Kaleidoscope

Prayer for the daughter of Waris

This is not an article but a prayer for Amrita Pritam, a writer who enriched many souls in her long and triumphant literary journey, says Nirupama Dutt.

THERE is a street shaded by trees that meanders like a snake off the Safdarjang Development Area into the K block of Delhi’s Hauz Khas. On this street is a stone house with tall windows trailing with bougainvillaea and a small patch of a garden with its harsinghar tree. Come August, and the lawn will be strewn with tiny parijat flowers. Come August and the girl who built this house number 25 will turn 83.

Yes, you already know her name. Her name is Amrita Pritam. The eminent Punjabi poet and novelist. This name means a lot to many and the girl with this name means much more. Her story is one of great courage. This pretty girl began her literary journey way back in Lahore in 1935 when she penned her first book of verse in Punjabi called Thandian Kirnan. Here was a girl writing in her own language, her own dreams. Punjabi was to go places with her and her dreams were common with the pioneering women writers writing all over the world. As the little girl’s talents blossomed, her poetry was to represent not just the composite culture of Punjab, but universal values of truth, justice and freedom.

Today, as I write these lines to her she is in pain and agony following a fall and surgery. Her physical condition has compelled her to shut down Nagmani, the literary magazine she and her artist partner brought out so lovingly over 36 years. A couple of years ago she had announced that she would close it down as her health was indifferent but readers made pleas and Amrita brought it out somehow in spite of failing health. The final closure of Nagmani has brought gloom in literary circles.

Imroz, however says, "The gloom is misplaced. Everything has a time cycle. Nagmani came out so many years in full glory. Let someone else bring out another Nagmani maybe by another name somewhere."

So well said and reminiscent of a song Sahir Ludhianvi, the Urdu poet with whom Amrita shared a bond of love, Main pal do pal ka shaair hoon (I am a poet of a moment or two). Sahir is no more, but his poetry lives on. A moment or two can sometimes reach out to the infinite. Personally, I , a minor poet of Punjabi among the two generations of writers whom Amrita inspired and nurtured, feel the gloom is not required. What is required is to look up to her and reconfirm faith in struggle, love and freedom. To think of Amrita is also to think of her immortal poem addressed to Waris Shah— Ajj Akhan Waris Shah Nu:

Waris Shah!

I call out to you

Rise from the depths

Of your grave

And add another page to

Your saga of love

A daughter of Punjab

Had wept once and

You sang a thousand dirges

Today millions of girls

Are weeping and asking you

O’ Waris

To look afresh at your Punjab…

On hearing of Amrita’s illness and the closure of Nagmani, I go to that sacred destination in Hauz Khas with a bouquet of white roses. As I put them in a vase and place them on a bureau in front of her, I notice on the wall a picture of Amrita sittting all huddled up in green silk shawls edged with gold. What is this I ask the grand lady of letters, "These are the chaddars from the tombs of Waris Shah, Bulle Shah and Sultan Bahu that writers from Pakistan have sent me as a gift. They came with a letter from Iliyaz Ghumman saying that You are the waris (heir) of our Waris." It certainly is a befitting title. In the past few years more awards and honours were added to Amrita’s already long list of laurels put she says most precious to her are those green silk chaddars. " I have only returned in my writings what I learnt from these saints and sages," she says in all humility as her hand goes to her broken hip joint.

I have personally enjoyed a fond relationship with Nagamani as I am one of the many Punjabi writers, who was discovered and nurtured by this literary journal that was bought up like a baby by Amrita and Imroz. Amrita would take care of the editorial content and the design and sketches would be by Imroz. Looking back at the early days of Nagmani, Imroz recalls, "We chose brown newsprint because it was cheap but it looked so good that it became quite a craze. We also picked out the cheapest press. We would go there to supervise the printing. There would be no chair there for Amrita to sit on and read the proofs. So we would borrow a barber’s chair from nearby." Together they would write addresses on the magazine and Imroz would put them in his Fiat car and take them to the post office. This labour of love made it an exceptional journal. There never was and it will be a long time before someone will bring out one such. Since the talk is of Nagmani, Amrita cannot help but join it in spite of the pain, "Readers are writing me letters to not close it. But My health just does not allow me to go on with it."

The magazine was just one aspect of this girl who dared to be a poet. Yes, talent and courage combined in the life of Amrita Pritam who led a life at her own terms and all through contributed brilliant poetry and prose to her language. She is one writer who is loved by Punjabis on both sides of the Indo-Pak border. What pains Amrita is that clouds of war should gather over these two countries. The writer says, "The people on both sides want peace. The writers strive for peace and the politicians should also see sense in it."

It is time to leave and Amrita is feeling drowsy, courtesy the sedatives. I ask her, "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She smiles her charming smile and says, "Pray to God that I should depart from this world in peace." I sit a while with Imroz who looks after her keeping awake at nights . And as I wish goodbye and step down, I feel that I am returning from a pilgrimage. I mutter the prayer and then recall some lines of this great poet of our times:

I have effaced the name from

the nameplate outside my house

I have even rubbed off the number

Wherever you see a free soul

You will know that it is my home…

So spoke the daughter of Waris and I feel blessed that one lived in her times and got the chance to know a little a soul as kindred as hers.