Munir Niazi
The last time I met Munir Niazi was during the end of Ramadan, when he dropped by my office appearing fragile and wearing an Afghan cap. He said that he was going to be there for half an hour. He stayed for four hours. Frail and ailing, his mind was as lucid as ever. Recalling snapshots of the conversation, he bemoaned the paucity of creativity and the difficulty of finding someone with whom a quality conversation could be held. Also, he expressed his abiding apprehension of not becoming like ‘everyone else’. Munir was never ‘everyone else’. In the words of Robert Frost (whom he admired), he ‘took the road less traveled’. Coming from a landlocked area, he took to the seas and became a sailor in the Navy. His initial foray into the world of poetry was in the English language. Munir maintained, first and foremost, that a poet has to be a thinker; otherwise, he is a mere “versifier”. Ten thousand miles away from his final resting place, on a cool January evening in Washington, community figures gathered to salute his memory. Munir Niazi lived in the world of imagination and creation, of ideas and ideals. He was forever questioning the existing norms of a social setup where the venal and wealthy flourish with pomp and have a permanent aura of entitlement. In the last few years, he used to invite me as the chief guest during the private and modest marking of his birthday on April 9, which used to be orchestrated by poetess Neelma Durrani, who also happens to be a high-ranking police officer. There, the occasion used to become a mini-mushaira where Munir used to sit quietly and let other poets recite. Occasionally, a lady would hum his immortal “Us Bewafa Ka Shehr” pricelessly sung by Naseem Begum in the 1962 movie ‘Shaheed’. There were few poets that Munir Niazi rated. He, however, thought highly of Shailender, who hailed from Rawalpindi and composed the lyrics for Raj Kapoor’s hits like “Barsaat”, “Awara”, and “Aah.” |