When Michael Curitz directed “Casablanca” and released it in 1942, he expected nothing extraordinary out of the movie. Nothing in the film was A-list- Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman were struggling stars, the writers weren't creative demi-Gods and the war’s (the plot was based in the backdrop of WWII where Nazi Germany had an edge then)direction was unpredictable. But then out of everybody’s expectations, the film did exceptionally well. It won three Academy awards including the award for “best film”. With passing time the film became “cult fiction”. The rugged, stoic but subtly lovelorn Rick Blaine (played by the evergreen Humphrey Bogart) became a role model for a lot of young men around. Young women modeled themselves on Ilsa Lund (played by the eternally beautiful Ingrid Bergman). By 1977, “Casablanca” was the most broadcast movie on American television beating every other major film around.
“Casablanca” became a sudden hit with its plot which a large audience could relate to. Nazi rule in Europe and Vichy controlled France and its colonies led to mass exodus from Europe to the Americas. The rich fled to the new “heaven” to escape the “blitzkrieg” unleashed by Adolf Hitler. French ruled Morocco was a place from which refugees went to Lisbon (Portugal) and from there to the Americas. “Casablanca” spoke the language of all these countless men and women who had survived this ordeal to reach the Americas. They could see themselves in those refugees who gave away everything to escape the uncertain future. There is a scene in which Captain Louis Renault, the French Police chief of Casablanca makes an “indecent proposal” to Annina Brendel, a Bulgarian Refugee in exchange for papers to travel out of Casablanca. It was indeed very touching and raises the “homicidal impulses” in the audience. The eyes of the actress express her helplessness and move the audience to tears.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund’s love story is the pivot of the plot. It has become such a common part of each love story that it has influenced many. Tapes and discs of it have been presented over and over to people in love. The part of the story in Paris personifies the concept of romance very well. The eyes were dreamy, the smiles were heartwarming and the kisses were passionate. Tears drop by kilolitres when Rick and Sam wait at the railway station in Paris and Ilsa fails to turn up and how Sam pushes Rick to leave Paris. And how the eyes light up when both of them reconcile at Casablanca. And how moved Rick is when he sees Ilsa in Casablanca. His initial portrayal of a stoic club owner just melts away as he is unable to control his mind and body. Dialogues that are remembered to this day follow. The best is when Ilsa asks Sam (The club Pianist) to play. “As time goes by”, the same tune that he used to play for them while in Paris. Her voice has so much innocence when she says “Play it again, Sam”. For the record, Sam was played by American actor Dooley Wilson, who in real life was a drummer and could not play the piano (Now can you beat that?). Viewers secretly pray for the lovers to get back into each other lives when Ilsa secretly comes to meet Rick in the abandoned café.
Victor Laszlo (Played by Austrian Paul Henreid) plays the part of a sensitive husband who is in knowledge of his wife’s love for another man but is more concerned about saving her in the time of distress than blame her for an “affair” while he was away. He keeps his calm while resisting the German invasion and intricately plans his escape to Lisbon and then USA along with his wife using the “papers” which were dropped in Rick’s possession by a petty thief.
“Casablanca” was also a voice of dissent towards the Nazi rule. When Major Stresser and his friends sing the Nazi anthem in Rick’s club, Laszlo replies with “La Marseilles” in a higher pitch. Things turn ugly when Rick orders the club band to play the tune and other French citizens join Laszlo and the Germans are beaten by sheer numbers. Major Stresser orders Renault to close the café on a flimsy charge.
Ilsa Lund portrays the role of a woman torn between her love for two men. When Victor Laszlo was in a concentration camp and she believed news that he was dead, Rick comes into her life. The love story seems immortal till her failure to arrive at the railway station makes the audience think that she “diched” Rick. But that was the time when her husband Victor turns up into her love and she decides to go back into her “marriage”. Fate brings her back to Rick at Casablanca. She tries every trick in the book to get the papers from Rick including pointing a pistol at him (But then she is not able to shoot him as she is still in love with him). Bergman plays the love-torn woman so well that in the audience can’t help but forgive her. For what? For everything.
The biggest loss in the whole film is borne by Rick Blaine. He is portrayed as the epitome of sacrifices in the plot. He first sacrifices Ilsa’s love in order to save his people (during the escape from Paris to Casablanca). Then he sacrifices the “papers” which he could have sold in the market at a premium- for Ilsa’s love again. He believed that giving the papers to Laszlo would mean his departure for Lisbon and then the USA and Ilsa coming back to his life. But then he also realizes that Ilsa’s love for Laszlo is a permanent phenomenon which will never wear off (It was very painful to see Ilsa telling Rick about her love for Victor. The audience was all for Rick). In the end, Victor and Ilsa leave. Rick loses Ilsa, Rick loses his club and Rick comes out as “Sacrificing Rick”. The best is in the end when he forcibly puts Ilsa on the plane saying that if she didn’t go she would regret it. “Not today, not tomorrow, but very soon and for the rest of your life”. I am yet to see somebody who is so stoic after losing so much. Bogart’s career took an upward dive after “Casablanca”. His portrayal as Rick Blaine has made the phrase “nice guys finish second” sound like an axiom. You just can’t help but hope to be like him. He is smart, suave, polished and above all- he is stoic.
The real winners in the fim are Victor Laszlo and Captain Louis Renault. Laszlo escapes to Lisbon, gets his adorable wife and we hope lived happily ever after. Renault is shown as the “expectedly” corrupt Police Officer who enthralls the public with the famous line, “I am where the wind blows, and presently the wind blows towards the Vichy”. He shows money to be his true master when he cleverly covers up Major Stresser’s murder by Rick. As the two men walk into the night in the end, Rick pulls down the curtain for the audience saying, “Louis, I think it is the starting to a beautiful friendship”.
It’s been almost 7 decades but “Casablanca” still is fresh in the minds of all its viewers. It still continues to be sold as a DVD and to be presented as a token of “love”. Imagine, this fim was made for a budget of $1 million. Considering the maount of people who must have appreciated it and seen it time and again, this cost seems like a pittance.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund live on in our hearts.
P.S. The views expressed are personal opinion of the author and does not mean to hurt the feelings of any person- living or dead.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Has the monk grown old?
Vidhu Vinod Chopra and Rajkumar Hirani gave the cinema audience of this country and the Indian diaspora a cinematic treat that will be remembered for a lifetime. Each and every character of the film was carefully chosen and had a contribution to make to the script. Such eloquence was earlier probably seen only in “Sholay” where the myriad of characters put the screen on fire.
Rancho, Farhan, Raju and not to forget the “screwed-up yet affable” Chatur put a lot of us back into the “campus mode”. We went back to the days when life revolved around an institution called “college”. People who were residents of college hostels could relate more to the plot as the happenings passed by like a montage of clips. Faces of people who were defined as “friends” at one point of time were recollected. Every single, small, uneventful happening became a part of this pleasant nostalgia. Those were the days.
Chatur put the film into the drive with his “TamBram” accented Hindi which was devoid of any grammatical accuracy. But the fella was a pleasure to watch. As he offers a bottle of “Madeira” (the man had a gadget- it was too advanced to be called a cell phone- which contained a dictionary software) to 2 Idiots (Rancho decided not to turn up), my eyes fell on the label of the small bottle. It said, “Old Monk – 7 years old blended XXX Rum”. By the time my nervous system reacted to this picture, the whole audience started screaming. Chatur had brought out another piece of nostalgia- Old Monk rum.
From soldiers to civilians, from the rich to the poor, politicos, bureaucrats, students, wanderers and even teetotalers- this spirit has given “moments of pride” to a lot of people. The brand is owned by the Indian distillers Mohan Meakin & Co. and manufactured at their Mohannagar (Ghaziabad) factory. Established in 1855 by Edward Dyer, the company was later acquired by N N Mohan after Independence. The distillers have since then made quite a few improvements to this flagship brand of theirs. But the original shape of the bottle and the label has always remained the same. An old monk from one of the catholic monasteries has always featured on it making it easily recognizable by its patrons. With 42.20% alcohol content, it is a bit more “spirited” but ask any of the “old monk loyalists”, the taste is unbeatable. The loyalty of the brand can be estimated from the fact that it is the world’s third largest selling brand of rum with sales of 9 million cases in a year. “Bacardi” is the largest selling brand with about 14.00 million cases followed by “Tundray” which sells 12.90 million cases a year.
“Break the seal and with the first drop the fragrance of caned sugar from lush green fields will fill your nostrils”- is what a tagline for this great brand says. Trust me, they are right. The 750 ml (They call it “Khamba” in common parlance) of liquid has supported people through various emotions through more than a century. It has been a catalyst to celebrations and victory, it has been a friend to people during moments of sorrow and loss, it has bought people by it sheer power to dislodge people from rationality and it has even “put to sleep” a lot of people who thought they could win over it!
There are umpteen college stories that have revolved around this “distilled drop of cane sugar”. Abhijit Bhaduri gave a very vivid description of it in his book “Mediocre but Arrogant”- a book that brought out the life in an management school very well. “Rum and Coke” became a potent combination for the youth in the early 90s and thereafter. College hostels celebrated or supported “bad times” with this combination. The “bitter-sweet” taste is not just a “cocktail”. It is the way of living up that moment.
There are two kinds of people who drink “old monk”- one who are ‘loyalists’ (people who would not drink anything else until they don’t have a choice) and the second are the people who drink it because it is one of the most “affordable” spirits around (It still sells for under 300 bucks a bottle). Actually, it’s the “affordable” brass which moves on with time to becoming a “loyalist”. Or perhaps it’s the habit of watching another “loyalist” that makes you a “loyalist”. I fall in this category. Collegians start drinking it because of its sheer “affordability” which translates into its volumes (In college you drink for no rhyme and reason. Whatever be the reason, you just drink)
The club culture gave a big boost to the use of alcohol in India. “Bars” were generally frequented by people who were perceived as people who weren’t capable of “holding their glasses”. They drank cheap liquor (mostly Whisky) on a daily basis for a myriad of reasosn and were expected to create a “scene after getting drunk”. But “pubbers” were apparently a group of smart, suave, polished, up market guys who used the “spirits to raise their spirits”. Well Exceptions were always there (Poor Jessica Lall got shot by a “high” and “high powered” Manu Sharma) but as a whole, they were a “safe lot”.
Coming back to “old monk”, it very soon became a brand of the classes and the masses. Army and Police officers would not end their days without a sip of it. Winters turned it into a life-saving drug with the folks in hill stations making a beeline for it. On a visit to Nathu La, I was shocked to find it being sold in households in Sikkim. The monk had managed to conquer even the remotest households of the country. Fathers and sons had it alike. Soldiers kept themselves warm in blizzards and snow by a sip of it. Folklore goes in the Indian army that subordinates have to be “tipped” with it. People were “bribed” with it and people were “saved” (42.20 % alcohol can kill any kind of infection) with it. It has gone into cakes, pastries and innumerable other bakery products. It has been used as a cooking medium or to garnish a recipe. It is also used to wash one’s hair and to give it a shiny feel before a social appearance (the sugar in it sticks to the strands and gives hair a shiny look).
There is a certain gentleman who I know to be fond of the monk like anything. He was a “top cop” and kept a flask of the spirit always with him. When asked about it he always replied, “I can’t ask God to come with me but I can ask the monk. Can’t I?” Can there be a higher loyalty quotient. Another anecdote is about a train journey from Durgapur to Delhi. Aborad Howrah Rajdhani we opened a bottle of it along with some “Hilsa” fish for company. The public couldn’t appreciate the combination that their nostrils were treated to. Before somebody called the coach attendant, the fish was gobbled and the monk was safely tucked inside a blanket. Then we started screaming. The monks taught us that “offence was the best form of defence”. Long live the monk.
Old monk has not survived alone but has given a new lease of life to a lot of other people too. When Coca-Cola entered the Indian market, it started buying it competitors in India to gain market share. This included “Campa Cola” and “Thums Up”. The acquisition killed the former but the latter survived. “Thums Up” made a potent combination with it and this could not be replicated by Coke in any other form. Thus it survived and got a new lease of life.
The best part about it is the fact that its brand has become synonymous with “Rum”. You talk of rum and you mean “Old monk”. It is equally popular and sold and is available in all parts throughout India giving it a national character. It would not be wrong to say it has united India in the same mode as “lux” soap or “parachute” hair oil.It has been nearly two decades since the monk was born and been an integral part of its connoisseurs’ life. Its patrons swear by it and its competitors fear its reach. Even “Bacardi” and “Tundray” with its international market are barely ahead of it while “Old Monk” is served only in the Indian diaspora.
Dearest monk, all we wish to tell you is that your presence in our lives gives us a wider spectrum to look out to. In regulated quantities you have added a lot of colours to our lives and given us moments of joy and gaiety. So, whenever this question is posed to us about your age asking, “has the monk grown old?” all we answer is, “The monk is ageless”.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead. Consumption of alcohol is dangerous to the health.
Rancho, Farhan, Raju and not to forget the “screwed-up yet affable” Chatur put a lot of us back into the “campus mode”. We went back to the days when life revolved around an institution called “college”. People who were residents of college hostels could relate more to the plot as the happenings passed by like a montage of clips. Faces of people who were defined as “friends” at one point of time were recollected. Every single, small, uneventful happening became a part of this pleasant nostalgia. Those were the days.
Chatur put the film into the drive with his “TamBram” accented Hindi which was devoid of any grammatical accuracy. But the fella was a pleasure to watch. As he offers a bottle of “Madeira” (the man had a gadget- it was too advanced to be called a cell phone- which contained a dictionary software) to 2 Idiots (Rancho decided not to turn up), my eyes fell on the label of the small bottle. It said, “Old Monk – 7 years old blended XXX Rum”. By the time my nervous system reacted to this picture, the whole audience started screaming. Chatur had brought out another piece of nostalgia- Old Monk rum.
From soldiers to civilians, from the rich to the poor, politicos, bureaucrats, students, wanderers and even teetotalers- this spirit has given “moments of pride” to a lot of people. The brand is owned by the Indian distillers Mohan Meakin & Co. and manufactured at their Mohannagar (Ghaziabad) factory. Established in 1855 by Edward Dyer, the company was later acquired by N N Mohan after Independence. The distillers have since then made quite a few improvements to this flagship brand of theirs. But the original shape of the bottle and the label has always remained the same. An old monk from one of the catholic monasteries has always featured on it making it easily recognizable by its patrons. With 42.20% alcohol content, it is a bit more “spirited” but ask any of the “old monk loyalists”, the taste is unbeatable. The loyalty of the brand can be estimated from the fact that it is the world’s third largest selling brand of rum with sales of 9 million cases in a year. “Bacardi” is the largest selling brand with about 14.00 million cases followed by “Tundray” which sells 12.90 million cases a year.
“Break the seal and with the first drop the fragrance of caned sugar from lush green fields will fill your nostrils”- is what a tagline for this great brand says. Trust me, they are right. The 750 ml (They call it “Khamba” in common parlance) of liquid has supported people through various emotions through more than a century. It has been a catalyst to celebrations and victory, it has been a friend to people during moments of sorrow and loss, it has bought people by it sheer power to dislodge people from rationality and it has even “put to sleep” a lot of people who thought they could win over it!
There are umpteen college stories that have revolved around this “distilled drop of cane sugar”. Abhijit Bhaduri gave a very vivid description of it in his book “Mediocre but Arrogant”- a book that brought out the life in an management school very well. “Rum and Coke” became a potent combination for the youth in the early 90s and thereafter. College hostels celebrated or supported “bad times” with this combination. The “bitter-sweet” taste is not just a “cocktail”. It is the way of living up that moment.
There are two kinds of people who drink “old monk”- one who are ‘loyalists’ (people who would not drink anything else until they don’t have a choice) and the second are the people who drink it because it is one of the most “affordable” spirits around (It still sells for under 300 bucks a bottle). Actually, it’s the “affordable” brass which moves on with time to becoming a “loyalist”. Or perhaps it’s the habit of watching another “loyalist” that makes you a “loyalist”. I fall in this category. Collegians start drinking it because of its sheer “affordability” which translates into its volumes (In college you drink for no rhyme and reason. Whatever be the reason, you just drink)
The club culture gave a big boost to the use of alcohol in India. “Bars” were generally frequented by people who were perceived as people who weren’t capable of “holding their glasses”. They drank cheap liquor (mostly Whisky) on a daily basis for a myriad of reasosn and were expected to create a “scene after getting drunk”. But “pubbers” were apparently a group of smart, suave, polished, up market guys who used the “spirits to raise their spirits”. Well Exceptions were always there (Poor Jessica Lall got shot by a “high” and “high powered” Manu Sharma) but as a whole, they were a “safe lot”.
Coming back to “old monk”, it very soon became a brand of the classes and the masses. Army and Police officers would not end their days without a sip of it. Winters turned it into a life-saving drug with the folks in hill stations making a beeline for it. On a visit to Nathu La, I was shocked to find it being sold in households in Sikkim. The monk had managed to conquer even the remotest households of the country. Fathers and sons had it alike. Soldiers kept themselves warm in blizzards and snow by a sip of it. Folklore goes in the Indian army that subordinates have to be “tipped” with it. People were “bribed” with it and people were “saved” (42.20 % alcohol can kill any kind of infection) with it. It has gone into cakes, pastries and innumerable other bakery products. It has been used as a cooking medium or to garnish a recipe. It is also used to wash one’s hair and to give it a shiny feel before a social appearance (the sugar in it sticks to the strands and gives hair a shiny look).
There is a certain gentleman who I know to be fond of the monk like anything. He was a “top cop” and kept a flask of the spirit always with him. When asked about it he always replied, “I can’t ask God to come with me but I can ask the monk. Can’t I?” Can there be a higher loyalty quotient. Another anecdote is about a train journey from Durgapur to Delhi. Aborad Howrah Rajdhani we opened a bottle of it along with some “Hilsa” fish for company. The public couldn’t appreciate the combination that their nostrils were treated to. Before somebody called the coach attendant, the fish was gobbled and the monk was safely tucked inside a blanket. Then we started screaming. The monks taught us that “offence was the best form of defence”. Long live the monk.
Old monk has not survived alone but has given a new lease of life to a lot of other people too. When Coca-Cola entered the Indian market, it started buying it competitors in India to gain market share. This included “Campa Cola” and “Thums Up”. The acquisition killed the former but the latter survived. “Thums Up” made a potent combination with it and this could not be replicated by Coke in any other form. Thus it survived and got a new lease of life.
The best part about it is the fact that its brand has become synonymous with “Rum”. You talk of rum and you mean “Old monk”. It is equally popular and sold and is available in all parts throughout India giving it a national character. It would not be wrong to say it has united India in the same mode as “lux” soap or “parachute” hair oil.It has been nearly two decades since the monk was born and been an integral part of its connoisseurs’ life. Its patrons swear by it and its competitors fear its reach. Even “Bacardi” and “Tundray” with its international market are barely ahead of it while “Old Monk” is served only in the Indian diaspora.
Dearest monk, all we wish to tell you is that your presence in our lives gives us a wider spectrum to look out to. In regulated quantities you have added a lot of colours to our lives and given us moments of joy and gaiety. So, whenever this question is posed to us about your age asking, “has the monk grown old?” all we answer is, “The monk is ageless”.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead. Consumption of alcohol is dangerous to the health.
How Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday..
There were two individuals in Indian folklore (one of them was a part of History too) who gave a new spectrum to the emotion of love (I refer to the worldly use of the “word”). Devdas and Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
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