Mohammad Ali, the
committed actor
by Syed Badrul Ahsan
The very first time I watched Mohammad Ali act in a movie was in 1965. I was in school, at the primary level. You might want to know how, at that tender age, I was seeing Ali in action. But, then again, you might recall that it was one of those times when cinema was meant for the family. And since my parents believed that their children should be privy, in as much as financial resources would allow, to matters of culture, they took us to see good movies at fairly regular intervals. The movie I speak of was Kaneez. It was, obviously, in black and white. Even today, every time I look back at the times that have gone and the clouds that have flown, I remember the charm and the clear sense of pristine purity that came associated with black and white. It is not something you come by in the collage of colours that assails you day after day in these present times of rising prosperity and declining values. In Kaneez, the story was a simple one of Waheed Murad and Zeba being in love. Mohammad Ali was not exactly a villain. Indeed, he was the long-lost brother of the leading man (though that was not to be discovered until towards the end of the movie) who happened to be equally infatuated with Zeba. Back then, no one had any idea that someday, and sooner rather than later, Mohammad Ali and Zeba would marry in real life. It was hard to believe that anyone other than Waheed Murad could have any place in Zeba’s life.
But let me get back to Kaneez. There were a number of good songs in the movie, sung by Ahmed Rushdi and Mala. You can think of Jab Raat Dhali Tum Yaad Aye or Zindagi Apni Thi Ab Thak Urhte Badal Ki Tarah or Dono Taraf Hai Aag Barabar Lagi Hui. Ali, being the non-hero, never had any song to sing. In that movie, he was an angry young man, for obvious reasons. He lost a badminton match to Waheed Murad and then broke his racquet in a visible display of anger. After 1965, though, Ali went up in Pakistan’s film industry by leaps and bounds. He had clearly decided to shed his villain’s image and go for leading roles in the new movies either he was producing or that were coming his way. Those of you who were around, in what was known as West Pakistan at the time, will certainly remember that the later 1960s were a time when Mohammad Ali, Waheed Murad and Nadeem dominated the scene. As a schoolboy, like any other schoolboy, I thought the world of Waheed Murad before adding to that list the name of Nadeem, whose role in Chakori had taken the country by storm. It was only later, as I moved to high school, to Junior Cambridge and then Senior Cambridge, that the thought of Mohammad Ali being the most accomplished actor in that group made inroads into my consciousness. He wore a wig, so people whispered. But it was an elegant one and added to the gravitas in him. As a teenager with a lot of hair on my head, much of it cascading down to my eyes (enough to make me push it back with my left hand as I used my right one to write in class), I copied the way Ali wore the hair, or that wig, on his head. I succeeded to a good extent. One of my earliest girl friends liked it, which sent me into spasms composing new poetry on her own long tresses which went all the way down to her ankles. She spoke Urdu and had eyes that caused in me that saqi-sharabi feeling to rise.
In the movie Baazi, Mohammad Ali was placed as one of the two leading men, the other being Nadeem, with Nisho taking up the role of heroine. The Habib Wali Mohammad songs that were picturised on Nadeem were marvellous (remember Raatein Thi Chaandni Jo Ban Pe Thi Bahar?), but it was Mohammad Ali’s acting that convinced me he was a great thespian. In a particular scene, his anger comes through a clear, well-controlled twitch of the jaws, something I have not since seen any other actor doing or being able to do. There were other movies where Ali came on as the perfect man of romance, though he made sure that there was nothing silly about the way he pursued his women or sang his songs around them. Think back on Gori Ke Sar Pe Saj Ke Sehre / Ke Phool Kahenge Tum Mile Pyar Mila Re, a lilting number that I still hum on days when spring is in the air. There is another scene I recall, from another movie, where Mohammad Ali sings for his angry bride, in this case Zeba. The melody is captivating, the song is sung almost in a whisper. Yes, it is that Rushdi number, Aise Bhi Hain Meherban / Zindagi Ki Raah Mein / Jab Mile To Yun Mile / Jaise Jaante Nahin.
Mohammad Ali was tall. With a fair complexion and the sense of commitment he brought into his acting, he was an imposing figure. He commanded respect among movie buffs, for all the right reasons. Then he went into politics, though he did not make much of a headway there. But he stayed in the field long enough to be the target of Ziaul Haq’s wrath in the times following the execution of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. When I ran into him in Lahore ten years ago, he was still the big personality I had watched in the movies in my schooldays. It felt good to shake his hand and exchange a few words with him. It is a pity that Pakistani cinema has not had many thespians who could remind us of the movies and times of Mohammad Ali.
In death, Mohammad Ali remains for me a loud representation of creativity as it is lived in the world of movies.
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