Har Ik Pal Ka Shayar: Sahir on Stage, Dreams in Motion

 

Maiñ pal do pal kā shā'ir huuñ pal do pal mirī kahānī hai

pal do pal merī hastī hai pal do pal mirī javānī hai

Translated with a bit of poetic license: I am a poet—of but a fleeting moment. A tale that shimmers… then glimmers… and vanishes with the wind. My existence, ah, just a sigh in the vast silence of time. My youth only a heartbeat, blazing bright… then fading into dark shadows.

These immortal lines of Sahir Ludhianvi lit a spark in countless hearts, inspiring dreamers, lovers, rebels, and cine-goers across generations.

Sahir! A life lived in verse, a heart that pulsed in rebellion, a pen that carved eternal songs of love, loss, and longing. He was the shā'ir (poet) who gave voice to an age. Sahir–Har Ik Pal Ka Shayar, our musical play, attempts to bring alive the tumultuous yet tender journey of this legendary Urdu poet. Draped in the fragrance of his poetry, illuminated by the fire of his romances, and shadowed by the anguish of his internal and external struggles, the play celebrates Sahir not merely as the lyricist of timeless melodies, but as a restless soul forever seeking truth, justice, and beauty.

But before I lose myself in Sahir, let me rewind a little. I am, at best, a patchwork of roles, like a costume hastily stitched for the stage, its seams showing under the spotlight. A nominal engineer, a cautious consultant, an irregular reader, a pretentious author, columnist and blogger, a reluctant editor, a lover of poetry—particularly of Ghālib and the Bard, a small-time collector and promoter of visual art, a raw and untrained actor, an undeserving speaker—yet, amidst these half-formed avatars, one thing remains whole: my refusal to surrender dreams, my stubborn insistence on nurturing ideas.

Some dreams I did realize. The Vande Bharat Express. A book weaving together the voices of Shakespeare and Ghālib. And then, Bayān-e-Ghālib, the show that brought India’s wandering genius alive on stage. That was our first theatrical spark. At a time when Urdu poetry gasps for breath in a world drowning in noise, a band of Lucknow dreamers dared to experiment—not a polite hushed mehfil (gathering), but with a spectacle, bold and blazing. Not just a recital, but a sensory celebration of Mirzā Asadullāh Khān Ghālib. His letters, his verse, his andaaz (style), all transmuted into sur, raqs (musical notes, dance) and drama. Ghālib ceased to be mere ink on paper—he walked, spoke, and bantered on stage. Twice in Lucknow, once in Hyderabad, once in Delhi, and soon—Jaipur, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore. Our bayān (statement) continues, and so does the journey.

It was in the midst of this journey that a daring whisper floated in our team: Why not bring Sahir Ludhianvi too alive on stage? A seed was planted, and soon sprouted into a garden of passionate artists, each watering it with talent and love.

But let me confess—this dream was not mine. It belonged to my companions. In their generosity—or was it their folly?—they thrust into my trembling hands the daunting mantle of Sahir himself. Yes, I admired his poetry, especially his original nazms (as different from those simplified versions used in films) and popular songs, and I knew of his great success in affording the lyricists their rightful place in Hindi cinema. But I knew less of his life than my comrades did.

Still, I accepted. And since then, every rehearsal, every scene has been a rare delight. But then came the cruelest twist of all—the slaughter of my beard of forty-five years! O Sahir, you clean-shaven conspirator, why did you not spare me this betrayal? You cost me dearly!

And yet, I dared to step into his world, hiding behind Prospero’s words from The Tempest: “...We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep...” My only hope was that the audience might glimpse not an impostor, but at least a flicker of Sahir’s flame.

On 21st September, at SNA Lucknow, this gamble bore fruit. Before a hall packed to its rafters, we poured out our souls. The curtain fell, and then it rose again, on thunderous applause, on standing ovations that still echo like a chorus in my ears.

The credit belongs first to the redoubtable producer, Rajiv Pradhan, and to the experienced director, Gopal Sinha, who steered the ship. The pen behind it was the gifted Chandra Shekhar Varma. On stage, I had the privilege of performing alongside Rupali Chandra and Chandra Shekhar Varma in lead roles, with Anuradha Tandon, Amit Harsh, Jyoti Singh, Aftab Alam, Faiz Khumar, and Rohit Tandon breathing life into supporting characters. Sahir’s verse found its soul in the music of Dr. Prabha Srivastava and Pankaj Kumar, while stage and lighting, crafted with care by Gopal Sinha, became a canvas for his words to glow upon.

The singers were ably accompanied by Shyam on synthesizer, Ajay on tabla, Monty on bass guitar, and Deepak on octopad. Behind the scenes, stage associates, lighting assistants, set workers, and makeup artists formed the unseen hands that made the seen magic possible.

All this blossomed under the gentle yet resolute vision of producer Rajiv Pradhan and director Gopal Sinha—the captains of this ship of dreams—buoyed, of course, by the unquenchable passion of the entire crew. The celebration didn’t end with the curtain call. The very next evening, at Mani’s home, our tired yet jubilant troupe turned into a mehfil once again. Shayar Faiz Khumar and radio artist Aftab Alam set the tone, followed by mellifluous renditions by Dr. Prabha and Pankaj. The spirit of poetry lingered in the voices of Chandra Shekhar Varma and Amit Harsh.

Yes, our core team sat down later to reflect. We found many shortcomings, no doubt. But every piece of constructive criticism was embraced, for we know art, like love, grows only when watered by humility. We resolved to make the next show better, brighter, bolder.

For me, this was not merely a performance. It was a journey of art, of friendship, of dreams stitched together by music and verse. My heart brims over, yet remains restless, yearning for an encore, first in Lucknow, then in Delhi, and then wherever Sahir’s verses call us. Till then, I cling to the master’s immortal words, his matla’ (opening rhyming couplet) of his ghazal:

Maiñ zindagī kā saath nibhātā chalā gayā

har fikr ko dhueñ meñ uḌātā chalā gayā

(Poorly translated but basically: I navigated through life blowing away every worry in the wind with smoke.)

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