Talk:Amrita Pritam
Enigma: Her story cannot be completed without the name of Sahir.
Why.
Not sure but he appears in the following article many times
My poem about the partition- To Waris Shah -came after I had written Neighbouring Beauty. This poem I had sent to Sajjad. As chance would have it, I lost the Punjabi version. That explains why it has never been published in my language. Sajjad, however, translated it into English and had it published in The Pakistan Times. Seven years after I had met Sahir, I wrote a poem Seven Years. Even though he was in India I had not had the occasion to meet him. When published, Seven Years somehow found its way to Pakistan. On reading it, Sajjad wrote to me. "I want to come to India to see you. I want to talk to you of him for whom you've written Seven Years." Sajjad was in Delhi for a good eighteen days. Nights he spent at Marina Hotel, days at my house. This was the first time in my life I realised I had a friend in the world, a friend in every sense of the word. For the first time ever it dawned on me that a poem does not need to be created out of the passion of love. It can waft across the calm seas of friendship. At parting, I wrote: Buy me a pair of wings, Stranger— Or come and live with me Once at a party in Lahore, the wife of a friend of Sajjad's again and again came around to him with a plate of amriti sweets. He laughed the offer away a couple of times, then soberly commented, "Sister-in-law, I've allowed you to joke at her expense this time-but don't dare do it again. How little you know of the devotional quality of my love for her!"
and then here
In due course, Imroz and I together met Sahir, who was rather ill-at-ease the first time. The empty glasses we had drunk from, remained long on his table. Late that evening he wrote the poem Mere Saathi, Khali Jaam. He read out to me over the phone at around eleven that very night and also related how he was pouring liquor into each of the three glasses in turn and quaffing the contents. Imroz was down with fever in Bombay during the next meeting. Promptly, Sahir sent his own physician to attend on him!
and also
The second time was when Sahir had turned up with a fever. He had racking pain all over and was finding it particularly difficult to breathe. I rubbed Vicks on his throat and chest-in fact I went on and on, as if I could spend the rest of my life doing it. The mere contact had magnetically rendered me into a mere woman, with no need at all for paper or pen.
The third time the woman in me came to the forefront was when Imroz sat once, working in his studio. On completion of the canvas, he dipped the brush into the red paint and with the tip of it, dabbed a mark on my forehead.
Hope this helps. Kind regards, Hari Singhtalk 11:14, 17 March 2009 (UTC)
