Beauty and the pen

July 04, 2014 05:20 pm | Updated July 05, 2014 01:13 pm IST

Noorul Hasan deserves a lot of credit for bringing to lovers of literature the pen of Meena Kumari

Noorul Hasan deserves a lot of credit for bringing to lovers of literature the pen of Meena Kumari

As a little boy, I grew up on the legend of Meena Kumari. Almost everybody had words of praise for her craft and beauty, almost everybody had sighed at her sorrow, many known, many more perceived. When Kamal Amrohi’s Pakeezah was released, it initially got a lukewarm reception at the box office, Naushad and Ghulam Mohammed’s haunting music notwithstanding. Then came the news of Meena Kumari’s untimely death, aged 41. And the box office overflowed in sympathy. Men and women who had not entered a cinema hall for years came out in tongas and buggies to watch her one last time. Partly, it was their respect for a flawed genius; mainly, it was out of sorrow. Everybody cried for Meena Kumari. She, on her own, cried a lot more. And with Pakeezah , the resident tragedy queen of our times bid adieu to the mortal world, leaving behind memorable shows like Sahib Biwi aur Ghulam , Bahu Begum , Pakeezah and the rest.

What she also left behind was unpublished poetry; again, often drowned in melancholy. Her poems talked of human anxieties, a human heart that loved to be loved, a woman, popular and respected, in need of love. She also talked of life, in Kafka-like fashion, and maybe imagined herself to be a Monroe of our nation. For long her sentiments stayed in her diary, except a rare whisper here or there that a particular couplet or ghazal in a poetry collection or film was probably penned by Meena Kumari. Rumour mongers had a good time. But her real fans remembered the films, watched them over and over again. The poetry lay both hidden and unknown. Not so anymore. All thanks to Noorul Hasan’s book, “Meena Kumari: The Poet: A life Beyond Cinema” which has just been published by Roli Books.

In the fitness of things, Gulzar’s words mark the book jacket. And not without a touch of irony, Gulzar too chooses to talk of her death to talk of her life. With Meena it seems, life was just a journey waiting to reach the destination of death; films, poetry, relationships were mere roadblocks. “Meena...closed her eyes and went to sleep/Bidding life adieu! Never once did she breathe Thereafter/ After a trying life full of struggle and strife,/ Wasn’t it a remarkably stark and easy death!,” Gulzar writes — yes, he is the same poet who as a young man probably encouraged her to write her thoughts. She nursed a relationship of rare trust with him. And over the years, Gulzar too talked of her style of poetry, her heart ruling her head and the like.

It all comes together pretty beautifully in this book where Meena Kumari not only shows a mirror to her aching soul but also a little window to her talent beyond cinema. She was a much cherished actor, and an unsung poet. Here she talks of life in brooding tones. Darkness, sorrow, loneliness seem her constant companion, happiness is but a fleeting visitor. Early on she writes, “Har masar’rat ek barbad shuda gham hai, hai gham ek barbad shuda masar’rat (Each happiness is a devastated grief/Each grief a devastated happiness.)”

Similarly, talking of the times in ‘Zamana’, she covers herself with great fortitude. Each word a world removed from the fantasy driven world of Hindi cinema. “Moments fly like butterflies at times/Or on occasions scream like fragrances/cast in the plastic mould of time...”

The best comes in a work on a window, where she likens the window to a companion, a confidante. “Yeh khirki Meri dost, meri rafeeq, meri raazdar, mere dil ki sab dharkanon ki amil (This magic casement my friend, my comrade, my confidant, this custodian of the throbbing of my heart).

Often, as a little boy, I felt what was said for Meena Kumari. I had heard so many tales of sadness about her. This collection, even if doing little to change the perception, makes me feel slightly better. Meena could at least express herself better than others with a pen in her hand; maybe she used words for their therapeutic value. Maybe she wrote because, simply, she had to write.

The poetry comes with nuggets from some of her films, highlighting once again that the reader is here to celebrate the work of an actor at work with a pen and not a poet giving a free rein to her emotions. It is partly avoidable, but I guess Hasan had his reasons. He deserves a lot of credit for bringing to lovers of literature the pen of Meena Kumari. Predictably, it is a pen dipped in melancholy. Sigh.

The author is a seasoned literary critic.

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