For Chamkila and Amarjot

Mehsampur, Punjab

8th March 1988

He died today. Chamkila. A bunch of shooters gunned him down outside the concert. Mahi and I were there before time. We were in front of the stage much before time. I don’t know why but I feel profoundly sad about what happened. And it wasn’t just him. They killed his wife too. I am getting a bad feeling about this choice of coming back from Canada.

I heard him sing for the first time in Vancouver. You know, I wrote about it too. He looked so amazing that day. Dressed so simply, the flair of a real entertainer. Amarjot was at her best too. What I didn’t write that day was that I knew something was wrong with them. I was in love with them, their glittering clothes and rapturous lyrics. We jumped with joy till he sang that song. That song. Ikjyot’s face flashed. He was face down in the mud, the rain slowly trickling down from his lifeless body.

Ok, diary. I am writing this today just because I am feeling a bit helpless. It doesn’t mean that we are getting any closer to each other. You still are just the bearer of my curses and neither the judge nor the executioner. Here goes. When they found out that I had seen Ikjyot die, the first question was whether I was involved with him. I was just passing the building he jumped from. I had to run through the rain to the car that was waiting outside the gate for me. But when he landed in front of me, having plunged to his death, it was very difficult for me to explain to others because I didn’t really react. I just froze. They later said that if I had called for the car, he could still be alive today. They are probably right. Ikjyot may have survived. He may have gone on to live a full life, just like they believe it “should have been”. But all of it was because I had left out an integral part of the story.

Ikjyot was shooting heroin with his mates on the balcony when he fell. He did not commit suicide, nor did someone push him over. He was so numb that he fell to his death without realizing it. His mates later thanked me for my silence and I felt like a fool. They would do it again but if I spoke up, I’d attract attention towards myself.

When Chamkila sang that song, I froze. Then I cried. It was as if he had turned my guilt into words, lyrical prose. Then there was a moment. His eyes met with mine and a gentle nod of the head as if he knew what I was feeling. The rest of the concert was like a dream. I felt like he sang to me. That night I couldn’t sleep because of the nostalgia. His music had spoken to me like sermons from a holy book. The next morning I became a different person. I felt a strong urge to leave this life of mine behind and go to a new place, where I could find some answers for myself. I chose to leave my home and follow Chamkila wherever he went. I thought he’d have the answers.

I never met him though. I followed him and his wife across Canada and then back to India. My family was concerned that I was losing my mind. But at that point in time, I wasn’t sure if I had really lost my mind or was this was a journey I had to take. Papa and Ma both cried. But I felt nothing stronger than to follow this scion of the new age Punjabi. And so I did. I left Canada and came to Punjab to follow his adventures and understand myself better.

The truth is it actually worked. I found myself happier than I ever was in Canada. For a while, I forgot about Chamkila too. I went and served as a volunteer nurse in a hospital in Phagwara. The people there were nice. They liked Chamkila too but were always telling tales of how his haters were plotting to kill him or kidnap him. I never paid too much attention to it. There was a patient who said he was injured trying to protect him in a concert overrun by government goons. They wanted to kill him but he escaped somehow. When I asked why they wanted to kill him, his answer was simple, “because he speaks the truth in a world of liars”. I dressed his wounds and my resolve to follow this man became stronger.

Then at one concert in Ludhiana, I met Mahi. She was as innocent as a stereotypical Punjabi “shareef kudi” could be. Our eyes met at the place where people had to take their shoes off. She smiled and I looked away. Later, we bumped into each other at the refreshments line. She introduced herself but I still felt shy. She spoke of her love for Amarjot, more than Chamkila. I made it clear that Amarjot could never be as powerful as the man. She thought for a moment and said, “It doesn’t matter, does it? I love her regardless.” I thought a moment about what she just said. She was there alone. I asked to hang around with her.

When he bellowed his song about the purity of love, I felt Mahi’s hand on mine. My heart skipped a beat. But I didn’t withdraw. I held her hand. She moved closer and at that moment, our shoulders rubbing against each other, we both were happy. I could feel the warmth and love. From that moment on, we were together. An unspoken love, stemming from our mutual appreciation for these two amazing artists.

Mahi moved to Phagwara and we’d spend evenings together, listening to their music and talking about our past. She had a rough childhood. I, on the other hand, came from privilege, carrying the mental scar of Ikjyot’s death that was still healing. But now, both of us were in a new place with new possibilities. She was a farmer, who knew how to till and irrigate the land. She was my compliment. She was my mate. She was the one who society would say should be a man for me to be with. But I didn’t care. She is sitting next to me while I write this and I love how she is reading it as I do.

We both agree that Chamkila’s death was a planned move by some of the lesser popular stars of the Punjabi music world. But it doesn’t really matter. Because of him, I found love and a reason to keep going while others expected me to give up. I was no longer a victim. I was with Mahi, who completed me. We are Chamkila’s legacy. Those who took him from us will suffer. They will suffer in their own conscious, incapable of adding anything good to this world.

For us, it is Chamkila’s message that will resonate. I felt empty when I started writing this. But now, I feel better. Thank you for listening and not judging me.

Disclaimer: The following diary entry is a work of fiction, inspired by the life and work of Amar Singh Chamkila and Amarjot. Read about them here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amar_Singh_Chamkila