Hyderabad, TELANGANA :

As he sits in the quiet, nondescript lane of Chatta Bazaar, surrounded by stacks of paper and the smell of fresh ink of screen-printing, one could easily mistake Mohammed Ghouseuddin Azeem for just another vendor taking orders for wedding cards. wading through the rickety scooters that dangerously lean onto each other, we reach Azeem, who eyes us rather suspiciously when we ask: “Kya aap khatib hai?”
A khatib, (which roughly translates to calligrapher), is the name for artists who master the age-old art of designing alphabets and words in Urdu using a specialised pen and Indian ink. But for Azeem, khushnawees or khushkhat (calligraphy) is more ‘grammar’ than art. “It may seem like we are writing it anyway we want, but if I draw the alphabet ‘ba’ in font size 12 and font size 60, the distance between the first part of the letter to the end part will be same across the two sizes,” explains Azeem who has been a khatib for over 26 years.
Chatta Bazaar, where his simple workshop is situated, was once the hub of khatibs. But today, only seven-eight are left, rues Azeem, who admits khushnawees is a dying art.
“In the 1990s, the computers came and soon, the Urdu font followed. suddenly khatibs were no more in demand,” recollects Azeem. The first blow came from Urdu newspapers, which once mass-recruited khatibs for chronicling the city’s daily life. But once the print industry moved onto the faster, cost-effective digital medium the art of khushkhat was restricted merely to ornate cards and banners. “I won’t say khushnaweesi has lost its demand completely. The advent of the digital era just made it more precious and rare — something to be cherished,” says Azeem, wistfully.
For Chatta Bazar’s seven-odd khatibs, who run Urdu printing shops parallely, the recent announcement that the government has declared Urdu the second official language of Telangana, serves as a small glimmer of hope to do all they can to preserve their art. “we are the only few remaining who know this art. We have to do this, we have to keep at it, so we ensure this stands the test of time,” says Azhar Hashmi, another khatib.
But passion alone doesn’t fill stomachs and that is precisely why one of them only has his father’s calligraphy collection to show in reminiscence of old times. “I left khushnawees long time back. I used to write for Urdu dailies, but when they stopped, I lost my speed completely so I set up a printing shop,” says 51-year-old Afzal Mohammed Khan. He pulls out his father’s blue scrapbook from under his desk, and shows it to us, with a hint of nostalgia and pride lighting up his face. “My father, Ghouse Mohammed Khan was the best khatib in town in the 60s and 70s. He made all these,” says Afzal, as he turns the 50-odd pages of the book to show off his father’s artistry. One of them shows the drawing of Rajeev Gandhi, with words in Urdu reading, ‘Humara Maseeha’. Another shows the masthead of the daily, Rehnumaye Deccan, another shows the masthead of a paper Munsif. “This was a pandra-roza, or fortnightly,” he says, pointing to the cut out of the masthead his father designed. An old picture falls off the leaf — that of Ghouse, with some dignitaries. Afzal turns over the photo to read the lines written: “This was clicked over 35 years ago with the Education Minister Muddu Krishnama Naidu.”
The male-dominated Chatta Bazar has no sight of women, even as customers. So looking for a woman khatib is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. “Women used to write for the fortnightly or weekly papers. But once the computers came, they too were pushed back into the homes. Now they do write, but as a hobby, not commercially,” explains Afzal. He shows another photograph of his father with a bunch of students at the Marqaz Kushnawwezi in Nampally, where he taught young women calligraphy.
Clearly, things today are a far cry from back then when Urdu got its due. Even as attempts are being made to revive the lost glory of the language, the khatibs lament that outside Old City, their art has barely any takers. “Our market will always be the same — Old City dwellers who want wedding cards and other special correspondence written. The wedding card demand is also there only because the religious heads have mandated the use of Urdu. else everyone would have switched to English,” says Mohammed Abdula, a khatib, adding, “Jab tak Urdu ko tawajjon nahi milega, khatib ka haal aisa hi rahega.”

An evolving art
With changing times, the art too had to evolve and adapt. While the computerised fonts of Urdu run in thousands, there are just seven fonts used for Khatib — Nastaleeq, Riqa, Diwani, Suls, Nasq, Kufi and Diwani Jali. Each of these fonts are unique not just in the way they are recreated on paper, but also unique in terms of their usage and significance. while a Suls is preferred for headings, a Kufi finds its place on the walls of a Masjid and Riqa decorates the Quran. The khatibs uses a pen with nibs of varying sizes, ranging from 1mm to a 3cm. These are entirely made with bamboo. Pens with metallic nibs are called ‘Baru ka Kalam’ by some. “Calligraphy as done before is hardly seen anymore. We use any water based ink now. earlier we used to go to a colour shop in Gulzar House were a special color called Kala Kankar was available. We would heat it in decoction to make ink,” recollects Mohammed Abdula. Now the color shop has gone, Gulzar house has changed and so has the khatib’s precious artform.

 
Will the newfound recognition that’s coming Urdu’s way from the Telangana government rewrite the khatib’s tale and change his fortune? Only time will tell.

Urdu was born here, it grew here, it’s our language
The beauty of the language is that it is linguistically much richer. We say ‘I love my dog and love my son’ with no difference between the two kinds of love in English. But in Urdu, we say ‘Main apne kutte se pyaar karti hoon aur apne bete se Mohabbat karti hoon’. that impact is what Urdu gives to expression. That difference between ‘mohabbat’ and ‘pyaar’ is where Urdu’s beauty lies.
—Iqbal Patni, poet

I’m happy that urdu is getting its due finally
The move to make Urdu the second official language of the state is a good one. Now, the government must employ translators at all offices from Mandal to Secretariat level to ensure that those who learn Urdu will get employment as well because the perception that it is only spoken by minorities is plaguing its growth.
— Prof Naseemuddin Farees, MANUU

Urdu is India’s awaam ki boli

I can’t explain how happy I am that Urdu, my mother tongue, has become the second official language of Telangana — this news made my day. Trust me, I’ve been asking Mahmood Ali (deputy CM of Telangana) for years now, why we don’t have names of roads in Urdu. That’s the only way people will see it and get familiar with it. Though my father lived in England for a while and I studied in an English medium school, at home we never spoke in English; it was always Urdu. When we were kids, an Urdu master would come home to teach us. It was that important.

—Laxmi Devi Raj, textile revivalist