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Noor Jehan - One in a Million
I think I first saw Nur Jehan in Khandan. She was certainly no ‘baby’ then, no sir, by no stretch of the imagination. She was as well-stacked as a young woman would wish to be with the assets women bring into play when required by the situation. To the movie-goers of those days, Nur Jehan was provocative, a ticking bombshell for whom they pined. Speaking for myself, I never found any such appeal in her. To me, there was just one thing about her which was phenomenal—her voice. After Saigal, she was the only singer who had impressed me. Her voice was pure like crystal. Even the suggestion of a note was discernible when she sang, being perfectly in command whether the notes she employed were in the lowest range, the middle one or the highest. I was sure if she so wished, she could stay on the same note for hours, like those street performers who can walk the entire length of a tightly stretched rope with perfect poise and the greatest ease.
In later years, she lost the resonance, richness and innocence which were once her hallmark; but Nur Jehan remained Nur Jehan. Lata Mangeshkar may have captivated the world but Nur Jehan only had to strike a note to make you sit up. Not many people would know that she was as conversant with the intricacies of classical music as any acknowledged maestro, being equally adept at singing thumri, khayal and even dhrapad, the last form with an authority that was astonishing. Music was bound to be in her bones because of the family and the surroundings in which she was born, but she spent years learning it. Her talent, then can be no question, was God-given. Technically, a singer maybe most adept but if the voice lacks ‘juice’, technical knowledge alone cannot move the listener. Nur Jehan had knowledge and she had her God-given voice. When these two things came together, the total effect was dazzling.
While one would think that a natural gift is always well looked after, often it is the other way round. Most gifted people are indifferent to their gift and, in fact, try consciously or otherwise to destroy it. Liquor is bad for the throat but the late K.L. Saigal drank heavily all his life. Sour and oily things are bad for the voice but who does not know that Nur Jehan eats huge quantities of pickles in oil and, interestingly enough, when she has to record a song, she practically feasts herself on pickles, followed by iced water. Then and only then does she go and stand in front of the microphone. She has a theory about it. She believes that such things sharpen and enliven the voice. How that is possible, only she can say I may add though that I have seen Ashok Kumar munching ice, especially when he had to record a song. Whatever the secret, as long as there is recorded music, the voice of K.L. Saigal will live, as will Nur Jehan’s, delighting generation after generation of listeners.
I had only seen Nur Jehan on the screen, never in person. I was a fan, not of her looks, but of her talent as a singer. She was young and it always astonished me how she could sing in such a masterly way. In those days, there were two big names in Indian film music: Saigal and Nur Jehan. There was also Khurshid who had her own following and much praise was heaped on Shamshad. But the fact is that once Nur Jehan came on the scene, all voices except hers were, so to speak, lowered. Suraiya arrived later. It would always be my great regret that while Saigal and Suraiya were brought together in one movie (Parwana with music by Khwaja Khurshid Anwar), it never occurred to any producer to team up Saigal and Nur Jehan. For some reason, the two never worked in a film together. Had they sung together, it would have brought a delightful revolution to the world of music.
How, when, and where I met Nur Jehan for the first time is a long story. After spending many years in Bombay, for certain personal reasons, I had moved to Delhi in a none-too-happy mental state and found a job with the All India Radio, but before long I got bored. Meanwhile, Nazir Ludhianwi, editor of the weekly Mussawar, had been pestering me in letter after letter to return to Bombay because the man who had directed the recent hit movie, Khandan, Syed Shaukat Hussain Rizvi, was now in Bombay and staying with him and was keen that I should write a story for him. So I left Delhi. The political situation in India was turbulent. The Cripps Cabinet Mission had failed and gone back. I think I arrived in Bombay on 7 August 1940 and my first meeting with Shaukat took place at 17 Adelphi Chambers, Claire Road, which served both as his office and his residence.
He was a tall and dashing young man, fair with pink cheeks, a fine John Gilbert-style moustache, curly hair, extremely well-dressed in his spotless, well-ironed trousers and a jacket set against a jauntily knotted tie. He even walked stylishly. We became friends from the word go.
I found him to be a sincere person. I had brought a good stock of my favourite Craven A cigarettes from Delhi because on account of the war, they were hard to find, especially in Bombay. When Shaukat saw my hoard of over twenty tins and nearly fifty packs, he was delighted. I moved into 17 Adelphi Chambers. We had two huge rooms, one serving as the office, the other as our living quarters, though we always ended up sleeping in the office. Mirza Musharaff, the comedian, and some others would drop in during the evening and before leaving, they would make our beds. We were having a great time. There were the Craven A cigarettes and the Deer brand Nasik whisky which was quite atrocious, but which was all we could obtain. Although Shaukat had become a big director after the success of Khandan, his long stay in Lahore after the success of the movie had accounted for all the money he had made. Life in Lahore was full of action and, consequently, expensive. All I had was a few hundred rupees which I had already sunk in Nasik whisky.
However, we managed somehow through those unsettled times. I remember that two days after my arrival in Bombay, on 9 August, the year being 1940, when I tried to make a phone call, the line was dead. We later learnt that since the leaders of the Indian National Congress were being arrested, city phone lines had been made inoperational as a precautionary measure. Gandhiji, Jawaharlal Nehru, Abul Kalam Azad and other leaders had all been arrested and taken to some unknown place. The city felt like a cocked gun which could go ofT any moment, so there could be no question of going out. For several days, we were cooped up inside, trying to kill time by drinking that dreadful Deer brand whisky. Because of political uncertainty, the film industry had suffered badly, with no one willing to invest money in a new production. The parties Shaukat had been negotiating with had let things drift, waiting for more settled times. Meanwhile, we were eating the bad food sent to us by Nazir Ludhianwi and sleeping until late in the morning. Off and on, we would get excited and start talking about new film scripts.
It was during those days that someone told me about Nur Jehan’s presence in Bombay. Now who told me that? My memory appears to be failing me, but I think I knew on 8 August, which was before I met Shaukat, that she was in the city. I wanted to go to Mahim to meet some relatives and also to find out what had become of Samina, who later had an affair with Krishen Chander, She was a radio artiste I had met in Delhi at the All India Radio. She wanted to get into movies and I had given her letters for Prithviraj and Brij Mohan. She was bright, good-looking and could speak her lines fluently. I was keen to know if she had been given a break or not. I was fairly confident though that she would make it.
Someone told me that she lived in Shivaji Park but it was such a sprawling neighbourhood that with just her name, Samina Khatoon, to guide me, I could never have hoped to find her. I remembered that Nizami whose wife Geeta Nizami became a famous movie actress and who married a string of men after she left him, lived in Shivaji Park. It was the same Nizami who had trained Mumtaz Shanti, overseen her career and taught her the ways of the world. Geeta Nizami, I should add, was later involved in many court cases. In the early years of Pakistan, she organized a dance troupe with a young and lovely woman as her lead dancer and performed from city to city. So far Nizami and I had only exchanged letters, and formal ones at that. Were I to describe our first meeting, it would waste ten to fifteen pages, so I will be brief. When I appeared at his place in Shivaji Park that morning, he met me with great warmth. He was wearing just a vest and a dhoti. He asked what had brought me to him and when I told him, he replied, ‘Samina Khatoon, I will haveher here in no time.’ He had an emaciated Hindu manager whom he summoned, ‘Get hold of Samina Khatoon and bring her to Manto sahib right away.’ After he had issued this order, he assured me that there was nothing he would not do for me. Then he delivered to me—in words only, of course—not only a fine, expensively furnished flat but a car to go with it.
I thanked him for his kind thoughts in appropriate words, which he did not seem to need as he was a fan of my short stories. Nizami who was as generous as a king when it came to empty promises, has been called all kinds of names, from procurer to pimp, but that was not my problem. I know that he was a man in search of new challenges and in that art he had no equal. I observed that day how total his hold on Mumtaz Shanti was. She was utterly under his influence, as if he was her father. Wali Sahib, the director, practically danced around him, like a groom around his mounted master. In that house, Nizami was king and everybody paid him homage. His only duty was to invite producers to parties where good food was served and liquor flowed freely. He was without an equal when it came to buying gasoline from the black market. He would spend time teaching Mumtaz Shanti how to become a successful actress. ‘Look, if you smile in a certain way, I promise to get you a contract out of that producer,’ or, ‘If you shake that fat financier’s hand the way I teach you, I assure you that we would have ten thousand rupees in our pocket the same evening.’
I just sat there and wondered at the world in which I had accidentally found my way. Everything about it was artificial. At one point, Nizami asked Wali Sahib to bring him his bedroom slippers, which he did and placed the pair at his feet with the utmost reverence. This, I can swear, was an unnatural gesture, something totally insincere. Mumtaz Shanti wearing the most humdrum clothes was in the next room hammering nails into a window with Nizami carrying on a running commentary, ‘Manto sahib, this child is so simple that although she is in the world of movies, she is unaware of the ways of the world in which we all live. She does not even look at men. And it is all because of the training I have given her.’ While I knew that this was all a fraud, I could not help admiring Nizami. But let me get back to Nur Jehan.
After Nizami had told me how he had put Mumtaz Shanti on the road to success and how exquisitely he had trained her, Nur Jehan’s name came up. He said she too was under his tutelage and was learning the ropes like Muxntaz Shanti. I recall his words, ‘Manto sahib, had this girl stayed on in Lahore, it would have been her end. I have had her come out here and I have impressed upon her that it is not enough to become a film star. There should be other means of support and security for a girl. There is no need to get into any kind of love affair in the beginning. What she should do is earn as much as she can from all possible sources and when she has enough money in the bank, she can pick up a nice man and marry him so that he remains a slave to her all his life. What do you think Manto sahib? You are a very wise man.’
What wisdom I might have had, had abandoned me the moment I had stepped into Nizami’s flat. I had no answer to his question, so I told him that whatever he was doing appeared to be right and how could it be otherwise, since it was he who was doing it. That pleased him greatly, so he sent for Nur Jehan. We heard the phone ring in the next room, followed by Nur Jehan’s voice, ‘It is Kamal sahib on the line. I will he with you shortly.’ Nizami smiled mysteriously. The Kamal on the line was Syed Kamal Amrohi, famous since the film Pukar which he had directed, Nizami spoke,’ I was telling you about my advice to her. I have drilled it into her that this marriage business is neither here nor there: she should do the best by herself first. Now Kamal can earn. If half of what he earns comes to Nur Jehan, wouldn’t that be the best for her? The fact, Manto sahib, the fact is that these actresses should become adept at the art of earning money.’
With teachers like you, they can’t miss,’ I said with a smile. This made him happy and he ordered one first-rate lemonade for me. So this was where Nur Jehan was being trained and educated in a scientific manner. She was being taught all the tricks of the trade under Nizami’s personal supervision. Nur Jehan, having finished her call, came into the room and we met, but casually. It was my impression that this girl was growing into womanhood rapidly and the smile on her lips and her laughter were already quite commercial. She also seemed to have a tendency to become plump. But there was no doubt that she was going to prove the most talented student Nizami had ever had.
However, fate had other things in mind. It was Nizami’s desire that like Mumtaz Shanti, Nur Jehan too should remain under his thumb and accept his authority. He was like a retired madam who wanted this young woman to be a part of his establishment. Everything that Mumtaz Shanti earned, for example, remained in Nizami’s custody. It was obvious that compared to Mumtaz Shanti, Nur Jehan’s market value was far greater. Nizami was too wily a man not to know that a great future lay in wait for this girl. It was only natural that he should be keen to capture this butterfly in his net.
Shaukat had had an affair with Nurjehan in Lahore’s Pancholi Studio (where Khandan was filmed). There was even a court case in the course of which Nur Jehan had testified that she had had no intimate relations with Shaukat who was like a brother to her. This court brother of hers was now in this vast city of Bombay, the Hollywood of India. When I told Shaukat later that I had met Nur Jehan, I did not know about their affair, nor did I know that their present relations were bad. Ijust told him that I had met her at Nizami’s house. It was nothing more than a minor piece of interesting gossip. No sooner had the words left my lips that he banged the glass containing that dreadful Deer brand whisky on the table and exclaimed, ‘Let her go to hellt’ Lightly, I replied, ‘I am quite happy with that but remember she played the heroine in your Khandan.’ Shaukat understood my pun—khandan being family in Urdu—and said, ‘Manto, you are a mischievous man, but it is like this. I just do not want to know anything about her. Of course, she is in Bombay, the sali has chased me all the way here, but I wish to have nothing to do with her.’
When I told him that she was on the phone to Kamal Amrohi and that Nizami was trying to get the two together, he pretended not to care but I knew that it had hit him hard. Heat once commissioned Mirza Musharraf to go out and get another pint of Deer brand whisky and we kept drinking till lath into the night. In between, after long pauses, the name of Nur Jehan would come up and it was clear to me that Shaukat was still smitten by her. The brother bit was no more than lawyerly hair-splitting. He was still thinking of those nights when this little princess of song used to be in his arms with both of them promising each other eternal love. One day, rather abruptly, I asked Shaukat, ‘Confess.. . aren’t you in love with Nur Jehan?’ Shaukat flicked the ash off his cigarette and replied self-consciously, ‘I am… but the hell with her. I will get over her in time.’ That, however, was not what fate intended.
Shaukat was offered a contract by Seth VM. Vyas, owner of Sunrise Pictures, which he accepted. Vyas had earlier signed Nur Jehan for one of his movies. A word about Vyas. lie had started out as a tabla player, graduated to a camera coolie and become a cameraman. The next anybody knew he was a director and with another leap, a producer in the big league. He was so thin that he would always wear a thick vest under his shirt so that no one could see his ribcage. There was no question that he was a smart fellow who worked hard at his job. He could go on from morning until night without showing the least sign of fatigue. One thing more about Vyas. He never used his own money to make a movie. After completing one film, he would announce another and sign up a star-studded cast. At that stage, there would be nothing to the movie at all, not even a story or a financier. However sure enough, someone would swallow the dangling bait of the starcast and Vyas would ask him to put his money up front so that work could begin. Seth Vyas would then start production after having thanked the goddess Kali whose devotee he was.
As soon as Nur Jehan landed in Bombay, he signed her up because he knew that after the success of Khandan, her name would attract many financiers. And when he realized that the movie’s director was also in town, he sent his men after him, held many meetings with him and, finally, signed him up to direct his forthcoming film.
No one knew what sort of movie was in the offing or what its story would be. However, when Vyas waved around the contracts he had signed with Shaukat and Nur Jehan, he was able to raise the money without the least difficulty. Destiny sometimes plays strange games. Shaukat did not know that Nur Jehan had come to Sunrise Pictures nor was it in her knowledge that the man she had described as ‘my brother’ in a Lahore court was also in the same company now.
Their coming together could not have remained a secret for very long and when it got out, it had Nizami worried because it threatened to jeopardise his plans for Nur Jehan and Kamal Amrohi. Invoking his rights as Nur Jehan’s ‘guardian’, he informed Seth Vyas that the teaming-up of the two was unacceptable to him. However, Vyas being a Gujarati—a far smarter breed than the Punjabis can ever be—talked him into giving his blessing to the arrangement. In fact, Nizami became so enthusiastic about Nur Jehan working in Shaukat’s film that he declared Vyas to be his brother and shook hands with him on the deal with great feeling in the latter’s office.
Both of them were now happy for their own reasons:
Vyas because he had got what he wanted and Nizami because he had won the goodwill of a rich and resourceful man. Seth Vyas was a strict Vaishnavite, orelsethe same evening Nizami would have invited him over and made him feast on chicken curry and pulao prepared by Mumtaz Shanti with her own dainty hands. Had the Seth been a drinking man, he would have sent out his emaciated manager and asked him to procure two bottles of scotch from the black market. In any case, the deal was done and Nizami had placed his hand on his heart and declared to Vyas, ‘Seth, now that you have called me your brother, you have my word that come hell or high water, Baby Nut Jehan would be on your set when required.’
Meanwhile, I had also signed a contract with Seth Vyas to write a story and Shaukat and I were trying to decide what it should be. We had received our advances and if there was one thing which was not in short supply, it was Nasik’s Deer brand whisky. Mirza Musharraf, the comedian, Chawla and Sehgal (both were to become well-known film directors) would often be in attendance. Chawla would go running to Nagpara if we ran out of whisky; and if there were other errands, there was always Mirza Musharraf. Alter three drinks, he would invariably start crying, kiss Shaukat’s hands and beg him for forgiveness for whatever he thought he had done against Shaukat in the past. ‘All false, all false,’ he would say. Then he would cry for his newly-acquired wife and follow it with singing. It was all a fraud but then that’s what the world of films is.
Seth Vyas, meanwhile, had begun shooting his film, but none of the scenes so far had involved Nur Jehan, which meant that Shaukat and she were yet to get together. One day there was a notice on the studio bulletin board that Nur Jehan would be shooting that night. It just happened that I was in Shivaji Park where my good friend and the famous music director Rafiq Ghaznavi lived. Ghaznavi had a romance knotted into every necktie he possessed—and his collection was large. He was a friend of mine and there was no formality between us. When I arrived at his flat, I found a full house. On a sofa sat his latest wife Khurshid alias Anuradha and next to her was Nur Jehan. Nizami was in a chair and Rafiq Ghaznavi was on the floor appearing to get ready to attack a latter-day Somnath in the tradition of his ancestor Mahmood of Ghazni who had come and ransacked the famous Hindu temple at Somnath.
I was not sure if Rafiq was planning an ‘invasion’ on Nur Jehan or if Nizami or Nur Jehan suspected anything. God alone knows. Nizami told me that Mumtaz Shanti was also expected any minute. I was a bit mystified. How could this great drinking party be in full swing when there was a shooting at the studio? Nizami held a glass in his hand and Nur Jehan had some colourful liquid in hers which she was sipping daintily. Rhurshid alias Anuradha was taking long swigs like a seasoned drinker and as for Rafiq from Ghazni—the land which had given birth to Mahmood who had fallen in love with a boy called Ayaz—he was telling dirty stories. He had sworn at me opulently by way of a greeting, but had changed tack immediately and said politely, ‘Please, my dear, come and sit here.’ He looked at Nur Jehan and asked me, ‘Do you know her?’ ‘I know her,’ I replied. Ratiq was never able to take more than four drinks. He obviously had already done that because he said to me in a slurred voice, ‘No, you know nothing Manto. This is Nur … Nur Jehan … Nur means light and she is not only the light of the world but also the spirit’s elixir. By God she has a voice sweeter than that of any houri in paradise. Were a houri to hear her sing, she would be so jealous that she would rush to earth and give her something to drink to destroy her vocal chords.’
I knew why he was building these bridges of praise. He wanted to employ them later to walk across to her bed. J noticed that Nur Jehan was wit much interested in him. She was listening to him though, and off and on, she would flash an insincere smile at him. Rafiq was a great miser but that day he was overly generous. He poured a large drink from the bottle for me and insisted that I should gulp it down in one go, so that he could give me another. Everyone was drinking, but Nur Jehans drink was the lightest and she was sucking at it as honey bees suck honey from flowers. Rafiq had not stopped building his bridges of praise because his earlier structures had all collapsed. Suddenly, the phone rang.
Khurshid picked up the receiver with her delicate hand and looked upset. Then she placed her hand on the mouthpiece and whispered that it was Seth Vyas on the line wondering where Nur Jehan was. ‘Dear daughter, tell him that Nur Jehan is not here,’ Nizami said, which was what Khurshid told Vyas in more or less appropriate words. ‘Sheedan,’ Rafiq said to Khurshid as soon as she was off the phone, ‘go get the harmonium.. Seth Vyas can go to hell.’ She went into another room and was soon back with a harmonium. Rafiq pushed back the top, pumped the bellows and struck a note. It was his style that with his eyes half shut, he would begin to swoon over the note he had just emitted from his throat, ‘Hai!.. God be praised… Oh!’ he kept saying. Every note seemed to send him into ecstasy. That was his technique. He would have his listeners applauding long before the performance had begun. But he did not sing that day because all his concentration was on Nur Jehan. At one point, he struck a note and with his half-dilated eyes said to her, ‘Nur...sing something… Oh! what a divine note!’
You may have seen actors and actresses playing roles on the screen but let me take you to this live show. Nur Jehan lifted the harmonium and placed it next to her on the sofa. Khurshid came and sat beside her, holding a half-empty glass of whisky, Rafiq Ghaznavi was squatting on the floor, looking at Nur Jehan with his lovesick eyes, swaying his body and shaking his head even before she had opened her mouth. On a chair sat Nizami and next to him, this old sinner, nursing his second drink.
Nur Jehan began to sing. It was a thumri in the raag Piloo, Toray nainaan kajar bin karey—no antimony do your black eyes need. Then we all heard a car drive into the porch. The man who got down and walked straight in was none other than Seth Vyas. For a moment everybody was taken aback but Nizami quickly got the situation under control. He pretended that he had not seen Vyas come in and shouted at Khurshid, ‘What do you think you are doing? Don’t you see in what great pain she is and here you are trying to force her to sing… look, she has hardly sung one line and it looks as if she’s going to faint.’ Then he looked at Nur Jehan and said in a worried voice, ‘Lie down, Nur Jehan, lie down.’ He did not wait for her to do so, but stepped forward to help her recline on the sofa. Nur Jehan began to moan loudly as if she was in great pain. Rafiq also got up, trying to look concerned. Nizami spoke to Khurshid next, ‘What are you waiting for Sheedan? Go and get her a hot water bottle. That is a bad fit she is having.’
Sheedan went into the next room, taking quick steps. Nizami tried to calm Nur Jehan who had now begun to wail softly, then he sat next to Seth Vyas and said, ‘She has been in terrible pain since yesterday. She said to me, “Uncle, I don’t think I can make it to the shooting.” But I told her, “No, little one, this would be a bad omen. This is your first picture in Bombay and the first day of shooting… but forget that… what matters is that I have called Seth Vyas my brother… and you have to go even if you die.” So we had come here to borrow some brandy from Rafiq which might have helped her and also ask him to have his car drop us at the studio… you are my brother, Seth.’
Seth Vyas kept quiet, as did everyone else. Rafiq was chewing his nails and I, glass in hand, was wondering what it was all about. The story of the movie was mine, the music that of Rafiq Ghaznavi’s and Seth Vyas, our boss, had caught us in the act, as it were, what with the drinks and the music. Nizami kept talking to Seth Vyas, assuring him that since they were now brothers, there should be no misgivings between them. Khurshid appeared with a hot water bottle which she placed on Nur Jehan’s stomach who pretended that it had somewhat soothed her pain. Nizami now said to Vyas who had begun to look more and more like the sphinx, ‘You don’t have to stay for this. Rafiq and I would be bringing Nur Jehan over to the studio.’ Then he said in a loud aside, ‘I think Khurshid should come along too. Women know what these women’s things are.’ Seth Vyas rose, put his cap on and walked out. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief Nur Jehan put aside the hot water bottle which actually contained cold water and said to Nizami, ‘But uncle Nizami, hadn’t you told me not to go today?’ Nizami became serious, ‘Little one, look, I said that for your own good. If you go on the first day without the producer coming in person to fetch you, he would start taking you for granted. Ask Mumtaz. She never goes unless the studio sends her a car; and when it comes, I let the driver wait for at least an hour, although Rai Bahadur Chunilal is such a good friend of mine. I don’t really care. Many times, he has had to come personally to fetch Mumtaz, Don’t worry, everything is in order now. Vyas came himself to fetch you. You are very sick but you are going despite being sick. Seth Vyas will remember that.’
Nizami spent some more time explaining the delicate relationship between producer and artiste. The conversation began to slowly veer towards Shaukat Hussain Rizvi. Nizami seemed keen to impress on Nur Jehan that she should have nothing more to do with Shaukat and there should be no place in her heart for him. She should follow the same path as Mumtaz Shanti had done all along under his guidance, with such successful results. I butted in at this point because Shaukat was a friend and he had told me that he was in love with Nur Jehan. It was also clear to me that the various women who were brought to him by Mirza Musharraf were needed because Shaukat was trying to bury Nur Jehan’s memory in their warm embrace. He was also drinking that third-class Deer brand whisky to forget the woman he was in love with.
Shaukat was like a watchmaker, a man perfect at his trade. He was always putting things right. Even if they were right, he had to put them just right. By temperament, he had no patience with anything that did not work, such as a nail which had not been pushed into a wall straight, a watch which did not keep correct time, or a pair of trousers that needed the touch of a hot iron. He was instinctively organized and disciplined, the same factors which make a watch keep good time. However, when it came to Nur Jehan, he felt helpless. How could he set right the watch that they call the heart? Had it been something he could have examined under a magnifying glass, he would have taken it to pieces and then put it back together so that it worked with perfection. This was an entirely different matter.
And there was Nur Jehan who could produce the most perfect note from her throat but who found herself unable to make Shaukat depart from her heart. She could sing the khayal with the ease of a maestro but the only thing on her mind these days was the young and willowy Shaukat who had given her the most joyful moments of her life, who had sent a tingle through her body that the finest music had been unable to do. How could she forget the man who had given her such perfect physical fulfilment?
When I mentioned Shaukat to her, Nur Jehan pretended that she did not care for him. ‘Look here, Nur Jehan, that’s nonsense. That’s not how you feel, and what that ass Shaukat tells me, I don’t believe a word of it either. You are head over heels in love with each other, but you are bent upon pretending otherwise. Only yesterday we sat talking about you in the office of the magazine Mussawar and the day before and the day before. Whenever Shaukat and I drink in the evening, on one excuse or another, he drags your name into the conversation. You are no different. I think I saw your eyes go wet once or twice when you mentioned his name. He is the same way, I can tell you. I think this is no good and I am convinced that Shaukat cannot do without you What kind of a spell have you cast on him?’
Nur Jehan listened to me as if she was in a trance ‘Look Nur Jehan,’ I added, ‘Don’t deceive yourself. I know that Nizami sahib is a man of much worldly wisdom but, the methods that he advocates may work in other departments of life; but when it comes to love, they will prove to be fake coins.’ I turned towards Nizami and asked, ‘Is it untrue?’ He was so absorbed in what I was saying that he shook his head in an emphatic no. When he realized that he had erred by agreeing with me, it was too late. I could see tears in Nur Jehan’s eyes. I carried on, ‘Both of you are fools. You love each other but try to hide it. From whom, may I ask? This world, Nur Jehan, cannot bear to see two people in love, but does that mean that people should stop falling in love? Mumtaz Shanti’s life is worth envy, I concede, and I have no doubt that under the benevolent care of her uncle Nizami, she will go far.’At this point, I turned towards Nizami again, ‘But you must know Nizami sahib that you cannot be everyone’s uncle. The advice you have been giving to Mumtaz may not necessarily be any good for Nur Jehan. They are two different people. Am I wrong?’
I had brought Nizami to a point where he could not say no to anything I was saying. I kept talking and by the time I was done, I had convinced Nur Jehan that Shaukat and she were made for each other and it was silly of them to pretend otherwise. When Nizami rose to leave, he was not a happy man. He must have been angry with me but it was not in his nature to show that. All he could do was instruct Nur Jehan that she should go to the studio with Khurshid and a hot rather than a cold water bottle. She was also told to complain about her ‘pain’ at regular intervals. He asked me about my living arrangements and assured me that he would soon have me move into a properly furnished flat which he had already found. In fact, the key was with his manager and all I had to do was to call him. If I needed gasoline from the black market, it would be available too. He assured me that he sincerely wished me to accept his offer and promised to entertain me soon with roast chicken and Johnny Walker Black Label. I thanked him but he was insistent that I should accept his offers. So I said yes, but I knew that next time I went to visit him, there would be no roast chicken or Black Label whisky waiting for me. One thing was, however, clear: I had upset Nizami’s apple cart that evening.
I also learnt in the next few days that Nur Jehan had no interest in the film director Kamal Amrohi. She had been refusing to take his phone calls. When he would drive up to Nizami’s place in his second-hand car, she would hide herself in another room to avoid him. Whatever I learnt about her, I dutifully conveyed to Shaukat, though we both knew that it would not be easy to rid her of the old sorcerer Nizami. Finally, we held a conference which included Nazir Ludhianwi, editor of Musawwar, at which it was decided to rent a flat on Kedal Road close to the beach. We were lucky to find one on the ground floor with three bedrooms, a large living area and a few other rooms. Nazir who was sick and tired of living in his awful flat at Adeiphi Chambers said he would pay half the rent of the new place which, if I remember, was Rs 175cr Rs 200 a month. We brought in furniture and other things and set it up nicely. Shaukat’s bedroom faced the sea. Nizami’s place was barely five hundred yards away. I was carrying out my ‘assignment’ effectively, which was to pop into Nizami’s flat every now and then and give Nur Jehan the latest details of Shaukat’s lovelorn days and nights. I would tell her that all she needed to do was take a walk, which would not only be good for her health but do wonders for her love life. Sometimes I felt like an old procuress but then what are friends for!
It is ironic to think that in those days, I was dead set against marriage and even more opposed to marrying an actress. I believed that two people who liked each other should live together and go their own separate ways once they were tired of the relationship. However, Shaukat believed in putting things down in black and white so that like inherited land, it would remain his for the rest of his life. I tried to talk him out of it and succeeded in convincing him that if Nur Jehan came to him, he should live with her but not marry her. Having done what I could for my friend Shaukat, I got down to writing the screenplay of Naukar, a movie I had been assigned. I lived in Byculla which was some distance from Kedal Road, which meant that our meetings became infrequent.
It was impossible in those days to get good beer. One day I came upon four magnum-size bottles of American beer and thought of sharing them with Shaukat. It was morning but breakfast with beer was not a bad idea. When I walked into his flat, it looked deserted. Nazir had already left for the day it seemed, so I tiptoed towards Shaukat’s bedroom and knocked at the door. There was no answer. I knocked again, this time less gently and heard Shaukat’s sleepy voice, ‘Who’s it’ ‘Manto,’ I answered. ‘Wait,’ he said. Three minutes later, the door opened and I saw Nur Jehan lying on the only bed in the room. Her eyes looked fresh, almost laundry-washed.
Shaukat appeared to be somewhat tired. ‘Has the Chataur fort fallen?’(Chataur is a pun on the Urdu word for buttocks; it is also the flame of a famous Indian fort which fell after a long seige.) I asked. Shaukat smiled, ‘Come sit own.’ I took a stool that lay in front of the dressing table. Shaukat looked at Nur Jehan, who was trying to get under the sheets triumphantly, ‘Came to me tied in thin gossamer thread,’ he said. Whether she had come tied in thin gossamer or a sturdier variety of thread, I do not know, but it was clear that whatever the thread, it had been knit out of love because she had finally leapt across the five-hundred-yard gulf that had separated him from Shaukat all this time.
The long and short of it was that the one item of furniture Shaukat’s flat had lacked was now in place. As for Nizami’s flat, a light had gone out of it, a light that could have lit up his entire establishment. Nizami had not given up easily. After doing his best to talk her out of her resolve to go and live with Shaukat, he had called in her brothers who had threatened her with violence if she refused to change her mind. However, nothing had worked, neither counsel nor threats. tI think I should marty the sail,’ Shaukat said to me. ‘You decide. She is yours, but in my view that won’t be the thing to do. Have you spoken to your family about her?’ was my reaction. He did not answer and I left hoping that he would not act in a hurry.
In those days, there was a character in Bombay by the name of HakimAbu Mohammad Tahir Ashk Azimabadi. About seventy-five years old, he had the heart of a young man. His eyesight was perfect, his teeth were intact and he had never missed a movie opening night. He spoke five languages—Urdu, Persian, Arabic, English and Punjabi—and was one of a kind. He also dabbled in herbal medicine, wrote poetry and liked the company of friends. It was I who had introduced him to Shaukat who had taken to him immediately and begun calling him uncle. In fact, he had found some distant family link with the old man. As I said earlier, my visits to Shaukat had become infrequent because of distance and my work at the studio, but I liked Hakim Tahir and often sought his advice about my prose which he would happily give as he liked me too. One day I ran into him and was told that Shaukat had married Nur Jehan. I was surprised and showed it. After some hesitation, Hakim Tahir said to me, ‘Look Saadat, it was all done very quietly because it. is best that people do not know. I have told you because you are like a son to me,just like ShaukatBut keep it to yourself’
How could I argue with a seventy-five-year-old man that this secret would not remain a secret for very long. I felt a little hurt though that Shaukat had not taken me into confidence. If he wanted to marry her, why was I kept out? Why was I thrown out of the pack like thejoker? I was hurt but I never mentioned it to Shaukat because it would have affected our relationship. Time passed. Nizami had given upon NurJehan as had Kamal Amrohi after countless unanswered calls and scores of trips to Nizami’s flat in his second-hand car. Shaukat’s bedroom was alive with life and laughter and the molten music of Nur Jehan’s voice. Rafiq Ghaznavi was the film’s music director and Nur Jehan would rehearse her songs in Shaukat’s seafront love nest.
And now a story. My brother Saeed Hasan who was a barrister in Fiji came to Bombay after many years. He was on his way toAmritsar. I was informed that he would be arriving by air. I lived in a tiny flat so my wife and I decided that he should stay at Shaukat and Nazir’s place because it had plenty of room. Nazir was a bachelor and all Shaukat seemed to use was the one bedroom in which he had his Nur Jehan. He had no interest in the other rooms. It would be perfectly convenient for them then to put up my brother who would welcome a European-style room with an attached bath. When I brought him over he liked it because it was new. The landlord lived in the upper storey and there was a children’s play area with seesaw and slides just a few steps away which was pleasant to see. The breeze from the sea blew into the rooms at all hours. Sometimes, it would be so strong that the doors and windows would have to be kept shut tight. A few days passed happily but there was trouble in store.
Shaukat was having the time of his life. He had his Nur Jehan as well as his hangers-on Mirza Musharraf, Chawla and Sehgal who were dying to be part of his team. Those who work in the movie industry are night people. During the day they are busy with their different chores but evenings are for fun and games. Shaukat’s place had a party going every evening, with his friends drinking, telling dirty stories, laughing, singing and sometimes making so much noise that the neighbours would protest. One evening Shaukat had the usual crowd over, including M.A. Mugghani—who was known all over Bombay as movie queen Naseem’s drumbeater—my wife and myself. We ate and left as we had somewhere else to go. My brother was dining out so he returned late. As he stepped into the front reception area, the party was in full swing. Everyone was drunk and some people were dancing. In other words, a good time was being had by one and all.
However, my brother was a serious-minded barrister who lived abroad and was a complete stranger to such goings-on. Next morning, he packed his things and moved into a place called Khilafat House. He also cursed me and my friends without mincing his words. Even today when! think of what he said I feel as if molten lead was being poured into my ears. He had spent his entire life reading his law books and fighting legal battles in Lahore, Bombay, East Africa and the Fiji islands. How could he know what movies were all about and what kind of people were associated with them? Interestingly enough, Khilafat House was situated in a street called Love Lane.
But let me get back to Nur Jehan. Her older sister also lived not far from Kedal Road where she ran a whorehouse with her brother. I am not sure if the two sisters ever met, but I doubt if Shaukat would ever have permitted Nur Jehan to do so. Her brother was an inveterate gambler who played cards, went to the races and had been dead set against his sister marrying Shaukat. He had tried hard with Nizami’s help to talk Nur Jehan out of her obsession with Shaukat because as far as he was concerned, she was the goose who laid the golden egg. Shaukat was also threatened several times but it had no effect on him. In the end, everyone came to accept that Nur Jehan and Shaukat were together and intended to remain that way. Work on the movie Naukar was proceeding at a good pace, but I often felt that Rafiq Ghaznavi looked distinctly unhappy because Nurjehan, whom he fancied, had been snatched away from under his very nose.
Shaukat was a hard man to please. He liked things done his way. He was never entirely satisfied with assignments performed by individuals. I had given him the script and the screenplay which he had said he liked, but I found out that he had asked various other people to come up with alternates, including Hakim Tahir Ashk Azimabadi. I did not mind Azimabadi because he was someone I respected as an elder, but I could not tolerate the others. One day I told Shaukat in no uncertain words what I thought of it all. He tried to calm me because he was always a very diplomatic and cool-headed person but I am by nature obstinate and once my mind is made up, nothing can make me change it. In any case, I did not like the story I had written because Shaukat had made me put in several changes which I did not approve of. Although Shaukat was a close friend and we had been drinking that awful Deer brand whisky day after day and smoking Craven A cigarettes, I knew that though he would do whatever I asked him to do, insofar as the movie was concerned, he would do exactly what his watchmaker’s brain told him to do. I, therefore, walked out of Naukar quietly, normally. Shaukat knew me well and may even have welcomed my departure. Had I stayed, I could have delayed the production for several months because we would have argued endlessly.
I was cut up with Shaukat; and he may have felt the same way towards me, but our friendship remained unaffected. The movie industry was by then in trouble because of political uncertainty in the country. All you had to do to kill a handful of films in production was to climb on a table and shout ‘Long live revolution’. Because of the Second World War, raw film was hard to come by. It was a very uncertain situation all around. Film directors, in particular, had been hard hit. The producers had a ready excuse to say no. ‘Where is the money?’ they would ask when approached. There was a war on. It moved from Crete today to Finland tomorrow and then there was the constant fear of a Japanese invasion of India. However, it was during those uncertain years that capitalists, money-lenders and film producers made their millions.
Shaukat had signed another contract, I think with Seth Javeri who was a difficult character and, in my view, a third-class person. It was the war which had made him a Seth. He had money to burn and he had set up a film company and bought two or three cars. The big actresses were outside his reach, but he had picked up a number of film extras as his women of pleasure. He signed Shaukat up and gave him an advance of Rs 3000. When he cashed the cheque, I was with him. I took him to the post office and made him send all that money to his parents. Nur Jehan must have hated me for that, but it would not have bothered me. I also persuaded Shaukat to get himself insured. He used to say yes to most things I told him and he agreed to this one as well. I got him a Rs 10,000 policy. Why was I doing those things? I do not know. I was behaving like an elder of the family, handing out advice to others while taking none myself.
Nur Jehan had blossomed after moving in with Shaukat. It is only physical contact with a man that gives the final touches to a woman’s beauty because by now she was a full-blown woman. The slight girlish figure she had in Lahore had been transformed by Bombay. Her body was now privy to all varieties of carnal pleasure and though some people still called her Baby Nur Jehan, she was no baby, but a woman who had known love and its ecstasy. Shaukat was going to shoot one of the scenes of the movie outdoors in a garden in the suburbs of Bombay. He insisted that I should come along. Since it was to appear as a night scene in the film, he was going to shoot it with a red filter on the camera. I got there in Seth Vyas’s car. Nur Jehan had already arrived and was wearing a strange outfit which was a shock to the eye. Her shalwar was made out of a material called net. Normally, it was used for window sheers but this was what either Shaukat or she had chosen to cover her lower torso. You could say that her shalwar had a thousand tiny windows through which her lower body was streaming through. Her shirt was made of the same stuff. Nothing had been left to the imagination. The actress Shobhna Samarth was also present and I walked across to her because, frankly, I found Nur Jehan’s dress shocking. Shobhna was an educated woman who knew how to converse. She came from a good Marathi family and there was nothing common about her. She had superb manners. She was also doing a role in the movie. I sat next to her on the bare grass so that I could regain my composure which had received a rude shock after one look at Nur .Jehan and her vulgar outfit. I had gone there because Shaukat had insisted, otherwise I had no interest in Naukar, though I had written it.
I met Nur Jehan several times later at their flat and when I studied her with more care, I noticed that she had every single characteristic associated with the background from which she came. Everything about her was put on. She was flirtatious but not in a cultivated way. I was surprised how Shaukat who came from the heart of UP could get along with this diehard peasant Punjabi girl. Shaukat would try to imitate her thick Punjabi-accented Urdu and she would try to imitate his pure UP accent. Shaukat finally completed Naukar and we drifted even further apart. Having tasted the joys of love, he was now concentrating on his work, as was I. Oft and on, we would run into one another in a film company’s office or a studio or on the roadside and exchange greetings, chat for a minute or two and go our separate ways. The movie industry had come out of the doldrums and the war psychosis was gone as far as the producers were concerned. Everyone had realized that the industry had entered a boom period.
Shaukat has always had a good head for business. He took advantage of the prevailing state of the market and set up his own production company. He already had an excellent reputation as a director and editor and his entry into production was bound to put him in the spotlight. Normally, in the film world marriages with actresses are seldom because of love alone. I am not sure if Shaukat felt the same way towards Nur Jehan. What I do know is that even if he had not married her he would still have done well. He was a man who knew his art and who worked hard. I never understood why he left Bombay to come to Pakistan. Was it because he was always a strict Muslim and would not have countenanced even the least slight to Islam which he might have had to experience in Bombay after independence? I am sure if someone had said something against Islam in his presence, he would have unscrewed his skull with one of his implements, taken every piece apart and then put it back after removing the defect which makes people say such things. It is also possible that it was Nur Jehan who persuaded him to leave Bombay because she always loved Lahore; Lahore being Lahore, as all Punjabis say.
In Bombay, Shaukat was highly successful. He had made two runaway hits and he could have stayed there and minted money but he chose Pakistan as his home. Shaukat, a man whose watchmaker’s mind can tolerate not the least inefficiency came to Lahore where the movie industry was on its last legs. He bought the burnt-out Shorie Studio and turned it into a first-class production facility. Few would know that every nail in Shahnur Studio has been put in there by Shaukat, hammered in securely with his own hands. Every plant in its gardens, and every machine in the laboratory were put there by Shaukat himself. This was his great quality, though not always has it endeared him to people.
I have a friend in Lahore who often helps me with money. Once I went to see him and found that he had no cuff links to go with his spotless white shirt. When I expressed surprise, he told me that he had no money to buy them. When I asked him for a cigarette, he replied that for ten days running he had been smoking borrowed cigarettes. This was the man in whose studio everyone was given cool, clean refrigerated water, where flowers bloomed, where scores of gardeners worked, where hundreds of workmen were employed, where there was a woman called Nur .Jehan who wore the most expensive clothes available and who was chauffeured around in limousines. That friend, of course, is Shaukat.
There are many stories about Nur Jehan, some of which may even be true. All I know is that she is the mother of two wonderful boys who are being educated at Chiefs College, Lahore and whom she loves. Not long ago, there was a variety show at the college where a tableau was presented by the children, with one of Nur Jehan’s boys playing the cowherd girl Radha who was in love with Lord Krishna. He had danced beautifully. Nur Jehan knows how to dance. She may even have given a few lessons to the boy Akbar himself, or maybe it is in his genes. One will have to see what these two boys, Akbar and Asghar, grow up to be. Will this be another family of artistes like the Barrymores and the Kapoors? Only time will tell.
Nur Jehan can be arrogant. She should not be arrogant because of her looks, as she does not have them in any great measure, but she has a voice, a voice full of light, of which she can be justly proud. I remember once my wife asked me in Bombay if I would ask Nur Jehan to come over as some of her friends wanted to meet her. I told her it should be no problem and asked Shaukat who sent Nur Jehan to our place a day later. Of all the actresses I knew—and I knew scores and scores of them—Nur Jehan was the most formal in her manner, always standing on ceremony, always conscious of who she was. Everything about her was affected, her smile, her laughter, the way she greeted people, the way she asked them how they were. Could her married life also be affected? I think not. She came and met everyone with her usual affected warmth. I wanted to leave but a friend of my wife insisted that I should stay because she wanted me to request Nur Jehan to sing. ‘Let’s have a couple of songs,’ I said to Nur Jehan with great informality. ‘Maybe another time, Manto sahib,’ she said in an affected voice, ‘My throat is acting up.’ I was burnt to a cinder because I know that her throat is fashioned out of steel which nothing can damage. I knew she was putting on airs. ‘This excuse won’t work. You will have to sing. I have heard you a thousand times but these people really want to hear you, so whether your throat is acting up or not, you should sing something for them,’ I said to her.
She said no a few more times, while the women insisted. My wife had had enough. ‘Please don’t let’s force her,’ she said. But I am not the kind to give up. ‘You will have to sing, Nur Jehan,’ I said. Finally, she relented and sang Faiz’s famous lines Aaj ki-raat saaz-i-dard na chher. It was superb. It is years since that happened but I can still feel the golden honey of her voice cascading into my ears.
There are so many men who are in love with Nur Jehan. I know cooks who prepare food for their sahibs and memsahibs while looking longingly at her pictures which they have stuck on the kitchen wall. I also know domestic servants who do not care for Nargis, Nimmi or Kamini Kaushal but who are mad about Nur Jehan. ‘Wherever they see a picture of hers, they clip it and put it with their collection which they have been hoarding in a broken tin trunk so that they can soothe their eyes by looking at it in their spare hours. Were someone to say something disparaging about Nur Jehan, such men would be prepared to fight. In our own home, we have a lover of Nur Jehan who calls every young girl, every bride and every woman wearing red Nur Jehan. He knows practically all her songs. He himself is very good-looking so I am at a loss to understand what it is about Nur Jehan that he likes so much that he keeps talking about her from morning to evening.
He is closely related to me, being the son of my nephew Hamid Jalal and my sister-in-law, Zakia. His name is Shahid Jalal but we all call him Taku. We have tried to tell him many times that he should seriously think of falling out of love with Nur Jehan whom he cannot marry, as she is already married and has her own children, but it has no effect on him. He loves movies and if these movies do not star Nur Jehan, he is very upset. He comes home and begins to sing her songs. He has told his parents that all he wants in the world is Nur Jehan. Some time ago, his grandfather Mian Jalaluddin went to meet Shaukat Hussain Rizvi and said to him, Look, you have a rival who is madly in love with your wife and one of these days he is going to run away with her and you will be left watching.’ Shaukat asked awkwardly, ‘Who is he?’ Mian Jalaluddin smiled, ‘My grandson.’ ‘Your grandson! How old is he?’ ‘About four.’ When Nur Jehan heard the story, she declared that she would go and meet her lover and marry him. Shahid Jalal is in seventh heaven since he was given the news and is waiting impatiently for the day when Nur Jehan will come to see him and become his bride.
Recently, someone told me a story about another of Nur Jehan’s lovers, who was not four, but a grown-up man, a barber by profession. He would sing her songs all day long and never tire of talking about her. Someone said to him one day, ‘Do you really love Nur Jehan?’
‘Without doubt,’ the barber replied sincerely. ‘If you really love her, can you do what the legendary Punjabi lover Mahiwal did for his beloved Sohni? He cut a piece of flesh from his thigh to prove his love,’ the man said. The barber gave him his sharp cut-throat razor and said, ‘You can take a piece of flesh from any part to my body.’ His friend was a strange character because he slashed away a large chunk of flesh from his arm and ran away while the barber fainted after providing this proof of his love. When this great lover regained consciousness in Mayo Hospital, Lahore, the first words that came to his lips were, ‘Nur Jehan’.
There is a case in court against Nur Jehan these days. She is charged with beating up a young actress by the name of Nighat Sultana. Since it is sub judice, I do not wish to say much as it would amount to contempt of court, but I fail to understand why Nur Jehan beat up this girl. I had never heard of Nighat Sultana before but am told that she comes from East Bengal, from the city of Dhaka. How or when she became an actress, I absolutely have no idea.
NurJehan’s dashing husband Syed Shaukat Hussain Rizvi is around, as are her lovely children. She is a mother. Then there is the Lahore barber who is prepared to cut himself with a razor to prove his love for her, not to mention her four-year-old-lover, Shahid Jalal, also known as Taku, who dreams of making her his bride. And one must not forget those cooks who hang her picture on their kitchen wall and sing her songs in their off-beat voices while washing dishes. And, finally, there is Saadat Hasan Manto who cannot stand the sight of her awful brassiere. What beauty she sees in her upturned front bumpers and why Syed Shaukat Hussain Rizvi permits this gross violation of good taste, I am unable to say.
Ummer, did u actually typed the article or copy & paste? 
Yes, NJ is 1 in a Million, and Lata is 1 in a 1.2 Billion 
Just kidding....don't get ur blood pressure up 
Thanks for sharing 
Ummer, Tumko iss explaination ki zuroorat kyon paish aai?