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.

 

 

 

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Main Walayat Kahnu Aa Gaya

playboy

Playboy (Playboy) is an Urdu film released in September 1978.  Filmed on location in the UK it was a blockbuster hit, running for more than 54 weeks in Karachi.

Nadeem was the movie’s headliner and in the absence of his usual matinee shadow Shabnam, he was supported by the up-and-coming starlet Babra Sharif.  Shamim Ara, the beautiful actress-turned-director, was behind the camera and M Ashraf, by this time the most in-demand music director in the industry, was in charge of the songs and music.

The film is on my ever-growing ‘To Watch’ list but in the meantime, here is a scathing review from one Pakistani critic who also makes the very Trumpesque claim that the film is among the POTUS’s favourites!  Alas, while we now  know that there is nothing so outlandish as to dismiss categorically about Herr Trump the only reference this scrivener could find to ‘Donald Trump + Playboy movie’ was that he did appear (graciously, fully clothed) in a soft porn film produced by Playboy magazine twenty years or so after Ms. Ara‘s film was thrilling audiences in Pakistan.

Main Walayat Kahnu Aa Gaya (I Have Come from Overseas)* one of the more enduring songs from the film is wonderfully sung, in Punjabi, by the full-throated Shaukat Ali. In the movie an obese Nanha, the public’s favourite film comedian of the era  does a rather blubbery exotic dance in various locations across London as a perplexed and bemused public tries to play along.

The lyrics appear to be (at least in part) a dialogue about the virtues, vices and strange ways of living in the white man’s world.  But you don’t have to know Punjabi to enjoy this song.  The whole thing is driven by powerful Punjabi percussion and a hypnotic snake charmer’s been (gourd pipe) which tries to smooth out the rather awkward hip shakes of goofy Nanha. But the real star of the music is what is picturised as an electric guitar but in actually sounds like an electrified sarod or rubab.  The instrument gives the song an urgent electric edge and does a beautiful job of bridging the multiple contextual gaps of tradition and modern, village and urban, East and West.

Though he keeps the synths and wailing guitars out of this number Ashraf still manages to create a real rocker; one that is worth repeated listenings whether or not you have the patience to watch the entire movie or not.

 

Walayat

 

 

*I’m not a Punjabi speaker so this is my guess at the title.

 

 

Tum Kaun Ho

khotay-sikay

Khotay Sikkay (Fake Coins) is an Urdu movie released in November 1981.  It achieved Silver Jubilee status and ran for 34 straight weeks in Karachi.

The American cowboy movie with its themes of individual and national identity, has been an inspiration for many Indian films, such as the iconic Sholay (1975) and Dharmatma (1975) as well as more recently, the hilarious send-up of the gunfighter-comes-to-town genre, Quick Gun Murugan (2009).

In Pakistan you could argue that virtually the entire output of the Punjabi film industry and its one-of-a-kind superstar Sultan Rahi, is, in essence, a local interpretation of the Western.

The rugged rural landscapes of Pakistan’s northwest tribal areas bordering Afghanistan and its deserts, complete with old forts and remote villages, afford a spectacular backdrop for the elemental struggles of righteous, vengeful heroes against villainy and corruption.

Khotay Sikkay is another film that borrowed its title from an earlier Indian movie (Khote Sikke/1974) which starred India’s handsome cowboy-actor Feroz Khan.

The Pakistani movie was filmed on location and fielded an all-star cast led by the veteran Mohammad Ali and Lahori glamour puss Babra Sharif.  Badar Munir, the single biggest name in Pashto movies, who made his reputation as a tough and rough ‘don’t give me any shit’ type of hero was also drafted in to give the otherwise urbane cast a certain rugged authenticity.

The musical players were equally stellar.  M Ashraf, probably the greatest musical director of his era,  led the effort supported by the voices of several outstanding artists including A Nayyar, Mehnaz, Nahid Akhtar and Akhlaq Ahmed.

There exists in Pakistan a whole genre of singing known as qaumi naghme (national songs) which are usually presented on TV shows in front of well-behaved middle-class studio audiences. These songs extol the virtues and positive aspects of the Pakistani state and encourage listeners to adopt high-minded ideals of tolerance, moderation, piety and loyalty.  Almost every singer in Pakistan, including the very biggest names, has sung such songs. And even though they are musically rather drab affairs most singers claim to enjoy singing them.

Our featured track, Tum Kaun Ho, is one such patriotic duet. Performed by Nahid Akhtar and Shaukat Ali, it is a very interesting song indeed, if for no other reason than the number of cans of worms it begs one to open.

The title of the song means, Who Are You? a question Nahid Akhtar asks as if she were the Mother of the Nation.

‘Who are you/tell me dear/to which nation do you belong?’

Shaukat Ali is a popular singer from Lahore who covers a range of styles including ghazals and folk music but who shot to fame as a playback singer in Punjabi movies. He has won many awards including the highest arts prize, the President’s Pride of Performance award for his contributions to Pakistan musical culture.

His response to Nahid’s question comes first in the form of ‘I am a son of Punjab’. Ali sings mainly in Urdu in this verse but  breaks into a few stanzas of Punjabi which include the cry ‘Bhaley! Bhaley!’ which is an instant signal to all listeners that this is a Punjabi singing.

Next Ali travels to Sindh where he invokes the desert Sufi spirit of the great mystic Lal Shahbaz Qalandar (where just this week 76 people were murdered by the thugs ISIS at his shrine in Sehwan) with a rousing chorus of ‘Dama dam mast Qalandar/Sakhi Shahbaz Qalandar‘.

More verses follow. Short portraits relate ‘typical’ Baluch and Pashtun national characteristics which in the case of the latter, include, ‘guns are my toys!’

The song’s grand statement is delivered in the final 2 and a half minutes.

Yeh Sindhi, Punjabi, Baluchi/hain Angrez ki baten

(This Sindhi, Punjabi, Baluchi/ are just English words)

Kyon suboh mein bante rahein ho/insaano ke zaate

(Why do you divide yourselves among the provinces)

Ek kitab hai/ ek  hai ummat

(A single holy book/ a single faith community)

Ek hai Ka’aba apna

(The single Ka’aba is ours)

Sab ka vaarish ek  Mohammad/ Ek hai khuda apna

(Mohammad is all our inheritance/ The One God is ours)

Ek aazaan ke aage/jis ne sar ne jhukajayenge

(Our heads will bow in response to one call to prayer)

Allaaaah ho Akbar

(God is Great!)

Ma ke chaahe sau bete ho/ ek hi kahelayenge

(Our Mother’s hundred beloved sons/ will be called one)

Ma ki beton apni ma ko/suboh mein na banto

(Dear Mother’s sons/don’t divide your Mother into Provinces)

Quaid-e-Azam ka yeh gulshan nafratein na kato

(Don’t let hate destroy our Great Leader’s garden)

Na Sindhi na Punjabi na Pashto na Makrani

(We are neither Sindhi, nor Punjabi, nor Pashto, nor Makrani)

Pakistan mein rahne wale sab hain Pakistani

(All who live in Pakistan are all Pakistani)

The national anthem then plays as the song fades out.

Musically the piece is very satisfying. Ashraf keeps the music moving steadily at a medium pace throughout the first several verses.  He skillfully introduces instruments such as rubab, sarinda and dhol that are particular to each region of Pakistan and, as mentioned above, inserts lines and phrases from some of the regional languages. Shaukat Ali’s voice is open and clear and confident which fits both the subject matter and intention perfectly.

But the tension is really ramped up in the final key verse as strings break through and swell majestically at the end of each couplet.  Ali‘s voice responds by jumping up an octave. All the while the Punjabi affinity for rhythm is evident in the excited beating of tabla and dhol. The pace slackens dramatically and respectfully for the call to prayer but then picks up again until the national anthem draws the song to a dignified close.   All in all, the song is an outstanding example of a qaumi naghma and one that is worthy of repeated listens even if more for its music than lyrics.

An analysis of the lyrics is something that must wait for another time and place. But suffice it to say they point to a number of issues–language, ethnicity, geography, faith, inclusion–that continue to challenge the world’s first confessional state 70 years after its birth.

Tum Kaun Ho