Every small town has its own rhythm, its own music. Unknown to those confined to metropolises, there is a beauty in decrepitude, old buildings with their lattice screens, shops with rickety shutters and a road where goats, cows, cars, cycles and pedestrians vie for the same space. Though not quite a small town now, Amritsar had a similarly beguiling beauty; a pace of life that made a mockery of those seeking to get ahead. As actor-author Deepti Naval recalls in her elegant prose in A Country Called Childhood, “It’s getting dark in the city of Amritsar. Shops are shutting down. Street lights come on, casting dim yellow pools of light. Rickshaws and cycles hustle to make their way home. A handcart loaded with gunny bags wobbles down the street. Even Dwarka’s kite shop is winding up. The old Sardar tailor pulls his rickety shutter down, gets on his bicycle, and pedals away. Shahni’s voice can be heard; she is urging her buffaloes home.”
And life went on in an even keel, unflustered, unhurried. There was a joy in the predictable.
Except that Amritsar has seldom had the comfort of peace and quiet. Life and death have often been experienced on the streets of the city. It was that way in 1947 when trainloads of passengers left the city for good, leaving behind forsaken mosques and dargahs, havelis and hutments. It was no different when trains which started from Lahore teeming with passengers, reached here only with a handful, still breathing, still desperate to be safe. If destiny doles out cards to cities and towns, Amritsar was handed the most challenging.
