Waheed Murad's 27th death anniversary was observed on Nov 23. To mark the occasion, the president of Pakistan conferred the Sitara-e-Imtiaz on the actor posthumously for excellence in his field. Will Karachi now name a road after one of its iconic sons?– Photo: Guddo Film Archive

On January 6, 1968, the government of President Ayub Khan announced that a conspiracy had been uncovered between some personnel from East Pakistan and Indian politicians to overthrow the government in East Pakistan and establish an independent state of Bangladesh. Twelve days later, the popular Bengali politician Sheikh Mujibur Rehman was also implicated (he was already under arrest for almost two years, since he had suggested partial autonomy for East Pakistan in his Six Points given in March 1966).

“The young Bengalis were quieter than usual at the Dacca and Chittagong Clubs,” the American Consulate General in Dhaka wrote secretly to the US Department of State a little later. “Eid was quieter this year. Fear was in the air. Men were afraid to pass more than the barest of greetings. Once argumentative chaps endured the taunts of Punjabi and non-Bengali members.”

Against this backdrop, the film Samandar was released on March 10, 1968. It was produced by Waheed Murad, who also played the lead role and sang an unaccredited song. Shabnam, a successful talent from East Pakistan, appeared here in her first lead role in a West Pakistani production. Could the on-screen alliance between talents from the two wings be a thinly veiled parable about the federation?

There are no conclusive answers but there are some pointers. Director Rafiq Razvi was known to be a patriotic filmmaker: his best-known work was Bedari (1957), a film with explicitly patriotic agenda, whose songs are played as national songs even today (Ae Quaid-i-Azam tera ehsan hai ehsan, to name just one).

The lyrics of Samandar were written by Sehba Akhtar, who would later write such national songs as Mein bhi Pakistan hoon, and become known as “the Poet of Pakistan”. The music was composed by Deboo Bhatacharya. Since the two wings of the country were connected by the sea, and not by the land, the title song becomes especially symbolic: Saathi, tera mera saathi hai lehrata samandar’ (Friend, the sea is our common friend).

The story is set in a fishing colony, which could be treated as an analogy of Pakistan. Rajah (Waheed Murad) aspires for nothing except love, while his best friend Jeera (Hanif) aspires to become the next chief of the community but ends up playing into the hands of Jaggu Seth (Rashid), a foreign intruder who wants to monopolise the economy. Rajah is persuaded by the people to contest a boat race through which the next chief would be elected. Rajah wins the race, but hands over the power to his former friend after eliciting from him a promise that he would defend the community against the intruder.

If Jeera is taken as a symbolic representation of the politicians of East Pakistan, Rajah becomes a role model for their counterparts in the western wing of the country. Significantly, his love interest is Noori (Shabnam), the chief’s daughter, whom the custom requires to marry the next chief. Thus being associated with Jeera, she becomes a symbol for the land and culture of East Pakistan. In this capacity, she is balanced by Rajah’s sister Bali (Rozina), who is wooed by Jeera.

The paradox is that Rajah does not want to rule, and yet he wants the hand of Noori, who by custom should only marry the ruler. This is not unlike the challenge that the politicians of West Pakistan faced at that time, probably without grasping it: they were supposed to keep the federation without wanting to rule over it forever.

The film was released at a time when there were rumors about Ayub Khan suffering from ailments. His successor would turn out to be Yahya Khan, whose reputation of heavy drinking would even precede his real procrastination. Consciously or unconsciously, both aspects are reflected in the ailing chief in the movie, who admits, “Old age, sickness and alcohol have rendered me incapable of taking a firm stance (against the enemy).”

A community ruled by an inebriated head, threatened by foreign intrusion and divided against itself through mistrust, while fear lurks in the hearts of those whose love is pure — could there be a more candid depiction of Pakistan at that hour of its existential crisis?

Rajah resolves the moral dilemma at the tomb of a local saint where the visitors are dressed to represent diverse ethnicities but the two qawwals singing the traditional Sufi song, Damadam mast qalandar, wear Jinnah caps. Spiritual ideals translated into collective action might be the solution required for Pakistan, even today.

Carving a unified nation out of a diverse stock is like striving against the forces of nature. The human being seems to be in conflict with nature in every song of the film, until it is announced in the final one that the lamps of the people have outshone the stars, and their garden boasts of a perfume that cannot be produced by spring.

This is the promised goal of Samandar, and the film tells us how to achieve it. Whether those who delivered this message 42 years ago were thinking about the debacle of East Pakistan or not they managed to provide an insight that is as relevant today as it was then – Khurram Ali Shafique

Armaan (1966)

Armaan was released on Friday, March 18, 1966, at a time when the country was echoing with protests against the Tashkent Agreement signed by President Ayub Khan and the Indian Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri.

It was said that a war ‘won’ on the front had been ‘lost’ on the table. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, the dissident foreign minister who was generally identified with a hard line stance against India, had just received an overwhelming ovation at the Lahore Railway Station from a multitude of his admirers.

Then, as the film opened in Naz Cinema, Karachi, and across West and East Pakistan, it captured the imagination of the entire society. Did the masses recognise, unconsciously, their deepest ideals in the fantasy about an educated and principle-centered aristocrat stepping down from his ranks for courting an orphaned girl of humble background and himself getting transformed in the process?

At least that was the gist of the hero’s journey from the festive Ko Ko Korina to the mature Jab pyar mein do dil miltay hain; and from the light-hearted rendition of Akele na jana by Ahmad Rushdi to the symphonic and cataclysmic orchestra accompanying the voice of Mala, at the end. In retrospect, one may say that this was not very unlike the expectations that people were beginning to develop from Bhutto around the same time — regardless of whether or not the politician lived up to the ideals given by poets.

The film was the first Pakistani release to become a “Platinum Jubilee” (running for 75 cumulative weeks). The middle class, usually reluctant to go to the cinema, got attracted in large numbers (in some ways this shift had already started with Saheli four years earlier and Naela the last year but it reached its climax with Armaan). The hairstyle of the writer, producer and actor Waheed Murad became the default for that generation. Conservatives and liberals, rich and poor, educated and the illiterate, were equally mesmerised.

The legends spawned by Armaan spread wide and were going to prove lasting. Fellow film-maker Nazrul Islam, in his greatest film Aaina (1977) eleven year later, named the heroine Najma (played by Shabnam) after the role played by Zeba in Armaan. In a subsequent film, Nahin abhi Nahin (1980), Nazrul not only named the main character Armaan, but even persuaded the lead actor Faisal Rehman to use this as a real name (recently, Faisal has directed a television sequel to Nahin abhi Nahin where the protagonist Armaan, now grown up and teaching in a college, confronts the spirit of Allama Iqbal and seeks answers to questions about the existence and destiny of Pakistan).

If Armaan is one of the pegs around which threads of our collective consciousness are tied then it very well deserves that prestige. It was an offering from well-educated and imaginative youth who respected their culture and wanted to bring a healthy change through the unity of imagination. Waheed had an M.A. degree in English from Karachi University and his obsessions included James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and Henry James (one of his dreams was to make a stream of consciousness films and he arguably achieved it three year later in one of his productions).

In developing the story of Armaan, he drew upon Cinderella, She Stoops to Conquer, The Taming of the Shrew, Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, but he used his sources ingenuously for creating a brevity that effectively conveyed the messages ingrained in the greatest cultural movements of recent history (attachment to Iqbal ran in Waheed’s family, since his grandfather Manzur Ilahi Murad was an acquaintance of the poet-philosopher in Sialkot).

Director Pervez Malik, who also wrote the screenplay, had a master’s degree in film-making from California. Camera work, imagery and symbolism were on a par with some of the best masterpieces of that time: one could identify allusions to La Dolce Vita and Hiroshima Mon Amour. Later, Pervez was going to win a Pride of Performance Award for his patriotic films, including a trilogy about the awakening of the masses through the power of love: Anmol (1972), Dushman (1974) and Pehchan (1975). The second of these is also significant because a year before India discovered “the angry young man” in Deewar (1975), Pervez Malik had created the icon here and articulated its social context with much more clarity and boldness than elsewhere.

Masroor Anwar, who wrote the dialogues and lyrics, had received a fresh impetus from his work in the 1965 war. A fascinating aspect of the lyrics of Armaan is that each song from this film, although so moving as an expression of ordinary love, can also be interpreted as a national song.

Consider, for instance, Akele na jana. The Ahmad Rushdi version is probably what every Pakistani may like to say to Pakistan: “Diya hosla jis nay jeenay ka hum ko….” (you are a beautiful feeling that gave us the courage to live; you are the certainty that never leaves the heart; you the hope that lasts). It should surprise no one that the same Masroor Anwar later gave such national songs like Sohni dharti and Wattan ki mitti gawah rehna.

Sohail Rana, who gave music to Armaan, came from a literary family. His father, Rana Akbarabadi, was a renowned poet and had approved of his son’s passion only on the condition that the talent should be used for perpetuating noble values. Sohail not only composed music for memorable national songs, including Apni jaan nazr karoon, Sohni dharti and Jeevay Pakistan but was also destined to set music to Hum Mustafavi Hain by Jamiluddin Aali, which was adopted as the national anthem of the Islamic Summit Conference in 1974 (it retains that status and is played wherever the summit is held).

In the 1970s and the ’80s, Sohail was best known to the youth in Pakistan through his popular television programme in which he taught music and good manners. Armaan, in a way, had started with him. One night in 1963 or 1964 he heard a melody in his dream. He woke up and wrote it down. The words that were given to it eventually were, Akele na jana…

The rest is film history, though sadly unwritten for the most part – Khurram Ali Shafique

Cast and Production Credits

Year – 1966, Genre – Drama, Country – Pakistan, Language – Urdu, Producer – Waheed Murad, Director – Pervez Malik, Music Director – Sohail Rana, Cast - Zeba, Waheed Murad, Nirala, Rozina, Tarannum

Waheed Murad & Rani

Getting favorable review from the very first movie he did, Waheed Murad had little time to think of failed films like Saaz-o-Awaz, in 1965. Rani had partnered him in that film on classical music. At that time, Waheed was excited about the formation of his team which was making Arman, so Rani; an ordinary, dusky girl was hardly on his mind. After that, of course, Waheed was totally taken up by his projects with a charming girl called Zeba. But, when he had gotten over his tragic parting with her, he started concentrating more on who he is being cast with. So, when next he crossed paths with Rani, in Hasan Tariq’s Devar Bhabi, he found her to be a very sensitive girl with good tastes. Although she was a vamp in the film, he felt that there’s a lot more style and body language to Rani than that unimpressive girl of Saaz-o-Awaz. The film did a golden jubilee in 1967. The next year, he acted in a remarkably light romantic flick with a triangle comprising of Shamim Ara, Waheed and Rani titled Dil Mera Dharkan Teri.

Their romantic pair was first tried in Maa Beta in 1969, which did a silver jubilee. Waheed’s chocolate charms had found a perfect magnetic appeal in Rani’s come hither, voluptuous form. They became the heart and soul of the screen. They know their cues, both expression-wise and with reference to the body lingo. Both Waheed and Rani considered Anjuman their best movie. In the grip of depressive fits, it was Rani who embraced him and gave him comfort.

After Anjuman, they did many films together, like Naag Muni, Baharo Phool Barsao, Naag Aur Nagin, Dilruba, Suraiyya Bhopali, Parakh etc. But after the 1970’s things were never the same, as the atmosphere changed in the studios and both Waheed and Rani became disillusioned before their eventual departure from the industry, and later untimely deaths.