An English translation of Habib Tanvir’s memoirs throws light on the lighter moments from the poet and actor’s life
Abu Turab Rizvi was two years senior to me. He himself was not a poet but had a great yen for poetry and he was also quite widely read. When he learnt that I was composing poetry he drew close to me and introduced me to the works of the poet Yagana. I was in first year then and had never heard of Yagana. He would often recite this sher of Yagana, which he liked, and go into raptures:
Maut maangi thi, judaai to nahi maangi thi Ja dua kar chale ab tark-e-dua karte hain (I had asked for death, not separation, I am done with praying now I forsake the prayer).
In the same vein he would repeatedly recite a sher by Chakbast and break into applause saying, ‘What a satire on the hypocrisy of the mullahs and the maulvis’:
Gunaah aur na karte sharaab hi peete Ye kya kiya gunaah to kiya sharaab na pee (Would I had given up other sins but gone on drinking, rather, I gave up drinking but kept up with other sins).
I was a little familiar with Chakbast’s poems and his oeuvre but had never heard couplets of this nature. Perhaps it was under the influence of this or another sher of similar vintage that one day I proposed to Salam and Qureshi, ‘Yaar, we should try drinking sometime.’ They responded with enthusiasm. Qureshi said he knew of a hotel where we could go and drink; some Anglo-Indian friend from college had told him that Modern Hotel served great booze.
Modern Hotel was near the railway station, below the hillock where the British had built a fortress-like barrack. Qureshi said the drinks would be on him. He came from a well-to-do family and used to receive a substantial sum as pocket money. Whenever we went to have chai at the Delhi Hotel or sweets at the Bengali restaurant in Sita Baldi, it was Qureshi who’d always be the first to volunteer to pay the bill. We reached Modern Hotel and found a quiet corner where we could not be spotted easily. We ordered three small pegs of Scotch. The liveried waiter brought them along with ice and soda. With great nervousness we took the first sip and began to converse. Qureshi was bragging about his erotic adventures and escapades in Betul, and true to his character Salam remained extremely quiet and impassive, not letting on from his face whether he liked or minded talk of this kind, although I was aware that he disliked such trivial talk.
Whereas I would respect Salam for his reservation, Qureshi would only ridicule it. In no time, the drinks were over. We did not order another round partly because it was very expensive and partly because this was our first attempt and we wanted to be careful. When we exited the hotel and began to walk to the hostel, the journey lasting 15 or 20 minutes was spent in each person minutely analysing the expressions or the walk of the other one and saying to one another, ‘You are drunk, you fool, you have begun to stumble.’ I kept repeating the same lines to Qureshi:
Gunaah aur na karte sharaab hi peete, Ye kya kiya gunaah to kiya sharaab na pee
‘Yaar Qureshi, Salam and I are naive and innocent souls, virgins, whereas look at you, you are one dissolute soul, weighed down by sins. Arre, if nothing else you should have taken to drink and avoided other sins. There is time yet, give up my friend, abstain and drink as much as you want when you feel like sinning.’ Talking in this vein and laughing to our hearts’ content, we made our way back to our rooms.
Excerpted with permission from Penguin Books India from Habib Tanvir Memoirs, translated by Mahmood Farooqui