From "Musafir" to Duggal on his 100th birthday

My dear Duggal,

I am aware that you have been expecting to hear from me. I am sorry that it has not been possible for me to communicate with you all these days. It is almost quarter of a century since I left you people. It was a sudden decision. I couldn’t even take proper leave of anyone of you. Today, when you are remembering me on my birth centenary (January 15, 1999), I thought I would do what I have been wanting to do all these days.It was a sudden decision and yet it was not so sudden. The cardiac condition was there. I had only decided to live with it. Every time I met the physician, he advised me rest. He suggested cutting out all my activity, and advised me to get admitted to a nursing home and take complete rest! I ignored him. Every time he examined me, he would warn me in no uncertain terms. But to my mind what he prescribed was a sort of death; lying idle in bed. I would have none of it. “If I have to die,” I said to myself, “I shall do so when the end comes,” Why must one die before one’s death? Why must one die twice in one’s life?

However, I am sorry I didn’t share this secret with you. You know very well that it has always been my endeavour to avoid fuss. The only time I became impatient with my wife was when she made a fuss about my diet or some such thing.

There was so much to be done. Every time someone came to me with a problem, I felt involved in it. The helplessness of people moved me deeply. It made my heart bleed. If I could be of help to anyone, I did not spare myself. And day and night, people came with their problems. There was no end to it. Until the end came. I have the satisfaction that as long as I breathed, I didn’t return one visitor empty-handed. I knew it used to exasperate you, because among them were sometime smugglers and black-marketeers, hoarders and speculators, anarchists and communalists. When the Akalis were on the war-path during the Punjabi Suba agitation, I had some of my close friends among them. When the Communists were in disfavour, I could count quite a few as my dear old comrades. I was in the Peace Movement though the Congress party at that time had no truck with it. I led their delegations abroad year after year, Jawaharlal Nehru was apprised about it. We have fought three wars with Pakistan and yet I continued to admire Faiz and Hafeez. I had hundreds of my fans in Lahore and Rawalpindi.

Talking of Pakistan and Rawalpindi, you will be interested to learn that the first thing I did after I took leave of my body was to visit Pothohar, the beloved land where we were born and brought up. The Soan river still flows with the same majesty. The plateau is as fascinating as ever. For a long time I traversed through the enchanting country of my birth and enjoyed the mellifluous music of the Pothohari dialect. In the green fields of our village where I admired charming Pothohari damsels, young boys continue to chase young girls. They still pour out their hearts in their folk songs. And with what vigour they sing and dance! I spent, I don’t know how much time flitting from one village to another.

The only way to bring India and Pakistan close, to my mind, is through cultural ties; our rich heritage of folklore and the abiding bonds of language and our way of life, the manner in which we shout at each other, the way we would die for each other.

It is not understood why we can’t have seminars on Waris Shah and Bulleh Shah in our part of the Punjab and why can’t they have symposia on Puran Singh and Dhani Ram “Chatrik” in their part of the Punjab. We must learn to live as good neighbours, enough of squabbling.

The way you have not been able to visit Pothohar physically all these years since the Partition, this is exactly what happens when you die. You are aware that your village is there; the village school opens every morning as it used to do, the water of the village well is as sweet as ever; and yet you cannot be there physically. In New Delhi, the roads are full of people, Parliament meets as usual. Jawaharlal is not there. I am not there. The world goes on; the individual also does not discontinue to exist and yet the physical ties snap. Since we leave behind our eyes, we cannot see in the sense you can see. Since we leave behind our tongue, we can’t talk in the sense you can talk.

Some people choose to go back and run the cycle again. They are born again. Once again they learn to walk and talk, struggle with the alphabets, sit for examinations, look for a job, fall in love, marry someone and produce children and grow old and die once again.

I have decided not to have any more of it. Enough is enough. I have had my share of trouble. It is different with men like Jawaharlal. He is indefatigable. His love of life knows no limit. To see India grow and develop the way he wanted it to develop, he keeps on asking to be born again and again and live 10 cycles of lives if need be. He always said that he had many miles to go. His journey is endless. He is as active, as ebullient as ever. He belongs to a class which refuses to be disheartened.

I find that this communication is getting unduly long. If I transmit it now, you will receive it some time on my birth centenary. I am situated on a star that is several light years away from your world. We are in very good company here. I shall tell you about it in some other communication. Meanwhile, my sending you a message on this occasion proves, if a proof is needed, that I consider myself first a writer and then anything else. The satisfaction that I derived from creative writing has no parallel in other fields of my activity. Playing cards made me forget the pettiness of Indian politics. It was negative. The creative activity renewed my faith in man; it gave shape to my dreams.

Please remember me to my writer friends. If anything, I miss them. Gur Baksh Singh Preet Lari is here, Shiv is here, Mohan Singh is here. They have not changed a bit. They give me good company.

Yours sincerely,

Gurmukh Singh “Musafir”

Gurmukh Singh “Musafir” and well-known writer K.S. Duggal were childhood friends. This imaginary letter from “Musafir” has been composed by Duggal on the occasion of the former’s 100th birth anniversary. “Musafir” led a full life (he died in 1976) — he was a member of AICC, a member of the Constituent Assembly, Chief Minister of Punjab (1966-67), a member of the Lok Sabha for three terms and the Rajya Sabha for two terms. He was posthumously honoured with the Padma Vibhushan (1976) and with the Sahit Akademy Award (1978). Widely travelled, “Musafir” attended many global conferences on peace and was a critically acclaimed writer.