Eight poets of the past capture Delhi’s joys and sorrows
Saif Mahmood’s Beloved Delhi: A Mughal City and Her Greatest Poets offers offers a window into the life, times, and poetry of Delhi’s greatest Urdu poets from the 18th and 19th centuries, with witty and critical insight, in a conversational style that has become Saif’s hallmark in many a literary gathering.
Focusing on eight poets, he allows us to touch Delhi’s past and rethink its present through Urdu. Each chapter on a poet is divided into two sections — the first is biographical and provides the reader with insight into Delhi’s material conditions through the vicissitudes of the poet’s life. Thus, the 18th century poets are nomadic because of the post-Nadir Shah instabilities of Delhi.
The 19th century poets lead more sedentary lives, as the British Residency of Delhi provides the military support, at least until the cleavage of 1857. This upsets the tradition of the classical Urdu ghazal, and so the last poet analysed is Daagh Dehlvi, already writing in 1857, and a step-grandson of the last Mughal King, Bahadur Shah Zafar. The book also records this decline visually through Anant Raina’s photographs of the current gravesites of these poets, exhibiting the absolute lack of public or state support toward heritage maintenance.
The second part gives an excellent commentary on their poetry.
Saif’s familiarity with the tradition and his capacities for literary criticism shine through, as the raconteur in him narrates the stories of these poets’ poetry with coherence, complexity, and lucidity. The book highlights Urdu poets who are well known to Urdu readers, but not to listeners of ghazals or those interested in the literature from the outside.
Apart from Ghalib (described by Saif as ‘Master of Masters’), and Mir Taqi Mir (‘the Incurable Romancer of Delhi’), poets such as Sauda (‘the Great Satirist’), Mir Dard (‘Urdu’s Dancing Dervish’), Ustad Ibrahim Zauq (‘The Poet Laureate’), Bahadur Shah Zafar (the ‘Emperor’ who has an ‘Affair with Urdu’), and Daagh (‘the Last Casanova of Delhi’) get the attention they deserve.
The collection also brings out the specificities of their poetry including the great licence, often through satire, that many of these commanded with the ruling powers as dissenters. Tolerance for such criticism today rests uneasy with the crown. The poets extol the city of Delhi as picturesque, showing colours unimaginable, but also to be lamented after each violent tragedy, with a sense of loss, sometimes in a dedicated genre, the shahr-ashob or city-lament.
Beloved Delhi is for keeps and must be read by all with the remotest of interests in Urdu, Delhi, or poetry and poets.
Beloved Delhi: A Mughal City and Her Greatest Poets ; Saif Mahmood, Speaking Tiger, ₹599.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Books> Reviews / by Maaz Bin Bilal / November 03rd, 2018
In a rare occurrence in the Capital, a female Qazi solemnized the wedding of the great-grandson of the former President of India Dr. Zakir Hussain on Friday.
Senior journalist Qurban Ali said that his daughter Ursila Ali got married to Gibran Rehan Rahman at Dr. Hussain’s residence in Jamia Nagar. The ceremony was performed by Dr. Syeda Saiyadain Hameed, a former member of the Planning Commission, as the Qazi.
“The terms set forth in the Nikaahnama were prepared under the auspices of Muslim Women’s Forum – an organization of which the groom’s great-grandmother Begum Saeeda Khurshid was a founding president,” Dr. Hameed said.
Mr. Ali said that the idea of the marriage being solemnized by a female Qazi was originally the bride’s and the groom welcomed it. “There was no concept of a female Qazi in the Indian Islamic society so we want to make a new beginning and when we talk about equality then why not a female Qazi,” he said.
Dr. Hameed said that the added significance of this Nikahnama is the Iqrarnama (agreement) “which enlists the conditions mutually agreed upon by the bride and groom, pertaining to the equal rights and responsibilities along with respect and regard for all aspects of married life”.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> News> Cities / by Staff Reporter / Newe Delhi – March 11th, 2022
Ours is the only nation in the world to have three major film stars with the surname Khan who can proudly boast of having another famous person with the exact same name
The arrival of Tamil Nadu cricketer Shahrukh Khan, whose ₹9 crore IPL deal catapulted him into mainstream attention, marks another proud moment in the rise of India as a nation of unique global status and importance.
This makes us the only nation in the world to have three major film stars with the surname Khan who can proudly boast of having another famous person with the exact same name. A world record.
Until the advent of Shahrukh Khan (the cricketer, not the actor), Shah Rukh Khan (the actor, not the cricketer) must undoubtedly have been at least mildly jealous of Salman Khan (the actor, not the…er…you get the drift) for having another Salman Khan (the Khan academy guy) and of Aamir Khan (the actor) for possessing an equivalent Amir Khan (the boxing champ). It cannot possibly be easy being the only superstar named Khan without a 1:1 mapping to another celebrity from a completely different walk of life. It must have been keeping him up at night. He might have been scouring social media to find at least one other Shahrukh Khan with some potential for global fame. Thankfully, his heart will now be at peace.
Surely, this landmark that India has achieved will trigger the envy of other so-called world powers like the United States and China, who have always been resentful of our glorious ancient past and our recent rise as a modern economic and cultural force. It is possible that, even as you read this, foreign powers are conspiring to unearth some pastry chef named Tom Cruise or cryptocurrency baron named Jackie Chan, just to discredit and defame India.
There are already negative-minded people who are pointing out discrepancies in the corresponding Khan names, just in order to take the sheen off India’s record. “You will notice that the cricketer goes by Shahrukh as a single name, unlike the actor who has carelessly inserted a space between the Shah and the Rukh. So it doesn’t really count” they might argue. “There’s an extra A in Aamir Khan’s name, which the boxing dude is clearly lacking” they may complain. But, to quote Inigo Montoya (and you should always quote Inigo Montoya when you get the chance), I reply with “Don’t bother me with trifles”. Only a cynic or an anti-national would allow such bothersome technicalities to detract from the collective joy that always springs forth from national triumph.
But the statistics don’t lie, as clearly demonstrated by official numbers on unemployment, GDP and COVID-19 cases in Uttar Pradesh, and they present irrefutable evidence that no other country even comes close to us. Some desperate people will point to the UK radio host named Chris Evans, or to the fact that Katy Perry and Michael Keaton were originally named Katy Hudson and Michael Douglas respectively, or to how Michael B. Jordan can be Michael Jordan — but they’re missing the point entirely. Anyone with a keen understanding of maths, such as Salman Khan (the Khan academy guy, not the actor), Nirmala Sitharaman, or Byju Raveendran can point out the critical feature in India’s Khan collection — all six celebrities in the set share the same surname. Like Don Bradman’s batting average, or the number of hero roles played by Prem Nazir, it’s a record that’s probably never going to be broken.
If T. Rajender were to sum up the whole thing, he might say, “All the other countries are incomplete, but India is the only country that is khancomplete.”
Anand Ramachandran is a Chennai-based writer and game designer who likes playing games with his writing.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Opinion> The Portzebie Papers / by Anand Ramachandran / March 12th, 2022
When bullock carts were the prime mode of transport, an Arab businessman was pained to see the beasts carry loads up the steep, rough climb.
In the 1930s, when bullock carts were the prime mode of transport, an Arab businessman was pained to see the beasts carry loads up the steep, rough climb from Hebbal Tank. Their hoofs wore thin very soon. So, he levelled the path, spending Rs 10,000 out of his pocket. When this came to the notice of Sir Mirza Ismail, the then diwan of Mysore, he promptly informed Krishnaraja Wadiyar. A private citizen spending for public good, the king thought, reflected badly on his administration. He made good the businessman’s expenses and named the area at the junction of Bellary Road, Jayamahal Road and CV Raman Avenue in his honour. Today , we call it Mekhri Circle.
The selfless businessman was M Enayathulla Mehkri (not ‘Mekhri’ as it is spelt today). The Enayathulla Mehkri Square was inaugurated by Sir John Hope, governor of the Madras Presidency , in April 1935.The space had a lamp post with five lights. A garden around it was maintained by ward officers. Later, in 1965, RM Patil, minister of home and municipal administration, notified it as Enayathulla Mekhri Circle through a notification in the state gazette.
Mehkri’s story , however, goes beyond the one philanthropic initiative he is most known by.
Mehkris were originally based near Medina in Arabia and migrated to India after the Turkish invasion. The family’s legacy dates back to more than 600 years. “While people believe that our name is derived from a place called ‘Mehkr’ in Syria, documents suggest that we were named after Mekhar in Maharashtra,” said Fazal Mehkri, nephew of Enayathulla Mehkri.
In India, the family held key posts under the Mughals and the Mysore maharajas.
Enayathulla Mehkri, born in 1898, went on to become a freedom fighter. At 17, he joined the Indian National Congress.
A contractor by profession, he participated in the freedom struggle, and was jailed for six months at Madras Central Jail along with C Rajagopalachari and EV Ramaswamy Naicker.
Mehkri was the municipal commissioner (between 1947 and 1948) and a councilor of the City Corporation for 16 years before that. He was not only the only member from Karnataka to be on the Advisory Council of the Freedom Fighters Cell of the AICC, he also headed the Karnataka Freedom Fighters’ Association till his death on November 28, 1990.
source: http://www.economictimes.indiatimes.com / The Economic Times / Home> Panache> ET Magazine> Travel> Business News> Magazine / by Divya Shekhar, ET Bureau / April 28th, 2016
P.T. Kunhammu Musliar, popularly known as Kottur Ustad, leading the opening prayer at a function held to celebrate the 60th year of his teaching career at Kottur near Kottakkal on Monday. | Photo Credit: SAKEER HUSSAIN
Educational institution will be set up to mark 60th year of Kottur Ustad’s teaching career, says Kanthapuram
Veteran Islamic scholar P.T. Kunhammu Musliar, popularly known as Kottur Ustad, was felicitated at a function held to mark the 60 th year of his dars or teaching career at Kottur near Kottakkal on Monday.
His disciples from across the State, many of them veterans including leading fiqh (jurisprudence) scholar Ponmala Abdul Khadir Musliar, attended the function and prayed for their teacher whom they endearingly called Tajul Muhaqqiqin.
Sunni leader and Grand Mufti Kanthapuram A.P. Aboobacker Musliar led a special prayer for Samastha Kerala Jamiyyathul Ulama vice president Syed Hyderali Shihab Thangal, who died on Sunday.
Delivering the keynote address, Mr. Kanthapuram announced that an educational institution named Masalik Attariqa Al Muhammadiyya would be set up at Kottur to mark the 60 th year of Kottur Ustad’s dars.
Kanthapuram A.P. Mohammed Musliar, head of the Department of Fiqh at Markaz Sharia College, inaugurated the function. Samastha Kerala Jamiyyathul Ulama (AP group) president E. Sulaiman Musliar presided over the function. Fiqh scholar Ponmala Abdul Khadir Musliar, Haj Committee chairman C. Mohammed Faizi, and Kerala State Sunni Students Federation general secretary Nizamuddin Faizi spoke.
E. Sulaiman Musliar and Markaz president Syed Ali Bafaqi were also felicitated at the function.
Kottur Ustad, who has been a member of the Samastha Mushawara, the highest body of Islamic scholars, since 1989, led the opening prayer. He is estimated to have more than 20,000 students spread across the country.
He won the Imam Bukhari Award given by the Bukhari Institutions, Kondotty, in 2019. In 2018, he won Madin Academy’s Syed Ahmed Al Bukhari Award for his contributions to the Arabic language. He was the winner of the Imam Gazzali Award instituted by the Darul Ma’arif, Kodampuzha, in 2010.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> News> National> Kerala / by Staff Reporter / Malappuram – March 09th, 2022
As Urdu Day approaches, Hyderabad-based author Jeelani Bano speaks about her bond with the language.
Jeelani Bano(Photo | R Satish Babu)
Jeelani Bano, 80, looks frail in her sea green sari with that mop of pepper-and-salt hair. Her demeanour is genteel, but only a talk about her stories on bonded labour, her aapa Ismat Chughtai and Progressive Writers’ Movement lights up her eyes. The decades pass on her soft wrinkled face as she turns pages of her autobiographical book Main Kaun Hoon and takes you back to an era gone by that’s still alive in her Banjara Hills house in Hyderabad, serenely tucked in another time-frame.
As Urdu Day approaches on November 9, she speaks about her association with the language. Many of her stories appear to be of our time. Jagirdari may have gone but capitalistic clutches don’t let go of the bonded slavery. Her story Paththaron ki Barish is heart-wrenching. Bano, who has authored 22 books, says, “A lot of writers of our time revolted against this inhuman system. Something also sparked in me and I wrote such stories. But today also, the situation of daily labourers is the same.”
Her book Aiwan-e-Ghazal, which tells the tales of feudal landlords in Hyderabad, has been translated into 14 languages. She then talks about her dear aapa—Ismat Chughtai—the firebrand writer.
“She was also from Badayun in Hyderabad, where I was born. She was friends with my mother and supported me a lot in writing,” says the 2016 NTR National Literary Award winner showing the letters Chughtai sent to her. Ismat wrote to her, “After marriage, respect your writing as much as you would respect your husband and in-laws.” In ’70s, when Jeelani Bano and her husband Anwar Moazzam, poet and writer, went to Pakistan, famous poets and scholars came to meet them at the border. She shares, “Nobody wants to understand what people of both the nations want. Sarhadein dilon ko nahin baant saktin (Borders can’t divide hearts).”
When once she went to the US, a scholar asked her, “You’re a Muslim woman. How did you get permission to write?” To this, she replied, “Nobody has stopped me from writing. Perhaps you haven’t been to India or else you wouldn’t have asked me this.”
Renowned poets and scholars such as Shakeel Badayuni, Makhdoom Mohiuddin, Jigar Muradabadi and Kaifi Azmi were hosted at her Mallepally home. But, she along with other children weren’t allowed to go to the baithaks. The young Bano would watch these poets, while playing in the courtyard.
source: http://www.newindianexpress.com / The New Indian Express / Home> Magazine / by Saima Afreen / November 05t, 2016
Muzaffar Alam’s ‘The Mughals and the Sufis’ is a remarkable and original work of scholarship.
Mughal emperor Jahangir chooses the Sufis. | Public Domain
The literature on the precepts of Sufism and the chronicles of its saints across various orders has a deep and prodigious lineage: from the great Kashf al-Mahjub of al-Hujwiri and the Risala of al-Qushayri, through Abdul Rahman Jaami’s Nufahat-ul-Uns, the wonderfully lucid Sakinat ul Auliya and Safinat ul Auliya, written by the 17th century Mughal Crown Prince Dara Shukoh, to the monumental compendium, A History of Sufism, by Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, in our own times. The examination of the subtle and complicated interplay between religious doctrine, political influence, legitimacy and kingship throughout the Islamic period in India, though, is more recent.
Muzaffar Alam’s earlier book, The Languages of Political Islam in India c 1200-1800, published in 2004, was an important contribution to this discourse. It offered a fresh perspective by decoding the political vocabulary of those times to reveal the calibrations in theology, injunction and juridical practice, as Islam gradually became more “Indianised”.
In his new book, The Mughals and the Sufis – Islam and Political Imagination in India: 1500–1750, Alam once again breaks new ground, this time by harmonising two major domains of scholarship – Mughal History and Indian Islam – honed with painstaking care over a lifetime of study. What emerges is a highly nuanced and complex examination of the relationship between Mughal political culture and the two dominant strains of Islam’s Sufi traditions in South Asia: one centred around orthodoxy, the other focusing on a more inclusive and mystical spirituality.
The Sufi trajectory
The constituent chapters in the book, which can also be studied as stand-alone essays, chart the trajectory of the various Sufi silsilas and their principal actors, from the early, tenuous days of Babur and Humayun, through the 16th and 17th centuries, as the imperial position shifted from the more liberal outlook of Emperor Akbar (r 1556–1605) to the rigid attitudes of his great-grandson, Aurangzeb ’Alamgir (r 1658–1701).
Alam premises his critical study on a large number of contemporary Persian texts, court chronicles, epistolary collections, and biographies of Sufi mystics. Interestingly, the Maktubat-i Khwaja Muhammad Saif al-Din, compiled by Muhammad A’zam, Khwaja Muhammad Nasib Andalib’s Nala-i’ Andalib, and Muhammad Akram bin Shaikh Muhammad Ali’s Sawati‘al-Anwar are accorded no less importance than the staple Akbarnama or Badauni’s Muntakhab al-Tawarikh, known to every student of Mughal history.
This particular approach to Alam’s programme of study for his latest book serves two functions. First, his focus on relatively lesser-known figures and their writings, as well as many rare manuscripts, automatically inducts these long-underutilised texts into the bibliographical repertoire of mainstream historical research. Second, his own investigations enable Alam to challenge popular notions about the Sufis, upend unitonal hagiographic narratives of Sufi silsilas, and provide an alternate system of coordinates through which to view our cultural and religious history, in the process, reorienting our understanding of political Islam during the Mughal period.
A fundamental aspect of reappraisal is the relationship of a Sufi leader with the Mughal emperor. The usual perception is that the sole function of a Sufi saint was to be a spiritual pir (preceptor) for his murids (disciples), including those of royal blood. Alam cites numerous instances to the contrary, following a tradition that harked back to the Naqshbandi Sufis of Timurid times.
One of the key figures to emerge in this context is Khwaja ’Ubaid-Allah Ahrar, whose disciples included Timurid rulers and a number of their vassals throughout Central Asia. He and several of his descendants claimed they were not spiritual masters alone, but also the source of strength and assistance in the dispensation of politics as well as power struggles.
Although Khwaja Ahrar had died several years before Babur appeared at the threshold of Hindustan, the latter nevertheless ascribed many of his military achievements to the benediction of the pir. Most famously, at the Battle of Panipat against Ibrahim Lodhi in 1526, Babur, facing an enemy force that vastly outnumbered his own, is said to have meditated upon the image of the Khwaja, who then appeared as a horseman dressed in white, routing the Afghans.
Breaking myths
The Mughals and the Sufis also dispels some lingering stereotypes around the positions of the pirs in the Chishti and Naqshbandi orders. For instance, the Chishti pirs didn’t necessarily find ready disciples in the early Mughals and winning their allegiance was no trivial matter. A case in point is Shaikh ’Abd al-Quddus Gangohi, a member of the Sabiri branch of the Chishti order.
Khwaja Gangohi was a prominent preceptor of the Afghan elite at the Lodhi court, in fact, very nearly – the official royal pir. But as Babur established his supremacy in northern India through a series of brilliant, swift military campaigns, it took all of the Khwaja’s wisdom, tact and diplomacy, to reconcile himself to the rapidly changing realities. For his very vocal support of the Afghans, he had to suffer humiliation at the hands of the Mughals.
A similar stereotype concerns the perception of the non-inclusive, intransigent position of the Naqshandis throughout their history, as something of a monolith. Alam shows that the fervour of orthodoxy did sustain itself, from the pirs who were contemporaries of Amir Timur, to the Ahraris in the 15th and 16th centuries, through to the strident conservatism of Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi and his followers in the 17th century. Aurangzeb’s unwavering support of the Naqshbandis ensured that the family of Shaikh Sirhindi enjoyed a favoured position at the imperial court.
Not only did this influence continue well after Alamgir’s reign, evidence is sighted of its influence outside the court in Delhi, for instance in literary circles, and beyond the capital, making inroads among sections of the civil society in Awadh, hitherto firmly entrenched in the Chishti-Sabiri tradition.
Through the following two centuries, however, Alam explains how a more muted and inclusive tenor of discourse developed within the Naqshbandi order, their change in position underscored by the triple forces of reformism, revivalism and modernism or Westernisation. Certainly, challenges from the West played a material role in changing the approach of modern Muslim intellectuals to Sufism.
Underlying many of the discussions are themes of influence, rivalry and conflict. Documentary evidence points to Sufis playing a role in informing and modulating imperial policy. Likewise, it is shown how the struggle for supremacy among rival princes (and princesses) was mirrored in the rise and fall of imperial allegiance to various silsilas.
Thus, when Akbar, at the peak of his religious innovations, is confronted by the outraged Naqshabandis, it is the latter who have to recant. And not long after Aurangzeb ascends the throne as the emperor Alamgir, Dara Shukoh’s Qadiri pir, Mullah Shah, is summoned to the imperial court and interrogated by the ’ulama. When it comes to a deeply critical and iconoclastic element of the Sufis, such as Sarmad Kashani, nothing less than execution would satisfy the emperor and conservative clergy. Viewed through this prism, the narrative of political Islam appears as a glazed mirror of the vicissitudes of princely wars of succession, and the leanings and idiosyncrasies of successive emperors.
What the women did
One of the criticisms that is often levelled against the academic patriarchy of medieval history is its scant attention to the women of the imperial household, their role and influence in contemporary politics and decisions that morphed and changed the empire. In this regard, the chapter-essay, “Piety, Poetry, and the Contested Loyalties of Mughal Princesses, c 1635-1700”, is a welcome inclusion in the present volume.
The legend of Jahanara, as the other-worldly princess who eschewed imperial titles in favour of the sobriquet of al Fakira, is well known. What is less well-known, though, are her allegiances to specific Sufi pirs and silsilas, and those of her sister, Roshanara, and her niece, Aurangzeb’s daughter, Zebunissa. This essay juxtaposes the contrasting religious beliefs and mystical leanings of these three ladies of the imperial household, despite their common upbringing.
Jahanara, even though she was initiated into the Qadiri sect, continued to retain a close spiritual affinity for the Chishti saints, in particular, Nizamuddin Auliya. Her choice is both a continuation of the pluralistic ethos instituted as imperial policy by Akbar, and a reflection of the deeply syncretic views of her favourite brother, Dara Shukoh – views that she wholeheartedly shared with him.
Roshanara played a far less public role than her sister, although she was a shrewd political observer, and increasingly, a key player in the filial strife that led to the War of Succession in 1657, ending with Aurangzeb’s ascendancy to the throne. Her close connection with the Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi order saw her acting as a mediator, during the attempts made by the sect to expand their influence over the entire imperial zenana.
Their sustained efforts to maintain dealings with the princess Zebunissa notwithstanding, the latter was far more inclined towards the practice and patronage of literary pursuits, than to the encouragement of the Mujaddidi brand of Islamic revival.
In a volume that offers much new perspective, the most insightful and striking essay is the penultimate chapter, “In Search of a Sacred King, Dara Shukoh and the Yogavsisthas of Mughal India”. In the author’s estimate, the Mughal Empire finds its intellectual and spiritual apotheosis not in the figure of Akbar, but Dara Shukoh, who, he boldly asserts, “is a step ahead of his great grandfather, Akbar”.
With this, Alam breaks with an unbroken line of rather uncritical adulation as regards Akbar that has stretched across generations of historians. For all his astute matrimonial alliances with Rajput chieftains, within the pecking order of the Hindu caste system, Akbar could only aspire to the status of a Kshatriya, Alam points out. Dara’s quest was far loftier – like Visvamitra, he sought to synthesise and embody the dual powers of the Kshatriya Raja and the Brahmin Rishi.
Akbar’s interest in Hindu scriptures, mythology and epics such as the Mahabharata reflect his curiosity about India’s political culture, but there was no great imperative for him to imbibe Indic norms of governance. In contrast, Dara’s project of translating the Yogavasistha goes well beyond intellectual curiosity or the inclination to recognise alternative formulations of spirituality. He becomes deeply immersed in the text, to the point of inhabiting it.
For Dara, the book is not only a philosophical treatise, worthy of study for a syncretic practicing Sufi – but a political manifesto – as the Crown Prince grapples with the eternal conflict between spiritual truth and temporal power. Rama Chandra is not the indigenous god from a hoary past but, in Dara’s dream, Lord Rama is a fellow-seeker of Truth, an elder brother.
In his quest for mystical and spiritual learning, Dara had perused the texts of several religious cultures, including his own. But it is only in the Yogavasistha, Alam proposes, that Dara finally found his model for the saint-king, one on which he wished to build the moral foundations of his own reign.
In a refracted light, The Mughals and the Sufis can perhaps be seen as an intellectual self-portrait, painted in the hues of scholarship, investigation and analysis. Now approaching his mid-70s, Alam remains as indefatigable as ever, poring over forgotten texts and rare manuscripts, to reveal the haqa’iq wa ma’arif (realities and truths) hidden within them.
The Mughals and the Sufis – Islam and Political Imagination in India: 1500-1750, Muzaffar Alam, Permanent Black.
source: http://www.scroll.in / Scroll.in / Home> Book Review / by Avik Chanda / April 28th, 2021
His short film Please Hold is in the reckoning for an Oscar.
(L-R) Farhad Ahmed Dehlvi; a moment from Please Hold
Please Hold, a 19-minute sci-fi short about a young man’s life being derailed as he finds himself at the mercy of automated “justice”, is in the running for an Academy Award in the category of Best Live Action Short Film. Please Hold has been shot by ace cinematographer Farhad Ahmed Dehlvi, who has films like four-time Oscar winner Life of Pi, among others, to his credit. The Telegraph caught up with Dehlvi, who was born and raised in Delhi, for a chat on Please Hold, his craft and more.
Congratulations for Please Hold’s Oscar nomination. You are not new to awards and accolades, but does the fact that this is an Academy Award nomination make it more special?
It is special because of the history and prestige associated with the Oscars, and also the fact that ours is a Latino story, an outsider’s story about the privatised prison system in America and the degree of control technology can hold over our lives. I’m glad to see the Academy recognising this kind of work.
You can’t think about the outcome, awards or accolades while making a film… each film is a leap of faith. You hope that you do justice to the story and that it will have an impact on the audience. I’m happy that the film moved members of the Academy enough to vote in our favour. The nomination is a real honour and we have our fingers crossed for March 27. I hope people watch our film and hopefully engage in the ongoing conversations about the subject!
What makes Please Hold different from the other prestigious projects that you have shot?
One of the things I’m most proud of in Please Hold is the tone we struck, both visually, and in how the story plays out. It is a dark comedy that gets increasingly absurd and Kafkaesque. I drew inspiration from the portraits of Lucien Freud and the films Minority Report and Trainspotting. By the end of the film, I hope that you’re left with a pit in your stomach because of how closely this ‘science fiction’ parallels our reality.
One of the challenges of a short is that there isn’t much screen time to set up the world, to build context for the story. As a cinematographer, I search for ways to do this as simply and effectively as possible. With Please Hold, we found an elegant solution — to have a mural on the wall behind the character in the opening scene. The mural, which depicts a fire-breathing, rampaging robot with Lilliputian humans trying to control it, tells us so much about the world and setting of the film.
Our resources were very limited and we benefited from a lot of goodwill from within both the industry and the community. In particular, Panavision, with whom I’ve worked for many years, supported the project with a camera package and our choice of ‘Panavision Ultra Speed’ lenses to tell this story.
Your work, both as cinematographer and film-maker, has been eclectic. What would you pick as the biggest turning points in your career?
After finishing grad school at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles, I spent a few years travelling across the US working on documentary projects. My time on the road, especially in the rural south, was a real schooling in the stratifications and power structures of American society, and triggered a process of reflection that has given me a new perspective on my own culture and my childhood in India. Looking back, I’d have to say the biggest turning points have been the collaborators I met, some of whom have become like family now. They’ve taken me on journeys I could never have dreamed of, tasking me to lend images to their stories.
A large part of your work focuses on making the universal personal. What is the key to achieving that?
I strongly believe that beyond entertaining or diverting us, inclusive cinema has the power to bridge cultural divides, to help us recognise our own pathos as we see it in others. I acknowledge the dignity of those that stand in front of my lens, I accept their nuance and individuality, and treat each one as the hero of their own story.
I don’t use the camera as a shield or a dividing line on set. I recognise the intimacy between subject and cinematographer and step out from behind the lens and acknowledge that the actors are more than icons or subjects and they are living, breathing people. Of course you do this while respecting the actors’ space and their own process.
My hope is that when the credits roll at the end of a film, the audience has a moment, however brief or subliminal, where they see their own circumstances in a different light and through the shared experience of the film, perhaps feel more closely connected to the person in the next seat.
I draw a lot of influence from the world outside of film. In recent years I have been studying folk crafts, both across India and the ‘Mingei’ movement in Japan. In particular, I’ve been looking at the use of pattern, and how a motif evolves over time. The timeless quality of traditional patterns is something I want to infuse into my work. The writing of Soetsu Yanagi has had a big impact on me. Also the artist Agnes Martin and photographer Sebastiao Salgado.
Your work is distinguished by its simplicity. In this age of visual effects and tech tools, how do you manage to retain that?
My first priority is always to serve the story. Everything I do, my creative choices, my methodology, the technical decisions are all in service of translating the essence of the written word into images that can connect the audience with our characters. I spend a lot of time with the material in pre-production to ensure that I’m prepared to actively create the visuals while ensuring that the mechanistic aspects of our work don’t disrupt the flow of the performances. This often involves months of work together with the director and production designer where we break down the film and build the visual language piece by piece, talking about light, colour, movement, and also how we can best use the set design and blocking to support our storytelling.
I aim to create a safe and flexible space for the actors and director to work in. I try to keep the equipment and crew outside the set as much as possible, and once we are into a scene, be ready to capture the performances that unfold.
Of course, there are times when a scene calls for a more technical approach, whether it is a precisely constructed camera movement or a particular lighting technique. These moments can feel more mechanical on set, but you have to trust the medium, trust the craft, and if you’re in service of the story, then the final scene, when it plays on screen, will look effortless and truly emotional. The audience will be transported into the movie. These moments are far more effective when you’ve built them into the grammar of the visual storytelling, contrasted them against the quiet moments in the film. It is like a piece of music — you need the pianissimo to feel the effect of the big crescendos. So I wouldn’t say that I eschew any particular tech tools or follow a dogmatic approach of simplicity. I’m always in service of each moment in the story.
Growing up in Delhi, was there an epiphanic moment that made you want to pursue this as both career and passion?
There are many! With both parents working in the industry, I was introduced to films at an early age One moment comes to mind — my first memory looking through the viewfinder of a camera. A visiting photographer, a friend of my parents, allowed me to look through his camera. It was a Hasselblad, a medium-format still camera, and had a viewfinder that showed you a reversed image that was very crisp, almost like a 3D projection. I fell in love with the way this camera’s viewfinder made the everyday image of our garden look magical, more real than reality, like a glimmering 3D projection. I was quite young at the time, and was enchanted with this ‘black box’ that could literally turn the world inside out. Of course now I understand the physics behind it.
I love the mechanical, the optical, the photochemical side of film-making, and I think this goes all the way back to my earliest experiences with a still camera. Getting some black-and-white film out of my father’s ‘stash’ in the fridge, watching him load it into the camera, going out and pressing the shutter with a child’s curiosity and then watching the images develop in a darkroom tray. This process has always been magical for me — a kind of alchemy, pulling images from a place that lies even beyond my imagination. I try and bring that curiosity to my work every day.
Is directing a natural extension of your work in cinematography?
I have always been narratively driven in my work, and having been in the director’s chair has made me a more sensitive and thoughtful cinematographer. I can see things with a broader perspective, am better able to shoot “for the edit” and am more closely in tune with the overall rhythm of the film. I think each informs the other, but I don’t see directing as an extension of cinematography.
I’d like to explore directing, particularly in episodic fiction while continuing to work as a cinematographer. There are several cinematographers who are balancing directing and shooting. Andrij Parekh did this with HBO’s Succession a few years ago, and Dana Gonzales on Fargo.
source: http://www.telegraphindia.com / The Telegraph Online / Home> My Kolkata> Life Style – Oscar / by Priyanka Roy / March 01st, 2022
Safina Nabi has always felt like a storyteller and, as she put it, a “story listener.” As a child growing up in Kashmir, she would listen to radio programs with her grandfather, showing a natural curiosity about them. “I would have dozens of questions and he would explain [it to] me,” she said. “Growing up, I think journalism came naturally to me.”
Nabi started working in radio programming while studying for her master’s degree in journalism and mass communication at the University of Kashmir.
At one point, she hosted an hour-long live morning show. “I wasn’t interested in writing at all,” she said. “I loved to be in front of the camera, taking pictures or doing interviews.”
In 2014, Nabi was forced to move to Delhi due to flooding in Kashmir. While in Delhi, she began to take on writing jobs as a way to make some extra money. After several years of exploring different mediums and “trying everything,” she decided that writing was what she wanted to do.
Much of Nabi’s work explores issues of gender and how it intersects with health, conflict, social justice and human rights.
She has written for The Guardian, MIT Technology Review, Vice, Al Jazeera and more.
Her stories are built around strong female characters; she feels that people are the most important part of any piece.
Over the past couple of years, Nabi also started writing about her culture and community. She sees it as a way to preserve her heritage. “We [Kashmiris] are an ethnic group and we come from a minority background. We need to preserve our history, our language, and our cultural roots. I think one of the major and important ways to do that is to document them.”
Nabi has received two grants from the Pulitzer Center for her work, the first of which she found on IJNet. Initially, she wasn’t even sure she would apply because she was anxious about being rejected. “The tab remained [open] on my laptop for days and days,” said Nabi. Finally, she told herself she had to act. She applied and received a positive response within a week. “I was so excited about it,” she said. The project, Kashmir’s Tribal Women Fight the Stigma of Birth Control, focused on the lack of access to family planning resources for nomadic Kashmiri women. “I have received really great feedback. I really think [working independently] is something that has helped me grow, because I can tell the story the way that I want to,” Nabi said.
The ability to control the direction of her stories is incredibly important to Nabi. She spoke with frustration about the limitations of the journalism industry, and how difficult it was to get started as a young journalist with new ideas. “As a journalist who is juggling lots of other issues like internet gags and communication blockades, we don’t have the kind of time to actually research each and everything,” she said. Grants give her more freedom to control her stories, and resources like IJNet, she explained, help her find new opportunities.
Nabi’s most recent project is an in-depth piece funded by the Pulitzer Center. Titled, “How Kashmir’s half-widows are denied their basic property rights,” it highlights the struggles of Kashmiri women whose husbands have disappeared, but cannot be proven dead, leaving them in limbo.
Telling stories like this is what keeps Nabi going when facing situations like months-long internet and phone blackouts, government censorship and intimidation. “Who will tell the stories of these people who are suffering unnecessarily and [who] do not have avenues to reach out to people, to government, to authorities, and there is nobody to listen to them? I feel this is my obligation and this is my duty, to actually give voices to those people who cannot raise their voice, and I think that that’s something that keeps me pushing still,” she said.
It’s a very difficult phase of journalism in Asia right now, especially for women, Nabi explained. “In Kashmir, we don’t even have a women’s journalism association or a union. I think if we all come together collectively and take [up] that space, I’m sure the struggle is not going to end there, but at least we’ll have that kind of space where we will be able to share our vulnerabilities and our problems and discuss them, and be that support system for each other when in trouble.”
Nabi also noted the importance of media organizations and publications supporting and inspiring young women to become journalists. “I think it’s an obligation and duty of other [sites] like IJNet to give space and give more grants to journalists who come from these small backgrounds and give them chances, amplify their voices and their stories. That’s what will help more journalists to come out, especially women, and feel like, “Okay, there are some people who are making it big despite obstacles or struggles that they are facing.”
Photos courtesy of Safina Nabi.
source: http://www.ijnet.org / IJNET (Int’l Journalist Network) / Home> Newsletter > Journalist of the month / by Daniela Riddle / March 01st, 2022
Kalaburagi-based artist Mohammed Ayazuddin Patel will participate in a three-day International Art Festival titled Colours of the World organised in collaboration with Amman Greater Municipality and SMD Foundation at Ras Al Ain Art Gallery, Amman in Jordan.
The festival will be inaugurated under the patronage of Anwar Halim, Ambassador of India in Oman, on Saturday.
Artists from the U.S., Jordan, Canada, Taiwan, India and other countries are taking part in the art festival.
Mr. Patel will display his digital painting works based on Indian culture.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> News> National> Karnataka / by Staff Reporter / Kalaburagi – March 02nd, 2022
