In the corridors of the literary circuit, Shiv Kumar Batalvi is fondly compared with John Keats. When it comes to Keats, I have been associated with him through his poignant poems. But with Batalvi my connect was purely personal. I have seen many blistering suns and sombre moons with this king of pain. Such was the intensity of our bond that he used to address me by my pet name, Rajha, and for me he remained only Shiv.
Shiv was a man of multifaceted personality. He has been berated by critics for his somewhat arrogant manners. Undoubtedly, he had a devil-may-care attitude but this side of Shiv was kept reserved for intruders not for the people from the clique of his close friends. When with his heart-touching poems he gained currency as an eminent literary figure and the cinematic circle got enamoured of his romantic but poignant poems, he remained grounded, though he turned out to be a different Shiv for the outer world, haughty, iconoclast, rebellious and bohemian.
He was a weird child of nature, creative but whimsical. Whereas with his exceptional charisma he endeared several people, a few grew antagonised, too. He had a mercurial temperament. Without hypocrisy, he would speak his heart out without bothering for any social norms.
Once I accompanied him to an educational institute where he was to recite his heart-melting poetic pieces. As soon as we reached the college, Shiv asked for liquor from the principal, who was waiting at the main gate with his colleagues to give him a red-carpet welcome. As the chairperson of the college came forward to garland Shiv, he unleashed the fury of his snubs and rebuffs on him and painfully remarked that the chairman had snuffed out several lives by getting the innocent flowers plucked. With a grimace on his face, he outrightly refused the floral welcome and said in our mother tongue, Punjabi, “Chairman saheb, phoolan di jagha galeyaan ch nahi gamleyaan ch hundi hai, te naale mera swagat sharaab naal karo kisi shingaar naal nahi (The suitable place of flowers is pots not our necks and you should be welcoming me with liquor instead of flowers).”
{{/usCountry}}Once I accompanied him to an educational institute where he was to recite his heart-melting poetic pieces. As soon as we reached the college, Shiv asked for liquor from the principal, who was waiting at the main gate with his colleagues to give him a red-carpet welcome. As the chairperson of the college came forward to garland Shiv, he unleashed the fury of his snubs and rebuffs on him and painfully remarked that the chairman had snuffed out several lives by getting the innocent flowers plucked. With a grimace on his face, he outrightly refused the floral welcome and said in our mother tongue, Punjabi, “Chairman saheb, phoolan di jagha galeyaan ch nahi gamleyaan ch hundi hai, te naale mera swagat sharaab naal karo kisi shingaar naal nahi (The suitable place of flowers is pots not our necks and you should be welcoming me with liquor instead of flowers).”
{{/usCountry}}One night, Shiv stayed at my place in Batala. Both of us had drinks. He drank heavily and regaled my family with his poetic nuggets in his melodious voice, which was surely a divine gift. As my wife called it a day and went to our room, and abiding by the protocol of a good host, I chose to share the room with Shiv, he said: “Rajhay, tonight I cannot allow you to be with me as I have a clandestine meeting with my beloved. You must depart and let me be with her now.” I was taken aback but, on his insistence, I left for my room. That night, I stayed awake as Shiv kept talking to himself. Fully awake, he sang, wept and laughed as if he were with his beloved — sometimes loving her and at other moments squabbling with her.
Mysterious were the ways of Shiv. A conundrum personified! He lives in our hearts though his corporal frame is no more alive. On his birth anniversary last week, on July 23, I went down memory lane again and walked holding the hand of my friend Shiv, whom society knows today as Shiv Kumar Batalvi, Birha da Sultan (King of Pain and Poignancy).
kumar.rajnazam@gmail.com
The writer is a Ferozepur-based freelance contributor