Kaifi Ki Kahani: An Evening of Verse, Valor and Velvet Memories

Kaifi Ki Kahani: An Evening of Verse, Valor and Velvet Memories

Bangalore has its share of evenings steeped in art, but every once in a while, there arrives a moment that transcends performance—it becomes poetry in motion, memory in the making. One such evening unfurled before me in the gentle embrace of Kaifi Aur Main, a dramatised reading that blurred the lines between stage and soul.

Curated with affection and intellectual elegance, the show unravelled the epic of Kaifi Azmi—not just as a poet of protest, but as a man who lived his verses. The narrative moved seamlessly between his revolutionary writings, his romance with Shaukat Kaifi, and the political fire that fuelled his pen. It was not a linear biography but a lyrical tapestry, embroidered with love letters, hunger strikes, film lyrics, and flaming verses.

Shabana Azmi, poised and powerful, channelled her mother with breathtaking depth. Reading from Yaad Ki Rahguzar, she offered more than words—she gifted us moments.

“Main chali thi unse milne, Kaifi Azmi se. Milne gayi thi ek shaayar se… aur laut aayi ek inquilabi ke saath.”
(I had gone to meet a poet… but returned with a revolutionary.)

The auditorium, usually restless with the shuffle of feet and phones, sat entranced. Silence became sacred.

The script, co-authored and directed with restraint and brilliance, flowed through Kaifi’s personal letters, political convictions, and poetic reflections. Atul Tiwari (or another seasoned narrator) delivered the commentary with the cadence of a companion looking back—not with nostalgia alone, but with the weight of lived truth.

Kaifi’s own voice, crackling from old recordings, suddenly filled the room, reciting lines like:

“Aurat ne janam diya mardon ko, mardon ne use bazaar diya…”
(Woman gave birth to man, and he returned the favour by casting her into the marketplace…)

That verse hit like thunder—reminding us that Kaifi’s ink was soaked in the blood of social injustice and lit with the fire of reform. He wasn’t merely an observer; he was a participant in the revolution of hearts and headlines.

Yet it was not all fire and fury. There was romance too—delicate and defiant. In one passage, Shaukat writes about the time Kaifi mailed her a letter proposing marriage, ending it with:

“Main aapko pasand karta hoon. Agar aap razi hain toh jawab dein. Agar nahi, toh is baat ko chhod dein jaise yeh kabhi hua hi na ho.”
(I like you. If you agree, please reply. If not, forget this as though it never happened.)

The simplicity of the line brought chuckles, sighs, and knowing smiles. This was love, Kaifi-style—honest, urgent, and poetic.

In the latter part of the performance, as Shabana recounted her father’s final moments, her voice faltered—not in weakness, but in reverence. There was a passage that will stay with me forever:

“Kaifi sahab ne aakhri waqt mein apne haathon se mera haath pakad kar kaha – Shabbo, main jaa raha hoon. Apna khayal rakhna…”
(Kaifi Sahib, holding my hand with his own, said: Shabbo, I am going. Take care of yourself…)

Not a whisper stirred after that. The air was dense, not with sadness, but with awe. The standing ovation that followed was less for the performance and more for the presence—of Kaifi, of Shaukat, of all those souls who once dreamed aloud in verse.

As I stepped out into the Bangalore night, I felt lighter yet deeper, moved yet steadied. I was reminded of what Kaifi once said:

“Main akela hi chala tha janib-e-manzil magar,
Log saath aate gaye aur kaarvaan banta gaya.”
(I set off alone toward my destination,
But people kept joining—and it became a caravan.)

Indeed, that evening, we had all joined Kaifi’s caravan—for an hour or two, we lived in his world. And what a world it was.