Ajeeb aadmi tha woh! (He was a strange man!) This is the title of the poem Javed Akhtar has penned to commemorate poet-lyricist Kaifi Azmi’s first death anniversary (May 9). Akhtar couldn’t have written a better poem to pay tribute to Kaifi. “Ajeeb aadmi tha woh/mohabbaton ka geet tha, baghawaton ka raag tha/kabhi woh sif phool tha, kabhi woh sirf aag tha (He was a strange man/a song of love, a tune of rebellion/sometimes he was flower, at other times he was fire),” go the opening lines. To Akhtar, Kaifi is the emblematic strange man. A crusader, a card carrying communist, a great romantic, a beacon of hope, an apostle of healthy values — all rolled into one. Referring to Kaifi’s anguish over the loss India suffered towards end of the 20th century, Akhtar puts words into Kaifi’s mouth: “Ujjad rahi hai yeh zameen/kutch iska ab shringar kar (This land is being ruined/now decorate it).” Kaifi would have approved. Didn’t he felt anguished whenever someone harmed India? If he raised his voice against but shikni (iconoclasm) in Somnath, he cried at Ram’s Doosra banwas (second exile) in Ayodhya. Describing the denouement of December 6, the poet creates an imaginary scene where Ram returns to Ayodhya, but is piqued at his followers’ delirious dance. Chhe December ko Ram ne socha hoga/itne deewane kahan se mere ghar mein aaye (On December 6 Ram would have thought/ where did all these followers come from). Dismayed at the quick transformation of Ayodhya into a battlefield, Ram visits the bank of the Saryu for solace. But, there too, he finds pools of blood everywhere. Horrified, Ram immediately leaves Ayodhya, lamenting: Chhe December ko mila doosra banwas mujhe (I got my second exile on December 6). Some critics dismissed Kaifi’s poetry, especially his two collections Jhankar and Akhire Shab, as mere propaganda. But which progressive writer has escaped this charge? If standing for the poor and fighting fascism is propaganda, so be it. The progressives introduced new idioms, gave new expressions to both poetry and prose. To deny the progressives’ contribution is a literary crime. How would our literature look minus the likes of Prem Chand, Sajjad Zahir, Makhdoom Mohiuddin, Krishan Chander, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Saadat Hasan Manto, Jafri and Kaifi? Krishan Chander once said Kaifi “had taken the pains of the entire world in his heart.” Akhtar rightly reiterates Kaifi’s optimism. He lives among those who dare to dream. He moves among those who dare to speak. He walks among those who dare to see. “Rahunga inke dramiyan/ke jab main beet jaunga (I will live among them/when I am gone),” concludes Akhtar. Yes, Kaifi, Akhtar’s strange man, still lives among us.
