Patron Saint of Musicians
by Moni Mohsin
This article was printed in the Dec. 26-Jan 1, 1992 issue of The Friday Times. It is being reproduced here with their kind permission.
Seventy years ago, in Abdul Rahim Khan’s large bustling house at the corner of Wazir Khan chowk, two young sons died in quick succession. The elder child met with an accident, while the younger son died of a festering boil on the hip. Now Begum Rahim Khan was expecting again but convinced that her baby would not survive, she was consumed with anxiety. One day as she slept, she had a vivid dream. She dreamt that she was in paradise watching houris trying to feed a wailing infant who had a boil on his hip. Despite the houris’ tender ministrations, the baby continued to howl. Distressed by his crying, she held out her arms for the baby but just as the houris were handing it over, she was jolted awake by the piercing pains of labour. Begum Rahim Khan gave birth to a lusty baby boy but reading a macabre significance into the birthmark on his hip, she continued to fear for his life.
The baby grew into a happy, healthy boy but still his mother could not put her fears to rest. As if to ward off the evil eye, she would dress him in hand-me-downs and stay away from him lest she be the unwitting evil influence. At each birthday he was measured against a pile of chappatis which were then distributed among the poor of the city.
“My first clothes were from the turban of our old marasi”. And what was the marasi called? “Hayat”, and with that Hayat Ahmed Khan dissolved into a laugh midway between a giggle and a chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand. “My mother blames herself’, he spluttered. “She used to say, I’ve brought it on my self’. If it is indeed the marasi who is responsible for Hayat Ahmed Khan’s all consuming passion for music, then we are indebted to him.
At seventy, Hayat Ahmed Khan is one of the most acknowledgeable, discerning champions of classical music in the Sub-Continent. If there is a patron saint of musicians in this country, it is him. But despite his refined Urdu and encyclopedic knowledge of subcontinental culture, there is not a hint of the homespun and chappal about him. When I arrived at his house at mid-morning, Hayat Sahib (and his golden spaniel) greeted me at the front door in an impeccably tailored, if quiet, three-piece suit, pristine linen and brogues polished to a high gleam. But beneath the fastidiously correct, buttoned-up appearance is a strangely youthful, optimistic spirit and a warm sense of humour. He has brisk bird-like movement and while chatting perches at the edge of his chair, as if eager to catch every world of the exchange.
Hayat Sahib ushered me into a large but cozy drawing room where a log fire crackled in the grate and paintings covered most of the available wall space. I identified a Shakir Ali, an unmistakable Sadequain, three exquisite Chughtais, a Raheel and a Colin David. On the far wall hung a delicate watercolour, reminiscent at the same time of both Allah Bukhsh and Chughtai. This, as I discovered later, was done by Hayat Sahib himself during his Mayo School of Arts days. We settled down on a comfy old sofa and over freshly ground coffee, wafer thin sandwiches and a chocolate gateau, I discovered, bit by bit, the many faceted personality of the dapper man who sat opposite me.
Hayat Sahib hails from a prosperous, cultured family of Lahore. His father, Abdul Rahim, was a remote figure-strict but in his own way, liberal. He was an educated man who held learning in high esteem and had a great fondness for music and calligraphy. Musical evenings were a regular occurrence at the sprawling mansion on Wazir Khan Chowk. ” My first memory of music is that of a faqir’s sada (cry). I remember, his voice would drift in through the open window every morning just as the sun was coming up. I know now that he sang the early morning Raag Asavari. I was a child then, but I was still mesmerized by his voice”.
Lahore in those distant days was a vibrant place. It had the intellectually vigorous atmosphere of a university town. And culturally it had a scintillation all its own. Wazir Khan’s Chowk was the venue of political meetings and many a Heer Ranjha tableaux. At the Takia Mirasian, just beyond the Mochi Darwaza, there were regular musical bhetaks. At chowk Nawab Sahib lived Ustad Baray Ghulam Ali Khan. The Ghandharv Mahavidhyala, India’s first musical academy, was housed in a temple within Taxali Gate. Outside the Urdu Bazar was a vast hall which belonged to the Society for Promotion of Scientific Knowledge, but was rented out frequently for musical gatherings. It was here that Hayat Sahib heard the legendary Ustad Fayyaz Khan. This was also the Lahore of Chughtai, Amrita Shergil, Saniyal, Patras Bokhari, Imtiaz Ali Taj, Manto and Faiz. The young Hayat Ahmed Khan couldn’t have enough of it.
He gained admission at the Islamia College for engineering, and the Ghandharv Mahavidhyala for classical music and Mayo College of Arts for sculpture. Concurrently, in his spare time he painted, hiked, swam, went mountain climbing, played cricket and soaked himself in music. If his father disapproved of his overweening interest in the arts, he never voiced his objections. After graduation Hayat Ahmed Khan joined the family business. At twenty-four he married Sayeeda, literally the girl next door. Contrary to the mores of the time, this was no arranged alliance but strictly ‘a matter of heart’. Though young when he married, his choice has withstood the test of time. Theirs has been a fruitful, joyous partnership.
After partition, the family moved to a large house on Davis Road and here Hayat Sahab continued to pursue all his old passions. By now he had two children and every morning after dropping them off to school he’d head off to college for a few hours of study. “Education is something I’ve pursued all my life but the harder I pursue it the more elusive it becomes”, he says with a half smile. “It’s the one thing that I have not been able to complete”. Every Sunday there would be a musical gathering at his residence. Presided by his two mentors, Ustaad Qadir Baksh Pakhavaji and Ustaad Sardar Khan, vocalist of the Delhi gharana, they were educational experiences.
Hayat Sahab acknowledges a huge debt to his two ustaads, “All the hidden secrets and intricacies of music I learnt from them. It is they who taught me the art of listening”. Ustaad Qadir Baaksh was also Ustaad Allah Rakha’s teacher and while the latter was traveling all over India he’d send letters to his ustaad. But since Ustaad Qadir Baaksh was unlettered, it was Hayat Ahmed Khan who at the dictation of the old ustaad would pen the reply. “From that correspondence alone, I picked up more about the tabla than I could have at any academy, ever”.
Though Hayat Sahab was now a family man with four delightful little daughters living in a free country, he felt as though he was inhabiting a cultural waste land For a brief while he broadcast his own vocalization on the radio but increased business commitments and travel forced him to abandon it. It was the late ’50s and his once vibrant Lahore was in rigor mortis. Those who had not moved away had gone into hibernation. “One day in 1959 I read in the paper that Roshan Ara Begum had decided never to sing again. This we thought, would be the death knell of music. She had moved then to Lala Musa, and a friend and I traveled out there to beg her to reconsider. We asked for a few days’ grace and promised to return with a solution”.
The two friends returned to Lahore, repaired to the Coffee Shop and came up with the idea of a music conference. They elected each other convener and treasurer of the embryonic society. Hayat Sahab opened an account under the name of All Pakistan Music Conference, deposited twenty five thousand rupees in it and exactly five months later they were hosting the first historic All Pakistan Music Conference. Spread over a week, the conference as attended by thousands who sat in thrall to the music all night. And yes, Roshan Ara Begum sang again.
That was thirty years ago. Since then the All Pakistan Music Conference has become a huge society with over two thousand members and the introduction of today’s musical giants like Shaukat the tabla nawaz, Ghulam Ali and Nayyara Noor to its credit. Its annual festival is the cultural event of the year, attended by thousands of appreciative listeners. Through all the years of dictatorship, and cultural repression, the Music Conference has never failed the public. For a short, infinitely precious few weeks each year Hayat Ahmed Khan’s music drowns out the strident voice of dogma and holds out hope for the future.
For anyone else it would be achievement enough. But for Hayat Ahmed Khan the work is far from done. The Music Conference is in safe hands now leaving its founder to plan an academy of the performing arts and author books on sub-continental music and dance. Although Hayat Sahab concedes that culture had a crash landing in Zia’s era, he refuses to be depressed about it. “Classical music has always had a small audience, but as long as the birds sing, so will we. Nobody, nothing can stop music”. And if Hayat Ahmed Khan feels he has grounds for optimism, I’ll go along with him.
