These five poems on the Partition of India remain lodged in my memory like spears. They are by Ahmad Rahi, Mohan Singh, Amrita Pritam, Dr Harbhajan Singh, and folk poet Gurdas Ram Alam.
Whenever my mother, Sardarni Tej Kaur, remembered the year 1947, she would begin to tremble. Until her last breath, I never heard her use the word “Independence” for that year. Whenever she recalled it, she would say, “That was when the great flight began.” She would describe it as the time of chaos and turmoil, when human beings had become capable of devouring one another.
Even after being uprooted and settling here in Basantkot village, the section of our settlement continued to be known as “Panahian Di Patti”, the refugees’ quarter.
Once, a local woman quarrelling with my mother taunted her, saying, “Don’t speak with so much pride. After all, you are one of those who were exchanged with the Muslims.”
I was very young then, but the sting of those words still lives in my chest.
These poems are chronicles of that same pain.
It was this season of massacres that fiction writer Mahinder Singh Sarna described as “Chhavian Di Rutt”, the season of cleavers.
Whenever I remember 1947, the words written by Ahmad Rahi and sung in my childhood by the powerful folk singer Amarjit Gurdaspuri still strike my mind:
Chunni meri leeran kateeran, bhainan dio veero!
Ve chunni meri leeran kateeran.
Bujhian khittian, dubb gaye taare,
Raat haneri khillian maare,
Sehak rahian takdeeran, bhainan dio veero!
Ve chunni meri leeran kateeran.
Tuttian sarian haddan banne,
Ithe saare ho gaye annhe,
Bhainan luttian veeran, bhainan dio veero!
Ve chunni meri leeran kateeran.
Lekhan utte shahian dullian,
Sejon dig ke pairin rulian,
Sassian, Sohnian, Heeran, bhainan dio veero!
Ve chunni meri leeran kateeran.
Bhain kise di pai kurlaave,
Khunjhia vela hath na aave,
Kar lao kujh tadbeeran,
Ve bhainan dio veero!
Ve chunni meri leeran kateeran.
Ordinary people knew that because of immense sacrifices and changing international circumstances, the British would eventually leave India. But no one had imagined that their departure would be accompanied by a massacre in which around a million Punjabis would lose their lives.
No one had imagined that a season of bloodshed could make human beings so savage and cruel.
Professor Mohan Singh captured this very tragedy in his world-famous poem:
Aa Baba tera watan mur veeran ho gaya,
Rabb de gharan da rakha mur shaitan ho gaya.
Aa Baba tera watan hai veeran ho gaya,
Rabb de gharan da rakha mur shaitan ho gaya.
“Kalyug hai rath agan da,” tu aap aakhia,
Mur koor os rath da, rathvaan ho gaya.
Jo khwab si tu dekhia, van thalle suttian,
Sohna oh tera khwab pareshan ho gaya.
Oh mache tere des di hikk te ulambhre,
Panj-panian da pani vi hairan ho gaya.
Oh jhulian tere des te maaru hanerian,
Ud ke asada aahlna kakh kaan ho gaya.
Juggan di sanjhi sabhyata pairin litad gayi,
Sadian de sanjhe khoon da vi nahan ho gaya.
Vand baithe tere putt ne sanjhe swarg nu,
Vandia swarg narak da samaan ho gaya.
Udhar dharam granthan te mandiran da jas gaya,
Edhar maseeton bahar hai Quran ho gaya.
Hindwanian, Turkanian dohan di patt gayi,
Burke sindoor dohan da apmaan ho gaya.
Ik pase Pak, Paki, Pakistan ho gaya,
Ik pase Hindu, Hindi, Hindustan ho gaya.
Ik sajji teri akh si, ik khabbi teri akh,
Dohan akhan da haal te nuksan ho gaya.
Kujh aisa kufar tolia imaan valian,
Ke kufar ton vi haula hai imaan ho gaya.
Mur maide basmatian da aadar hai vadhia,
Mur kodhre di roti da apmaan ho gaya.
Mur Bhagoan de chadarin chhitte ne khoon de,
Mur Laloan de khoon da nuchraan ho gaya.
Phir uchian de mehlan te sona madhi riha,
Phir nivian di kulli da vi vahan ho gaya.
“Us soor us gaaun” da haq naara laia tu,
Eh haq par nihaq ton kurban ho gaya.
Mur gaune pae ne mainu sohle khoon de,
Pa pa ke kungu ratt da ratlaan ho gaya.
Tu Rabb nu vangaria, tainu vangaran main:
“Aaia na tain ki dard aina ghaan ho gaya.”
Amrita Pritam’s famous poem also comes back to me again and again:
Ajj aakhan Waris Shah nu, kithon kabran vichon bol!
Te ajj kitabe-ishq da koi agla varka phol!
Ik roi si dhi Punjab di, tu likh likh maare vain,
Ajj lakhhan dhian rondian, tainu Waris Shah nu kehn.
Uth dardmandan dia dardia! Uth takk apna Punjab,
Ajj bele lashan vichhian te lahu di bhari Chenab.
Kise ne panjan panian vich ditti zehar rala,
Te ohna panian dhart nu ditta pani la.
Is zarkhez zameen de loon loon phuttia zehar,
Gitth gitth chadhian lalian, phutt phutt chadhia kehar.
Vihu valissi va phir van van vaggi ja,
Ohne har ik vaans di vanjhli ditti naag bana.
Pehla dang madarian mantar gaye guaach,
Dooje dang di lag gayi jane khane nu laag.
Lagan keele lok, moonh bas phir dang hi dang,
Palo pali Punjab de neele pai gaye ang.
Galion tutte geet, phir tarkalion tutti tand,
Trinjano tuttian sahelian, charakhre ghookar band.
Sane sej de berian luddan dittian rorh,
Sane dalian peengh ajj pipplan ditti torh.
Jithe vajdi si phook pyaar di, ve oh vanjhli gayi guaach,
Ranjhe de sabh veer ajj bhull gaye usdi jaach.
Dharti te lahu vassia, kabran paiyan chon,
Preet dian shahzadian ajj vich mazaran ron.
Ajj sabhe Kaido ban gaye, husn ishq de chor,
Ajj kithon liaie labh ke Waris Shah ik hor.
Ajj aakhan Waris Shah nu, tunhen kabran vichon bol!
Punjabi poet Dr Harbhajan Singh also expressed the pain of Partition in deeply moving words. His lyrical style is entirely his own and unmistakably distinctive.
I personally place his poem “Saun Ja Mere Malka” among his finest works. Unlike Amrita Pritam’s poem, it does not directly describe the massacre in explicit terms, yet its imagery creates the entire scene before the reader.
Saun ja mere Malka, ve vartia haner,
Ve kaalakhan ch taarian di dubb gayi saver.
Ve pasri jahan utte maut di havaad,
Ve khind gayian mehfilan te chha gayi ujaad.
Hai khoohan vich aadmi di jagdi sarhand,
Te saun gaye ne aadmi ton sakhne gawaand.
Ve seet ne muate te gash hai zameen,
Ve seenian vich sunn dovein khoon te sangeen.
Ve zindagi behosh te khamosh kainaat,
Vehla ho ke saun gaya ae loha ispaat.
Saun ja injh akhian chon akhian na ker,
Sitarian di sada nahin dubbni saver.
Hamesh nahin manukh te kuddna junoon,
Hamesh nahin dullna zameen utte khoon.
Hamesh na veeran honi ajj vaang raat,
Saun ja mere Malka, veeran hoi raat.
My Bibi Ji would always say to me, “You are so eager to go to Delhi to recite poetry. Don’t go to such places.” Whenever she remembered that season of death, she would begin to tremble. This poem is an expression of that very trembling and pain.
A couple of years ago, Jaswinder and I visited our ancestral village, Niddo Ke in Narowal. We had this commemorative photograph taken beside the signboard outside the village. At that moment, I also remembered this poem by Gurdas Ram Alam:
Kyon bai Nihalia, azaadi nahin vekhi?
Na bai bhrava, na khadhi na dekhi.
Main Jaggu ton sunia Ambale kharhi si,
Badi bheed usde duwale kharhi si.
Aai nu tan bhaven tiya saal beeta,
Asin tan aje takk darshan nahin keeta.
Dilli ch aundi hai sardi di rutte,
Te haadan ch rehndi pahadan de utte.
Gareeban naal lagdi lari hoi ae khabre,
Ameeran de hathi chadhi hoi ae khabre.
Akhbaran ch parhia jarvani jihi ae,
Koi sohni tan nahin, ainven kaani jihi ae.
Manne je oh kehna asin vi mangaiye,
Chhannan te dhaarian ch bhunje savaiye.
Par ena pata nahin ki khandi hundi ae,
Kehri cheez ton dil churandi hundi ae.
Shimle tan os agge aande hunde ne,
Bai sadi tan khurli ch taande hunde ne.
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