A Tay Wela Aap Dassay Ga, Kon Mar Da A Medan Pehlay Hallay

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Maula Jatt is a Punjabi movie released in February 1979.  Hands down it is the most famous movie ever produced in Pakistan with a world wide cult following.  More words, columns and articles have been written about this single film than the entire Pakistani movie industry.

 

There are iconic films—Gone with the Wind, Mother India—that capture a historical moment. Other films are remembered for ushering in a new epoch; think Star Wars or Zanjeer. But rarely has one film dominated an industry and a public’s consciousness so completely as the Pakistani rustic, action picture Maula Jatt.

 

Released forty years ago this February, what appeared at the time to be just another Punjabi potboiler has, in fact, become the undisputed glittering prize of Pakistani film. Recognised today as a unique cinematic creation which has spawned its own ‘Jatt’ franchise, Maula Jatt will be memorialised later this year in a much-ballyhooed recreation by director Bilal Lashari.

 

The story of Maula Jatt can be traced back to the 1950s Urdu short story, Gandasa by Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi. But the character portrayed in the short story, a village tearaway caught up in a society driven in equal measure by violence and love, is one as familiar to Punjabis as the old story of Hir Ranjha.  Wehsi Jatt (1975) the hit movie which picturised the short story, set the ball of blood-drenched Punjabi movies rolling.  Four years later, producer Sarwar Bhatti decided to advance the story and created Maula Jatt in which he introduced new characters, a fresh plotline and, lots and lots more gore.

 

What could have been a lazy rip off turned out to be strikingly fresh, even innovative. Maula Jatt managed not only to win the immediate affection of audiences all across the country but critics too, sang its praises.  At the same time, the film struck fear into the heart of Zia ul Haq’s military government whose clumsy attempts to censor the film proved unsuccessful and as is usually the case when authorities try to restrict access, only enhanced the reputation of the movie.

 

The film begins on a grand operatic note.  This is Punjab, intones an invisible narrator. There are two kinds of people here. Those who inflict terror upon the land and those who seek justice. Noori Natt represents the former. The humble Maula Jatt exemplifies the party of the just.  The stage is set for a morality tale like no other, but to the extent that the movie is a story of the blood feud between Maula (Sultan Rahi) and his sneering nemesis Noori Natt (Mustafa Qureshi), the plot line is strangely extraneous. What follows is more akin to a series of individual scenes stapled together rather than a logically recounted narrative. The only thing that matters here, from the very first rape scene that turns into an anguished death dance by the victim, is the action. The fights. The juicy insults. The severed limbs and the rivers of blood.

 

The tale is ostensibly one of enmity between Noori and Maula, but the relationship between the two adversaries is so much more subtle and fascinating.  Under Younis Malik’s intuitive direction the characters reveal  that below the surface of their violent hatred lies a deeper, friendlier sportsman-like rivalry; a bond that is as loving as it is loathsome. And this intimate, homo-erotic connection is the true measure of Maula Jatt’s brilliance.

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Sultan Rahi as Maula Jatt

Though the two men do not meet until halfway through the film, the atmosphere bristles with menace. Noorie Natt is in jail for murder but his goondas and family members, including his frightening and beautiful sister Daro Natni (Chakori), are causing chaos in the land of the 5 rivers.  Maula has his hands full as he gallops from village to village on his white horse administering justice with his fists and glistening gandasa (axe). When at last the men meet face to face they are literally yoked together in an attempt to pull an overloaded bullock cart out of a rut. Like wrestlers or weight lifters proud of their physical strength they show off to each other (often first by ripping open their shirts to display their finely muscled chests) and banter back and forth. Their first encounter is friendly.

 

Soon though, they discover the identity of the other and the blood begins to flow. But there is a self-conscious choreographed structure to their battles. Like bristling pack dogs trained for a fight the men splay their legs (lungis flapping in the breeze) and bellow. Slowly they circle and leap towards the other.  Maula displays a heavy scowl; Noorie wears a bemused smirk. With the wit and agility of slam poets they toss insults and threats back and forth. Noorie, the calmer one, peppers his one-liners with intimate expressions such as sohniya (handsome), delicate hand gestures and kissing sounds. Maula is all raging self righteousness: “Maulay nu Maula na maray, tay Maula naee marda,” (Maula won’t die unless Maula himself kills Maula) he howls in the film’s most famous line.

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Noorie Natt (Mustafa Qureshi) teases the cops

 

Indeed, it is this sort of dialogue that has made the film legendary and which gives it so much energy and life. Each man bellows at the other as if competing in a deathly mushaira. But their words veer dangerously close to the sexual. They refer constantly to hearts, their fingers and palms, hair and lips. They speak of licking the other’s blood and tasting each other.  Yes, there is masculine brutishness on display but also a palatable sexual frisson.

 

The gandasa and lathi fights are the final element of this strange peacock dance. The men charge, they defend, they tumble. Noorie, as is to be expected, suffers more blows than Maula but his arched eyebrow and uproarious laugh leaves the competition open for a rematch.  The playful nature of the men’s enmity especially shines forth in one remarkable scene. After indulging in yet another bloody battle the police arrest both men.  As the constables transport them to jail (in tongas), Maula and Noori are joined by their goondas who break into a muqabala-e-geet (singing competition) detailing the achievements of their respective heroes. Like parties of qawwals at a wedding the singers (Alam Lohar and Shaukat Ali) entertain Maula and Noori who gaze lovingly toward each other as if their rivalry is some inside joke!

Adding to the light-hearted hilarity is that Rangeela, one of Lollywood’s great comic actors (seen in the clip in the yellow turban sitting next to Maula) is the lead singer for Maula’s party!

 

Inayat Hussain Bhatti’s score is another secret of Maula Jatt’s success. Taking cues from Italian composer Ennio Morricone’s classic spaghetti western soundtracks of the 1960s, Bhatti uses haunting and spare percussion along with elongated electronic drone notes to create an eerie tension. For long passages silence is the chief sound. The camera zooms in close or contemplates Maula’s riveting eyes. We hear nothing but perhaps a pebble or two underfoot.  But when its time for a fight Bhatti deploys snapping electric guitar runs and fidgety Hammond organ to bring you to the  edge of your seat.  This sort of musical manipulation was rarely heard in Punjabi films at the time. When combined with living colour (all the better to show the bright red blood) instead of the usual grainy black and white audiences must have found themselves nearly exhausted by sensory experience.

 

Maula Jatt ran for over 120 weeks despite the government’s attempts to have the movie banned. Complaining, rather implausibly considering their own mandate, the military insisted that the film was too violent. Sarwar Bhatti, the producer, was able, however, to use the courts to successfully stall the government’s intentions for over two years. By this time the film became a massive phenomenon. Even when, at last, the government compelled Bhatti to produce a heavily redacted version, many movie houses simply reinserted the cuts back into the reel and ignored the Generals. Sadly, only censored versions are available today.

 

From the remove of nearly half a century it is tempting but probably completely unfair to suggest that the violence which the Zia years unleashed upon Pakistan, and especially the hanging of Z.A. Bhutto just a few months after Maula Jatt was released, is prefigured in the film. The ultimate subtext of the film is that of the common man’s search for justice, and freedom from oppression. In the final scene, Maula laments the fatal wounding of his ‘frenemy’ Noori who lies gasping at his feet with severed limbs. He bellows onto the heavens that what Punjab needs is “Justice not Revenge!” Could message have been the real reason for the military’s meddling?

 

Maula Jatt marks the beginning of the end of the Urdu family film which had completely dominated the industry since 1947.  Punjabi action films, soon followed by Pashto soft porn, became and remained the only game in town, until relatively recently. But the biggest beneficiary of the Maula Jatt phenomenon was leading man Sultan Rahi.  Though he hailed from an Urdu speaking family and had been a middling star of both Urdu and Punjabi films since the early 60s, it was his performance as Maula Jatt that transformed him into the King of Punjabi and arguably Pakistani filmdom.  For the next two decades his name and image were synonymous with Lollywood.  Though he aspired to more serious achievements and spoke in interviews of his unease with his status as ‘Mr Action’ Maula Jatt typecast him forever.  In what must be one of the most poignant life stories to come out of Lollywood, Rahi himself was brutally murdered in 1996. While driving from Lahore to Pindi he was attacked by unknown assailants and left to die in the dark Punjabi night like one of the hundreds of his on-screen enemies.

 

 

 

Allah Allah Allah Haq Allah Hoo

Aadam

Yeh Aadam (This Adam) is a Punjabi movie released on April 11,1986.

I’ve not been able to locate any data about its success at the box office which is probably evidence of its being a flop.

 

The film starred the giant of Pakistani Punjabi cinema Sultan Rahi along with his erstwhile female co-star Asiya, who shared the honors with him in the 1979 super-duper-wooper hit Maula Jat.

 

Punjabi cinema was dominant in Lahore in the mid-80s. The golden era of Urdu language family social dramas that targeted the urban middle classes was waning fast. President General Zia ul Haq was nearly a decade into his political/social/moral crusade to clean up the Land of the Pure. After the advent of the VCR and rise of the small screen the film industry was struggling to justify its existence. Public life became constricted as families, and women especially, retreated (or felt compelled to stay) indoors. And if, as a filmmaker, you could not depict physical affection between men and women, and any sort of partying or dancing or general merriment was frowned on by censors, what remained to attract people to the movies?

 

In keeping with the times—a war in Afghanistan, politically sponsored violence in major cities, rise of small arms and narcotics—Lollywood turned to other audiences and violence. Punjabi films such as Yeh Aadam extolled ‘traditional and rural’ values—clan loyalty, blood feuds, manliness—and drew upon the urban poor or migrant laborer markets. Sultan Rahi, Mustafa Qureshi, Chakori and Asiya were the top-billed names and would remain so until the Punjabi film market itself nearly died out in the mid-90s.

 

The music for Yeh Aadam was composed by Nazir Ali and M Javed and called upon the singing talents of the best in the industry: Noor Jehan, Shaukat Ali, Mehnaz and Masood Rana. Sometimes its the music that rescues a film from complete oblivion but not in this case. Nazir Ali was an accomplished veteran composer with a long string of hits to his credits, but M Javed, who is credited by EMI on the album label as the main composer, remains a mystery.

 

So if the film stunk (apparently) and no hits came out of the soundtrack (it seems) and the music director is a non-entity (based on quick searches on the internet) why are we highlighting the film?

 

The answer is simple: Alam Lohar. Without a doubt one of Pakistan’s–no, South Asia’s–most important folk artists, Alam Lohar presence in any film soundtrack is worthy of attention. Though he had passed on to the next world several years before Yeh Aadam was released there was no one who could sing this kind of song better.

 

Lohar was a natural singer who came up through the folk theatre (nautanki). His voice is raw and full of vigor if not exactly polished. But it was his charisma as a performer as much as for his voice that Pakistanis loved and continue to appreciate him.

 

Allah Allah Allah Haq Allah Hoo is a simple ‘Sufi’ song of the sort you’d hear around the mazar (tomb) of any Saint in rural Pakistan (or northern India for that matter). Though this version has been gussied up in the studio the basic folk elements are clearable audible: strong percussion, morchang (a local version of the jaw or jews harp) and simple lyrics.

 

The title of the song is a traditional Sufi chant (zikr); it is credited to one of Mohammad’s four companions, Abu Bakr and is associated with the Naqshbandi silsila (order) of Muslim mystics. It simply means Allah is Truth, Allah Is. In between this refrain Lohar inserts other short verses that refer to the Almighty’s other attributes and qualities such as his ‘glorious aura’ (shaan) and powerful throne (takht).

 

All in all this song is a wonderful little gem rescued from an otherwise barren and arid landscape.

AAAHAH