White Blood

by Nanak Singh

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

A lyrical, luminous offering from the pioneer of Punjabi novel writing and Sahitya Akademi‐awardee Nanak Singh

When a ticket officer apprehends a ticketless traveller at the Amritsar Railway Station, he is shocked to discover that the penniless young man in tattered clothes is none other than the widely acclaimed writer Gupteshwar. But even more disconcerting than the state of the author is the story of his new novel, one that lays bare the moral rot besieging twentieth-century Punjab. As the author reads from his unfinished manuscript, it becomes clear that the tale of the two women he is weaving is far from fictional.

With its nested narratives, rich prose and fascinating depiction of quotidian life, Nanak Singh's pivotal novel paints an unsparing portrait of a society infected with corruption, casteism and appalling inequality, where those who position themselves as guardians of morality are the ones most willing to abuse their power.

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 272

Sample

Nanak Singh

An Introduction

NANAK SINGH (1897–1971) was born Hans Raj into a grocer’s family in Chak Hamid, Jhelum (present-day Pakistan) and is popularly known as the ‘Father of Punjabi Novel’. He lost his parents early in life and could receive only primary education. However, he never gave up his spiritual and literary pursuits. A musician’s group that recited Gurbani1 and performed devotional singing at Gurdwara Sri Guru Singh Sabha, a Sikh temple in Peshawar Cantonment, inspired him. Under its solemn influence, Hans Raj, who had already become a devotee of Guru Nanak, had himself baptized as Nanak Singh.

Thereafter, the genius in him came to the fore. He learned Punjabi in Gurmukhi script to read the holy Guru Granth Sahib. He composed short religious hymns praising the Sikh Gurus, encouraging Sikhs to join the Gurdwara Reform Movement2. This composition, popularly known as Satguru Mahima, first published in 1918, made him famous throughout Punjab as Nanak Singh Kaveeshar3. The book sold more than one hundred thousand copies.

A few lines thereof sound the extent of his dedication:

Ai panth de malaaho, kis taraf jaa rahe ho.

Hathhin pakar ke chappu kishti dubaa rahe ho.

Ki bhul gaye ho saake gursikh dharmiaan de,

Futt da shikaar ho ke jag nu hasaa rahe ho…

(O sailors of the community!

In which direction are you heading?

You are sinking your own ship instead of steering it!

Have you forgotten the sacrifices of the great Gursikhs4?

Becoming victims of the rift, you are entertaining the world…)

On 13 April 1919, British troops shot dead over one thousand peaceful protestors in what came to be known as the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre. Nanak Singh survived the attack but two of his friends were killed. This incident took place on the day of Visakhi – impelling Nanak Singh to write the heart-rending epic poem, ‘Khooni Visakhi’, which condemned the colonial rule and unmasked the cruelty of the British government. He was only twenty-two years old when he picked up his pen to oppose their draconian laws.

The British government, on the other hand, was extremely concerned about his provocative writing. They immediately banned the book and confiscated every copy. A few lines from ‘Khooni Visakhi’:

Ajj fer oh vekh gulaam hoya,

disse tukre da muhtaaj satgur.

‘Kaala Kuli’ pukaarde hindiaan nu,

thhudde maarde naal majaaj satgur

Naale maarde fer na ron dende,

jekar roviye bhejde thaaneyaan nu…

(O Lord! Look! They [the Indians] have been enslaved once again,

How miserable do they look!

The Indians are addressed as ‘Black Porters’.

They are kicked and treated badly.

They are not even allowed to cry.

If they dare, they are sent to jail…)

Nanak Singh participated in the Indian Independence struggle by joining the Akali5 movement. He began editing Akali papers. This, too, was noticed by the British government, and he was charged with participation in unlawful political activities and sent to Borstal Jail in Lahore. He described the savagery and oppression of the British towards peaceful Sikhs during the Guru Ka Bagh Morcha demonstration in his second book of poetry, Zakhmi Dil (Wounded Heart). It was published in January 1923 and subsequently banned within two weeks. He wrote his first novel, Adh Khiri Kali (Half-bloomed Bud), while still in jail.

‘These developments brought much change in the writings of Nanak Singh. From a writer of songs in praise of the Gurus, he became a patriotic poet, raising his voice against the alien rule. He turned to penning novels of social reform’, writes acclaimed author Sant Singh Sekhon.

Blessed with fame and inspired by Guru Nanak’s teachings of universal brotherhood, this young Sikh in his early 20s had an awakening. In his zeal to preach what he had learnt and dreamt, he shifted to Amritsar, the Vatican City of Sikhs. Nanak Singh taught himself – besides Punjabi and Urdu – Hindi, Bengali and some English. From here, the pace of his work was incredible. In the remaining fifty years of his active life, he gifted the world, particularly the Punjabi language, as many as 40 novels and innumerable short stories and poems.

His epic novel, Pavitar Papi (Saintly Sinner), written in 1942, immediately won fame and literary acclaim as a classic. The novel was made into a successful Hindi motion picture, Pavitra Papi, in 1970 by his ardent admirer, Balraj Sahni. The original Punjabi version is currently in its twenty-eighth reprint. It was translated into Hindi and several other Indian languages.

Nanak Singh wrote over forty thousand pages in long-hand Gurmukhi script. He was bestowed with many awards, including the Bhasha Vibhag Punjab Literary Award from the Government of Punjab in 1960. His great historical novel, Ik Mian Do Talwaran (One Sheath and Two Swords), 1959, won him India’s highest literary honour, the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1962.



Nanak Singh receiving Sahitya Akademi Award from President Dr Radhakrishnan in 1962

The abiding and universal themes of love, friendship and sacrifice found ample expression in Nanak Singh’s novels. Pavitar Papi and Ik Mian Do Talwaran are distinguished by the tragic themes of unrequited love and supreme sacrifice, while unmitigated greed and poverty were the themes of Paap Di Khatti (Sinful Income), which was also a reflection on the rapidly changing values of contemporary society.

Nanak Singh understood human nature, especially of the young and the poor, who were helpless and exploited by the selfish and the greedy.

He fearlessly pointed out the evils of fundamentalism and selfishness in our society, including those prevailing in gurdwaras and temples where many priests were dishonest, and some indulged in practices like consuming intoxicants and keeping mistresses. Nanak Singh revolted against these evils in his novels and short stories.



His centenary was celebrated in 1997. Such was his influence that to honour him, India’s former prime minister, Inder Kumar Gujral, released a postage stamp in 1998. Former Indian President (late) Giani Zail Singh brought a copy of Khooni Visakhi to India from a museum in England. Natasha Tolstoy, the granddaughter of the legendary Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy, translated Chitta Lahu into Russian. She visited Amritsar to personally present the first copy of the translated novel to Nanak Singh.

A unique personality, he was not only selfless but self-effacing, too. Throughout his life, he shunned publicity and politicians. Even though he went to jail during the Gurdwara Reform Movement, he never sought to make political capital out of it. He did not even refer to it as a sacrifice. Nanak Singh was simplicity, honesty and decency personified. May we follow in some of the footprints that he, like other great men, has left on the sands of time.



1 Gurbani is a Sikh term commonly used by Sikhs to refer to various compositions by the Sikh Gurus and other writers of Guru Granth Sahib. In general, hymns in the central text of the Sikhs, the Guru Granth Sahib, are called Gurbani.

2 The Gurdwara Reform Movement was a campaign to bring reform in the Gurdwaras (the Sikh places of worship) in India during the early 1920s. The movement led to the introduction of the Sikh Gurdwara Bill in 1925, which placed all the historical Sikh shrines in India under the control of the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee (SGPC).

3 Kaveeshar refers to a poet in the Punjabi language.

4 Gursikh refers to the followers of the Sikh religion.

5 Akali (pertaining to Akal or the Supreme Power, ‘divine’) refers to:

• member of the Khalsa, i.e., the collective body of baptized Sikhs.

• member of the Akali Movement or Gurdwara Reform Movement (1919–25).

1

Unfinished Episode

‘STOP THAT MAN,’ THE railway officer said to the policeman. It was 7 p.m., and he was checking the tickets of passengers coming out through the exit gate. The policeman forcefully pulled the ticketless man by his arm and made him stand on one side of the gate. A bundle of rolled-up papers fell out of the man’s torn pocket. He quickly leapt to pick it up and held it tightly in his hand.

The tall, fair Sikh passenger was not carrying any luggage and appeared to be around eighteen years old. His beard had not yet appeared. His shirt was torn at the neck, and his long, dirty black coat was patched in several places. Though mended several times, the coat’s buttonholes had become too loose for the few remaining buttons to fit into, so he had passed thick threads through them to keep the coat in place and protect him from the cold. One of the pockets was completely torn. The man was the epitome of abject poverty and shame.

He began trembling as soon as the policeman touched him. Hundreds of passengers walked past him after handing over their tickets, but the officer did not look at anyone else as fiercely. To avoid the questioning eyes of passers-by, he moved two steps ahead and stood with his back to the gate.

‘Oi, where the hell are you going? Stay where you are, or I’ll beat you to a pulp,’ the policeman warned him.

The passenger moved back.

After about an hour, when all the other travellers had exited, the policeman turned his attention towards the man. ‘Hand me over one rupee and ten annas,’ he shouted. The passenger was already searching desperately in his pocket. He pulled out a quarter-rupee coin, but it was a counterfeit. At that moment, he looked like a man dying of thirst who had only a small glass of salt water before him.

‘Babu ji, please have mercy on me,’ to he said in a trembling voice. ‘I’m very poor. I tried hard to collect the money for the fare but still couldn’t manage enough.’

The policeman laughed contemptuously. ‘So, you didn’t have enough money, but you still boarded the train as if it’s your father’s property. Didn’t you think about landing in jail if you travel without a ticket?’

‘We should search him to see if he’s actually poor or just pretending’, another policeman standing nearby suggested.

The officer agreed. ‘I know this sort. They travel for free and waste no time in parting unsuspecting wealthy passengers from their belongings.’

‘So, are you paying the fare, or should I issue a memo?’ the policeman asked, glaring at the man.

The man’s blood froze as a flurry of emotions flashed across his face. He tried to speak, but his voice kept dying in his throat. Finally, he gathered his courage. ‘Babu ji, I’m guilty of travelling without a ticket, but I am not a rogue. I just have a bad luck. Do whatever you want with me, but for god’s sake, please don’t humiliate me’, he said, his eyes glistening.

They listened to his plea without sympathy, having been habituated to the stories and excuses that ticketless passengers doled out. But when the railway officer looked into the man’s face, he was surprised to see his wide eyes tearing up. His lips were trembling, and his fair face had turned red.

The policeman’s heart was too calloused to be changed, but the officer found himself moved by the man’s words.

All this while, the man had desperately held on to the bundle of papers. At times, he tucked it under his arm, at others, he put it in his coat pocket only to pull it out the next moment, fearing it might fall through if the pocket was torn like the other one.

‘Come with me,’ the officer said.

The man followed. Resigned that he would be taken to the or the police station, he was puzzled when the officer walked to a green lawn outside the railway station instead and sat down. He gestured to the man to join him.

‘Where are you coming from?’ the officer asked.

‘Sir, from Lahore.’

‘Where do you stay?’

‘Here, in Amritsar.’

‘And you don’t even have even a single rupee in your pocket? What do you do for a living?’

The man stayed silent for a while and then spoke softly, ‘Sir, nothing.’

‘Nothing? How do you feed yourself?’ the officer asked. He looked at the man suspiciously, but the strange attraction in his eyes stopped him from saying anything.

‘I don’t know what to say about how I manage a living.’ The man paused for a moment and then continued, ‘Death is probably one’s biggest fear in life. But god has made some people, especially people like me, selfish and stubborn, who want to live even after losing everything, even after all the disgrace and abuse.’ His voice trembled. ‘It’s a real shame.’

‘Be strong, young man’, the officer consoled him. ‘It’s clear you’re going through a difficult time. Let me see if I can help you in any way.’

The passenger was lost in thought for a while. ‘This kindness doesn’t seem right’, he finally said. ‘You should hand me over to the police so that I’m in jail before dusk… yes, that would be a better decision.’

The officer looked again into the passenger’s eyes with the intensity of a jeweller examining an emerald for the first time. For a moment, he wondered if the man had lost his mind. ‘How would this decision be better for you?’ he asked, his tone reflecting his surprise.

Pointing towards the bundle of papers he was holding, the man said, ‘I could finally finish my novel.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Babu ji, I live in a tiny, poorly maintained home. The rent is only eight rupees a month, but even that small amount seems like eight hundred to me right now. I’m just an ordinary man who has recently discovered a fondness for writing. I’ve written articles and short stories for a few magazines, but this isn’t my profession. Readers appreciate my work, but that isn’t enough to do me any good. I’ve always been poorly paid for my work, and I can’t make ends meet with so little.’

The passenger paused. ‘A few days ago, when I was writing this manuscript’, he continued, glancing at the sheaf of papers in his hand, ‘I was as poor as I am today. I didn’t have a single paisa, and nobody offered to help me. A day before yesterday, my stock of paper ran out, and I started panicking. Most of my novel had still not been written. I could survive without food, but not without paper.

‘I was in despair. The never-ending poverty and depression were tormenting me. The drudgery was driving me to thoughts of suicide. I had almost decided to end my life, but the fear of leaving my novel incomplete… or, who knows, maybe it was some otherworldly attachment… held me back.

‘While walking through the market, I spotted a used notebook in a pile of garbage. Maybe a student had thrown it away after using it. I picked it up. The pages were damp. Some were used on one side, while the others were blank. The notebook was smeared with ink, but I took it home and dried it as best as I could. It meant a lot to me.

‘I wrote on those pages for seven hours continuously. There weren’t any blank pages left to continue the next day, but the final part of my novel was almost complete. I was anxious to sell it and make enough money to fulfil my responsibility. What that responsibility was, and why I couldn’t afford to delay completing the book further, I cannot tell you at this moment.

‘I was confident this was among the best of all my previous works. I wanted to hand it over to a publisher in Lahore who values good writing. But going to Lahore without money was like going all the way to Calcutta.

‘Yesterday, I somehow managed to borrow one rupee from a moneylender who usually gives loans to gamblers. He gave me one rupee but issued the invoice for two.

‘This morning, without eating anything, I took my manuscript with the unfinished chapter and started the journey to Lahore. I thought once I struck a good deal, I would finish the remaining part of the novel sitting in a park, and then eat.

‘I had thought I would read the entire manuscript to a publisher, leave a deep impact on him and get a handsome amount in return. But to my surprise, when I met the publishers in Lahore, they all looked at my manuscript like a bundle of garbage. Nobody offered more than ten to fifteen rupees. I was devastated. My purpose could not be served with such a paltry amount.

‘I searched all day for a genuine buyer. I was afraid to return to Amritsar. I was dying of hunger. I only had a quarter-rupee coin in my pocket, so I went to a roadside stall and had only as much food as that amount could buy. But while paying, I was shocked to discover that the coin was a counterfeit. The. . .