Hri Institute for Southasian Research and Exchange

Text and Images by: Daljit Ami

Love legends in Punjab have not only been rendered in different art forms but also been invoked to negotiate the contemporary social issues. Painting, poetry, songs, films and folk songs are crucial to understand the importance of love legends in Punjabi society where love legends are an integral part of the folk idiom, and are embedded in the sub-conscious of every Punjabi.

If these narratives are so much part of the popular consciousness, how do we read the fact that the legends all forefront the woman protagonist? It is only in the legend of Mirza-SahibaN that the name of the man precedes. What are the possible interpretations in contemporary reality?

At a workshop conducted by Hri at the women-only BBK DAV College in Amritsar in early November, Mirza frequently figured in the discussion. Here, students shared their experiences about gender discrimination and dual standards of society when it came to the liberty to love or choose a companion of one’s own.

Painters and poets have interpreted love legends as metaphors, motifs and representations of the indomitable female spirit struggling against patriarchal social norms. Poets of all hues have used love legend in one or other context. They have been invoked to celebrate the spirit of Punjab; to express the suppressed desires of women; and even to aspire for social revolution. In cinema, the same love legends have also been interpreted in ways that assert violent masculinity entrenched in patriarchy.

While Mirza was being discussed, we screened clips from two films about this beleaguered lover. These films, “Mirza, An Untold Story” and “Hero Hitler in Love” are loosely based on the legend of doomed lovers. The first was adapted with the Punjabi diaspora in mind. In this film, Mirza is a Canadian policeman who chases the killers of his brother. These men also happen to be SahibaN’s drug smuggling brothers. The film reasserts violent masculinity with strong anti-women under tones. The second film has an interesting background. Initially, the producers had chosen the title “Mirza” but it was already registered. Subsequently, they changed their story a little and named it “Hero Hitler in Love”. The male protagonist, Hitler Singh follows his love Sahiba to Pakistan under the pseudonym, Mirza. In the end he asserts that he is not Mirza who will die in every love story but Hitler who kills all those in his path. Indirectly, the film criticizes Mirza for being pacifist and unashamedly asserts caste, ethnic and gender biases.

The participants were absorbed by the film clips and spontaneously commented on the patriarchal values and violence being asserted through these films. Some participants linked these stereotypes to their own experiences and social norms of contemporary society, which were anti-women: women are unreliable, less wise than males and they are objects of male desire and ownership. A student shared that they were under constant pressure to avoid male company. She narrated an incident when she was supposed to go for a study tour. Meanwhile, her distant cousin’s relationship with her boyfriend got exposed. Immediately, her parents withdrew the permission for study tour lest she develop a liaison with a boy. The control is not very different from the centuries-old control of Sohni.

Present-day Sohnis

From Mirza, the discussion veered towards strong women characters like Sohni. Participants started with constructing the outline of the story, with others filling in details. After the recreation, the participants were asked how how this simple story qualified to be a “legend”. Different interpretations emerged about why the story had endured through the ages: Sohni’s indomitable spirit and conviction about love. When asked which incident in Sohni’s life was the most significant, participants chose to focus on: Sohni and Mahiwal’s first fateful meeting; Sohni visiting Mahiwal when he was grazing buffaloes; Mahiwal visiting her disguised as a yogi; Sohni eating meat brought by Mahiwal from across the Chenab; drowning Sohni and Sohni clinging on to the legendary pitcher which dissolves in the raging water.

To set the stage for the discussion, emotive musical renditions of the legend by Barqat Sidhu and Sajida Begum were screened.  Talking about why the specific occasions were significant, the pitcher was found to be the most important symbol of Sohni’s life. An intense discussion followed, trying to interpret Sohni’s thoughts when she discovered that her pitcher had been replaced by an unbaked one. Students talked about her resolve, the appeal on the other side of the river and patriarchal pressure on her back.

Churning and expression

At this point paintings of different painters over a period of more than a hundred years who had worked on love legends in general and Sohni in particular were shared with the students. Immediately after this when asked about any recent incident involving young couple; within no time they were talking about an incident in Jalandhar a few months earlier where a girl committed suicide after journalists photographed her with her boyfriend. We discussed this incident in detail and students discussed this with anguish. Comparing the girl’s mindset with that of Sohni, the students came up with responses underlining the contemporary relevance of love legends. Some students were of the opinion that contemporary women were being presented through these love legends, as social norms are similar. One girl said, “Sohni had committed suicide…” The students used the blank canvases on the walls and charts to express their ideas of love and the clay pitchers that were installed for the workshop. The resultants were diverse expressions of art forms like illustrations, paintings and poems. Indeed, when love legends are adapted through different art expressions, women in today’s Punjab seem to be negotiating their personal and social spaces through these narratives.

By: Daljit Ami

Sadayat Hasan Manto

Revisiting Sadayat Hasan Manto (1912-1955) on his birth centenary turned out to be an experience which cannot be described by a single adjective. It was not just a return to Manto but also a home-coming to my associations with him. I was introduced to Manto in the 1980s during my graduation in A S College Khanna, in Ludhiana district of Punjab. There, I could immediately relate Manto’s Toba Tek Singh, as the prevalent vicious communal atmosphere and brutal state response was nothing short of insanity. After graduation I came to Chandigarh which, despite being the capital of Punjab was aloof from the madness reigning in the countryside. Here, Manto again helped me to understand how the same situation could have different impacts. The massacre of April 1919 of Jalianwala Bagh, Amritsar had changed the life of Udham Singh and Sadayat Hasan Manto in different directions. Udham Singh became part of history as Ram Mohammad Singh Azad when he avenged the massacre of Jalianwala Bagh and was hung by the British. In another but equally powerful trajectory, Manto wrote his first short story, Tamasha, using the backdrop of the Jalianwala Bagh massacre, and went on to become one of the most acclaimed story tellers of the Subcontinent, with prolific writing until his untimely death at forty two.

In Chandigarh I learnt that Manto belonged to Papraudi, a village near Samrala in Ludhiana district. We Punjabis have a fluid definition of the term ‘village’. Whenever a Bihari labourer received a visitor, we used to say that someone had come to meet him from his village. It did not matter that one was from Gopalganj at the western end of Bihar and the other from Kotihar in the east. Similarly, when we move out of our villages the concept of village expanded along with the distance from native place. Living in Europe or North America, someone from Bahawalpur (West Punjab) and other one from Patiala (East Punjab) can comfortably claim that they belong to same village. Manto’s village is just 15 km from my village, Daudpur — in the same district and tehsil. This piece of information made me feel closer to Sadayat Hasan Manto. From a mere reader I became his garain or someone from the same village.

In the 1990s Lal Singh Dil, a revolutionary Punjabi poet was running a roadside tea stall in Samrala, from where I used to change my bus while commuting between Chandigarh and Daudpur.  Mostly, I used to stop at his tea stall to talk about poetry, politics and literature or sometimes just to chat. It was a great feeling that Manto, Dil and I are garain.

I went to Lahore in 2003 to attend the Punjabi World Conference. In a parallel program on the Seraiki language someone told me that Hamid Akhtar was also in the gathering. Hamid Akhtar is an old friend of Manto and Sahir Ludhianvi and his ancestral village is also in Ludhiana district. They all migrated to Pakistan after Partition but Sahir eventually returned to India. Hamid Akhtar was looking very frail, as he had just recovered from throat cancer. I was told that his hearing was very weak so he would not be able to understand many things and, furthermore, he could not speak very easily. However, I was sure that he could listen to his garain. I touched his feet and greeted him with folded hands, “Sat Sri Akal.” He looked at me and I introduced myself, “Mein Samrale toh ayan.” (I have come from Samrala.) In a trice, Hamid was on his feet. He hugged me and announced, without the help of a loudspeaker, “Eh mere pindo aya. Manto de pindon. (He has come from my village, from Manto’s village.)” He made me sit next to him, all the while holding my hand. His first question: “Samrale vich kithon ayan.” (From where in Samrala do you come?) I replied, “Daudpur.” With a few explanations, he could understand the geography as well as roads from Daudpur to Papraudi and to his native village near Jagraon. Hamid subsequently recovered from cancer and has visited Chandigarh twice, thereafter. He would call and ask, “Mein aa gayan, sham nu tun meinu sharab pilauni aa.” (I am here. In the evening you will take me for a drink.) We would end up discussing Manto, Sahir, India and Pakistan. This is Sadda Gran, our village.

Recently, I visited Papraudi to make a special program for the news channel Day and Night News, on Sadayat Hasan Manto’s birth centenary. One of Manto’s contemporaries, Ujjagar Singh, remembers having played with him when they were children. At the age of ninety plus Ujjagar Singh has memories of Manto and his family. He identified Manto’s house, which was auctioned after Partition by government as ‘evacuee property’. I asked him if he had read Manto’s writing. He replied, “I have not read him as I can’t read Urdu. I have heard that he is a renowned writer. He has made our village proud.” I talked to at least half a dozen people but none of them was familiar with Manto’s writings.

Then we went to the village Gurudwara where the Punjabi Sahit Sabha, Delhi, opened the Manto Memorial Library two years ago. The caretaker of the Gurudwara, Lakhwinder Singh, looks after the library as it is housed in his one room accommodation. The bookshelf carrying 200 books has two translated volumes of Manto’s stories. The library attracts not more then a couple of readers a month so Lakhwinder Singh has not felt the need to unbundle books. Now Punjabi Sahit Sabha Delhi is planning to shift this collection to Samrala. Hopefully Manto’s writings will have more readers in his home village.

Continuing my quest for Manto the person, I went to Amritsar to film the places he is supposed to have frequented. One such place is Katra Sher Singh where he lived. The demography of this area has changed, as it was a Muslim dominated locality before Partition, and witnessed remorseless killings and brutality of untold magnitude. Katra Sher Singh now has a Hindu-Sikh population. No trace of its bloody past or its displaced populace is visible to an observer.

Manto might have got his characters of Khol Do and Thanda Ghosht straight out of these environs, I imagine as I walk the streets. Since I had been steeped in Manto for many days, I could feel the traumatized young Sakina’s presence. As in Khol do, she is not confined only to being Sirajudin’s daughter, but symbolizes the vulnerability of women subjected to sexual violence during Partition. Even after 65 years, it is scary. I do not want to dwell on what Manto had gone through while witnessing and then recording these details. He took refuge in Toba Tek Singh’s Bishan Singh, who says, “Aupar di, gargar di, bedhiyana di, annex di, mungi di daal of the lantern of the Hindustan of the Pakistan government, dur fiteh munh.” All the words of this sentence are familiar but still it is an enigma inviting silence.  Manto too, is such an enigma who may have grown out of words so he chose silence at the age of forty two. As a garain of Manto I am unnerved by his silence, Sakina’s predicament and Bishan Singh’s gibberish. Oh, when Manto is not confined to any one village, why should I think that I am the only one who is scared while revisiting him? It leaves me with a final question: can scared people celebrate birth centenaries?
For more, watch Part 1 and Part 2 of Daljit Ami’s special programme on Manto.