Bedi’s canvas: Remembering Rajinder Singh Bedi on his birth anniversary

Born in Sialkot in 1915, Rajinder Singh Bedi lived many lives — a postmaster in Lahore, a short-story writer, and a film director. He is also considered the architect of contemporary Urdu short-story writing. September 1 marks his 109th birth anniversary.

After Munshi Premchand, three names dominated short Urdu fiction — Krishan Chander, Saadat Hasan Manto and Rajinder Singh Bedi. According to noted scholar and poet Prof Al-e Ahmed Suroor, “In Bedi’s writings, you get an image of the new India — a country trying hard to modernise itself while not freeing itself from the past. His characters carry the burden of ancient ghosts and constantly struggle to free themselves from the grip of old phantoms.”

Prof Mohammad Mujeeb, Vice-Chancellor of Jamia Millia Islamia in New Delhi from 1948 to 1973, was so impressed by Bedi’s writing that he used to go around the campus clutching Bedi’s first short-story collection, ‘Daana o Daam’ (1938), under his armpit, introducing Bedi to the faculty and the post-graduate students as ‘India’s Anton Chekhov’. Interestingly, Bedi had jokingly remarked that he would be more pleased if Russians called Chekhov the Rajinder Singh Bedi of Russia.

In a confessional essay titled ‘Haath Hamaare Qalam Hue’, published in 1974, Bedi wrote, “I had no idea that I would be called upon to appear before my readers as someone who had sinned and that I would be required to confess sins that I had not committed. Or I had committed them because I had the ability of an artist to carry them out… Confession is a delicate matter. I’m an honest person.

That’s why whatever I say will be the truth, nothing but the truth. God might be present or absent. Please don’t infer that I’m an atheist. If you don’t believe in God, that means you don’t believe in yourself… People believe a sin is committed first, and then comes the confession. But I belong to a tribe of sinners who confess first, and then, when no one is looking, they silently write a short story.” And this sin he committed time and again.

Bedi once summed up his life in a few broken words that look like separate episodes of a fragmented life: “Nine years in the post office, then a few years in the radio. Partition and communal bloodbath. Blood-soaked clothing. Travel to Delhi on top of a train. Jammu radio station and a political fight. Then Bombay. Good films, bad films. Occasional publication of a collection of stories. Some romantic escapades. Moments that Buddha probably missed. Lost interest in my life partner. Love died due to the cynicism that comes with old age. Differences with my eldest son. What can you make of such a life?”

Well, we can say a lot about such a life. Let us start from the beginning.

Bedi’s mother, Seva Devi, belonged to a Hindu Brahmin family and his father, Hira Singh, was a Khatri Sikh. As reported, whether true or false, the mother eloped with the father, and they got married in an Arya Samaj temple in Lahore. His father had a job at the post office. The home atmosphere was a mix of Hindu and Sikh ways of living. The two great scriptures, ‘The Bhagavadagita’ and Sri Guru Granth Sahib, were revered equally. His father was also interested in Sufi poetry. The family participated in all religious festivals, including Janamashtmi, Gurpurb, or Eid. No religious tradition was taboo.

Bedi matriculated from Khalsa High School and joined DAV College, Lahore. He passed his Intermediate examination but could not continue his studies. When Bedi’s mother died of tuberculosis in March 1933, his father wanted him to marry to bring a caregiver into the family. Bedi left his studies, joined the postal service as a clerk, and was married the following year. His wife’s maiden name was Soma Vati, which was changed to Satwant Kaur after marriage. Their first son, Prem, was born in 1935. Bedi’s father, working as a postmaster in Toba Tek Singh, came to Lahore to celebrate his grandson’s arrival, but he died. The burden of supporting the family fell on Bedi and his wife. Baby Prem sadly lived only for a year. This was intolerable suffering and proved more horrendous because the family had no savings for bad days. Most of the money had been spent on building a family home. To add to the misery, the family did not receive any pension after his father’s death. In the coming years, Bedi became the father of two boys (Narinder and Jatinder) and two girls (Surinder and Parminder). Many people believe that the women protagonists in Bedi’s stories ‘Garam Coat’ and ‘Apne Dukh Mujhe De Do’ are based on the selfless dedication he witnessed in his wife.

When riots started before Partition, Bedi moved with his family first to Ropar, then Shimla, and finally to Delhi. He tried to get the job of editor of ‘Aaj Kal’ magazine, but failed. However, at the request of Sheikh Abdullah, who was the Chief Minister of Jammu and Kashmir, he accepted the job of director at the Jammu radio station. Later, he left this job due to differences with Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad, Sheikh Abdullah’s successor. From there, Bedi went to Bombay, where he lived the rest of his life.

Bedi invested about 30 years of his life working in the Indian film industry. Starting with a low-budget movie called ‘Bari Behen’ in 1949, he achieved great success as a script or dialogue writer and director of highly popular movies like ‘Daag’, ‘Devdas’, ‘Madhumati’, ‘Mirza Ghalib’, ‘Dastak’, ‘Anupama’, ‘Satyakam’, ‘Baharon Ke Sapne’ and ‘Mere Hamdam Mere Dost’. Bedi also made a film based on ‘Garam Coat’, but it was not a commercial success. His son, Narinder, joined him, and proved to be a successful director.

Bedi faced several misfortunes in later years. His wife died in 1977. A greater calamity hit him when his son, Narinder, suddenly passed away in 1982. Bedi himself was afflicted with a stroke, the first time in 1979, that affected the right side of his face.

After Bedi’s death on November 11, 1984, a writers’ meeting was held to pay tributes. Among the many messages of condolences received was one from President General Zia-ul-Haq of Pakistan, stating that Bedi’s death was a loss not only to India, but also to Pakistan. The Russian embassy sent a representative to offer condolences. Later, a road crossing in Mumbai was named Rajinder Singh Bedi Chowk.

Writings and films

• A well-known writer, Rajinder Singh Bedi published his first short-story collection, ‘Daana o Daam’, in 1938. He wrote many masterpieces, including ‘Grahan’ (1942), ‘Kokh Jali’ (1948), ‘Apne Dukh Mujhe De Do’ (1965), ‘Haath Hamaare Qalam Hue’ (1974), and ‘Mukti Bodh’ (1983). He was honoured with several awards, including the Sahitya Akademi Award for his novelette ‘Ek Chadar Maili Si’ in 1965, Padma Shri in 1972, and the Ghalib Award for Urdu Drama in 1978.
• After shifting to Bombay, Bedi worked for 30 years in the film industry. ‘Bari Behen’ (1949) was his first film as a script writer. In 1956, he received the Filmfare Award for Best Story for ‘Garam Coat’. His second Filmfare Award was for writing dialogues for ‘Madhumati’, and the third for ‘Satyakam’ in 1971. ‘Aankhin Dekhi’ (1978) was his last film as director.

— The writer translated selected short stories of Rajinder Singh Bedi with Gopi Chand Narang

Narang reflects

In 1974, I became head of the Urdu Department at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. Within a short time, I wanted to have a large gathering of Urdu writers, but it never materialised. With a small grant of ~10,000, I launched an Indo-Pak seminar on fiction writing in Urdu in 1980 to coincide with the birth centenary of Munshi Premchand. It was nothing short of a miracle that with a small amount at my disposal, I gathered every great living Urdu fiction writer from Lucknow, Aligarh, Bombay, Hyderabad, Ahmedabad, and other places in India.

With grant support from Pakistan’s Academy of Letters, I got two distinguished writers from Pakistan, Intezar Husain and Vazir Agha. PV Narasimha Rao, who later became India’s Prime Minister, inaugurated the seminar. Most attendees were unaware that Rao was a fluent Urdu and Persian speaker who had earned his Bachelor’s degree from the Arts College at Osmania University. He had started his life not as a politician, but as a short-story writer. He recited one of his stories in his address, greatly touching the audience.

Although he was not in good health, Bedi travelled for the seminar from Bombay, and as a Session Chair, he read with comments his essay titled ‘Haath Hamaare Qalam Hue’, a title borrowed from a couplet by Ghalib. He got a standing ovation. After the seminar’s conclusion, I invited a group of about 15 writers for lunch at my residence. My wife, Manorma, and I have a delightful memory of that day, especially Bedi’s hilarious comments that made the afternoon really unforgettable.

Later in the evening, I drove Bedi to his hotel, which was located near Connaught Place. He asked me to stay for a while, and we had some drinks and dinner together. We stopped the car near the Outer Circle because he wanted to have a paan from a shop that he might have visited before. I parked the car, and we walked together. Bedi gave elaborate instructions about the kind of paan he wanted to have. I told him I was not a paan eater, but he insisted I make a one-time exception. He got me a meetha (sweet) paan with kneaded rose petals. It had no intoxicating substance in it, but for reasons that I can’t explain, I felt somewhat high. We sat on a nearby bench, waiting for things to be stable, and Bedi, as was his nature, came up with jokes and stories that made me laugh non-stop. That was our last meeting.

As I write this many years later, I am overcome with memories of my brief but intellectually intense encounters with Bedi, and I am reminded of a couplet by poet Sauda, a contemporary of Mir Taqi Mir.

Saaqi hai ik tabassum-e gul fursat-e bahaar

zaalim bhare hai jaam to jaldi se bahar kahen!

(Saaqi, the spring-time is already here — How fleeting and momentary!

Don’t be cruel; fill my glass quick, real quick and to the brim.

The spring lasts only as a bud turns into a rose!)

People like Bedi come once in a while and don’t live very long. Sometimes, their passion and ecstasy of spirit consume them. But even in their relatively short span of life, they leave an indelible mark and never fail to enrich the lives they touch.

Bedi did not need me as a melody maker. The song he sang was his creation, and he sang it so well.

— Excerpted from ‘On Being Bedi’s Melody Maker’ by Gopi Chand Narang, with permission from Penguin Random House