Will Exile End?

The fading moments of Mughal glory and the tragedy that followed the First War of Independence in 1857 have been revived in public memory as the campaign to bring back the mortal remains of the last Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar is set afloat
Bahadur Shah Zafar
Will exile end?
Nirupama Dutt

A painting depicting dancing girls in Delhi during Bahdur Shah Zafar’s reign

THE lament of the last of the proud Mughal emperors, Bahadur Shah Zafar, remains ever alive in the collective consciousness of the subcontinent in which the emperor who was also a poet cried out of his misfortune at not being able to avail of the two yards of land in his beloved country: Kitna hai badnaseeb Zafar dafn ke liye/Do gaz zameen bhi na mili koo-e-yaar mein. These two lines are embedded in the Indian psyche are indeed a part of popular culture. This couplet still has the power to sadden the human heart to let out a helpless grieved sigh.

This summer a campaign of sorts is being built to bring back the mortal remains of the emperor back from Rangoon (now Yangon) in Myanmar. The campaigners of this very just although somewhat delayed demand are a handful of liberals and Leftists who see in Zafar a symbol of the composite culture of pro-colonial India. These include the old guard like journalists Kuldip Nayar and Saeed Naqvi, lawyer Rajinder Sachar, historian Mushirul Hasan, Left-wing theatre artiste Shamsul Islam, Prem Singh, general secretary, of the near-forgotten Socialist Party of India.

After a Press conference in early May in New Delhi, a public meeting was held at the Law Institute in the Capital but the old guard is rather surprised that but for stray reporting, the media has not highlighted the campaign with the emphasis that it required.

In 2006, an initiative had come from the government itself in this direction, a year before the 150th anniversary of the War of Independence. A high-level meeting was held at 7 Race Course Road, residence of Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, attended by the who's who of Indian politicians, academics, artists, writers and journalists. The Prime Minister raised the issue, describing Zafar as the man who defined India's diversity, liberalism, integrity and the national movement. All were in unison that the remains of the emperor who suffered great tragedy should be brought back and it would be poetic justice if these could be buried in the two yards at a dargah in Mehrauli. The grave is still waiting to be claimed for Zafar over a century and a half after he chose it. Zafar's wish was to be buried in the dargah of Qutubuddin Bakhtiar Kaki in Mehrauli and had earmarked two yards of land there.Dargah caretakers have kept an empty grave to honour wishes of the star-crossed emperor.

The Last Mughal

(Top) Bahadur Shah Zafar gate at the entrance to the Salimgarh Fort and (below) Zafar's grave in Yangon

For all of them, Bahadur Shah Zafar is the symbol of composite and diverse Indian culture. (Top) Journalist Kuldip Nayar, (centre) theatre artiste Shamsul Islam and (bottom) columnist Saeed Naqvi

William Dalrymple in his famed book,The Last Mughal describes the journey to the sad exile thus: "At 4 am on October 7, 332 years after Babur first conquered the city, the last Mughal Emperor left Delhi on a bullock cart. Along with him went his wives, his two remaining children, concubines and servants —a party of 31 in all... the journey had been kept secret, even from Zafar himself, and the old man knew nothing of his departure before being woken up at 3 am, and told to get ready." There was no one to bid farewell to the emperor at pre-dawn as he left his beloved Dilli forever. "Will people succeed where the Government failed", asks Naqvi. He recalls the 2006 meeting, "Noted Gandhian, late Nirmala Deshpande's idea was particularly well received. She suggested that soil should be brought from Bahadur Shah Zafar'smazaar in Yangon for a memorial in the Mehrauli dargah." Time and again the issue of bringing back the remains is raised, it has not been followed up. Shamsul Islam, founder of Nishant Natya Manch, who has started a signature campaign, questions: "How long will Bahadur Shah Zafar's exile continue?" He adds, "It is unfortunate that this commander of India’s First War of Independence remains buried in a foreign land. It is high time steps are taken to bring his remains to India so that we and coming generations have the opportunity to emulate Zafar's deeds for a free and secular India".

Burmese king

Meanwhile, at the time of his hasty burial in Yangon in November 1862, a bamboo fence surrounded his grave and with grass growing over the precise spot was lost for a long time and only in a restoration exercise as late as 1991 was the original brick-lined grave discovered. The Burmese Muslims then built a shrine and Zafar is worshipped there as a Saint to whom devotees go for wish fulfillment. Ironically, Zafar's own wish remains unfulfilled. The sad chapters of colonial history tell that while Zafar was exiled to Myanmar, King Thibaw of Burma (1859-1916) was exiled to India and died pining for his land in Ratnagiri in Maharashtra. Of late, Myanmar has been wanting the tomb of the King to be relocated in his native country. Political dignitaries have not responded to this civil-society demand that has yet to gather popular momentum. Leader of the Opposition Sushma Swaraj is the perhaps the only one who has warmly supported this campaign. The responses to her statement on Twitter show that not many are interested setting the wrongs of the faraway 1857 in present times. One response smirks at concern for what happened over a 150 years ago, while another asks about the ‘mortal remains’ of the BJP in Karnataka. The British had showed callousness to the last Mughal and now it is indifference. So is there a hope for the lost cause unless some smart Bollywood director brings him back into public domain like Aamir Khan did to Mangal Pandey, the rebel soldier who led the 1857 revolt?

Befitting memorial for Rani of Jhansi The towering figure of resistance to the Indians in the 1857 chronicle is Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi and Subhadra Kumari Chauhan's ballad in tribute: Bundele harbolon ke munh hamne suni kahani thhi, Khoob ladi mardani woh to Jhansi wali Rani thhi (We had heard her tale from the mouths the Bundel bards, Bravely, like a man, fought the queen of Jhansi) still gives goose pimples to the listener or reader. This is so in spite of the gender bender, so irksome to feminists, of "like a man". Her popular image is that of a handsome woman astride a horse, with her child tied to her back, a shield in one hand and a sword in the other fighting till her last breath, was a motivational force for the National Movement. Saeed Naqvi says: "It is the statue of Rani Jhansi that should be installed in the vacant canopy across India Gate. This statue would be acceptable to every Indian, irrespective of caste, creed or political allegiance." The canopy has been vacant since the mid-1960s when it was removed from there as it was a sad reminder of the humiliation and torment of British colonial rule. However, Parliament could not decide on the statue that should be put there as every leader's name aroused a controversy. "There can be no controversy over the image of the Jhansi wali Rani," says veteran journalist Kuldip Nayar. Emperor in search of a director Stories of grandeur, justice, love and tragedy have always been sought after in the glitter of Muslim historical films of Hindustani cinema. Top of the charts was, of course, K. Asif's Mughal-e-Azam (1960) with the king-prince conflict in the latter's romance with an ill-fated dancing girl. Earlier, the same saga had been told with some mesmerising music in Anarkali (1953). Then there was the K. L. Saigal-starrer, Shahjahan(1946) which told the story of the emperor's court poet Sohail's unrequited love for the beautiful Ruhi and the subsequent death of Mumtaz Mahal and the building of the Taj Mahal. The romantic saga of Shahjahan and Mumtaz Mahal was set to lilting music in Taj Mahal (1963). The tragedy of Shahjahan and his daughter Jahanara as well as the tyranny of Aurangzeb enticed the audiences in Jahanara (1964). The tragic saga of the king who would be poet never quite caught the imagination of a Bollywood director in spite of the wide gamut of emotions and poetry that it offered. Lal Quila (1960) with Jairaj, Nirupa Roy and Helen wilted in its B-grade handling. All that is remembered of this non-starter are two of the ghazals sung emotionally by Mohammad Rafi. There were some films on the 1857 War for Independence like Shatranj ke Khiladi (1977),Junoon and Mangal Pandey (2005). None of these focused on Zafar. B.R. Chopra did a tele-serial Bahadur Shah Zafar in the 1980s with some of the good Urdu poetry of the times and Ashok Kumar in the lead role. But the serial could not meet the standards of Gulzar's Mirza Ghalib, with Naseeruddin Shah playing the poet and Jagjit Singh singing the verses. Thus the last of the Mughals, who may well be our own King Lear and more, still awaits the magical touch on big or small screen.

Liberal in Lahore

Liberal Lahore
The liberal tradition is being carried forward in Lahore, even in the face of stiff opposition. Perhaps it has to do with how Lahore remains a magical city and its essence is personified by three great souls: Saeen Miãn Mir, Shah Hussain and Guru Arjan Dev – apostles of tolerance, love and peace 
Nirupama Dutt

THERE is an interesting tale about the famous 16th Century Punjabi Sufi poet Shah Hussain, whom the Lahoris still refer to as Madho Lal Husain. Madho Lal, a Hindu Brahmin, was the closest friend and companion of Shah Hussain. However, there was a vast age difference between them. Shah Hussain was a celebrated and seasoned poet with a large following and Madho was but a boy. One day Madho said to his friend, “You are famous but what will become of me when you are no longer there? No one will ever know me.” That instant, the great master of the kaafi changed his name to honour his friend. The tombs of the two friends have been built side by side in the mazaar. The last Saturday of March saw thousands of devotees, activists, intellectuals and artists marching with flaming torches in hands to participate in Mela Chiragan (The Festival of Lights) at the mazaar, adjoining the Shalimar Gardens, of Shah Hussain. Late evening on the last but one day of March when I call Zubair Ahmad, a friend and a Punjabi writer in Lahore, he can barely hear my voice. “I am going to the mela of Madho Lal Hussain. I can’t hear you because a thousand drums are beating,” he shouts.

Drums and dance

Syeda Diep, who heads the Institute of Peace and Justice at Lahore and is a frequent visitor to India, recounts with delight the three days of festivities: “It was such joy to hear the music and see thousands dancing the dhamaal on the last day, which was especially for women who outnumbered the men. But all three days saw the participation of women. This festival means much to us for it is part of what was once a composite culture. It is very dear to us and it stands for all the values that religious fundamentalists oppose.” It may be recalled that during the long and oppressive regime of Zia-ul-Haq, the practice of playing the drum at the mazaar and dancing was brought to an end.

After the suffocating quiet of some seven years, activists from the Panjab University, Lahore, reached there beating a drum and dancing, as they chanted: “Madho Lal, Madho Lal, Mehangi roti, mehangi dal, Ho gaye poore sat saal.” Leading them was the renowned Punjabi scholar Najm Hosain Syed of the Sangat fame who holds the weekly Sangat at his home in which multi-religious Punjabi scriptures are read and discussed.

Composite Sangat

It is this face of Lahore which inspires London-based Punjabi poet Amarjit Chandan to say: “Can any Sikh or Hindu fundamentalist imagine the baani of Guru Nanak, Guru Arjan and Bhai Gurdas being discussed and sung in Lahore? That’s what happens in Najm Hosain Syed’s weekly Sangat, which epitomises the humanist spirit of our times. Lahore is a magical city. Its essence is personified by three great souls: Saeen Miãn Mir, Shah Hussain and Guru Arjan Dev — apostles of tolerance, love and peace. The media these days thrives only on the news of greed, hatred and violence and does not highlight the positive aspects.”

Well the month of March that has just gone has seen many positive aspects and the one which has thrilled many is the appointment of a known liberal, Najam Sethi, as the caretaker chief minister of Punjab. Sethi is a known television personality and editor of the Lahore-based weekly The Friday Times. He has been in news earlier for other reasons: Winning awards, being detained without charges, for talking about corruption in his country over the BBC and constantly receiving threats of death for his anti-fundamentalist views.

While some are wondering if Sethi did well by accepting this assignment for he is a well-regarded journalist, with a large fan following. Will he compromise his status in this position? This is a doubt being voiced. The activists have perhaps too great expectations of him. Will he be able to bring the much-loved festival of Basant back to Lahore? Will he be able to bring back the name of the chowk where once stood the Lahore Central Jail to Shadman, in honour of Bhagat Singh and his companions who were martyred here, instead of the new Namoos-e- Rasool Chowk?

Turning point

Sethi, who has long been advocating democracy and secularism for his country, has his eyes on fair elections. Describing it as a turning point in the 66-year history of Pakistan, he said in his popular television show Aapas ki Baat that he wanted the elections to go smoothly because therein lay the future of the country. Appreciating his caretaker status, artist Akram Varaich says: “It is a happy sign that a liberal intellectual has been chosen thus. Sethi has been a principled person. He is a true Punjabi and has always spoken to his son Ali in Punjabi.” Ali Sethi is the author of the novel, The Wish Maker. Trained in music, he likes to sing Bulleh Shah and Faiz Ahmad Faiz.

Dilemma of a liberal

In spite of this and more, “liberal” continues to be seen as a dirty word in Pakistan.

Amin Mughal and (right) Najm Hosain Syed. The latter keeps Sangat alive. Photo: Amarjit Chandan.

Yaqoob Khan Bangash, an assistant professor of history at the Foreman Christian College, Lahore, describes the dilemma of a Pakistani liberal in an opinion piece in The Express Tribune, saying: “A Pakistani liberal is a multifaceted animal. He, and I believe, also she, likes their T-shirt and jeans one size too small; likes to go around in big cars; eats at expensive restaurants; drinks alcohol like a fish; spends holidays abroad; is variously in the pay of the United States, India, or Israel. They keep quoting Mohammad Ali Jinnah’s August 11, 1947, speech; are responsible for Pakistan being dragged into the war on terror; are responsible for the continuation of drone attacks; support and pray for Malala Yousafzai but not people killed in drone attacks; supports (and does not support) the Great Khan; and, lest the erstwhile general gets annoyed, likes dogs.”

Going by these popular albeit caricatured images, one has little choice but to cluck the tongue and say that what cannot be, will not be and add if one may the refrain of Que Sera Sera! But those who have had the fortune of seeing in Pakistan more than the cricket matches, Anarkali Bazaar or the gurdwaras bring stories home of the other Punjab where liberals will be liberals, no matter what the price they have to pay. Diep says: “We have seen martial law, dictatorship, people’s movements crushed mercilessly, religious fundamentalism, and now the fundamentalists are well armed. Many are afraid to speak but there are some who will speak always.”

Intellectuals’ voice

There is indeed a liberal face of Pakistan but it exists more among the intelligentsia: Poets, professors, writers, artists, peace activists, mediapersons, musicians, women activists, leftover of the Left and the like. Well, this would be true of most countries, including India. However, if one were to compare the liberals of Pakistan and India, it would not be amiss to say that the intensity, spirit and fearlessness is more across the border, even though they are at a greater risk. But for selected pockets of India, we show greater apathy. Visits to Lahore give me a sense of déjà vu. It’s rewind to the India of the 1970s, with readings in homes, poetry recitation, intense exchanges and sure signs of struggle. In India, the majority among the minority of liberal intelligentsia seems to have bid adieu to struggle for a just society and is condemned to a race of individual achievements. For many, “liberal” would be a dirty word even here at home too.

Women who dare

Tahira Mazhar Ali Khan
 In mid-eighties and in frail health, is a pioneer in women’s rights & workers' rights. The daughter of Sir Sikandar Hayat Khan, prime minister of united Punjab from 1937 to 1942, had Jinnah and Nehru as her ideals. Despite her feudal background, she married a communist student leader and became an activist. She is mother of the well-known writer Tariq Ali.

Asma Jilani Jahangir 
A leading lawyer and President, Supreme Court Bar Association of Pakistan. She relentlessly works to prevent persecution of religious minorities and exploitation of women. She protested against Zia’s decision to enforce religious laws, which would compromise the rights of women. She says: “We cannot remain shackled while other women progress.” Set up a women's shelter home in Lahore.

Salima Hashmi 
Artist and activist, upholds the progressivism of her father, poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Was professor and head of the National College of Arts, Lahore. Activist for women's rights and against nuclear weapons. Record of the sub-continent’s history through her father's letters to her mother Alys under the title of Many Paritions, Many Legacies has been widely appreciated.

Madeeha Gauhar 
Founder and artistic director of the Ajoka Theatre Group, Lahore. A social activist, has fought for human rights and peace. Received the International Theatre Pasta Award in 2007. Her plays reflect her beliefs and ideology. Staged a play on Sufi poet Bulleh Shah's life. On stage and off stage, plays a role in calling for peace between India and Pakistan as well as depicting their shared culture.

Memory fights forgetting

March 23, the death anniversary of martyr Bhagat Singh (1907-1931) and his comrades Rajguru and Sukhdev, for some years has been a day of altercation between the liberals and the rigid in Lahore. The latter want nothing to do with the patriot who was born in a Sikh home. While the Lahore Central Jail, where the three freedom fighters were hung to death by the British, was long ago bulldozed to make a housing colony, the Shadman Chowk was the spot of remembrance. This year, the writing was clear on the wall as Islamic aid group Jamaat-ud-Dawa, largely believed to be a front for the militant group Lashkar-e-Toiba, warned the progressives: “ “Do not dare to come near Shadman Chowk , Namoos-e- Rasool Chowk now .. Bhagat Singh was terrorist and an atheist.”  Yet they went carrying pictures of the hero of a shared heritage and history, opposing erasing of memory and forced Islamisation. Among the activists were Syeda Diep and theatre activists Madeeha Gauhar and Huma Safdar. The police had to intervene to save the liberals from the rage of the other group that has succeeded in getting a court order changing the name of the traffic circle.


Progressives in Lahore defied fundamentalists’ threats and came out to remember Bhagat Singh on March 23

Wheels of Verse

Couplet Express

by Nirupama Dutt

THE romance of a train journey is hard to get over and it is an experience that I just cannot resist and the longer the distance the better it is. So I was not intimidated by the 48 hours the train would take from Nizamuddin to Madurai. I had to make this north-to- south journey to fetch my daughter home from her school near Kodaikanal in the Palni hills.
The ticket counter man looks up the computer and books me into a train that leaves Nizamuddin every Saturday. The train is called Thirukkural Express and I get into it early morning.
The plan is to get off at Madurai, see the Meenakshi Temple, spend a night there and head the next day by bus to Kodaikanal. In the train I get talking to a professor of English from Chennai. He advises me that instead of Madurai, I should get the ticket extended to Kanniyakumari. “If you have not been there then take the journey. The last halt of the train is Kanniyakumari,” he says. While I am still wondering if I should do so or not, it suddenly occurs to me that If Kanniyakumari is the last halt, then why is it called Thirukkural? The professor satiates my curiosity and tells me that “Thirukkural” is a two-line verse or couplet.
The journey suddenly takes a poetic turn and it feels very good to be a traveller of the Couplet Express. And then I learn that Thirukkural maxims were the work of the great Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar who is believed to have lived some time between 300 and 600 A.D. And it was his statue that was installed at Kanniyakumari in January 2000 by Dr. Mu. Karunanithi, the then Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu. Well, the same statue that caused some ripples for it had been done with parochial sentiments to have something southern juxtaposed against Vivekanand Memorial at the confluence of the three seas. But at that moment I was not thinking of the east-south divide or coming together. The magic of verse had been cast.
Poetry has its own ways of getting round one. Once it lays its snare, there is no getting away. So the ticket was extended to Kanniyakumari and six hours more from Madurai so it was to be 58 hours in the Couplet Express.
As the train moves on to reach the land’s end, it starts emptying out. There are a few passengers left and pantry car staff that had served delicious chilli bhaji, spicy chicken curry and masala vada during the long journey. One of the more friendly waiters tells me that they will spend the night at Nagercoil which is one stop before Kanniyakumari and Tuesday afternoon they will start their journey back to Delhi’s Nizamuddin. And I find myself humming my favourite train song, vintage Kanan Devi: Yeh duniya, yeh duniya Toofan Mail…
But once at Kanniyakumari, the mad race of life comes to a halt as does the rough and tumble of the journey. Just a handful of passengers, railway staff and the vendors who had got in at Tirunelveli to vend neatly-packed halwa by the kilogram are greeted at the beautiful railway station by the fresh sea breeze. Into an autorickshaw and then in a spic and span room of an inexpensive seaside lodge. I remain indoors only for a quick bath and a cup of coffee, and then I am out to experience the beautiful coming together of the three seas.
Waiting for the boat jetty, I see the horizontal and aesthetic contours of the Vivekanand Memorial and by its side the monumental statue, all of 95 feet, of poet Thiruvalluvar. Well, the detractors of this installation were right in that it alters the skyline and intrudes somewhat with what must have been the secluded serenity of the historical memorial. But a statue has been put at a pride of place. And then I suddenly get parochial too. What about our great poets back home? Punjab has a tradition of poets. The greatest of them all is perhaps Guru Nanak but now we know him more as the first sage of a religion well institutionalised. But the two Punjabs, on either side of the barbed wire, are linked by many other minstrels. The great Sufi poets: Waris Shah, Sultan Bahu, Bulle Shah and others who wrote verses that we call kaafi. And I wonder if one day I will travel to Lahore in a train called the Kaafi Express!

Farewell To Shillong

By Nirupama Dutt

SHILLONG has always been a very special place to me. Its waterfalls, the silent lake, long walks, busy bazaars and shabby cinema halls continued to haunt my thoughts long after I had left the place in the first flush of youth.
I would never tire of telling my friends of this hilly splendour. The notes of music coming from crowded fetes, the colourful overalls of the petite Khasi women, white lace curtains on the tiny windows of the villas and the blind beggar strumming his guitar in the dirty Bara Bazar. These were the images of Shillong and of course tales of schoolgirl crushes and those two good-looking boys forever chased by girls, made bold by the matriarchal status of the Meghalaya Hills. Well, the nostalgia had to linger, for it was a city of those lovely growing-up years. So much had been discovered then.
Then after more than a decade, I made it back. While on a holiday, at my brother’s tea-garden in upper Assam, I determinedly took a night-bus to Gauhati, and then to Shillong.
I checked into a hotel, for hardly any of the old schoolgirls were there except one who was still unmarried and working on a thesis. I wanted to surprise her, coming as a phantom of our silvery youth.
A nice breakfast and a change and I started off for my friend’s house, carrying the gifts I had brought her. I took the route of the old days, some four kilometres of sharp descent and climb. I forgot I was many hears older and many pounds heavier. Panting, I reached the house! A happy sight, indeed, but the happiness was short-lived. A stranger opened the door. My friend, I learnt, was now teaching in Arunachal.
So I returned to the hotel in a taxi, stopping briefly at my school. A concrete structure had replaced our lovely wood hall. The old hall had been burnt down. I found a nun of my days – Sister Christopher. I had been one of her favourites – but now she couldn’t place me!
Back in the hotel I planned out a busy evening, for I was feeling much like a lost lonely spinster. I would go to the ramshackle cinema hall and then have a plate of noodles at the restaurant, where we had celebrated our I.S.C. first divisions. But the short afternoon nap turned into sleep courtesy the long walk, so it was a plate of noodles in bed, because the hotel dining hall was under repair.
Next morning, a pretty young Khasi maid came to dust the room. Packing my bag, I forced some of my memories on her and she listened with patient disinterest. I rewarded her for her patience with the lipstick and purse, meant for my friends. She happily carried my bat to the taxi and as it started, she shouted: Khub Le! Khub Le is a curious Khasi phrase for a greeting and a farewell. This time, it was farewell to Shillong!
~ ~ ~

The Killing Fields

Peasant suicides were unheard of. The peasant had the strength to bear famine and floods. If he lost his land, he would migrate and work as a labourer in the city. But he would never think of taking his life. These suicides are a part of life after the Green Revolution. The graph of the peasant's life has gone from poverty to some prosperity and then on to death, says Nirupama Dutt from Punjab

The conversation keeps reverting to the Neem tree. No, we are not in one of the Uttar Pradesh villages that Nida Fazli sings of. We are in the heart of the country's breadbasket –Punjab, of Green Revolution fame. We are in the home of Balkar Singh, a middle-class farmer and peasant leader, in Dakaonda village in Patiala district. ``The neem tree stood proudly in the middle of the compound, somewhere near the gate which now leads to my brother's house,'' says Balkar. It is difficult to visualize it now. The old house has been divided up by the brothers. New cemented paths, new gates and new rooms have been added by each of the three families. It's cement and concrete all the way in Punjab's villages these days, without, of course, benefit of an urban planner, architect or even an overseer.
``In the summer months, the women of the villag3e would come and sit under the neem and spin with my mother and grandmother. He women would talk and share their stories as they spun yarn,'' recalls Balkar. This was called Trimjan—an occasion for womenfolk to get together and spin. And in the centre of the village there was a big
peepul tree under which the village elders sat to talk and share jokes. Their conclave was known as Sathh. The old men would call out to younger passersby, and everyone kept in touch. The deep social ties which once held village society together have been wiped out. The joint family, too, is history. Punjab's villages have gone the way of the towns, touched by the despondency of urban life without, of course, the opportunities and advantages that towns and cities offer. Balkar's mother, who once ruled the big house, now walks with the help of her stick from the house of one son to that of another, not quite sure where she actually belongs.
``Peasant suicides were unheard of. The peasant had the strength to bear famine and floods. If he lost his land, he would migrate and work as a labourer in the city. But he would never think of taking his life,'' says Balkar. ``These suicides are a part of life after the Green Revolution. The graph of the peasant's life has gone from poverty to some prosperity and then on to death.'' Suicides in this state of plenty and prosperity are indeed difficult to accept. Surely no one could be hungry here? People in Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka or even in Maharashtra could be hungry. But no one can ever be hungry in Punjab.If anyone is, then they only have to go to the nearest gurdwara to eat their fill of dal, roti, vegetables and even halwa, then have a cup of tea. Such fare is freely given in langars that are held twice a day.
But the path from the unlit stove at home to the humiliation of charity is paved with suicide. Suicides by farmers in Punjab have assumed alarming proportions. `Seeds of Suicide: The Ecological and Human Costs of Globalisation of Agriculture', is a study by Vandana Shiva, Afsar H. Jafri, Ashok Emani and Manish Pande, published by the Research Foundation for scoence, Technology and ecology, New Delhi. The writers came to Punjab via Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka and Maharashtra, and they were taken aback -- ``Punjab, the biggest contributor of grain to the national pool, now has the notorious distinction of having the highest rate of farmers' suicides among all the stares.'' The farmers' suicides among all the states.'' The farmers' suicides started in the 1990s. I recall visiting a small village in Sangrur district in 1993 where 26 men had committed suicide by consuming pesticides. By 1997-98, the number of suicides had risen alarmingly. Today, Punjab has overtaken the suicide rate of Andhra Pradesh.

The government refused to acknowledge these suicides, and the glossies relentlessly featured rich farmers who live in plush farmhouses, holiday in Europe, send their children to exclusive schools in the hills and grow strawberries, broccoli and flowers. However, the media – especially the Punjab newspapers and correspondents of national newspapers in Punjab –have played a significant role in bringing these suicides to light. In nearly all the cases, it is reported, the farmers were heavily in dept and had daughters to marry off. The mechanization of agriculture, rising costs of production and growing consumerism, which has increased dowry demands, all contributed to their deaths.
The government has chosen to cover up the issue. Punjab's chief minister is a peasant leader and the Akalis came to power with the overwhelming support of the peasants. It is interesting to refer to a news story in The Hindu of April 21, 1998, that reads: ``About 80 cases of suicides by farmers and agricultural labourers, reported from five villages in Sangrur district in the last four or five years, could be only the tip of the iceberg. Death stalks the rural areas of the Lehra and Andana blocks in this otherwise prosperous district. According to former sarpanch Jarnail Singh and jathedar Mastan Singh, about 33 persons were driven to suicide in Balaran village, while the figure was zero in the official records since 1994.''
However, farmers' groups, non-governmental organizations and mediapersons have achieved little even after proving the official records to be wrong. Inderjit Singh Jaijee, convenor of the Forum against State Repression, has been keeping up the pressure on the authorities with a mail campaign. His letters have not been acknowledged, but the forum scored when the Union Department of Agriculture and the Reserve Bank of India conducted a survey of the unprecedented suicides. However, Jaijee says, ``Although the report was written out and submitted, no relief of any kind has been given to the farmers, who are weighed down by bank loans.''

Times have changed. Traditionally, farmers have organized cattle fairs. Today, they have tractor fairs. They take loans to buy tractors, but are forced to sell them to deal with financial crises in their homes. There is also a parallel fair of Maruti 800 and Zen cars that are given as dowry, and are sold just like the tractors. A maruti car is an essential element of a girl's dowry, even among small farmers. And farmers who have no way of raising money for a Maruti for their daughter's wedding are killing themselves with pesticides. It is difficult to break this vicious cycle. The farmer has his back to the wall, facing more demands than he can possibly fulfil.
The first year of the 21st century had ended in a winter of discontent, with the agrarian crisis at its height. There was a paddy crisis in 2000, when the crop could not fetch support prices. And then farmers were forced to spill their potato harvest on the roads because there were no takers. There's an interesting example here. When Pepsi came to India, the farmers of the Punjab Doaba hoped that their potatoes would be bought by the company for the potato-chip factories. But this year, the company told them that their potatoes were of poor quality. And now, the sons of the soil are being asked to compete in the international market, exposed to the impersonal forces of the WTO. An unreasonable demand, when their own government does not even wish to acknowledge their plight.
Gurdial Singh, the Jnanpith award-winning writer whose novels are set in the backdrop of agrarian society, lives in Zira Mandi, a small agricultural market town. ``It is no longer a secret that farmers come to the labour chowks of small towns in search of work,'' he says. ``They walk or cycle some `5 kilometers to get there. They often return home empty-handed.;;

Punjab's Green Revolution has greyed and the nation has long forgotten the slogan of Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan. We live in the time of scams in the purchase of coffins for war heroes, and farmers who must take their own lives. In essence, we are saying, after the manner of Marie Antoinette, if the potatoes are not doing well, let them grow strawberries.
Not long ago, a harvest song of Asa Singh Mastana was particularly popular in Punjab – Meri khet-kidhi bahar, kurhe (my fields are blossoming, my girl). Today, these are no songs on the lips of the people and Bhangra, the harvest dance, has been appropriated by MTV.
Back in Balkar Singh's home, where the neem tree that the women gathered under was chopped down many years ago, I see all the urban trappings: a telephone, a television set, a refrigerator, a sofa, a dining table, box beds and some gaudy prints of the Sikh Gurus on the walls. And he is telling the story of Paramjit Singh, a small but successful grower of chillies for a decade and a half. Over the years, the cost of production increased and in recent times, the yield had fallen. ``What did not decrease were the electricity bills, the hand-pump charges, children's school fees and the dowry for the daughter. Some moneylenders got him to sign blank papers when they gave him a loan. He lost his land and finally committed suicide. So you may say there is no hunger in Punjab, but there is death,'' says Balkar. A leader of the Ekta group of the Bharati Kisan Union, Balkar and his comrades are trying to keep farmers away from moneylenders. But it isn't easy.
I recall my young niece and nephew, who were at a boarding school in Darjeeling in the Seventies. Home for the holidays in a tea garden in Assam, they had asked their parents which state they were from. Punjab, they were told, and my nephew, who was in Class III, said ``I have read in my school books that people from Punjab are farmers and that they are very hardworking.'' And traveling through Punjab for so many years, very often on journalistic assignments, I was often reminded of Richard Llewellyn's book, How Green Was My Valley. But the image I brought back with me this summer from yet another journey through Punjab was of blazing fields, as farmers set fire to the stubble of the harvested wheat crop to quickly prepare for the paddy season, without regard for what it does to the soil. This is what the sons of the soil have come to. The earth is no longer their mother.

Punjab as a state of Mind

I am an echoing sky just the size of an umbrella
I am a strange tree
Translating the rustling of the wind
Into Punjabi
--Surjit Pattar
These lines are from the sixth River of Punjab – the river of poetry. Into this river flow the love-legends of the Sufi poets, the verses of the Gurus and the anonymous folk songs. This river runs deep. Deeper even than the five rivers which traverse this land: the Sutlej, the Ravi, the Beas , the Chenab and the Jhelum. No water disputes here. No duping the census with linguistic untruths. For in these waters flow verses in Punjabi, Urdu, Hindi and at times, even Pinglish. No geographical boundaries here and no barbed-wire borders. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's Jogi needs no visa and jagjit singh's Kagaz ki Kishti is free to float where it will.
So, it is with two lines snatched out of context of a long poem that I begin my billet doux to Punjab. My Punjab. These lines by a contemporary are dear to me for in them he is a tree translating for me even the rustling of the wind into Punjabi. Where is this Punjab of mine? Where I a student of geography, I would promptly answer that this Punjab is a small state, covering only 1.6 per cent of India's land area.

Well, even if I were a student of geography, this answer would simply not do. Even though it is quite true. My Punjab with its pride, prejudice and fabled prosperity spreads for and wide. Something like the billowing skirt of some unknown woman sho sang: Mainu ambar the ghaghra suva de, Utte dharat di laon lava de (Get me a skirt stitched of the sky; and have it trimmed with the earth.) Ah, don't read territorial and space ambitions here! It is just the state of mind.
Now that you are reading this open letter of love. I might as well tell you that this too is in line with the Punjabi tradition. For us to love in secrecy is to not love at all. There is an exhibitionist even in the best among us. If you've got it, flaunt it. This may be the truth for others. But for the Punjabis, it is a case of even if you don't have it, flaunt it. This would range from the bank balance to the jewel box, from harmony at home to talent at work. Such show-offs these Punjabis! If that's what you are exclaiming, I can't quite discredit it for we are forever in a race to keep us with the Junejas or the Jakhars. But this trait has also meant survival even in the worst of times.
Call me prejudiced if you must in favour of my own land and people. Here is a little story told to me by a Maharashtrian mathematician about the folks back home, dating back to the saddest of years in the passing century:1947. It was related to him by a colleague of his at Panjab University whose family had to migrate from their home in West Punjab, leaving their property and business behind. No time was to be lost and business had to be started. The only thing that the family had somehow brought along was a sewing machine. So, some money was invested and a big tailor's board put outside the house. The man took upon himself the task of taking measurements. And the wife was to do the sewing. The very first day, they got an order for tailoring a shirt. In the excitement, they forget to take the measurement. When the customer returned the next day to give measurements, the shirt was ready. He tried it on and it fitted well. How was this done? The woman asked her husband what size was the customer and his reply was that around his size. This was the beginning of a roaring tailoring business. ``Such is the entrepreneurial spirit of the Punjabis,'' the Maharashtrian said in awe. ``But we lose out on thought,'' I mumbled. ``Well, you can't have it all!'' was his reply. But, that's what it is about us. We would certainly like to have it all. And if we know we cannot have it, then we choose not to even acknowledge it. Of course, the refrain of our land being the bread basket and on the border facing aggression is heard common enough, when our people from states with a geographical situation more protected mock at us and say, ``The only culture in Punjab is agriculture.''

The mobility and adaptability of the Punjabis is only too well known: from Toronto to New York; from Singapore to Melbourne; from Paris to Amsterdam. And UK is our very own vilait with Balle Balle Birmingham and Saada sohna Southall. Let folks mock at the Punjabis' lack of culture but wherever these people from the land of the five rivers have gone, they have managed to popularize their dress, food, song and dance. The salwar kameez has made it to the international fashion scene.
Want to knowa little more about Punjab, then just eavesdrop on what they are singing or laughing about. Soe time ago at a Sanatani Kirtan in a Chandigarh home, Isaw joyful women playing the dholak and joyously singing. Their song was: Assee Krishan diyan salian, Assee sithnian devan aayian; Assee vekhea tera Sudama, Jihda Phatea hoyea Pajama, Oh! Kahana wah-wah terian yaarian ( we're your sisters-in-law, Lord Krishna, we are here to tease you; Haven't we seen your Sudama! With his torn pyjama; O'Krishna what kind of friends you have!). ``Just like the Punjabis to dress Sudama in a pyjama even though needle and thread were unknown to the Krishna times,'' the News Editor from the Hindi heartland blurted out. What he did not say was that in this entire myth full of love and bonding, what struck the Punjabis were the shabby clothes of Sudama, Clothes maketh the man or the woman more in Punjab than anywhere else. The more flashy and gaudy, the better. This holds true for jewellery, interiors or what have you. And it is this consumerism which has spread from the towns to the villages, leading to epidemics like suicide and bride-burning. But Punjabis take death in their stride for the state has faced many invasions and strife. The dark days of terrorism took a heavy toll on human life. But the song that Punjab burst into soon after and had the whole world tapping its feet was :
Ho gayi teri Balle Balle; Ho jayegi Balle Balle.
Call this forgetfulness but it is this which makes the people of this land bounce back with a bang. Punjabi pragmatism can turn a disadvantage into advantage and a catastrophe into enterprise. If the finer sensibilities suffer, it can't be helped. Our friends in Kerala and Bengal know that we have always responded to any call for change they have made. Be it the revolutionary movement against Imperial rule which was echoed in Punjab with supreme sacrifice coming with the martyrdom of Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru or the Spring Thunder of 1967.
When the call is for romance, adventure, sacrifice or martyrdom, Punjab has never been a-lacking. For such are the calls that the Punjabi heart responds to in a big way. When it is a matter of the heart, there will be mistakes. But a Punjabi knows how to admit that it was a mistake and even laugh it away. Theirs is a rare to laugh, sometimes at others but mostly at themselves. So laughing, sometimes through tears, Punjab and Punabis move with their pride, prejudices and prosperity to the next millennium: Jee aayean nu

The Cancer Train

Passage to Life

The Abohar-Bathinda Passenger ferries a large number of cancer patients from the cotton belt of Punjab to Bikaner, a 350-km overnight journey, for specialised treatment. Nirupama Dutt journeys from darkness to light on the wheels of hope

Indians love train journeys. Well, who wouldn’t in a land so vast and with a population as large with very meagre means? So if you want to catch a slice of true Indian life at the very grassroots, the best place would be a 24-hour journey in an unreserved coach of a train in any direction that may catch one’s fancy. I have known journalists who do this arduous task during election time and come back with sparkling stories about what the people are saying and which way the wind is blowing.A train journey any day or night, and one has had a fair share of it when required and sometimes even when it was not even required, but one had not thought that one would shiver through a journey of ten long hours in the coldest February in the past 35 years, in a passenger train from Bathinda to Bikaner. For someone living in Chandigarh, Bathinda is remote enough as it is on the Rajasthan border of Punjab and Bikaner is even more remote. But this train has earned quite a reputation for itself and not for the happiest reasons and has also been given the nomenclature of the ‘Cancer Train’ back home in Punjab. The cotton belt of Punjab in the Malwa region has an abnormally high rate of cancer. The excessive use of pesticides and ground water contamination are the suspected culprits. The specialised institute for cancer treatment and research in the government-run Prince Bijay Singh Memorial Hospital has come to the rescue of the lower middle class and poor people of Punjab because it gives quality treatment at very low rates.Never mind the name the train has earned for itself; one is still sceptical about finding cancer patients on the journey because after all cancer is no epidemic so there cannot be patients travelling everyday. But the Bathindawalas assure you that there will be many. They prove true and hours before the train arrives, patients and their attendants start trooping into the station. There are old men, women and even children who have come from villages close to Bathinda but there are others who have come from places as far as Raikot near Ludhiana. As we sit on a bench sipping hot cardamom tea to keep the chill at bay because the train is an hour and fifteen minutes late, Sukhbir, a 24-year-old woman of Alluwala village on the Punjab-Sirsa border, joins us. Her husband and an elderly neighbour from the village are accompanying her. She is suffering from breast cancer that was discovered recently and is going to the Bikaner hospital for the first time. Balvinder Singh, the older man in the group, says: “My wife had breast cancer but she overcame it with medicine from the Bikaner hospital.”Gurpreet Singh, a resident of Mansa, tells us: “Cancer has become so common in our parts that now people talk of it as they would of influenza and the only hope is medicine and treatment from Bikaner.” Non governmental organisations and the media have been raising the cancer alarm for quite some time but the Punjab government has been apathetic to it. The cotton-growing Malwa region comprising the southwestern districts of Bathinda, Muktsar, Faridkot and Mansa has shown a high incidence of various kinds of cancer. This is also the region that consumes three-fourths of all pesticides used in Punjab. However, there has been no systematic study of cancer and pesticides.

Dr. D.P. Punia, director of the regional cancer institute in the Bikaner hospital, says: “We do not have any scientific study that can link the use of pesticides with cancer. However, a large number of patients come from the cotton belt of Punjab. On an average 30-plus patients are from that region. The hospital, besides the state of Rajasthan, caters to Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand. Its standing has improved steadily over the years on the back of the quality, yet inexpensive, service that it has been providing.The mood in this passenger train is, quite understandably, sombre and compassionate. Gauri Shankar, the ticket checker, goes around from compartment to compartment making sure the windows are shut and no one catches cold from the draught. “This train is primarily for the sick and the ailing. We try our best to make the journey easy for those who are in so much of pain.” The night’s journey done, the train crawls into Bikaner Junction and anyone in the Punjabi rural attire is plagued by crowds of auto-rickshawalas wanting to be the first to bag all the people heading for the ‘Cancer Hospital’. Kartar Singh, a patient who has come from Faridkot, says: “The train is cheap and it reaches us in time for the hospital. The out patients get themselves examined, take the prescribed medicine and return home by the same train in the night.” There are several dharamshalas around the hospital and attendants can board and lodge there for Rs 20 to 40. The ticket of the train is just Rs 50 from Bathinda. The hospital is well-equipped.However, what strikes one the most is the very humane attitude of the hospital staff. There is no waiting time and treatment is started at once. The sight of a small child receiving radiation can be unnerving but Dr. V.K. Gupta, who is showing us the hospital, smiles and says: “With the treatment the child is going to be completely all right and live a normal life.” Even when the staff is short, patients are treated well and allowed their dignity in the hour of pain. The statistics reveal that a tremendous job is being done at the Institute. In 2007, 6516 new patients received treatment, 51,676 was the number of follow-up patients and the indoor patients were 184,64. As many as 10,961 patients were given chemotherapy in the wards and 15, 753 patients in the outdoor wards and cottages. The day’s job has been done. The patients who had to take the night train back are already there by evening, well before the scheduled departure time. But the train is late as always but sick men and women huddled on benches with blankets covering them wait as they would for a truant child because this train is their partner in the journey of hope from Bathinda Junction to Bikaner Junction.

At the Wagah-Atari Border

Smuggled Salaams At Wagah

Nirupama Dutt


Till 50 years ago, Wagah was just another village in the Majah region of Punjab, located between the historic cities of Amritsar and Lahore. Today, the very mention of Wagah conjures up a different image. The image is one of locked gates, barbed wire and armed guards. It spells the finality of a parting. For, it is here that the ceremonial India-Pakistan border is situated. The two iron gates stand firmly on either side of the narrow stretch of the no-man's land. It was on this stretch of land that Saadat Hasan Manto's Bishan Singh breathed his his last looking for his village called Tobah Tek Singh. The act of dying on the no-man's land was the refusal to accept the Radeliffe Line, which cut one country into Hindustan and Pakistan.

But Wagah still has its share of stories, some written and many others unwritten. Only some days ago, an 85-year-old woman approached the border. Security Force (BSF) jawans with the request that she be allowed to meet her sister who was left behind in Pakistan in 1947 and had been traced only recently. The sister met the Pakistan Rangers with a similar request. Both sides granted the request and the two sisters, one a Hindu woman and the other a Muslim, met for four minutes. Recalling the meeting, BSF Commandant H S Rai says: ``Of those four minutes, the two old ladies spent over a minute just weeping, and in the rest they exchanged a few worlds.''

That's Wagah for you, the last border village of Pakistan. The village this side is called Atari. For some time it was called the Wagah-Atari border. But Wagah was closer to the border than Atari. So why name the divide after two villages? Wagah alone would do. And there is a very interesting side of Wagah. It is not just relatives who reach here to meet. Nor the messiahs of peace and brotherhood bearing torches and candles, and led by Kuldip Nayar and other secular Punjabis as was done last year on August 14, the day of Pakistan's independence – and is being done again this year with an equal participation from across the fence unlike last year.

Nor just the tribe of writers and poets who chose to go sentimental here on the night of December 31 last year. The venue was chosen for the Raja Porus Mela. Yes, the same Porus of Sikandar ne Porus se ki hi ladai fame. Well, Porus was defeated a second time, thanks to the lack of coordination among the Indian hosts, so the Pakistani delegation reached a bit too soon and moved into Calcutta.

Neverthless, the result of the one-sided Mela was the setting up of a memorial, still half-built, which comprises a large marble slab inscribed with two celebrated Partition poems. On one side, there's Amrita Pritam calling out to Waris Shah, the Sufi poet who put in verse the story of Heer, one of Punajb's greatest love legends,in ``Ajj akhan waris shah nu kite kabran vichon bol'' ( I call out to Waris Shah to speak from the grave); on the other, it's Faiz Ahmad Faiz speaking on those who died on the road to history in ``Hum jo tarik rahon mein mare gaye''.

What makes Wagah special is that every evening at sunset there assemble thousands of anonymous Indians and Pakistanis on both sides of the border to watch the beating retreat ceremonials, which for the past many decades, but for the unhappy times of war, are held jointly, in complete harmony, right from the march past, the blowing of the bugle and lowering of the two respective flags. The ceremony over, people on both sides are allowed to stand at the gates and simply look at each other.

It is for the glimpse of the other that people come with children in their arms and stand there looking at each other in silence and smiles. For, if anyone tries to wave or speak, the guards cry out, ``No waving, no talking. Just stand and look at each other.'' BSF officials explain: ``Smugglers use the waving of hands for a code indicating whether their goods are reaching or not. So, we do not allow the gesture.'' Incidentally, Amristar is known for its smuggled goods market. Pakistani dupattas and scarves, which are particularly popular here, are supplied all over Punjab.

The crowds start gathering there much before sunset and the time is spent over a cold drink and coffee listening to patriotic songs being piped on our side. A popular number that BSF officials like to play is Mohammad Iqbal's Saare jahan se achha Hindustan hamara. One wonders if the other side is playing a latter-day composition of Iqbal's: Cheen-o-Arab hamara.

On a recent visit to Wagah, though, I came across another kind of music. No longer the patriotic songs. The popular numbers in this the golden jubilee year of the parting are Pardesi, pardesi, jaana nahin from the blockbuster Raja Hindustani and Chappa chappa charkha chale from Gulzar's Maachis. But what's behind the popularity of this speck on India's map? To this query, Commandant Rai answers with a smile: ``For one thing, Wagah is included in the Punjab Tourism package. We have at least one honeymoon couple a day. The other reason is the curiosity the people of the two countries have for each other.''

Regular visitors to the border say the atmosphere is very relaxed and the vibes friendly. Says writer Prem Avtar Raina: ``It has to be. The berlin Wall has crumbled and the barbed wire too will melt. The whole world is moving into an era of ethnic states. And it is good that there is a Punjabi for a prime minister here, and there.'' There are others, too, who like to do such wishful thinking. Gurdip Singh, an aged farmer from Bhullar village, stands there muttering: ``It was one Punjab which was cut into two. People on either side speak the same language.''

As the ceremony is taking place, one hears cries of Pakistan Payamdabad from the other side and soon enough people this side cry out, Bharat Mata Ki Jai, with an occasional Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal thrown in. But these are not war cries of death and destruction as they were in 1947, but a hail-fellow-well-met kind of exchange.

``Ladies and children first,'' cry the guards soon after the beating retreat ceremonials. Women and children run to the gates on both sides to stand and just gaze at each other. ``Look at the Pakistani children, they're just like us,'' cries a child from our side.

Standing in the midst of the crowd my eyes meet those of a young Pakistani woman. I smile and she returns the smile, raising her hand in a salam. I too raise my hand in the return greeting of wahlekum salam. The guards do not notice and the thrill is of having smuggled a salam there on the border. Until the barbed wire sprouts folwers, as a Punjabi poet hopes, it will have to be a salam smuggled across the Wagah border.



The border outpost of Wagah today is a honeymoon destination, its greatest attraction being the daily beating retreat ceremonials watched by thousands from both sides of the divide. Swept by the bonhomie. Nirupama Dutt wonders whether Partition was worth the bloodshed.



``ladies and children first,'' cry the guards soon after the beating retreat ceremonials. Women and children run to the gates on both sides. ``Look at the Pakistani children, they're just like us,'' cries a child from our side.

Heera Mandi of Lahore

Paintings by Iqbal Husain of the famous bazaar

Storm over Jallianwala Bagh

The renovation of the Jallianwala Bagh is drawing a lot of flak from veteran patriots, but the old order is yielding place to the new, reports Nirupama Dutt

Just Imagine the grandson of a Jallianwala Bagh veteran visiting the site where hundreds of Indian patriots had lost their lives to British brutality at Amritsar, Punjab, during the freedom struggle. Imagine the plight of a grandson who has heard from his grandfather what was there in the monument to the historic event, that turned the tide of the Indian freedom struggle. Imagine yourself, as one such grandson, almost hearing the fading, aged voice of your grandfather, and then keen to come and see if what he had said was there, but you could not find it: Reason? Government renovation of those of others like him. Damned, the beloved country’s governance!Jallianwala Bagh is not just another recreational spot for tourists, but a ‘sacred’ place today. This public park, close to the Golden Temple of Amritsar, witnessed a massacre on April 13, 1919. It was meant to be a peaceful public meeting for the Baisakhi festival, to assert the right of people to assemble and protest, which was curbed by the martial law imposed by the then Lieutenant Governor of Punjab, Michael O’ Dwyer. Many in the assembly were just people who had come to say morning prayers at the Golden Temple. Soon after the meeting started, Brigadier-General Dyer opened fire on an unarmed gathering of 25,000 men, women and children. The firing lasted about 10 minutes and 1650 rounds were fired, or 33 rounds per soldier and hundreds were killed by the bullets while others fell into the well trying to escape and many were hurt in the stampede.The renovations are fraught with problems, even as the work is in full progress. The reason for protests by historians and freedom fighters is that some of the important historical relics are being lost in the process. Terming the renovation of historical lanes of Jallianwala Bagh as defacement and destruction of the historical monument, president of Desh Bhagat Yadgar Hall Committee 101-year-old Ghadri Baba Bhagat Singh Bilga has sought the intervention of the Prime Minister in the case. “The two already demolished historical lanes of Jallianwala Bagh should be reconstructed, and the third one should not be razed in the name of widening the entry point for VVIPs’ vehicles,” says a vocal critic.However, most of these protests have fallen on deaf ears. A public interest litigation filed in the Punjab and Haryana High Court in September 2008 was dismissed, and the initial stay given on the petition was vacated. The order of dismissal signed by Chief Justice TS Thakur and judge Surya Kant says: “If the Government, the Trust and the Managing Committee have put their heads together and conceived a plan intended to revitalise and preserve the Memorial (sic)for the future generations, we see no reason why the petitioner should find fault with the same, particularly in exercise of the extraordinary public interest writ jurisdiction of the court.”

The background goes like this. In 1923, the trust purchased land for the project from the Jallewala Sardars at a hiked-up price of Rs 5.65 lakh. The money was gathered by an international appeal for a memorial issued by Mahatma Gandhi. The British Government in India was keen to turn the Jallianwala Bagh into a cloth market so that all traces of the incident were wiped out. Nationalist leaders, however, formed a committee headed by Madan Mohan Malviya. The land was purchased from the Jallewala Sardars at a hiked up price of Rs 5.65 lakh. The money was gathered by an international appeal for a memorial issued by Mahatma Gandhi. The upkeep of Jallianwala has been with a Mukherjee family of Bengal. S.C. Mukherjee, an associate of Malviya, was appointed the first secretary of the Trust. It subsequently went to his son and now to his grandson S. Mukherjee. A memorial designed by American architect Benjamin Polk was built on the site and inaugurated by the then-President of India, Dr. Rajendra Prasad, on 13 April 1961, in the presence of Jawaharlal Nehru and other leaders. A flame was later added to the site. However, the past few decades have seen the monument in neglect and decay with only a fraction of the people who come to the splendorous Golden Temple next doors visiting it. Interestingly, the Jallianwala Bagh National Memorial Committee is headed by the Prime Minister of the country. But in spite of the high profile management, the memorial suffered complete neglect during the past many decades. Defending the renovation work, trustee S. Mukherjee says; “We are not destroying any historical site. In fact we are preserving and renovating the memorial so that more people can relate to it. Otherwise the old building would have crumbled.” However, one of the lanes demolished was the one in which patriot Udham Singh, who was later to kill General Dyer in England, had helped the injured and the dying. A new wall is being constructed at the main gate for a light and sound show that is to be introduced here. However, ITDC engineer maintains that the bullet marks on the walls are being preserved carefully and red sandstone is being used to give the monument a heritage look.The ambitious project was proposed by Maninderjit Singh Bitta, former president of the Indian Youth Congress to late Prime Minister P.V. Narsimha Rao. However, the project could see the light of the day only after a high-level meeting of the board of trustees was held under the chairmanship of Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. The project also include making of videos and CDs of the proposed light and sound show and distribute it throughout the country as part of an awareness campaign. The next question is about an entry fee. “All the historical monuments in the country have an entry fee, the only exception being the Jallianwala Bagh Memorial entry for which is free for visitors," says Mukherjee. Baba Bilga says: “The government should not convert the historical monument into a tourist place.” But no one is listening, as the old order changeth, indeed, yielding place to the new.

Dilli ki Gallian

Pilgrimage to poetry

Nirupama Dutt

The big city was suggested by Albert Camus as a remedy to life in society. He called it ‘the only desert within our means’. But deserts have oasis. And Delhi too is not without them. Here they exist in the lanes and the by-lanes. These may be to an outsider unfit to live. But to a Dehlvi these have been the very source of life: The very reason for existence. Remember the famous couplet by Ustad Zauq written at a time when Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar was in exile, the decline of the old city had started and no patronage was available to the poets, who had started migrating to Deccan for sheer survival:

In dinon garche Dakhan meinHai badhi Qadr-e-sukhan,
Par kaun jaye Zauq par Dilli ki Galiyan chhodh kar

So to a sacred gali, which is not a part of the old walled city, but has its very special significance. It is the crowded lane which leads to the dargah of sufi saint Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. One chanced upon it in the late 70s when a painter friend took me there one evening with her for she wanted to say a prayer for a friend who was admitted to a hospital in a precarious state following an accident. So we walked past the naan-kabab joints and shops selling incense sticks, Khuss and sandal perfumes in small glass bottles, and offerings of flat baskets strung with Indian pink roses. The prayer was said. The ailing friend died a few days later. It is the act of the prayer that counts and not the fact that it is answered or not.

The gali and the dargah stayed with one as it would with a resident of Chandigarh, a too new and planned a city to have by-lanes dating back into history or culture. Yet another reason was being adderessed as `Begum Sahiba’, never mind one’s shabby clothes and worn-out walking shoes, by the shopkeepers hawking out their wares. So one returned many a time for this pilgrimage, which is a pilgrimage to poetry.

For in close proximity in this area are the tombs of different poets of different ages. Close to the mazar of the Auliya is the mazar of his dear disciple Amir Khuro, who is hailed as the first poet of Hindi. While Khusro was proficient in Persian and Arabic, he yet chose to write a body of verse in Khadhi boli, language of the people here. It is said that once happy with Khusro, Hazrat Nizamuddin said: “Ask for what you wish and it will be granted.’’

And Khusro asked for `melody and intensity’ in his verse. That is perhaps the greatest boon any writer would wish for. For Khusro of `Chhap-tilak taj deenhi re tose naina mila ke’ fame, the boon sure was granted and his verses have stood the test of time. Nearby are also the tombs of Khan Khanan and Jehanara. And by the side of the lane near the Ghalib Akademi is the mazar of Ghalib, one of the best loved of the poets of the land.

The lane also has many a sad scene to show. To the dargah of the `Gharibnawaz’, who gives out of boons and alms even without the asking, the poor and the suffering come in large numbers. The overcrowed, shabby lane also represents the fading away of an era and the ghettoisation of a culture and people. Yet spirit and the mood of the people soars above the situation as does the crescendo of the Qawali every Thursday:`Ab mori naya paar karoji…,

Walk to the mazar late evening and the durbans of `Karim’s’, a popular Mughalai restaurant, stand in their maroon sherwanis and white turbans at the beginning the the street. Their job is to flash torches and guide cars to find parking space. A little before the mazar, the auditorium of the Ghalib Akademi is all lit up. A mushaira is in progress. The theme is Dilli again with Urdu poet Astraaar Jaamayee addressing Badshah Zafar whose greatest misfortune was that he could not be buried here. Telling him of what the city has turned into with crowding, pollution, inflation and what not he has his little dig saying that here two yards of land will now cost 70 grand:

Keh do Zafar se Dilli ke us Kooh-e-yaar mein
Do gazzamin milti hai ab satahar hazar mein.

Ghalib then and now

Ghalib
The narrow streets wind like
Arguments in the
Mohalla of Ballimaran…
And in the dark gloomy street
Known as Gali Kasim
A row of lamps is lit
The Quran of words opens
At a luminous page
On which is written
the address of
Asadullah Khan Ghalib.’
-Gulzar

This poem to Ghalib was penned long years back by yet another poet of Delhi. The one who was nurtured in the Sabzi Mandi and years later recalled his mohalla in a lovely children’s song: Ghodha thha ghamandi, pahuncha Subzi Mandi.

Pilgrimage to Ghalib’s abode or tomb was a must for many. More so far this poet who not only took off from a couplet of Ghalib to write one of his most famous songs, Dil dhoondta hai, but also gave a tribute to the poets’ poet in a tele-serial with Nasseruddin shah playing the Mirza.

Mirza Ghalib’s home and tomb were much in news some years ago with Friends for Education going to court with a plea that the haveli of Ghalib be turned into a memorial and the tomb maintained properly. When Gulzar visited Ghalib’s home in Gali Kasim, walking past doors with tattered sacks for curtains and spindly bleating goats on a smoky evening, it was a coal depot.

With progress in time, it now houses at STD-ISD booth, a paper godown and the office of some International Islamic Centre. Many admirers of the poet are pained by it. But the poet would have only been amused for often he referred to his Khana kharab and dream of a home without walls and doors: be daro deevar sa ik ghar banana chahiye.

Time to time Ghalib memorial functions are held in the country. Seminars, articles, musharias and so on take place. But the accent is more on the biographical details of the poet or the physical aspects like a home or a tomb. Amidst all this is a legendary figure who drank and loved a dancing girl and provided couplets for the coming generations of weak-hearted lovers. But what is lost is the real essence of his poetry. For Ghalib was a poet of social protest challenging the state, the fundamentalists, the money-lenders and upheld the status of the creative artist: They want to know who Ghalib is?/Pray, tell me what do I tell them?

It would be not unfit to say that he was a poet for all times for such was his sensitivity in probing the layers of human existence. He felt that he was ahead of his times, as litterateur Gopi Chand narang remarked at a seminar, ``Ghalib was born in the 18th century, he composed his verses in the 19th century, he was understood in the 20th century and he will reach his zenith in the 21st century.’
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But what needs to be noted is how the 20th century has put him into stereotypes. Says theatre activist Shamsul Islam, ``The popular image of Ghalib is one of a filmi hero. He was turned into a Devdas.’’ Well, Ghalib was no Devdas. He drank, but it was obviously in moderation for he lived to a ripe old age. He must have loved. We all do. But linking it to a dancing girl is our doing. The 20th century imagination was trapped by images of the singing girl Sorab Modi created for his Mirza Ghalib to fit in Suraiya, who rendered his ghazals beautifully in the film. But Bharat Bushan turned him into a Devdas of sorts.

All very well in films and tele-serials but what is painful is to see Ghalib as a doll with a hukka and jaam watching a mujra of yet another doll whose arm is broken over the years. All this just clouds his struggle for existence as a poet in a world hostile to the creative truth. While Naseer gave a memorable performance as Ghalib, Gulzar could not quite set him free of clichés.

Perhaps, one sincere attempt to reinterpret Ghalib was by Surendra Verma in his play Qaid-E-Hayat, directed by Ram Gopal bajaj. Verma depicted his beloved as Qatiba, a contemporary writer. With 200 plus years of Ghalib completed, there is a need for interpretation of his poetry and his struggle in its social context, which is relevant even today.