When he is not writing a novel, he writes stories for children. And, when he is not penning these stories, he may compose poetry for a change of taste or suddenly come up with a book on personalities of his city.
Wakeel Najeeb is not just among the most prominent authors, he is the most prolific writer in the region. For people interested in Urdu litrature across the country, when the conversation shifts to this region, it’s his name that instantly comes to minds.
And a visit to Nagpur is incomplete until one meets him. In the serpentine lanes near his house, ask anyone–an elderly man or a young boy, everyone knows him and can guide you about the address or directly take you to his house.
Th writer is at the centre of Urdu literary activities in Nagpur. On my visit to the town, I tried to locate his house and almost everyone I came across on way, was ready to take me to his place. Apart from novels, he has several collections of stories and short-stories, poems and two travelogues to his name. Also, there is a collection of plays and hold your breath–20 novels.
He is among the few authors who have focused on writing for the children. Many of his novels are for children apart from nazms and stories. Though he started his literary journey with ‘afsana’ [short story], he got more fame because of writing for children as he also gets published in the magazines across India.
“Somehow a label was put on me that I write stories for children and a I am writer exclusively for kids, though I have collections of short stories and have written fiction, not just for children”, he explains. Of course, Najeeb, has written extensively and also writes critical pieces, essays and articles.
His most recent work is a book, ‘Meri Basti, Mere Log’. The book contains his write-ups on interesting personalities he saw around him as he grew up and others in his city. The profiles include people from diverse fields–wrestlers to clerics and writers to sufis. Already hundreds of copies of the book have been sold.
“Frankly, I do my best to publicize my books. When I write, my aim is to make people aware about the book. You see this, he points towards the banner outside his house, which announces publication of his book. People come to know, arrive and buy”, he further says.
That’s a far cry from the writers who bemoan lack of readers or rue that there books are not being sold. Born on July 1, 1946, Wakeel Najeeb, studied at the local Urdu school. He went on to become a teacher and retired as principal of Islamia School. He is socially active, associated with institutions, literary groups and attends their meets. And, literally holds the literary fort in the region.
source: http://ww.newsbits.in / Newsbits.in / Home> Special / by Shams Ur Rehman Alavi, Bhopal / December 22nd, 2021
Noor Jahan and her cousin Wajeeda Tabassum co-founded Shesrig Ladakh, an art conservation practice that restores and conserves ancient wall paintings, religious manuscripts, thangka (Buddhist scroll) paintings and metal works.
How do you protect and preserve culture? It’s a question Noor Jahan – a 32-year-old expert in art conservation and heritage management from Leh – has grappled with for a decade.
Through Shesrig (meaning ‘heritage’) Ladakh, an art conservation practice she founded with her cousin Wajeeda Tabassum, Noor performs critical restoration and conservation work on ancient wall paintings, religious manuscripts, thangka (Buddhist scroll) paintings and metal works.
“My real interest lies in working on ancient wall paintings and thangka paintings,” says Noor Jahan in a lengthy conversation with The Better India.
Backed by a Master’s degree from the Delhi Institute of Heritage Research and Management (DIHRM) and a PhD from the National Museum Institute, she has worked on wall paintings dating back to the late 8th century and Buddhist thangkas from the 19th century. Also, since 2019, she has run Shesrig on her own following Wajeeda’s departure for foreign shores.
What’s more, Noor is also the goalkeeper for the Indian women’ ice hockey team. Earlier this year, she helped India finish second in the Union Women’s Ice Hockey Tournament in Dubai. Noor reckons that she has a few more years left before she “officially retires” from the sport.
By all accounts, it’s an extraordinary way of life, and this is her story.
Noor Jahan working on old wall painting in Saspol caves, Ladakh
A serendipitous journey
There was a void in Noor’s life after earning her bachelor’s degree in commerce from Delhi University. Going through the motions, she had no passion for what she was learning. To reflect on what was next and enjoy a short holiday, she left for Leh after graduation in 2011.
It was during a walk through Leh’s crowded old town, when she met a few foreign conservators from the Tibet Heritage Fund working on an old Buddhist temple. Intrigued by what they were doing, Noor engaged in a short chat with them which would change her life.
After returning to Delhi, she began reading up on art conservation and learnt that she could pursue higher studies in this field.
What also sealed the decision to get into this field for Noor were memories from her childhood.
“My mother is from Hunder village in Nubra. Every holiday, we would always visit Nubra to meet my maternal grandparents. The bus would stop at this location called Chamba on the main road from where you had to walk inside the village. This particular route holds great importance in my life now because there are many stupas along the way. Every time I would look up at these pathway stupas, I would see these old paintings. But each passing year, some part of these paintings would disappear. When I applied for this course at DIHRM, the first thing I thought about were these paintings and the conservation work I could do someday,” she recalls.
Allied with a strong desire to come back home, starting this course brought passion back into her life. “Everything I was studying there found a purpose in Ladakh,” she says.
Noor Jahan found purpose in preserving Ladakh’s heritage
Finding Shesrig
Following the first year of her Master’s programme in 2012, Noor and Wajeeda opted to do their internship with the Himalayan Cultural Heritage Foundation (HCHF), a Leh-based non-profit. Helping them find projects to work on was Dr Sonam Wangchok, founder secretary of HCHF.
During this internship, the first major project Noor got involved in was a wall painting at Diskit Gompa, a 14th-century Buddhist monastery in Nubra Valley.
She recalls in an Instagram post, “The internship entailed working on the restoration of wall paintings from the 17th century under the supervision of art conservators from [the] Czech Republic. This was my first hands-on experience where I had the opportunity to conserve sacred Buddhist art and the opportunity to stay at the monastery itself. I think that internship changed my life forever as I not only got to work on the most beautiful wall paintings but gave me the opportunity to meet and interact with the monks at the monastery who took me and Wajeeda in as their own.”
Conserving ancient wall paintings is a delicate process
After completing her Master’s programme in 2013, Noor came back to Leh to work with other organisations like Art Conservation Solutions and Achi Association, amongst others, as a freelancer. In 2014, she worked on her first project outside Ladakh at the Golden Temple in Amritsar with Heritage Preservation Atelier, and also commenced her PhD at the National Museum Institute. Despite these landmark moments, she knew this sort of freelance work wasn’t sustainable.
“Working in these organisations was a great learning experience and helped me to capture some of the finer nuances of conservation. Even today with Shesrig, I collaborate with most of them. But this kind of work wasn’t sustainable, i.e. it was limited to summer months,” she says.
“In the summer, I would work on many projects. But the moment winters came, all these organisations would stop their work in Ladakh. I really wanted to start something of my own in Leh, while working sustainably and throughout the year,” she adds.
Thus, in 2017, Noor and Wajeeda founded Shesrig Ladakh and rented out a historic structure called Choskor House as their base in Leh’s old town, which they had to first restore.
This three-storied structure is located right behind the Jama Masjid (mosque) in the centre of Leh along the hillslope. It belongs to a renowned family of traders, who along with other important families, once led important trade missions to Lhasa from Ladakh.
“Even though Choskor House was really old, we decided to rent it. To restore it, we had initially consulted some architects, but there came a point when it became difficult because of costs and time constraints. That’s when we reached out to Achi Association India, a sister organisation of Achi Association (a Swiss-based organisation), which took over the project of restoring this structure backed by funding from the German Embassy. They helped with establishing the studio in which we currently operate. We started working inside our studio only this year,” says Noor.
“It’s important to see your heritage as an inheritance that has great value,” says Noor Jahan
Conserving ancient wall paintings is a delicate process
Conserving wall paintings
Conservation and restoration are different acts. Noor explains, “In conservation, people do not recreate anything new. So, if there are losses in a given wall painting, there is no recreation but only stabilisation. Restoration, meanwhile, seeks to recreate some of those losses.”
Some of the fundamental challenges in conserving or restoring old artworks include physical access to remote sites and obtaining the necessary materials that they largely import.
Noor gives us an example of a project they worked on in collaboration with the Himalayan Cultural Heritage Foundation in June 2020 to illustrate her point. The site was Chomo Phu, a small one-room Buddhist shrine near Diskit Monastery, Nubra.
“It’s quite a steep hike up from Diskit Monastery, and there is a gorge inside the valley where this shrine is located. There was no place for accommodation. Instead, we pitched tents next to the shrine and had to improvise basic facilities. We camped in that valley for about 25 days since it was not practical or possible for us to hike from there to the monastery or the village every day,” she recalls.
Before, during and after the project, Noor and her team do extensive documentation work. During this phase, they closely examine the kind of deterioration the wall painting has undergone.
In this particular case, there were a lot of over-filling and historical fills done in the past. These fills were done in such a way that it was obscuring a lot of the original painting and sometimes even overlapping it. They had to carefully remove those historic fills.
“Another issue with wall paintings is that there are a lot of detachments. In the event of any structural movement or water seepage, the plaster gets detached from the support, thus creating these hollow areas inside the painting. You can discover these hollow areas through a percussion test (a method for the structural inspection of wall paintings). We then perform grouting, i.e. fill the gaps between the painting and the support structure,” she notes.
Apart from these, there are cases where the paint layer gets delaminated. To address this, they use a consolidant and then stick the paint layer back to the surface.
“Of course, there is cleaning work which is done. The paintings are largely glue-bound tempera (also called secco, which are paintings on dry surfaces). In this kind of technique, the pigment is usually mixed with the binder and then applied to the walls. With water infiltration, the binder becomes weak causing delamination of the paint layer,” explains Noor.
“This damage primarily occurs because of water. We make sure not to perform any wet cleaning, i.e. don’t use any solvents to clean the wall painting. We only employ dry cleaning. There are various types of conservation-grade sponges which we work with and soft brushes to remove the dust or any mud infestations,” she adds.
A major point of contention with wall paintings is retouching work (reworking small areas of a painting to cover damage or to mask unwanted features).
Without getting too deep into the subject, when it comes to wall painting conservation work, Noor and her team largely stick to what she calls “conservation or stabilisation work”.
“It’s important to see your heritage as an inheritance that has great value,” says Noor Jahan
Restoring old thangkas
This year most of the thangkas that were brought in for restoration at Shesrig’s studio came from private households. Each thangka arrives in a different condition.
In thangka paintings, you have a textile-based canvas made of cotton fabric or any other material used by the artist in the centre. These thangkas also usually have either silk or brocade borders. Most thangkas they got into their studio this year had silk borders.
Step 1: “Since the thangka has come directly from the chod-khang (prayer room) to our studio, we first take it to a nearby monastery, where a de-consecration ceremony is done,” she says.
Step 2: The next step is to bring the thangka back to the studio, perform extensive documentation work including photographic documentation and understand what kind of problems are visible. Accordingly, they prepare a treatment plan.
Step 3: Usually the centrepiece of the thangka is stitched with a textile border. They separate both elements because the fabric at the border is completely different from the canvas in the centre. Following separation, they work on the border and centre piece canvas separately.
Step 4: Once the separation is done, the first step is cleaning the soot. “In thangkas, there are times (only when required), when we go for mild solvent cleaning but once again dry cleaning methods are preferred. Also, solvents can sometimes be harsh. We have started preparing gels which are much milder and do not adhere to the surface for the cleaning process,” she says.
Step 5: What if there are big losses or tears on the thangka painting? “We make a similar kind of ras-jee (the local term used for the textile canvas of a Thangka painting) in the studio. We use pieces of that ras-jeeto mend the tears. Otherwise, in thangkas, we also see a lot of cracks. To fill the cracks, we use the markalak (local clay mixed with mild adhesive) to fill those cracks because that’s part of the original technique of preparing a thangka. We follow the same methods while restoring it as well,” she explains.
Step 6: Once this is done, if there is any consolidation work required or a paint layer is coming off, they fix those problems. Sometimes, they mend the tears fibre by fibre, which requires very delicate hands. Also, if there are any small losses or paint losses, they do subtle retouching work using natural colours or the colours originally used on the thangka.
Conservation of Thangsham (the local term used for the textile border of a Thangka painting)
Step 7: Meanwhile, there is another team which is working on the textile border known as thangsham locally. There is a particular method of washing the textile using conservation-grade detergents.
“We don’t dip it straight into the water. Instead, we use wet sponges to clean it very meticulously. Sometimes these borders are also torn or otherwise in a bad condition, for which we mend them using patchwork with silk, brocade or whatever material was originally used. We have a stock of raw silk, which is white. We dye it as per the thangka’s requirements. If the thangsham, for example, is blue, we will dye the silk blue and do the patchwork from the inside. We perform the process of dyeing ourselves at the studio,” she explains.
Step 8: Once both elements are ready, they stitch the centrepiece canvas and the border back together, following which a consecration ceremony is done and then returned to the client.
Once again, depending on the state in which the thangka is sent, it takes anywhere between a fortnight to two months or more to restore a thangka. It also depends on manpower.
“Most of the time, we work in groups of two or three women on one thangka, and depending on the scale of the task, it takes about a month or two if the damage is extensive,” she says.
Given that most of the conservation work she does with Shesrig Ladakh relates to Buddhist heritage, questions have emanated from either side of the religious divide.
But is her faith an obstacle in this line of work?
“Most of the time, they don’t see my Muslim faith as an obstacle to the work that I do. For the most part, I’m not treated as an outsider or not from the community. In fact, it has been the opposite, where I am given more respect and love, especially in monasteries,” she says.
However, recently she heard someone say, ‘What is this Muslim girl doing here?’ “Look, this is how the world around us is moving. As Muslims in India, we know what’s going on. But I do not take these comments personally because I have to do what I know how to do,” she says.
Noor Jahan: “I have to do what I know how to do”
But such ad-hominem comments don’t necessarily come from the Buddhist community. She even notes how members of her religious community pass judgement on her line of work.
“Sometimes, people from the community approach my family to complain about my work, but fortunately they have been very understanding,” she notes.
Another struggle Noor deals with is the significant lack of awareness in Ladakh about art and heritage conservation as a field. “Even though they support me, my parents and some friends still don’t understand the kind of work I do. They still think this is a ‘hobby’ to me and don’t take me seriously. Even though the conversation in Ladakh about restoration and conservation has progressed a little, there are still people who think that this work can be done for free. This is something, I hope, changes with time as the conversation around this subject grows,” she says.
Manzar Bhopali felicitated by Greg Fischer, the mayor of Louisville, US
In a rare honour, eminent poet Manzar Bhopali was felicitated in Louisville in US and was handed over keys of the city. Louisville is also known as the birthplace of boxing legend Muhammad Ali.
The mayor of Louisville, Greg Fischer, handed over the keys to the Bhopal-based Urdu poet. This is probably the first time an Indian poet has been handed over the keys to an American city.
He was also proclaimed honorary citizen of the city. The poet has been honoured for his contribution towards promoting peace through his poetry.
The honour has been given as the town appreciates the power of a poet to touch people’s hearts and minds, reads the citation. Manzar Bhopali had gone to US recently to participate in ‘mushairas’. “It’s a big honour and I feel humbled,” said Manzar Bhopali.
In an email conversation with Hindustan Times, Louisville mayor Greg Fischer said art connects all people and it is an honour to recognise this global citizen for peace and justice.
“We honour all leaders in arts. They bridge our common humanity and remind us that we are all connected in making our communities and the world a better place,” he further said.
“Compassion is a top value of my administration. Compassion means we respect all of our citizens and work together so that human potential flourishes. We bring compassion to life in many ways including service to others, curriculum in our schools, and being a signatory to, and living the values of, the charter for compassion.”
Manzar Bhopali is a renowned Urdu poet who has more than half-a-dozen collections of poetry to his name. He is a regular at mushairas in Gulf, America, Australia, UK and other foreign countries.
source: http://www.hindustantimes.com / Hindustan Times / Home / by Shams Ur Rehman Alavi, Bhopal / October 10th, 2014
A 17th century mosque in Punjab declared declared as a symbol of religious tolerance by the UNESCO and UNDP has no Muslim worshippers. Called Guru ki maseet (Mosque of the Guru) it is being looked after by the Sikhs.
Its story dates to the early 17th century. When the sixth Sikh Guru, Hargobind Singh, took over the throne, Emperor Akbar’s efforts to bring all religions together had already failed. In the reign of Jahangir, animosities based on religious difference had begun to surface across India.
Soon, Hargobind Singh realized that in the midst of growing tension and threats, only spirituality would not work.
With this idea, Guru Hargobind Singh started wearing two swords on his body. He called them the swords of Piri and Miri. Piri referred to spirituality and Miri to power. He also raised an army to fight wars.
In one of his armed campaigns, his army camped on the banks of the Beas River. Soon a big settlement came up here and it was called Hargobindpur. Today one can reach this place while travelling on Hoshiarpur-Batala Road in Punjab.
The township had people of all religions. Soon a temple and a Gurudwara were built there. There were only a few Muslims there and they had no place of worship. As their numbers were low, building a mosque was not feasible at the community level.
They went to Guruji and told him their problem.
Guru Hargobind Singh instructed his authorities to build a mosque for the Muslims to worship. In no time the mosque was built on a small hillock on the banks of the Beas River. The sound of Azan from the mosque reverberated in the air for the next several hundred years.
Guru ki Maseet at Hargobindpura, Punjab
However, after the partition of India and many Muslims leaving for Pakistan in 1947, this mosque was deserted. All the Muslim families of Hargobindpura had left for Pakistan.
As the mosque was related to Guru Hargobind Singh, the Nihang Sikhs built a Gurudwara there. Today, the sounds of Gurbani resonate there the place every morning and evening.
In the last decade of the twentieth century, Muhammad Rizwanul Haq of the Punjab Waqf Board visited the town and met many Sikh leaders. He requested the Sikhs that since this mosque was built on the orders of Sikh Guru it should be allowed to remain a mosque.
The Sikh leaders consulted historians; they too concurred with the idea of the place being retained as a mosque.
Soon a consensus was reached. Once again the kar seva started and the mosque was renovated. Some people from the Punjab Waqf Board also came there but most of the kar seva was done by Sikhs.
Nihang Sikhs who look after the mosque sitting outside Guru ki Maseet
The mosque was restored to its original shape in 2002.
For its inauguration, the locals invited Imam Maulana Hamid Hussain Qasmi of Amritsar’s Jama Masjid to lead the Eid-ul-Fitr prayers at the mosque.
Even today there is no Muslim living in Hargobindpur and yet the mosque stands tall. Today, Guru ki Maseet is cared for by Nihang sevadars.
In 2003, this historic mosque gained international recognition when UNESCO and the UNDP’s Culture for Peace project highlighted its importance as a symbol of religious tolerance.
(The author is a senior journalist)
source: http://www.awazthevoice.in / Awaz, The Voice / Home> Stories / by Harjinder / April 01st, 2025
Jamia Millia Islamia has launched a special week-long exhibition showcasing rare and ancient Quran manuscripts at its Dr. Zakir Husain Library during the holy month of Ramadan. The exhibition, titled “Muqaddas Quran,” was inaugurated by Professor Mazhar Asif Sheikh-ul-Jamia and features a diverse collection of calligraphy spanning from the 15th to the early 20th century.
Through meticulously crafted posters, the exhibition traces the development of Islamic calligraphy from the 7th to the 14th century, offering a comprehensive visual exploration of how Quranic calligraphy evolved over time.
Alongside the manuscripts, the exhibition presents an impressive collection of printed Qurans in various national and regional languages, including Malayalam, Kannada, Hindi, Urdu, Tamil, and Bengali. The display also includes translations in foreign languages such as Chinese, Japanese, German, Turkish, Russian, English, Spanish, Albanian, Myanmar (Burmese), and Persian. A special Quran in Braille was also featured, emphasizing the importance of inclusivity and ensuring that visually impaired individuals can access the sacred text.
Professor Mazhar Asif, Sheikh-ul-Jamia(Vice Chancellor )of Jamia Millia Islamia, expressed his satisfaction with the exhibition, saying, “It is a privilege for the university to open its rare collection during the holy month of Ramadan, allowing people to benefit from the teachings, knowledge, and moral values of the Quran. The Quran promotes helping the poor, equality, and justice, and by presenting this exhibition to the public, we aim to encourage accountability, bringing people from darkness to light.”
The exhibition also showcases rare Arabic manuscripts, including Tafseer Baizawi and Tafseer of Ibn Abbas, both from the 16th century. Additionally, books in eleven foreign languages and six regional translations illustrate the rich diversity of Jamia’s collection.
Professor Asif highlighted the rarity of the Japanese translation of the Quran, which was produced by the Islamic Society of Koshikawa in Tokyo, calling it an extremely rare edition globally.
Professor Mohammad Mahtab Alam Razvi, Registrar of Jamia Millia Islamia, emphasized the significance of the exhibition. “This collection reflects our rich heritage of Quranic manuscripts and printed copies from the 15th century to the early 20th century, including small Quranic manuscripts. With thirty-five rare handwritten manuscripts and twenty-seven printed translations, the exhibition offers valuable insights into the evolution of Quranic script.”
Dr. Lucas S. Nigrale, who also participated in the event, spoke about the importance of such exhibitions during Ramadan, a time for reflection, devotion, and learning. “This exhibition shines a light on the Quran’s timeless wisdom and universal message,” Dr. Nigrale said, expressing hopes for future exhibitions that further promote awareness and cultural dialogue at the university. The Dr. Zakir Husain Library holds a total of 2,243 Quranic manuscripts.
The exhibition serves as an important platform for enhancing public understanding of the Quran’s linguistic, intellectual, and literary traditions. It highlights the eternal teachings of the Quran in a contemporary context, fostering greater cultural and educational dialogue.
source: http://www.indiatomorrow.net / India Tomorrow / Home> Education / by Mohammad Akram / March 30th, 2025
Move over, Cinderella. The humble pumpkin has a higher purpose to fill.
As a small team working to push the boundaries of Indian art, Darbar recognises that many musical milestones are only made possible while standing on the shoulders of giants—people essential to the industry who often have hidden histories and aren’t acknowledged in the public eye. Music Behind the Scenes spotlights the less visible, but no less instrumental, people and processes that help Indian Classical Music thrive.
The sitar is one of the most prominently recognised instruments in Indian Classical Music, and stands as a symbol for the exoticised, reverberating sound of the East. Conjuring up images of celestial delicacy, few sounds evoke the entire canon of Indian Classical Music—and, by extension, Indian tradition and culture, as the sitar. It consists of a resonating chamber made from a gourd (often ornately and exquisitely carved) attached to a large, hollow neck fitted with frets.
And yet, it is so much more than a string instrument. Almost aspirational in its appeal, it’s the unofficial sound of the nation, as synonymous with India as bagpipes are with Scotland. Scientists have struggled to enscapsulate the complexity of the instrument’s total acoustic environment using mathematical modelling alone. Past masters have constantly re-contextualised the landscape of the sitar, adding their decadently harmonic interpretations to the tradition of the instrument. Listen closely, though, and you will hear undertones of the nuanced history it represents .
But where does the sitar come from? Who are the makers, the artisans—dare we say, magicians—turning gourds into godly musical instruments and dedicating their lives to the craft?
Nestled deep in the heart of the Sangli District in southern Maharashtra, India, Miraj is a famed centre known for its finesse in instrument making, particularly sitars. Altaf Mulla and Zakir Mulla are fourth generation sitar-makers in Miraj. Their work begins a hundred kilometers from their hometown, in the fields of Pandharpur and Begampur, where pumpkins are cultivated especially for use in sitar making. They make the yearly trek to attain this crucial raw material. The entire process to complete one sitar can take 25 to 30 full working days, and each step shines with specificity, refinement and idiosyncrasies, as the sitar-maker’s labour is one of both dexterity and painstaking precision as well as unbridled love. Read on to learn about the dramatic transformation from humble pumpkin to regal sitar.
Interview with Zakir Mulla of GS Musicals , manufacturers of Indian instruments since 1904.
Editor’s note: This conversation has been condensed, restructured and edited for clarity.
Could you tell us how you started making sitars?
Started? I feel we were destined for this. My brother Altaf Mulla and I are fourth generation sitar makers. Our great-grandfather, the founder of GS Musicals, was Siraj Yusuf Mulla, our grandfather, Ghudulal Siraj Mulla, continued the legacy, and my father, Yousuf Mulla, taught us. Today, we make many instruments including the tanpura, dilruba, esraj, taus, santoor, swarmandal and sitar—sitars are our specialty.
I’m not sure how to articulate it, because it’s like we unknowingly internalised it. It becomes an instinct almost. My father, bless his soul, educated us, and I tried adjusting to employment opportunities ‘out there’ for a while—I was equipped with the skills to do so—but this way of life was so deeply entrenched within me that ‘dil hi nehi laga’ (my heart wasn’t in it). The type of satisfaction the artisan gets when making a high quality sitar…the self-actualisation we feel…no conventional employment can rival that. Our village, Miraj, is humble and quaint, but it’s one of the hubs of sitar-making.
Why is that?
Because of the tradition this place is steeped in. New places can’t recreate it or duplicate our centuries of tradition. Making sitars is our way of life; we often start going to the shop with the elders when we’re five or six, so we learn the tools of the trade early. These technicalities would take one or two years to learn, but we imbibe them—almost through osmosis—before we even start. Other localities could potentially become efficient or popular, but I don’t think a new centre could emerge as a hub simply because of our history and the way it’s part of our genetic makeup, almost. Our soil is infused with hundreds of years of collective experience, and we also have a strong community led by innovation, passion and continuous discussion and improvement.
What does innovation look like within your community?
I’d say there are about 150-200 people involved in sitar-making in Miraj. Of course, the quality of the work or individual speciality varies, but we’re all united by this one passion. It’s not a board room or an official meeting where we gather to innovate, but a mindset. We sit with a cup of chai in the evening and have healthy discussions—this wood is posing a certain problem, or we’re facing this idiosyncratic demand from a client. When you’re all cut from the same cloth, bound by the same thread, innovation is inevitable.
But my brother and I took it a step further to try to create bespoke sitars to our customers. I had this customer…he was about 4 foot 9 inches, and I knew that the standard size wouldn’t suit him. That got us thinking about how much the physique matters, and what a pivotal difference it makes to have a customised instrument. That’s what gives pleasure in the hand of the musician. Girls might naturally have daintier hands, and for some of the sitars we export to European countries, the hand span might be broader than a typical Indian physique. You need the comfort of your own size, so your height and build all come into play. My brother and I try to have a consultation meeting with the artist before we even start making the sitar to understand who they are and their temperament. At the very least, we ask for a picture of the musician.
So tell us about the journey from pumpkin to sitar.
The process starts with the pumpkin, or the gourd. These aren’t the typical pumpkins you’re used to seeing and eating, though. In fact, this type of gourd is so bitter that even animals don’t consume it. We make a yearly visit, usually between March and May, to the special fields in Pandharpur to get our pumpkins. Preparation actually starts before our visit, as the farmer carefully cultivates the crops according to our requirements. You see, there might be 15-20 pumpkins on one vine, but overcrowding doesn’t let the pumpkin become big enough. Farmers retain only three or four pumpkins per vine till maturity. The pumpkins the farmers cultivate are between 40-60 inches, so we group them into categories and classify them according by circumference. 40 to 44 inch pumpkins are used for the sitar, with the 47 to 48 range reserved for the female taanpura, 50 to 51 for the surbahar and 54 to 60 inch pumpkins for the gents taanpura. We suspend the pumpkins after sorting them, and leave them for four to five months to dry. We never put them on the floor. And subconsciously, even within our sitar category, we’re sorting out the most superiorly shaped pumpkin. After all, being able to join the neck to a gourd at the right angle is much easier and makes for the most unadulterated tone.
Right, what happens next?
Then we source the wood. In the Karnataka stretch of Sakleshpur, amid coffee and tea gardens, there are Tunna Cedara trees. We’ve found that this is less susceptible to bacterial infection Tunna Cedara is a resilient wood—and has a superior ability to project sound. That’s what we use for the galaa or the neck. Joining the neck to the gourd is a veritable art. Our forefathers used naturally sourced Falcon resin adhesive, or a heavily whipped mixture of flour and water, as an adhesive. But these days we have powerful glue in the market. It’s a commonly held belief that you need to get the joining right the first time. The more you adjust and redo it, the more compromised the sound will be. That’s the crucial step, and we can start decorating it next.
How is the sitar decorated?
We use the French polishing technique, dipping cloth in spirit and shellac and hand-polishing the instrument, which can take three to four days. But the decoration and carving takes place before that. Usually, we adorn our sitars with grapes, roses or traditional paisley motifs. Is there any symbolism behind these designs? Not that I know of, but they nestle nicely on the shape of the gourd. There’s wood carving, which requires great patience and dexterity, and the pen carving on plastic or cellulite. Then, the final fitting of the pegs can take place, and we start checking the tone.
How long does the complete process take?
25 to 30 full working days, working for eight hours a day. But it’s our family work, and we have six to seven people all trained perfectly in their part of the process, so we’ve all specialised and divided our labour. Everyone’s an expert at their own thing. Sometimes we can anticipate orders or running items in advance and partially prepare the pieces for assembly, but we always do the final fitting after receiving the order. It’s rare to find a fully prepared sitar at our shop, unless it’s a student version for a lower cost. But that’s not an artist’s sitar.
Can you describe what constitutes a good sitar?
It’s in the details. Right down to the selection of the pumpkin or the grains of the wood. A good sitar isn’t made on a whim. It’s beckoned by the musician—he or she summons it. A discerning musician is concerned with the quality of sur, tone quality, depth of resonance, the friction on frets and overall stability in the sitar. How many notes are on one fret? When he or she plays one note, will it dissipate quickly or will it reverberate deep within the hollow of the gourd? How is the resonance? A superiorly made sitar will allow the notes to resonate and circle within the gourd and linger before they fade out gracefully.
Some musicians want a more robust tone, whereas others want more resonance. It’s a matter of diagnostics really. We aren’t musicians in the sense that we could play an entire raag, but this work teaches us the sur and we can tell when a note sounds true. Fitting the frets and checking the tone is a finicky process, but almost like trying to unravel a thrilling mystery.
What’s a typical day like for you and your team?
We’re literally family, but when we’re working, we’re joined by this higher purpose. I always try to make sure that we eat and pray together. When one of us is feeling low or has had a hard day at home, we don’t do major things like joining or checking the resonance that day. If you’re not in the right head space, the joint will appear ‘masculine’, or the tone won’t sit right, or the sur won’t sing as beautifully. The more you adjust an instrument, the harder it becomes to redeem its essence and sound. But if everything connects, it’s like God’s gift to the world.
What is something music connoisseurs and beginners alike might not recognise as an essential part of the sitar making process?
You can’t have a cookie-cutter, one size fits all sitar. It’s not plastic or something dead. These are grains. Gourds. Wood from every part of the tree. ‘Jaan hai is me’ (There’s life in all of these things). It’s so important to match the life of the raw materials to their musical destiny. And that’s not a formulaic calculation. It’s learnt from experience, from what I absorbed while watching my father and grandfather or stowed away in the recesses of my mind while they spoke to me as a child.
For example, the annual growth rings inside a tree trunk bend of their own volition, and the distance between them varies. Have you ever wondered why? It’s because each of those rings is testimony to phases in the tree’s life. When there’s a drought, those grains are thinner…they veer in different directions and they’re sparse. But when the tree gets ample rainfall, those rings are a reflection of optimal conditions. They’re closer together then. In fifty years of the tree’s life, you’re not going to get the same annual rainfall pattern or mean temperature, so the patterns inside will also vary. And those, in turn, affect the sound and tone. It’s the same with the soil. You need to respect where the disparate parts came from to appreciate the harmonious whole. It’s a process with a million nuances, but it doesn’t end when the sitar is ready.
Really, how so? When do you feel like you can see the final fruit of your labour?
Even when we’ve fully prepared the sitar, it’s only half done. Then, it’s the artist’s job to play it, and to play it well. That’s when it becomes seasoned and perfect. All those things, the decoration, polish, sound, fitting, pumpkin selection and wood grains all burst forth with this impetus and fulfil their calling.
It feels terrible when we pour our soul into a beautiful instrument and it ends up on a mantle or in a museum. It’s when it’s played that we get satisfaction. When the instrument comes back after a year or so for maintenance like Jawari work, that’s when we know how it’s doing.
What changes are you witnessing?
Well, social media makes it easier for us to share things; we can get clients, conduct consultations and see our instruments being played in concert. In my grandfather’s time, things were a lot harder. There wasn’t a concept of a payment advance, and people often wrote letters commissioning sitars. It made it harder to receive payment on time and lags were common. Compared to that epoch, these are small conveniences we have today. But e-commerce also makes the process commercialised, and the customisation option isn’t always available.
Do you hope your children will continue this legacy?
I have two sons, and Altaf bhai has a son and a daughter. We’re both teaching them about sitar making, but also educating them in school. The scope for sitar making is shrinking. And it’s up to them if they want to choose this path less taken or opt for mainstream employment. Ultimately, they have to want it, if they don’t have that passion, they’ll produce ‘ghatiya’ (slang for terrible and lousy) work.
How do you feel about advances in the electric sitar?
With the advent of Indo fusion, I suppose it’s inevitable. Classical music is also trying to reimagine itself in the domain of fusion. But the pumpkin takes sound inside the depths of its once-living soul. You don’t get that with a fully electric sitar; the bass takes over. There’s always the inherent danger that with an electronic tanpura, you might learn the wrong notes if the voltage fluctuates. I don’t support fully electric instruments, because with some natural elements, there’s still life in it, you know?
What keeps you doing this work?
Making a sitar is like raising a child. When the musician says, “Wah! Sitar bariya banaya hai!” (Wow! You’ve made a lovely sitar!), then it’s just the most exhilarating feeling. Conscientious parents are always on the lookout for any potential character flaws. We’re like that with our sitars also. There are times when the wood might let us down, or the joint may be compromised. But there are also times when the sitar is adjacent to divinity. The artisans and enthusiasts give us great respect and ask for our good blessings before taking the sitar home. We get so much innate satisfaction. That’s why we work tirelessly to do this work for them.
Would you like to say anything else?
Creating art like this is only possible when your stomach is full. We don’t wish for a lot, we live hand to mouth but we can educate our children and feed our families, That’s enough. But the financial repercussions of Covid have left things strained, and I often worry about the last ten to 20 years of life. It’s that last stretch that I’m concerned about. There’s no security.
Music will always stay alive. But it’s important to keep the makers alive.
source: http://www.darbar.org / Darbar / Home> Articles> New to Indian Music> General / by Aysha Imtiaz
Nanil Village (Anantnag District), JAMMU & KASHMIR :
Ghulam Nabi Pandith alias Ghulam Nabi Aatash
“Jayakanthan has focussed on the downtrodden people of South India. His works highlight the life and aspirations of the poor”, said Ghulam Nabi Pandith, known by his penname Ghulam Nabi Aatash, whose book has been selected for the annual Translation Prize for the 2024 Sahitya Akademi award.
Speaking with Awaz-the Voice from his home in Nanil village of the Anantnag district, about 70 km South of Srinagar, Aatash said “This (Jayakanthan’s) novel among his umpteen works also focuses on the same issues like the social and religious life of the people”.
Ghulam Nabi Pandith, popularly known by his penname Ghulam Nabi Aatash has been selected for the Sahitya Akademi Prize 2024 for his translation of the well-known Tamil writer Jayakanthan’s novel Oru Manidhan Oru Veedu Oru Ulagam” about the life of the poor people in South India. The book’s title in Kashmiri is “Akh Insaan, Akh Gharre, akh Duniya” (A Man, A Home, A World).
Ghulam Nabi Aatash receiving his Sahitya Akademy Award on an earlier occasion
He said the recipient of the Jnanpith in 2002 and Padma Bhushan in 2009, Jayakanthan is known for his works, many of which have been translated into different languages.
However, this is not the first Sahitya Akademi award for the Kashmiri writer and poet, Aatash, 76, who has been active in the literary circles of the Valley for over five decades.
His falling health during the past two decades has not deterred his literary activities.Despite this and praticularly his poor eyesight, Aatash has at least 10 manuscripts ready to be published. These include two books in Urdu and eight in Kashmiri languages. He told Awaz-The Voice that he would get his works published soon.
So far his 80 works including poetry collections, Research and Criticism, Folklore, Children’s literature, translations, and monographs have been published.
He was conferred the Sahitya Akademi award for Kashmiri language in 2008 and Bal Sahitya Puraskar (Sahitya Akademi) in 2011 for children’s literature. He was also the recipient of the international Soviet Land Nehru Award in 1981.
He first got the Best Book award from the J&K Academy of Art, Culture, and Languages in 1979 at the age of 30 year for his Kashmiri poetry collection “Zool Amaaran Hund (Illumination of my wishes)”.
He received the Best Book Award from the J&K Academy of Art, Culture, and Languages in Kashmiri criticism and research work “Sarmaaye teh Saam”. So far he has received at least 19 awards from literary and academic institutions and many felicitations from literary organizations and educational institutions.
These include at least 14 works in Kashmiri folklore and 13 works in children’s literature. His notable works include translations of foreign travelers’ travelogues on Kashmir. At least ten such works include “Kashmir ghair mulky sayaahoon kay safar naamon mein” (Kashmir in the travelogues of foreign travellers) and a publication in the English language entitled “Intangible Cultural Heritage of Kashmir.
As a school teacher, he nurtured his literary activities along the banks of the Lidder stream flowing from the upper reaches of Pahalgam in South Kashmir into river Jhelum.
Aatash retired as a Lecturer in higher secondary school 18 years ago.
Aatash taught in different schools at various levels for more than three decades during which he also worked as Zonal Coordinator of SSA, District Coordinator of Cultural Education Wing, Provincial Level Teacher Trainer/Resource Person.
He also helped many Ph D scholars and researchers in accomplishing their assignments.
Aatash was a member of the Expert committee constituted by the J&K Board of School Education for deciding the syllabus and textbook of Kashmiri language, and played a vital role in conceiving, compiling, and drafting all the textbooks”.
He has worked as a member of the Revision Committee of Urdu textbooks as well.
source: http://www.awazthevoice.in / Awaz, The Voice / Home> Stories / by Ehsan Fazili , Srinagar / March 19th, 2025
Cinema, at its best, is an act of discovery—a way to reveal untold stories, amplify unheard voices, and explore cultures beyond mainstream narratives. Faiza Ahmad Khan’s celebrated documentary, Supermen of Malegaon (2012), did precisely that. It offered an authentic, heartfelt portrayal of a town’s passion for cinema, honestly capturing Malegaon’s people’s struggles, aspirations, and resilience.
Enter Superboys of Malegaon , a film emblematic of mainstream Hindi cinema’s exploitative tendencies—appropriating genuine experiences into sanitized narratives.
Superboys of Malegaon fails ethically and creatively, offering no fresh perspective while recycling Khan’s original vision. The filmmakers behind Superboys claimed “life rights” yet sidelined Khan when she sought acknowledgement, providing only a perfunctory shout-out at the film’s end—masking intellectual theft. This echoes the controversy involving Dalit writer Yashica Dutt, whose work was appropriated without credit in the series Made in Heaven. Powerful creators (also the same) behind these productions repeatedly draw from marginalized voices without meaningful acknowledgement, silencing concerns when challenged.
Such incidents highlight mainstream Hindi cinema’s transactional activism—superficially engaging marginalized spaces for fleeting relevance, prioritizing optics over authenticity. Some argue that under a politically charged climate with a right-wing fundamentalist government at the centre, this diluted portrayal is the best achievable representation—but accepting superficial representation as an acceptable standard of progress only normalizes mediocrity and stifles genuine change, further entrenching injustice rather than challenging it.
Erasing Malegaon’s complexity
Supermen of Malegaon succeeded precisely because it didn’t shy away from reality. Malegaon is more than just a quirky small town—it’s a working-class Muslim community shaped by poverty, systemic discrimination, and communal violence, including devastating bomb blasts in 2006 and 2008, initially blamed on local Muslims but later linked to Hindu nationalist groups (such as those implicated in investigative reports and legal proceedings, including the Malegaon blasts cases, as detailed in various court judgments and media investigations). This complex history has continued to profoundly impact residents, whose filmmaking is not merely artistic expression but an act of resistance and survival.
However, Superboys strips away these critical layers, presenting Malegaon as an optimistic yet sanitized locale devoid of historical context or socio-political nuance. Even the town’s distinctive dialect—a rich blend of Marathi, Urdu, and Dakhani—is diluted to a more palatable version. The film carefully constructs picture-perfect frames, evading the filth and squalor that define the neglected streets of Malegaon. This visual sanitization is emblematic of the state’s apathy towards Muslim ghettos—neighbourhoods that are frequently labelled ‘Pakistan’ as a means of deliberate alienation and justification for withholding even the most basic amenities.
Christoph Jaffrelot and Laurent Gayer, in Muslims in Indian Cities, document the systemic oppression and deprivation faced by Muslims in these spaces, reinforcing how Superboys dilutes Malegaon’s reality into an aestheticized, palatable narrative for mainstream consumption.
While some applaud the mere presence of Muslim characters, depicting a predominantly Muslim town without engaging its realities constitutes tokenism, not meaningful representation. Authentic storytelling demands acknowledging the community’s lived experiences, struggles, and resilience—precisely what Superboys avoids.
Flattening reality
Ironically, Superboys of Malegaon, despite proclaiming, “Writer baap hota hai,” suffers from a weak screenplay devoid of the sweat, grime, and authenticity central to Malegaon’s sole filmmaker featured in the film, Nasir Shaikh.
Excessive close-ups, overly polished aesthetics, and sanitized set designs further detach the film from reality, undermining grassroots storytelling. Casting choices deliberately select bodies that cannot represent those that labour—bodies that do not carry the marks of a lifetime of struggle, calloused hands, or the weight of exhaustion.
The film’s music, rather than reinforcing the struggles of Malegaon, renders them more palatable, smoothing over the jagged edges of survival. Crucially, the plotline completely erases a key detail from Faiza Ahmad Khan’s documentary—that every child born in Malegaon sleeps to the lullaby of the working mill. The hum of the power looms is the constant soundscape of the town, an unbroken rhythm of survival and labour. Superboys silence this ever-present industrial echo, replacing it with a more sanitized, digestible version of struggle that aligns with Hindi cinema’s broader tendency to aestheticize hardship while stripping it of its deeper socio-political implications.
Additionally, Superboys completely sidesteps critical caste dynamics influencing Malegaon’s filmmakers, isolating characters from the complex social hierarchies shaping their reality. This omission reflects mainstream Hindi cinema’s broader reluctance to engage meaningfully with caste or class, further flattening the film’s portrayal.
Industry machinery of mediocrity
Mainstream Hindi cinema’s insular ecosystem—an interconnected network of privileged filmmakers, critics, and cultural commentators—enables such mediocrity. Films like Superboys evade genuine criticism because their perception is managed by an influential elite. Glowing reviews, interviews, and festival accolades form a self-sustaining validation loop disconnected from authentic evaluation, shielding Superboys from any meaningful critique. Instead of being judged against the documentary it so evidently draws from, or the socio-political realities it claims to depict, the film is celebrated within elite industry circles that determine cinematic ‘success’ on the basis of marketability rather than integrity. The same privileged class that overlooked Faiza’s Supermen of Malegaon, now eagerly praises its sanitized counterpart.
Ultimately, Superboys of Malegaon isn’t a tribute—it’s appropriation. Mainstream Hindi cinema frequently silences creators lacking resources to challenge this imbalance. The filmmakers had the opportunity to respectfully acknowledge Khan’s vision but instead rebranded it as their own, altering the title likely for legal convenience rather than ethical accountability.
Contrasting this with other films that have successfully adapted documentary narratives into feature films, one can observe how respectful adaptations can retain the depth and authenticity of the original. For instance, Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing (2012) directly influenced the narrative choices of the Indonesian feature film Solo, Solitude (2016), which recontextualized the atrocities explored in the documentary through a more personal fictionalized lens while preserving the socio-political depth. Similarly, City of God (2002), though not a direct remake, was heavily inspired by real-life events documented in News from a Personal War (1999), translating raw documentary insights into an electrifying yet authentic cinematic experience.
In contrast, Superboys strips away the very essence that made Supermen of Malegaon so compelling. Where films like Solo, Solitude and City of God retained the unsettling truths and urgency of their documentary counterparts, Superboys prioritizes aesthetics over authenticity, sanitizing uncomfortable truths for a wider audience. By ignoring the socio-political fabric that shaped Malegaon’s filmmakers, it reduces lived experiences to an easily consumable narrative devoid of the structural forces that shape them.
In a just world, such dishonesty would have consequences. Unfortunately, powerful creators routinely rewrite narratives without accountability. To experience the magic of Malegaon in its raw and real form, watch Supermen of Malegaon—a film that not only respects its subjects but builds a narrative that rejects neatness and celebrates their wins—a film that authentically respects its subjects, allowing their voices to be genuinely heard. Superboys, by contrast, reminds us of mainstream Hindi cinema’s continued failure toward meaningful representation.
Zeeshan Hasan Akhtar is a Mumbai-based theatre practitioner and screenwriter whose work interrogates identity, caste, class, and memory through intimate yet politically charged storytelling.
source: http://www.maktoobmedia.com / Maktoob Media / Home> Features / by Zeeshan Hasan Akhtar / March 21st, 2025
Nizamabad Town (Azamgarh District) UTTAR PRADESH / Mumbai, MAHARASHTRA :
“Majrooh Fahmi” explores different layers of the celebrated poet’s luminous legacy
Majrooh Sultanpuri
Can a poet write more than 3000 songs hummed by millions without squandering his aesthetic subtlety and creative dexterity, partially? Does his ghazals, not many in numbers, expand and reinvent matrix of the traditional ghazal and go beyond the insatiable world desire? Can one juxtapose the well-wrought vocabulary of ghazal with the quintessential aesthetic sensibility and modern-day longing in a new idiom? These are the pertinent literary questions that are affirmatively answered by Majrooh Sultanpuri whose birth anniversary is being celebrated across the country, and this is what aptly articulated by a promising literary enthusiast and writer Asif Azmi in his astutely edited book “Majrooh Fahmi” that appeared recently.
Divided into three equally important sections, the book comprising 600 pages seeks to explore different layers of Majrooh’s luminous legacy with a marked sense of critical acuity. It tries to capture the brilliance of a poet who got wide acclaim both in literary circles and the film world. The book, through its discerning articles, zeroes in on Majrooh Sultanpuri’s oeuvre that remains unseen till date.
Not many Urdu poets can vie with Majrooh as far as literary acclaim and popularity are concerned, but it was hardly measured up to the expectation of the poet who remained disenchanted with the critics. It prompted Asif Azmi to initiate a critical dialogue to locate Majrooh in the larger collective consciousness, and the book also seeks to understand why his immensely popular film songs overshadow his awe-inspiring poetry.
Majrooh’s intent of creating new semantic space by using traditional metaphors and motifs was erroneously credited to Faiz and critics eternalised the critical injustice.
Majrooh has a point, but one must also realise that his poetic journey spanning over six decades produced less than 50 ghazals and such a small work of art cannot subvert the archaic form and cliché-ridden thematic mannerism of ghazal.
Spelling out the contours of his critical gaze, editor Asif Azmi says “One of the greatest exponents of the contemporary ghazal, Majroooh is yet to get his due even at the time of his 100th anniversary. It betrays a deep-rooted prejudice or a wilful ignorance.”
He, again, rightly asserts that Majrooh played a pivotal role in shaping popular Indian literature and popularising Urdu at mass level. Every notable Urdu critic has made a critical appraisal of his work and a plethora of books and special issues have appeared on his art.
Critical evaluation
The voluminous book is certainly more than a commemorative volume as it is not an assortment of flattering articles, but concentrates on a thorough critical appraisal of the poet. The editor turns attention to the best articles that emerge out of the rubble heap of the assessment of the poet, and the discerning evaluation of prominent Urdu critics such as Sardar Jafri, Mohammad Hasan, Waris Kirmani, Zoe Ansari, Waheed Akhtar, Wahab Ashrafi, Syed Hamid and Sidiqur Rehman Qidwai have been selected.
For Waheed Akhtar, Majrooh, for the first time, used the traditional metaphors of ghazal: morning, night, slaughterhouse, prison, autumn and spring as political symbols and it is Majrooh who made them as the distinctive feature of Progressive poetry.
Zoe Ansari opines that his poetry unravels a nuanced sense of civic lyricism which was not explored by any other poet. Several Urdu scholars castigated Majrooh for his bizarre, declamatory diction meant for instigating people to take up arms for the revolution
The book carries two perceptive essays of accomplished Hindi critics such as Jitender Srivastava and Rakesh Pandey. Mapping out semantic similarities between Kabir and Majrooh, Srivastava quotes a couplet of Majrooh and points out that Majrooh engages himself with the tremendous anti-establishment tradition of Kabir. He urges ordinary people to join him after burning their homes, and he does not address the capitalist and the people belonging to the powers-that-be.
Befitting tribute
The first section of the book puts together the reminiscences of Lata Mangeshkar, Mazhar Imam, Jagannath Azad, Kashmiri Lal Zakir, Ziauddin Shakib, Ali Ahmad Fatemi, Naeem Kauser and his seminal contribution as a lyricist has also been well documented by Nadeem Ahmad and Rashid Anwar, and S.S. Bhatnagar Shadab.
Delineating his contribution to films which fetched him the Dadasaheb Phalke Award, Majrooh asserts, “I have no hesitation in saying that I, along with O.P. Nayyar, successfully used innumerable Persian and Urdu words and gave nearly 20 new words to the vocabulary of film songs. I invented a unique style with S D Burman which has been described as romantic comedy. It was widely believed at that time that duet songs would not become famous, but I wrote many duets that became immensely popular.”
The book is a befitting tribute a poet who creatively explored various genres including qawwali, bhajan, cabaret, folksongs and ghazal with remarkable ease and Asif deserves accolades to acquaint us with a world of the poet which is not shaped by hatred, suspicion and delirium.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Books> Authors / by Shafey Kidwai / May 16th, 2019
Scroll journalist Rokibuz Zaman has been honored with the prestigious 2024 Vishwa Nath-Delhi Press Award for Fearless Journalism for his unwavering coverage of the state of minorities in Assam.
The jury praised Zaman for his “consistent and steadfast” reporting, stating that he has shown “exemplary courage in relentlessly pursuing stories to their logical conclusion, despite challenges on the ground.” His investigative journalism has shed light on the systemic discrimination against minorities in Assam, particularly regarding land rights and forced evictions.
Zaman’s reports have exposed the exclusion of minorities from rural landless schemes and the eviction of Muslim families from railway land in Assam’s Morigaon district. The jury commended his “exceptional courage in speaking truth to power” and his commitment to ethical journalism.
The award, instituted by The Media Foundation in memory of Delhi Press founder Vishwa Nath, aims to uphold freedom of speech and journalistic integrity.
The foundation also awarded the 2024 Kamla Mankekar Award for Journalism on Gender to BehanBox’s Priyanka Tupe and the Chameli Devi Jain Award for Outstanding Woman Mediaperson to The Caravan’s Jatinder Kaur Tur.
source: http://www.radiancenews.com / Radiance News / Home> Awards> Latest News / by Radiance News Bureau / March 23rd, 2025
