Nanak Singh
THIS BOOK IS really the second part or sequel of my novel Hymns in Blood. When I wrote a lengthy foreword for that, I wanted to give my readers a glimpse into my own thinking behind that novel. So there really isn’t very much new for me to say in this time. Or maybe there’s just a couple of things that I should mention, the ones to which I want to draw your attention.
Those five and a half ill-fated months from 5 March to 15 August 1947! There’s a lot that I saw with my own eyes during those five and a half months, a lot that bruised my heart, so much that I gleaned from newspaper reports and official pronouncements and even more that I learned from my circle of friends and acquaintances. I have tried to present all of that to my readers through Hymns in Blood and A Game of Fire. In doing so, I have tried to don the mantle of both a novelist and a chronicler of historic events. In my earlier novels, the plot was usually a creation of my own imagination, but that is not the case with these two books. The characters depicted in them may not be real but the events that I’ve narrated are entirely true. I have, in fact, made a conscious effort to present them in a more or less chronological fashion. I can assure my readers that my account of the incidents related to Pothohar and Amritsar is authentic, accurate and recounted with all the honesty that I could muster.
If I were to try and define myself in religious terms, I would say that I am just a humble Sikh who lives by the supreme dictum given to us by the Guru Granth Sahib, ‘Manas ki jaat sabhe eke pehchanbo’—recognize all of mankind as a single creed of humanity.
I had this dictum in mind when I wrote these two novels. I acknowledge that in doing so, I’ve had to expose some harsh truths in ways that will make a few of my friends quite uncomfortable. But the truth must be told.
That accursed year of 1947, that year when a wave of savagery, or should I say the sheer bestiality that ravaged the humanity of our people! Hindu, Muslim, Sikh—each community came under its evil spell. A Hindu or a Sikh saw a Muslim as the devil incarnate, a form of Shaitan himself. And the same was true the other way round. But if a person could somehow rise above the inferno of communal hatred and see the holocaust of 1947 through the words of that matchless dictum, if he could peer into the depths of his own heart, he will certainly hear an anguished call from Gurbani: ‘Jagat jalanda rakh lai, apni kirpa dhar’—the world is ablaze, please bestow Your mercy and save it!
But is that the call I hear today? Not at all. Amidst the cacophony around me, I hear screams of ‘The Hindus are ablaze’ or ‘The Sikhs are ablaze’.
And why don’t I join that chorus, folks ask me. Frankly, there is just no way that I could get myself to become a part of that group. So I continue to sing my own refrain, completely out of tune with the times.
I’ve never really nursed any illusions that my ideals or principals are underpinned by some divine sanction. Nor do I get swayed by any praise that might come my way when I depict the reality of our lives in my novels. But yes, I’ve always tried to present my perspective with fairness and integrity. For that, I can perhaps take some legitimate pride. If I saw a Muslim wield his dagger mercilessly to slaughter innocent persons, I’ve described it without flinching. And when I saw a Hindu or Sikh commit some ghastly atrocity on a Muslim, I braced myself to present the true picture. I did this with the knowledge that many of my gentle readers may not have the constitution to stomach the unpleasant truth, that they would wince as they tried to swallow such a bitter dose of candour. You could say that my reluctance to sugar-coat this bitter pill is a failing on my part, or maybe a symptom of some other malaise. So be it.
My fervent appeal to my readers is that they see this book as a historical narrative and not as a work of fiction. And while reading the book, they should abandon the jaundiced eye of sectarian feelings for a while. Who knows, after reading the book they may even discover the miraculous kohl that cures the jaundiced eye and even cleanses them of the communal virus.
This book revolves around characters who are Sikh, Hindu and Muslims. But if my readers were to join me on that pristine peak of humanity from where I wrote this novel, they might observe that there are no Sikhs, Hindus or Muslims and understand the true meaning of ‘Manas ki jaat’.
Amritsar
5 September 1948
Nanak Singh