Normally, music is all things to all people. It has the potential to inspire, motivate, wound, heal, and, of course, stir nostalgia and awaken feelings of love in human beings. In the middle of the night or at any time during the day, when one is feeling bored, listening to melodious music can bring comfort and joy and dispel the clouds of ennui and monotony. Needless to say, it enhances one’s capacity for creativity and imagination. Such is the influence of music! I sometimes wonder how my memory aids me in digging up events from the deep recesses of my mind and writing about them so meticulously. My grandfather, Malik Taliamand, was a child of Partition. His real name was Saleh Muhammad, but it was considered “heavy” by the people who saw him grow and witnessed unfortunate things happen to him. People close to his father believed that his son’s name would not bode well for him. Society was more prone to superstitions at that time than it is today, so his father, Malik Abdullah, changed his name to Malik Taliamand. It is easy to read “Taliamand” in English but difficult to write in Urdu. I remember that my father and I attended a wedding function on behalf of our extended family. By the time we had exchanged greetings with the groom’s family and it was time to leave the venue, my father paid Niyundra (a traditional custom of paying cash or gifts to the host family) to one of the members of the groom’s family and asked him to write down the name “Malik Taliamand” in the guest book in lieu of his own name. Every time there was some chitthi for my grandfather, he would send for his Babu son, who would first read it aloud and then sit down to write its response That person wrote “Malik” in Urdu and waited, trying to create a mental picture of the word “Taliamand”, but could not even manage to write the initials of his given name. As other guests had to wait for their turn, one of them addressed my father and said, “Malik Sahib, tussin agay hovo te aap hi likh devo” (Malik Sahib, go ahead and write it yourself). Ceuta At The Crossroads: Europe’s New Migration Stress Test My father eagerly took up the pen and wrote down his father’s name in Kashida text so beautifully that even I was amazed and could not help saying, “Masha Allah. ” Those who saw him stretch the Meem that comes before Noon and bring this labour of love to completion so effortlessly and elegantly joined me in whispering the same Arabic word that I had uttered. The expression is ingrained in our minds and is used to ward off the evil eye. A man standing behind me was intrigued by what was unfolding and extravagantly praised my father, remarking, “Malik Sahib, jeda naam likhan baitha ae, ae sat wari jam ke avega te fer vi pala aven da naam na likh paaye” (Malik Sahib, the person appointed to write down the names could be born seven times and still would not be able to write the name the way you have written it). Unlike me, my father is exceptionally adept at Urdu and Arabic calligraphy, and naturally, this talent of his extends to the English language as well. In his lifetime, my grandfather was very proud of my father for his interest in studies and called him “Mera Engrezi Babu Puttar” (my English gentleman son). In 1986, my father lived up to his expectations by winning a medal in his matriculation examinations conducted by the Board of Intermediate and Secondary Education, Lahore. Every time there was some chitthi (letter) for my grandfather, he would send for his Babu son, who would first read it aloud and then sit down to write its response. The act of writing a letter evokes a thousand visuals in my mind. One of them is a still from Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay! , where the late, legendary actor Irrfan Khan is writing a letter dictated by a young worker. My grandfather’s family migrated to Lahore from what is now Gurdaspur in Indian Punjab during the 1947 Partition. Having spent his early years on the other side of the border, Taliamand always remembered his birthplace with reverence and love. He was also very fond of listening to good music. Saying Goodbye Can Be Hard – A Scholarly Memoir Of Migration Reshma, the famous Punjabi singer who eventually rose to fame with her classical hits like Lambi Judaai, Akhiyan Nu Rehn De, Hai O Rabba Nahion Lagda Dil Mera, and Kithe Nain Na Jorin, used to come to Raiwind to perform at the annual Mela (fair). At that time, the now-almost-extinct instrument that accompanied her and that she would use while singing was the Gadwi (a small metal pot or vessel). She was a woman of modest means and came from a very humble background. She would also visit my grandfather’s Kolhu (a traditional ox-driven oil mill) in the main bazaar and sing to get by. Being a man generous to a fault, he would support many people. That was perhaps the main reason why the pockets of his white kurta would remain empty most of the time. His younger brother, Abdul Majeed, whose story I will tell some other time, was comparatively close-fisted. It is quite common for the sons and daughters of Adam to be swayed by melodious voices. Prophet Dawud (AS) had such a magical voice that it would compel not only earthly beings but also birds to stop their flight and listen to him. Taliamand, too, was captivated by the allure of melodious voices. May Allah elevate his ranks in Jannah. Ameen!
Melodies Of Memory: Music, Migration And My Grandfather’s Legacy
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