Amrita Pritam’s world of a lover, rebel and a writer

It is the 99th birth anniversary of Amrita Pritam. Her distinctive place in the world of Punjabi letters is reaffirmed every year with a renewed gusto. She is considered the first prominent woman writer in modern Punjabi literature, with a formidable oeuvre that includes 16 poetry anthologies, 28 novels and several anthologies of non-fiction. Her elegy, “Ajj Aakhan Waaris Shah Nu”, immortalises the pain of dislocation, particularly from a woman’s perspective, conjoining the fate of the suffering masses with that of Heer.

It is a lament, also a grouse, rightfully offered to Waris Shah, the 18th Century poet, with a startling yet endearing intimacy: Ik royi si dhee Punjab di/ Tu likh likh mare vain/Ajj lakhhan dhiyan rondiyan/Tainu Waris Shah nu kahen (When one daughter of Punjab (Heer) cried/ You shot a barrage of word-arrows/ Today, million daughters cry/ And they beseech you, Waris Shah…)

It is a little big poem. It accomplishes a lot. It triggers a plethora of associations in the collective consciousness. And for good reason, has became one of the most widely read poems in modern literature. In a stroke, it juxtaposes the contemporary period of suffering with a medieval syncretic Punjab, a larger, more glorious, more inclusive Punjab than the one riven by communal divide.

The nostalgia of the pastoral past erected like a foil against the horror of the day. It also echoes Guru Nanak’s lament at the invasion of Babur, of the destruction that was unleashed on common folk. In the self-congratulation of the glory of battles, annexations, nations and kingdoms, the plight of the commoner has no value. The guru had thus ‘questioned’ the Almighty, expressing a lament: Khurasaan Khasmana kiya/ Hindustan Daraya/ Aitee maar payee kurlane/ Tain’kee dard na aaya? (He occupied Khurasan, Khasmana/ And then confronted Hindustan/ Such havoc was wreaked/ Tell me, did you feel no pain?

Grief transforms the piety of a believer into blunt questioning of the bereaved. Echoing the loss, the voice of the poet becomes the voice of the suffering masses. It resurrects the folk qissa that has always had a singularly powerful pull for the community, it resurrects the figure of Heer that is an epitome of love, in grave, dark times and seeks justice for her sisters — the many thousands killed, raped and the countless discarded in the name of “family honour”.

In Punjab, unending, harrowing tales have reverberated since Partition, part of family lore, discussed in hushed tones, sometimes mingled with shame, and often distrust, helplessness and betrayal. Amrita Pritam gave voice to this overarching angst that was simmering in homes and hearths. It struck a strident note in a people with raw wounds. And over and above, Amrita in choosing Heer places love above all — above sectarian identity, divisions, profitability.

This deep association with love itself was to colour her own persona as a writer and individual. She is portrayed as being suffused with emotion, often transforming into a symbol of love herself. In fact, her identity as a writer and her identity as a lover are so intertwined that each feeds the other, and oftentimes, it is difficult to tell them apart.

Parchhaweyan nu pakdan waleyo/ Chhati te baldi agg da/ Parchhavan nahi hunda (All you who chase shadows/ Remember, there is no shadow/ Of a fire that burns in the breast).

Apart from her own prolific output, she was editor of Naagmani, a literary journal which she produced with her partner Imroz. Their team was instrumental in keeping alive the tradition of literary magazines in Punjabi. Amrita was a writer’s writer. She had the doors of her Hauz Khas house open to all. From young writers looking for affirmation, to fledglings finding wings, to dilettantes wanting to meet her, there was a constant throng at her door With her mentoring and gentle admonishing, many a career was launched and many consolidated.

Over the years, Amrita Pritam combined within herself the rebel lover, much like Heer — her love (though unrequited) for Sahir Ludhianvi that became the subject of much salacious interest, her separation from husband Pritam Singh when divorces were an unspoken taboo in patriarchal Punjabi society and her live-in relationship with Imroz.

Using the rings of cigarette smoke metaphorically for angst, she upset many a stereotype. She raised quite a few hackles, but eventually it earned for her the mythic status of an unconventional woman, an artist who lived on her own terms. If there was scandal, there is equally a poetic and idealised sentimentalisation of the unique artist that she was. Her life choices were often difficult, a tightrope between artistic freedom and social responsibility. In hindsight, it is seemingly understood. And in hindsight, such allowances are made for the exceptional.

The writer teaches English Literature at a college in Chandigarh. Views are personal