Samah Dvaar
The Palette of Punjab
Tipu Salman Makhdoom
(Translated from Punjabi)
First Chapter
Dedicated to the Harappan People
Chapter 1
The Unchanging Tapestry
A young man rode his horse,
paused along the path to pluck and eat radishes from a field, then mounted his
steed once more. Arriving home, he unwound his turban, drank water from a clay
pot, and lay down upon his cot.
Were someone to present this scene as being from a Punjabi village and ask me its era, I would find myself utterly perplexed. This tableau could have unfolded fifty years ago in a Punjabi village, or a hundred, five hundred, a thousand, or even two thousand years past. For millennia, the rhythms of life in Punjab have remained steadfast. The same farmers, the same fields, the same plows and oxen, the same horses, the same water pots, the same families, and the same rivalries. This timeless consistency of circumstance has shaped a life equally unchanging, and thus, for thousands of years, the stories of Punjab have echoed the same themes: feuds over harvests and the division of water, romances sparked at horse races and festivals, the joyous celebrations of weddings, and the mournful wails of funerals.
For countless centuries, the tale
whispered in the Punjabi tongue has been but one: a village in Punjab, home to
a chieftain, his kin, his rivals, and a handful of friendships and enmities.
Happenings in the village square, deeds in the fields—these formed the warp and
weft of every narrative, reshaped and rewoven to birth new stories. Yet, this
was not a flaw. When life itself remained constant, so too would its tales.
Indeed, for millennia before the Industrial Revolution, the world over moved to
a similar cadence, and so, stories across lands mirrored each other. But then,
the Industrial Revolution swept through Europe, transforming its narrative into
something strange, wondrous, terrifying, psychological, technological,
depressing, distorted, new, and utterly distinct.
The Shifting Sands of Time
As
Alvin Toffler posited in Future Shock, technological
leaps accelerate the world's transformations. Changes that once spanned
centuries now unfold within mere years. This swift current has two profound
consequences. Firstly, the wisdom of elders, once a guiding light, no longer
offers the same solace or utility to the modern soul. Secondly, every five or
seven years, the world reshapes itself so profoundly that old values lose their
hold and past understandings offer little comfort. Each fleeting span demands a
fresh gaze upon life, a new way of understanding its intricate dance.
While the Western world has
embraced this flux, recalibrating its perspectives, values, and narratives to
fit its shifting landscape, Punjab, alas, remains rooted. Though the tide of
global change has touched its shores, Punjab's stories cling to the echoes of
centuries past. A tale told in Punjabi will, more often than not, still speak
of Punjab—of horse-racing villages, of chieftains and laborers, of rivals and
ancient quarrels. This is more than a mere avoidance of reality; it is the
great stone blocking the river of Punjabi language's progress.
The Soul of Language
A
story is the very breath of a language, but it must be a breath drawn from the
life the speaker lives now—how they perceive the world and
how the world, in turn, shapes them. Moreover, the tapestry of a story's events
and circumstances should be woven from the threads of contemporary struggles,
not faded echoes of yesteryear.
Language, among all human
inventions, stands as the most exquisite. For how else could one soul truly
grasp the thoughts or fathom the emotions and sensations of another? Language
is the sole conduit through which we unveil the landscapes of our minds and
hearts to each other. This intricate network of human intellect, forged through
language, linking minds like a vast computer, is the very cornerstone of human
evolution. A language must not only gracefully articulate the deepest human
feelings and emotions but also possess the power to convey every nuance of
scholarly, logical, profound scientific, and artistic thought. Two pillars
uphold the edifice of language: vocabulary and the rules of grammar. Both exist
in every tongue, great or small. But a language truly blossoms when, within the
embrace of its grammar, it wields the power to craft infinite, unique
tapestries of words, expressing every conceivable thought, every flicker of
emotion. The greater this capacity, the more techniques and perspectives a
language can offer, enabling it to articulate the new, the novel, the utterly
unique. It allows it to speak of new eras, new circumstances, and the fresh
problems, ideas, and feelings they birth. In essence, it allows a language to
journey with time, to live. To instill such flexibility and breadth, a language
must be kneaded like dough, stretched and shaped, used constantly. Every
subject, every facet of life, must find expression within it, so that its forms
multiply and its canvas expands boundlessly. This calls not just for stories,
but for discourse in literature, fine arts, science, logic, history,
philosophy, politics, economics, and law—every thread of human thought and
experience.
Even before Socrates, the Greek
philosophers mused that our lives unfolded like a carriage journey where we sat
facing backward. The horse pulled us forward, but our gaze lingered on the path
already traversed. Thus, our history lay before us, while the future remained
unseen. We would gaze upon our past and prophesy that conditions would persist,
that tomorrow would mirror yesterday. And in those ancient days, it was so. For
centuries, circumstances clung to their form, giving birth to the same
problems, which in turn found the same solutions. These solutions were
bequeathed by one generation to the next, and the wisdom of the elders served
well, generation after generation. But in the last fifty years, the world has
twisted. Now, circumstances morph within a mere handful of years. New
conditions breed new dilemmas, demanding new answers.
The Vanishing Tongues
The vanishing of languages is a
novel sorrow. Never before in history have great tongues devoured lesser ones.
Languages once faded by slowly transforming, subtly shifting with changing
times until they bloomed anew. But never has a people abandoned their mother
tongue, deeming it base, ceasing to speak, write, or read it. This malady is a
product of our new age, born from the world's transformation into a global
village. Today, people from one land can easily, and in great numbers, journey
to others for study, travel, commerce, and work. In this world, some nations
have grown rich, leaving many impoverished. Knowledge and literature flourish
in these wealthy lands, and their tongues now cast a colossal shadow, engulfing
the languages of poorer nations. The new generations in these less fortunate
lands observe that the speakers of these dominant tongues are not only wealthy,
but also their languages house the finest works of knowledge and literature.
They come to believe that these languages of the rich must surely be superior,
while their own mother tongue is worthless and base—for how else could these
rich tongues flourish so? Believing this, they abandon their mother tongues,
embracing the grander languages. This plight demands a remedy, lest the mother
tongues of the impoverished nations wither and die.
Punjabi, the largest language in
Pakistan, stands as the tenth largest tongue spoken among the seven thousand or
so languages alive today. It resonates not only in India, Australia, England,
the Middle East, France, America, and many other lands, but in Canada, it
claims the fifth largest voice. This ancient tongue of millions, our very
mother tongue, is vast, boundless, fruitful, and truly magnificent. Shall we,
then, extinguish its flame with our own hands?
In
Lahore, the very heart of Punjab, to behold someone in a dhoti-kurta feels alien, a man in a khussa and turban, a strange sight. To hear an educated
Punjabi speak profoundly on matters of knowledge or literature in Punjabi feels
utterly peculiar. This very strangeness is strange, yet, for some bewildering
reason, it no longer strikes us as peculiar.
Many other oddities unfold around
us. Advertisements on television warn women about breast cancer, a growing
scourge, urging regular check-ups. It's a good thing, these public health
messages, broadcast in Urdu for wider understanding. Excellent. But this same
message, in Punjabi, cannot be aired in Punjab. If it were, Punjabis all around
would raise a clamor, declaring that the television is spreading filth and
obscenity with such "dirty talk." Dirty talk? Obscenity? Why, if a
truth remains pure and good in English and Urdu, does it become dirty and
obscene when spoken in Punjabi?
The Lost Art of Self-Respect
They say earning respect is an
art, not bestowed upon all. Punjabis, it seems, have forgotten this art,
bringing great ridicule upon their heritage, their culture, and their mother
tongue. An advertisement about breast cancer, in Punjabi, would speak of
"mammian da cancer," and "mamma" is deemed a dirty, obscene
word. But how can "mamma" be dirty or obscene? It is but the name for
a part of the human body, as "hand" or "nose" are names for
parts of the human body. Yet, "mamma" is indeed a dirty and obscene
word, for it is never uttered in scientific, medical, or any other serious
discourse. Its use is confined to curses or vulgar jokes. Thus, in the minds of
the people, the word has become indelibly linked with filth and obscenity. If
it were truly a clean word, why would it shy from serious conversation? It
shies because in Punjab, Punjabis have abandoned serious, academic, and
literary discourse in Punjabi. For such matters, Urdu or English are employed.
And so, Punjabi has been left to curses and vulgar jests, its words, by turn,
rendered dirty and obscene.
This is not a failing of our
language, but our own vulgarity, that we have reduced our mother tongue to such
a state. As for the meaning of the word "mamma," it is profoundly
pure and sacred. The word "mamma" expresses the bond between mother
and child, for it is from the mother's breasts that a newborn draws sustenance,
lives. This word mirrors the pristine bond between mother and child. From
"mamma" have sprung two of our most cherished words: "maa"
(mother) and "mamta" (motherly love, affection). This pure and sacred
word of our mother tongue, which evokes the hallowed bond between mother and
child, we have defiled, made dirty and obscene. It rarely crosses our minds
that if this word is truly so dirty and obscene, then how could two of our most
profoundly pure and sacred words have blossomed from it? This, too, is a great
strangeness, yet it stirs no wonder in us.
The Fox and the Capitalist Dream
They tell a tale of a fox who
lived in a jungle. One dawn, he awoke and stepped from his den. Having slept
soundly, he felt vibrant and refreshed. He inhaled the gentle morning breeze,
and his spirit soared. With a joyous stretch, he strolled towards the pond,
drank deeply, and then began to wander in search of prey. Finding none, the
morning wore on. The sun ascended, and he saw his shadow, vast and looming.
Seeing such a grand silhouette, his chest swelled with pride. "I am truly
magnificent," he thought, "my prey should be no less than an
elephant." So, he began his hunt for an elephant. He roamed for a long
while, but where would he find an elephant?
As the sun climbed higher, his
gaze fell upon his shadow once more, and he saw it had somewhat shrunk.
"An elephant is not necessary," he mused, "my belly would be
filled by a camel or an ox." And so, he began his search for a camel or an
ox. More time passed, and the sun rose higher still. Again, he glanced at his
shadow and saw it had shrunk further. Now, he was weary, and hunger gnawed at
him fiercely. He told himself, "Neither a camel nor an ox is needed; a
goat will suffice." He then began his hunt for a goat. A little more time
slipped away, and the sun stood directly overhead. Exhausted by hunger and worn
out by fatigue, he gazed at his shadow, now utterly diminutive. He stared at it
for a moment, then sighed, "I suppose a rabbit will do for today."
This corporate culture, the new
face of capitalism, turns us into that fox at dawn. To delude us, it paints our
shadow immense and grand. It whispers that we are magnificent, that what we see
of ourselves is a lie. "In truth," it proclaims, "you are great.
Your destiny is boundless. You were born to embrace the sky. And if you fail to
embrace the sky, your life will be wasted. Embrace the sky! Leap towards the
sky!" This ceaseless chorus of corporate culture maddens our minds. Like
the fox at dawn, we believe ourselves immense. If we fail to embrace the sky, we
fear our lives will be squandered.
Then, this capitalist ethos
defines the "sky" as success, and success as wealth. Thus, from
childhood, hearing these refrains, our sole purpose in life becomes the
accumulation of vast fortunes. From our tender years, it's hammered into our
minds: if we fail in our careers, then shame upon our very existence! And the
measure of career success is piles upon piles of wealth. This din surrounds us
day and night, preventing the sun of our reason from ever rising high enough to
show us our true place. We spend our entire lives believing our sole purpose is
to amass riches. If we acquire wealth, we are successful; if not, we are
failures, worthless. With this, our very self-worth becomes tethered to our
career success. This vision of life wrecks us. The capitalist system drives us,
frantic, into this well of death for wealth, to serve its own ends.
The capitalist system demands
that people toil day and night, like cogs in its machine. This ruthless system
craves that humans transform into machine parts. It desires that nothing remain
in their lives save work for money—no relationships, no hobbies, no art, no
literature, no hunger for knowledge for its own sake, no social work, nothing
else. Just work, work, and that work must be where money can be earned. Which
work yields wealth is decided by the system itself, the capitalist system.
Thus, trapped in the grasp of capitalism, the entire society, like a frog in a
well, remains engrossed in the race for wealth until the earth of the grave
covers them.
The Cost of Choice
And when all this comes to pass,
another battle unfolds. It is the grim realization that we are alone, and our
time is fleeting. Whatever must be done, we must do it ourselves, and swiftly.
We cannot be but a part of some grand wave. It is inconceivable that we might
light our small lamp, and others might light theirs, slowly, gradually,
building a great bonfire, achieving a grand purpose. Firstly, the purpose
itself is singular: to earn money. Thus, the question of lighting a lamp for
any other purpose does not even arise. Secondly, the window for achieving this
sole purpose is merely your lifetime. If you pile up riches before your death,
your life is deemed successful; otherwise, you've died a useless death.
When life is lived with such a
vision, who would abandon a thriving language to chase after a mother tongue?
The language that offers work, the language that, when spoken, read, and
written, brings wealth—that will be the useful tongue, all others rendered
worthless. Today, in West Punjab, the language of business has become English,
and English holds sway in Punjab. Who will speak Punjabi, a language without
wealth? We ourselves strive to speak English, and we push our children to learn
it. The matter always returns to this: if life is entirely a chase for money,
then what of mother? What of mother tongue?
Yet, the thought arrives: the
world does not turn solely by the will of capitalists. The grave is our own,
and life, too, is our own. If life is not to be lived by our own will, then
whether it passes or not, it matters little. Just as kings do not last forever,
neither do times remain the same. It is an immutable truth of life that visible
circumstances are but a fleeting illusion, from which the future can never be truly
foretold. Even today, when all around, like parrots, they chant the same
song—"Learn English, learn English, for it is the language of
success!"—a tale of Rumi comes to my mind.
They say a man went to a mystic
and said, "You know the language of animals; teach me too." The
mystic replied, "These are great matters, beyond your capacity. You will
not bear it; do not learn the language of animals." But the man would not
yield. At last, the mystic taught him.
The man now stood by his door
early each morning. Just then, his slave threw out a piece of stale bread. A
dog and the man's pet rooster were there. The dog saw the bread and leapt
towards it, but the rooster, perched on the wall, flew down, snatched the bread
in its beak, and returned to its perch. The dog pleaded with the rooster,
saying he was hungry, asking for the bread. The rooster replied that he himself
had been hungry all night, but assured the dog not to worry, for that day the
master's camel would die, and the dog would find plenty of meat. The dog,
hearing this, fell silent. The man immediately went and sold his camel in the
market.
The next day, he again stood by
his door. Soon, the dog appeared and said to the rooster, "Neither camel
died, nor did I find any meat." The rooster replied that the camel had
indeed died, but the master had sold it. He then assured the dog not to worry,
for that day the master's horse would die, and he would have a feast. The dog
quieted. The man, without delay, went and sold his horse. The following
morning, the dog again appeared and told the rooster that neither had the horse
died nor had there been a feast. The rooster said, "No, the horse did die,
but the master sold him. Yet, do not worry, for today the master's slave will
die, and you will find plenty of bread." Hearing this, the man instantly
went and sold his slave in the market.
The next morning, the dog once
more came and complained to the rooster that neither had the slave died nor had
he found any bread. The rooster said, "No, the slave did die, but the master
sold him. But now, do not worry, for the deaths of these three were a sacrifice
for the master's life, which he averted. And now, tomorrow, the master himself
will die, and you will find much to eat." Hearing this, the man was
utterly distraught. He ran to the mystic, recounted everything, and pleaded
with him to save him. The mystic, hearing this, replied that he had warned the
man that these were great matters he could not bear. Now, he could only pray
for the man's forgiveness.
It is better, then, that in the
hurried rush to amass wealth, we do not, like that foolish man, only pursue
what seems immediately profitable. Let us not, in this relentless chase of
greed, bring great harm upon our future generations. By all means, let us learn
Urdu, English, or any other language necessary or beneficial for our work. But
let us not abandon our mother tongue to perish.
Freedom is a precious thing. But
not all freedom is good at all times. The freedom of choice is indeed a fine
freedom. Capitalism's consumer culture extols this freedom with great fervor.
"You should have the liberty to choose from more than one thing," it
proclaims, "and the decision of what you wish to take from these should be
entirely yours." This ethos ceaselessly chants that the freedom of choice
is a grand blessing, the true essence of life. Yet, whenever I hear this
mantra, I remember the interview of a weeping, wailing mother. She was a
fair-skinned Australian. A few years ago, her region was struck by a flood. Her
house submerged, she clung to a tree with her two young sons, when a powerful
surge of water rushed in. The current was so fierce she could not hold on to
both children. She had to release one. And now, she possessed the agonizing
freedom to choose which son to keep. To save one child, she had to exercise
this heartbreaking liberty.
It is better, then, that we never
face such a cruel freedom concerning our languages. Let us learn our national
tongues, and our international ones too. But when we dream, or speak to
ourselves, let it be in our mother tongue. And when tears well in our eyes upon
seeing someone, and our chest tightens, let what escapes our lips in that
moment also be in our mother tongue. May it be so!
Table of Contents
1. 1-First Thing
2. 2-Mother Tongue
3. 3-Punjabi Women
4. 4-Knowledge and Literature
5. 5-War
6. 6-Culture
7. 7-Last Thing
8. 8-Bibliography
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