MUSIC (A FLAMBOYANT SINGER FROM SWABI)

Our 'dandy' from Swabi at work

A FLAMBOYANT SINGER FROM SWABI

By: Nasser Yousaf

Swabi's rural topography is as idyllic as that of the rest of the districts of the erstwhile central Frontier. One of my fondest memories of the rural life as I witnessed it in Swabi dates back to some twelve years. It was while returning home in the morning after a night of heady music with a local singer called Kifayat Shah Bacha. Women folk together with their men were busy harvesting what appeared to be a bumper crop of sweet peas in the absolute calm of the moment. They seemed to be quite oblivious of their surroundings as they went about their job hurriedly lest ruthless old Time comes in between the two.

It is singers like Kifayat Shah Bacha that lends all that flamboyance to Swabi which the rest of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa might be lacking to some degree. Kifayat is not all that handsome to look at. He sports a mushroom baby cut on a long dark face with sharp angular features. His peculiar hairstyle could be observed mocking his personality, with only his songs acting as a saving grace.

The evening that he sang his best numbers was indeed memorable. Kifayat was accompanied by a jester from his village who would chip in with a joke in between two songs to provide some comic relief to his audience that numbered a dozen or so. One remembers having remarked something about the high quality of music then rendered by the singer -though in good faith- that some friends later called so offensive that it could easily have rankled the spirits of the otherwise jolly singer.

Kifayat sings in an inimitable style. His voice travels down from a high pitch to a low only to resurface with a bang. He has his own distinctive custom-built rabab which is a bit too longish in length and visibly slimmer. He also makes full use of his nasal voice, and indeed of his yellowish eyes, the glint in which he uses to full effect to elicit an approving nod from his listeners. One always longed to hear him again, better in a live performance in an exclusive gathering, but then he was said to have traveled to some foreign land after he let his infamous gun do the talking in place of his vocal chords.

While one kept asking about his whereabouts from friends in Swabi, some little information was proffered about his reaching back home. Evidence of such information was seen in the shape of one odd new song. One song in particular brings out the best in Kifayat. Here Kifayat could be heard literally beseeching Time not to treat him like a slave as after all the penitent singer happened to be a Pakhtun or Pashtun.

One doesn't really understand why Time should be partial in favour of Pashtun and not people of other ethnicities but then here is a passionate plaint from a singer who keeps groveling Time to please consider his being a Pashtun as an incredible qualification. Before voluptuously strumming the strings of his rabab, Kifayat recites his lyrics and then turns his head first to the audience on his right and then to his left. His all too busy head comes to a rest only after he gives his oily strands, resting on his forehead, some violent jerks like a chicken that flicks her wings as of habit.

After languishing far from home for some years, Kifayat looks to have been sobered up by the pangs that Time delivers in its strides. Time goes strictly by the book. Kifayat would do better to sing and swing only and let his gun stay silent in its condemned goatskin case so as to keep Time in good humour.

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PEOPLE (REMEMBERING MAUREEN LINES)

Published Mar 22, 2019 07:13am

Remembering Maureen Lines

NASSER YOUSAF

PESHAWAR: Two years and some days ago, Maureen Lines left us for her eternal abode. For the better part of her life, Maureen lived in Peshawar and true to her word that Peshawar, along with Birir in the Kalash Valley was her home for all intents and purposes, she breathed her last in Peshawar.
Maureen, or Mo as we used to call her, was in real dread of the month of March which she would always associate with the ‘Ides of March.’ ‘No, never, Nasser, not in March,’ Maureen would dismiss any suggestion of holding any event in the month of March whenever we would try to convince her of the many virtues of the first month of spring.
She fervently believed that of all that Shakespeare wrote about,’ Ides of March had most compelling reasons to be wary of. No wonder than that March devoured her after a protracted illness the intensity of which she always kept from her many friends and admirers. Her illness never stopped her from moving regularly between Peshawar and Kalash.

A few words must be written in memory of Maureen Lines every year not only to remember what a brave woman she was but also to remind the new generations of the superb work she did for the people of Kalash. Her love for Peshawar was such that the felling of a tree here and there in the city would make her extremely sad, if not uncontrollably agitated.
One is sure the ongoing BRT project and the damage it has done to the landscape of Peshawar would have devastated Mo. One sees her marks on the few surviving landmarks that the hapless city of Peshawar is still holding on to in spite of the fact that the city stands badly bruised and battered.
One last word: hundreds and thousands of Pakistanis living abroad have been accommodated and accepted as citizens by the countries that they have migrated to.
Sadly, however, we did not grant Mo this one last wish for which she ran from pillar to post to her dying days.
But in death as in life, she would forever remain one of us as she lies buried in the Gora Qabristan in the soil that she loved so much.
Published in Dawn, March 22nd, 2019