Before the arrival of British and English becoming the official language of our country, Persian held the official status in the court and administration.
Hyderabad :
Hyderabadis are in the know of the city’s long tryst with Iranian language and culture. However, it is a lesser-known fact that both the city and areas under the erstwhile Deccan region are home to a large number of Persian literary works as well.
In order to fill this gap, the All India Persian Teachers Association (AIPTA) has initiated works to document the Persian literary works from Deccan region, starting with Hyderabad. The plan is to start scourging the most important repositories of Hyderabad, like Oriental Manuscripts and Research Institute, Salar Jung Museum and State Archives.
Prof Azarmi Dukht Safavi, founder director of the Institute of Persian Research at Aligarh Muslim University and AIPTA-President, speaking to Express said, the catalogue thus created will also have introductory notes on each work. Once done, this catalogue will prove useful for Persian scholars to work on, translate and publish them.
Before the arrival of British and English becoming the official language of our country, Persian held the official status in the court and administration. It heavily influenced many local languages, including Urdu dialect of Hindustani, Punjabi, Sindhi, Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati and Bengali.
Prof Shahid Naukhez Azmi, head of Persian department at Maulana Azad National Urdu University (MANUU) and local secretary of AIPTA, points out that a majority of Persian literary works studied in India at the moment belong to the Mughal period.
However, the Bahmani empire in the Deccan were great patrons of Persian literature, culture and art. This trend continued under the rule of successive dynasties.
It may be mentioned here that AIPTA is organizing its 36th conference in Hyderabad at MANUU from February 5-7 with the theme, ‘Contribution of Deccan to the Persian Language and Literature’.
source: http://www.newindianexpress.com / The New Indian Express / Home> Cities> Hyderabad / by V. Nilesh – Express News Service / February 03rd, 2019
Exclusive Still: Fahadh Faasil in Super Deluxe | Photo Credit: Special Arrangement
Fahadh Faasil tells Sundaylite about the influence of Thiagarajan Kumararaja’s Aaranya Kaandam on his career and the experience of working with him in Super Deluxe
A lifeline. That’s what Thiagarajan Kumararaja’s 2011 gangster drama, Aaranya Kaandam, was for Fahadh Faasil.
The noughties weren’t kind on the Malayalam actor — his 2002 début, Kaiyethum Doorathu, directed by his father and acclaimed director Fazil, sank without a trace, prompting him to take a break and pursue his studies in the US. Seven years later, when he returned, it was to cameos and small roles. “I wasn’t really sure about the kind of films I wanted to be a part of. That’s when I saw Aaranya Kaandam,” he shares. “I was stunned; it was such a stylish film. It made me stay (in films). It was crucial in moulding me as an actor.”
Exclusive Still: Fahadh Faasil’s look from Thiagarajan Kumararaja’s ‘Super Deluxe’ | Photo Credit: Special Arrangement
Now, life’s coming full circle. This year, the actor, who is in his mid-30s, will feature in Kumararaja’s second directorial venture, Super Deluxe. “Working with (Kumararaja) was a mindblowing experience. It was the best way to craft myself,” he says. The film’s cast includes Vijay Sethupathy, Samantha Akkineni, Ramya Krishnan and director Mysskin.
Breaking with the norm
In the eight years since he watched Aaranya Kaandam, Fahadh’s career has gone from strength to strength. He is a National Award winner, bagging best supporting actor for his portrayal of a thief in the critically-acclaimed Thondimuthalum Driksakshiyum. Films like 22 Female Kottayam, North 24 Kaatham, Annayum Rasoolum, Carbon and Njan Prakashan show an actor willing to take on an unconventional script. His ability to ‘shapeshift’ is what enouraged filmmaker Sathyan Anthikad to cast him in Njan Prakashan. “The changes that Fahadh brings to his appearances through his eyes and demeanour are sheer magic. He looks so normal (in person) but these characters make him different,” says Anthikad.
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Shapeshifter
Fahadh’s ability to ‘shapeshift’ encouraged filmmaker Sathyan Anthikad to cast him in Njan Prakashan. The director admits that had it been a different decade, he’d have chosen Mohanlal. “The changes that Fahadh brings to his appearances through his eyes and demeanour are sheer magic. He looks so normal (in person) but these characters make him different. Remember, he shot for Varathan and Njan Prakashan within months of each other,” says Anthikad.
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Quiz Fahadh about the work that goes behind his method acting and he clarifies, “There’s no deliberate effort (from me) as a performer to be unconventional. The characters I portray are an extension of what I’ve seen, heard or read, and so what you see in my films are how I understand life. What I look for in a project is whether the storyline excites me.”
Super Deluxe — which explores the lives of 10 characters — has left him wondering how he can push the boundaries of acting further. “Maybe it is time for me to move to the next level. I need to start doing something new, different to what I’ve been doing so far,” he says, leaving us guessing.
When i saw Aaranya Kaandam, I was stunned. It was such a stylish film and was crucial in moulding me as an actor Fahadh Faasil
A full roster
Fahadh is generally hesitant to accept films from languages other than Malayalam. The only exception has been the Sivakarthikeyan-starrer Velaikkaran, which he says was a “wonderful experience”. He was to be a part of Mani Ratnam’s Chekka Chivantha Vaanam, but opted out due to scheduling conflicts.
But his star continues to shine closer home. He is shooting for an anthology flick, Trance, directed by Anwar Rasheed, and has wrapped up shoot for an as-yet-untitled flick alongside Sai Pallavi. He will be seen next in Madhu C Narayanan’s Kumbalangi Nights, which he co-produced with his wife, actor Nazriya Nazim. He is also expected to be part of Aashiq Abu’s multi-starrer medical drama, Virus.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Entertainment> Movies / by Vijay George / February 03rd, 2019
So famous did the zamindar, a descendant of the Timurid dynasty from which the ruling Mughals derived become, in work to develop female education and other issues of social deprivation of women in the latter half of the 19th century, that Her Imperial Majesty Victoria, Empress of India, personally intervened to award the title of “Nawab.”
In that unique process, Begum Faizunnesa Choudhurani became the first woman in South Asia to be so honoured.
Homnabad-Pashchimgoan, now known as Laksam, close to the Indian border in Comilla District of Bangladesh, was a zamindari, characteristic of the British period, being held by a Muslim family in an area which, even today, enjoys a rich heritage of fine Hindu Temples that betrays a probable Hindu majority of the time.
She was born in 1834 to a very devout Muslim family, with its very aristocratic heritage, and was, very strictly, brought up in purda; although, in fact, her father was of sufficiently liberal mind to hire a male tutor to enhance the education of his two daughters.
Of course, in the great traditions of Islam, such an upbringing may not have permitted a great deal of social intercourse, but it is clear that it did facilitate for her an opportunity for a high degree of self education: Reading. Sadly, a vital form of education that has diminished in modern times.
That process of self and home education was, certainly, effective. Arabic and Persian in the household would have been the most commonly used languages, as in most such aristocratic families of the time; indeed, Persian was commonly used, even by the East India Company in its communications, and was an essential learning for Company employees.
Faizunnesa, in the preface of her famous work of poetic fiction, Rupjalal, was to acknowledge her tutor, Ustad Tazuddin, as the source of inspiration, and learning.
It may also be interesting to speculate that she had access to newspapers, that, as English language publications, would certainly have aided a familiarity with social changes, even in Britain.
Two years before her birth, 1832 was the year of the First Great Reform Bill passed by the British Parliament.
The act, itself, only marginally extended the voting franchise, still limited to males, as well as reforming Parliamentary seats. However, in 1817, Jeremy Bentham had first advocated enfranchisement of women, and although it was to be nearly another century before such reform was enacted in Britain, together with the succession to the throne of Queen Victoria in 1837, emancipation of women, combined with an embryonic movement for women’s rights, were certainly already on an international agenda from before the Begum’s birth.
Fascinating, indeed to suspect that, so early already, deep in the rurality of the lands that are now Bangladesh, and in a very strict Muslim family, it appears that something stirred in the field of female educational rights and opportunities.
Which, amongst other things, begins to raise suspicions that the movement towards independence, which seems largely in the late 19th and early 20th centuries to have emerged from a more “anglicised” upper and middle class in the sub-continents, may well have had some roots amongst the more leisured zamindari, especially those of ancient lineage.
However, Faizunnesa found herself at the age of 27, in a traditional polygamous marriage to a neighbouring zamindar, a distant cousin, Muhammad Gazi, becoming his second wife with whom she had two daughters.
In fact, it was a marriage at an unusually high age; at the age of nine, Muhammad Gazi, on a family visit, became obsessed with her, and sought marriage then.
Faizunnesa’s father denied permission then, on the grounds of her youth, but in the ensuing years, found it difficult to arrange any marriage for his daughter, over the well-known objections of her older suitor.
It was evidently not a marriage or situation that suited the well-educated, evidently rather independent-minded young woman.
After bearing two daughters, she returned to her parental home. There then ensued a lengthy process of obtaining marital alimony, at the end of which she received property as a settlement.
It is, however, clear that she remained on good terms with her husband, blaming his first wife, who he had married on rebound from his original failure to marry Faizunnesa, for the failure of the marriage.
On the death of her father, her apparently similarly self-assured and educated mother, took over administration of the zamindari.
On her mother’s death in 1883, Faizunnesa inherited the zamindari.
It is evident that, like so many, she was not content with British colonial rule; we may well surmise that the 1857 rebellion, although it had little impact in Bengal, and indeed the lands still at the time designated as a part of Tripura, especially the suspicion engendered by the role of Muslims in that uprising, was also contributory to her discontent.
Other women rulers in India had proved themselves content with the title Begum, usually the way in which a zamindar’s wife was addressed; Faizunnesa, alone, and a Muslim woman, made it clear that she found it degrading not to be recognised equally with male zamindars
In her writing, she also refers to the suicide of her maternal grandfather, Mozaffar GaziChowdhury, preferring death to submission to the then colonial ruler, the East India Company.
In the period between the Battle of Buxar, that facilitated the Company’s domination of the lands, and the Act of Permanent Settlement in 1793, governance was so rapacious that 75% of zamindari are believed to have changed hands. It was not a period in which such aristocratic rulers could work easily.
But it is apparent that she was determined not to be suppressed by the rule of the successor administration, the British Imperial rule.
As zamindar were invited by Magistrate Douglas, the district magistrate of Tripura, to contribute to funds for his provincial development plan, she was the only zamindar who responded to the request, donating — in the absence of other support — all the funds requested.
As a result, Douglas requested the British government that she be awarded with a title. Nawab,was, at the time, the highest honorific awarded to zamindars.
The male zamindars, however, objected vociferously, and Faizunnesa was awarded the honorific title of Begum, with the agreement of Queen Victoria.
She rejected the offer, pointing out that she was already known in her lands by that title; she demanded that she be treated with equality to male zamindars. The British Parliament decided in her favour, and she became Nawab Faizunnesa. It is not hard to imagine her satisfaction beating the system!
Other women rulers in India had proved themselves content with the title Begum, usually the way in which a zamindar’s wife was addressed; Faizunnesa, alone, and a Muslim woman, made it clear that she found it degrading not to be recognised equally with male zamindars.
Her work as zamindar was far from limited to the effective administration of the lands she held. As early as 1893, with the support of her mother, she had established one of the earliest privately established female schools in the Indian sub-continent.
She also established a school at Pashchimgaon, now upgraded to a college.
In 1893, she established a dispensary for women, particularly destitute women, as well as a hospital for women in Comilla.
Her semi autobiographical “allegory,” Rupjalal, published in Dhaka in 1876, eventually brought her a worldwide literary reputation, but she also remains an outstanding figure in the continuing fight for women’s rights in the lands that are now Bangladesh.
Her origins and her upbringing suggest how hard it must have been for her to plough her furrow, despite her advantages of wealth and family.
A conspicuous, and perhaps somewhat neglected figure in the social and religious cultural development of Bangladesh today.
Tim Steel is a communications, marketing and tourism consultant.
source: http://www.dhakatribune.com / Dhaka Tribune / Home> Opinion> Heritage / by Tim Steel / August 06th, 2016
“I want to become a social worker,” a 12-year-old boy from Kerala confidently told Congress president Rahul Gandhi during his recent visit to the state. But Mohammed Asim’s dreams have hit a roadblock.
Born without hands, he has trained himself to draw and write with legs. Recognising his talents, the state government had presented him ‘Ujjwala Balyam’ award. Asim, who lives in Kozhikode, has completed his seventh standard from Govt Mapplia Upper Primary School in Vellimanna. But the panchayat has no government high schools and Asim will have to travel for over six kms to continue his studies. For several months he has been going from pillar to post, with a request to upgrade the school to a high school. He has even written a letter to Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan.
“Sir, I don’t have two hands from birth. I have a disability with my legs too. I need assistance to go to school and for my basic needs. My parents need to accompany me to school for my basic needs. I request you to upgrade my school to high school, as I can’t travel to a far off school, ” reads his letter.
Asim has three younger siblings and his parents are making all efforts to fulfill their son’s dream. “My son does not want to study at home. He likes to learn and play with other kids in the school,” said Asim’s father, Muhammad Sayeed Yamini, a Madrasa teacher.
In June 2018, his demand saw the light when the Kerala High Court ordered the government to upgrade the school and do the needful for him.
”But soon after that Kerala government submitted a report saying only 2 out of 37 students are left and the rest of them have taken admissions in other high schools”, says Asim’s father.
The 12-year-old boy has been the torch bearer for other students in the panchayat as well. “It’s not just for me”, he says, “it is for everyone here in my small village. There is no high school in our panchayat.”
Vellimanna School, which was a Lower Primary School, was upgraded to an Upper Primary School in 2014 only after Asim wrote a letter to the then chief minister Oommen Chandy. Asim is determined to continue his struggle. He has sent a video message to Prime Minister Narendra Modi as well, besides writing letters to Union ministers Sushma Swaraj and Prakash Javadekar seeking help.
Asim’s path to his dreams seems hard, but he is determined to move forward.
source: http://www.inuth.com / Inuth / Home> Beyond The Headlines / by Gayatri Menon / January 31st, 2019
Sammad is the younger of two siblings and lives in a joint family, with a grandmother, aunt and uncle. His businessman father deals with property as well as dry fruits.
Mohammad Sammad in a still from Selection Day.
Between struggling with commerce lessons and accounting tables — in preparation of his forthcoming class 12 boards — 18-year-old Mohammad Sammad has had to also mug up lines for a film, and practice cricket for at least two hours every day. Sammad, who calls himself a “lucky, accidental actor” has had a stellar year. He played a precocious 12-year-old and also the dying grandmother in the horror film, Tumbbad, and earned rave reviews for his rendition of Pandurang in the film. Next up was the role of Manju Nath in Netflix’s Selection Day, where he plays an upcoming cricketer, who deals with a controlling father, sexuality and a new social order.
Did he always want to act? “Actually no. Main dekhta tha filmein, but never had aspirations to act. It was all a matter of luck. I was selected out of 200 kids after some workshops, when the team of Gattu, directed by Rajan Khosa, came to conduct auditions in my school. Sab chance ki baat thi,” says Sammad, who divides his time between Roorkee and Mumbai. “The final scene, which I think clinched the role for me, was done off camera. I had to search for my lost goat, and cry. It’s only after shooting for Gattu, that I actually thought, yeh main kar sakta hun,” says Sammad who was all of 12, when he got selected for Gattu. Post Gattu he landed Tumbbad — the fantasy horror film set in Maharashtra in which a family seeks a jinxed ancestral treasure — and Shlok Sharma’s Haramkhor.
Sammad is the younger of two siblings and lives in a joint family, with a grandmother, aunt and uncle. His businessman father deals with property as well as dry fruits. “My father wanted ‘safe’ career options for me. And Mumbai is very far. But my mother and grandmother convinced him. They are my biggest supporters,” he adds.
It’s with Tumbbad that Sammad found himself in the big league. “I, till date, don’t really know why they asked me. It was a difficult shoot, especially the ones inside the ‘womb’, where even breathing seemed like a task. When I saw myself on screen, I felt a hint of pride. I felt good that I was able to pull those roles off. I was very young and inexperienced when we shot the film,” says Sammad.
Mohammad Sammad with actor Soham Shah in a still from Tumbbad
While Tummbad had him dealing with a multi-layered narrative, with an all-adult cast, in the recent Selection Day he is with people his own age and is seen talking about issues related to young adults. “Selection Day shoots are a lot more fun. It’s a different vibe all together when you are working with people your age, as opposed to working with an adult team. You can’t really talk to adults. But it’s not easy – I am not athletic, I had to practice cricket for hours for five months, build my stamina and also work on my physique. I also got to meet Sachin Tendulkar on the sets. I had previously worked with Rajesh sir (Tailang), in a short film, so we were pretty comfortable,” adds Sammad, who is reprising his role in the forthcoming second season.
Sammad’s story gives hope to many who harbour dreams of Mumbai. “I haven’t struggled much. I was represented by good agents and mangers. I have met other young actors who are struggling and have asked me to help them find work. I am blessed and very grateful,” he says. Sammad maintains, that while the exterior of show business is glitzy, it takes a while to reap the awards. “I have heard stories of people getting rich, even as children and young actors. My lifestyle is still the same. I do the same chores around the house, fetch anda-bread-milk for my mother when she asks me to,” adds Sammad.
Questions about his future plans are met with an earnest “I want to do good work”. “I don’t want to become a Khan, but I want to work with them for sure. And yes, I am being slightly selective. I am not saying yes to everything. I am not even doing advertisements,” says Sammad, who is now busy shooting for Maya Sabha, Rahi Anil Barve’s next in which he plays Javed Jaafri’s son.
source: http://www.indianexpress.com / The Indian Express / Home> Lifestyle> Art and Culture / byEktaa Malik / January 31st, 2019
21 of the awardees are women and the list also includes 11 persons from the category of foreigners/NRI/PIO/OCI, 3 posthumous awardees and 1 transgender person.
Padma Awards — one of the highest civilian Awards of the country, are conferred in three categories, namely, Padma Vibhushan, Padma Bhushan and Padma Shri. The Awards are given in various disciplines/ fields of activities, viz. art, social work, public affairs, science and engineering, trade and industry, medicine, literature and education, sports, civil service, etc. ‘Padma Vibhushan’ is awarded for exceptional and distinguished service; ‘Padma Bhushan’ for distinguished service of high order and ‘Padma Shri’ for distinguished service in any field. The awards are announced on the occasion of Republic Day every year.
These awards are conferred by the President of India at ceremonial functions which are held at Rashtrapati Bhawan usually around March/ April every year. This year the President of India has approved conferment of 112 Padma Awards including one duo case (in a duo case, the Award is counted as one) as per list below. The list comprises 4 Padma Vibhushan, 14 Padma Bhushan and 94 Padma Shri Awards. 21 of the awardees are women and the list also includes 11 persons from the category of foreigners/NRI/PIO/OCI, 3 posthumous awardees and 1 transgender person.
Bharat Ratna (3)
1. Nanaji Deshmukh (posthumous)
2. Dr. Bhupen Hazarika (posthumous)
3. Pranab Mukherjee
Padma Vibhushan (4)
1. Ms. Teejan Bai — Art-Vocals-Folk — Chhattisgarh
Chikhala Village (Solapur District) / Mumbai , MAHARASHTRA :
Mumbai :
In downtown Worli, it is common to hear the strange greeting of ‘Assalamu-Alaykum, Guruji’ whenever an 80-year-old Muslim man steps out of his modest home.
He is none other than renowned Sanskrit scholar Pandit Gulam Dastagir, who over six decades has impressed the Shankaracharyas, late prime minister Indira Gandhi, RSS leaders and Islamic scholars, all with equal elan.
Armed with a deep knowledge of both Islam and Sanskrit, Pandit Dastagir can speak with authority on any religious topic — and earn their unabashed admiration.
Born in Chikhali village in Solapur district, Pandit Dastagir completed his schooling before joining a government Sanskrit institution.
“I was the only Muslim student in a class of around four dozen Brahmins. My Brahmin Guruji developed a special liking for me and encouraged me. I acquired my entire Sanskrit knowledge of the scriptures, Vedas and other texts there,” Pandit Dastagir told IANS.
Around mid-1950s, he shifted to Mumbai and joined the Maratha Mandir Sansthan’s Marathi-medium Worli High School as a Sanskrit teacher for all classes.
Two decades later, to comply with professional requirements, he appeared directly for a Master’s degree in Sanskrit from Mysore University. After the Emergency, when the Janata Party ruled India, Pandit Dastagir was suddenly targeted. “They suspected I was a namesake Muslim propagating the RSS and Jana Sangh ideology through Sanskrit. It was only after a long investigation that they were proved wrong,” the man chuckled.
When Indira Gandhi returned to power in 1980, she summoned him and was surprised to discover that Pandit Dastagir was actually a ‘Syedvanshi’, or belonging to a clan considered the direct descendents of Prophet Mohammed.
“She met me several times and appreciated my knowledge and love for Sanskrit. In 1982, she told the education ministry to appoint me as a ‘Rashtriya Sanskrit Pracharak’,” Pandit Dastagir said.
When baffled officials asked Gandhi how should his duties be classified, she reportedly shot back: “He will teach us what needs to be done. Let him function independently.”
For two years, he toured India extensively and propagated Sanskrit in government and private institutions. He quit the post after Gandhi’s assassination in 1984.
“I acquired MA in Sanskrit only in 1987 when I was around 50 years old although I was proficient in the language long before.”
Since his retirement, Pandit Dastagir lectures on the similarities between Islam and Hinduism with reference to various aspects of one of the world’s oldest and richest languages, Sanskrit.
“Sanskrit is not only for Brahmins. But this perception made the masses reluctant to study it. I create awareness about Sanskrit all over India among different castes and religions,” he said.
Pandit Dastagir explained that Hinduism does not recognize ‘conversions’ or the caste system. “The current craze for ‘conversions’ has no basis in Hindu scriptures. It is not recognized. At best, you can change a person’s name, not his soul from the religion of his/her birth,” he said.
An old darling of the Rashtriya Swayamsewak Sangh (RSS), Pandit Dastagir credits the group with giving him full encouragement to pursue his vocation without having to change his religion.
He feels the RSS was not against any religion. “But if anybody threatens Hinduism, they will hit back, irrespective of the opponent’s religious beliefs,” Pandit Dastagir said.
He has also never encountered objections from fellow Muslims over his passion for Sanskrit. “Comparative study of different religions makes you more reasonable. I am not a fanatic, just an ordinary Muslim.”
His love for Sanskrit has not made him lose Islamic identity. He prays daily at the mosque. “I have built up a huge library of thousands of books on Sanskrit and Islam which I study and propagate,” Pandit Dastagir said.
He laments that there are many other Muslim Sanskrit scholars in the country but financial constraints prevent them from propagating the ancient Indian language.
Pandit Dastagir’s wife Vahida is a supporting housewife. Their son Badiujjama is a Sanskrit scholar but runs a shop, elder daughter Gyasunissa Shaikh runs a Sanskrit research centre in Solapur, and their other daughter Kamrunnisa Patil never pursued her father’s passion.
IANS
source: http://www.oneindia.com / One India / Home> News> Feature / by IANS / December 27th, 2014
In 1947, Gandhi visited a village in the region to urge the Muslims living there not to leave the land of their forefathers for Pakistan.
One of Ghasera fort’s four entrance gates – and the only one standing – in Haryana’s Ghasera village. | HT
Every December 19 since 2000, Meo Muslims in Haryana have been commemorating Mahatma Gandhi’s visit to Ghasera village in Mewat district as Mewat Diwas.
On this day, the Meos, who have long been the target of a campaign of communal violence unleashed by Hindutva groups, gather at Ghasera village to recall how Gandhi had called the Meos “Iss desh ke reed ke haddi” or the backbone of India.
The Meos are a large community found in the Mewat region, which is spread across the states of Uttar Pradesh, Haryana and Rajasthan. They profess Islam but also follow several Hindus customs.
During his visit, Gandhi had assured the community that they would not be forced to leave India. He also asked those who wanted to leave to stay on in the land of their forefathers. A month later, Gandhi was assassinated in Delhi
Gandhi’s assassination came as a blow to the Meos. “The Meos who had been convinced to stay once again started feeling they would have to leave,” said local historian Siddique Ahmad, who belongs to the Meo community and has written extensively about Mewat’s connection to Gandhi. “The women of Mewat used to sing a song – ‘Bharosa utth gaya Mevan ka, goli lagee hai Gandhiji kay chathee beech.’” The Meos have lost their trust, now that a bullet has pierced Gandhiji’s chest.
At the village, now sometimes referred to as Gandhigram Ghasera, Deen Mohammed, a key organiser of Mewat Diwas explains how the commemmoration began. “We felt the need to commemorate this occasion every year because our children must know our past,” he said. “There are people who call Mewat mini-Pakistan and us Pakistanis, but try as they may, the truth is that this is our land, we have shed blood for it and Gandhiji was with us in this fight. The world should be reminded of that.”
Haryana’s Ghasera village. (Photo: HT).
‘Ethnic cleansing’
“The Meos believe that one of the reasons for Gandhi’s assassination was that he managed to ensure that a large population of Muslims residing near Delhi was stopped from leaving,” said Ahmad, sitting in his study in Banarsi village in Mewat district. “This angered men like [Gandhi’s assassin Nathuram] Godse.”
Ahmad conceded that there were others reasons for Gandhi’s assassination such as his insistence that Pakistan be paid the arrears promised to it under the terms of the division of assets and liabilities between India and Pakistan, but insisted that his visit to Mewat was also a reason.
To buttress his argument, he cited an oft-repeated but never confirmed story that the pistol involved in the assassination was supplied by the Alwar royal family, which had once ruled over parts of Mewat region.
As Ahmad related the story of how the Meos were affected by Partition, the reasons for their respect for Gandhi and their distrust of the princely families of Alwar and Bharatpur became clear. (Both Alwar and Bharatpur lie in present-day Rajasthan.) In 1933, after the royal family of Alwar imposed heavy taxes, the Meos launched a successful agitation that led to the British deposing the Alwar king and taking over the administration of the state.
“The king of Alwar was already angry with the Meo farmers for an agitation they had led against him and one that got him dethroned so he already had great animosity against the Meo,” said Ahmad. “The Raja of Bharatpur wanted to create a Jatistan that would stretch from Nuh in Haryana to Bharatpur.”
Ahmad’s accounts of the violence during Partition are backed by historians like Shail Mayaram who have worked extensively on the history of the region. Mayaram noted in a 2000 article :
“[In 1947] the Meos are subject to one of the first exercises of ethnic cleansing. This is euphemistically (and literally) called safaya (to clean). Thirty thousand Meos are killed in the princely state of Bharatpur alone. And this is an official figure. No figures are available for the numbers killed and displaced in Alwar. But the total Meo population in the two princely states is nearly 200,000. Overnight, the Meos are slaughtered or evicted by multi-caste mobs referred to as dhars. Their villages are razed to the ground. Only those allowed to stay have been subject to shuddhi (so-called purification, in fact, a euphemism for a conversion rite). The violence is hardly spontaneous. It is completely organised by the princely states and orchestrated by the organisations of what are today referred to as the ‘Hindu Right’. Certain national level leaders belonging to the Congress are also among its supporters/participants.”
Those who survived the violence fled to camps that were mushrooming across Nuh, Rewari and Sohna, which were then in Punjab. These were “waiting camps” where people would live till the time they were made to cross over to Pakistan. “Everyone wanted the Meos to go to Pakistan,” said Ahmad. “The rulers of Alwar and Bharatpur, of course, the Hindu Mahasabha, every right-wing Hindu organisation, but even the Congress.”
The land of their forefathers
That the Meos resisted the pressures to leave in the midst of such madness speaks of their love for their land. Ahmad pointed to a record of a famous panchayat held at the time, where community leaders declared that the Meos would not leave their homeland.
According to him the idea to ask Gandhi to intervene initially came when Abdul Hai, the secretary of the All India Mev Panchayat, spoke to the Communist leader PC Joshi. Joshi is believed to have said that only Gandhi could bring peace. Led by the most respected and cherished leader of the Meos, Chaudhary Yasin Khan, a delegation met Gandhi on September 20, 1947, at Birla House in Delhi. “The Meos told Gandhiji that we would prefer to die than go to Pakistan,” said Ahmad.
In the ballads sung by the Meo mirasins (folk singers), Gandhi is said to have ended that meeting with a statement that “he too would prefer to die with those who never want to die in their motherland and were unwilling to leave her”.
Gandhi may well have been killed for expressing sentiments such as this. But the Meos refused to leave. It is a battle they still fight against the intellectual descendants of those who unleashed the violence against the community during Partition. One of the ways they resist is by annually invoking the memory of Gandhi and the promise he made to them.
The author was supported by Karwan-e-Mohabbat fellowship for this article.
source: http://www.scroll.in / Scroll.in / Home> History Revisited / by Radhika Bordia / January 30th, 2019
The family members of Kottai Ameer at the Collectorate in the city on Monday. | Photo Credit: S_SIVA SARAVANAN
The family of Kottai Ameer, in whose name the State Government presents a communal harmony award ever year on Republic Day, has called for continuing the tradition. In a petition submitted at the weekly grievances redress meeting here on Monday, Kottai Ameer’s son C.V.A. Jaleel said though the government gave away the Uthamar Gandhi Medal, Aringar Anna Medal and other awards this Republic Day, as it does customarily, it did not present the Kottai Ameer award.
The government’s failure to do so had caused consternation among Ameer’s family members and those who worked for promoting communal harmony.
To continue the tradition, the government must constitute a committee at least six months prior to Republic Day to identify the right candidate and continue presenting the award without fail.
This year, to make up for the failure, the government must confer the award on an eligible person on March 18, which was Kottai Ameer’s 25th death anniversary, Mr. Jaleel demanded.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> News> Cities> Coimbatore / by Special Correspondent / Coimbatore – January 29th, 2019
In the centenary year of Allarakha’s birth, his son talks about their music school and carrying forward an immense legacy.
Fazal Qureshi | Sam Panthaky/ AFP
This year marks the 100th birth anniversary of arguably one of the greatest tabla players of all time – Ustad Allarakha. Born on April 29, 1919, in Phagwal, Jammu and Kashmir, Allarakha’s passion for music and talent came to the fore when he was only 12. During his many successful decades on the stage, he accompanied several of India’s most proficient musicians. His jugalbandi with sitar maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar is perhaps what he is most remembered for.
Allarakha was also a singer who composed music – under the family name AR Qureshi – for close to 40 films. He spent several years teaching in America and Mumbai, where he started the Ustad Allarakha Institute of Music in 1985.
His son Fazal Qureshi, an accomplished tabla player in his own right, now runs the institute. Classes are held in a large room in the Gala Building within the Mahatma Gandhi Memorial Swimming Pool complex in Shivaji Park. I remembered the institute from having shot a scene there for a documentary film I was making on Guru Dutt in 1989.
I returned to it last December. After nearly an hour of listening to the exhilarating sounds of several tablas being played together under the guidance of Qureshi, I sat down to speak with him. During a long, freewheeling conversation, he spoke about the institute’s origins, his father’s teaching style, what prompted him to take up the tabla, his memories of his father and what makes classical music a draw for youngsters today.
Fazal Qureshi with students at the institute. Photo credit: Sanket Washikar.
How did the institute come about?
My father knew DM Sukthankar and S Tinaikar, both music lovers and commissioners at the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation [then called the Bombay Municipal Corporation]. Tinaikar’s son Mahesh played the guitar and was in a band called Indus Creed. Zubin Balaporia and I played in the band too. Back in those days, Abbaji said, “Mujhe sikhana hai, kuchh karna chhahiye aap logon ko (I would like to teach the tabla, you both must help me)”. So Sukhtankar and Tinaikar managed to allot a room for Abbaji in the building over there.
The deputy municipal commissioner, GR Khairnar, was a strict and upright person – he had, at the time, demolished many illegal structures in Mumbai. He lived in the house just behind the building where we were, and he used to come and listen to my father and his students. Later we moved to this classroom.
Did your father have many students?
Yes, and for many years. Previously they would come to our home in Shimla House. At one point, my father had decided he wanted to dedicate most of his time to teaching. There were many students who wanted to learn from him, and having a classroom was a boon. [Even if he] wasn’t feeling well, he would say, “No, no, I have to go. The students are coming there.” He enjoyed teaching and because of that his students enjoyed learning.
Your father was taught in a one-to-one relationship with his guru. How did he or you find teaching to a group? I teach about seven to 10 students at a time and I manage to concentrate on each one of them. They are at different levels, and so they are divided into sub-groups. That is exactly how my father used to teach.
[Let me tell you about how] I learned from my father. [Back then] he was so busy – he was travelling and [performing at] concerts. When he would come home, he’d just sit and practise. I would sit in front of him and play whatever he was playing. There was no question of being the student – whatever he played, I played.
You were mirroring him? Learning by imitation?
Yes, by imitation. There was no time to write the bols down. I had to learn them by heart. And properly, because the next time Abbaji was home after a tour, or the day after a concert, he would ask me to play whatever he had played. I did not always get the kaidas right, so I would [listen to] a recording of a concert in which he played that particular kaida, and study the variations. That helped me reproduce it. He would be impressed and would say, “Seekh gaya bacha. (You have got it.)”
Fazal Qureshi / Facebook.
And how old were you at the time?
About 15. I started pretty late. There’s a story behind that. There was a documentary made on my father in the 1970s by the Films Division in which you can see me playing the tabla with Taufiq [Fazal Qureshi’s younger brother]. We were just kids. After that I didn’t touch the tabla.
Abbaji used to tour America and also taught there, so some of his students would come to study here. There was a 16-year-old boy called Peter Peringer who came all the way from America to experience Indian culture. He was my father’s student and was very good. He stayed with us in Shimla House, and used to practise the whole day. I would go to school in the morning and when I’d come home, he would still be practising. I would take the tabla, sit in front of him, and play whatever he was playing, just as fast as him. Peter would say, “I practise this thing the whole day, and he just comes, picks up the tabla and plays the same thing, and as fast as me. How is that possible?” He recounted this incident to his friends in America who later told me about it.
But how did you do it?
I don’t know. The Peter incident was before my father had started teaching me. For me, it was something [that came] naturally. I was a little boy. I recently saw a video of a three-year-old playing the drums in an orchestra. A three-year old – now what does he know? But he plays as if he does.
Peter inspired me. I thought, look at this guy: he’s come all the way from America. And he’s just 16. He used to recite the bols so well. Zakir bhai [Zakir Hussain, Fazal Qureshi’s older brother] used to teach him too. He would take Peter to all his concerts and ask him to recite. Everyone was fascinated by his recitation: here’s this American who could recite almost like my father. He was so good. Sadly, Peter is no more.
Do you think there are more students today than when your father was teaching?
Of course. It’s [cyclical] – you come, you learn for a few years, and then you go because you’re already at a certain level and you want to perform on stage. Some of Abbaji’s students are now performing, including Yogesh Shamshir, Aditya Kalyanpur and Anuradha Pal. Then comes the next batch and the next. Many of Abbaji’s students are in America, and many of my students have established themselves as teachers and performers.
Students at the institute. Photo credit: Sanket Washikar.
How many classes do you have in a week?
We have about 40-50 students in circulation. I don’t call all the students at the same time – we give them specific days. We have classes from Tuesday to Saturday. If I miss a lesson because I am on tour, then I take the class on a Sunday. I want every student to come at least twice a week. Our fee is Rs 700 a month. It’s nominal because we want people to learn the tabla [irrespective of whether they are] rich or poor. I have a blind student who comes from beyond Thane. His grandfather brings him here. I teach him by reciting the bols. He’s got very good hearing, and could play even before we met, [though] he wasn’t taught.
Can we say your teaching belongs to a certain gharana?
For the newcomers, it’s basic training like how to use the right and left hand. I have watched and learned that from Abbaji. There are a lot of students who already have some facility in hand movements.
I am not strict about sticking to one gharana – when I teach a certain bol, [in] the way my father taught me, I want them to play in that style/gharana. But some students come to me [after] having been taught in a different gharana, so I don’t really change their hand. I cannot, because that would be starting from scratch. Over a period of time the students realise there’s a certain way they need to play, so they change by themselves. I don’t have to tell them. Nowadays they can watch videos on YouTube, and observe the way bols are played by Abbaji, Zakir bhai or Fazal bhai.
How long do you think it takes for a student to perform on stage? I can’t say, [but] I can give you my example. I started learning when I was around 14 or 15 and by the time I was 18, I was performing on stage. That’s not very much in terms of years, but remember, I was brought up in a musical atmosphere.
If I were to generalise, I’d say you need to learn for at least five or six years. You’ve got to get into the groove. A music school doesn’t teach you how to perform. You have to get out there. It’s like studying for an MBA – but then how do you apply what you’ve learned? You have to work in an office [and] learn the ropes, as they say.
A person must know how to apply their knowledge. Many of my students send me videos of their performances. I watch them and say, “Okay, here there was no need for you to play this or you played a little too long. It was not required.”
When you’re performing on stage, it’s [all about] teamwork. There is the instrumentalist and the tabla player, and together they [put up a] good performance. It’s not two performances happening at the same time – it’s one performance. You have to be in sync with each other. This is the attitude I want to instil in my students.
What is the most difficult thing about teaching the tabla?
I’m finding my way. Abbaji had his own thought process or philosophy behind the creation of a new composition, and that applied to when he was performing a kaida or rela. I am following his system because I used to ask myself how he created those variations. Analysis is important, and because of that I am able to add my variations to his compositions – I follow the same patterns.
It’s a way of thinking that’s passed on, and I’m trying to pass that philosophy to my students: I’m teaching you a variation, see how it’s created, see how you can develop it. From one variation another emerges. It’s like a chain. You need to understand how the chain is built and only then will you understand the composition. Create your own stuff later.
Does it surprise you that young people are still drawn to learning classical music in today’s fast-paced life? No – in fact, I see more students now than earlier. If you go to a Zakir Hussain concert, you’ll see many young people in the audience.
It’s [about] that one personality who brings in the audience. In the ’70s, it was Ravi Shankar. Everyone wanted to learn the sitar because of Raviji – that he had played with The Beatles [was a big draw]. Then there was Ustad Ali Akbar Khan saab, who was a big name in sarod. Everyone wanted to learn the sarod. The santoor and the flute became popular thanks to Pandit Shivkumar Sharma and Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia. They made a good team with Zakir bhai. When they were on the stage, people went gaga over them. The tabla was already popular and with Zakir bhai, it has become even more popular.
The musician makes an instrument popular. That’s why the Rudra veena or the Saraswati veena are not very popular. It is because we don’t have a personality associated with these instruments. Why is the mandolin popular? It’s thanks to U Srinivas who was a great mandolin player. The mandolin is not even an Indian instrument, it’s a western instrument. The violin is not an Indian instrument either but it’s popular because of the personalities of the musicians who play the violin in the South as well as the North.
Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Allarakha/YouTube.
This year marks your father’s 100th birth anniversary. How would you like him to be remembered?
My father was way ahead of his time. And a lot of people would agree with me. While everyone performed straightforward taals, he was creating new compositions in different rhythm cycles – he played six and a half, seven and a half, things the others were not doing. He was very innovative.
Abbaji was one of the first tabla players to accompany South Indian musicians, international drummers and classical violinists from the West. He was the first tabla player to compose film music. In later years, other classical musicians starting composing for the movies, including Ravi Shankar, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan and Ustad Vilayat Khan. Abbaji was a very open-minded musician. Despite being a traditionalist at heart, he was doing all this other stuff which was not connected to the tabla. In the 1940s, he was even employed as a vocalist with the All India Radio.
I’d like people to remember him as an all-round musician. He was a tremendous film composer. That’s one of the reasons why we created The Journey Continues, a musical tribute for my father with actor-storyteller Danish Hussain. It showcased Abbaji’s many talents.
What do you remember of him as a father?
He was a very calm and relaxed person who did not lose his temper. Taufiq and I were closer to each other in age. Zakir bhai was older. Abbaji never scolded us, [even though] we kids were up to all kinds of mischief, running amok around the house. He never scolded us. My mother would go crazy, but he would sit calmly – and let us do whatever we wanted. He had a lot of aspirations for Zakir bhai because he was the first son born in the family. It was not just Abbaji – most people around him shared his feelings. “Bhai, Ustad Allarakha ka ladka hai, pehla ladka hai, yeh to bajayega hi. (After all, he’s Ustad Allarakha’s eldest son, he is bound to play the tabla).”
Was your father an affectionate man?
He was very affectionate. And unbiased. If I was sitting among his students and practicing, he would not pay me more attention just because I was his son. He was very impartial. For him, talent was important – if you’re good, no matter who you are, rich or poor, I’ll teach you more.
Fazal Qureshi / Facebook.
What if a student is no good? What do you do?
I have to tell them – look, this is not happening, try something else. I don’t want them to waste their time or mine. If I want to be a professional musician and I am not good enough, I should realise it myself. Just because your father is in that profession, you don’t have to follow him.
When it comes to my relationship with the students, I’d like them to treat me as a friend, they should feel free to talk to me. They can ask me questions. I prefer a relaxed atmosphere – hierarchy shouldn’t exist.
How did your father deal with his students?
The older generation were very direct in telling people if they were going wrong. He used to sit in the audience and if his student was making a mistake, he would say out loud: “Arre, kya kar rahe ho? (What do you think you’re doing?)
Abbaji was outspoken. He used to think if you have something to say about someone, say it to their face, don’t talk behind their back. That’s how many great musicians were in those days.
source: http://www.scroll.in / Scroll.in / Home> Magazine> Interview / by Nasreen Munni Kabir / January 12th, 2019
