Amrita Pritam
Amrita Pritam was truly a genius.
During my growing years, my family and I waited every evening from 8:00 to 8:30 to listen to ‘Punjabi Program’ by Amrita Pritam on All India Radio, Delhi B. My mother Savitri Devi our beloved Biji, her devoted admirer, would leave everything and sit close to the radio. Soon, all of us were drawn in.
The program began with Punjabi news, followed by literature, poetry, and thoughtful reflections. While the main station, Delhi A, rarely catered to Punjabi language or listeners, Delhi B became our lifeline—carrying her unmistakable voice into Punjabi homes. One unforgettable day, one of my cousins Mrs Prem Wadhwa presented a Punjabi song during her famous Punjabi program. We simply remained glued to the radio that night.
Always dignified, often remembered in black attire, her presence was unforgettable. Despite personal hardships, including a failed marriage, she rose to become one of the greatest literary figures of our time, honored with the Padma Shri, Padma Vibhushan, and the highest national 1956 Sahitya Acadamy Award.
My mother Savitri Devi was her first admirer in our home; I became the second. Even today, poetry shared by Amrit Virji revives those evenings, echoing her voice and reminding me how deeply she shaped our love for language and literature.
THE WILL OF AMRITA PRITAM
Amrit Kaur married Pritam Singh at age 16 and changed her name to Amrita Pritam. The couple divorced in 1960.
Fully conscious and in good health, I am writing today my will:
After my death
Ransack my room
Search each item
That is scattered
Unlocked
Everywhere in my house.
Donate my dreams
To all those women
Who between the confines of
The kitchen and the bedroom
Have lost their world
Have forgotten years ago
What it is to dream.
Scatter my laughter
Among the inmates of old-age homes
Whose children
Are lost
To the glittering cities of America.
There are some colours
Lying on my table
With them dye the sari of the girl
Whose border is edged
With the blood of her man
Who wrapped in the tricolor
Was laid to rest last evening.
Give my tears
To all the poets
Every drop
Will birth a poem
I promise.
My honour and my reputation
Are for the woman
Who prostitutes her body
So her daughter can get an education.
Make sure you catch the youth
Of the country, everyone
And inject them
With my indignation
They will need it
Come the revolution.
My ecstasy
Belongs to
That Sufi
Who
Abandoning everything
Has set off in search of God.
Finally,
What’s left
My envy
My greed
My anger
My lies
My selfishness
These
simply
Cremate with me...
