Ram Kasaoti So Sahe Jo Mar Jiva Hoi, wrote Sant Kabir in the 15th century. This verse also features in the Guru Granth Sahab. “He alone passes the test of Lord Ram, who is willing to die while still being alive.”
In our own life, what is it that we are willing to let go of, to emerge anew and cleansed? Farjad Nabi evokes the metaphor of marjeeva and says, “Interpretation is futile. We all have our own ram kasautis and our own lessons towards becoming marjeevas, don’t we?”
Farjad Nabi, a playwright, screenwriter and film-maker based in Lahore, reminds us to pay attention to what we stumble upon when the mind seems to be searching for something it knows not what.

A Moment in Three Frames

Marjeeva - it literally means one who is DeadAlive. Aching and pining, we must do the difficult work, to create, to write and set adrift our words in the waves of the river.

Farjad Nabi

Aug 16

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Guest post

Listen to this river of an essay in the gentle waves of Farjad Nabi’s voice.

Listen now · 9:56

THE VIEW
This is where I do my morning chai. As evinced by the chairs, the solitude of this place has loosened a few muscles in my head. There is more space.

This photo is a recent view. Outside Lahore, not too far, not too close.

A part of me questions whether I’m avoiding humans by hiding away in this nook. Another part of me is really at peace.

Yesterday I heard a quote which went something like, “all the obstacles in your way have been custom designed for you by a part of you that really loves you”.

The aim of the obstacles is to redirect you to living an authentic life. Really? I don’t know if this is true or not but I know that something or someone has really taken my measurements and designed some fabulous bespoke obstacles.

Birds I’ve never seen before visit this place. This morning I saw a crow pheasant hopping along, dragging its gorgeous rust coat. Then there are these loud sparrows called Seven Sisters, always in a flock. And a bulbul. Mona the dog is somewhere out of frame but she’s a constant presence. She doesn’t bark but whimpers, God knows where she’s learnt this very effective sound that immediately elicits sympathy (and food). The other day she did bark and was very brave when a snake slid over the wall and plopped inside.

Now the tall grass I’ve romanticised outside the house will have to go.

There are moments when I wake up and don’t know where I am. It’s disconcerting in a nice way, like a split second of freedom. For once I’m truly in the here and now. And for once I’m waking up at hours I’ve always considered ungodly and sleeping at times unthinkable. And perhaps with a little help from my friends and guided by the birds, the horizon of Authentic Life will slowly come into view, once more.

THE DREAM
I dream I am standing on the top most diving board at the swimming pool of my childhood. There are two levels beneath me, a mid level boring one and a springy bouncy one at the bottom. This one, where I am, is the scary one. Standing here I can see the trees far beyond, the pool is an emerald postage stamp.

As a child I used to walk to the edge, look down, brush away any second thoughts and jump, my heart holding fast to an unknowable trust in the universe.

Not all kids dared the top most diving board. There was a gora boy who could dive (show off) and dared me to it. I couldn’t dive but I could jump, feet first. I thought it was extremely brave of me. Giving myself up to gravity, plunging deep into the engulfing depths, going down down down to a place where sound and light hit primordial. Looking upwards, a flash of fear before rising up up up, surfacing exhilarated. In those few moments of falling and rising, before I can take that first breath, perhaps I’m taking a lick of what it’s like to be dead. Or in the womb.

Years later as an adult I learnt a word: Marjeeva. It literally means one who is DeadAlive. It’s the folk word for divers. Those who can stay under water for long minutes, hunting for pearls or fishing out dead bodies. Before oxygen tanks we had our lungs.

But of course just like everything else, our folk poets would use Marjeeva as a metaphor.

Kabir kasauti ram ki jhoota tikai na koe

Ram kasauti so sahey jo marjeeva hoe

Interpretation is futile. We all have our own ram kasautis and our own lessons towards becoming marjeevas, don’t we?

Peering over the edge of the diving board I am taken aback. Staring back at me is a concrete floor! The pool is a few feet farther off. I can’t just jump off like I’m used to, I have to leap forward in the air, like a long jump, before I can plunge down. “That’s too dangerous. What if I miss?”

I contemplate before I turn back and come down the steps grumbling, “They built the diving board all wrong”. Interpretation is futile. I guess my ram kasauti is waiting for me to act but I’m choosing to question it, complaining that it be fixed first. Guess what’s not gonna happen?

The boy who leapt off the highest diving board trusted the universe will hold him, that he’ll rise up up up and breathe again. The universe always does that. He knew this secret of the Marjeeva.

THE MOMENT
It happened in Green’s Hair Salon. A tiny, stuffy place in the basement where all the young dudes went to get cool haircuts. I was in the chair, a qawwali playing on the speakers. I didn’t know who it was but listened to it with half an ear when a word caught me.

I still remember the hair dresser was called Tariq. The word that had hooked my ear was ’chhallaN. The capital N at the end denotes the nasal sound as in ‘haaN’ (yes) and the ‘chh’ in the beginning is the same as in ‘chhumm chhumm chhumm’ (umbrella le ke nikley hum).

I’m thinking of a word that rhymes with ‘chhallaN’ so that you know exactly how it’s pronounced. OK got it. Have you heard the Atif Aslam song, “Dil diyaN gallaN”? So it rhymes with ‘gallaN’ (baatein).

Back to Green’s Salon. I was not a connoisseur of qawwali, having spent my teenage years in pop. Punjabi music wasn’t as big either. But something about this qawwali sucked me in. While my wet hair was being snipped by Tariq, I asked him what ‘chhallaN’ meant. ‘Waves’, pat came the answer. The lyric was about the waves of the river Chenab. And the story being told was the love legend of Sohni Mahival.

The singer was Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

A still from the hand-made animation of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan by the painter Ahmed Ali Manganhar who is also starring in the film by Farjad Nabi

I bought the cassette. My first of Nusrat. I listened to it every night. And in my mind’s eye images surfaced. Many many years later these images became my first film, a heartbroken ode to Nusrat, made a month after his death. Nusrat Has Left the Building…But When?

That was 25 years ago. The Nusrat I loved was pre fame, drum machines and Afreen Afreen. He was singing the lyrics of obscure poets in obscure locations. Can one begrudge him his fame though? It’s a bit rich to romanticise an artist as long as they remain struggling and poor and feel betrayed when they’re ‘discovered’.
But I detested his new fans, going crazy about his music that was clearly counterfeit. What do these tone deaf people know about the real Nusrat?
There’s a lot more I can say but the thing is that I haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to Nusrat again. Perhaps I had hit surfeit listening to scores of his qawwalis in the making of the film or more likely I feel a certain ache that I wish to avoid.

Despite me turning my back on Nusrat, the film continues to swirl around, catching strangers in its eddies, living a full life of its own and bringing beautiful people into my life.

So yes, aching and pining, we must do the difficult work, to create, to write and set adrift our words on Chenab diyan chhallaN.

Farjad Nabi has co-written the web series Qatil Haseenaon ke Naam (2022) produced by Zee5. This series won the Best Anthology at the Asian Academy Creative Awards 2022. He is co-director and co-writer of the Pakistani feature film Zinda Bhaag (Run for your Life, 2013). His Punjabi plays have been published and performed in Pakistan.

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