Tag: Begum Akhtar

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Review

Her Stories

Book Review by Farah Imam

Title: Her Story: Beyond Dimension

Author: (Raina) Rituparna Khan

Publisher: Haoajan Publishers

Rituparna Khan, an academic professional and artist, devotes her collection of short stories, Her Story: Beyond Dimension, “to the strong and beautiful being underneath the sky who runs and propels the globe in the truest direction… The Woman.” The singular destiny and universal history of women across time and space echo forbearance, creation, nurture, passion, perseverance, and more through every odd of society, recalling Virginia Woolf’s words, “As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the world.”

Her Story: Beyond Dimension is a collection of tributes to nine real-life historical revolutionary women whose contributions to society came at great sacrifice and were largely unsung in their time. Questioning the traditional realism, her stories offer multi-vocal, polysemous narratives with a story enclosed within a story and with exploratory, informative details about each influential historical woman character. In the genre of historical fantasy fiction, she highlights contributions as well as sacrifices of these remarkable women and synchronises historical and mythological facts with fantasy, offering us a compendium of breathtaking magical stories.

The short story ‘Myth to reality’ is a tribute to the last pharaoh of Egypt, Cleopatra VII Thea Philopater (70 BC – 31 BC). In the story, Orion Dasgupta was fascinated by the history and culture of Egypt and venerated the glorious queen to the point of obsession, so he readily agreed to the opportunity of his dream project of rehabilitation of dwellers in the vicinity of Aswan Dam over the Blue Nile. To his surprise, during his project, he encounters Cleopatra herself. An imaginative melding of magically connected experiences not only across time but also across identity is presented by the author when Cleopatra addresses him as her lover, Mark Antony. In the mythology, the enigmatic queen was estranged from her lover, Mark Anthony, at the Battle of Actium in 31 BC. This encounter of Orion Dasgupta with Cleopatra as the incarnation of Cleopatra’s lover Antony is a wish fulfilment having a cathartic effect on him and breaks the curse of unrequited longing of lovers.

The cycle of history resonates in her short story, ‘Reni and Gauri’. This story is a tribute to Gauri Devi (1925-1991), the leading woman figure who advocated the Chipko Movement to prevent deforestation in the Himalayan region of Uttarakhand, India. Inspired by the story of bravery and courage of environmental activist Gauri Devi, the author reincarnates her as Reni. The voice of Gaura Devi inspires across time, speaking through Reni. Her voice testifies to the lineage of ordinary women who changed the course of history with determination and consciousness and would continue to fight for environmental protection. The author nudges us to refrain from hero worship and continue to have faith in the spirit and courage of the common man.

The story ‘Last Flight’ is a tribute to and inspired by the life and sacrifices of Neerja Bhanot (1963-1986), an Indian head purser who died while saving passengers on Pan Am Flight 73. The flight had been hijacked by terrorists during a stopover in Karachi, Pakistan, on 5th September 1986. The story, ‘Cosmic Connection’, pays tribute to the Indian-born American astronaut Kalpana Chawla. Riya is a teen aspiring to become a space scientist. On her thirteenth birthday, she is gifted a magical sojourn to Columbia, the space shuttle, where she meets Kalpana Chawla and her crew. To her surprise, Kalpana addressed her as her mother, urging her ‘to live my dream, live your dream, and live the dreams of numerous children, especially the girls to fulfil their dreams’, thereby motivating and inspiring the young teen and emphasising the connected nature of our experiences and journey.

The story, ‘Rendezvous with Reflection’ is a tribute to the legendary Anne Frank (1929-1942), author of Diary of a Young Girl, which documents her hidden life during the Holocaust. During the COVID quarantine period, the protagonist feels in a slump, perusing through the pages of Anne Frank’s book ‘Diary of a Young Girl’ multiple times, only to find Anne Frank herself conjured up in the mirror as her reflection. Often reality proves not too congenial to our existence; this doesn’t always leave us in despair because the imaginative and creative power of humans’ triumphs through tough times. The spectacle of Anne Frank leaves an imprint upon the protagonist.

The short story, ‘First Lady’, is a tribute to Dr Kadambini Ganguly (1861-1923), the first practising lady doctor of British and South-East Asia. She narrates her life of hardship and courage, where even in her early years she puts her life at risk to treat her ailing cousin suffering from cholera in an abandoned cow shed. This is a tribute to all the female doctors who have worked hard for the cause of people but instead faced prejudice and distrust due to unquestioned patriarchal assumptions of society.

Rituparna’s short story ‘A Self-Taught Artist’ is centred around Sunayani Devi (1875-1962), the first modern woman artist of the Bengal School of Arts. Hiya, a twelve-year-old daughter, has an fondness for painting. To the surprise of her mother, she etched perfectly a portrait of a woman gazing at the full moon from her terrace, the same picture that was found in the archive of Sunayani Devi in the wash technique, a technique in which she had no prior training. Possessed by the spirit of Sunayani Devi, she begins to narrate the story of the artist’s difficult and courageous life. Her voice is shared by the authorial voice that criticises the patriarchal culture with the inflamed rhetoric that is direct, empowering and persuasive.

In ‘A Mellifluous Evening’, Arun Chowdhury, a young man in his late twenties, trained in Hindustani classical music by his mother with no formal training or certifications, suffers from failures to make a musical career and struggles through paltry economic conditions. His icon is the famous Indian Thumri singer, Begum Akhtar (1914-1974), the queen of ghazal. Disheartened by the vagaries of life, a ray of hope illuminates his existence with the vision of Begum Akhtar’s spectre, and her mellifluous voice leaves him mesmerised.  Only his love for music could sustain him in these trying times with an indomitable spirit.

Fantasy, in these stories, provides an outlet for the artiste within.  It challenges the unified constrained self to go beyond limits in the realisation of their dreams.

In ‘A Liberated Soul’,  while awaiting the second dose of vaccine during bitter COVID times, the protagonist meets a little girl seeking to sell a little bird to the only person who would readily set the bird free as a symbol of “a COVID-free world, a happy and free world of peace and liberty”. We hear the poignant, tragic story of Joan of Arc, who was burnt at stake in 1431 BCE, through the voice of the little girl who reveals the bird to be none other than Joan of Arc’s only friend, Balami.

Rituparna’s collection Her Stories: Beyond Dimension is a riveting and astounding read, gripping the readers to the edge of their seats with lore from mythology and history, with fantastical gymnastic poetic renditions of supernatural coincidences and timeless messages of consciousness and diligence for society.  Each of her stories is also accompanied by the character sketch of the historical figures done by Juli Baruah, a renowned painter from Jorhat, Assam. History is not a dated, fixed historical time but returns to inspire, encourage and motivate.

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Farah Imam is an avid reader, passionate creative writer, poet, and literary critic. Her works are recognised in various publications.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Slices from Life

Wayward Wayanad

Narratives and Photographs by Mohul Bhowmick

Chembra stands out imperceptibly in the background as the mist descends over its northern side. The driver of the rickety auto-rickshaw in which I make the topsy-turvy trip from Kalpetta settles to drop me at the backpacker’s hostel at Chembra’s foothills for 500 rupees. A vast tea estate stretches out for as far as the eye can see, and it is only when one edges closer to the property’s north-western precipice is any semblance of Wayanad encountered. 

Originally a hospital set up by the British in the 1920s, the hostel is a renovated colonial-style structure with a vast corridor that runs parallel to its rooms. I learnt much later that the tea estate that houses the hostel is spread over 700 acres. The fall to the northwest is spectacular, with hills in the lower range of the Western Ghats basking in the late evening sun as it makes its way down to the low-country orbs of Mysore and Chamarajanagar.

It is no surprise that one has to cross Bandipur to reach Wayanad in the first place; any easier and one would have been tempted to think that one was within the anonymity of civilisation.

*

Earlier in the day, the elephants that I spotted from an unobtrusive window on the bus from Mysore seemed triumphant and exultant — for what I did not know. The egret that sat contentedly upon the shoulders of a rather guileless water buffalo winked at me as I struggled to bring my camera out of the mishmash that my backpack had become. I was reminded of an older boy with whom I never got along in school and who often bullied me for the pancakes my mother painstakingly packed. 

*

I am forced to snap out of this reverie when my hostess reminds me that elephants were spotted at the southern expanses of the property a few days ago. She asks me to not step out after dark. In the common area boasting of a sit-out on a makeshift tree house, a motley crew from all hues of life rejoice at what appears to be a joint venture launched by a businessman from Bangalore and an engineer from Bombay. I join the pack and am welcomed by a loud cheer.

John, a chartered accountant who rode all the way from Coimbatore on his imported motorcycle, recounts having seen a leopard when turning in one of the several snaking curves when climbing from Kalpetta. He slurs as he articulates and his eyes appear bloodshot; I know only too well to separate the wheat from the chaff. Advait, a veterinarian from Anantapur, rebuffs everything that John says and vociferously advocates for an early dinner. He is, quite promptly, turned down.

*

The trek towards the peak of Chembra is made through the heartland of the eponymous forest range. Langurs peer out inadvertently while a flying squirrel makes an appearance from its cosmic abode. Catching sight of me and my companions’ incongruously sunscreened visages, it jumps shyly onto the double-storied Bo where it has made its home. Murali, the young forest officer who accompanies us jokes with Estelle, the German lady who quite fortuitously chooses to trek in her Birkenstock footwear, about sightings of bears in the vicinity but restrains himself when she turns ashen white. 

The heart-shaped lake peeks with unabashed curiosity as we huff and puff our way up to the midway point of the trek. To our great consternation, this is where we have to end our trip as the summit of the peak is sealed off by the government. A few years ago, Murali tells us, a group of nincompoops who made it to the summit lit a couple of cigarettes to celebrate. They did not, however, stub them when they were done. What happened next is well documented — a forest fire of gargantuan scale that wiped out about 60 hectares of forest land and claimed the lives of hundreds of wild animals. The summit has been off-limits to travellers ever since. 

The parched outcrops that surround the lake by no means diminish the panorama that lies to the west. A faint countenance of the vast fields of tea and paddy which fortify the district of Wayanad is visible through the mist. It is almost noon, but my companions and I find no reason to shed our coats. Specks of Mohit Chauhan’s Phir Se Ud Chala[1] fill the air; it feels as if Chembra herself has come to life. 

It is not exactly wise, but we surrender to the lure of lying down on the grass and bask, cocooned by the benevolent gaze of Chembra. Dark clouds brew overhead but Begum Akhtar reassures us in her palliative voice, and it is not before the first drops fall on my forehead that I alert the others over our predicament. Unsurprisingly, I find that most of my friends had nodded off, obliged by the exercise and the accompanying iridescent breeze. 

*

The descent, as always, is trickier than the climb, and we take refuge from the rain under a giant rock midway. The shelter is insubstantial for a group of ten, and we end up getting soaked to the skin anyway. Murali, rather ingeniously, offers his service raincoat to Estelle. Much to his chagrin, she declines, and continues unabated in her soaking t-shirt, Nike track pants and Birkenstocks. Someone mentions a childhood spent in the Bavarian Alps…

Dry leaves fall from the trees — these untimely showers ensure that they are not held on to their material comforts for long — and the fauna we encountered on the way up seemed to have disappeared. The langurs call out occasionally, but the mynahs respond in dulcet tones of their own. 

Drenched to the core yet alive beyond measure, the rain loses significance as we meander down the trail. Consciousness makes itself felt in every cell of my body as I lumber past the sludge and try to find a foothold on the wet tracks. Awake to the moment and mindful of not slipping — essentially holding my life in my hands — I experience a pacifying sense of tranquillity that I normally associate with timing a straight drive back past the bowler on a cloudy afternoon at the Gymkhana.

Damp pathways mark our way back to the hostel. On the way, an appetising breakfast of puttu and kadala curry[2] is sought to calm our nerves. A gulp of tea, brewed from the plants of the estate on which our hostel stands, soothes and brings some warmth back into our bodies. After that, we sleep all afternoon. The 1980s restaurant at this point serves as a reputable hotbed for the exchange of accounts as fellow travellers make their way upcountry for further investigation. Krishnagiri, Edakkal, Banasura and even Ooty, among other places, feature on their itinerary. Buses out of Meppadi take the circuitous route towards Sultan Bathery via Kalpetta. A few companions remain as I make the hike back to the hostel. 

Last vestiges of the raindrops from earlier in the day cling on with pride on the tea leaves. Seen from a distance as we walk up the bend onto the track that leads to the hostel’s gates, it appears as if the leaves have shed tears of their own. 

The sky turns a dull shade of orange, almost as if playing testament to friendships made and attachments uncovered. I am content enough to watch the sunset over the lower Western Ghats as another pre-monsoon drizzle wafts in. Someone mentions a fresh batch of pazham pori[3] being made in the kitchen. I scramble down the tree house to beat the rush.

[1] Song from Bollywood movie, Rockstar. Translates to: He flew again

[2] Local fare. Rice cake and spicy chick pea curry

[3] Banana Fritters

Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Essay

Begum Akhtar: The ‘Mallika-e-Ghazal’

By Bhaskar Parichha

‘When I decided to be a singer, my mother warned me I’d be alone a lot. Basically we all are. Loneliness comes with life.’

-Whitney Houston

For Begum Akhtar loneliness came rather belatedly — after her marriage to barrister Ishtiaq Ahmed Abbasi. With marriage came the ban — no music, no concert. How can a Begum sing publicly?

However, Akhtaribai Faizabadi, as she was known before marriage, couldn’t have lived a day without a recital because she was born for it.

Her first guru was Ustad Imdad Khan, a great sarangi exponent. She was also trained under Ata Mohammed Khan. But it was in Kolkata in the early thirties that her musical career took a big twirl. She began learning music from such classical stalwarts like Mohammad Khan, Abdul Waheed Khan and Ustad Jhande Khan. There was no going back after that.

Begum Akhtar gave her first public performance at a very early age — fifteen to be precise and she took the music world by storm.  Sarojini Naidu — the nightingale of India — was so moved   by Begum Akhtar’s singing during a concert organised in the aid of victims of Bihar earthquake that she prophesied the materialisation of a great singer in the young Akhtaribai.

Ghazal singing was Begum’s forte. She cut her first disc for the Megaphone Record Company in the mid-thirties followed by a number of gramophone records carrying her ghazals, dadras, thumris.  What is little known about the ‘Queen of Ghazals’ is that she was a feminist to the core.  Begum lived her life like no other woman till her death in 1974. She had dared to play around with the freedom to make choices in life, revealing a true feminist soul.

With the advent of the talkie era in India, Begum Akhtar acted in a few Hindi movies. In fact, she was the leading lady in films of those times. Ek Din Ka Badshah (An Emperor for a Day) was her first film produced by the East India Film Company of Calcutta. Then came Nala Damayanti (1933).  Like others of her genre, she herself sang her songs. She continued acting and there were a couple of memorable films to her credit: Ameena (1934), Mumtaz Begum (1934), Jawaani Ka Nasha (The Drunkenness of Youth, 1935), Naseeb Ka Chakkar (The Circle of Destiny, 1935). She acted in Roti (1942) — produced and directed by Mehboob Khan — for which she sang six ghazals. The music was composed by melody maestro Anil Biswas.

Begum Akhtar’s association with films continued even after a face-off with Mehboob Khan. Music Director Madan Mohan gave her a chance to sing in two of his films– Daana Paani (Food-Water,1953) and Ehsaan (Favour,1954). Satyajit Ray’s Bengali film Jalsaghar (The Music Room, 1958) was her very last role where she played the role of a classical singer. Begum Akhtar alternated between Bombay and Lucknow in pursuit of her career. She had a stint in theatre too. But her voice needed to be regularly hoisted up. So, she gave up acting in theatre.

Begum Akhtar’s voice matured with time, adding richness and depth. She sang ghazals and light classical pieces in her inimitable style. She has nearly four hundred songs to her credit — an incredible inventory for someone who grew up amid harsh conditions.

A regular performer on All India Radio, she invariably composed her own ghazals and most of her compositions were raga– based. Begum Akhtar had a deep, husky and richly-timbered voice with nasal intonations. In her thumris she blended the Purab and Punjabi styles. She did not resort to taan patterns in a fast tempo. Her dadras were infused with a sprightly mood; her ghazals were thumri-oriented with much scope for improvisation.

The peculiar charm of her voice was easier felt than described. Hers was an extraordinary voice — not ‘round or petal-soft but angular and pincer-like.’ She was known to use a momentary split in her voice, called ‘patti’, which appeared like a crack in the upper register. It is said that her admirers waited for the ‘patti’ to come out when she sang.
Begum Akhtar was a scholar of Urdu poetry too. Her favorite poets were Ghalib, Dadh, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Jigar Moradabadi, Shakeel Badayuni, and Kaifi Azmi. Many small poets rose to prominence when she selected their lyrics. It speaks highly of her music that she had an impressive following even in regions where Urdu or Hindi was not properly understood. In later years she sang in Bengali and Gujarati too. She taught for a trice at the Bhatkhande College of Music in Lucknow. Her disciples included Shanti Hiranand, Rita Ganguly, Vasundhara Pandit, and Rekha Surya.

The singing sensation’s last concert was held in Ahmedabad. It was here that she fell ill and had to be rushed to a hospital. Death came her way on the 30th of October, 1974 leaving a big void in ghazal singing. She was posthumously awarded the Padmabhushan, the third highest civilian award in India.

Begum Akhtar’s name is synonymous with the notion of ghazal gaayaki*. She immortalized her own definitive style of singing — a style that few have been able to be equivalent. She is fittingly called — Mallika-e-Ghazal.

*The mode of rendition

Bhaskar Parichha is a Bhubaneswar-based  journalist and author. He writes on a broad spectrum of  subjects , but more focused on art ,culture and biographies.His recent book ‘No Strings Attached’ has been published by Dhauli Books.