“to Shiraaz bhai aap Husainabad hii me paida hue the kyaa”
What I got as an answer was a gradual sideways semicircular turn of the head, his eyes widened in the process . His lips pouted inwards and it remained there, until he returned to a slightly normal expression. For the next 2 minutes as he , with an almost snobbish glance fiddled with the gears and the rear view mirror of the car ,he was not the same old Shiraz whom my father had hired as a driver. He was enjoying those moments, he was enjoying my question about his genealogy , and he felt privileged ,it seemed ,of being born in one of the historically most coveted places of Lucknow.
Husainabad,in Lucknow, is the sum total of what Lucknow was once famous for,and has the single largest contribution in bringing the city to the history books. The lanes and streets here, where Meer once wandered still echoes of what was said about its Nawaab – “jisko na de maula usko de asifuddoula” . The rumi darwaaza , ghantaghar,imambara stand here as a witness to the affluence of courts where Wazid Ali Shah penned the immortal “Babul mora naihar chooto jaaye” . He was the same Wajid Ali, for whose ageing teeth but exotic tastes, gelawati kebab came into bieng, which later were immortalized by Haji Murad Ali as Tundey kebabs.
As a kid, who was fascinated by history, I was intrigued by Husainabad for its historical antecedants. And when I came to know about Shiraz bhaai’s Husaainabad connections, my interest in him was inevitable. But Shiraaz was no Nawab who built palaces, wrote thumris or maintained Harams. Nor was he of the likes of Mir, who died a death struggling to be a shayar ,he was once in Delhi. Shiraaz was an Indian who was born in the years after independence, and like many of them , was still struggling his way out of the cactus of poverty
Shiraz had three facets to his life, a combination of which had a devastating effect on a poor man. He was jobless, was married and had two children. His day started , unllike ours does with a cup of tea, with a job hunt in order to secure a dinner for his children. “ Aaj subeh se soch hi rahe the ke kya karein , tabhi sahib kaa fone aa gaya kii 3 k liye driver chahiye, to hum aa gaye”,he told my grandmother in a mixed tone of relief and nervousness. At last he had secured 3 days of food for his family, but an a abyss was nearby when after three days , he had to think, “kya karein” again. But despite such gross hurdles, Shiraz had an almost clichéd sense of pride that he was born and brought up in the ‘pehle aap’ culture of Lucknow. One could have felt it form the tinge of chasteness in his spoken Hindi.
“To bhayiaa…aap Bambaii me kaam karte hain”….he asked me….while struck in a traffic jam. I always wanted to interact with him, I don’t know why…perhaps due to his Husainabad birth(which I came to know a couple of days earlier)and to an extent , he also wanted the same from me. But in a society filled with complex status quos, a primitive(read simple) social communication is a bit tricky to start. But he had finally broken the ice
“Haan……aap gaye hai wahaan?”
“hmm” , a relaxed tone, again not looking at me, instead, playing with the steering.
“Achchaa….kab….kahaan rehte the…kitne saal rahe wahaan aap”
“Hum Bantu Bhai”,by now he had come to both know and call me by my nickname,”kai jagah rhe hai…dongri…mumbra..par ghovandi me ek lamba arsa rahe hain”
“Aur karte kya the wahaan”
"Are wo cement k pipe nahi hote hain..aap to jante hi honge….wahi jo pul me lagane k kaam aate hai..wahii supply karte the…..Latur tak tiruck le jaate the”
He thought I was one big shot residing in Mumbai. It was visible from his “aap to jaante hii honge”. Honestly I did not have a clue what pipes he was talking about…but then its not everyday when one holds you in such a high esteem …so I decided to keep quiet.
“to kaisa lagaa Mumbai”.
“bhayiaa…..sach bataayein..humein pasand nahi aaya”.
“kyun?”…a giggle came out naturally.
“ek to bhyiaa wahaan wo line lagane ka systim…ama kya bekaar kii cheez hai yaar….aur sabse badi baat…humein yahaan lakhnau me koi maare to kam se kam humein pata hai ki koi bachaane aaega…par wahaan..sala mar jao..kafan chadhane koi na aae”, rarely did shiraz used logic to prove his point..in most of the cases , he never had any point…but this time he had one…and he put that bluntly and logically…I , a self proclaimed Mumbai-obsessed was both amused and aghast
I tried to rebut him with all my might..but in the end could only muster a ‘hmmmm’..because somewhere even I knew that he was right.
“vaise parla(vile parle)abse acchhi jagah hai Mumbai me..kyun?”, he spoke as if playing a winning shot of the discussion he had already won.
And from my side..like a dull but formal handshake of the losing side..another ‘hmmmm’ followed.
It happens sometimes, when a man has a glorious past behind, but the all pervading time tells you that the future is going to be tough, he tries to escape the stark realities and ignore the truth. That person lives in an imagined time machine, where he knows he cannot run away to the past, but doesn’t accept the future either, thus living in and enjoying his own ‘customized environment’. Shiraz, too, had invented one such machine. He knew well that today Lucknow was a centerpiace of malls,of multiplexes, of ‘Mayawati’sque (read picturesque) Gomati Nagar , but he continues to live in a Lukhnau whose lanes were once filled with the aroma of biryani, where a drunken Majaaz wrote somesoulful poetry and where nazakat and nafasat came before any other necessities of life. Shiraz bhaai was a man with a lone principle , that come what may, he will continue to live, and God willing die not as a Lucknowite but rather as a Lucknavvi.
to be contd....................
What I got as an answer was a gradual sideways semicircular turn of the head, his eyes widened in the process . His lips pouted inwards and it remained there, until he returned to a slightly normal expression. For the next 2 minutes as he , with an almost snobbish glance fiddled with the gears and the rear view mirror of the car ,he was not the same old Shiraz whom my father had hired as a driver. He was enjoying those moments, he was enjoying my question about his genealogy , and he felt privileged ,it seemed ,of being born in one of the historically most coveted places of Lucknow.
Husainabad,in Lucknow, is the sum total of what Lucknow was once famous for,and has the single largest contribution in bringing the city to the history books. The lanes and streets here, where Meer once wandered still echoes of what was said about its Nawaab – “jisko na de maula usko de asifuddoula” . The rumi darwaaza , ghantaghar,imambara stand here as a witness to the affluence of courts where Wazid Ali Shah penned the immortal “Babul mora naihar chooto jaaye” . He was the same Wajid Ali, for whose ageing teeth but exotic tastes, gelawati kebab came into bieng, which later were immortalized by Haji Murad Ali as Tundey kebabs.
As a kid, who was fascinated by history, I was intrigued by Husainabad for its historical antecedants. And when I came to know about Shiraz bhaai’s Husaainabad connections, my interest in him was inevitable. But Shiraaz was no Nawab who built palaces, wrote thumris or maintained Harams. Nor was he of the likes of Mir, who died a death struggling to be a shayar ,he was once in Delhi. Shiraaz was an Indian who was born in the years after independence, and like many of them , was still struggling his way out of the cactus of poverty
Shiraz had three facets to his life, a combination of which had a devastating effect on a poor man. He was jobless, was married and had two children. His day started , unllike ours does with a cup of tea, with a job hunt in order to secure a dinner for his children. “ Aaj subeh se soch hi rahe the ke kya karein , tabhi sahib kaa fone aa gaya kii 3 k liye driver chahiye, to hum aa gaye”,he told my grandmother in a mixed tone of relief and nervousness. At last he had secured 3 days of food for his family, but an a abyss was nearby when after three days , he had to think, “kya karein” again. But despite such gross hurdles, Shiraz had an almost clichéd sense of pride that he was born and brought up in the ‘pehle aap’ culture of Lucknow. One could have felt it form the tinge of chasteness in his spoken Hindi.
“To bhayiaa…aap Bambaii me kaam karte hain”….he asked me….while struck in a traffic jam. I always wanted to interact with him, I don’t know why…perhaps due to his Husainabad birth(which I came to know a couple of days earlier)and to an extent , he also wanted the same from me. But in a society filled with complex status quos, a primitive(read simple) social communication is a bit tricky to start. But he had finally broken the ice
“Haan……aap gaye hai wahaan?”
“hmm” , a relaxed tone, again not looking at me, instead, playing with the steering.
“Achchaa….kab….kahaan rehte the…kitne saal rahe wahaan aap”
“Hum Bantu Bhai”,by now he had come to both know and call me by my nickname,”kai jagah rhe hai…dongri…mumbra..par ghovandi me ek lamba arsa rahe hain”
“Aur karte kya the wahaan”
"Are wo cement k pipe nahi hote hain..aap to jante hi honge….wahi jo pul me lagane k kaam aate hai..wahii supply karte the…..Latur tak tiruck le jaate the”
He thought I was one big shot residing in Mumbai. It was visible from his “aap to jaante hii honge”. Honestly I did not have a clue what pipes he was talking about…but then its not everyday when one holds you in such a high esteem …so I decided to keep quiet.
“to kaisa lagaa Mumbai”.
“bhayiaa…..sach bataayein..humein pasand nahi aaya”.
“kyun?”…a giggle came out naturally.
“ek to bhyiaa wahaan wo line lagane ka systim…ama kya bekaar kii cheez hai yaar….aur sabse badi baat…humein yahaan lakhnau me koi maare to kam se kam humein pata hai ki koi bachaane aaega…par wahaan..sala mar jao..kafan chadhane koi na aae”, rarely did shiraz used logic to prove his point..in most of the cases , he never had any point…but this time he had one…and he put that bluntly and logically…I , a self proclaimed Mumbai-obsessed was both amused and aghast
I tried to rebut him with all my might..but in the end could only muster a ‘hmmmm’..because somewhere even I knew that he was right.
“vaise parla(vile parle)abse acchhi jagah hai Mumbai me..kyun?”, he spoke as if playing a winning shot of the discussion he had already won.
And from my side..like a dull but formal handshake of the losing side..another ‘hmmmm’ followed.
It happens sometimes, when a man has a glorious past behind, but the all pervading time tells you that the future is going to be tough, he tries to escape the stark realities and ignore the truth. That person lives in an imagined time machine, where he knows he cannot run away to the past, but doesn’t accept the future either, thus living in and enjoying his own ‘customized environment’. Shiraz, too, had invented one such machine. He knew well that today Lucknow was a centerpiace of malls,of multiplexes, of ‘Mayawati’sque (read picturesque) Gomati Nagar , but he continues to live in a Lukhnau whose lanes were once filled with the aroma of biryani, where a drunken Majaaz wrote somesoulful poetry and where nazakat and nafasat came before any other necessities of life. Shiraz bhaai was a man with a lone principle , that come what may, he will continue to live, and God willing die not as a Lucknowite but rather as a Lucknavvi.
to be contd....................
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