Hazrat Syed Madani Darga in Ullal will organise a talent fest for madrasa students on February 23, said Central Juma Masjid and Syed Madani Dargah Committee, Ullal vice president Bava Muhammed.
He told reporters at Patrika Bhavan here recently, that a ‘Kirat’ competition will be held for the madrasa students on February 24 (at 8.30 am).
A free medical camp will be organised in association with Kanachur Hospital. The newly elected members of urban local bodies will be felicitated on the occasion.
An information centre directed to provide necessary information to the visitors at Ullal Dargah will be inaugurated.
The valedictory programme will be attended by Ullal Syed Madani Arabic College principal Shaikhuna Faizi Thodar, District In-charge Minister U T Khader, chief minister’s parliamentary secretary Ivan D’Souza among others.
source: http://www.deccanherald.com / Deccan Herald / Home> State> Mangaluru / by Ashwani Kumar N K R / DH News Service, Mangaluru / February 15th, 2019
Actress Athiya Shetty and Tennis star Sania Mirza are coming together for a special initiative. When two forces join hands, this initiative of Araaish X The Label Bazaar will be able to curate fashion for a greater purpose. Araaish has been the fundraising arm of Save The Children India and by collaborating with The Label Bazaar we will find solid support & reach out to a diverse audience, whereby creating a greater awareness for Save The Children India.
Speaking about the cause and spreading awareness, Athiya Shetty says, “The proceeds are used to support the vocational training of adolescent girls and young women from the slum communities and education of special children coming from impoverished families have no access to education. We use the platform of Araaish X The Label Bazaar to speak about our cause through our creative’s, social media campaigns and also on-day show collaterals to let all our supporters know that they are the real change-makers.”
Athiya Shetty shot for a campaign with Sania Mirza. The actress revealed how forthcoming Sania was towards this cause. “Sania was extremely forthcoming. She’s not only a fantastic sportsperson but a fantastic human being as well! Not only was she was very excited to be a part of this initiative, but she was also hands-on while shooting with the special children of Save The Children India. Sania is very committed to the cause of education and through this collaboration, she will walk the talk to make this show a significant fund-raiser,” she adds.
Athiya Shetty further adds, “Save the Children India is very close to my heart and was founded by my Nani 30 years ago. This is my way of Contributing and keeping her passion alive through this Collaboration, we aim to be India’s Finest luxury lifestyle exhibition with nearly 11 years of experience, over 2,50,000 shoppers, associating with over 500 brands. This collaboration will cherry-pick designers from the fashion world. Given the fact that it will be attended by a larger audience, we will be able to make a difference for the beneficiaries of Save The Children India.”
On the work front, Athiya Shetty will be next seen in Nawazuddin Siddiqui starrer Motichoor Chaknachoor.
source: http://www.bollywoodhungama.com / Bollywood Hungama / Home / by The Bollywood Hungama News Network / February 09th, 2019
Agra on Sunday remembered Nazeer Akbarabadi, the people’s poet whose birthday falls on Basant Panchmi, the festival of spring.
As bright sunshine dazzled the Taj Mahal, bringing joy and cheer to thousands of tourists, a little distance away spring smiled on the modest tomb of Mian Nazeer Akbarabadi.
People offered floral tributes to the poet who offered a myriad repertoire of common man’s ordeals and preoccupations in the ‘mohallas’ of Agra during the fading glory of the Mughal era.
The local poet sang of love, of natural beauty and the secular traditions of the Taj city.
Hailed as the people’s poet, unlike Meer and Mirza Ghalib who wrote for the classy elite, Nazeer Akbarabadi wrote about ordinary events and characters that touched the hearts of both Muslims and Hindus.
He mocked at the follies and foibles of royalty with disdain but sang lyrically about Krishna Kanhaiyya and on subjects like Muflisi (poverty) and Roti.
— bk/mr
source: http://www.outlookindia.com / Outlook / Home> The News Scrll / February 10th, 2019
Delhi did have fire-crackers much more than 200 years ago and Haider Quli, the artillery chief, made good use of them at his haveli, now lying deserted.
The cluttered entrance to Haveli Haider Quli in Chandni Chowk
Delhi did have fire-crackers much more than 200 years ago and Haider Quli, the artillery chief, made good use of them at his haveli, now lying deserted. In Chandni Chowk is Haveli Haider Quli, whose inhabitant till February 2016 was the nonagenarian Narain Prasad. The double-story apartment he lived in was only a part of the original mansion, where now houses and shops have mushroomed and the garden that was one of its attractions has disappeared in the ensuing rabbit of a warren locality.
Haider Quli was the chief of the artillery during the reign of Mohammad Shah Rangila (1719-1748) in whose reign Nadir Shah invaded Delhi and took away the Peacock Throne and Kohinoor, along with other fabulous treasure.
Haider Quli got his exalted post because of his patron Hussein Ali, but later turned against his mentor and got him murdered while he was on his way home in Chandni Chowk. A boy related to him fired at one of the assailants, killing him on the spot but the others hacked the boy to pieces with their swords. It is said that Mohd Shah was also involved in the conspiracy, along with his mother as he had become wary of Hussein Ali.
It was Haider Quli who organized the first fireworks in 18th century Delhi some 260 years ago under his supervision as Mir Atish, whose descendants had fireworks shops behind the Jama Masjid.
The Mughal emperors preceding Mohd Shah celebrated Diwali with illuminations but there were no fireworks as such. Possibly the only cracker was a ball of gunpowder exploded by the Mir Atish and a crude kind of Phuljhari (sparkler) for the amusement of the ladies of the harem when the Seths of Chandni Chowk were worshipping Lakshmi in their shops.
It is pertinent to remember that Babur brought guns with him when he invaded India in 1526 and on whose firepower he won the First Battle of Panipat against Ibrahim Lodi-the Sultan’s elephants running amuck at the sound of the blazing cannon and the fireballs they ejected.
Gunpowder was invented or discovered in China in the ninth century and India was practically devoid of it till AD 1250. The Mughals’ ancestor, Changez Khan had made use of gunpowder during his Mongol raids because of which it made its way into parts of Russia. Evidence of this found in the story of Alibaba and the Forty Thieves, in which the chief of the robbers Abu Hassan used gunpowder (Shaitani Rait or Devil’s Sand) to overawe his victims. Then after depositing the loot in his treasure-house Simsim, he retired to the fort, where he resided as the seemingly pious Imam Sahib, to whom people went with their complaints against Abu Hassan. The hypocrite, with his lust for the slave girl Marjina, would then march out with troops in a mock campaign to nab the robber chief.
History shows that before the Mughals some sort of atishbazi was introduced into Delhi during the reign of Nasiruddin Mahmud, Chirag Delhi. But he and other Slave kings are not known to have celebrated Diwali, which was first patronised by Mohmmad bin Tughlak. The succeeding Sayyids and Lodhis may also have willy-nilly followed the custom. Babur and Humayun had their Nauroz celebrations, but Akbar did celebrate Diwali on a grand scale because of his Rajput wives. Jahangir and Shah Jahan had an even more elaborate Diwali, with the latter emperor being bathed in waters collected from seven rivers and pandits chanting mantras while the Maulvis looked askance. However, his daughter Jahanara was not burnt during Diwali celebrations but one evening at the daily lamp-lighting. Aurangzeb, despite his orthodoxy, did observe Diwali with the Rajput chiefs coming to him with sweets and gifts. Gossip would have us believe that his first Diwali was celebrated with his beloved Hira Bai Zainabadi in his arms and offering him a cup of wine to prove his love for her. But when Aurangzeb moved as if to sip it, Zainabadi (appreciating the gesture) took away the cup from his hand. No wonder when she died an early death. Aurangzeb was devastated Jahander Shah, his grandson, celebrated Diwali with concubine Lal Kanwar in Lahore (1712), when he bought all the oil available in the city for illuminations, though fireworks were absent till Mohd Shah took over after the death of Farrukhseyar and some puppet kings.
Historians, however, fix the date when Diwali crackers became popular as 200 years from now, though the British were enjoying fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night in observance of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605 (the year Akbar died). Mirza Ghalib was one of those who were present at the Diwali celebrations of Bahadur Shah Zafar, who released the bluejay or Neelkanth bird as a sign that Durga was on her way home after Dussehra. But Prof Ram Nath observes that it was actually Shah Jahan who first did so. For the later Mughals fireworks were also the main observance during Shabhe-Barat, heralding the approach of Ramzan.
This display of crackers was extended to Diwali. As a matter of fact, during Mohd Shah Rangila’s reign it was a cracker thrown at the palanquin of the emperor’s jeweller, Sukh Karan that led to the March 8, 1729, shoesellers’ riot in which Rangila Piya’s favourite concubine Nur Bai, on her way back home in Chawri Bazar from the Red Fort, lost a tooth when she was hit by a stone thrown by the rioters. So Delhi did have crackers much more than 200 years ago and Haider Quli, the artillery chief, made good use of them at his haveli-now lying deserted as even the last occupant, Narain Prasad’s 94-year-old sister has left it after her brother’s death. But whenever you see the place you instinctively think of fireworks as happened during Guru Nanak’s birthday celebrations amid a crescendo of crackers despite the ban on them.
source: http://www.thestatesman.com / The Statesman / Home> Supplements> Section 2 / The Statesman News Service / New Delhi – February 09th, 2019
There are those who say the word chaat originated from its literal meaning ‘to lick’. It was so delicious that people licked their fingers and the bowl made of peepal leaves, called donas, in which it is often served. Others think it originated from the term chatpati (tangy). However, no one truly knows the origin.
One story goes thus: During the reign of Emperor Shah Jahan, in the 16th Century, there was an outbreak of cholera. Desperate attempts were made to control it by physicians and sorcerers. One remedy suggested was to make food with loads of spices so that it would kill the bacteria within. Thus was born the spicy tangy chaat, which the entire populace of Delhi is believed to have consumed. A slight variant attributes it to the court physician called Hakim Ali, who realised that the foul water in a defunct local canal could result in serious water-borne diseases and thought the only way to prevent it was to add a liberal dose of spices — tamarind, red chillies, coriander, mint etc to the food. Hence, the food came to be called chatpati (tangy).
However, no one knows the veracity of these stories.
The grandmaster of history of our cuisine and food, KT Achaya, gives plenty of references to various ingredients and dishes which make up the repertoire of chaats. In his book, A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food, Achaya’s description of dahi vadas is interesting. He says the vadas were first mentioned in the Sutra literature of 500 BC. The Mânasollasa of the 12th Century talks of soaking vadasin milk, rice water or curd. Curd is also mentioned in the Vedas, and curd in Tamil literature is said to have been spiced up using pepper, cinnamon and ginger. Therefore, it may be conjectured that adding curd to the dahi vada and spicing it up with various chutneys and pomegranate seeds could be an ancient habit.
Achaya further writes of how papdi finds a mention in Mânasollasa in the 12th Century as purika. The description fits the present-day papdi which is fried crisp with the addition of cumin seeds and ajwain, using chickpea flour, maidaor wheat flour and not puris.
The use of rock salt or sendha namak and black salt with chaat is common. Alooor potato cubes, fried in oil, is spiced up using a combination of salts, which also have ancient origins. According to Achaya, Mahabharata refers to the use of rock salt or sendha namak and black salt. It is also mentioned in the Buddhist Vinaya Pitaka and by Charaka.
The tale of paani puri can be linked to chappatis. Achaya talks of how cave paintings show balls of dough being made, and how, in Harappan sites, flat metal and clay plates have been seen, which look like the modern-day tava. Hence, chappatis may have a long history, and so do puris.
The Sanskrit word pura, meaning blown up, could be the genesis of the name puris. He further describes puris and paani puris as, “tiny gol guppas, globular puris eaten during festivals or as a roadside snack in North India with a cold, fiery, pepper-mustard liquid concoction”.
Tamarind, whose water-soaked version is the mainstay of panipuris today, was grown in India in prehistoric times. Tamar-ul-Hindi — fruit of India — is how it was referred to by the Arabs and Marco Polo refers to it in 1298 AD as tamarindi.
In Indian Food: A Historical Companion, KT Achaya mentions Sādava from the Buddhist era, which connotes either a spiced fruit dish or a spiced fruit drink. Ginger, cumin and cloves make their way in the Buddhist era. The Aryan era talks of black pepper (maricha) and asafoetida (hing). Spicing up water including tamarind, and fruits was prevalent.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Life & Style> Food / by Chitra Balasubramaniam / February 07th, 2019
The Jamiat Ulema-e, a Muslim organization, on Thursday distributed Rs 50 lakh among nearly 350 . The funds were distributed at function organized by the organization at Kaveri Kalakshetra in Madikeri.
“Humanism is above religion and each one should cultivate humanity,” said Maulana Mufthi Ifthkar, president, Karnataka Jamiat Ulema-e.
Hajarath Maulana Mufthi Shamsuddin, secretary of the organization, said, “We have come forward to help the people in need and no religion will come in the way of this godly act.”
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source: http://www.milbankmonitor.com / MilBankMonitor.com / Home> World News / by Milbank News Writer / February 06th, 2019
A journey through the ruins of Phuti Masjid, built by Sarfaraz Khan, in Murshidabad
It is difficult to imagine that Murshidabad, now a small, sleepy town in West Bengal, was among the richest courts of the 18th and 19th century. It hides many conspiracies, power brokers, pawns and fallen emperors in its heart.
One such fallen emperor was Sarfaraz Khan, the maternal grandson of Murshid Quli Khan, the founder of the city and the Nasiri dynasty. Nawab Murshid Quli Khan appointed Sarfaraz Khan as his successor before his death in 1727 as there was no direct heir to the throne. However, his son-in-law (Sarfaraz’s father) Shuja Khan frustrated Sarfaraz’s dreams. He felt that he had a bigger claim to the musnad, or the throne, of Murshidabad. Sarfaraz could only ascend the throne in 1739 with the title Alauddin Haider Jung.
A short-lived reign
But his problems did not stop there. The newly crowned Nawab fell out with his Wazir, Haji Ahmed. The Wazir won over the rich banker Jagat Seth Fateh Chand and Rai Rayan Chand and started plotting against the Nawab. Haji Ahmed invited Ali Vardi Khan, the Nawab Nazim of Bihar, to seek someone from the Mughal empire to replace Sarfaraz Khan. In the battle of Giria, Ali Vardi Khan defeated Sarfaraz Khan. The Musnad of Murshidabad, compiled by Purna Chandra Majumdar, mentions that the Jagat Seths suborned the Nawab’s men to place bricks and clods instead of cannon balls and fodder in Sarfaraz Khan’s magazine. Though the Nawab found out and gave charge of his artillery to a Portuguese, he was killed by a bullet as he rode out to battle on his elephant. Nawab Sarfaraz Khan ruled only for a year.
Inside Phuti Masjid
When I went to Murshidabad, I visited the grand mosques, palaces and imambaras constructed by the Nawabs who ruled for a longer time and in happier circumstances. But it was the Phuti Masjid that I found fascinating.
The mosque is quite large: 135 ft. long and 38 ft. wide with four cupolas at the corners. Only two of its five planned domes were completed. Dangerous looking spiral staircases lead up to the cupolas. As the builder died soon after construction began, the mosque was never completed. And so the name Phuti Masjid, or broken mosque. It is also known rather morbidly as Fouti Masjid. ‘Fout’ means death, and the name was apparently given after the builder’s death.
As I approached the mosque, I first saw brick walls surrounded by small cottages and fields on a dusty road. The walls were covered with moss. I went eastward, which is the direction in which people generally enter mosques. But I found to my dismay that the entrance was at a height and there were no steps leading up to it. My guide was young and he quickly climbed up. With his help, I somehow managed to scramble up the mud incline. I am glad that I did, for I immediately saw a huge hall and soaring arches. There was a sense of desolation, mystery and a strange undercurrent of spirituality in the mosque. An extremely religious and devout Nawab with money, power and resources had wanted to build a house of worship, yet no one ever prayed there. It was more like a scene from a horror movie: there was a semi-open roof, wild undergrowth, and trees and the sun rays peeped in through apertures. Just then I heard shrill voices. Two children from a nearby cottage, aged four and five, had clambered up to ask if they could be my guides!
One legend goes that this mosque was built in one night by Sarfaraz Khan. Another says that a number of workers toiled for several months to construct it. During roll call one day, it was found that one worker was not present. This happened a number of times and as the story became famous, the mysterious workman disappeared leaving his work incomplete and no one could match his skill. Both stories point to the hand of Djinns. Whatever be the truth, this broken structure is still standing despite all the odds, surrounded by houses, fields and hostile elements, a mute testimony to broken dreams.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Opinion> Columns – Where Stones Speak / by Rana Safvi / January 06th, 2019
There’s an emerging subculture of poetry vocalising the difficulties of marginalised communities and individuals
We’ve seen many forms of protest poetrybefore but we merely haven’t put a definite label to it yet. We’ve seen this from the likes of Nikki Giovanni’s ‘Rosa Parks’, Jill McDonough’s ‘Dear Gaybashers’ and, of course, Maya Angelou’s ‘Caged Bird’.
Sabika Abbas Naqvi is no stranger to performance poetry. She describes protest poetry as a natural result of urban communities and the thriving interest in the arts. Hailing from Lucknow and residing in Pune, the 25-year-old has given a TEDx talk ‘Challenging The Order of Patriarchy’ and performed at Youth Ki Awaaz’s Convergence in 2016, as well as gearing up for a forthcoming one here this weekend at Lamakaan.
Over a phone call, the noisy bustle of traffic and people chatting is audible in the background as Sabika chats about the emergence of this poetry style.
“I’ve observed it’s come from the West,” she says, “and it’s new to India. India has a thriving spoken-word scene and these shows often have a lot to say. The thing is, the protest poetry I do comes from a different culture. It has a lot to do with the feminist movement of India and the other various movements related to farming communities and minorities. It’s not just about political progressive movements, it’s also about the language of progressive movements and resistances.”
Personal connect
For Sabika, especially, her initial approaches to poetry had a lot to do with resistance. She, too, realised that she’d been listening to different kinds of protest poetry and she’d long been part of the movement. “It’s mainly the culture and the styles too. In terms of style, I wouldn’t say I’m a purist. Slam poetry, on the other hand, has a lot of progressive approaches. I don’t know! It’s hard to compartmentalise these styles but you know they’re different.”
Sabika does point out that part of her performance signature is that she performs on the streets. So it’s natural to wonder if it’s safe as heckling is a direct bi-product of this art type. “It happens, but I do get a lot of appreciation and that’s what really makes it worth it. And I know this is where I belong.” The association between poetry and revolutions has been analysed over and over by linguistic and social science experts but the only way to really grasp the messages of protest poetry is by attending these expressive performances.
The most compelling part of protest poetry for Sabika is that she’s grown as a performer and creator with the courage imbibed into her. “While the poetry does have forms of protest in them, I’m also protesting the existing types of poetry, essentially questioning a certain metre in which poetry is expected to be written. A lot of people do question how dare I speak in these metres and so on. Not everyone will like my form of poetry. In that sense, doing it on the streets is a protest in itself! Women, gender non-conforming individuals, those of a particular caste and so on are in public spaces, so vocalising is important.”
Protest poetry in online spaces thrive differently, according to Sabika who says the responses come in waves. “Online it’s easy to react to poetry with an anonymity but in person when I perform publicly, I see the tangible responses and reactions and I engage after when people come up to me after. I can see my audience but I don’t know their names… but they’re there. And they don’t attack me and I haven’t ever been attacked in person. But when I share a video, I have received hate messages, threats and comments. Online spaces do open up for potential abuse. I really enjoy seeing my poetry online but there is a danger attached to it.”
To balance all this emotional uproar, Sabika admits she indulges in comedy every once in a while. “My friends, the ones who really know me, say I should try stand-up,” she chuckles, “But people who see me for the first time see I’m quite serious, so they’d never think it would be an interest of mine remotely!”
I then ask Sabika, who’s spoken so much about poetry and its value by now, ‘where would she be without poetry?’ She pauses, surprised, finally responding, “You know what? I don’t know.”
Sabika’s protest poetry performance will be at Lamakaan on February 9 at 7pm
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Entertainment> Theatre / by Divya Kala Bhavani / February 06th, 2019
Kulachal Mu. Yoosuf bagged the Sahitya Akademi Translation Prize for 2018
It has been an arduous journey from a child labourer to the winner of the Sahitya Akademi Translation Prize 2018 for Kulachal Mu. Yoosuf, 60. His translation of Malayalam writer G.R. Indugopan’s Maniyan Pillaiyuda Athma Katha into Tirudan Manian Pillai in the Tamil has won him the distinction. The story has already been made into the successful Malayalam film Kallante Katha.
The laurels have arrived not a moment too soon. Mr. Yoosuf was forced to discontinue his studies after Class V when his family fell on hard times. bad days. A passion for reading, picked up in school, stayed with him. “There was a library run by the Hindu Ilaignar Iyakkam in my native town of Colachel. I sat in the library and read while other students played,” says Mr. Yoosuf, who became a child labourer when his family moved to Kanniyakumari.
Malayalam language and literature arrived serendipitously while he worked in a provisions shop in Nagercoil.
Tamil and Malayalam
“Customers would sell old books for raddi and among them were Malayalam books. I would read them. I was fascinated by Vaikom Muhammad Basheer’s short stories. One customer suggested that I should read them in Malayalam and I followed his advice,” recalls Mr. Yoosuf. Gradually, he gained mastery over the Malayalam language. “The sentence patterns are similar in Malayalam and Tamil. If there were a cinema poster, I would stop for a second to read it,” laughs Mr. Yoosuf.
He recalls that books on revolutionary movements like the Punnapura-Vayalar upsurge in Kerala, the life of naxal leader Ajitha, and Basheer’s works, motivated him to learn Malayalam with greater determination. His first article supported the Supreme Court verdict in the Shah Bano case.
As he gained confidence, Mr. Yoosuf tried his hand at translation. His first work was a translation of Sahitya Akademi-winner Punathil Kunjabdulla’s Smarakashilakal into Tamil as Meesan Karkal in 2004.
Over time, he translated more than 30 works, particularly by Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, from Malayalam into Tamil.
“Even though there were [other] translations, friends, particularly [publisher] ‘Kalachuvadu’ Kannan, were particular that I translate Basheer’s works. I have translated his [Basheer’s] short stories, novels and letters,” says Mr. Yoosuf.
His translations restored the legendary writer’s fame among Tamil readers.
Other important works
His translation of M.T. Vasudevan Nair’s Naalukettu as Naalukettu and Nalini Jameela’s autobiography as Oru Paaliyal Thozhilaliyin Kathai, and the rendering in Tamil of the autobiography of social activist K. Ajitha were other important turning points. Mr. Yoosuf has written a detailed book on the Great Poets of Persia, Paarasika Mahakavikal, and taken Tamil Sangam works to readers in Malayalam.
“My translation of Naladiyar [post-Sangam Tamil poetic work] was appropriated by a writer from Kerala. I sent it to a writer to read the proof, but another writer published it in his name. I have filed a case,” he says.
When asked what it means to be a full-time writer, Mr. Yoosuf says, “Literature cannot be considered a revenue-generating venture.”
He adds, “I have a good publisher and they are paying me well. Literature never leaves me poor.”
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> News> Cities> Chennai / by B. Kolappan / Chennai – February 05th, 2019
Nasheet Shadani, founder of social media platform Ishq Urdu. Photo: Ramesh Pathania
It’s got tehzeeb, romance and nuance, drawing a growing number of urban Indians to it
Urdu is in our lives even if we don’t realize it. But it is only recently that this love for the sound of Urdu has extended to its script
It’s on a Tuesday evening in January, under a canopy of incandescent bulbs, that I receive my first lesson in Urdu: the difference between alcohol and mirages.I am part of a small mehfil gathered in the courtyard of Prithvi Theatre in Mumbai. People greet each other with adaab, and the bonhomie that strangers share is palpable.
In this session of a monthly Urdu meet-up called Mehfil@Prithvi, we are listening to people read ghazals and nazms by the late Pakistani poet Fahmida Riaz. She lived in exile in India for almost seven years during Zia-ul-Haq’s rule, and died in November in Lahore. Riaz wrote heart-wrenching lines on female desire and communalism, such as:
Sarab hun mein
Teri pyaas kya bujhaungi
Urdu scholar Ilyas Shauqi, who delivers the lines at the mehfil, explains to me later that sarab means mirage, an illusion, and is often mistaken by non-Urdu speakers for sharab, or alcohol. “Urdu is like this—you have to pay attention to the pronunciation,” he adds.
Such is my introduction to Urdu, a language that appears to conceal more than it reveals. Writer Annie Zaidi, who often leads the Mehfil@Prithvi sessions, says that while Urdu runs in her family, she learnt to write the Nasta‘līq script as recently as 2017. Annie’s motivation was access, both to the past and the present. “I always wanted to know more about Urdu literature, and there is only so much that you can understand through transliterations. Besides, my grandfather (Ali Jawad Zaidi) is an Urdu writer, and it was a shame that I couldn’t read his works in the original. Urdu should have been my mother tongue but, as things stand, I am more fluent in Hindi,” she says.
Despite her familiarity with spoken Urdu, the experience of learning the script was nothing short of confounding. She says, “The ligature—the manner in which letters bond with each other in Urdu—was particularly tough. The letters change shape as they form a word and very few phonetic cues are used. I had a friend teach me that over WhatsApp.”
Urdu’s idiosyncrasies are both its charm and challenge, as a growing number of newly forged admirers among urban Indians will testify.
According to 2011 census data on mother tongues released last year, Urdu dropped from sixth to seventh position, showing a drop of 1.58%. The only other language to record a fall was Konkani. Yet Urdu has found new takers. Many of them are spurred on by an interest to read Urdu texts in the original, rather than translations or transliterations. Some want to learn the script for research, for design, or to write poetry. For others, like Annie, it is the chance to revisit their roots. In this mix are non-Muslims, non-Urdu-speaking Muslims, and Urdu-speaking Muslims who never learnt the language formally.
The country’s non-Urdu-speaking population has been nourished for a long time on a literary diet of some of the best prose, poetry and lyrics that the language offers. Bollywood songs, theatre, even the stray couplets that break the monotony of endless Twitter feed scrolls—Urdu is in our lives even if we don’t realize or acknowledge it. But it is only recently that this love for the sound of Urdu has extended to its script as well. Mumbai-based theatre practitioner Danish Husain, who curates the monthly Mehfil@Prithvi and is known for his dastangoi performances, says that while the interest in Urdu has always been there, what he has seen in the last couple of years is “the interest in the text”, whether it’s people reading works intently or dramatizing them.
The revival is linked to the proliferation of online portals and Urdu-themed events in urban centres, such as shayari clubs, Urdu readings and calligraphy classes. Prominent among them is the Noida-based Rekhta Foundation. Through its website Rekhta.org, it offers an Urdu word-of-the-day along with a dictionary (also delivered to users on WhatsApp); offline, it organizes one of the biggest Urdu festivals in the country, Jashn-e-Rekhta. The festival, which debuted in Delhi in 2015, saw over 15,000 visitors; in 2018, the numbers rose to 170,000 (figures from the Rekhta Foundation ).
Visitors at a Sufi concert by the Nooran Sisters at Jashn-e-Rekhta in December. Photo: Rekhta
In 2017, following multiple requests from festival attendees and online users, the foundation started a beginner’s Urdu course, with calligraphy and poetry appreciation thrown in for good measure. Simultaneously, it also launched an online education portal, Aamozish.com, through which 35,000 people have studied Urdu so far.
Sarover Zaidi, an anthropologist based out of Mumbai and Delhi who works on religion, architecture and social spaces, believes this growing interest in Urdu is a natural progression of the impact of social media and online resources, which have provided people with more access to the script, something that wouldn’t have been easy even a decade ago. “A large number of people have always been interested in Urdu—even those who did not grow up in cultures where Urdu was accessible. But more people are now responding to it, whether it is their interest in the poetry, literature, or the culture it represents—they are interested in the poetics and politics of it. They want to make a statement,” she says.
Writing or drawing?
To explore what’s driving urban Indians to the language, I attended an Urdu calligraphy workshop at Mumbai’s Tarq gallery in December. I realized that learning Urdu through the calligraphic Nasta‘līq script requires nothing less than absolute dedication.
Graphic designer, muralist and typographer Zeenat Kulavoor. Photo: Abhijit Bhatlekar/Mint
The workshop was conducted by Zeenat Kulavoor, a 30-year-old graphic designer and typographer, who has created two murals in Urdu. Both were made in 2017, on the premises of a repurposed mill in Mumbai. One of them is “pehle aap“, evoking the Lakhnavi tehzeeb—the courteous mannerisms once associated with Lucknow. The other mural bears stirring verses that only the mind of poet Nida Fazli—a Padma Shri awardee and staunch critic of the Partition—could have conjured up. As a muralist, Kulavoor refers to the characteristics of not just Urdu but of the cultures that use this language. The reason people are learning Urdu is almost the reason why some of us study French in India—we also consume the culture the language represents.
Kulavoor started learning Urdu at the Sir JJ School of Art in 2008, when she was part of a class project on creating a calligraphy manual. “We had to choose a language from those printed on the Indian currency note. Creating the manual meant understanding the script, breaking it down and then showing users the steps to write the script,” recalls Kulavoor. She arrived late for class, and the other languages were taken, leaving only Urdu. “That’s how Urdu found me,” she says.
Kulavoor tried to find an Urdu mentor—but on the internet, the only available resource she could find at the time was a bunch of videos on Arabic calligraphy.
A decade later, she decided to organize workshops focusing not on linguistics but on the form and design elements of the Urdu alphabet. For most of the participants at her 6-hour, beginner-level workshops were looking for something specific—designing calligrams for their projects, for instance.
Entering the world of Urdu calligraphy, however, means unlearning. One of the participants had been meditatively painting a series of be—the second letter of the Urdu alphabet—but realized much later that instead of going from right to left, as Urdu demands, she had been writing instinctively left to right.
Keeping the language alive
Kulavoor’s calligraphy classes come at a time when the generation of veteran kaatibs (calligraphers), the ones who populated Old Delhi’s lanes and Mohammed Ali Road in Mumbai, is fading. On 30 January, one such noted figure, Shilp Guru Irshad Hussain Farooqi, a resident of Delhi, died.
Zeenat Kulavoor taking participants through Urdu calligraphy at her workshop in December at the Tarq gallery, Mumbai. Aniruddha Chowdhury/Mint
Shipra Dutta, 45, got reacquainted with Urdu to save a family legacy. Dutta is a fourth-generation calligrapher—her great-grandfather served as an accountant in the court of Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar. The story in her family is that he was chosen to maintain the accounts not because of his mathematical skills, but rather for his penmanship in mahajani (a mercantile script) and thuluth (an Islamic calligraphic script). When Dutta was offered the chance to calligraph a set of Urdu poems for a Kashmiri pashmina-weaver, she realized she also wished to learn what the words meant. “Urdu is led through the qalam (pen), and there is a visual pleasure in watching it move on paper. It is essentially a dance of hairline strokes and thick strokes, a jugalbandi,” she says.
A similar interest drew Dhwani Shah, a 31-year-old designer for publisher Tara Books. She signed up in October for Inktober, an annual Instagram hashtag series in which users respond to a word prompt through visual interpretations. Shah drew Urdu translations of the English prompts. She picked up Urdu as a hobby while studying design at Bhasha Bhavan in Gujarat Vidyapeeth, Ahmedabad. Now based out of Chennai, she believes the only way she can keep her interest alive is to go old school—handwritten letters. She is a member of Quillpal.com, a site that helps people make pen pals in the age of blue ticks and DMs. Shah wanted to write her letters in Urdu, and Quillpal luckily matched her with a pen pal fluent in the language.
As with her writing, Shah also tries to infuse her everyday conversations with a dose of Urdu. “Urdu has several words that are poetic and beautiful, but I try to use ordinary words like mehez (merely), fizool (useless), zikr (mention). I can sneak them into conversations without sounding pompous,” she says.
While calligraphy is one means of popularizing the script, its greatest presence is in the digital form. Urdu printing presses have been on the decline, and have been replaced by a number of apps and digital tools that enable people to type away in Urdu on devices. Nasheet Shadani, a 32-year-old Delhi-based advertising professional, has taken it a step further, harnessing the power of memes to convey some fun facts about Urdu. “People are still learning Urdu in a very 1970s method and I want to make it more contemporary,” says Shadani.
In 2015, he started a social media project called Ishq Urdu, which mainly operates through Instagram and Facebook. Look it up and you will find some thought-provoking posts—what would Bollywood dialogues be without Urdu? Could “Mogambo prasann hua?” ever have the same effect as “Mogambo khush hua?”
Shadani’s latest venture introduces the Urdu alphabet to his general audience through a unique series of posts. On a background of pop colours, he designs phrases such as “Hey, what’s up?” or “Good afternoon” where “hey” and “noon” are, in fact, Urdu alphabets. It’s a simple but smart mnemonic device that he prints on a limited edition series of badges and T-shirts.
Delhi-based historian and scholar Rana Safvi, whose eponymous blog is a great resource for all things Urdu, says: “Urdu uses the same grammar as Hindi. Not that of Farsi.” In her blogpost “My Name Is Urdu And I Am Not A Muslim”, Safvi traces the evolution of the language and recalls Australian linguist Peter Austin’s observation that “Urdu and Hindi have the same roots in the emerging Indo-Aryan language varieties spoken in an area centred on Delhi, and specially the variety called Khari Boli, which spread throughout India under the Muslim armies of the Delhi Sultanate (13th to 15th century).”
In present-day India, Safvi notes: “Associated as it is in people’s eyes with Muslims, it has become nothing but a trap for vote-bank politics, unkept promises and empty dreams. The only silver lining is that it still lives in the hearts of many across religious lines, in our Hindi films and TV serials, the crowds flocking to mushairas, and the number of sites which provide SMS lines on the internet. ”
Love it, hate it
So, what’s the culture that Urdu signifies? That of a genteel past or a polarized present?
The recent Twitter hashtag movement #MyNameinUrdudrew attention to a prevalent prejudice against the Urdu script. Using this hashtag, Twitter handles sported user names in Urdu—many among them non-Urdu speakers. It was a statement against communal hatred and incessant trolling, but there was a catch—the Google transliteration app didn’t always succeed accurately. Those familiar with Urdu came forward on Twitter to do the job instead.
In 2016, signboard painter Akhlaq Ahmad and French street artist Swen Simon were forced by a small group of people in Delhi to deface their mural of an Urdu couplet in praise of the city. Their lines read: Dilli tera ujadna, aur phir ujad ke basna. Woh dil hai toone paya, sani nahi hai jiska. It sounds like Hindi, except it was written in Urdu. The group reportedly questioned the artists’ Nasta’līq script and asked them to replace it with the words “Swachh Bharat Abhiyan” and “Narendra Modi”, in Hindi. They labelled the artists “Lahoris”.
The Delhi government, however, has been attempting to promote Urdu. In November, it held Jashn-e-Virasat, a celebration of tehzeeb, with the support of the Urdu Academy. Previously held at Jama Masjid, Old Delhi, this edition took place at Central Park in Connaught Place, a location which brought the event, and the language, closer to a cosmopolitan crowd. But Asad Ashraf, the founder of a community project called Karvaan India, is attempting the reverse—getting people closer to the localities where Urdu is used.
Karvaan’s office, situated in Delhi’s Ghaffar Manzil, a Muslim-dominated area, houses a library and a workspace for creative professionals, writers and “fellow travellers”. In the past year, Karvaan has increased its programming, focusing on topics pertinent to its immediate community, such as the ghettoization of Muslims and talaq, while also opening its doors to a wider public.
It is with the same intent that Ashraf launched Urdu Hai Jiska Naam last year. The title of the weekend classes comes from a famous sher by Urdu poet Dagh Dehlvi. Last year, 35 participants enrolled in the class. This year, there were 300 applicants, but Karvaan has resources enough to register only 100, despite doubling batches. Of these, only eight are Muslims.
The class is conducted by entrepreneur Tanzil Rahman, an Indian Institute of Management Bangalore graduate. He recalls the time when he was first taught the Urdu alphabet in school. “We practised on a wooden plank which functioned as a slate called a takhti, as big as two MacBooks placed side-by-side. On this, we wrote the alphabet in ink. We did this before we switched to paper because kushkhat, or neat handwriting, is very important,” he explains.
As an Urdu mentor, Rahman’s method is different. He prefers to keep the course functional and contemporary, and helps participants recognize Urdu in its popular usage, from film dialogue to signboards at railway stations. “Take Nizamuddin station, for example. Isn’t the iconic yellow signboard a great way to learn how Nizamuddin is written in Urdu?” he says. He delves a little further into the intricacies of Urdu, the manner in which vowel sounds are dropped and how you understand words by contextualizing them.
He says Urdu is taught now only in some public schools but rarely in private schools. “So people have to make use of independent courses like these. The classes are useful also for Muslims whose mother tongue is Urdu because while many may speak the language, not all know how to write it,” he adds.
Savio Pashana, 30, a designer and a spoken word performer, is part of a growing circle of spoken word poets in Thane who organize performances under the banner of Poetry Tuesday. Some of the members performed their Urdu pieces in January at the Spoken Fest in Mumbai. “The biggest disservice we have done to the language is to give it a homeland in Pakistan alone. But think about it—Bhagat Singh wrote letters to his family in Urdu,” he says.
Urdu was once used extensively by Hindus as well as Muslims, and even the British, though it may be mainly Muslim communities that are keeping it alive on a daily basis today. By encouraging participants to come closer to minority communities that still use Urdu as their mother tongue, Karvaan is suggesting that the secularization of Urdu need not mean that it makes Muslims invisible.
Shaikh Aquil Ahmad, director of the National Council for the Promotion of Urdu Language (NCPUL) in Delhi, says, “People are not learning it for religious reasons alone. It’s because Urdu zubaan mein behad mithaas hai (it is a very sweet language).”
Beyond the politics
“A nukta can make a huge difference,” says Mumbai resident Shirlyn Galbao, 44, referring to the wily dot that is the cornerstone of the Urdu alphabet. Galbao says she was already familiar with the lilt of Urdu, but the urge to master the language was driven by two sources—her job as a voice-over artist and a monthly baithak. Galbao wished to perfect her talafuz (pronunciation), particularly because several Hindi commercials, especially on radio, are sprinkled with Urdu words. Her search led her to Katha Kathan.
Katha Kathan, a series of dramatized readings of Urdu’s best literary names, was initiated by former ad-man Jameel Gulrays, after he felt the need to share Urdu’s literary wealth in a time when it is being offered in fewer schools across India as a second language—they would rather offer French, German, even Japanese. Gulrays has translated several short stories by Urdu writers.
He disliked the Nandita Das film Manto, finding it an inauthentic representation of the Urdu writer, and chooses to commemorate the writer across baithaks—celebrating Manto’s “Bambai”, his short stories and his Marathi translations. Gulrays’ readings are available on YouTube; he has made 1,200 videos so far.
Galbao started with these baithaks and eventually found a mentor in Gulrays, who teaches with a blackboard and a list of primary school textbooks, and recommends reading Urdu newspapers. Galbao has piles of Urdu newspapers, which never fail to catch the attention of her friends. “My Muslim friends don’t speak Urdu and often wonder if I will teach them Urdu when they see the newspapers,” she laughs, adding that some acquaintances have asked her why a Catholic should wish to study an “Islamic” language.
As Shadani says, a revival need not be literary or political. Sometimes, a college student may want to study Urdu simply to flaunt it, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. As Ahmad says, “Urdu is mohabbat ki zubaan—the language of love.”
Urdu in your city
1. The National Council for the Promotion of Urdu Language (NCPUL) offers a free diploma as well as certificate courses in Urdu in 1,359 centres across India. It has been systematically scaling up centres; currently, 57,301 students have registered for these courses. Additionally, the NCPUL offers calligraphy classes at select centres.
Urducouncil.nic.in
2. The Zabaan Language Institute at Kailash Colony, Delhi, offers two courses in Urdu reading and writing, a basic and a secondary. It also offers home tutors for private classes if you are willing to pay travel costs.
Zabaan.com; 011-40564840
3. The Hindustani Prachar Sabha at Charni Road, Mumbai, offers three levels of programmes. The basic beginner’s certificate is an year-long course.
Hindustanipracharsabha.org; 022-22812871
4. Kitab Khana, one of Mumbai’s largest book stores, has a modest shelf dedicated to Urdu writing. You can browse through it, and if you spot co-owner Samir Somaiya around this section, don’t be surprised. In 2017, Somaiya learnt Urdu from a mentor who also advises the store on the Urdu titles they should be stocking.
Kitabkhana.in; 022-61702276
5. What Che Guevara was to T-shirts in the 20th century, the late poet Jaun Eliya is to Urdu lovers. Sample these and other contemporary designs, all dedicated to Urdu luminaries, at Shiraz Husain’s Khwaab Tanha Collective.
@khwaabtanhacollective on Facebook
6. On Twitter, @Rekhta and Rana Safvi’s @urdualfaz are dedicated to teaching Urdu, one word at a time. You may also want to check out @TimeUrdu, a linguistic project that promotes the language.
source: http://www.livemint.com / Live Mint / Home> Latest> Trending> My Reads / by Benita Fernando / February 03rd, 2019
