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Remembering
the doyen of Urdu satire
He
was the tallest of Delhi writers who brought out the soul
of Delhi in a manner no one has done before or after him.
He died unsung without any literary award. Two decades
after him, his Piaz ke Chilke (The
Onions Skin) is still
remembered,
says K.K. Khullar
I HAVE been living in the city of
Delhi for the last two decades, one of which has passed
in waiting for the DTC bus, the other for socialism. Both
are running late. By far the greatest name in
satire in any language, Fikr Taunsvi, who wrote in Urdu,
died about two decades ago. He died, without a Sahitya
Akademi Award, in poverty while his critics are wallowing
in riches. Urdu seems to be the only modern Indian
language where awards are given to critics more liberally
than they are to creative writers. Even Krishan Chander,
the greatest novelist in the post-Independence India, did
not get the Sahitya Akademi Award. Nor did Ismat Chugtai.
In an autobiographical
foreword to a collection of his satires, Fikr wrote:
"Fikr Taunsvi is authors ficticious name. His
real name is quite absurd. His parents are poor. As such
he is favourably inclined towards the poor i.e. his
parents, in his writing. He hopes that the poor shall
prevail so that someone shall have something to write
about." To start with, he wrote poems which he
himself did not understand. With great difficulty, he
understood that he was an inferior poet and a superior
prose writer. Initially, he did not believe that he was a
first- rate satirist but his admirers grew so much in
number that the conviction also came. "The day this
belief is broken he shall commit suicide. His face is
grotesque but his writing is handsome. People want to see
him after reading him. After seeing him they stop reading
him. As such he is hiding his face from the public. Man
has to do so many things to save his izzat." This
is a rough draft of a note written in self-praise by the
author.
By far the greatest
satirist in modern Urdu prose, he challenges comparison
with Swift and Shaw. If his words are barbed, his humour
is vivacious, drawn as it is from real life. He wrote a
daily column in Urdu Milap and made the sorrowful
nation laugh everyday. He never wished anyone a happy new
year on the plea that happiness is only an occasional
episode in the general drama of pain; that happiness is
unreal, it is the unhappiness which is real. He,
therefore, wished his friends and foes a "Less
Unhappy New Year".
As a censor of the age,
he had no equal. As a satirist, he had no peer. His
heroes were the injured and the insulted, his villains
are the VIPs in whom he perceives a concealed
crookedness, a hidden hypocricy and deep-rooted cunning.
He is one writer who did not compromise with the men in
authority who trembled at his very name. He brought every
VIP in his column Piaz ke Chilke (The Onions
Skin) but since Urdu is a dying swan in its land of
birth, very few read him. Those who read him were
powerless. Fikr hated power, he hated pelf. In any other
country he would have been a zillionaire. But he was as
Indian as rogan josh, as desi ghee or desi
chappal. Fikr was extraordinary, an Indian to the
core.
It is something unique
that the lack of awards never made him angry or bitter.
Fikr was an incorrigible optimist, an all-time hopeful.
He hoped for better order, a better deal for the poor
during his lifetime. But that was not to be. He died with
the regret that his gods had failed him. Fikr was a
communist but he was happily married. Fikr thought
writing to be an agent of change. How mistaken he was.
The more it changes the more it remains the same.
During dictatorships,
writing can change society. It is unfortunate that in
democracy it cannot. Fikr was socialist by temperament, a
democrat by birth. He recalls with nostalgia the days
when the village bania cheated the hill shepherds
who exchanged silk with salt. The shepherds had no salt
for their bread while the banias thirst for
the silk was insatiable. And yet the village bania
weighed less and cheated the shepherds. Fikr always took
the side of the shepherds. In fact, he himself was a sort
of literary shepherd.
Fikrs laughter is
genuine even though his teeth were artificial and yet
Fikr was not a political pamphleteer. What saved him from
being so was his humanity and his art. He made Urdu
satire warm and worthy. He derived his material from the
common people the hewers of wood and the drawers of
water, the men and women with and without culture. Fikr
is not a "culturewallah" sitting in art
galleries and saloons and writing from the glass house.
According to him, the pimp and the prostitute are more
honest than the poet and the politician.
Fikr stood for a society
where the strong are just and the weak secure, where the
head is held high and the mind is free, where the society
is tolerant and contributes towards the onward march of
humanity; a society where no child is out of school, no
adult is illiterate and nobody is unemployed. Although
Fikr himself never went beyond high school, he stood for
a society that prized learning. He says "In my
village there was zero per cent literacy but hundred per
cent wisdom". Education, he said, was not literacy.
Education is an attitude of mind.
Thus, Fikr talks of his
village where life was simple and easy, of his early
childhood when he fell in love with a shepherdess. He
remembers vividly in his writings the stories of
Sasi-Punnu, Heer-Ranjha, Sohini-Mahiwal. He recalls in
its details the caravans of camels singing the songs of
love and separation, of marriage and union, of
indifference and villainy.
He refers to the heard
melodies which are sweet and those unheard which are
sweeter. Fikr was no Keats, but he left Keats far behind.
Fikrs collections,
include Chaupat Raja, Warrant Girafavi Badnam
Kitab, Chatta Darya and Fikrnama. He is at his
best in the last named. He wonders why there is
illiteracy in front of centres of excellence, why
children are naked in front of textile mills, why people
are hungry in front of hotels. "In my village, there
was no Hindu pani or Muslim pani. Water and
wells belonged to all. There was the common school, the
common ghat, the common shrine." Fikrs
childhood was spent in a village called Taunsa Sharif
which was revered both by the Hindus and the Muslims.
Fikrs satire is
humane. He has rescued it from vapidity and violence, the
artificiality of daastan and quissa and
above all from the hollowness and hypocricy of the essay.
One of his books, Chaupat Raja, is dedicated to
the fool, who always makes wise remarks about the foolish
deeds of wisemen. An intellectual who never went to a
university, his satire is sharp and incisive. Although he
is dead, his Piaz ke Chilke is still alive. The
more you peel it, the more bitter it becomes till tears
come to your eyes.
Fikr wrote extensively
on the galli-kutchas of Dilli, its beggars and
buses. "The Delhi bus is the heartbeat of the city.
When it stops, Delhi becomes lifeless. Half the
population is always in movement till midnight. It
connects the lover with his beloved, the exploiter with
the exploited." Delhis buildings, even
historical buildings, according to Fikr, look beautiful
during the daytime but disappear like ghosts at night.
More than a satirist,
Fikr is our social historian who has peeped into every
home and brought out lifes little ironies so
delicately that everyone, including the one who is the
target of his attack, enjoys reading about it. He has
also written volumes on middle class morality, the
babudom of Delhi, the corruption in the government
offices, the pious frauds of religion and the barbarity
of cultural institutions which contribute nothing or next
to nothing to the culture of the city-- the Akademis
where there is hardly anything academic.
A question that has
often been asked during the last two decades is :
"After Fikr Taunsvi who?" The answer which he
gave during his lifetime stands: "After Fikr, his
satires, his Piaz ke Chilke." The book still
provides joy to his readers.
What Fikr needs today is
a translator.
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