Shiv Kumar Batalvi: The phoenix of Punjabi poetry

Ishq ne jo kiti’aan barbadi’aan

Mein ohna barbadi’aa di sikhar ha’an

— Shiv Kumar Batalvi

In the quiet village of Bara Pind Lohtian, nestled in pre-Partition Punjab, a boy was born who would grow to become the voice of aching hearts. Born on July 23, 1936, Shiv Kumar Batalvi emerged as one of the most celebrated and soul-stirring voices in modern Punjabi literature. A dreamer, a rebel, a romantic and a poet of searing intensity, he became known as Birha Da Sultan — the king of separation. His life was steeped in longing, beauty and the ever-present shadow of sorrow — a trinity that would define both his verse and his fate.

Advertisement

His life read like his poetry — passionate, poignant and destined for heartbreak. The Partition uprooted his family, pushing them across a bleeding border to Batala in Gurdaspur. With every line, he wove the intense pain of lost love and yearning into a tapestry. Like the English poet John Keats, to whom he is often compared, Batalvi's genius was tinged with fragility, beauty and tragedy.

Batalvi’s poetry wasn't just written, it was lived. Every line bore the imprint of personal loss, from the early death of a girl named Maina, whom he met only once at a fair, to the heartbreak over a beloved who left him and married abroad. These departures, each like a wound, became his muses. The legendary poem — ‘Main ik shikra yaar banaya’ — emerged from this heartbreak and became his most iconic declaration of unfulfilled love.

In 1960, his first collection ‘Peerhan da Paraga’ (a handful of pain) was published, marking him as a major new voice. But it was ‘Loona’, his masterpiece verse play based on the legend of Puran Bhagat, which cemented his legacy. For this ground-breaking work, he received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1967, becoming its youngest recipient at 31.

Amrita Pritam, the grande dame of Punjabi literature, once said, “Shiv Kumar Batalvi is the only modern Punjabi poet who sung like a phoenix and his own fire eventually consumed him.” And truly, he was a poet ablaze. His performances — half song, half lament — drew crowds wherever he went. Enigmatic, he carried within him the light and heat of poetic fire.

‘Joban rutte jo vi marda, phul bane ya taara, Joban rutte aashiq marde, jaan koi karmaan wala’ (Those who die in the prime of youth, become flowers or stars. Only those graced by destiny die as lovers in youth) —  a foreshadowing of his own fate; dying young, luminous and unforgettable. He died in 1973. He was 36.

But Batalvi is not gone, his words ripple through the consciousness of Punjabi culture, crossing the borders of India and Pakistan with equal reverence. He burned bright, he burned fast and left behind poetry that bleeds.