The call of the women who sings lustily, unlike many a woman whose songs lie trapped in the crevices of their homes. the winging song stoned like a writhing bird. She vouches for the untapped talent that lies in every home in Sindh. The honing of her own talent she credits to Ustad Jumman. "In Pakistan no one wishes to give credit to an ustad. I owe everything to him. I won't call him marhoom because his voice is immortal." She does not have any shagirds but she is proud of a whole legion of children that she has nurtured as a primary school-teacher in Hyderabad in the last twenty-two years. For a woman who set out to gain a formal education when she was in her twenties, Zarina has made a name for herself as a writer too. When she wrote her first story people thought it was her husband, Rasul Bux Palijo who was ghost writing for her. How can she become a writer overnight, they asked. "I am an artists. If I can become a singer suddenly and a teacher suddenly, so I can become a writer."

Zarina's response is characteristic of a woman who does not dwell on past glories. She is willing to explore hidden facets of her own personality and take on new challenges. Zarina wrote with the same abandonment that she sang with. She even drew plaudits from Shaikh Ayaz, "there is Ismat Chughtai in Hind and Zarina in Sindh." Though one may well pepper the praise with a pinch of salt as it is singing which has been her first love.

Zarina took a break from baby-sitting her grandchildren in Hyderabad and was in Karachi early this year, singing Sufi waees in the play Roshni ke Dareechay. Her voice pierced through the darkness as she sang from the wings. "My voice is not dependent on any musical instrument. Give me a khanjri and I will hold it and sing. It is Allah's gift and my people's love," she says.

Jiji, they call her from a six-year-old who breaks into Mor tho tille to the sixty-year-old. But Jiji, the singer, writer or teacher was not born overnight. With each moment of reckoning she took up the challenge. The test by fire she says, "made her into kundan. Hard times can be educating," she says in a simple matter-of-fact tone. Neither is there any self-congratulatory tone to her manner as she narrates the story of her life. She clears her throat like a true singer as the spool on the tape begins to turn slowly.

She was born Amina Baloch in a conservative Baloch family. Her mother died when she was five-years-old and she says, "I grew up all of a sudden, as if I were twenty-years-old." What countered this bereavement was the huge gramophone and the turntable. "Kutta-chaap," she calls it and conjures the image of a white dog listening attentively to 'His Masters Voice'. "My mother listened to Jeevnibai," and so did the child-woman as she soaked in the nuances of the gayiki, unaware of her own talent. Her bond with her father was nurturing in many ways. Sensitive to the young girl, and guided by the her well-intentioned step-mother, he taught her to read the Quran. "He even read to me Latif's kafis and Abul Hasan's Sindhi Noor Namah and Ahad Namah. After the difficult Arabic, all learning seemed easier, besides Sindhi and Urdu are easier languages to learn." But before she would take up the dual career of a singer and teacher, she had to tread the course that fate had chosen for her.

Married off at the age of twelve, a mother of a daughter by the age of fifteen and handed a divorce at the age of twenty, it was a quick succession of events that deposited her at the doorstep of her father. The choice was to be confined to passivity or to make a place for herself in the sun. A friend took her to Dadi Lila, an eminent teacher, who was quick to assess the potential of the young woman. She was enrolled as a private student at the age of twenty at Haji Qayyum School. "I had read all my brothers' books that I could lay my hands on," she says.

Nature gave in to the strong-willed girl and things fell into place. Once she cleared her exams (Class 7 in those days) she told Dadi Lila she wanted to work. Dadi Lila sent her to the radio station. "I used to sing the dua at the prayer time and Dadi Lila was the first one to notice my talent. I was afraid and said baba would kill me but she insisted I go for the audition. In those days women hardly went to the radio station. Rubina Qureishi was there a year before me." But Zarina failed the first audition as she did not meet the standards of the Late Mohammad Bux Ansari.

But Dadi Lila was the incurable optimist, " obviously they could not hear your voice from behind the veil in a burqa." A second attempt in a competition and she won the third prize. " I sang Latif. 'O friend, why give me such advice. I have no control over my own being.' " The pathos in her voice was the voice of her heart. There was no looking back then. She had to shed her name Amina and take on her daughter's name, "I was afraid for my children, myself, baba would not let me sing."

It was Dadi Lila who gave the wheel of fortune yet another flick. She took Zarina to the Training College and had her enrolled. There was resistance but Dadi Lila prevailed, " 'sometimes in life one has to break rules and be flexible to help out' said Dadi Lila to them. Maybe Hindus are more generous or it was the respect that she commanded.." Zarina trails off. Dadi Lila had swivelled open not one but two doors for her. Armed like Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of learning with a book in one hand and a musical instrument in another, there was little that go wrong.

Radio became her second home. "We began recording for programmes at fajr and at times they continued late into the night. We were taught the tune a day earlier for four items in the morning and four to six items in the evening. It was a difficult but a valuable learning experience. If we made a mistake then we had to begin all over again." Ask her where classical music is today and she says, "to learn classical music you have to be rich, the ustad has to walk home to the shagird's home. How can one expect the poor man to pay and learn.

Earlier the radio station was the repository of culture and music. Maybe people don't wish to work hard anymore. There is no honesty left. The ustads in the past were made of sterner stuff. There was truth in their voice, they had a compelling presence. No lies, no pilfering other people's tunes." Zarina says with a silvery laugh, " they procreated their own children and nurtured them like mothers. Some of the tunes are so popular like Dana pe dana, Yar Ladi, Vashmalle. These songs are in our regional languages but everybody wants to sing them. When I hear these songs, images of people swim in my eyes. Manzoor Ali Khan, Shaikh Ayaz, Akash Ansari, Tanvir Abbassi, Imdad Husaini. These songs have been sung by Noor Jehan to Shazia Khushk. But when history will be written the names of the original composer will be etched." The process of osmosis continues. " I compose my own tunes.

Dr Nabi Bux Baloch compiled a book of folk songs but these did not give any clue about the tunes. But the words rooted in the socio-cultural milieu evoked the emotions. I am a mother, daughter, sister too. The happiness and the sadness inside me gave the melody to these words." Zarina says she was suddenly imbued by a sense of urgency to have as many songs recorded as possible for posterity. I implored them to take the songs from me before I forget them. I did not seek any remuneration for them too."

This was a sequel to an earlier effort two decades go when on the suggestion of Rasul Bux Palijo and with the encouragement of like-minded people like Agha Saleem, Imdad Khawaja we tried to preserve the heritage like the maulood and naths. Her contemporaries like Zaibunnisa Hai, Zeenat Siddiqui, Mukhtar Begum all scoured the rich Sindhi hinterland for folk songs. Quivering songs like a translucent mirage on the hot sands of Sindh were lured into the sound-proof recording rooms. Preserving the past and present became a passion and " the recordings continued for hours like water flowing endlessly," she says.

Zarina acted in the award-winning PTV play, Dungi Manji Dariya written by Alibaba and which made it to the third place at a festival in Munich. Playing the female protagonist opposite Noor Mohammad Lashari, Zarina took to the role like fish to water. The life-sustaining waters of Sindh were not alien to her. " I lived in a fishing village for five days to observe the women." The play was yet another door that Zarina pried open. " I did fifty programmes with Ada Haroon, Hamid Akhund and composer Niaz Hussain. Mumtaz Mirza was the guiding spirit too. In fact, the concept of the chorus was introduced by Ada Mumtaz."

Names of people pop up in her conversation. She is loyal to her friends and she lights the candle of memory shorn of self-consciousness. There are no wisps of nostalgia that cloud the picture. It is more of a candid shot. "Allan Fakir, Mumtaz Mirza and myself used to sit down together after the programmes at Bhitshah and sing into the wee hours." The awards had begun early in her career, she names a dozen awards in a single breath, including the Pride of Performance. Ask her about the accusations levelled at bureaucratic bunglings by committees who hustle folk singers on cultural trips abroad and mete out shoddy treatment, and she dismisses them with a wave of her hand. " They are empty vessels.

People like Mumtaz Mirza, Hamid Akhund, Zafar Kazmi and Dr Nabi Bux Baloch have done commendable work for the culture and heritage of Sindh. They have helped Noor Mohammad Lashari and Yusuf when they needed financial aid. These people who complain want people from different states, speaking different languages to fight. They are murderers," she says vehemently.

Zarina is a committed activist too. The women activists in the Sindhiani Tehreek seek her out to sing for their cause. But she corrects you, "I am a fankar." Period. "I have kept myself free, I am a part of them because I am sahab's wife. They do the work, I am with them, I sing national songs at their functions because I want people to be aware, to surge ahead."

She talks about Sindh with the same timbre that her songs carry. Of timelessness." Sindh azal se hai, Sindh hamasha rahega. She quotes Hyder Bux Jatoi, Jam-e-mohabbat piyo Sindh aur jiyo Sindh, Jiye hari aur mazdoor. Apni mehnat me woh jiye. (Sindh has been there since eternity and will be forever.) There is optimism laced with practicality in her assessments of how things stand. "Change will come. Revolutions come in a hundred to two hundred years, if they are not for us then they are for our future generations." She knows that the good people in Pakistan are "like salt to flour," that "the poor man is butchered like cattle," that the "foundation laid in the last fifty years has been faulty," that "politicians push their scions and line their own pockets." She says awareness is on the rise," but in slow motion, not in a disco-motion."

The bane of karo-kari in Sindh she says exists more in upper Sindh as compared to lower Sindh. "There has been an anna reduction from a rupee, but there is concerted effort being made to raise the level of awareness. Why just Sindh, this curse exists in all parts of the country. In Balochistan, the N.W.F.P, you hear of women being paraded nude in the Punjab. Bada hai dard ka rishta, if there is one voice raised in protest in one part of the country then there will be two raised in unison in another. We share the same pain."

The feudal stranglehold she says stifles the progress of the country. She talks about "the wadera's exploitation and the hari's perspiration, the finger-in-every-pie politician. It is not like India where a Phoolan Devi makes it to parliament." Ask her about the present lot of singers and she is very generous with her praise but spikes it with an insight. "Shazia Khushk has what it takes to click. The world is moving at such a frenzied pace, people are tired of the baggage of life, so if there is a moment or two of respite and people get to be merry, the credit goes to Shazia. Though she can't figure out the get-up that Shazia dons," the women in Thar do not have so many clothes that she wears. But people like it and I wish her well. Even I want to listen to fast music." However, she puts in a word of advice. The young singers should select good poetry, compose their own music. Abida Parveen she rates very highly. "There will never be another like her. A great deal of credit, goes to her husband, Ghulam Husain Shaikh too. Her art is a treasure for the nation. Taj Mastani is another singer who is very good, she has revitalised the khanjri."