Nazia and Zoheb Hasan. — Photo provided by Zoheb Hasan
The fusion sound that came naturally to Nazia and Zoheb was subject to intense scrutiny in the early years. The old school didn’t like it because it couldn’t understand it, Zoheb believes. Eastern melodies with Western orchestration did not go over well with the academy.
But even more than the music itself, the pair came under attack for offending certain local sensibilities.
"See, the thing is, we never pretended to be somebody we were not. We were Pakistani, we were very rooted," Zoheb says.
"It’s just that when we came to London, we imbibed that other culture at the same time. It wasn’t a commercial stint either, like, for the sake of commercialism we were trying to act Western, or trying to do something which was not us. It was us."
Things, however, got out of hand. Effigies were burnt, fatwas were passed. With less going on politically, Zoheb tells me, “[the mullahs] needed a scapegoat situation, and they thought who better than this brother and sister, who the whole nation is watching…[they thought], this will really get people’s interest, and they can twist it and turn it, redirect it to their cause. It was unfortunate, but at the end of the day, you can never put something down which the people themselves want. The masses loved it. They understood it."
Yet, support and advice came from the man occupying the highest office in the land.
"[General Zia] called us at home, and said: 'Nazia and Zoheb...bachon, aap log nikal jain,'" Zoheb remembers. "We were so young, we hardly knew anything, we were literally babes in the world — not that young, but very naive. So I think he felt a bit protective, and he told us to leave [the country], which I think at that time was the best thing for us to do."
With fatwas and effigies behind her, Nazia persisted. In this way, she was at the forefront of a culture war, one fought not only between highbrow music aficionados who turned their noses up at fusion music, and those willing to accept the joie de vivre that the two teenagers espoused in their songs, but also one between religious zealots and the rest of the nation, who wholeheartedly embraced her edgy beats.
The battle lines were drawn.
Voice of the youth
What was perhaps most striking about the Nazia and Zoheb phenomenon, was the pair’s ability to convey the frustrations, desires, and aspirations of a whole generation of young people growing up in the 1980s.
Within that polarising cultural environment, the two emerged as youth icons — our very own Beatles, minus the crazy haircuts. They were radical, profound, a summation of our potential: who we could be as a nation, and all that we already were.
At the height of their success, the siblings had seven number ones in South America, where they were outselling artists like Duran Duran.
In the Soviet Union alone, the two sold almost 250,000 records. When they were signed on by EMI World, the CEO told them, "I can’t understand your music, I can’t understand the language, but it’s selling by the truckloads."
Nobody could understand the mass appeal of Urdu pop.
During the apartheid in South Africa, the pair were one of the first non-white bands to have a song reach number one on the charts.
"[We were] invited by some very big companies at the time to sing for Nelson Mandela," Zoheb tells me. "We didn’t know who he was, but there was a lot of acceptance for this [type of music] worldwide."
At home, the success of the siblings created not only a sense of newfound respectability towards, and awareness of the music industry as a worthy field, it offered validation to stifled youngsters disillusioned by limited creative opportunities.
Doctors suddenly picked up guitars; bands in urban centers mushroomed. If Nazia and Zoheb can do it, people thought, then so can we.
For the first time, "young people felt like they had music of their own," Zoheb says.
"[They said] it is our own music, in our own language, and we love it, and it’s cool also. They wanted something to be cool, and they wanted something they could also be proud of."
The Hassans also did their part to promote the careers of artists who emerged during this new wave of pop.
Examine: Dil ko churanay wali — In memory of pop legend Nazia Hassan
In the twilight of their career together, Nazia and Zoheb performed at the Music 89 show, where they introduced singers like Ali Azmat and Junoon.
But when they realised that they were eclipsing the newcomers and being given preferential treatment, Nazia put her foot down: "It’s not on. I’m not going to sing in a program like this. Everybody should be together; everybody should be equal. That’s my prerequisite, if it’s not done that way, I don’t want to do it."
"They didn’t even give them a hotel room," Zoheb remembers.
"They only gave it to us, but Nazia insisted that everybody should get a hotel room, everybody should get the same treatment. She was a real advocate for [people’s] rights. Maybe that’s why she did law, later on in her life."
Listening to her music now, one is struck by its timelessness. Telephone Pyar, Koi Nahin, Aankhein Milaney Waley, and countless other songs that the siblings sang together, are best understood as expressions of young love, youthful defiance, staunch individuality.
Pakistan and the rest of the world has changed since the 1980s, but there is something hauntingly eternal about the music she created.
Epitaph
London, where part of Nazia’s story began, is also her final resting place.
The Hendon Cemetery and Crematorium is in a quieter part of the city. It is leafier, suburban, slightly removed from the tachycardia of London’s chaotic heart.
She is buried in the Muslim section here. The headstone reads:
"IN LOVING MEMORY OF NAZIA HASSAN — Loving daughter, sister, and mother. Beloved and cherished by millions of people. Died in her youth. August 13th, 2000."
At the end of my conversation with Zoheb, I recall an interview Nancy Sinatra once gave, in which she described how it still hurts to hear her father’s voice.
It brings back too many memories, is difficult to process, the experience rendered even more painful by the ubiquitous and enduring nature of Frank Sinatra’s music. "It’s like constantly being bombarded, like somebody putting their fingers in the wound. No, it’s not easy."
Indeed, one doesn’t have to look too far for that immortal baritone voice, constantly poking out from the covers of commemorative magazine issues, or emerging from overused archival footage in documentaries and newsreels. It is the vocal currency of 20th-century American cultural life. It is resonant, it is everywhere.
To myself, I wonder if Zoheb feels the same way, or if 16 years since her passing has assuaged the grief of losing his sister.
As we say goodbye, he tells me that it now feels like everything happened over the course of a few days, that, in hindsight, it was an amazing journey. But there are some things he would change, redo, if given the chance.
"I would bring her back. That’s the first thing I would do," he says.
In his voice, I recognise the wistfulness of a brother who is still in mourning. It reminds me of a line from a song that Nazia herself once sang:
"Dil ko kaisay ab samjhaon yaadein chor dey?"
How can I tell my heart to move on, to leave its memories behind? —Kya Hua (Young Tarang, 1984).
Today marks the 16th death anniversary of Nazia Hassan.