About Amrita Pritam 1

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Sahitya kademi

Amrita Pritam: The Flame on the Smoke BallAuthor(s): Padma Sachdev and Amar MudiSource: Indian Literature, Vol. 49, No. 6 (230) (November-December 2005), pp. 8-12Published by: Sahitya Akademi

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IN MEMORIAM

Amrita Pritam:

The Flame on the Smoke

Ball

Padma Sachdev

Many

a

year ago,

on a beautiful

day,

when flowers bloomed around

Amrita

Pritam,

celebrated

Hindi

poet

Dinkarji

had

said,

"Amnta,

you

should not

die lest the

green

field of

Punjab

wither

away."

And

today

Punjab

seems to have lost its

greenery

with her

passing

away.

Amrita had not been

keeping

well for

months,

but still

we were not

prepared

for this news. It had been

reassuring

that she was there and

her

presence

itself made waves in

the otherwise

placid

lake of

Punjabi

literature. The name

'Amrita' itself

always

caused

waves in the

green

leaves

spread

across the fields of

Punjab;

golden

grains

of

wheat,

yellow

earring-like

mustard flowers

and

green bangles

in the hands of love-lorn

belles in

Punjab

danced in unison.

Today,

with her

demise,

darkness

has descended in the

sky

even before sunset which

is

pierced

by light

yellow

rays through

which veiled

sun has been

trying

to have

a

glimpse

of the earth.

Amrita

has not left us in the

real sense because

her

literary

creations

will

forever

be remembered

and she

will

continue

to be

remembered

in

one

way

or the other.

How can I

forget

her

words,

"Padma,

when

you

are

writing

a

book,

sow the seed of

another in

your

mind,

so that

your presence

is continued

to be

noticed and there

is no

obstacle on the

path

of

your writing."

I remember

these words

when

ever

I start

writing

a new

book. She was

like an ornament

of

Punjabi

literature;

the sandalwood

paste

on its

forehead,

spreading

fragrance.

She was one bank of the river where all five streams of Punjabi literature

mingled.

When

I started

writing

in

Dogri my

seniors told

me,

"You

are

the

Amrita Pritam of

Jammu."

I knew

that she was

an

important

writer







of

Punjabi

but I wondered

why

I was called Amrita

Pritam,

why

not

Padma Sharma of

Jammu.

I

longed

to see Amrita

Pritam,

and to know

how she

looked,

how she could write such

immortal

poems

as

"Aajj

Akkhan Warish Shah Nu" (I invoke Warish Shah today ). And I felt

that there could be no other

poet

ever like Amrita Pritam.

I remember an

evening

in Delhi which was

burning

at that time

in heat waves.

Punjabi

writers had assembled on

a

rooftop

and

were

waiting

for Amrita. Conversation was

on,

when

suddenly

there was a

faint

sound of

footsteps

and a

fragrance

wafting

in.

Everybody

present

there

saw

the waves of a blue chiffon

sari,

which looked like a dark

cloud. There

hanged

a faint smile on her

lips

and her

piercing

eyes

weighed

each

one

present. Everybody

stood

up

as soon as she entered.

Imroz was with her

smiling

from behind his

light

moustache.

Every

body

surrounded her

shaking

hands,

exchanging

smiles

or

laughing

aloud. I stood alone

looking

at her for a

long

time.

Somebody

intro

duced,

"She

is

Padma,

Dogri poetess."

She

gave

me

a

fleeting

glance.

But I

yearned

for

her

to come near me so that I could see her

better;

she

was so beautiful That

evening

Amrita

stayed

with us as

long

as

the

dusk

stays

between a

day

and a

night.

Thereafter,

we

used

to meet in the

Sahitya

Akademi

meetings.

Someone told me that when

my

name had been

proposed

for the

Akademi

Award,

someone commented: "She is

very young

and she

may

stop writing

after she

gets

the

award." It seems Amrita

retorted,

"If her

book deserves the award

she

should

get

it,

irrespective

of

the

question

of

her

age."

I

got

the award at a

very early age.

She

might

not even

have

heard

my

name till that time. She

championed

the cause of women

defying

the

saying

that women are the

worst

enemy

of women. She

supported

women

writers to such

an

extant that

it

seemed

she was the

brigadier welcoming

the new recruits to her

brigade.

Amrita lived her life on her own terms in a way which is not

possible

for

many

even

to-day.

During

those

days

when

most women

had to

dance

to

the tune of their

husbands,

living

such a life as hers

was unthinkable.

She never

compromised

with her life or her

writing.

Every

moment of her

life was dedicated to her

writing. Today,

many

incidents

crowd into

my

mind.

Once Ali

Sardar

Jafri

narrated

an

incident. In

Lahore,

he and Sahir

Ludhianvi had

to take shelter in a

verandah

against

a

sudden burst of

rain.

They

saw some

people sleeping

on

charpoys,

some

were

awake;

but one woman was

sitting

in a corner like a flame in a

fire-pot.

She

was Amrita.

Amritaji

always

talked about

Sahir with a

lot of

respect.

When

Padma Sacbdev

/

9







they

became

close,

Sahir used to visit her and leave

cigarette

butts in

the

ashtray.

Amrita

lighted

those

cigarettes again

and smoked in an

effort to fill her

bosom

with

the

air Sahir

breathed. Sahir once

wrote:

x

To

me,

your

beautiful

smile,

loving

words

were

your gestures

of

love.

Now,

I

sometimes

think,

whether these were

your

mere habits.

Whenever a woman deviated

from

social norms she had to renounce

the

world;

be it

Lalded of

Kashmir,

Mira from

Rajasthan

or Andal from

Tamil Nadu. But Amrita

stuck

to her own

path

even when she was

with her family. She always added her husband's name to hers and never

flaunted their

separation

in

public.

Whenever she referred to her

husband,

Sardar Pritam

Singh,

it was with a lot

of

respect.

He was the father of

her

children.

A

dignified person,

he allowed

Amrita

to

live her own

life

peacefully.

That was the reason

why

this issue was not

ever

discussed

in

public

nor criticized. Her

personality

was such that

nobody

ever

discussed her

family

life with her.

It

is

she who

sometimes

talked about

her

past.

A

man and a woman

living together

draws flak from

people

all

around even

today,

but

Amrita and Imroz had been

living together

courageously

for so

many

years.

Once

I interviewed

Amrita for Mumbai

Doordarshan. At

that

time,

the Pakistani

poetess

Sahab Kazalbash

said

with tears in her

eyes:

"Don't

you

think

every

poetess

needs an

Imroj

beside

her.

See,

how the

boy

looks

at Amrita with

loving eyes."

I knew

that Sahab had

got separated

from her husband

but even then she

had

been

pining

for love. When

I narrated this to Amrita

she

laughed

heartily

and started

teasing

Imroz.

Once I happened to be in her house on an

occasion when

many

poets

and

writers assembled there.

Shiv Batalvi

was

among

them.

Amrita

was

noting

down the conversation

for her

magazine, Nagmani.

The

atmosphere

was somewhat

like that of an ascetic's

ashram

where the

smoke

coming

out of

the

cigarettes

resembled

the

pyre.

I could not

stand

the smoke and volunteered

to make

tea for

everybody

in the

kitchen. Shiv Batalvi

asked: "Are

you

going

to

prepare

mountain

special

tea?" I

replied

"When the tea is

prepared

by

a

girl

from

mountain,

it's

different. You have

taken

this tea several times.

Now taste

it

again."

One

gentleman

remarked: "She has become a Sardarni." Amidst loud

roar of

laughter

I left

the room. Amrita

liked the tea

and said:

"See,

this

poor

girl

cannot

stand even smoke."

Later this

episode

was

printed

10

/

Indian Literature

: 230







in

Nagmani.

Amrita was

equally

deft in

baking

round,

fluffy

chapattis

as well as

weaving

words.

Once I

asked

her about the

girl

who saw the

empty

bed of her

mother, memorized the Japji Sahib during the night to recite it flawlessly

in

the

morning

at

the Gurudwara and ask

the boon of the return of

her mother. I

saw

in

her

eyes deep pain,

anguish

and

helplessness

which

came and went as a

floating

cloud.

She

gulped

down the

pain

and smiled.

I could not

ask

her

any

further.

Amrita called her son

by

his nickname Shaillee. He not

only

resembled her mother in

every

feature but he was also as

simple

as her

mother. Years

ago,

he had married a

foreigner,

who continued to behave

in the

way

she

was

brought up.

Amrita doted

upon

her

daughter-in

law. Whenever I went there I used to

say:

"I am

your

aunt-in-law. Touch

my

feet and then

get

me a nice

cup

of tea." She would

nervously

touch

my

feet

and

hurriedly

leave

for the

kitchen.

Amritaji

would

laugh

heartily

and

say,

"You are her real mother-in-law.

She has

never

touched

my

feet." I

retorted,

"How

can

you

become a traditional

mother-in

law For that

you

need to have that stern

appearance."

I

regretted

the

fact

that the valuable

kingkhab

cloth she

had

brought

from abroad

for

her

daughter-in-law

was never even

stitched. I

told her

many

stories

about the

proverbial tyrant

mothers-in-law. She used to

laugh

heartily

and remark:

"This

type

of women force their

daughters-in-law

not to

respect

their elders."

Eventually,

the

foreigner

bahu left Shaillee and an

ideal Indian

daughter-in-law

stepped

in. She took care of Amrita well

and also blessed

the house

with

children.

Faiz

Ahmad Faiz read a

poem by

Amrita on Warish Shah while

he was in a Pakistani

jail

and said that no

better

poem

than

this has

been

written

on

Partition.

Amrita,

the

nightingale

of

Punjab,

was

described by him as

The woman came out drenched after bath

in

the

pond

Like

the flame of a

smoke-ball.

Today

the flame has been

extinguished;

only

the flicker remains. I

remember her famous

poem questioning

Warish Shah:

Today, I call upon you Oh Warish Shah

Please

speak

out from

your grave,

and

start

writing

again

the

next

episode

of

your

Book

of Love.

Vadma

Sachdev

/

11







One

daughter

of

Punjab

wept

and

you

wrote such

immortal

poems.

Today,

lakhs of

daughters

of

Punjab

are

weeping,

and

telling you,

Oh Warish Shah Wake

up.

The

pained

soul of

Punjab beseeching,

see,

what has

happened

to

your

Punjab

today.

There are

corpses

all around and

only

blood flows

in the Chenab.

Her

poems

are

immortal

and will be loved as

long

as this world remains.

The

flame has been

extinguished

but the flicker

will

light

this

world

forever.

Translated

from

Hindi

by

Amar Mudi

□

12

/

Indian

Literature : 230





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