Diljit Dosanjh’s ‘Amar Singh Chamkila’ premiered in Mumbai on Monday (Photo: Netflix)
In Ishq mitaye, composer A R Rahman’s marquee piece in Imtiaz Ali’s biopic Amar Singh Chamkila that releases today, lyricist Irshad Kamil takes a deep dive into the folklore surrounding the life of the slain Punjabi musician. Kamil comes up with the phrase, “Main hoon Punjab” (I am Punjab), which echoes through the song. It is followed by “Thirakta reh, matakta reh, jo hona ho wo ho” (Keep dancing, keep strutting, whatever may happen). Kamil grew up in Punjab too. Perhaps, that is why he captures the essence of Chamkila’s song as well as what made him a representative of something unique perhaps to Punjab – revelry in times of unrest.
The 1980s took away a lot of the strength and toughness of spirit that the people of Punjab had built with sweat and toil after Partition. The militancy and the state’s ruthless response to it prised open old wounds and created new traumas. Punjab has always turned to its culture for sanity and resilience – to its food and music, kirtans, Bulleshah’s poetry, the songs of Baisakhi and the music of weddings.
The rise of Amar Singh Chamkila
Under the rule of the gun, which deemed TV and tapes sinful, and dictated that songs could only be devotional, a young Dalit textile factory worker from Dugri near Ludhiana appeared on the music scene. He wanted to be an electrician but became Amar Singh Chamkila instead — the star of the masses.
Born in 1960, Chamkila began his career by sitting in at the music sessions of artistes such as K Deep and Muhammad Sadiq from Sangrur — now an MP from Faridkot. He met Surinder Shinda, a noted folk artiste and wrote songs and sang chorus for him, and accompanied him on tours. But the money wasn’t enough to feed Chamkila’s family. So he decided to sing. He sang duets, first with Surinder Sonia and then with Amarjot, an upper-caste singer whom he married later. The two sang with rare fluidity on stage, as if they were having a conversation. The music touched a chord with people, who would throng maidans and climb terraces to listen to them. Many checked Chamkila’s dates to fix a wedding in the family. He was charging Rs 4,000 per show when others got about Rs 500. Popularity also bred rivalries.
The compositions were superbly tight, the harmonium and dholki were on point and Chamkila’s confident, rustic voice had the people’s attention. But what contributed to the lore around Chamkila — and invited criticism — was the rawness of his songs. Many of them were innuendo-laden, sexually explicit and touched themes like drug use, illicit relations, Jatt pride and masculine rage.
Some illicit, all rustic
Songs like ‘Maar le hor try jija’ — a woman exhorting her brother-in-law to have a child with her after he calls his wife infertile – were about forbidden subjects. They reflected society’s underbelly. They were also about a subculture that wasn’t always acknowledged by the feudal and patriarchal society but was true nevertheless.
Many women, too, lapped up Chamkila’s songs because some of its themes resonated with the “ladies sangeet” fare. The music was entertainment at a time when life was desperate and demanding, under the shadow of the gun, and there were restrictions on what people ate, how they dressed, worked and who they married. Other musicians too were singing forbidden stories about illicit relationships. Highbrow literature too wasn’t impervious to these motifs. In Ajmer Singh Aulakh’s Sat Begane, for instance, a woman enters an illicit relationship with her brother-in-law to stop him from marrying and avoid further division of the family land.
Chamkila’s poetry was, however, rustic — fuhad as many call it. This is probably why many urban, educated people in Punjab weren’t aware of him. His music was different from the polished presentations of Gurdas Maan, or Surinder Kaur and Asa Singh Mastana.
A people’s entertainer
This was a time when militants were trying to force their puritanical version of religion down people’s throats. Chamkila received death threats. He came up with devotional albums. And, the militants backed down. But in his live concerts, he continued to sing what was considered decadent. Chamkila’s purpose wasn’t to defy diktats — the audience wouldn’t let him leave without singing the “hit numbers”. He was the entertainer who provided the diversion that people craved for.
Chamkila and Amarjot were shot dead by gunmen in Mehsampur in March 1988, just before the couple was to get on stage. They were both 27 at the time. The assailants were not caught. Chamkila’s legend, however, has lived on, continuing to symbolise the existence of opposites — and their intermixing.
suanshu.khurana@expressindia.com
