three decades after they started ruling the state, it is revealed that many comrades live in palatial houses, drive expensive cars, own shopping malls and factories and wear branded clothes. Their sons study abroad; some have a fascination for car racing. Ironically, they are still driven by the same philosophy -- uplift the proletariat. The three Communists, who have been caught, were all zonal committee secretaries of the party in various districts of West Bengal. Their only known source of income was 1500 rupees a month, which they earned as members of the party.

How did they amass such wealth? All of them were closely associated with the Central government sponsored projects to improve rural employment and alleviate poverty. The projects had enormous funds; the communist leaders took advantage of the lack of monitoring by the government.

One of the Communist leaders was foolish enough to display his ill-gotten wealth by building a grand mansion on twenty acres in the tribal dominated district to which he belonged. The villagers were so incensed at seeing such a huge house in the midst of their miserable huts that in an upsurge, last year, they raided the house and destroyed everything including air-conditioners, refrigerators, and expensive furniture.

This is where the dissimilarities begin. There are quite a few people in our country who have become rich misappropriating funds; others have amassed fortunes in kickbacks. Many of our 'entrepreneurs' -- receivers of graft and kickbacks -- have built palatial homes in their ancestral villages, but our peasants are 'civilized' and 'God-fearing'; they do not resort to ' hooliganism.'

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Apropos of my visit to Mumbai, Aakar Patel who writes in this paper on the happenings in India has written a whole column on my performance, (and Mr Bachan's) at the amphitheatre in Bandra Fort last month. He has said some nice things about me, and I am grateful to him, but I must point out one or two inaccuracies in his account.

I had mentioned during my recital that Faiz Sahib, when asked to recite his ghazal, Gulon Mein Rang Bharay would refuse and say "Nahin bhai, woh to Mehdi Hassan kee hogayee." Another poem which, he did not recite, when requested, (saying "Bhai woh to Zia Mohyeddin kee hogayee" was Hum Jo Tareek Rahon Main Maray Gayay.)

Mr Patel has written, "He, (Faiz Sahib) would say of Subh-e-Azadi that "Woh to Zia Mohyeddin ki ho gayi." I blush. The poem, Subh-e-Azadi was written in 1947. At that time I neither knew Faiz Sahib (I wish I could say Faiz but my upbringing forbids me) nor anything about reading poetry.

I was mildly amused to read that he chose to describe my garb in detail: "Zia Mohyeddin came out to applause wearing a dark suit and tie. His jacket was elegantly cut with the cufflinks showing. He was trim with a full head of hair and looked senatorial…"

I hope I am wrong but I get the impression that he thinks my attire was somewhat incongruous. For his information I have worn similar outfits in all my recitals for over thirty years. My jackets are always well-cut because I don't like wearing ill-cut jackets; I often wear cufflinks; and I never wear a suit without a tie.

Mr Patel also says, "Faiz's poetry often has many Persian words and phrases. I imagine he is also a difficult poet for most Pakistanis." Here I tend to disagree with him. Of all the major Urdu poets of the 20th century, Faiz Sahib is the one most easily understood. It is because his intention is never obscure. (A few cognoscente hold it against him) The Persian words that he employs have been the common currency of Urdu poets from Sauda to Ghalib to Dagh to Hali. Faiz Sahib's idealism is couched in lyricism and this is why even the rabid rightists are mesmerised by his verses.

Walk along any busy street in Mumbai in the evening and within a few hundred yards you would hear amplified devotional singing from a temple. The main doors of most temples, which stand in between shops, are wide open and you can see some of the casual worshippers walking in and out of the courtyard where a lone singer (or a group) is singing bhajans -- mostly off-key -- with his eyes closed.

In the big cities of India it is not the harrowing contrast between the rich and the poor which strikes you -- we have a similar scene -- but the extraordinary manifestation of artistic activities which are not just confined to the ballrooms of seven star hotels. Poetry readings, exhibitions, happenings, art installations, dance and drama is to be seen throughout the year. But it is music which dominates the scene. The raga-based music is still considered to be the highest form of fine arts.

There are many myths about the origin of music in India. The one I heard this time is perhaps the most enchanting -- and it is worth repeating. The creator, Brahma made the universe. He created the mountain ranges, the thundering waterfalls and the giant forest trees, as indeed the nimble deer, the colourful peacock and the exquisite flower. He filled his creation with beauty and charm and splendour. But he was sad. His consort, Saraswati, found him in that mood and she asked the reason for it.

Brahma said, "It is true that I have created all this wonder and charm, but what is the use? My children, the people on earth, simply pass them by; they do not seem to be sensitive to all the beauty around. All my effort seems to have been wasted on them".

Saraswati took the hint and said, "My Lord, you have created all this beauty and splendour. Please allow me to do my share in the great work. I shall create in our children the power to appreciate and get uplifted by them. I shall give them music which will draw out of them the capacity to respond to the wondrous beauty of all creation." So saying the great Muse gave us music in the hope that man would understand something of the Divine in his manifestation.

The point that is made in this myth is well brought out in the story which I heard from that magnificent story-teller, R.K Narayan, during a taxi ride in London.

Tansen was a great musician and Akbar was very fond of music. One day when Tansen was in a particularly good form, Akbar said to him, "Tell me, what is the secret of this sweet concord of notes which transports me to Divine regions? I have not heard any one else do it".

Tansen bowed and said, "Sire, I am only a humble pupil of my master, Swami Haridas. I have not mastered even a fraction of the master's technique and grace".

"What?" the great emperor cried, "is there anyone who could sing better than you?"

"I am but a pigmy by my master's side," said Tansen.

Akbar was greatly intrigued. He wanted to hear Haridas, but the emperor though he be, he could not get Haridas in this court. So he and Tansen went to the Himlayas where in his own ashram dwelt the swami. Tansen had already warned Akbar that the swami would not sing except at his own leisure.

Several days they stayed at the ashram; yet the swami did not sing. Then one day Tansen sang one of the ragas taught by the swami and deliberately introduced a false note. It had almost an electric effect on the saint. He turned to Tansen and rebuked him saying, "What has happened to you Tansen, that you, a pupil of mine, should commit such a gross blunder?"

He then started singing the piece correctly. The mood enveloped him and he forgot himself in the music which filled the earth and heaven.

It was a unique experience. When the music stopped Akbar turned to Tansen and said, "You say you learnt music from this saint and yet you seem to have missed the living charm of it all. Yours seems to be but the chaff beside the soul-stirring music."

"T'is true Sire," said Tansen, "It is only true that my music is wooden and lifeless by the side of the living harmony and melody of the master. But there is this difference; I sing to the emperor's bidding, but my master sings only when the prompting comes from his innermost self." Akbar was speechless.

Narayan finished the story with a few chuckles, I asked him if he had ever come across a musician of the quality of Haridas. "In Northern India, no," he said, after a thoughtful pause, "the singers, don't sing, they perform."

At that time, 40 years ago, I thought Narayan, born and brought up in Madras, was biased. I think now that what he said was not entirely untrue.

Classical music in India is no longer the preserve of the few, but has it gained in quality? I rather doubt it. Concerts are now held, with much greater frequency, in huge halls seating two to three thousands people. The average listeners -- and they are in a huge majority -- expect from the musicians only what they want; they are satisfied with what is superficial. To keep them in good humour, the professional musicians, even the great maestros, are led to compromises. Also the northern Indian musicians are hungry for applause (musicians of the Karnatak school do not seem to be quite so greedy) and so they resort to tricks of the trade: (a banter with the percussionist, and concocting complicated tihaees) in order to excite the audience. The result is a performance which is banal and mechanical.

Connoisseurs of the art of music who want to listen to a slow and soulful exploration of the essence of a raga are invariably, disappointed. The effect of the democratisation of music is that the standard of music is now left almost entirely to the mass audience. No wonder the famous conductor Sir Henry Wood (of the proms fame) said, "Music is no place for democracy".

Many more theatres have sprung up in Mumbai -- and not just in Mumbai. The Sangeet Natak Academy's theatre in Lucknow where I performed recently is as good as any in the western world, better, in fact, than many. It has not only a large stage with excellent acoustics and wholesome lighting equipment, but appropriate backstage facilities with well-fitted dressing rooms and ample space in the wings. It is a theatre any professional company would love to perform in.

There are now many excellent theatres in India. I wish I could say the same about some of the productions that are mounted in these venues.