Radio Pakistan was born in Lahore, in 1947, in the neo-colonial, palatial house belonging to Sir Fazl-e-Hussain, a Punjabi politician and a loyal subject of the British Colonists.

The first image that comes to my mind is that of the silver-haired Rafi Peer, who had the looks of a Patrician. The actor, director and playwright, Rafi Peer, towered over all the other radio producers and, I might add, actors. In those days he was still known as Rafi Peer. It was some years later that he changed his surname to Peerzada.

Peer Sahib would never tap his cigarette on the cigarette packet, as was the wont of all the stylish smokers of that era. During rehearsals he would tap his cigarette on the microphone, hanging in front of him, before putting it in between his lips. I, as well as the callow young generation of my acquaintance, was awe-struck in his presence.

Other than Peer Sahib, I remember two performers with great affection: the girl with the golden voice, Mohini Das, later to be known as Mohini Hameed, and the versatile actor Muhammad Hussain. Mohini Das’ metier was playing the ingénue in a tragedy. Her memorable performance in a play called Akhiyan (written and directed by Peer Sahib) haunted listeners for generations. Radio bosses wasted her voice by over-using it in all kinds of inconsequential broadcasts, even making her announce “Mandi Ke Bhau” (Market Rates).

As for Muhammad Hussain, he deserves a whole chapter in the radio annals. He could produce many voices and many accents. He could be the tragic lover and the doting uncle within the span of a page. He often played two or three parts in a play. Unschooled and untutored, he possessed a remarkable sense of timing. There were times when his eyes drifted from the page, but he never lost any time in looking for the written words; he would improvise with perfect ease. The entire galaxy of seasoned radio actors were stationed in Lahore for the first year of Pakistan’s existence; Muhammed Hussain outclassed them all.

I used to be a ‘voice’ in those days — the odd town-crier or, occasionally, the deliverer of one line: “Lunch is served Sir.” In spite of my intense efforts I was never given a speaking part of any consequence. There were many actors on the payroll of the Broadcasting Service known as “staff artistes”. They were all experienced actors and it was only right that sizeable parts were distributed among them… I think I was fortunate enough to have been chosen as a “voice”. That was the title given to me when I signed the receipt for a ten rupee cheque given to me after my first broadcast.

Pakistan Hamara Hai was the first jingoistic feature programme launched from Lahore towards the end of 1947. It was a daily programme replete with Iqbal’s most did active couplets. Many ‘voices’ were used in it. I was lucky enough to find myself in the cast once a week. I earned, on an average, forty rupees a month, which was not a princely sum, but it enabled me to complete my final year at the University without being a burden on my father’s meagre resources.

Exhortative, impassioned, I declaimed whatever text was given to me. No director — there were many — told me to take it easy. Fervour was the order of the day and I learnt nothing, but Radio became my first love.

I left Lahore towards the end of 1949 and returned seven years later to attend to my father who had suffered a stroke known technically as ‘coronary thrombosis’. Miraculously, my father recovered, but I had to stay on to collect enough money to be able to afford an air ticket back to England where I was trying (like hundreds of others) to make a living as a professional actor. I directed an ambitious Shakespeare production in the hope of raising a few pennies but what I earned could barely pay for the expensive cigarettes I had become addicted to. I turned to Radio, or rather to Nizami Sahib.

The chubby, corpulent head of Radio Pakistan Lahore, Mahmood Nizami, was one of the most charismatic personalities in the broadcasting hierarchy of Pakistan. He was a man who combined the manner of Friar Tuck with the mind of AJP Taylor. Nizami Sahib was one of the few top men who had not come out of the Ahmed Shah Bokhari school of thought, by which I mean that he had not graduated from Government College Lahore.

Ahmed Shah Bokhari, or ASB, as he was known, had been the Controller General of All India Radio and, during his reign, had recruited the cream of the Ravians: Rashid Ahmed, Noon Meem Rashid, Somnath Chibb, to name but three. These worthies had all imbibed the verve and wisdom of ASB, if not his wit. Nizami Sahib was the product of Islamia college Lahore. He had acquired his intellectual prowess in the surrounds of Arab Hotel, the famous slip-shod café frequented by the likes of Akhtar Shiranee and Charagh Hasan Hasrat.

Nizami Sahib had written an absorbing book on Iqbal. It was Ijaz Batalvi’s contention that Nizami Sahib would have written at least half a dozen penetrating books on Indo Muslim history if he had not been so occupied with the affairs of his dearly loved buffalo. I shall tell you about that buffalo on another occasion.

The most endearing aspect of Nizami Sahib’s personality was the disarming manner in which he helped people who, he knew, were desperately in need of work. He would scratch his shiny, bald head and ask them if they could be so kind as to oblige him by preparing broadcastable material on social hygiene, new developments in mathematics, Hegelian philosophy, or whatever.

He spoke very fast. I don’t think I have ever come across anyone who could pack more words in one breath. Words poured out of his mouth with the rapidity of a sten-gun, and yet he remained articulate. Many people tried to imitate him but they all ended up jabbering incoherently. Only Ijaz Batalvi perfected the knack of Nizami-esque gibberish.

Having heard of my RADA background he invited me to his office and after cracking a few jokes said he was wondering if I could come to his aid. Could I pick thirteen plays which reflected various stages of the development of Western drama, a package that could form a ‘drama quarter’. (In Radio Pakistan’s parlance a ‘quarter’ meant three months.) He really made me feel that I would be helping him out. It did not occur to me at the time that Nizami Sahib’s sole concern was for me not to feel that a favour was being granted to me.

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I plunged into the task and, in the next eight months and produced Euripides, Aeschylus, Moliere, Strindberg, and Shakespeare. Except for Medea and a shortened version of Hamlet, all the other plays were done in Urdu. I mention this not to brag about my work — which was not all that good by my standards — but to record that, thanks to Mahmood Nizami, Radio Pakistan acquired a substantial body of classical drama. God knows what happened to those recordings, or the scripts for that matter. When I enquired about them some twenty five years later, I was told that a lot of manuscripts were found missing when the office was shifted from Sir Fazl-e-Hussain’s house to its new building. As for the recordings, they were damaged along with many other recordings during a particularly severe monsoon season.

Nizami Sahib ran his office without the militaristic severity that his predecessor did. I think of him with a great deal of affection. He was, to my mind, one of the greatest stalwarts of broadcasting. Under his tutelage many excellent programmes went on the air.. Producers worked exceptionally hard at whatever task he gave them. And they worked not for a reward or promotion, but simply to receive an appreciative nod from Nizami Sahib.

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The vernacular press never let go of any opportunity to remind the Radio authorities that they were straying away from the ‘true’ path. Protest letters from self-styled defenders and protectors of Islam arrived every day. The script, with variations, was nearly always the same; the tone was stentorian:

“…..We deplore the present-day attempts to belittle and destroy the Islamic way of life. We object strongly to the disbelief, doubt and dirt that radio pours into the ears of our youngsters and our women” etc..

(This letter, a portion of which I have translated, was sent to Ijaz Batalvi who was a producer in Lahore in those days. He showed it to me in London several years later.)

The zealots put a lot of pressure on Lahore Radio about banning the broadcasting of music which, they claimed, was infidel, in nature, and, in character. I well remember the day when I was sitting in Noon Meem Rashed’s office trying to write a publicity note (by 1949 I had been engaged as a part-timer by Rashed Sahib) when a producer, known for his pedanticism, came in and asked his permission to sit down. Noon Meem Rashed, the redoubtable poet, was a very strict disciplinarian.

“Sir”, began the producer breathlessly,” I want to talk about this music business.”

“What about it?” asked Rashed Sahib

“Sir, I think the main reason why these Maulanas resent it is because of the names of the Ragas — Shiv Rangini, Narayni, Madh Vanti — they are all Hindu names. Sir, why should we not give these ragas Persianized names, according to their moods? I have made a few attempts, but you, Sir, have a vast knowledge of Persian and I want your advice…”

Rashed Sahib took off his glasses and stared at the producer like a sergeant-major eyeing a retarded recruit. “Rajah”, he said, clearing his glasses, “you have missed your vocation, tum footpath pe logon ki hajamat kia karo.” (you should sit on a footpath and shave people’s heads). ‘Rajah’ is a prefix used by most barbers in Punjab.

I was told in the “Duty Room” (this was the place where you heard all the gossip) that Zulfikar Ali Bokhari, the Radio supremo, addressing a gathering of producers, had stated that ‘Aimen’ was the greatest Raga created by Mussulmans and that they should only concentrate on this raga.

I doubt if ZAB, who knew his music, made such an asinine remark, but I know that in the daily feature, Pakistan Hamara Hai, Iqbal’s verse was nearly always set to raga Aimen. Hameed Naseem, the main producer of the programme, often told the cast that the true implication of the word aimen was security and well-being. “It’s like finding a shaded spot in the midst of a scorching sun” was the metaphor he employed while extolling the beauties of the raga.

Bare Ghulam Ali Khan read the writing on the wall and left for India where he was revered. He may or may not have had a contretemps with ZAB, as was rumoured, but the fact remained that ZAB was not enamoured of Bare Ghulam Ali Khan’s art.

I must say that Zulfikar Ali Bokhari stood up to the challenges of the fanatics boldly and resolutely. After his departure the broadcasting service was run by the bureaucrats of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting.

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“The only thing that really matters in broadcasting,” said Hugh Carlton Greene, (one time head of BBC but known largely as Graham Greene’s brother) “is programme content. The rest is house-keeping.” This is the universal truth about broadcasting. The programme content, he stressed, such as that resulting from making the microphone available to the widest range of subjects, and to the best exponents available, whether of different views, on any given subject, should be its recognised aim.

I am aware that our political analysts are openly contemptuous of BBC’s objectivity, but I will stick my neck out and say that when it comes to social or political or religious issues, the BBC has always maintained a reasonable rebalance between differing views. The BBC’s reputation as the finest broadcasting service in the world cannot be challenged. There are two reasons for this. It does not try to please all of the people all of the time, and it keeps enlarging the audience’s range of choice.

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Once television got a foothold in our country our radio audience was reduced drastically. We are not the only country where this happened. I remember well that the popular press in England printed headlines like “Auntie Is On Her Deathbed.” (The BBC radio was usually referred to as ‘auntie’.) In actual fact, the BBC radio showed itself capable of drawing steadily increasing audience, some of which were, by any standard of comparsion, larger than television audiences.

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Radio Pakistan, which came into being as a public service, dwindled all too soon into a mouthpiece of the government. If the standing of Radio, which has been a poor cousin of the state-run television for ever so long, is to be restored, it must accept the responsibility to cater to those whose taste and education enables them to take pleasure in close and responsive listening to broadcasts of artistic and intellectual distinction. This will only come about when the gods that be, realise that broadcasting programmes which raise contentious issues are not tantamount to the downfall of the state.

Zia Mohyeddin | 20 April 2014 | TNS

Zia Mohyeddin
Zia Mohyeddin, now a legend in his lifetime, is a man of many parts. His long career spans acting, directing, writing, broadcasting and a wide range of aesthetic disciplines.Born in Faisalabad, he graduated in 1949 from Government College, Lahore