People's Prometheus

Had I passed away last year

These sorrows too would have ended last year

The hands raised in enquiry are now paralyzed with fear

My patrons were not like this last year

(Habib Jalib, On My Birthday, 1975)

Habib Jalib (1928-93), the Marxist troubadour of Pakistan – a thorn in the flesh of every dictator, and a beacon of hope for the oppressed – who was born 90 years ago this year, was best known for his open mockery of General Zia-ul-Haq (playing with his name ‘Zia’ which means light, and contrasting it with the word zulmat, meaning darkness):

Why write that darkness is light, that a rustle is the breeze,

That a human is a god? Why?

Why call a stone a jewel, a wall a door, or call a firefly a lamp? Why?

His reward for such verses was long spells in jail under every possible dictator imaginable. His defiant verse must be read by imagining its context – that of a poet who was fully aware of the consequences of each public performance; and that of a person who had been incarcerated in brutal conditions, and would, after being released, immediately call attention to the oppressiveness of his interlocutors, and ready himself for another period in prison.

His defiant verse must be read by imagining its context - that of a poet who was fully aware of the consequences of each public performance; and that of a person who had been incarcerated in brutal conditions

If the Urdu language has actually given birth to any people’s poet after Nazeer Akbarabadi, then it would be Jalib. Like Nazeer he, too, was a people’s man. His lifestyle; manner of thinking and feeling; his values, affections and hatreds were those of the people. He translates the sorrows, pains, wishes and hopes of the people in their own language. The thousands and millions of people who adore Jalib so much and become uncontrollably emotional while listening to his verses – their adoration is not unreasonable.

The crime of Prometheus, the hero of Greek mythology was that he had taught Man the use of fire; and in so doing, he revealed a Divine secret to men. For this crime, the gods had Prometheus tied to a rock, where a vulture would eat away his flesh all day. Despite this agonising punishment, whenever the gods would ask him to seek forgiveness and rid himself of this torment, he would say that he accepted this agony but that servitude was unacceptable.

Habib Jalib was undoubtedly a poet of moments but how long is this moment that despite the passage of centuries, the pain of this moment does not subside?

Humans have always attained the stages of research and creation – and reached the summits of understanding and perception – with the help of their experience, observation and organs of mind. In every period of history, one finds such audacious souls who taught us the lesson of emancipation of the self and sharpened the flame of our social consciousness. In this regard, the dictatorship of Field Marshal Ayub Khan will always be memorable in that Justice Kayani and Jalib emerged during this dark period. Whenever the true history of this country will be written, the world will know that one felt afraid to breathe in an atmosphere of fear and dread. How they circulated the blood of life within the sinking pulse of the nation!

 

That which lights lamps only in palaces

That which caters to the whims of the elite classes

That which flourishes in the shadow of all compromises

Such a system, such a light-starved dawn

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

 

I am not to be excluded from the scaffold

I am Mansoor too, let the outsiders know

And how dare you scare me with talk of dungeons

This talk of tyranny, this ignorance dark as night

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

 

You tell me that flowers are blooming on trees

You tell me that the thirsty have found wine at taverns

You tell me that the tattered robes are now stitched

This open lie, this robbery of the senses

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

You have robbed us of our peace for centuries

But your spell has now been broken finally

Do not pretend to be the healer of wounds

You are no physician, others may believe you so, but

I do not agree! I do not abide!’

(I Do Not Abide!)

Extinguishing the thirst of thorns became the fate of Habib Jalib’s life; and narrating the glad tidings of a remedy to sorrow became his habit of existence. If he cried with one eye, and laughed with the other. Both his crying and laughter were with reference to the people; he cried at the sorry state of the people and laughed on their bright future. His poetry is a call of defeat and also a defiant shout of the passion of truth. He was never afraid of the heartrending experience of being destitute and powerless, but whenever the worshippers of darkness wore another veil after their nocturnal ambush, Habib Jalib tore it away.

Sometimes I wonder from where this dust-dwelling dervish got this daring that led to defiance; what is that power which disposed this kind-hearted and gentle-tempered man to fight evil and admit the truth? Actually, that power was the love of the people. And that spring which granted spirit and passion was also the power of the people. Habib Jalib had devoted his personality and poetry to the people. His poetry does not walk using the crutches of impressive symbols and metaphors.He protests against social inequalities, and does it openly. He does not wrap it up in velvet, in that according to his faith, any conversation about the observation of truth must be direct, albeit not under the curtain of wine and goblet or amid a heap of big tomes.

Habib Jalib was undoubtedly a poet of moments but how long is this moment that despite the passage of centuries, the pain of this moment does not subside? This moment is a never-ending tale of our decline and defeat, our helplessness and oppression, our struggle and sacrifices which the bleeding pen of Habib Jalib has narrated dressed up in art. His poetry is the poetic history of Pakistan, an album in which he has sketched every prick and palpitation of the moment very sincerely.

As Jalib himself says so lyrically:

All others forgot to defend the word of truth, alas

To write of revolution I was left alone at last

‘Do not write that nights are dark,’ they warned me in their fear

But I never sought to write with permission, my dear

(Like Ghalib) I crave no reward nor desire praise

But in support of the downtrodden, my voice I raise

Not even by oversight sang I an ode to the king

Perhaps this adds rhythm to my poems when I sing

What greater acclamation could this poet hope for?

Than that my writings annoyed those that were in power

I admit that I forgot amid this stark oppression

To write of youthful beauty, and call it devastation

Jalib, the king’s courtiers are free to say what they feel

None can hide the crimson colour my poems reveal.

(Others Forgot)

Raza Naeem is a Pakistani social scientist, book critic, award-winning translator and dramatic reader currently teaching in Lahore. He is also the president of the Progressive Writers Association in Lahore. His most recent work is an introduction to the reissued edition (HarperCollins India, 2016) of Abdullah Hussein’s classic novel ‘The Weary Generations’. He can be reached at: razanaeem@hotmail.com