Tag Archives: Ambassador Abid Hasan Safrani

Abid Hassan Safrani, freedom fighter who gave Jai Hind slogan

Hyderabad, TELANGANA :

Abid Hassan, born in Hyderabad in 1912, hailed from a patriotic family.

 Abid Hasan Safrani/COURTESY INDIANMUSLIMLEGENDS.BLOGSPOT.IN
Abid Hasan Safrani/COURTESY INDIANMUSLIMLEGENDS.BLOGSPOT.IN

Hyderabad :

This is the story of Abid Hassan Safrani who, not many may know, was not just the trusted lieutenant of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, but the Hyderabadi who had coined the magical slogan JAI HIND.

I have had the privilege of translating into English the Telugu book on the life of Netaji Bose by the late Ch. Acharya at the behest of the Freedom Fighters Association.

The following are excerpts from the book. Kindly read on:

“JAI HIND ”. No slogan had ever cast a greater spell on the nation than this. It had welded the people of this country of diverse languages, cultures, and faiths during the freedom struggle and filled them with a strong sense of patriotism. It continues to do so even now.

The man who coined this stirring slogan was Major Abid Hassan Safrani of Hyderabad, a close aide of   Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose.

It was adopted as the national slogan at Free India Centre’s first meeting in Berlin in November 1941. Then, it became a popular form of address and greeting.

Safrani was with Bose when he undertook the death-defying undersea journey from Germany to the Far East. Safrani recalled how calm and composed was Bose when enemy ships rained bombs on the submarine. Unmindful, he dictated notes to Safrani on the future course of his action.

Sisir Kumar, the nephew of Bose, gave more details of the adventure in his book, ‘INA in India Today’.

Abid Hassan, born in Hyderabad in 1912, hailed from a patriotic family. After graduating in engineering with distinction, he went to Berlin for higher studies.

Attracted by Bose’s freedom movement, he joined the Indian National Army. Recognising his leadership qualities, Bose gave Safrani ample scope to grow to his full potential.

Safrani could fluently speak several languages like English, German, French, Arabic, Persian, Sanskrit, Hindi, Urdu, Telugu, and Punjabi. This enabled him to build excellent rapport with officers and men of the INA. Major Safrani headed the Gandhi Brigade in the INA. It consisted of men of exceptional courage and valour.

When they eventually surrendered to the British army at Imphal in North East India, top British officers could not help marvel at the bravery of Safrani and his men. He was imprisoned and put in solitary confinement with not even a window to allow light.

He mentioned this in a letter to his mother, Hassans had firm roots in nationalism. Abid’s father, Jaffer Hassan, was dean in Osmania University , and mother, Begum Amir Hassan, a staunch Gandhian. They inculcated patriotic feelings in their sons, Badrul Hassan and Abid Hassan, at a tender age.

All of them were very close to Mahatma Gandhi and used to visit his Sabarmati ashram. Fanatics threatened to kill them and throw their bodies into the Musi. Gandhi would send his secretary, Pyarelal, to railway station whenever the Hassans visited him. Badrul Hassan edited Gandhi’s “Young India” in 1925.

He remained a true Gandhian until his death in 1973. He wore khadi and led a spartan life in a small room.

Abid Hassan Safrani also imbibed these traits.

Begum Safrani was a unique personality who lived a full life(1870-1970). She gave away everything for the freedom of the country, including her paternal property. She was a close friend of Sarojini Naidu and was affectionately called ‘amma Jaan’ by Gandhi, Nehru, Netaji and Abul Kalam Azad.

“Abid Manzil”, their residence in Troop Bazaar, stands as mute testimony to the burning of foreign cloth in 1920 at the behest of Gandhi. In his book, Sisir Kumar Bose gave a graphic account of the escapades of Subhash Chandra Bose and Abid Hassan Safrani such as the submarine journey from Germany to Asia and the INA’s triumphal march through the forests of Imphal.

After the Second World War, Safrani was jailed for six years. Begum Amir Hassan, who did not expect anything in return for the services of the family, was much worried that her son might be sentenced to death in the Red Fort trial. Several INA men were shot dead for participating in the liberation movement. She met Gandhi, Nehru and Sarojini Naidu to plead for her son’s life.

Safrani got a last-minute reprieve after Prime Minister Nehru and Governor-General, Lord Mountbatten, intervened. Nehru had earlier visited a prison in Singapore where INA members were lodged. He spotted a man sitting aloof and asked if he was Safrani from Hyderabad . The man greeted him with “Jai Hind” and nodded ‘yes’.

After his release, an ailing Safrani returned to his “Dhoop Chaon” residence in Banjara Hills, Hyderabad and recuperated under the care of his loving mother and friends like Bankat Chandra, Elizabeth, and C.S. Vasu. He took up radio sales for a living, but with little success. He wrote a civil services examination and qualified for foreign service. He was personally interviewed by Jawaharlal Nehru .

He had served in Indian missions in a number of countries like Egypt, Iraq, Turkey, Senegal, Zambia, Ivory Coast. Safrani was Indian Ambassador to Iraq when Jordan King Hashmath-e-Faizal, was killed in an army coup in 1957. The government drew heavy flak in Parliament for his absence in Baghdad at the crucial movement. Nehru defended Safrani. Safrani loved agriculture and raised a horticultural farm in Golconda . It was his practice to visit Netaji’s hometown, Calcutta, in January every year carrying fruit grown on his farm.

That was his way of remembering his mentor, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. He used to recall with moist eyes those memorable years with Bose. He died in 1984 but immortalized himself with the soul-stirring slogan he coined: Jai Hind. It would keep the Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and others together for centuries and strengthen national integration. He was an ideal Shia and a noble Sufi saint.

Safrani memorial school in Golconda, run by his wife, Suraya, seeks to instill in the minds of young pupils the lofty ideals, values and principles dear to her husband.

Dasu Kesava Rao is a senior journalist who worked for The Hindu, among other newspapers

source: http://www.siasat.com / The Siasat Daily / Home> Featured News / by Safoora / January 26th, 2020

On a slow boat with Safrani

Hyderabad, ANDHRA PRADESH (now TELANGANA) :

by Geeta Doctor

“He never ever mentioned his life with the INA, let alone the story that he had been the one to coin the greeting ‘Jai Hind’. To the rest of the world he might have been a freedom fighter, but to us he was always `Uncle Safrani’.”
Much loved Uncle...
Much loved Uncle…

To the rest of the world he might have been a freedom fighter and a soldier who fought alongside Netaji, but to us he was always “Uncle Safrani”.

Only much later did we realise that his real name was Zain-al-Abdin, or Abid Hasan as he preferred to call himself and that the stories he told us of his days in the Indian National Army were actually true.

“Compared to us, Safrani was a man of the world,” says my Mother looking back on the first time they met him, in 1948, on board a ship that was taking them to start the first of the Embassies that were just being opened.

Safrani was bound for Cairo, my parents were due to get off at Genoa and make the rest of the trip by land to Paris.

What they did not know then, was that they had been booked on a cargo ship. Some cabins had been hastily converted to accommodate First Class passengers. It would take the long route, going up the Persian Gulf, stopping at various ports to unload goods.

For my young parents who were leaving the country for the first time, with two small girls, my sister Surya who was two years old and myself, who was five, on a ship belonging to the Sindia Steamship Company as it was known then, Safrani was a wonderful guide. They had never left the shores of India.

He on the other hand was not only a member of the old Hyderabad elite, but had also studied for a while in Germany and travelled all over South East Asia, as Secretary to Subhas Chandra Bose.

“Safrani was one of those men who could make friends with all kinds of people. He was all over the ship. When it docked he would be the first to get off and go straight to the bazaars and return by evening with all manner of beautiful things. He was also a scholar who spent long hours with his Persian and Urdu poetry. There was nothing he did not know and seeing how raw we were, he made it his business to educate us in all the finer points of life. For instance, when we docked at the port of Basra he ran ashore and bought so many carpets that he ran out of money. But this did not worry him, he just made arrangements to borrow money on credit so that he could buy more. ” recalls my Mother.

In the evenings when the ship was at sea, he would take us to the top most deck and point out the stars to us and whisper stories to us about all the ancient sailors like Sindbad who had crossed these very seas. To us, he would become like Sindbad the Sailor himself. During the day, dolphins would follow us racing by our side, while as we made our way into Aden, where the local Indians received us like fabulous guests that had been sent by the newly Independent government of India to conquer the world, Safrani showed us how to be gracious in accepting the hospitality of strangers, who could also be family.

At Port Said, he transformed himself into an Arab prince, bargaining with the chattering hordes of intrepid vendors who climbed up from their small boats into the ship, teaching my parents to sip bitter coffee from small glasses and to taste the sticky sweet lumps of baklava.

By the time the ship sailed into the Mediterranean, Safrani had become the perfect European gentleman, as debonair as David Niven, as effusive as Signor Peperino, with his flowing moustache and his ability to charm the ladies, with his manner of bowing down to kiss a hand. Or as was the case with us to imprint our tender young cheeks with moist and noisy lip-smacking kisses. He became for us the kissing Uncle.

It was also a way in which he kept track of some of his possessions, the beautiful carpets, the pieces of porcelain and small paintings that he had left with us, just as a token of his friendship he said. “I want you to enjoy them as long as you like and when I need to sell something , I will come and collect a carpet or two.”

We were the guardians of his generosity. For though he bought beautiful things with the lavish style of an oriental Pasha, his house was always so full of people that he had quite often to sell them to keep the coffers flowing.

He left one ceramic vase with us. It still stands on a pedestal in a corner, converted now into a lamp stand, its deep blue and copper red tones changing colour with the reflection of the light. “It’s a very rare vase from China. Don’t ever sell it,” he advised, though he himself regularly sold many of his most cherished possessions.

When we lived in Geneva, he happened to be in Berne. His boss at that time was a dog-lover of epic proportions, so every evening as we stood beside him and listened, he talked to the dog, a large Alsatian, who had been left behind in his care, in Urdu, on the telephone.

On another occasion, he told us how the dog had finally died and he was “Chief Mourner” the had conducted the funeral honours. “It was a very touching occasion. I was so moved, I jumped into the open grave and recited some prayers over the dog’s body that I held in my own arms, before laying him into the earth,” he told us. Since he was laughing so much at the memory, we never knew whether any of this was true. Or whether like all the stories he had told us in the past, they were the stuff of the legendary quality that he wove around himself.

“He never mentioned his life with the INA, let alone the story that he had been the one to coin the greeting, “Jai Hind!” remarks my Mother, “Though it sounds very typical of him. He was a free spirit.”

Much later when one of us was passing through Denmark, where he was the Ambassador, we enjoyed the full force of his hospitality. He drove to the airport himself and though when we reached his house, it seemed to be so full of guests that evening, he had to find a room for us, right up in the attic. But as ever it was a fabulous evening. The dinner when it arrived was as full and rich as one of the tables from the days of the old Hyderabad style hospitality. He always managed to have as a hostess, one of his beautiful nieces from Hyderabad, who would quietly attend to the guests and see that no one was without food and drink.

When it was over, he insisted that we should go and enjoy the “Tivoli Gardens,” that was the star attraction of Copenhagen. As we looked at the giant Ferris wheels and the nightly display of fireworks exploding over the skyline of the City, Uncle Safrani had become like Barnum, a grand ring-master presiding over the “Greatest Show on Earth”.

And then we did not see him again.

We had heard that he had returned to his family home after retirement and become a gentleman farmer.

This is my final memory of him.

On a visit to a silk weaving unit on the outskirts of Hyderabad I found that someone had started a small farm, and on it a school for the children of the nearby village.

The owner, who had died some time back had created an enchanted garden of fruit trees. The fields next door were covered with jasmine bushes, dotted with fat creamy jasmine buds, that the children from the school came to harvest in the early morning. The air was filled with their fragrance as all over the field the butterflies were busy doing their own kind of harvesting.

One of this man’s nieces, a really beautiful woman even in her later age, was running a weaving centre. She was pre-occupied in reviving some of the old Hyderabadi silk and cotton weaving traditions and did not have much time to talk. On her table was a photograph of a familiar face, the same moustache, the full lips ready to form themselves into a kiss, the all embracing smile, the jaunty glint in the eye.

“Safrani!” I exclaimed.

The beautiful niece, still glowing in her old age looked at the picture. “My Uncle” she said, quietly.

source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Young World / by Geeta Doctor / Online Edition / Saturday – March 23rd, 2002