(Contains spoilers.)
Anita Desai’s novel ‘In Custody’ (1984) offers a psychological analysis of human existence and worth—this same novel comes to us through Ismail Merchant’s lens as ‘Muhafiz’ (1993). Life’s meaning differs from person to person. We cannot judge which is wrong or which is right. The way a person lives their life is right for them—no one else has the right to comment on it. To understand what appears meaningless in someone’s life from the outside, one would have to live in their life, which is impossible. Understanding the gifted is nearly impossible—they live their entire lives as incomprehensible beings, remaining inexplicable until death. Outside their families, those around them are either admirers or flatterers. These ordinary people are enchanted by their creations, perhaps understanding portions of those works, but comprehending the person behind them always remains beyond their capacity. If they found someone who understood them, who could properly evaluate their work, they would gladly make such a person the custodian of the scattered manuscripts along their creative path.
Nur is a poet in Urdu, living in Bhopal in northern India. Hardly anyone writes in this exquisite language anymore; everyone merely enjoys listening to Urdu sher-shayari. Nothing new is being created—old works are simply recycled and celebrated. Apart from Nur, no other significant writers in Urdu remain alive today. Urdu is being systematically driven out of India. Urdu is Pakistan’s language, therefore it has no place in India. Such communal politics around language gradually ensures that after a certain generation, the creative wealth of that language can no longer survive. If someone knows a particular language, one community will favor them, consider them their own, while another community will place them in the opposing camp—such conditions are disheartening for that language. Many great works of the world have vanished and been forgotten due to such thoughtlessness. Urdu is no longer taught in colleges or universities; a time will come when no one will be able to read Urdu at all, perhaps only in translation. How much of literature’s beauty remains intact in translation? Nur grieves deeply over all this. He loves Urdu, writes poetry in Urdu—Urdu is like a child to him. He suffers seeing that child neglected. Around him are many devotees, flatterers, admirers. But none of them truly reads Urdu poetry with love and understanding. They are utterly ordinary people who follow momentary enthusiasms, have no opinions of their own, lack the capacity to appreciate poetry. To understand someone gifted, one needs some talent oneself, at the very least some intelligence. Nur Saheb is a great poet; visiting his home means free biryani and liquor, he gives them time, melts at their flattery—that’s why they stay near Nur. Whether such worthless flatterers are there or not makes little difference. None of them can keep his creations safe.
Deven is a lecturer at a local college in Mirpur. He loves Urdu, does some writing, deeply respects those who write in Urdu. He inherited this passion for Urdu from his father. At college he teaches Hindi, because there’s good demand for Hindi—he has to support his family, teachers can’t survive on moonlight alone! But his concentration, love, and thoughts all revolve around Urdu. As a Hindi teacher, he cannot be called particularly successful in class. A local magazine wants to publish an interview with Nur. The editor assigns this task to Deven. Deven feels as if he’s found a way to escape the “prison of Hindi”—for a few days he can spend time with his beloved Urdu. Visiting Nur’s home, Deven sees that Nur is a massive man who struggles to move due to his body’s weight. Fame-intoxicated flatterers constantly surround him, aspiring poets buzz around, the poet has two wives—neither seems to understand the poet or show him proper respect, the house is constantly flooded with selfish and greedy people. There’s no opportunity to speak with Nur at leisure or have a private conversation to learn about his life and work.
The poet’s first wife, Safia Begum, is elderly, somewhat irritable by nature, but simple-hearted. The second wife, Imtiaz Begum, is quite cunning and attempts unsuccessfully to write poetry in Urdu. She desperately wants recognition as a poet, but has no poetic talent. Despite much effort, no lines emerge from her mind; in her desire for applause, she has long been passing off her husband’s poems as her own. Poets often cannot write down many things—those creations remain in their minds, sometimes emerging in conversation. Nur’s younger wife carefully collects these fragments and presents them as her own poetry. Interestingly, she envies her poet-husband; burning with that jealousy, she throws away his poems, releases the pigeons from their coop. This is the rage of the powerless—what Nur has written down can be destroyed, but the wealth in his mind can never be eliminated. The real treasure lies beyond sight; the foolish wife doesn’t understand this, thinking that destroying what’s visible will end everything. With such people crowding the house, interviewing Nur becomes nearly impossible, so Deven buys an old tape recorder with college funds and bribes Safia with some money to cleverly get Nur out of the house. Along with a technician, he takes Nur to a brothel for a week. Renting a room there, he begins interviewing Nur. The recorder is old and problematic; the technician naturally doesn’t understand the importance of this interview, so when connections come loose, he doesn’t notice. Nur’s words and poetry mean nothing to him; he prefers the crude jokes of Nur’s flatterers. Only a fraction of what Nur says gets recorded. Later it’s discovered that due to mechanical failures, even that doesn’t come out properly. Greatness can never be recorded!
Where Urdu itself is being driven away, how can Urdu poetry exist? Urdu’s days are over. What we see now is merely Urdu’s corpse. Nur is an ailing elderly poet—the last significant poet of the Urdu language. His death approaches. Through him, the film shows Urdu’s moribund state. His band of flatterers can feel Urdu poetry less than they claim; their real focus is on free expensive food and endless liquor supply, on the poet’s various luxuries including pigeon-keeping. They claim to be the worthy inheritors of Nur’s creations and thought, yet lack that talent. A man is being beaten on the street. The group of flatterers runs from Nur’s presence to the veranda to watch this spectacle with amusement, laughing—perhaps if Nur ever falls into trouble, they’ll watch the endangered Nur from a distance in exactly the same way, laugh, enjoy themselves, clap along with others. Those who take pleasure in seeing others humiliated and hurt are anything but creative or talented people.
Yet Nur gives them space, encourages them. Perhaps at this age he needs people who will constantly sing his praises, understanding or not. People love to hear recognition until death, making whatever sacrifices necessary. This crowd of unnecessary cheap flatterers pains Deven. Nur’s company is like a dream to him, because he too tries to write in Urdu and loves the language. Deven’s pain is essentially Nur’s pain—the agony of hearing Urdu’s death knell at the hands of some incompetents. Deven’s editor friend Murad keeps pressuring Deven to finish the interview quickly. Meanwhile, Deven is intoxicated by the Urdu poetry flowing from Nur’s lips; he wants this intoxicating journey to be endless, yet such conflict between dreams and duty leaves him somewhat bewildered. Murad’s magazine is called ‘Awaz’—this name is metaphorical, for when no one around wants to learn Urdu, the dying Urdu language will still announce its brilliant presence through that ‘Awaz.’ When Deven first went to Nur’s house, he saw an old, dilapidated building with plaster falling from walls in places, and Nur’s bedroom was dark, faded, grimy, pallid. Deven could never have imagined that his dream hero lived in such a crumbling house. He had imagined poets living in some loving, peaceful nest. The poet’s manner of speaking and behavior is not poetic at all, but utterly ordinary.
Meanwhile, neither wife pays much attention to the poet or shows him due respect. They continually wound the poet with various cutting words. They show little concern for the poet’s illness either. They constantly quarrel among themselves. They have endless complaints against the poet! As if the poet survives on their mercy! How unhappy such a famous person is in family life! Even his wives fail to properly appreciate such a poet’s talent. These circumstances seem to tell Deven about Urdu’s fading destiny.
Siddiqui teaches Urdu at Deven’s college. He arranged for Deven to get money from the registrar to buy an old tape recorder. In return, Deven will keep Nur’s interview archived in the college’s Urdu department, though Siddiqui has little concern about whether it’s kept or not. He arranged the money not for Urdu’s sake, but to maintain good relations with Deven. Before death, Nur sends some of his poems about death to Deven’s “custody,” requesting they be published if possible. When Deven was telling Siddiqui about this, instead of paying attention, Siddiqui becomes busy showing Deven that his old house is being demolished. The house where he lives is very dilapidated—like Urdu, his teaching subject; it’s being torn down by a developer company to build markets, cinema halls, residential buildings—refined Hindi is replacing plain Urdu. This matters more to Siddiqui than Urdu poetry. He teaches Urdu at college not from love of Urdu, but out of compulsion, having no other option. What was invaluable to Deven meant nothing to Siddiqui, because Siddiqui feels no attraction to Urdu poetry. What someone loves has value only to them—to others it’s not worth a broken penny.
This film shows women as ambitious. Deven lacks financial comfort, and Sarla is annoyed with Deven about this. When Deven couldn’t buy new shoes for their son, Sarla’s father bought them, and Deven had to hear about it. Deven’s low income prevents them from living comfortably, causing Sarla much grief. Meanwhile, Nur’s first wife helps Deven get the interview opportunity in exchange for a bribe. The second wife, Imtiaz, is from a courtesan family. She steals Nur’s writings and claims them as her own, constantly speaks harshly to Nur, unnecessarily creates scenes and humiliates him; rather than waste energy in trivial disputes with his wife, Nur quietly endures everything. She repeatedly pressures Deven to publish her interview in the magazine so she can gain recognition as a poet. She believes Deven has come to steal all of Nur’s writings and claim them as his own. Notably, both Imtiaz Begum and Sarla are disrespectful and indifferent toward their husbands’ poetic talents, sometimes extremely irritated. The sole reason: their husbands cannot meet various household needs, cannot properly manage household expenses. Being able to voice one’s needs doesn’t mean willfulness. If speaking up later about household matters leads to solving household problems, then speaking up later is better. Such a woman’s voice of protest is heard in this film. Here women don’t silently accept men’s wishes, but try to establish their own rights. That effort obstructs creativity—the first obstacle in geniuses’ lives comes from home. It’s nearly impossible for a genius to marry and find happiness in life. Lakshmi’s establishment and Saraswati’s worship, both together? It’s not unseen, but very rare.
Poetry and ghazals are scattered throughout the film. Along with sher and shayari. The film can be watched in one sitting with a sweet enchantment. In the final scene, Nur’s death seems a clear indication of Urdu’s death. His corpse is being taken away; everyone watches, everyone grieves, yet no one can do anything. His last wish was to spend his final days in Mecca—that too didn’t happen. Life is not a destination of fulfillment, but a journey of incompleteness. Those days held memories of neglect by loved ones, false praise from flatterers, a shortage of true love for this great poet. With such gray, faded memories he had to go to his grave.