Wednesday 23 May 2012
A Transcendental Agony - Shiv Kumar
Shiv Kumar was a born poet who migrated from the poetic region of Sialkot
to Batala at the most miserable moment of human history. It was the Independence
of the sub-continent in 1947 - the dreadful, painful, horrible, miserable,
devastating, slaughtering and marauding phenomenon, which bisected the trouble
stricken North India. The pangs of separation are recurrent themes of this
great lyricist of the land. He has been hailed as one of the great poets of
all times.
Nevertheless, being acquainted with some of his poems, receding and bleeding parting songs and prosodic commentary on the nearly dead ROMANTIC tradition of the land of five rivers, Shiv Kumar has fostered the impression of sentimental romance of the bygone era in the contemporary idiom. Spanning from the folk-stage to the film screen, Shiv Kumar has re-established the heroic, romantic and down to earth tradition of transcendental poetry.
He listened with rep attention as an old sage. He learned from chat books and broadside ballads. A boyhood visit to a Mela (folk festival) in the 'Majha' broadened his experiences, revealing vistas stretching far beyond the confines of his father's middle class situation. As he approached young manhood, however, his prospects as either a 'Patwari' or a poet, seemed utterly drearier.
Nevertheless, being acquainted with some of his poems, receding and bleeding parting songs and prosodic commentary on the nearly dead ROMANTIC tradition of the land of five rivers, Shiv Kumar has fostered the impression of sentimental romance of the bygone era in the contemporary idiom. Spanning from the folk-stage to the film screen, Shiv Kumar has re-established the heroic, romantic and down to earth tradition of transcendental poetry.
It
is not generally known, for example, that Shiv Kumar's creativity overflowed
with bawdiness, satire, ardent Panjabi odour and recalcitrant revolutionary
thoughts that he imbibed in his poetry. His musical presentation has captivated
the listeners over a period of revival of chivalrous, sacrificial and utter-devotional
aspect of our culture.
I had an opportunity to see Shiv Kumar in the fifties when he sang his first
song (the maiden song) 'Piran da Praga' at a kavi darbar in Jalandhar City's
company bagh in 1955. I was perhaps the last recorder and listener of Shiv
Kumar in England when he wrote down in one of my book - a poem on 'The Sun':-
'Charh Aa! Charh Aa! Charh Aa!
cVH Aw ! cVH Aw! cVH Aw [
DrqI qy DrqI-Dr Aw [
Aj swrw AMbr qyrw [
qYnUM rokx vwlw ikhVw?
cVH Aw ! cVH Aw! cVH Aw [
DrqI qy DrqI-Dr Aw [
Aj swrw AMbr qyrw [
qYnUM rokx vwlw ikhVw?
I have adorned this poem since 1972 and I am proud
of reproducing this great lyric
PIRAN
DA PRAGA was prepared as a manuscript. I asked my friend artist Duleep Singh
to illustrate this transcendental poem/song. He chose the image of 'Thohar'
(cactus) representing Shiv's poetic thought. Although MAIN KANDIALI THOHAR is
not the index poem - this maiden collection by it enjoys the recurrent imagery
of this whole work.
To my mind the 'Piran da Praga' and 'Charh Aa! Charh Aa!' were the first
and last creations of this great gem of Punjabi poetry of the 20th century.
I would like to elaborate this theme in the following words.He listened with rep attention as an old sage. He learned from chat books and broadside ballads. A boyhood visit to a Mela (folk festival) in the 'Majha' broadened his experiences, revealing vistas stretching far beyond the confines of his father's middle class situation. As he approached young manhood, however, his prospects as either a 'Patwari' or a poet, seemed utterly drearier.
Shiv Kumar Batalvi - Suneha
ਸੁਨੇਹਾ (Suneha)
ਕੱਲ੍ਹ ਨਵੇਂ ਜਦ ਸਾਲ ਦਾ
ਸੂਰਜ ਸੁਨਹਿਰੀ ਚੜ੍ਹੇਗਾ
ਮੇਰੀਆਂ ਰਾਤਾਂ ਦਾ ਤੇਰੇ
ਨਾਂ ਸੁਨੇਹਾ ਪੜ੍ਹੇਗਾ
... ਤੇ ਵਫ਼ਾ ਹਰਫ਼ ਇਕ
ਤੇਰੀ ਤਲੀ ‘ਤੇ ਧਰੇਗਾ।
ਤੂੰ ਵਫ਼ਾ ਦਾ ਹਰਫ਼ ਆਪਣੀ
ਧੁੱਪ ਵਿਚ ਜੇ ਪੜ੍ਹ ਸਕੀ
ਤਾਂ ਤੇਰਾ ਸੂਰਜ ਮੇਰੀਆਂ
ਰਾਤਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸਜਦਾ ਕਰੇਗਾ
ਤੇ ਰੋਜ਼ ਤੇਰੀ ਯਾਦ ਵਿਚ
ਇਕ ਗੀਤ ਸੂਲੀ ਚੜ੍ਹੇਗਾ।
ਪਰ ਵਫ਼ਾ ਦਾ ਹਰਫ਼ ਇਹ
ਔਖਾ ਹੈ ਏਡਾ ਪੜ੍ਹਨ ਨੂੰ
ਰਾਤਾਂ ਦਾ ਪੈਂਡਾ ਝਾਗ ਕੇ
ਕੋਈ ਸਿਦਕ ਵਾਲਾ ਪੜ੍ਹੇਗਾ
ਅੱਖਾਂ ‘ਚ ਸੂਰਜ ਬੀਜ ਕੇ
ਤੇ ਅਰਥ ਇਸ ਦੇ ਕਰੇਗਾ।
ਤੂੰ ਵਫ਼ਾ ਦਾ ਹਰਫ਼ ਇਹ
ਪਰ ਪੜ੍ਹਨ ਦੀ ਕੋਸ਼ਿਸ਼ ਕਰੀਂ
ਜੇ ਪੜ੍ਹ ਸਕੀ ਤਾਂ ਇਸ਼ਕ ਤੇਰ
ਪੈਰ ਸੁੱਚੇ ਫੜੇਗਾ
ਤੇ ਤਾਰਿਆਂ ਦਾ ਤਾਜ
ਤੇਰੇ ਸੀਸ ਉਪਰ ਧਰੇਗਾ।
ਇਹ ਵਫ਼ਾ ਦਾ ਹਰਫ਼ ਪਰ
ਜੇ ਤੂੰ ਕਿਤੇ ਨਾ ਪੜ੍ਹ ਸਕੀ
ਤਾਂ ਮੁੜ ਮੁਹੱਬਤ ‘ਤੇ ਕੋਈ
ਇਤਬਾਰ ਕੀਕਣ ਕਰੇਗਾ
ਤੇ ਧੁੱਪ ਵਿਚ ਇਹ ਹਰਫ਼ ਪੜ੍
ਹਰ ਜ਼ਮਾਨਾ ਡਰੇਗਾ।
ਦੁਨੀਆ ਦੇ ਆਸ਼ਕ ਬੈਠ ਕੇ
ਤੈਨੂੰ ਖ਼ਤ ਜਵਾਬੀ ਲਿਖਣਗੇ
ਪੁੱਛਣਗੇ ਏਸ ਹਰਫ਼ ਦੀ
ਤਕਦੀਰ ਦਾ ਕੀ ਬਣੇਗਾ
ਪੁੱਛਣਗੇ ਏਸ ਹਰਫ਼ ਨੂੰ
ਧਰਤੀ ‘ਤੇ ਕਿਹੜਾ ਪੜ੍ਹੇਗਾ।
ਦੁਨੀਆ ਦੇ ਆਸ਼ਕਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਵੀ
ਉੱਤਰ ਜੇ ਤੂੰ ਨਾ ਮੋੜਿਆ
ਤਾਂ ਦੋਸ਼ ਮੇਰੀ ਮੌਤ ਦਾ
ਤੇਰੇ ਸਿਰ ਜ਼ਮਾਨਾ ਮੜ੍ਹੇਗ
ਤੇ ਜੱਗ ਮੇਰੀ ਮੌਤ ਦਾ
ਸੋਗੀ ਸੁਨੇਹਾ ਪੜ੍ਹੇਗਾ।
Kal Nawey Jad Saal Daa
Sooraj Sunehree Chadeyga
Meriyan Raatan Daa Tere
Naam Suneha Padeyga
Tey Wafa Haraf Ik
Teri Tali Tey Tadeyga
Tu Wafa Daa Haraf Apni
Dhup Vich Jey Padd Saki
Taan Tera Sooraj Meriyan
Raatan Nu Sajda Kareyga
Tey Roz Teri Yaad Vich
Ik Geet Soolee Chadeygaa
Parr Wafa Daa Haraf Eh
Aukha Hai Aidha Paran Nu
Raat Daa Painda Jaag Key
Koi Sidak Vaala Padeyga
Aakhan Ch Sooraj Beejh Key
Tey Aarth Is dey Kareyga
Tu Wafa Daa Haraf eh
Padd Padan Dee Koshish Kari
Jey Padd Saki Taan Ishq tere
Pair Suchey Fadeya
Tey Taariyan Daa Taaj
Tere Sees Uppar Dhareygaa
Eh Wafa Da Haraf Parr
Jey Tu Kitey Naa Padd Saki
Taan Mudd Mohabat Tey Koi
Aitbaar Keekan Kadeyga
ੇTey Dhup Vich Eh Haraf Padnon
Harr Zamana Dareyga
Duniya Dey Aashiq Baith Key
Tainu Khat Jawaabi Likhangey
Puchangey Es Haraf Dee
Takdeer Daa Ki Bangeygaa
Puchangey Es Haraf Nu
Dharti Tey Kehra Padeyga
Duniya dey Aashikan Nu Bhi
Uttar Jey Tu Naa Modeyaa
Taan Dosh Meri Maut Daa
Tere Sirr Zamana Madeyga
Tey Jag Meri Maut Daa
Sogi Suneha Padeygaa
Some More About Shiv Kumar
1960-61-62 ਦੀ ਉਸਦੀ ਕਵਿਤਾ ਗਵਾਹ ਹੈ | ਸ਼ਿਵ ਜ਼ਿੱਦੀ ਸੀ , ਹਠ ਪਿੱਟਦਾ ਸੀ | ਉਹ ਆਪਣੀਆਂ ਆਦਤਾਂ ਦਾ ਗੁਲਾਮ ਹੋ ਚੁੱਕਾ ਸੀ | ਉਸਨੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਨਾਲ ਵਾਅਦਾ ਕੀਤਾ ਸੀ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਤੇ ਸਿਗਰਟਾਂ ਛੱਡ ਦੇਵੇਗਾ | ਪਰ ਉਹ ਵਾਅਦਾ ਨਾ ਨਿਭਾ ਸਕਿਆ | ਯਾਰਾਂ-ਦ...ੋਸਤਾਂ ਨੇ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਪਿਆ ਪਿਆ ਕੇ ਉਸਦਾ ਗ਼ੁਲਾਮ ਬਣਾ ਦਿਤਾ ਤੇ ਉਹੀ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਲੈ ਡੁੱਬੀ | ਅੰਤਲੇ ਦਿਨਾਂ ਵਿਚ ਵੀ ਜਦੋਂ ਉਹ ਇੰਗਲੈਂਡ ਗਿਆ ਤਾਂ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਉਥੇ ਮਣਾਂ ਮੂੰਹੀ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਪਿਆਈ ਗਈ| ਤੇ ਅਖ਼ੀਰ ਉਹੀ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਜ਼ਹਿਰ ਬਣਕੇ ਉਸ ਦੇ ਲਹੂ ਵਿਚ ਰਚ ਗਈ ਤੇ ਜਾਨ ਲੇਵਾ ਬਣੀਂ |ਉਸਦੀ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਬੜੀ ਤਲਖ਼ ਸੀ , ਤੱਤੀ ਸੀ | ਜਿਸਨੇ ਵੀ ਫੂਕਾਂ ਮਾਰਨ ਦੀ ਕੋਸ਼ਿਸ਼ ਕੀਤੀ ਉਸਦੇ ਬੁੱਲ ਸੜ ਗਏ | ਉਹ ਜੋ ਵੀ ਵਾਅਦਾ ਕਰਦਾ , ਉਹ ਉਸਦੇ ਸਿਗਰਟ ਦੇ ਧੂੰਏ ਵਾਂਗ ਉੱਡ ਜਾਂਦਾ | ਉਹ ਆਪਣੇ ਆਪ ਨੂੰ ਬਰਬਾਦ ਕਰਨ ਤੇ ਤੁਲਿਆ ਹੋਇਆ ਸੀ | ਪੈਸੇ ਦੀ ਘਾਟ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਹਮੇਸ਼ਾ ਰਹਿੰਦੀ | ਜਿੰਨੇ ਵੀ ਪੈਸੇ ਜੇਬ ਵਿਚ ਹੁੰਦੇ, ਉੜਾ ਦਿੰਦਾ | ਉਸਨੂੰ ਭਵਿੱਖ ਦੀ ਕੋਈ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਨਾ ਹੁੰਦੀ | ਇਹੀ ਕਹਿੰਦਾ ਰਹਿੰਦਾ ਕਿ ਉਸਨੇ ਛੇਤੀ ਤੁਰ ਜਾਣਾ ਹੈ | ਉਸਨੂੰ ਟੀ.ਬੀ. ਹੈ | ਉਸਦੇ ਫੇਫੜੇ ਛਲਣੀ ਹਨ | ਉਹਨੇ ਸੈਨੀਟੋਰੀਅਮ ਜਾਣਾ ਹੈ | ਇਕ ਵਾਰ ਮੈਂ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਝਿੜਕਿਆ ਕਿ ਜੇ ਉਹ ਇੰਜ ਹੀ ਡਰਾਮੇਬਾਜ਼ੀ ਕਰਦਾ ਰਿਹਾ ਤਾਂ ਲੋਕਾਂ ਨੇ ਨੇੜੇ ਹੋਣ ਦੀ ਬਜਾਏ ਉਸ ਤੋਂ ਦੂਰ ਹੋ ਜਾਣਾ ਹੈ | ਤੇ ਉਹ ਦੂਰੀਆਂ ਕਿਸੇ ਕੀਮਤ ਤੇ ਬਰਦਾਸ਼ਤ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਕਰ ਸਕਦਾ | ਇਸ ਗੱਲ ਦਾ ਅਹਿਸਾਸ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਬਾਅਦ ਵਿਚ ਹੋਇਆ | ਉਦੋਂ ਉਹਨੇ ਸਿਰਫ਼ ਆਪਣੀ ਕਵਿਤਾ ਬਾਰੇ ਡੁੰਘਿਆਈ ਨਾਲ ਸੋਚਣਾ ਸ਼ੁਰੂ ਕੀਤਾ | ਇਥੋਂ ਤਕ ਕਿ ਆਪਣੇ ਨਾਂ ਨਾਲੋਂ ਆਪਣਾ ਤਖ਼ੱਲਸ ' ਬਟਾਲਵੀ ' ਵੀ ਲਿਖਣੋਂ ਹਟ ਗਿਆ | 1962 ਵਿਚ ਮੁੜ ਉਸਨੇ ਸ. ਕਾਲਜ , ਨਾਭਾ ਵਿਖੇ ਦਾਖ਼ਲਾ ਲੈ ਲਿਆ |ਦਸੰਬਰ 1962 ਵਿਚ ਮੇਰੀ ਸ਼ਾਦੀ ਹੋ ਗਈ | ਉਹ ਮੇਰੇ ਪਤੀ ਨੂੰ ਜਾਣਦਾ ਸੀ | ਉਸਨੇ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਲਿਖਿਆ , " ਤੇਰਾ ਹੋਣ ਵਾਲਾ ਪਤੀ ਸੋਹਣਾ , ਸੁਨੱਖਾ ਤੇ ਜ਼ਹੀਨ ਹੈ | ਆਸ ਹੈ ਤੂੰ ਉਸਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਬਹੁਤ ਖੁਸ਼ ਰਹੇਂਗੀ | " ਮੇਰੇ ਪਤੀ ਰਾਮਗੜੀਆ ਕਾਲਜ , ਫਗਵਾੜਾ ਵਿਖੇ ਪਰੋਫ਼ੈਸਰ ਸਨ ਤੇ ਉਥੋਂ ਦੇ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਪਰੋਫ਼ੈਸਰ ਜਗਜੀਤ ਸਿੰਘ ਛਾਬੜਾ ਨਾਲ ਰਿਹਾ ਕਰਦੇ ਸਨ ਤੇ ਸ਼ਿਵ ਅਕਸਰ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਕੋਲ ਜਾਇਆ ਕਰਦਾ ਸੀ | ਮੇਰੇ ਵਿਆਹ ਵਾਲੀ ਰਾਤ ਜਦੋਂ ਮੇਰੀ ਬਰਾਤ ਮੇਰੇ ਬਾਬੁਲ ਦੇ ਵਿਹੜੇ ਵਿਚ ਬੈਠੀ ਸੀ , ਸ਼ਿਵ ਆਪਣੇ ਦੋਸਤ ਸ. ਦਲੀਪ ਸਿੰਘ ਅਸਿਸਟੈਂਟ ਡਾਇਰੈਕਟਰ , ਭਾਸ਼ਾ ਵਿਭਾਗ , ਪਟਿਆਲਾ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਸਾਡੇ ਘਰ ਆਇਆ | ਮੇਰਾ ਉਸਦਾ ਸਾਹਮਣਾ ਤਾਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੋਇਆ ਪਰ ਮੈਂ ਮਹਿਸੂਸ ਕੀਤਾ ਉਹ ਉਦਾਸ ਸੀ | ਤਕਰੀਬਨ ਅੱਧਾ ਘੰਟਾ ਠਹਿਰਿਆ , ਚਾਹ-ਪਾਣੀ ਪੀਤਾ | ਮੇਰੀ ਮਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸ਼ਗਨ ਫੜਾਇਆ ਤੇ ਤੁਰ ਗਿਆ | ਉਸ ਰਾਤ ਉਹ ਮੇਰੇ ਸ਼ਹਿਰਵਿਚ ਹੀ ਸੀ | ਉਸਦੇ ਮੇਜ਼ਬਾਨ ਨੇ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਕਈ ਸਾਲਾਂ ਬਾਅਦ ਦੱਸਿਆ ਕਿ ਉਸ ਦਿਨ ਉਹ ਬਹਤ ਰੋਇਆ ਤੇ ਇਕ ਨਜ਼ਮ ' ਇਕ ਸ਼ਹਿਰ ਦੇ ਨਾਂ ' ਲਿਖੀ ਜਿਸ ਵਿਚ ਉਸਨੇ ਲਿਖਿਆ -"ਅੱਜ ਅਸੀਂ ਤੇਰੇ ਸ਼ਹਿਰ ਦੀ ਜੂਹ ਵਿਚ ਮੁਰਦਾ ਦਿਲ ਇਕਦੱਬਣ ਆਏ | " ਉਸ ਤੋਂ ਬਾਅਦ ਉਹ ਮੋਗੇ ਸ਼ਹਿਰ ਨਹੀਂ ਗਿਆ |ਫੇਰ ਉਹ ਇਕ ਦਿਨ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਸੰਗਰੂਰ ਮਿਲਣ ਆਇਆ | ਮੇਰੇ ਪਤੀ ਸ਼ਾਮ ਨੂੰ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਕਹਿਣ ਲੱਗੇ , " ਸ਼ਿਵ , ਮੈਂ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਨਹੀਂ ਪੀਂਦਾ ਪਰ ਤੇਰੇ ਲਈ ਲਿਆ ਸਕਦਾ ਹਾਂ | ਕੇਹੜੀ ਚੱਲਗੀ ? " ਸ਼ਿਵ ਨੇ ਇਕਦਮ ਗੱਲ ਟੋਕਦਿਆਂ ਕਿਹਾ , " ਸ਼ਿਵ ਸ਼ਰੀਫ਼ ਵੀ ਹੁੰਦੈ | ਤੂੰ ਮੈਂਨੂੰ ਫਗਵਾੜੇ ਵਾਲਾ ਸ਼ਿਵ ਨਾ ਸਮਝ | ਪਰਮ ਦੂਜੀਆਂ ਕੁੜੀਆਂਵਰਗੀ ਨਹੀਂ | ਇਹ ਮੇਰੀ ਮਾਂ ਵੀ ਏ , ਧੀ ਵੀ ਏ , ਦੋਸਤ ਵੀ ਤੇ ਮਹਿਰਮ ਵੀ | " ਇਹ ਕਹਿਕੇ ਉਸਨੇ ਚੁੱਪ ਵੱਟ ਲਈ ਤੇ ਮੈਂ ਰਸੋਈ ਵਿਚ ਖਾਣਾ ਬਣਾਉਣ ਵਿਚ ਰੁੱਝ ਗਈ |ਉਹਨਾਂ ਦਿਨਾਂ ਵਿਚ ਉਹ ਨਾਭੇ ਪੜਦਾ ਸੀ ਤੇ ਸੰਗਰੂਰ ਤੋਂ ਹੀ ਇਕ ਪਰੋਫ਼ੈਸਰ ਤਰਲੋਚਨ ਸਿੰਘ ਮਜੀਠੀਆ ਨਾਲ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਕੋਲ ਆਇਆ ਕਰਦਾ ਸੀ | ਤੇ ਫੇਰ ਉਹ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਮਿਲਣਆਉਂਦੇ ; ਸਾਡੇ ਕੋਲ ਛੱਡ ਜਾਂਦੇ | ਉਹ ਜਿੰਨੀ ਵਾਰ ਸੰਗਰੂਰ ਆਇਆ , ਸਾਡੇ ਕੋਲ ਹੀ ਠਹਿਰਦਾ | 1965 ਤਕ ਮੁਲਾਕਾਤਾਂ ਦਾ ਸਿਲਸਿਲਾ ਜਾਰੀ ਰਿਹਾ | ਇਸ ਦੌਰਾਨ ਉਹ ਬੰਬਈ ਫਿ਼ਲਮ ਇੰਡਸਟਰੀ ਵਿਚ ਚਲਾ ਗਿਆ ਤੇ ਉਸਨੇ ਇਕ-ਦੋ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਫਿ਼ਲਮਾਂ ਲਈ ਗੀਤ ਦਿੱਤੇ | ਉਸਨੂੰ ਰੁਝੇਵਾਂ ਮਿਲ ਗਿਆ | ਇਸ ਦੌਰਾਨ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਸਟੇਟ ਬੈਂਕ ਵਿਚ ਨੌਕਰੀ ਮਿਲ ਗਈ |ਉਸਨੂੰ ਆਪਣੀਆਂ ਰਚਨਾਵਾਂ ਲਈ ਭਾਸ਼ਾ ਵਿਭਾਗ ਤੇ ਸਾਹਿਤ ਅਕੈਡਮੀ ਪੁਰਸਕਾਰ ਮਿਲੇ |ਫੇਰ ! ਇਕ ਦਿਨ ਖ਼ਬਰ ਆਈ ਕਿ ਉਸਦਾ ਵਿਆਹ ਹੋ ਗਿਆ | ਉਹ ਉਸਦੇ ਭਟਕਦੇ ਮਨ ਲਈ ਬਹੁਤ ਜ਼ਰੂਰੀ ਸੀ | ਸਭ ਨੇ ਸੋਚਿਆ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਹੁਣ ਟਿਕ ਜਾਵੇਗਾ ਤੇ ' ਛੇਤੀ ਤੁਰ ਜਾਣਦੀ ' ਗੱਲ ਛੱਡ ਦੇਵੇਗਾ | ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਮਿਹਰਬਾਨ ਸੀ | ਖ਼ੂਬਸੂਰਤ ਬੀਵੀ ਮਿਲੀ ਤੇ ਦੋ ਪਿਆਰੇ ਪਿਆਰੇ ਬੱਚੇ ਵੀ ਮਿਲ ਗਏ | ਪਰ ਇਹ ਸਭ ਕੁਝ ਵੀ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਰਿਝਾ ਨਾ ਸਕਿਆ | ਘਰ-ਗਰਹਿਸਥੀ ਦੀਆਂ ਜ਼ਿੰਮੇਵਾਰੀਆਂ ਉਸ ਦੇ ਬਿਰਹੋਂ ਦੇ ਸੇਕ ਨੂੰ ਮੱਠਿਆਂ ਨਾ ਕਰ ਸਕੇ | ਉਹ ਪੋਹਲੀ , ਭੱਖੜੇ ਤੇ ਕੰਡਿਆਲੀਆਂ ਥੋਹਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਗੀਤ ਗਾਉਂਦਾ, ਅੱਥਰੇ ਨਿਆਣੇ ਵਾਂਗ ਅੜੀਆਂ ਕਰਦਾ ਇਸ ਜਹਾਨਤੋਂ ਤੁਰ ਗਿਆ |ਕਿੰਨੇ ਹੰਝੂਆਂ ਦੇ ਦਰਿਆ ਵਗੇ | ਕਿੰਨੀਆਂ ਯਾਦਾਂ ਦੇਸੀਨਿਆਂ ਚੋਂ ਲਹੂ ਸਿੰਮੇ | ਕਿੰਨੇ ਮਨ ਅੰਬਰ ਪਿੱਟ ਪਿੱਟ ਨੀਲੇ ਹੋਏ | ਕਿੰਨੀਆਂ ਆਤਮਾਵਾਂ ਉਹਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਮਰਗਈਆਂ | ਉਸਦੇ ਮਰਨ ਤੋਂ ਬਾਅਦ ਬਥੇਰੇ ਸ਼ੋਕ ਸਮਾਗਮ ਹੋਏ ਪਰ ਮੈਂ ਕਿਸੇ ਸ਼ੋਕ ਸਮਾਗਮ ਵਿਚ ਸ਼ਰੀਕ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੋਈ | ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਮੇਰਾ ਦੁੱਖ ਮੇਰਾ ਅਪਣਾ ਸੀ | ਇਸਨੂੰ ਮੈਂ ਕਿਸੇ ਨਾਲ ਵੰਡਾ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਸਕਦੀ | ਮਰਨ ਤੋਂ ਪਹਿਲਾਂ ਉਸ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਇਕ ਛੋਟਾ ਜਿਹਾ ਪੋਸਟ ਕਾਰਡ ਲਿਖਿਆ | " ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਹੱਥਾਂ ਚੋਂ ਕਿਰ ਰਹੀ ਹੈ | ਚੰਦ ਦਿਨਾਂ ਦਾ ਮਹਿਮਾਨ ਹਾਂ | ਤੁਸੀਂ ਸਾਰੇ ਸੁਖੀ ਵਸੋ | ਇਹ ਮੇਰੀ ਦੁਆ ਹੈ | ਤੇਰਾ ਸ਼ਿਵ | "
”ਉਘੜ-ਦੁਘੜ ਲਿਖਾਈ ਉਸਦੀ ਬੀਮਾਰੀ ਦਾ ਸਬੂਤ ਸੀ | ਮੈਂ ਵਾਪਸੀ ਡਾਕ ਲਿਖਿਆ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਘਬਰਾਵੇ ...ਨਾ , ਅਸੀਂ ਜਲਦੀ ਹੀ ਉਸਦਾ ਪਤਾ ਲੈਣ ਆਵਾਂਗੇ | ਇਲਾਜ ਖੁਣੋਂ ਅਸੀਂ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਜਾਣ ਨਹੀਂ ਦੇਵਾਂਗੇ | ਪਰ ਹੋਣੀ ਨੂੰ ਇਹ ਮਨਜ਼ੂਰ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ | ਤੇ ਇਕ ਦਿਨ ਉਹ ਇਸ ਸੰਸਾਰ ਤੋਂ ਵਿਦਾ ਹੋ ਗਿਆ | ਇਕ ਦਿਨ ਇਕ ਅਖ਼ਬਾਰ ਦੀ ਖ਼ਬਰ ਨਾਲ ਮੇਰਾ ਮਨ ਵਲੂੰਧਰਿਆ ਗਿਆ | ਖ਼ਬਰ ਨਾਲ ਕੁਝ ਫ਼ੋਟੋਆਂਵੀ ਛਪੀਆਂ ਸਨ | ਉਸ ਦੀ ਪਤਨੀ ਨੂੰ ਚਿੱਟੀ ਚਾਦਰ ਦੇ ਕੇ ਸਟੇਜ ਤੇ ਖੜਾ ਕੀਤਾ ਗਿਆ ਤੇ ਲੋਕਾਂ ਨੇ ਸਟੇਜ ਤੇ ਪੈਸੇ ਸੁੱਟਣੇ ਸ਼ੁਰੂ ਕੀਤੇ ਹੋਏ ਸਨ | ਮੇਰਾ ਮਨ ਬਹੁਤ ਦੁਖੀ ਹੋਇਆ , ਮੈਂ ਬੜਾ ਰੋਈ | ਆਪਣੇ ਮਨ ਵਿਚ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਲੋਕਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਬਹੁਤ ਲਾਹਣਤਾਂ ਪਾਈਆਂ ਕਿ ਜੇ ਬਟਾਲੇ ਦੇ ਲੋਕ ਏਨੇ ਹੀ ਪੈਸੇ ਸਿੱਟਣ ਵਾਲੇ ਅਮੀਰ ਲੋਕ ਸਨ ਤਾਂ ਉਹ ਉਸਦਾ ਇਲਾਜ ਕਿਉਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਕਰਾ ਸਕੇ ?ਦੋ-ਤਿੰਨ ਮਹੀਨੇ ਬਾਅਦ ਜਦੋਂ ਉਸਦੀ ਪਤਨੀ ਨੂੰ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਯੂਨੀਵਰਸਿਟੀ , ਪਟਿਆਲੇ ਵਿਖੇ ਨੌਕਰੀ ਮਿਲ ਗਈ ਤਾਂ ਮੈਂ ਉਸ ਨੂੰ ਹੌਸਲੇ ਵਾਲਾ ਸ਼ੋਕ ਪੱਤਰ ਲਿਖਿਆ | ਜਵਾਬ ਵਿਚ ਉਸਨੇ ਮੈਂਨੂੰ ਮਿਲਣ ਦੀ ਇੱਛਾ ਜਤਾਈ | ਅਸੀਂ ਪਟਿਆਲੇ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਮਿਲਣ ਗਏ | ਮੈਂ ਪਹਿਲੀ ਵੇਰਾਂ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਮਿਲ ਰਹੀ ਸਾਂ | ਉਸਦੇ ਮੂੰਹ ਵੱਲ ਵੇਖਿਆ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਜਾਂਦਾ | ਉਸਨੂੰ ਦਿਲਾਸਾ ਦਿੰਦਿਆਂ ਮੈਂ ਉਪਰੋਕਤ ਘਟਨਾ ਦਾ ਜ਼ਿਕਰ ਕੀਤਾ ਤਾਂ ਉਸ ਕਿਹਾ ਕਿ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਤਾਂ ਕੋਈ ਹੋਸ਼ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਕਿ ਕੌਣ ਕੀ ਕਰ ਰਿਹਾ ਹੈ | ਕਰਨ-ਕਰਾਉਣ ਵਾਲੇ ਹੀ ਖਾ-ਪੀ ਗਏ | ਦੁਪਹਿਰ ਹੋ ਗਈ | ਉਹ ਖਾਣਾ ਤਿਆਰ ਕਰੀ ਬੈਠੀ ਸੀ| ਮੈਂ ਵੇਖ ਕੇ ਕਿਹਾ , ” ਤੂੰ ਏਨਾਂ ਕੁਝ ਕਿਉਂ ਬਣਾਇਆ? ਮੈਂ ਸ਼ਿਵ ਦਾ ਅਫ਼ਸੋਸ ਕਰਨ ਆਈ ਹਾਂ ਕਿ ਦਾਅਵਤ ਖਾਣ| ” ਉਸ ਕਿਹਾ , ” ਜੇ ਅੱਜ ਸ਼ਿਵ ਜਿਉਂਦਾ ਹੁੰਦਾ ਤਾਂ ਉਸਨੇ ਇਹ ਸਭ ਕੁਝ ਚਲਾ ਕੇ ਮਾਰਨਾ ਸੀ ਕਿ ਪਰਮ ਆਈ ਏ ਤੇ ਤੂੰ ਇਹ ਬਣਾਇਐ | ” ਕਹਿਕੇ ਉਸਨੇ ਅੱਖਾਂ ਭਰ ਲਈਆਂਤੇ ਮੈਂ ਡੱਸ ਡੱਸ ਕਰਕੇ ਰੋ ਪਈ | ਉਸ ਰਾਤ ਉਸਨੇ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਆਉਣ ਨਾ ਦਿਤਾ | ਕਿੰਨੀਆਂ ਗੱਲਾਂ ਅਸੀਂ ਕੀਤੀਆਂ | ਸ਼ਿਵ ਦੀ ਬੀਮਾਰੀ ਦੀਆਂ | ਅੰਤਲੇ ਸਮੇਂ ਦੀਆਂ |ਮੈਂ ਤਾਂ ਸੋਚਿਆ ਸੀ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਆਪਣੀ ਵਿਆਹੁਤਾ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਵਿਚ ਬਹੁਤ ਖੁਸ਼ ਹੋਵੇਗਾ | ਪਰ ਨਹੀਂ | ਉਸਨੂੰ ਕੁਝ ਵੀ ਚੰਗਾ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਲਗਦਾ | ਉਸਦੀ ਤਰੇਹ ਸੀ ਕਿ ਬੁਝਣ ਦਾ ਨਾਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਲੈਂਦੀ | ਉਸਦੀ ਭਟਕਣਾਸੀ ਕਿ ਜਿਸਦਾ ਕੋਈ ਅੰਤ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ | ਉਸਨੂੰ ਭਰ ਜੋਬਨ ਰੁੱਤੇ ਜਾਣ ਦਾ ਚਾਅ ਸੀ; ਉਹ ਤੁਰ ਗਿਆ | ਉਸਦੇ ਕਹਿਣ ਅਨੁਸਾਰ ” ਜੋਬਨ ਰੁੱਤੇ ਜੋ ਵੀ ਮਰਦਾ , ਫੁੱਲ ਬਣੇ ਜਾਂ ਤਾਰਾ | ” ਇਹ ਤਾਂ ਉਹੀ ਜਾਣਦਾ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਫੁੱਲ ਬਣਿਆ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਤਾਰਾ | ਪਰ ਉਸਦੀਆਂ ਯਾਦਾਂ ਦੇ ਫੁੱਲਾਂ ਵਿਚ ਅੱਜ ਵੀ ਮਹਿਕ , ਮਹਿਕ ਰਹੀ ਹੈ ਜੋ ਰਹਿੰਦੀ ਦੁਨੀਆਂ ਤੱਕ ਕਾਇਮ ਰਹੇਗੀ , ਇਹ ਮੇਰਾ ਵਿਸ਼ਵਾਸ ਹੈ –ਆਮੀਨ
Written By Paramjit Kaur Nijjar
JIND MERI - Shiv Kumar Batalvi
ਜਿੰਦ ਮੇਰੀ...(JIND MERI)......
ਬਿਰਹਣ ਜਿੰਦ ਮੇਰੀ ਨੀ ਸਈੳ,
ਕੋਹ ਇਕ ਹੋਰ ਮੁਕਾਇਆ ਨੀ
ਪੱਕਾ ਮੀਲ ਮੌਤ ਦਾ ਨਜ਼ਰੀ,
ਅਜੇ ਵੀ ਨਾ ਪਰ ਆਇਆ ਨੀ।
ਵਰ੍ਹਿਆ ਨਾਲ ਉਮਰ ਦਾ ਪਾਸਾ,
ਖੇਡਦਿਆਂ ਮੇਰੀ ਦੇਹੀ ਨੇ,
ਹੋਰ ਸਮੇਂ ਹੱਥ ਸਾਹਵਾਂ ਦਾ,
ਇਕ ਸੰਦਲੀ ਨਰਦ ਹਰਾਇਆ ਨੀ।
birhan jind meri ni sayio,
koh ik hor mukaeya ni
pakka meel maut da nazari,
ajje v na par ayia ni.,
varrian naal umar da passa,
khed dian meri dehi ne
hor samme hath sahava da,
ik sandli narad haraiya ni.
ਬਿਰਹਣ ਜਿੰਦ ਮੇਰੀ ਨੀ ਸਈੳ,
ਕੋਹ ਇਕ ਹੋਰ ਮੁਕਾਇਆ ਨੀ
ਪੱਕਾ ਮੀਲ ਮੌਤ ਦਾ ਨਜ਼ਰੀ,
ਅਜੇ ਵੀ ਨਾ ਪਰ ਆਇਆ ਨੀ।
ਵਰ੍ਹਿਆ ਨਾਲ ਉਮਰ ਦਾ ਪਾਸਾ,
ਖੇਡਦਿਆਂ ਮੇਰੀ ਦੇਹੀ ਨੇ,
ਹੋਰ ਸਮੇਂ ਹੱਥ ਸਾਹਵਾਂ ਦਾ,
ਇਕ ਸੰਦਲੀ ਨਰਦ ਹਰਾਇਆ ਨੀ।
birhan jind meri ni sayio,
koh ik hor mukaeya ni
pakka meel maut da nazari,
ajje v na par ayia ni.,
varrian naal umar da passa,
khed dian meri dehi ne
hor samme hath sahava da,
ik sandli narad haraiya ni.
Birha da Sultan: An ode to Shiv Kumar Batalvi
On the 39th death anniversary of Shiv Kumar Batalvi, am sharing an earlier post.
It was Amrita Pritam who coined that particular epithet for Shiv Kumar Batalvi. Birha is a Punjabi word that connotes the grief of separation from a beloved, and it was Baba Farid who declared birha a crowning emotion with his verse, birha, birha aakhiye, birha toon sultan.
Batalvi, widely regarded as a peerless modern Punjabi poet, trawled
through the landscape of romance and its adscititious angst, his lyrical
verse exploring unrequited love, premonitions of death, and the
inviolable bond between an artist and his creativity. Such is his oeuvre
that growing up in Punjab, it is common to confuse his verses with folk
songs – such is their popularity with the masses. Thus along with lathe di chaadar, and jugni, and Heer, I heard maye ni maye
and got introduced to Batalvi, subliminally, which is the gift of
culture. It was only in my teens that I became aware that there were actual
poets, with specific names and bios, behind the songs that I took for
granted and hummed and heard being hummed around me all the time. The de
rigueur rendition of Heer at weddings was copyright a certain Waris
Shah, aka the Shakespeare of Punjabi! During my teenage years,
confounded by hormones and the separatist movement of Khalistan, I
debated with my extended family on questions of identity and often, the
discussion was rounded off with a final quip ‘Bullah ki jaana main kaun’
This Bullah, I discovered, was Baba Bullah Shah, a revered 18th-century
Sufi poet whose humanist verses are woven into the fabric of Punjabi.
It was inevitable then that I would eventually discover Batalvi.
When I started exploring the ‘myth’ of this Punjabi Byron – for what
else could it be, thought my cocky/read ignorant/ self – I came across
comparisons with Keats as well. Shiv Kumar Batalvi was widely viewed
through the prism of English romantic poets by people educated in
English; for the semi-literate average Punjabi he was the empathetic
poet who spoke to them directly with his down-to-earth metaphors, his
soaring lyricism and his aching poignancy.
Batalvi was born in 1936 in West Punjab and his family moved to Indian
Punjab after partition. That severing of the state into half was not the
final tribulation for Punjab, which was to go through further
subdivisions on the basis of language. In the fifties and sixties, the
linguistic basis used for the division of India’s states was employed by
the political parties in Punjab to further their respective agendas. In
the ensuing imbroglio between the Akalis and Jan Sangh, Punjabi was
hijacked as a language of the Sikhs, and consequently not of
Punjabi Hindus who took to aligning with Hindi. In such an environment,
Batalvi, a Punjabi Hindu, wrote poetry in his mother tongue Punjabi.
Aided by his handsome looks, and his powerful voice, he recited his
verses to packed audiences in Kavi Darbars across the states. He
touched a chord with people and his popularity boomed. He gave the state
back its language, free of the burden of caste or class. It was a
parallel with his own life where he had been unable to marry the woman
he loved because of caste and class differences. All that angst went
into his poetry and no wonder the common Punjabi responded to it with a
deep sense of empathy.
Batalvi himself was not very well-educated. He flitted across several
educational institutions before settling down to work as a Patwari,
a job that his frustrated father had arranged for him. The work of a
land-record clerk had him visiting fields and farms. This kept him in
close contact with the flora and fauna of Punjab and the illiterate
peasantry of the countryside, and provided him with the visual imagery
and earthy metaphors that propelled his haunting lyrics.
As I discovered, in the case of Shiv Kumar Batalvi, the myth was
reality, phoenix-like. The man was seen as a modern-day Ranjha, the
fabled lovelorn hero of Punjabi poetic legend, who sang his own
compositions. He published his first collection of poetry at the age of
24, is the youngest writer to be feted with India’s highest literary
award, the Sahitya Akademy, at the age of 28, became a legend in his
lifetime, and was dead at the age of 35.
Personally, I re-discovered Batalvi in the mid-nineties when I was
working in Mumbai. The physical distance from home, the palpable ache
that came from not witnessing green fields, the bland spinach disguised
as saag served in restaurants, made me yearn for home. It was then that I
chanced upon Jagjit Singh’s rendition of ‘Birha the Sultan’. Hearing
Batalvi transported me. I did not understand the lyrics completely but
it was okay, I was in my comfort zone.
The remarkable thing about any great piece of art is that it reveals
itself progressively. Which means that it is possible to discover new
facets of the same composition/article/sculpture years onward. It
happened with me when I started to write myself. I had never envisaged a
writing career, and the thought that I would one day write a historical
novel that would deal with the 20th century history of
Punjab was a definite mirage. And yet, I did. I spent hours poring over
history books and fiction and listening to interviews and talking to
people who had been witness to that history to write my book. Writing
found me, it led me to that particular project and I followed. And it
was during that phase that I connected with Batalvi again.
In his poem, Eh mera geet kise na gaana, Batalvi talks about the
bond between the artiste and his art, the gift and gift’s burden, one
that is forged from beyond the time of birth. And consequently, the
extent to which the link is permanent and inviolable. Witness:
Eh mera geet dharat ton maila
Sooraj jed puraana,
Kot janam ton piya asaahnu
Is da bol handaahna.
This song of mine is more soiled than the earth
older than the sun,
for several births I have had to live
with the weight of its words.
The psychologist Steven Pinker in The Blank Slate, his
path-breaking book that explores the nurture versus nature debate
expounds that human beings are not born ‘clean’. Instead our genetic
baggage is a large determinant of the lives we lead. It might be new to
the world of science but intuitively ‘genetic baggage’ is something
writers have tussled with as part of their trade. What a writer writes
springs from who they inherently are. It’s as simple as that. Of course,
how a writer then leverages that raw material is entirely determined by
the individual, but the wellspring, the fountain is all within.
Over my decade-long writing career the veracity of that has come to me,
often. When I completed the manuscript of my first novel (published
second), The Long Walk Home, the writing of which took me seven
years, the theme of the book finally became apparent to me. It is a
historical novel that uses 20th-century Punjab to tell the
story of the life of one man, a layering of the epic with the intimate.
The book explores how a man’s life is inextricably linked with the
coordinates of his birth: place, family, religion, caste. In the
prologue to the novel, which details the protagonist Harbaksh Singh
Bhalla, is a passage as follows:
He died in the same town he was born, just short of his seventy-first birthday.
One could say that Harbaksh Singh Bhalla had not travelled far in
life, literally and figuratively. A lifetime in one place can imply many
things: a lack of wanderlust, an inordinate attachment to one’s roots,
risk-aversion. Or inferences more practical can be made: lack of
opportunity, ancestral property, family matters. Then there exist
tenuous notions like the air of a place and how the spirit resonates to
it, the smell of the earth and its connection with something deep and
primitive within us, the songs of home and their dance in our veins.
It could well be a concoction of all the above – a heady mix of
conflicting elements that gives rise to an equation at once complex and
elementary. But equations, however tortuous, can never sum up a person.
The best way to know a man may still be the only way: to walk in his
shoes and live his life.
Genetic baggage can, and does, trip the best-laid plans and the noblest
intentions. Welcome, Mr. Pinker, to our world! And while you are at it,
listen to Jagjit Singh’s soulful rendition of ‘Eh mera geet’ or Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s haunting ‘Maye ni maye’. You might not understand the lyrics but the poetry will seep into you.
A Rare Interview with Shiv Kumar Batalvi
Watching this interview with the Punjabi poet, the late Shiv Kumar
Batalvi, I could not but reflect that poetry, and art in general, is far
greater than its creator. Once the poet’s idea finds a language, the
language works on its own- the shared repository of mankind’s long
history and engagement with ideas and emotions, it cannot but dwarf its
lonesome creator.
Batalvi’s talk is almost child like in the interview, and his answer to questions about “getting away from myself” and the death of an intellectual are as naive as they are innocent. Same for his answer to the question of the inspiration of his poetry. Batalvi was not a great Punjabi poet, at the same time, his poetry is marked by a melancholy lyricism that brought a freshness to the language. As in a previous post on Batalvi, I wonder if its melancholy has something to do with the partition and confusion of ideas and identities, rather than a purely personal sadness. Batalvi’s answer seems to confirm that it was more than something purely personal- he seems to have had a happy life as he states in the interview.
Here is the rare footage from the BBC’s television with Batalvi in 1970, when he was 32. He died three years later at the age of 35. The interview is in Hindi/Urdu.
Batalvi’s talk is almost child like in the interview, and his answer to questions about “getting away from myself” and the death of an intellectual are as naive as they are innocent. Same for his answer to the question of the inspiration of his poetry. Batalvi was not a great Punjabi poet, at the same time, his poetry is marked by a melancholy lyricism that brought a freshness to the language. As in a previous post on Batalvi, I wonder if its melancholy has something to do with the partition and confusion of ideas and identities, rather than a purely personal sadness. Batalvi’s answer seems to confirm that it was more than something purely personal- he seems to have had a happy life as he states in the interview.
Here is the rare footage from the BBC’s television with Batalvi in 1970, when he was 32. He died three years later at the age of 35. The interview is in Hindi/Urdu.
Shiv Kumar Batalvi Biography General
Shiv Kumar was a born poet who migrated from the poetic region of Sialkot to Batala at the most miserable moment of human history. It was the Independence of the sub-continent in 1947 - the dreadful, painful, horrible, miserable, devastating, slaughtering and marauding phenomenon, which bisected the trouble stricken North India. The pangs of separation are recurrent themes of this great lyricist of the land. He has been hailed as one of the great poets of all times.
Sh iv Kumar was born on July 23, 1936 in Bara Pind Lohtian (Shakargarh tehsil), in Punjab (now Pakistan). His father was a Patwari by the name of Pandit Krishan Gopal. After the partition his family moved to Batala. As a child Shiv is said to have been fascinated by birds and rugged, thorny plants on the Punjabi landscape. Shiv was exposed to the -ramlila- at an early age, and it is to be expected that he received what was later to become his instinctive understanding of drama from these early performances.
Shiv passed his matriculate exams in 1953, from Punjab University. He went on to enrol in the F.Sc. programme at Baring Union Christian College in Batala. Before completing his degree he moved to S.N. College, Qadian into their Arts program. It is here that he began to sing ghazals and songs for his classmates. Shiv never gave the final exams he needed to pass to receive his degree.
Around this period, he met a girl named Maina at a fair in Baijnath. When he went back to look for her in her hometown, he heard the news of her death and wrote his elegy -Maina-. This episode was to prefigure numerous other partings that would serve as material to distil into poems. Perhaps the most celebrated such episode is his fascination for Gurbaksh Singh-s daughter who left for the US and married someone else. When he heard of the birth of her first child, Shiv wrote -Main ek shikra yaar banaya-, perhaps his most famous love poem. It-s said that when she had her second child, someone asked Shiv whether he would write another poem. Shiv replied -Have I become responsible for her? Am I to write a poem on her every time she gives birth to a child?- Sounds much better in Punjabi (main oda theka leya hoyaa? Oho bacche banayi jave te main ode te kavita likhda rehma?).
In 1965 Shiv won the Sahitya Akademi award for his verse-drama Loona. He married on Feb 5, 1967
His wife Aruna was a Brahmin from Kir Mangyal in district Gurdaspur. By all accounts Shiv had a happy marriage. He had two children, Meharbaan (b. Apr. 12, 1968) and Puja (b. Sep. 23, 1969) whom he loved immensely.
By 1968 he had moved to Chandigarh, but both Batala and Chandigarh became soulless in his eyes. Chandigarh brought him fame, but scathing criticism as well, Shiv replied with an article titled -My hostile critics-. Meanwhile his epilepsy got worse and he had a serious attack while at a store in Chandigarh-s section 22. In the early 70-s Shiv came to Bombay for a literary conference. In keeping with Shiv-s outrageous behaviour there is a story about his trip to Bombay as well. Part of the conference involved readings at Shanmukhananda hall. After a few people had read their work (one of whom was Meena Kumari), Shiv got on the stage and began “Almost everyone today has begun to consider themselves a poet, each and every person off the streets is writing ghazals”. By the time he-d finished with his diatribe, there was not a sound in the hall. This is when he began to read -Ek kuri jeeda naam mohabbat. gum hai, gum hai…-. There wasn-t a sound when he finished either.
Shiv has been called a Bohemian. There were complaints about his drinking and some suggestions that his -friends- had him drink so he would exhibit his outrageous self. Shiv Kumar died in the 36th year of his life on May 7, 1973 in his father-in-law-s house at Kir Mangyal near Pathankot.
Shiv as the traditional poetical phenomenon was born out of the literary conjugation (Kalmi sanjog) of Amrita Pritam and Mohan Singh, to whom he appropriately dedicated his most important creation -Briha too Sultan-. Both Amrita and Mohan had personally suffered in their respective love lives on account of circumstances beyond their control. In their romanticism therefore, a personal tinge of desperation was in-evitable. Punjabi character is far more emotional, both in happiness as well as sadness, than all other peoples- of the Indian subcontinent. To succeed as a poet, therefore, one must succeed in making people cry as well as bursting into hilarious laughter with the flow of the lines. In contradiction to Amrita and Mohan, Shiv therefore, developed the most superb art of recitation. He will be long remembered, like Heer Warris Shah, for this emotional rendering of whatever he wrote. I was deeply impressed by his exposition of this vivid magic in the very first Kavita that he gave at our house - -Ki puchde ho hal fakiran da-. This ren-dering has the touch of Sehgal-s voice - -])ukhh ke Aab din bitad nahin- Shiv like Sehgal had the inborn gift of soul-touching expression.
BIRHON DII RARHAK - Shiv Kumar Batalvi Singer Nusrat Vateh Ali Khan
BIRHON DII RARHAK
Maae nii maae
Mere geetaan de nainaan vich
Birhon dii raRhak pave!
Adhii adhii raatiin -
UTh ron moye mitraan nuun
Maae sahnuu niind naa pave!
Bhaen bhaen sugandhiyaan ‘ch -
Banhaan phehe chaananii de
Taaviin saaDii piiRh naa save.
Kose kose saahaan dii -
Main karaan je Takor maae
Sagon saahnuu khaan nuun pave.
Aape nii main baalaRhii,
Main haale aap mataan jogii
Mat kehRhaa ess nuun dave?
Aakh suu nii maae ihnuun
Rove bul chith ke nii,
Jag kite sun naa lave!
Aakh su nii khaa laye Tuk
Hijaraan daa pakeyaa,
Lekhaan de nii puThaRhe tave!
ChaT laye tarel luunii -
Ghamaan de gulaab ton nii,
Kaalje nuun hauslaa rave!
KehRhyaan saperiyaan ton -
Mangaan kunj mel di main,
Mel di koyii kunj dave,
KehRhaa ihnaa damma diyaan -
Lobhiyaan de daraan ute,
Vaang khaRhaa jogiyaan rave!
PiiRhe nii piiRhe -
Ih piyaar aesii titalii hai,
JehRhii sadaa suul te bave!
Piyaar aisaa bhaur hai nii -
Jide kolon vaashnaa vii,
Lakhaan kohaan duur hii rave!
Piyaar oh mahal hai nii,
Jide ‘ch pankhruaan de,
Baaj kuj hor naa rave,
Piyaar aisa aangnaa hai
Jide ‘ch nii vaslaan daa
RatRhaa naa palang Dave!
Aakh maae adhii adhii raatiin
Moye mitraan de
Uchii uchii naan naa lave!
Mate saaDe moyaan pichhon,
Jag eh shariikRhaa nii,
Geetaan nuun vii chandraa kave.
Maae nii maae
Mere geetaan de nainaan vich
Birhon di raRhak pave!
Adhii adhii raatiin -
UTh ron moye mitraan nuun
Maae saanu niind naa pave!
ENGLISH TRANSALTION
PINCH OF SEPARATION
My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep.
Soaked in perfume,
But the pain does not recede.
I foment them
With warm sighs,
Yet they turn on me ferociously.
And need guidance myself.
Who can advise him?
Mother, would you tell him,
To clench his lips when he weeps,
Or the world will hear him cry.
Tell him, mother, to swallow the bread
Of separation.
He is fated to mourn.
Tell him to lick the salty dew
On the roses of sorrow,
And stay strong.
Who are the snake handlers
From whom I can get another skin?
Give me a cover for myself.
How can I wait like a jogi
At the doorstep of these people
Greedy for gold?
Listen, o my pain,
Love is that butterfly
Which is pinned forever to a stake.
Love is that bee,
From whom desire,
Stays miles away.
Love is that palace
Where nothing lives
Except for the birds.
Love is that hearth
Where the colored bed of fulfillment,
Is never laid.
Mother, tell him not to
Call out the name of his dead friends
So loudly in the middle of the night.
When I am gone, I fear
That this malicious world,
Will say that my songs were evil.
Mother, o mother
My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep
This Nazam has been sung by many singers but nothing to beat the Pakistani singers Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Shazia Manzoor.
Listen to it in the voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at :-
Maae nii maae
Mere geetaan de nainaan vich
Birhon dii raRhak pave!
Adhii adhii raatiin -
UTh ron moye mitraan nuun
Maae sahnuu niind naa pave!
Bhaen bhaen sugandhiyaan ‘ch -
Banhaan phehe chaananii de
Taaviin saaDii piiRh naa save.
Kose kose saahaan dii -
Main karaan je Takor maae
Sagon saahnuu khaan nuun pave.
Aape nii main baalaRhii,
Main haale aap mataan jogii
Mat kehRhaa ess nuun dave?
Aakh suu nii maae ihnuun
Rove bul chith ke nii,
Jag kite sun naa lave!
Aakh su nii khaa laye Tuk
Hijaraan daa pakeyaa,
Lekhaan de nii puThaRhe tave!
ChaT laye tarel luunii -
Ghamaan de gulaab ton nii,
Kaalje nuun hauslaa rave!
KehRhyaan saperiyaan ton -
Mangaan kunj mel di main,
Mel di koyii kunj dave,
KehRhaa ihnaa damma diyaan -
Lobhiyaan de daraan ute,
Vaang khaRhaa jogiyaan rave!
PiiRhe nii piiRhe -
Ih piyaar aesii titalii hai,
JehRhii sadaa suul te bave!
Piyaar aisaa bhaur hai nii -
Jide kolon vaashnaa vii,
Lakhaan kohaan duur hii rave!
Piyaar oh mahal hai nii,
Jide ‘ch pankhruaan de,
Baaj kuj hor naa rave,
Piyaar aisa aangnaa hai
Jide ‘ch nii vaslaan daa
RatRhaa naa palang Dave!
Aakh maae adhii adhii raatiin
Moye mitraan de
Uchii uchii naan naa lave!
Mate saaDe moyaan pichhon,
Jag eh shariikRhaa nii,
Geetaan nuun vii chandraa kave.
Maae nii maae
Mere geetaan de nainaan vich
Birhon di raRhak pave!
Adhii adhii raatiin -
UTh ron moye mitraan nuun
Maae saanu niind naa pave!
ENGLISH TRANSALTION
PINCH OF SEPARATION
My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep.
Soaked in perfume,
But the pain does not recede.
I foment them
With warm sighs,
Yet they turn on me ferociously.
And need guidance myself.
Who can advise him?
Mother, would you tell him,
To clench his lips when he weeps,
Or the world will hear him cry.
Tell him, mother, to swallow the bread
Of separation.
He is fated to mourn.
Tell him to lick the salty dew
On the roses of sorrow,
And stay strong.
Who are the snake handlers
From whom I can get another skin?
Give me a cover for myself.
How can I wait like a jogi
At the doorstep of these people
Greedy for gold?
Listen, o my pain,
Love is that butterfly
Which is pinned forever to a stake.
Love is that bee,
From whom desire,
Stays miles away.
Love is that palace
Where nothing lives
Except for the birds.
Love is that hearth
Where the colored bed of fulfillment,
Is never laid.
Mother, tell him not to
Call out the name of his dead friends
So loudly in the middle of the night.
When I am gone, I fear
That this malicious world,
Will say that my songs were evil.
Mother, o mother
My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep
This Nazam has been sung by many singers but nothing to beat the Pakistani singers Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Shazia Manzoor.
Listen to it in the voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at :-
SHIV KUMAR BATALVI - A BIOGRAPHY
SHIV KUMAR BATALVI - A BIOGRAPHY
Shiv Kumar was born in Bara Pind Lohtian (Shakargarh tehsil), in Punjab (now Pakistan). Shiv’s date of birth as recorded on his horoscope is July 23, 1936, while a latter birth date, October 23, 1937 is recorded on his matriculation certificate that was the only official birth record at that time. His father was a Patwari by the name of Pandit Krishan Gopal. After the partition his family moved to Batala. As a child Shiv is said to have been fascinated by birds and rugged, thorny plants on the Punjabi landscape. Shiv was exposed to the ramlila at an early age, and it is to be expected that he received what was later to become his instinctive understanding of drama from these early performances.
Shiv passed his matriculate exams in 1953, from Punjab University. He went on to enroll in the F.Sc. programme at Baring Union Christian College in Batala. Before completing his degree he moved to S.N. College, Qadian into their Arts program. It is here that he began to sing ghazals and songs for his class-mates. Shiv never gave the final exams he needed to pass to receive his degree.
Around this period, he met a girl named Maina at a fair in Baijnath. When he went back to look for her in her hometown, he heard the news of her death and wrote his elegy 'Maina'. This episode was to prefigure numerous other partings that would serve as material to distill into poems. Perhaps the most celebrated such episode is his fascination for Gurbaksh Singh's daughter who left for the US and married someone else. When he heard of the birth of her first child, Shiv wrote 'Main ek shikra yaar banaya', perhaps his most famous love poem.
In 1965 Shiv won the Sahitya Akademi award for his verse-drama Loona.
He married on Feb 5, 1967. His wife Aruna was a Brahmin from Kir Mangyal in district Gurdaspur. By all accounts Shiv had a happy marriage. He had two children, Meharbaan (b. Apr. 12, 1968) and Puja (b. Sep. 23, 1969) whom he loved immensely.
By 1968 he had moved to Chandigarh, but both Batala and Chandigarh became soulless in his eyes. Chandigarh brought him fame, but scathing criticism as well, Shiv replied with an article titled 'My hostile critics'. Meanwhile his epilepsy got worse and he had a serious attack while at a store in Chandigarh's Sector 22.
Shiv Kumar Batalvi, the poet, literally dominated poetic gatherings in his short life.
In the early 70's Shiv came to Bombay for a literary conference. In keeping with Shiv's outrageous behaviour there is a story about his trip to Bombay as well. Part of the conference involved readings at Shanmukananda hall. After a few people had read their work (one of whom was Meena Kumari), Shiv got on the stage and began "Almost everyone today has begun to consider themselves a poet, each and every person off the streets is writing ghazals". By the time he'd finished with his diatribe, there was not a sound in the hall. This is when he began to read 'Ek kuri jeeda naam mohabbat. gum hai, gum hai...'. There wasn't a sound when he finished either.
Another thing great about Shiv, was that he wrote one poem :-
PRABH JI SAANU IK GIIT UDHAARAA HOR DEYO
By saying, "Prabh Ji Saanu Ik Giit Udhaaraa Hor Deyo", Shiv gave all credit for his writings to The Almighty God, as if all his poetry was from that Divine Power. This speaks of his spritual leanings. This was the greatness of a poet who wrote best of the Punjabi Giits but according to him it was only God who had bestowed on him the power to write and he had nothing, of his own, to write or say.
Shiv has been called a Bohemian. There were complaints about his drinking and some suggestions that his 'friends' had him drink so he would exhibit his outrageous self.
Shiv Kumar died in the 36th year of his life on May 7, 1973 in his father-in-law's house at Kir Mangyal near Pathankot.
Here is a live interview of Shiv with Mahendra Kaul in London :-
Shiv Kumar was born in Bara Pind Lohtian (Shakargarh tehsil), in Punjab (now Pakistan). Shiv’s date of birth as recorded on his horoscope is July 23, 1936, while a latter birth date, October 23, 1937 is recorded on his matriculation certificate that was the only official birth record at that time. His father was a Patwari by the name of Pandit Krishan Gopal. After the partition his family moved to Batala. As a child Shiv is said to have been fascinated by birds and rugged, thorny plants on the Punjabi landscape. Shiv was exposed to the ramlila at an early age, and it is to be expected that he received what was later to become his instinctive understanding of drama from these early performances.
Shiv passed his matriculate exams in 1953, from Punjab University. He went on to enroll in the F.Sc. programme at Baring Union Christian College in Batala. Before completing his degree he moved to S.N. College, Qadian into their Arts program. It is here that he began to sing ghazals and songs for his class-mates. Shiv never gave the final exams he needed to pass to receive his degree.
Around this period, he met a girl named Maina at a fair in Baijnath. When he went back to look for her in her hometown, he heard the news of her death and wrote his elegy 'Maina'. This episode was to prefigure numerous other partings that would serve as material to distill into poems. Perhaps the most celebrated such episode is his fascination for Gurbaksh Singh's daughter who left for the US and married someone else. When he heard of the birth of her first child, Shiv wrote 'Main ek shikra yaar banaya', perhaps his most famous love poem.
In 1965 Shiv won the Sahitya Akademi award for his verse-drama Loona.
He married on Feb 5, 1967. His wife Aruna was a Brahmin from Kir Mangyal in district Gurdaspur. By all accounts Shiv had a happy marriage. He had two children, Meharbaan (b. Apr. 12, 1968) and Puja (b. Sep. 23, 1969) whom he loved immensely.
By 1968 he had moved to Chandigarh, but both Batala and Chandigarh became soulless in his eyes. Chandigarh brought him fame, but scathing criticism as well, Shiv replied with an article titled 'My hostile critics'. Meanwhile his epilepsy got worse and he had a serious attack while at a store in Chandigarh's Sector 22.
Shiv Kumar Batalvi, the poet, literally dominated poetic gatherings in his short life.
In the early 70's Shiv came to Bombay for a literary conference. In keeping with Shiv's outrageous behaviour there is a story about his trip to Bombay as well. Part of the conference involved readings at Shanmukananda hall. After a few people had read their work (one of whom was Meena Kumari), Shiv got on the stage and began "Almost everyone today has begun to consider themselves a poet, each and every person off the streets is writing ghazals". By the time he'd finished with his diatribe, there was not a sound in the hall. This is when he began to read 'Ek kuri jeeda naam mohabbat. gum hai, gum hai...'. There wasn't a sound when he finished either.
Another thing great about Shiv, was that he wrote one poem :-
PRABH JI SAANU IK GIIT UDHAARAA HOR DEYO
By saying, "Prabh Ji Saanu Ik Giit Udhaaraa Hor Deyo", Shiv gave all credit for his writings to The Almighty God, as if all his poetry was from that Divine Power. This speaks of his spritual leanings. This was the greatness of a poet who wrote best of the Punjabi Giits but according to him it was only God who had bestowed on him the power to write and he had nothing, of his own, to write or say.
Shiv has been called a Bohemian. There were complaints about his drinking and some suggestions that his 'friends' had him drink so he would exhibit his outrageous self.
Shiv Kumar died in the 36th year of his life on May 7, 1973 in his father-in-law's house at Kir Mangyal near Pathankot.
Here is a live interview of Shiv with Mahendra Kaul in London :-
Birth place of Shiv Kumar Batalvi
Birth place of Shiv Kumar Batalvi
Birth place of Shiv Kumar Batalvi in Bara Pind Lohtian Shakar Garh(Pakistan)
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