Hum Dekhenge
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Some time back, when a close friend insisted on publicly associating me on social media with an original publication that I had conveyed to them should only be shared anonymously, for a few moments, I was forced to rethink my stance on this question of identity and claim. I did not stop this friend at the time. After giving it some thought, I simply told them, go ahead - jo hoga dekha jaega.
While I am still uncertain about this question - I believe that anonymity and subterfuge in such matters actually helps to keep one’s feet on the ground. Through omission, it simply denies the illusion of fame.
Nye has a fresh take on being ‘famous’ that I like to quote:
“The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence…
…I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.”
Famous, Naomi Shihab Nye, on Poetly
I am wary of ambition, and its inherent tendency towards ruthlessness. I have observed that most people in positions of great power attain their ends by way of a narcissistic perseverance that is nourished by the exploitation of the vulnerabilities of those around them. This is not to say, that all our leaders are careless fascists, but simply to point out that our systems reward coldness and entitlement. There are countless examples of red tape, bureaucracy, legal precedent, administrative protocol etc. that are designed to exclude marginalised individuals and communities from a mainstream imagination of purity (nation, caste, class, religion, gender etc.).
But in such individuals, who seem to lack empathy, it is always a mask, as our beloved leader continues to remind us in public appearances - sometimes weeping crocodile tears, sometimes resorting to unnecessary spectacle, sometimes proving his complete inability to improvise when there is a malfunction in his carefully constructed, multi-stakeholder persona (yes I’m talking about the teleprompter faux pas). This mask is fragile, fashioned out of insecurity and fear. Crippling fear.
Gorakh Pandey put it well in his poem Unka Dar (share below in Roman) -
A quick translation in English -
Their fear
They are scared
What are they scared of
Despite their abundant wealth
And access to bombs and the police force?
They are scared
That one day
The unarmed and destitute
Will stop
Being scared of them.
This poem was famously conceived in a hostel room in JNU. Pandey spoke for the marginalised - hailing from a small village in UP, he questioned systems of authority and power from an early age. He lashed out against the establishment and the social problem of caste. The times are different, today. In a political environment where ‘genocide’ and ‘lynching’ have entered our everyday vocabularies, an assertion with even the smallest semblance of resilience is celebrated.
Jo hoga Dekha Jaega. (whatever happens, we shall see).
When I said that to my friend a few days ago, while I was still unsure of many things, for a moment, without realising it, I was filled with a strange kind of power, a fearlessness that I did not know a few moments ago. I was surprised by this casual phrase, almost slang, and what it implied. It is a kind of resolve, a threat, even. We shall see. They can take away everything from you, but not that - not your vision, not your ability to see. This seeing denotes a strength that lives in its unpredictability. It is the ‘seeing’ of strategy, of a chess genius rubbing his palms as he has seen the endgame ten moves ahead, but giving nothing away through his hard exterior. Is it also the ‘seeing’ of the destitute and the distraught? Those who have nothing to fear, or lose, because everything has been taken away from them - their only resort is the comfort of the future. There will come a day when we will rise again, maybe the vision is distorted, unclear, but hum honge kamyab (we shall overcome).
Hum Dekhenge. These two simple words penned by Faiz, and sung by Iqbal Bano, are legendary. They have been invoked and again in various contexts, in various struggles. Every few months when news of the ill treatment of the people of Kashmir by the administration holds the attention of mainstream India, Hum Dekhenge is shared on social media as a mark of solidarity. When the abrogation of article 370 became news, for example, my timeline was flooded with videos of youtube links of Iqbal Bano’s defiant voice, serenading a stadium of 50,000 people, in Lahore, applying the measured musical cyclicality of the ghazal form to this nazm as she drummed up passion and hope. You can hear the whoops and applause in this recording, too.
The context to that performance has been discussed extensively, by various commentators, some even present at the time. Let me briefly quote The Print on this:
On 13 February, 1986, when Iqbal Bano appeared in front of a 50,000-strong crowd and sang Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s iconic poem, Wa yabqa wajh-o-rabbik, more popularly known as Hum Dekhenge, she probably had not imagined that her act of defiance would have a ripple effect decades later in India. Not only did she sing the poem in protest against Zia-ul-Haq, but did so clad in a black sari — black, the colour of protest; sari, the attire Pakistan’s then President had banned.
I have kept some of the hyperlinks intact in the above quotation. Controversy has always courted performances and renditions of this song. There was a panel that was convened in response to a complaint by a professor at IIT Kanpur which sought to see whether the song was ‘anti-Hindu’. The song was performed at an anti-CAA protest in the campus, at the time. When it became the season opener for Coke Studio Pakistan’s 11th Season it was met with mixed responses. It was lauded for its message of inclusion and diversity, but critiqued for its quiet removal of this particular line from the nazm: Sab taaj uchaale jayenge, sab takht giraaye jayenge (all crowns will be tossed away, all thrones will fall to the ground).
There are many renditions of this song online, and I’m sure you have heard most of them. I do not know why I suddenly felt like sharing this song today. Often when I write about a poem or a song, it becomes clearer, what drew me to it. I am able to sit, for some time in its axis of influence, and go deeper.
I have been thinking about why this song is so influential. For me, this time, it is not only about the original context, or simply about the lyrical smoothness of Faiz’s metaphors for freedom…
When we tell somebody ‘we shall see’ it is actually the most rudimentary form of resistance. Sometimes it might even be mischeivous, or shirking responsibility. We shall see. But also, for times when it is difficult to act, or when circumstance are outside of our control, this mantra does wonders. It is, at the most primordial level, a decisive closing of ranks, a digging of the feet into the ground. It comes before “hit me with what you have”, but after the onslaught.
If the forces that seek to curtail our freedom have unbelievable material power, then we have this secret oasis of our imagination. More than resolve, it is a promise.
Hum Dekhenge.
This article shares some basic translations, and also talks about the use of metaphor or indirect description in Faiz’s poem.
Mann hain tho ‘buy me a coffee’.
(Matlab, if you can’t, that’s also fine, obviously. This is a free newsletter.)
(If the portal is not working for some reason, please write to me - poetly@pm.me)
Also. Maja aaya tho share this post, nai?
Thankyou for stepping into this shady part of the clearing!
Subscribe if you are not reading this in your inbox and would like to hang out here more ofen.