Bhawana Somaaya

One had anticipated that this would happen and it has. The suggested amendment to India’s copyright has started a revolution.

To support what can become a serious issue that would affect all publishers / authors should certain drafted amendments to India’s copyright act be endorsed in the present form, leading publishers in India and overseas have initiated a signatory campaign to protest the proceedings.

It all started when film lyricists and music directors proposed changes in the bill. This led to a proposed new clause in Section 2(m) which stipulates that ‘a copy of a work published in any country outside India with the permission of the author of the work and imported from that country into India shall not be deemed to be an infringing copy’.

This Proviso would mean that books published in any country could be freely made available and sold in India—regardless of whether the publishers of these editions have Indian rights—without the action amounting to infringement of copyright.

For example, this would mean that English-language editions published in the UK or in the USA of a book where an Indian publisher has contracted the rights for the Indian territory could be legally imported into India, undermining the investment that Indian publishers have made in promoting their authors, and of course devaluing the perception of authors in India.

There are cases where separate, lower-priced editions of books published by Indian publishers are also published by different publishers in Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh and other neighboring countries. These too could be legally sold into India should the amendment go through as drafted.

The amendment puts Indian publishers and their authors at a serious disadvantage (it would not be legal for Indian editions without specific contractual territorial copyright, for instance, to be sold in the USA, UK, Pakistan or any other country) and would undermine the very fabric of publishing in India, endangering the significant investment that is being made into this sector.

Maybe this is not the intention of the amendments in which case I strongly recommend that they reconsider the wording of the legislation carefully, so that it does not conflict with the intended and wished for territoriality of authors’ contracts with their Indian publisher.

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Bhopal is getting ready for Bhaskar Women of The Year Awards. Conducted by Ernst & Young the judging process is in three phases. First the contestant is reviewed on defined parameters by a panel of internal editorial jury. Next, they go through the scanner of a city jury and finally come personal interviews in four specified categories judged by a grand jury in this case comprising journalist and author Mrinal Pande, IAS officer, ex-Chief Secretary of the undivided Madhya Pradesh state Nirmala Buch and me. I leave for the jury meet tomorrow to Bhopal. More when I get back.

Bhawana Somaaya
www.bhawanasomaaya.com

Miss you Abba

On May 2002 renowned lyricist and poet Kaifi Azmi passed away. It is eight years but I still vividly remember the first time I met him.
“Abba, ye hamari achchi dost hain…,” Shabana Azmi said introducing me to her father Kaifi Azmi sitting on a cane sofa-set, surrounded by the unique ambience of Janki Kutir, in Juhu, Mumbai. His left frozen hand characteristically resting on the arm of the chair, the right pressing it gently, he said softly, “Dost hai to zaahir hai achchi hi hogi.” That was my first exposure to his subtlety.

Over the years, due to my close proximity to the Azmi family, I got used to his towering personality and the master strokes of his intellect. The beauty of affection is that it makes no cerebral discriminations. I was included in the stimulating mehfils frequently held at the Azmi household, even though I understood very little of the language or the ideology. His awesome personality and thundering voice never intimidated only enchanted his lesser aware audiences. That was his magnanimity.

His strength was that unlike other performing artistes, he never craved for reassurance and remained truly detached from flattery. In a particularly low mood one evening, I asked him what triggered him to write the achingly romantic verse, ‘Dil ki nazuk ragen tutti hain, yaad itna bhi koi na aaye…’ from Hanste Zakhm. He looked at me with blank eyes for a long time, then looked away. It was his ability to hold back always that made his rare gestures of attachment so precious to all those who loved him deeply.

My special memory of him is walking into his room one afternoon to find Abba (as I later came to call him) disdainfully watching his man-Friday unsuccessfully struggle to pull out the naada from his pyjama. As soon as he saw me, he beamed and heaved a sigh of relief. “Is waqt mujhe ek aurat ki sakht zaroorat thi,” he said, signaling his attendant to pass me the pyjama and get on with other routine chores.

Several such magical moments come to my mind as I pen my memories. He and I wordlessly watching a murder mystery over chai and khari biscuit, unusually comfortable in each other’s silence. Me visiting him at Bombay Hospital soon after his back surgery. Brave as usual, his humour intact, he said almost like a mourning beloved, “Aaj Sheeba ki bahut yaad aati hai..” Sheeba was the temperamental dog who never left Abba’s side for a moment. And considering how little Abba communicated with anyone, it was amazing how they bonded in silence.

Over the decades, Abba visited Jaslok Hospital several times, shifting floors, rooms and doctors. Gradually from a robust man whose presence filled the room, he shrunk to a frail figure, permanently laid up on a high bed and closely monitored medically. Surrounded by gadgets and wrapped up in tubes, he was forever in discomfort, but not once did he complain even though his suffering was apparent.

In his last days, he seemed detached even from his poetry. When Shabana plugged in the ear-phones of his walkman and played for him his old numbers, there was no registration or joy in his eyes. The only time he perked up was when receiving the news of the country, or the progress in his village Phulpur, in Mijwan. The anguish was always for the larger mankind, never himself.

On the day he passed away, his new dog Gauri paced restlessly from one room to another. Sensing her master, but confused over not finding him at his regular place, she whined periodically. It was an unusually hot afternoon and a never-ending night. Lines from his poem Makaan reverberated in my mind:
Aaj ki raat bahut garm hawa chalti hai,
Aaj ki raat na footpath pe neend aayegi,
Sab utho, main bhi uthun, tum bhi utho, tum bhi utho,
Koi khidki isi deewar mein khul jaayegi…..

No window opened up to soothe our pain however. In fact, as the hours passed, the heartache increased. Grief flowed and ebbed as different members of the family displayed strength and vulnerability at different moments. Pain was omnipresent and a pall of gloom fell over the house with dusk.

When music directors Jatin-Lalit dropped by to offer condolences, it was late evening and after a long time, there was a nip in the air. After the formalities, in a spontaneous gesture, Jatin began humming Kaifi Azmi’s memorable songs. Soon Lalit joined him, then Javed Akhtar, Neelam Shukla, Parvati Khan and other family friends. It was a magical moment. From the poignant ‘Waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam…’ to the reflective ‘Jaane kya dhundti rehti hain aankhen mujh mein…’ the hopeful ‘Zara si aahat hoti hai…’, and the naughty ‘Sara mora kajra chudaya tune…’ to the inspiring ‘Itne baazu itne sar…’ Kaifi Azmi had a song for every mood and moment. Suddenly, the plants he had nurtured with so much love didn’t seem barren anymore. Suddenly, even our hearts filled with hope. Abba hadn’t gone away. It was apparent in the languid way Gauri lay asleep in the doorway. She had made peace. So had the swaying palm trees in the garden…

And so will us hopefully Abba, in your immortal poems and songs.

Bhawana Somaaya
www.bhawanasomaaya.com