My first meeting with Zahoor Hussain Zahoor turned out to be the last. The occasion for my first visit to Pakistan in 1997 was the Gurupurab of Guru Nanak Dev Ji. As a devotee, I and my wife Jaswinder Kaur reached Nankana Sahib in a group sent by the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee in November 1997. On the first night itself, I heard whispers among the pilgrims that there would be a poet’s court dedicated to the memory of Guru Nanak Dev Ji tomorrow night. Like every year, Punjabi poets from different states of Pakistan and far-flung districts of Punjab come and offer their respects. Sometimes, if there is someone in the group who is a writer, they are listened to with great respect. I reached the place of the poet’s court with my wife. The faces that seemed familiar to me did not even meet my eyes, among whom Principal Ghulam Rasool Chaudhary was the most prominent. But on my part, the caress and love that the poets/writers Prof. Sarab Ansari, Abdul Ghafoor Darshan and Mubarak Ali Kanwal gave me for the first time when I mentioned my name still haunts me today. It was here that I met the great poet of Punjabi language, Zahoor Hussain Zahoor ji. A luminous face, as if a true mother had kneaded sandhoor in flour and molded it. His wife, who was even more beautiful than him, was with him. Meeting Zahoor was a great blessing for me because the day I came from Pakistan, this poem
With the body of thoughts, where will I go now?
If I speak, they will kill me, if I do not speak, I will die.
I had read it on the same day that I had a yearning to meet this poet. He had once returned from a poetry reading in Delhi. The situation in Punjab was good, he returned from Delhi as he was not granted a visa for Punjab. But when I came to know that I was definitely in the presence of Hussain, to tell the truth, there was a strange tremor in all my hair. Delicious, a feeling like a rush! Unexpected pleasure! What’s more, the organizers of the poet’s court made us sit next to each other on the stage. I couldn’t find the words. Where should I start the conversation? Zahoor himself asked where you came from? I told him that my great-grandfather had migrated from here in 1947 from Narowal tehsil of Sialkot district. We didn’t even know the trees across the Ravi! I extended our friendship by reciting the lyrics of a song I had written in 1975.
I am the shadow of the tree that grew in your village.
The sun has eaten the Santali tree, I am the shadow along with the branches.
He took me in his arms and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. I also liked that he took an interest in me and the way to talk to me was also opened. When the stage manager, Principal Gumal Rasool Chaudhary, requested the Commissioner of Lahore Division and English poet Mr. Athar Tahir Sahib to formally start the Mushaira, Zahoor Hussain Zahoor was mentioned in his address. Especially the chief guest said that I am very lucky to sit on the stage where Zahoor Hussain Zahoor used to sit. When his turn came, he recited his old poem which he had once recited in the Mushaira held in Pakpattan in honor of Kanwar Mahendra Singh Bedi on his visit to Pakistan. But he could not recite it due to not receiving the invitation. After writing a poem, I met Bedi Sahib somewhere.
Welcome, sir.
You are the son of my Punjab, you are dear to me.
He went further and said, “I cannot kill my pen by burying it in wealth.”
I want to revive the letters, I cannot die for centuries.”
Of course, at the request of the audience, Hussain Zahoor also recited his poem in this Mushaira that he had written while imprisoned in the Central Jail, Sahiwal. This was the same prison where rebel poets like Faiz Ahmed Faiz, journalist/writer who wrote a book on the life of Shaheed Bhagat Singh under the name ‘Pase Deeware Zindan’ and editor of Chattan, Sorush Kashmiri, were imprisoned. Later, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was also imprisoned here before his execution. Zahoor Hussain Zahoor had received the honor of this ‘prison’ only because of writing rebellious poems. When Zahoor Hussain Zahoor was reciting these poems, his face was even redder. The words were fiery, burning fiery!
Thick thick gates closed.
Everyone locked up in the evening.
The bell rang and he grabbed the keys.
A paper lion would enter.
The chest of compulsion would burn.
The man would fall and collapse.
The reverse law of this zoo.
Monkeys outside, the cage closed
Everyone locked up in the evening
He was completely shocked after hearing this poem. Even on winter nights, the face is covered with sweat. A few months ago, the second heart attack has passed, the medicine is still working.” This must have been told by Huran’s wife to my life partner sitting in the audience, who later told me. But the love of the audience was evident, they were bursting like silkworms without caring about their health! This verse of his was being repeated about the Punjabi language. He said:
This soil gave me a mouth,
This nest has opened its beak.
I am the son of this Punjab,
Punjabi is my language.
La Dikan here, the intellect has drunk the ocean of knowledge.
This is the land of Bulleh Shah,
This Nanak was born.
This hill belongs to the sons of Nath,
This is the group of Waris Shah.
I am the son of this Punjab,
Punjabi is my language.
By absorbing the colorful flowers of poetry in his breath, he intensified my hunger to know more about his family and children. In response to my single question, he gave many answers at once. “I was born in Pakpattan in 1942, my parents do not even remember the month and date. My father was Ghulam Mustafa Malik. When the country was living in the name of freedom, there were riots in the crowded houses, the flesh was separated from the nails, I was five years old then. After completing primary and middle school studies in the village school, I learned the work of a goldsmith. At that time, in Pakpattan, apart from Baba Farid, another fair, ‘Sakhi Ghulam Kadar and Chan Pir’s Fair’, was held. Every year, prominent singers like Alam Lohar, Noor Jahan, Ashiq Jatt, Inayat Hussain Bhatti and Hamad Ali Bela used to come here. My voice was good from the very beginning. I had a desire to become a singer and artist and I became a Qawwal by joining Mian Dad Khan Qawwal. I was familiar with rituals and instruments since childhood. I used to play the harmonium myself. I started organizing Qawwali arenas at the shrines of the Pirs and Fakirs. But not for money, without tickets. I put earrings in my ears and kept searching for my ‘Heer’. In between, I would also recite my own poems to the people. I got a lot of money. One day my mother caught me singing Qawwali and brought me home and said that if I have to sing, then sing Naats in the glory of Hazrat Muhammad Sahib. In 1960, I returned here. First in the glory of Hazrat Muhammad Sahib and then in the glory of Baba Farid, I started writing and singing Naatiya Kalam. When we had a war with you in 1965, I also wrote and sang war songs. Then it occurred to me that I was wasting my talent! I was being used! I had become a weapon in the hands of others. Then I turned to Punjabi. I felt that I was born in Pakpattan, the son of Baba Farid, Punjabi is the mother tongue of the weak and the oppressed, it should be my duty to be its guardian. I started speaking my language in 1970 from the People’s Party and Forum. I was arrested for reciting sharp pro-people poems in political rallies. When the People’s Party came to power, people like me were free again. I wrote enthusiastically against martial law. On 8 August 1979, in a Mushaira held at Mian Channu, I recited for the first time, “Where will I go now with the weight of my thoughts? If I speak, they will kill me, if I don’t speak, I will die.” This Mushaira was presided over by the famous Urdu poet Ehsan Danish. On 11 August 1979, when I recited this poem in Okahanda, the government’s staff was at my door the very next morning. On 12 August, I reached the Central Jail, Sahiwal. On 13 August 1979, at 2:30 am, a ‘summary trial’ was held and the justices sentenced me to 19 days of rigorous imprisonment for my poem. This was my reaction to receiving the ‘reward’.
Sometimes, for two taka,
a person is sold.
Ballet, battel… battel, battel.
On 1 October 1981, Urdu poet Kanwar Mahendra Singh Bedi Sahib came to Pakistan. He also visited his village “Chak Bediyan”. Deputy Collector Sahiwal Hafiz Akhtar Randhawa organized a Musahira in his honor but I was not given an invitation. I sent my poem “Ji Ayan No Jee Sardar” and he sent the Assistant Collector Pakpattan to meet me. During the meeting, Bedi Sahib heard this poem from my mouth twice and burst into tears. His beard was wet with tears. He hugged me tightly and then left with the promise of meeting me.
A few days after this hug, it was announced that I would be awarded the first “Baba Farid Award”. My literary creation also gained speed and maturity. In 1985, I had my first heart attack. It was then that my first poetry book “Kaude Ghut” was published. I was invited to attend the World Punjabi Conference to be held in Delhi, but I was not allowed to go there. When my second book “Kunjan Das Kurlawan” was published, I received three awards. First the Baba Bullehshah Award, then the Warish Shah Award, and again the Baba Farid Award. On 23 March 1994, the then Chief Minister of Punjab, Mian Manzoor Ahmed Butt, gave the award at the ‘Jamhur Mela’ held in Lahore, and today you are present yourself. Here too I have been honoured with the title of ‘Fakhre Punjab’.
Sardar ji, I have written couplets, tapas and folk songs. While composing poetry, I never forget who the people are who will listen to me read. I do not want to give them a kunin. Their words, their pain. They have to achieve salvation themselves, I only have to knead words and cook poetry. Personal suffering has never been able to divert me from the path, but the murder of my son Shabir ul Hasankhani by assassins with a knife has weakened me after 28 February 1990. I wonder what poets do to anyone. What did anyone get by killing the butterflies of words. The second heart attack happened a few months ago! My entire poetry is also being published in a volume. Next time I come to your Punjab, I will bring it. If you come again, let me know, I will deliver it.
We met on the night of November 13, 1997, and on November 30, 1997, Hussain Zahoor said goodbye to this world. After 17 full days!
The gentleman is gone, the river has passed.
We did not talk much, our hearts did not ache.
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