A Wizard of Words, A Poet for the People
Let me begin with a brief quiz.
Which poem became, nearly three
decades after its composition, the title song of a superhit film?
Which poet’s pen-name meant “wizard”?
Which poet-lyricist wrote in Urdu and Hindi with equal felicity—and commanded a
fee higher than the music director, along with royalty?
If you got them right, you follow both
poetry and film songs closely.
The answers: Kabhi Kabhie and
Sahir Ludhianvi.
Sahir Ludhianvi: A Tribute
Recently, Club Literati, Bhopal hosted
an event on Sahir Ludhianvi (1921–1980), the celebrated Urdu poet and film
lyricist. Nishat Waseem, former Doordarshan anchor, read from her script Sahir:
Aman Ka Pujari, accompanied by Sanjeev Sachdeva’s instrumental music as
muted film scenes played in the background. The audience listened in rapt
attention, loving her well-researched script, thoughtful presentation and
elegant diction.
“I had written this script more than
thirty years ago,” Nishat remarked.
Abdul Hayee lived up to his takhallus—a
wizard of words. For nearly three decades, Sahir wrote both poetry and film
lyrics before his untimely death at fifty-nine. In one of his well-known lines,
he voiced a poet’s angst about transitoriness of life and fleeting fame:
कल कोई मुझको याद करे,
क्यूँ कोई मुझको याद करे
मसरूफ़ ज़माना मेरे लिए,
क्यूँ वक़्त अपना बर्बाद करे
And yet, decades later, he was
remembered with warmth and admiration by an audience of poetry lovers and film
enthusiasts.
The evening ended with a standing
ovation. As I returned home, I opened Rekhta and, for the first time, read some
of Sahir’s nazms quoted during the programme. Over the next few days, I
listened to his songs online, discovering—somewhat belatedly—that he had
written many of my favourites. Until then, the lyricist had been a name in the
credits, easy to overlook.
Film Song: Poetry for the Masses
Poetry was his passion, film lyrics his
vocation. Sahir straddled both worlds with rare ease. His poetry bears the
imprint of a serious, thinking mind; his film lyrics carried that sensibility
to a far wider audience.
A member of the Progressive Writers’
Association, his early poetry is marked by a modern, socially conscious voice.
In Taj Mahal, he famously questioned the emperor’s grand monument as a
symbol of love:
इक शहंशाह ने दौलत का सहारा लेकर
हम ग़रीबों की मोहब्बत का उड़ाया है मज़ाक़
In Chakle, he exposed the
commodification of women; in Parchaiyan, he reflected on the horrors of
war. Even a song like Allah tero naam, Ishwar tero naam, while
devotional in form, carried an undercurrent of compassion—for the weak, and for
a world longing for peace.
Was Sahir a greater poet or a greater
lyricist? He certainly wrote far more songs than poems—but can artistic worth
be measured by volume?
A poem and a film song inhabit very
different worlds. A poem is read in solitude; its impact depends entirely on
words. A film song, by contrast, is part of a collaborative medium—shaped by
music, voice, performance, and visual context.
A film song must serve a larger
narrative. Within a few minutes, it must deepen emotion, advance the story, and
remain memorable—an exacting constraint. It is not a standalone creation, but a
vital component of a larger artistic enterprise.
If a film is a ship, the song is one
among many passengers. The director steers the voyage; actors, musicians,
writers, and technicians form the crew. Together, they create an experience
meant for a wide audience. The song’s success depends not only on its lyrics,
but on how well it integrates into this whole.
Given these differences, can film
lyrics be judged by the same standards as poetry? Must poetry simplify itself
to reach the masses—or does it, in doing so, discover a different kind of
strength?
Urdu in Hindi Cinema
Urdu, spoken by a relatively small
percentage of Indians, has nonetheless held a distinctive place in Hindi
cinema. Its cadence, imagery, and expressive richness have shaped some of the
most memorable songs and dialogues.
Films like Mughal-e-Azam and Pakeezah
carried a strong Urdu imprint, yet found immense popularity. As a viewer with
modest Hindi and limited Urdu, I often enjoyed such films without fully
understanding every word. Unfamiliar phrases like ये दुनिया है या आलम-ए-बद-हवासी
or ऐ मेरी ज़ोहरा ज़बीं did not hinder the experience; their
emotional resonance was unmistakable.
Javed Akhtar, in his early days, once
asked Sahir why he used elevated Urdu that many listeners might not fully
grasp.
Sahir replied with characteristic
clarity: if a listener understands even one line of a couplet, it suffices; if
neither is understood, then there may be a problem.
His approach reflects a larger truth
about cinema: meaning does not travel through vocabulary alone. Voice, music,
situation, and performance carry emotion to the audience.
Consider the qawwali “Aye meri Zohra
Jabeen” filmed on Balraj Sahni serenading his coy spouse. The phrase
evokes an image of radiant beauty, rooted in Persian tradition. Few pause to
analyse it; fewer need to. The emotion is immediate.
Similarly, in “Main pal do pal ka
shayar hoon,” the phrase masroof zamana—a world absorbed in its own
concerns—carries literary weight, yet its sentiment is instantly accessible.
Sahir’s language could be elevated,
but it was never ornamental. Even when a word eluded the listener, the feeling
remained intact.
Language, Sound, and Discovery
The Club Literati event led me to
explore Sahir more deeply—and to expand my modest Urdu vocabulary: sahir,
kandeel, masroof, Zohra Jabeen, among others.
I also became aware of a subtle
phonetic discipline in Urdu poetry. Forms like miri and tiri,
instead of meri and teri, soften the sound and enhance
musicality—a reminder that poetry lives as much in sound as in sense.
Kabhi Kabhie
When I first heard Kabhi Kabhie
(1976), I was drawn to the voices of Mukesh and Lata Mangeshkar, the on-screen
chemistry of Amitabh Bachchan and Rakhee, and the film’s emotional texture. The
lyricist barely registered.
Why did the title song become an
instant hit, even winning the Filmfare Award for Best Lyrics?
Part of the answer lies in
collaboration. Sahir’s words, Khayyam’s music, the singers’ voices, and Yash
Chopra’s visual storytelling came together to create something memorable. The
song deepened the film’s exploration of love, loss, lament and longing—perhaps
echoing Sahir’s own complex relation with Amrita Pritam.
Unlike a poem on the printed page, the
song existed within a cinematic context. It was not solitary, but
relational—drawing strength from the narrative around it.
Amitabh Bachchan and a Creative Gamble
After Zanjeer (1973) and Sholay
(1975), Amitabh Bachchan had become synonymous with the “angry young man.”
Casting him as a sensitive poet in Kabhi Kabhie was a bold departure.
Yash Chopra’s decision to use Sahir’s
much older poem—first published in 1944—was equally striking. He persuaded the
poet to reshape it for the screen.
The original nazm[i]
began with romantic longing but moved towards darkness and existential despair,
consistent with its inclusion in Talkhiyan (Bitterness). For the film,
Sahir retained the opening lines but reworked the rest, softening its tone and
making it more accessible, while preserving its emotional core.
The result was a song that resonated
widely—retaining poetic depth while fitting seamlessly into a popular medium.
Closing Reflection
Perhaps Sahir’s quiet anxiety—that the
masroof zamana would forget him—was misplaced.
His poems may live in books and on
platforms like Rekhta, read by a discerning few. But his songs—carried by
voice, music, and memory—have travelled far beyond the page.
In cinema halls, on radio waves, and
now across digital screens, they continue to find new listeners who may not
always know the poet—but feel his words.
That is no small afterlife.
If poetry seeks permanence, and song
seeks reach, Sahir achieved both—rarely, and almost effortlessly.
[i] कभी कभी (Original
Nazm-Source: Rekhta)
कभी कभी मिरे दिल
में ख़याल आता है
कि जिंदगी तिरी
जुल्फ़ों की नर्म छाँव में
गुज़रने पाती तो शादाब
हो भी सकती थी
ये तीरगी
जो मिरी जीस्त का मुक़द्दर है
तिरी नज़र की शुआ'ओं में खो भी सकती थी
अजब न था कि मैं बेगाना-ए-अलम
हो कर
तिरे जमाल की
रानाइयों में खो रहता
तिरा गुदाज़
बदन तेरी नीम-बाज़ आँखें
इन्ही हसीन
फ़सानों में महव हो रहता
पुकारतीं मुझे जब
तल्खियाँ ज़माने की
तिरे लबों से हलावत
के घूँट पी लेता
हयात चीख़ती फिरती बरहना
सर और मैं
घनेरी जुल्फ़ों
के साए में छुप के जी लेता
मगर ये हो न सका
और अब ये आलम है
कि तू नहीं तिरा
ग़म तेरी जुस्तुजू भी नहीं
गुज़र रही है कुछ
इस तरह ज़िंदगी जैसे
इसे किसी के
सहारे की आरजू भी नहीं
ज़माने भर के
दुखों को लगा चुका हूँ गले
गुज़र रहा हूँ
कुछ अन-जानी रहगुज़ारों से
मुहीब साए मिरी सम्त
बढ़ते आते हैं
हयात ओ मौत के पुर-हौल
खारज़ारों से
न कोई जादा-ए-मंज़िल
न रौशनी का सुराग़
भटक रही है ख़लाओं
में ज़िंदगी मेरी
इन्ही खलाओं में
रह जाऊँगा कभी खो कर
मैं जानता हूँ
मिरी हम-नफ़स मगर यूँही
कभी कभी मिरे दिल
में ख़याल आता है
***
(Urdu words and phrases
for which an average Hindi reader may need a dictionary are in BOLD).
Translation (By Blogger)
At times,
My heart weaves a quiet
fantasy—
How blissful life would
have been,
Had I found shelter
In the cool shade of
your tresses;
Your luminous gaze
Dispelling the darkness
within me.
Freed from sorrow,
I might have wandered
endlessly
In the grace of your
presence—
Your delicate form,
Your half-open eyes,
Your unspoken
invitation.
When bruised by the
world,
I would have sipped
From the sweetness of
your lips;
And, pursued by fate,
Found refuge
In your shadow.
But it was not to be.
You are gone—
And with you, even the
sharpness of loss.
Life moves on,
Unanchored, without
expectation.
I carry many burdens
now,
Beyond the memory of
love.
The path is uncertain,
The destination unclear.
Shadows gather—
From regions of despair
and silence.
There is no guiding
light,
No promise of arrival.
I know I may dissolve
Into this vast
emptiness.
And yet, at times,
A quiet thought returns—
A dream that never
flowered,
Still stirring the
heart.
***
