Ban gaya qasr to pehre pe koii baith gaya

So rahe khaaq pe hum shorish-e-tameer liye

Apni nas-nas mein liye mehnat-e-peham kii thakaan

Bund aankhon mein isii qasr kii tasveer liye

Din pighalta hai isii tarah saron par ab tak

Raat aankhon mein khatakti hai siyah teer liye

Aaj kii raat bahut garm havaa chaltii hai

Aaj kii raat naa footpath pe neend aaegii

Sab utho, main bhi uthuun, tum bhii utho, tum bhii utho

Koii khirkii isii diivaar mein khul jaaegii

. . . has continued to live in a rented house in Bombay. The poet who wrote ‘Behroopni’, a frightening poem on communalism, was out there marching on the streets in Ayodhya, during the height of the Babri Masjid–Ram Janmabhoomi dispute, while others were content to condemn the upsurge of communalism at cocktail parties or five-star seminars.

This is the story of a man who has lived his life fully and at eighty-two is raring to go. When he had his paralytic stroke on that fateful day of 8 February 1973, we thought his work would have to take a back seat. Five days after coming out of coma, barely able to speak, he dictated the poem ‘Dhamak’ to Shama Zaidi, describing the explosion of his brain haemorrhage. A month later he had written, whilst still in hospital, the poem ‘Zindagi’. It starts with a man lying on his deathbed.

Aaj andhera meri nas-nas mein utar jayega

Aankhen bujh jayengi bujh jayenge ehsas-o-shaoor

Aur ye sadiyon se jalta sa sulagta sa wajood

Isse pehle ki sahar mathe pe shabnam chhidke

Isse pehle ke meri beti ke woh phool se haath

Garm rukhsar ko thandak baqshein

Isse pehle ke mere bete ka mazboot badan

Tann-e-maflooj mein shakti bhar de

Isse pehle ki meri biwi ke honth

Mere honthon ki tapish pi jayein

Raakh ho jayega jalte

Aur phir raakh raakh bikhar jaayegi

The poem, however, does not end on a note of despair. It traces man’s struggle over the years to conquer death and analyses how religion became a means to conquer man’s fear of the unknown.

Maut lehrati thi sau shaklon mein

Maine ghabrake har shakl ko Khuda maan liya

Finally he comes back to the man on the hospital bed, revitalized and invigorated, ready to face life anew.

You find again and again in Kaifi’s poetry the ability to rise above the personal and encompass a much larger vision, so that his struggle is not his alone but becomes the struggle of all humanity. It is impossible to arrive at any understanding of Kaifi Azmi, unless you include his work for Mijwan, the tiny village in Azamgarh where he was born and has now decided to spend the rest of his life.