Eating Out

Through the phone comes the first good omen on a hot, humid day. “Aamna, I amhere,” says a gentle, clear voice. This is Ahmed Faraz, one of the greatest Urdupoets of the subcontinent today. Faraz drops the K and calls me Aamna, the revered name inIslam. It’s flattering. Faraz has a wandering soul that has experienced the deepangst of self-inflicted exile. The exile produced, among other works, a body of poetrythat talks of the loss of cultural habitat, of displacement and migration to an alien landin pursuit of a livelihood. Hijrat (migration) is sacred in Islam, but his hijrat did nothave even that saving grace:
Shikam ki aag liye phirti hai shahar ha shahar/Sag-e-zamana hain hum, hamari hijratkya (The fire of our belly makes us wander from place to place, hijrat is not forpariahs like us).

I’ve known Faraz for long. He is one of the star poets of our mushaira,Jashn-e-Bahar. His poetic imagery is matchless and full of rhythm; it is hard to believethat Urdu is not his mother tongue.

We decide to dine at our favourite: House of Ming at Taj Mansingh. I settle for thevegetarian fare. “The same for me as well”, Faraz chimes in, “of course,the best vegetable for me is chicken.” Choice of food out of the way, I ask him torecite some of his unpublished poetry. He obliges: Nala-e-nai, sharar-e-sang,sukoot-e-sehra/Apni apni rawish-e-nauha gari hai khamosh (The flute’s cry, thespark in stone, the calm of the desert. To each their own lament, quiet)!

The lemon coriander soup tastes all the more delicate with Faraz’s poetry.  Just then, a lady fan of Faraz (and their numbers are legion) spots him and ambles across.Faraz: Aap ki tarif? (who are you)? Lady: Main bala hoon (I am aspectre).Faraz: “To chimat jaiye” (then capture me). The spectredeparts. We talk some more poetry, this time about the Hindi version of his anthology thatI am compiling and publishing for release coinciding with the mushaira. It’s time formeetha. Overcome by my sweet tooth, I order darsan. It is amusing to watch this strappingPathan, who had a second ago imperiously declared he wouldn’t touch sweets, helphimself generously to the caramelised flat noodles tossed with nuts and served with icecream and smiles. It’s time to leave but not before Faraz’s sentimental offer offriendship, so apt in the background of the recent happenings: Tumhare des mein aayahoon doston abke/Na saaz-o-naghme ki mehfil na shairi ke liye/Agar tumhari ana hi ka haisawaal to phir/ Chalo main haath badhata hoon dosti ke liye (Again I come to yourland friends, not for amusement, or for poetry’s sake/If ego holds you back, then Istretch my hand in friendship).