Obituary: Amrita Pritam – a symbol of courage in the face of suffering

By Ishtiaq Ahmed

On October 31, 2005 the well-known Punjabi female fiction writer and poet, Amrita Pritam, died in New Delhi. She had been ill for several months. She was one of the last names known and respected on both sides of the Punjab. She was born in a Sikh family in Gali Arainan, Gujranwala. With her departure the old Punjab will begin to fade away as a source of reference for literary imagination and creative work, but as long as there are hearts that beat for the Punjab Amrita will live.

Amrita Pritam was made of a stuff that enabled the women of 1947 to experience indignity and violation and yet survive. Because when men of pride and ambition could not agree to share power in a united Punjab the inevitable was bound to happen. It would be severed into two, bleeding profusely. The women were bound to be a lustful target because men of pride are also men without shame. To carry away or rape a woman of the opposite group is a special type of revenge because it not only symbolises the defeat of her protectors it also declares to the world that they are not men enough.

According to government statistics at least 95,000 women were abducted in the Punjab in 1947: 55,000 of them were Muslim and 40,000 Hindu and Sikh. According to Urvashi Butalia, at least 75,000 of them were raped. Thousands were never found or returned.

Amrita Pritam wrote about the condition of women during the partition but also later in Indian society. She wrote novels, short stories and poems touching on many subjects but always with a feminist perspective imbued with intuitive wisdom. She received ample recognition from her peers and was bestowed many awards.

Her greatest poem remains the one she wrote on partition and dedicated to Waris Shah (1722-1798), the most celebrated author of one of the most famous versions of the greatest love epic, Punjab’s Romeo and Juliet, the saga of Heer and Ranjha signifying unfulfilled love. At the heart of the story is the fact that Heer is denied her rights and married away to someone the family approves of as if she were a commodity rather than a thinking, feeling human being. Thus she symbolises the oppression of women of the Punjab.

The Heer of Waris Shah is recited and sung even now. When I was a child, the Heer was sung by special bards. In our native Mozang it was Sain Kuthaes (I don’t know his real name), who would caste a spell in a melodious, melancholic voice drenched in pathos. Waris Shah is considered a man of encyclopaedic learning in the best tradition of the Sufi-scholar and has written the social history of the Punjab.

Amrita Pritam could have dedicated her poem to some other great master of Punjabi literature or spiritual tradition. In fact some Sikhs felt she should have addressed Baba Guru Nanak (1469-1540), the founder of Sikhism, in her poem. But Amrita, lamenting the humiliation of the Punjabi women, wanted to appeal to the common tragic-romantic traditions of the Punjab rather than her spiritual heritage.

She writes in ‘Aaj Akhan Waris Shah nun’ (Today I call Waris Shah):

aj aakhan Waris Shah nun, kiton kabraan vichchon bol,

te aj kitab-e-ishq daa koi agla varka phol

ik roi si dhi Punjab di, tun likh likh maare vaen,

aj lakhaan dhian rondian, tainun Waris Shah nun kaehn

uth dardmandaan dia dardia, uth takk apna Punjab

aj bele lashaan bichhiaan te lahu di bhari Chenab

kise panjan panian vichch ditti zehr ralaa

te unhaan paniian dharat nun ditta paani laa

is zarkhez zamin de lun lun phuttia zehr

gitth gitth charhiaan laalian fut fut charhiaa qehr

veh vallissi vha pher, van van vaggi jaa,

ohne har ik vans di vanjhali ditti naag banaa

pehlaa dang madaarian, mantar gaye guaach,

dooje dang di lagg gayi, jane khane nun laag

laagaan kile lok munh, bus phir dang hi dang,

palo pali Punjaab de, neele pae gaye ang

gale`on tutt`e geet phir, takaleon tuttii tand,

trinjanon tuttiaan saheliaan, charakhrre ghukar band

sane sej de beriaan, Luddan dittiaan rohr,

sane daliaan peengh aj, piplaan dittii tor

jitthe vajdi si phuuk pyaar di, ve oh vanjhali gayi guaach

Raanjhe de sab veer aj, bhul gaye uhadi jaach

dharti te lahoo varsiya, kabraan paiaan choan,

preet diaan shaahzaadiaan, aaj vichch mazaaraan roan

aj sabbhe Kaido` ban gaye, husn, ishq de chor

aj kitthon liaaiye labbh ke Waris Shah ik hor

aj aakhan Waris Shah nun, kiton kabraan vichchon bol,

te aj kitaab-e-ishq da, koi aglaa varka phol

Translation:

Today, I call Waris Shah, “Speak from your grave”

And turn, today, the book of love’s next affectionate page

Once, a daughter of Punjab cried and you wrote a wailing saga

Today, a million daughters, cry to you, Waris Shah

Rise! O’ narrator of the grieving; rise! look at your Punjab

Today, fields are lined with corpses, and blood fills the Chenab

Someone has mixed poison in the five rivers’ flow

Their deadly water is, now, irrigating our lands galore

This fertile land is sprouting, venom from every pore

The sky is turning red from endless cries of gore

The toxic forest wind, screams from inside its wake

Turning each flute’s bamboo-shoot, into a deadly snake

With the first snakebite; all charmers lost their spell

The second bite turned all and sundry, into snakes, as well

Drinking from this deadly stream, filling the land with bane

Slowly, Punjab’s limbs have turned black and blue, with pain

The street-songs have been silenced; cotton threads are snapped

Girls have left their playgroups; the spinning wheels are cracked

Our wedding beds are boats their logs have cast away

Our hanging swing, the Pipal tree has broken in disarray

Lost is the flute, which once, blew sounds of the heart

Ranjha’s brothers, today, no longer know this art

Blood rained on our shrines; drenching them to the core

Damsels of amour, today, sit crying at their door

Today everyone is, ‘Kaido;’ thieves of beauty and ardour

Where can we find, today, another Warish Shah, once more

Today, I call Waris Shah, “Speak from your grave”

And turn, today, the book of love’s next affectionate page

I met Amrita Pritam in 1990 in Delhi. I knew she adored poet Sahir Ludhianvi (1921-1980) and told her I had named my elder son, Sahir, also out of similar feelings. She smiled and said “My hero has been born again.”