Numerous scrolls of honour, mementos and photographs adorn the walls of a rather Spartan-looking room at Dev Ami. Near the window opening into a modest foreground of the house is a bed on which till some years ago a visitor would have found Ghayal, grand-daddy of Gujarati ghazal, whose only ambition was to be remembered as a martyr to the ghazal-- shaheed-e-ghazal.

He not only brought the ghazal form as authentic poetry into Gujarati, insisting on using the words of his mother tongue, but also elevated its status to a spiritual level, to a level reflecting the trials and tribulations of the masses, rather than remaining a vehicle of the love-lorn.

Ghayal - a wounded soul - was his pen-name, but even the poet himself had given up using his surname, Bhatt, and signed as Amrut Ghayal. Why did he take this particular pen-name? With a toothless, hearty laughter, he said: “It is not a pen-name taken in the aftermath of a broken love-affair. In a way, all human beings are wounded souls. I sing their songs."

There was not a trace of bitterness in Ghayal,although he yearned to be thought of a martyr;. in truth, he came across as a man who had lived a full life, had no complaints ,and more importantly,who,unlike so many of his age, was  never tired of life. There was a peculiar zest for life, which made Ghayal an unusual ghazalkar, who had seen many ups and downs in his long innings. Teeth had taken leave rather early, and so had hair on his head, deep lines furrowed his largish forehead and veins stood out prominently on his shrivelled hands. But the mind was alert, registering as truthfully as ever. Though his throat parched easily, he spoke fluently, and coherently, never lost for either words or thought. The memory served the master efficiently, and Ghayal wrote incessantly. "You see, I cannot sleep much, and am much too restless to give up living."

The old world courtesy, long association with royalty and a modesty of soul, all made the man, bent with age. He would get up when visitors came, and see them off at the gate of the house when they depart, even though he had to walk with a stick.

Modest he was, but Ghayal was no servile a soul. He had seen a lot of ups and downs in life, but had not allowed them either to dent his spirit or to be cowed down by the worldly-wise, powerful. His modesty went hand in hand with an outspokenness that had struck many as unabashed arrogance. Yet; he was full of self-deprecating wit, a caring parent and affectionate individual, who would not overlook the ways of the world. In the middle of making a profound remark on ghazals, he would suddenly stop, switch gears and would call out:"Listen, bring some tea or coffee for our guests", and then pick up the thread of what he was saying effortlessly.

His literary journey of life had a journey of a single-minded devotion to  the word .He had  written nearly 1000 ghazals,brought out seven volumes of poetry, taken part in hundreds of mushairas. Still,he was as joyfully into it all as he was in his younger days. "I get involved in writing, once the imagination is triggered, often by a single word, a single phrase or sentence, uttered in utterly normal affairs of the day to day life. Words have such an effect on me that my thinking process gets started by them suddenly and I go into a trance like situation. Then,I would not get any sleep, would not remember the time of the day, or even to eat.” Some call it ras samadhi.

He went on: “I have an inner voice, ordering me about. It just does not get drowned by any external noise, distraction or difficulties." But, that did not mean he was an escapist, a romantic living in a make-believe world. Another poet, Makarand Dave, has noted that his spiritual bend of mind, made Ghayal a poet in this world, but not of this world. He did not run away from pain, but digested the pain so well that it led to a rare sensitivity and high-grade poetry. He took life at a high flood, unafraid of the intensity of the turbulence, and neither having the slightest doubt that he shall overcome.

Ghayal himself summed it up all in one of the ghazals:

Valan hun eak sarkhun rakhun chhun asha-nirashaman,

Barabar bhag laun chhun zindagina sau tamashaman

Sada jitun chhun evun kain nathi,harun chhun bahudha pan -

Nathi hun harne palatva deto hatashaman.

(I maintain the same frame of mind in hope and in despair,

I partake fully in the drama of life without allowing it to impair,

Not that I always win ; many a time I do get trounced,

But,not allowing it to drown me, I get back into it bounced)

Past eight decades into life,this man could still talk as if he was a mere 20-year-old, so full of ideas,joys,setbacks,life itself. He had a life-long habit of keeping a pencil and paper,handy,whether he was at dinner table or in prayer. But, that does not mean that Ghayal depended on the Muse to transmit him a signal and do all the work. He had mastered both Sanskrit and Urdu,although he wrote in Gujarati. He had studied the classics in ghazals,learnt techniques of word-play,meter,and  to care of every word that he may care to use. "I do not depend on certificates from others; I must get a certificate from myself before I finish writing, re-writing and re-writing." That often meant the writing stretched over many days for a single composition. He,of course, was not in a hurry,nor was he bent upon mass-production,partly because he did not write to order, -- that is, any external order.

For all this, Ghayal was a simple person,not given to any showmanship or snobbery, two hallmarks of creative writers these days.

Born on August 19,1916, at Sardhar in Rajkot taluka,he remembered the prediction his father, Laljibhai ,had made about his son. Laljibhai was a chef in the royal household of Lakhajiraj of Rajkot, and since Amrut was born on the day of Randhan Chhath (which fell on August 19 that year),when people cook delicacies,he forecast:"The boy will spend a life getting heat, getting boiled." Like noted painter Vasudeo Smart,young Amurt's early days were also spent watching the colourful rites at the Vaishnav Haveli in the village. He would play the role of Krishna in the Krishna Lila stage in the haveli,go to a Sanskfit pathshala in the morning, and to the village primary school in the afternoon."On way back from school, I would go to the fields,catch-hold of the family mare,and bring her home,picking up vegetables for the kitchen. I would occasionally go to the tiny village library, read books and poems by Kalapi and Jhaverchand Meghani. Under the spell of Kalapi's poetry in Kekarav,I had imagined to pen poems,sitting on the bank of the village pond. But nothing got written. Up to the seventh standard,this more or less was my childhood."

He recalled: "I came to Rajkot for the eighth standard, and began learning English. Prabhudas,our teacher ,would patiently explain everything,but I just would not understand anything,would get fed up and jump classes. Most of my evenings were spent playing cricket,volley ball and wrestling. I was the school cricket team's opening batsman as well as bowler and had played against a Jamnagar team in which famous cricketer,Vinoo Mankad, was one of the players. Because of him, we got beaten. Another famous cricketer of the old time, Amarsinh, was also known to me,and thanks to him I played for a year in the Morvi team,after three years in Alfred high school in Rajkot. In 1936,after Mankad left the Jamnagar team,we managed to wrest the shield from his home team."

But all this,plus reading of literature and poetry,took a toll on his routine studies. He failed four times in his matriculation,and in 1938,wrote to the ruler of Pajod princely state, Pajod Darbar,Khan Imamuddinkhan, who later assumed the pen name of Ruswa Mazlumi,for a job,becoming his confidential secretary,in 1939. He held that job till 1948, during which he systematically learnt Urdu,getting his first ghazal published in Beghadi Mauj journal. Ghayal also happened to meet a lot of leading Urdu writers,such as Jigar Moradabadi,Josh Malihabadi,Bharat Vyas,Krishan Chander and Shoonya Palanpuri in those years.

Ghayal spoke with great warmth of his association with Pajod Darbar. He was the first person to recognise the potential in Ghayal's pen. An athlete and a player,Ghayal had been hobnobbing with writing. A sports contact with the grandson of Kalapi,Prahladsinhji,invited him in 1938 to go to the Kalapi festival at Lathi. Kalapi's son,Joravarsinhji too was there and so was the noted poet, Lalit. Joravarsinhji was a great fan of Kalapi and would recite poems of sorrow from Kekarav,Kalapi's collection of poems,every night with deep passion and anguish,tears rolling down his cheeks even as he sang."This made a deep impact on me",said Ghayal. In the mornings there would a visit to the samadhi of Kalapi.

Said Ghayal:"One day, while at the samadhi, I started feeling an unbearable,unrecognisable pang of mental anguish. Pajod Darbar had asked me to bring something for myself from Lathi. I started thinking about what I should receive from the precincts so poetic. I could not fathom my unease,nor could I decide what was it that was bothering me. I started crying and Joravarsinhji, who was known as Kakasaheb, consoled me."

Ghayal recalled:" I told Kakasaheb that I felt I had found what I was looking for. I was looking for the ghazal,and the ghazal itself has apparently found me. I do not think I will have peace with myself till I devoted my life to the ghazal. But how to do that was beyond me."

In the drawing room of the palace, Prahladsinhji asked the same question as was posed by Kakasaheb."I repeated the answer,but then suddenly my eyes caught the fish whirling in the aquarium in the room. I wrote a few lines comparing the slave Indians with the fish in the glass vessel. In the evening,Lalitji blessed me. He wrote the blessings in a poem,which unfortunately I later lost."

On return to Pajod from Lathi,Ghayal was as if in another world. The  uneasiness lasted for sometime during which he went on inquiring about ghazal with every literary figure who visited the state. He had noted that the ghazal writers of those years used a lot of Persian and Urdu words and determined to write ghazals in Sorathi dialect in Gujarati. The editor of a journal, Karavan,from Rander,Vahesi,recommended to Ghayal a study of a two-part volume ,Shayari. He also asked Asar Saleri,to take him as a disciple. Asar told him to send him his ghazals. When Ghayal sent one,Asar wrote an advice that Ghayal followed all his life. "You do not have to show any ghazals of yours to anyone." He started depending on his own judgement,his own conscience. All his life,Ghayal never  permitted any of his works to go into print till he had satisfied himself. "It requires writing and re-writing, but I am not a poet in haste and would not make compromise about my inner satisfaction. If conscience certified it,then only a ghazal of mine would be worthy of being called ghazal." He had implacably followed this golden rule,and maintained a total self-honesty.

In 1947,Ghayal's first wife, Taramati,died, but in the same year he managed to pass his matriculation. For a brief while,he went to college in Rajkot but gave it up. Soon thereafter when princely states were merged into Indian union, left Pajod too,to become a clerk in the public works department in Rajkot,and rose to senior clerk's position. In 1950,he married for the second time. He gave a lot of credit for his literary work to the wife, Bhanumati. In 1951,he got promoted as an accountant. His first collection of ghazals,Shul Ane Shamna,was published in 1954,when he got transferred to Junagadh. After serving the government in Sunrendranagar,Bhuj and Nakhtrana,he settled for good in Rajkot in 1973,upon retirement. In 1978,Ghayal went to the Soviet Union and by 1982 four more publications were to his credit. In 1984, he got affected by TB,but recovered. Since 1985,he had been devoting time to writing only. A thousand-page compendium of his collected works was published  as part of the celebrations of his 80 years of life.

He  never stopped,however. "I write every day",Ghayal said, patting a black colour briefcase,lying next to him on the bed on which he was sitting when I went to see him once,never realising it was our last meeting. He planned to complete at least 1,001 ghazals in his life time; some 900 had already been written. "I plan to bring out one more book ,my ninth,coinciding with the philosophy of nine rasas",he said without any boasting. Modest he always was,but he was also proud to be an original poet. Once he was asked if he could be called Gujarat's Ghalib. With humility,he submitted: I do not believe in copying,and I would only say this much:

Anadi chhun matlab adal man adal chhun,

Nathi nakal hun dar asal hun asal chhun.

Nathi samrat athva rushi hun;

Kharun jo kahun to shaheed-e-ghazal chhun.

(Am with neither a root nor a top. I am I am,

Am not a copy. Originally I am an original.

I am not an emperor ,nor am I a saint,

I am just a martyr to the ghazal,if must it be said.)

His ghazals talk a lot about life and death."I want to tell you I have not been a soft,cry-baby type. I would rather say this:

Tane kone kahi didhun maranni baad mukti chhe?

Rahe chhe ked eani ea fakt diwal badale chhe.

(Who told you there is salvation after death?

Prison remains the same,only the walls change.)

Once,when he was down with hepatitis-B,there was dim hope of his survival. But Ghayal was not one of those pessimists."I told my children I am not going to die . I am going to live for 89 years.Even thereafter,it would be like changing clothes. I will come back. There is nothing like death; it is only a change of clothes."

His advice to the young writers was equally frank,and fearless."Study the ghazal first. Read everything you can. Respect the word,its finer nuances,exact meaning,proper usage. The word is a very pious thing. Use it with devotion. Do not soil it. Only such a devotion to the word will bring in the real element of poetry into your writing."

People still remember how Ghayal recited a Gujarati composition to Jawaharlal Nehru when the first prime minister of India was on a visit to Rajkot during the days of the erstwhile Saurashtra state,some five decades ago. Another tall poet,Shaikh Adam Abuwala,recorded the encounter evocatively.

Ghayal told Nehru that he would present something in Gujarati only,seeking the prime minister's indulgence if he could not follow it. A game Nehru said : "Go on. I have been with Bapu for many years and can understand Gujarati, and if need be can even speak a smattering of it too."

Then, Ghayal sang out something that must have left Nehru, who wore a red rose in the lapel of his coat, red also in face, especially the part where the poet talks of giving the people at least a stale rose,:

Melun ghelu makan to aapo,

Dhul jevun ye dhan to aapo.

Saav juthun shun kam bolo chho ?

Kok saachi jaban to aapo.

Bagman chhe bhag amaro pan,

Eak vasi Gulab to aapo.

Sukhna be char shwas to aapo|

Zindganino bhas to aapo|

Mukt vatavaran na swamio,

Kain hawa kain ujas to aapo|

Muktinu ene saaj to aapo.

Adamino avaj to aapo|

Mai na put manvine pratham,

Manvino mijaj to aapo"

(Give us,the people, at least a dirty,squalid hovel,

Give at least grains like dust.

Should not someone tell the truth?

Is telling lies always a must?

Give us an account,

Maybe wrong, but some count.

Forget not we too partly own this flower bed,

If not much,give us at least a stale rose.

Give us a few fresh breaths of life,

Or, at least give us an illusion of life.

O you Gods of freedom,

Let us have some air,some light in all this darkness.

Give us an instrument of freedom,

Give our vocal chords some rhythm.

O you,darlings of the mother India,

Give Man first of all the temper of a free man.)

A stunned Nehru asked Ghayal when he completed,why was he saying those things? “Give us time.”

Ghayal replied:"A poet is a mouthpiece of the people and the mouthpiece should pass on the pains of the people." The prime minister said: "Certainly. But do you feel the country has not made any progress at all?" Ghayal riposted:"Nearly two decades of Independence would be over soon. The underground drainage is still to come into my street."

Today,after six decades of Independence,an underground drainage is still to come in many streets of many cities.

There,however, was a paradox. If Ghayal could be brutally frank,he could be charming also. A freeze frame from the past has remained itched in memory. When this writer first  went to meet Ghayal, he was in his pooja of the deity. As the visitors sat quietly for nearly half-an-hour,he went on unhurriedly, but not unmindful of our respectful waiting. Prior to getting up, he opened his eyes and softly called me and my wife Hansa and made us offer  homage to the deity. He began reciting in Sanskrit. I believe in God but not in the rituals. But I did not utter a word but when the chanting ended looked quizzically at Ghayal. He read my mind and said” I was praying to Goddess Saraswati to make home in your inner being to give power to your words.” I kept mum for want of words.

Nearly three free-wheelling hours of talking passed in which everybody present joined. Brushing aside the protests not to bother,he got up,picked up a stick and walked,firmly,chattering away in a firm voice,wheedling out a promise to come back soon. A spiritually erect man,bent with age; a rebelliously young mind,refusing to grow senile, stood as we left..

Ghayal is gone now. I have no idea  if the goddess of letters has paid heed to his commendation. I do not think that she has but hope one day she will. What a daydream!

Category :- English Bazaar Patrika / Sketches

He had been a rebel, but did not look to be one even an inch. In his younger days, he had heaped ridicule on anybody and everybody connected with the literary establishment. But his mellifluent talking, carried on in a low key voice, did not betray an iota of the fire that remained buried, and yet smouldering in the depths of his heart.

Poet and playwright Adil Mansuri, even in his 60s, remained as enigmatic as ever. It did not matter if he had been living for many years as an NRI (Non-resident Indian).

On a brief visit to Ahmedabad, which he adored for all its dust, its dirt and discomforts, Adil never came across as a man who went away to the El Dorado of all Gujaratis, the United States of America.

He had, in spirit, always been here, and Gujarat and Gujarati literature had always dwelled his mind. It is as if, he was on a leave of absence; he had never gone away, cannot go away, and will not go away even on the day of salvation.

Time, meanwhile, had been whitewashing his beard, his hair, making him even more look like a Gujarati Ghalib. He himself was not unaware of the comparison; years ago he wrote some lines about it:

Apna Ghar bhi Milata Jhulta hai Ghalib ke ghar se,

Do ghanta barasat jo barse, chhe ghanta chhat barse.

As he walked in, there was nothing NRI-ish about Adil. Clad in sherwani, zabbha and a jacket, he appeared exactly the way he dressed when he was working in an advertising firm in Ahmedabad. He smiled easily, chatted amiably and spoke effortlessly about life abroad.

Said Adil: "I went to the U.S.A. a little late. I was already 48 when I left India. The prime thought behind the move was to ensure a better life for my children, especially my three daughters. I did not want them to have a life of domestic drudgery, without exercising any personal choice in their lifestyle, something that I had no opportunity to get when I was young."

It was a difficult choice because for a quarter century Adil had taken deep roots in Ahmedabad and Gujarat, and suddenly he was transplanting his life in an alien environment. "In the beginning it was very tough. My writing came to an almost full stop. Nobody knew me there and I did not know anyone. I had to do odd jobs in the initial stages before I landed a good job at an insurance firm. You see, in a way, I was not equipped for the demands of the life there. I had in Ahmedabad my friends, my poetry, mushairas, the familiar situation all around, the bitter-sweetness of a culturally satisfying life which was otherwise not very satisfying for my children's future. So, I took an adventurous decision to go to the U.S.A. I am satisfied that things have panned out all right. My two daughters are happily married and settled there. My literary output has also been increasing.”

After a blockage of some time, Adil began to write in magazines brought out by Gujaratis in America and Europe. He wrote ghazals and plays about his American experience. "In the course of time, my literary output really went up. I must have written some 60 poems in 60 days once.” A  collection of his work abroad was in the pipeline, expected to be published in two or three months, called New York Name Ek Gaam (A village called New York). He said during a visit when we met Adil warmly spoke of a tiny organisation of Gujarati-speaking people with a literary bent of mind, named 60 Din (Sixty Days). We are about 25 couples, who meet once every two months to exchange notes, read new writings by members together, to enjoy and make merry."

The only change visible in him was the addition of countless 'thank you's to his courteous mannerism. He will thank you for telephoning him, for inviting him, for offering him a chair, a cup of tea, a handshake, anything.

It was so much of politeness, of exaggerated formality, that after a while one began to wonder if it should be Adil who should thanking us. Or should it we who should thank him for remembering home, for returning ever so briefly, for continuing to pen poetry in Gujarati even as he battled with the key-board of a computer at an American firm in New York.

In his long literary journey Adil had written a lot of ghazals, but  can now that those creations left unpublished would be brought out as a tribute to his memory. Five publications to his credit—earlier --Wanak, Pagrav and Satat, all collections of poetry, and two collections of plays, had stamped Gujarati literary register with his name forcefully.

Born on May 18, 1936, in Ahmedabad, India. Adil came from a family of traders of Ahmedabad. Dr Chinu Modi, another rebel in Gujarati literature, who prodded Adil to write in Gujarati, remembered that the poet, then writing mainly in Urdu, had first come in his contact nearly half-a-century ago. "I think he was working in a cloth shop at that time, but later shifted to advertising."

Adil was a self-made man; he had mastered computers later, but at one point of time, his friends recalled, he used to describe his educational background as something more than an M.A. -- M.A.B.F., an arbitrary abbreviation of Matric Appeared But Failed. That was not strictly true but Adil just did not care about appendages to establish his own credentials as a man of letters, or even as a human being.

Said Dr Modi: "Adil  read a lot, not just in Gujarati or Urdu, but also in English. He wrote spontaneously and  exceedingly well, a man capable of expressing his feelings in the most appropriate words and a man who was able to feel intensely." In fact, he seemed to have written only when he felt intensely about something.

Add to that intensity, an endless, never-to-be-satiated curiosity about everything around him, most of all people. This led him to a very successful career as an advertising copy writing in Gujarati. Many remember Adil as a copy writer at a national advertising agency located in Ahmedabad some three decades ago. For years, the custom at such agencies had been to translate into Gujarati advertising copy created originally in English or Hindi. Adil changed the rules. Remembered a friend: "His original copy in Gujarati used to be so good that often copy writers in English would be asked to take a look at it and translate it into English, if possible."

But,it was as a poet that the rebelliousness of Adil, along with Dr Modi and Manhar Modi, earned him a reputation-- some would say a dubious reputation. The trio was all for experimentation, a lot of which they did in company of Labhsankar Thaker, another noted poet. They scoffed at the literati of the day, campaigned against them, and started an organisation, and a magazine, called "Re Math”, whose address deliberately, with the intent of causing outrage, carried the mention it was situated opposite a public urinal. What did it mean, nobody knows for sure. Even the English spelling of the now-defunct set-up is unsual.According to Dr Chinu Modi, Re was spelt in English as Zreyagh. It did a lot of good to the development of literature in Gujarati; to begin with, by declaring that the only rule worth following was that there was no rule worth following. They would heap ridicule on the leading literary figures of the day, resort to pranks and gimmicks, and made themselves and their work taken notice of.

Though the mists of time have covered many things, Adil remembered vividly those days, which again revealed the complexity of his personality. In literature, he had been known as a rebel, a man who did a lot of experiments of form in penning his output, a sort of iconoclast. But that appeared to be only one facet of his personality as was underlined by his career in copy writing; in advertising one needs to abide by what the client wants and still add flashes of imagination and colour of concept to make it all attractive to look at and read. Adil did that effortlessly, his literary image of a rebel notwithstanding. And what was more, he did not seem to consider his days in advertising as a by-product of the necessity to make a living. As he talked fondly about "those days", Adil spoke of warmly colleagues such as Sharad Suchde, who died later.

Dr.Modi said that Adil had always been a complex personality; a rebel in letters, a traditionalist in person. There was no frenzy in his dissent; there was fire. "He was like an ocean, outwardly so calm and yet running so deep. He was like a dormant volcano. He wore a shy smile, spoke in a sweet manner, was meticulously dressed, and was polite to the limit of making others feel uneasy."

Adil once described himself succinctly in one of his ghazals thus: "dharm, dhandho, janm ne jati : Ghazal"(By religion, profession, birth and community, he is of ghazal). About his poetry, said Dr.Modi, one could easily do a doctoral thesis. "If you do not submit the thesis for a Ph.D. any university would bestow an honorary D.Lit. on you for the work. Such is the sweep, depth and appeal of his poetry." His language could be deceptively simple, and still full of depth, a depth that can be perceived by readers easily. He had done ghazals in the traditional style, and then hadbroken the mould and ventured out in different directions. "Before going against the traditions, Adil mastered the naunces of the traditions, tried his hand, and when found them inadequate to be his proper vehicle, struck out in newer areas", Dr.Modi said.

About ghazal, he sang:

Jyare pranayni jagman sharuat thai hashe,
Tyare pratham ghazalni rajuat thai hashe.

When love first made its appearance in the world, the first ghazal was presented.
And, then, he could switch easily to modern ways:

Ena patanne billina kudakaman joine,
Maro vikas thay chhe sherina shwanman.

Seeing his downfall in the cat's jump, my own growth takes the form of the street dog.
Or, he could cry out thus:

Makanoman loko purai gaya chhe,
ke manasne manasno dar hoy jane.

People have shut themselves up in houses, as if man was afraid of man.

The same Adil could be sentimental about his city, Ahmedabad. He himself had rated his piece on the city as the one liked the best. Why? "I find that it creates echoes in the heart of the readers and listeners exactly in the same way as it did in mine when it was first created", said Adil.

Wherever, away from home, it has been rendered, it has been known to bring tears to innumerable eyes. Reflecting the yearning of a man going away from his home town, Adil said in the piece:

Nadini retman ramatun nagar male na male,
fari aa drashya smrutipat upar male na male.

Bhari lo shwasman eni sugandhno dariyo,
pachhi aa matini bhini asar male na male.

Parichitone dharaine joi leva do,
aa hasta chehra, aa mithi najar male na male.

Bhari lo aankhman rastao,baario, bhinto,
pachhi aa shaher, aa galio, aa ghar male na male.

Radi lo aaj sambadhone vintalai ahin,
pachhi koi ne koini kabar male na male.

Valava aavya chhe e chehara farashe aankhoman,
bhale safarman koi hamsafar male na male.

Vatanni dhulthi mathun bhari laun Adil,
Arey aa dhul pachhi umrabhar male na male.

[ Maybe this city, playing in the sands, will not be seen again by these eyes,
Fill the nostrils with the ocean of its smells, may be it will not be available to smell again.

Drink in the sights of the acquaintances to the content of the heart, may be these smiling face will not be seen again.

Fill the eyes with the images of these roads, these windows, these walls, maybe this city, these bylanes, this house may not be available again.

Cry, embracing the kins of the place, maybe some one or other's even grave will not be seen again.
Faces saying goodbye will live for ever in the eyes as permanent companions, maybe in the life's journey hereafter not even one  companion will be there.

Adil, put the dust of the city on the head, may be this dust will not grace the hair in this lifetime again.]

Although successful in America too, Adil yearned to be back home again. "I had gone for the good of my children. I will come back once that objective is accomplished." Already, he had decided that he should come to Ahmedabad more often. If in the past ten years he came twice only, he now planned to come for four months every two years. "Those will be the months when I will spend time nursing my roots, deriving sustenance for myself, enhancing my joy of living. My roots are here."

The experience in every brief sojourn had been invigorating for Adil. He would go to a gathering of poets and recite some of his latest. The crowd would be so happy with what he had to say that the programme which began at 10.30 p m may end around 3.30 a m.

"People just would not leave", recalled Dr Modi.Adil found that there now was better appreciation of arts and culture, and men and women of letters in Gujarat than was there earlier. He found Gujarat more prosperous, but also more crowded, and with apalling public health conditions. But, more important than everything else, he found that Ahmedabad and Gujarat responded to him, and he responded to them magnificently. No one is more welcome anywhere in the world than in his own home, and even if one has been a prodigal son.

This son was not a prodigal in  with bagful of grievance. He was so intense sentimental that he would treat stay elsewhere as temporary. Adil’s birthday slipped by unnoticed in his beloved city on May 18.Not many remembered this literary badshah who wanted as his crown nothing but the dust of Ahmedabad. No city can hope for a better tribute. But then, Adil was Adil was Adil.

On the day of kyamat, the city will owe him much and he will owe nothing. Yet, characteristically he will offer to pay up on behalf of his beloved Ahmedabad.

Category :- English Bazaar Patrika / Sketches