Today I Ask Waris Shah

Today I ask Waris Shah—say something from some grave.
Turn a fresh, unbloodied page; start some new story of love.
One daughter of Punjab wept & you wrote an entire scripture;
today a million daughters weep—why are you silent, Waris Shah?
Rise, tender to the tender; rise and look: fields seeded with bodies,
see Chenab’s red sentence running on without a period.
Someone slipped poison into the five bright throats of the rivers;
now the earth drinks venom & the earth coughs venom back.
Every fiber of this fertile cloth is crimson—every clot, wrath after wrath.
The old lament threads the forests, turns each bamboo flute into a snake.
The snake-charmers’ spells went mute; the fangs learned our language.
Sting after sting: mouths nailed to human skin, Punjab turning blue.
Songs snapped in the lanes; the girls’ spinning-circle fell silent, unspooled.
Robbers on bridal beds; swings torn from pipal arms; the love-flute lost.
Brothers of Ranjha forget his way; blood oozes even out of graves.
Princesses of love are crying among tombs; Kaido is everywhere—
a thief of beauty & ardor in every mirror. Where are you, Waris Shah?
Wake up. Turn a fresh, unbloodied page; start some new story of love.

- Translation by Shivpreet Singh

Start some new story of love - An Explanatory Haibun

There was a poet called Waris Shah. He lived in a land named Punjab—“five waters”—where rivers braided through fields of wheat and mustard and memory. Waris wrote a long love-story, Heer Ranjha, about a girl named Heer and a boy named Ranjha. Their love was stubborn and musical; Ranjha played a bamboo flute (wanjhli), and the sound made even stubborn hearts lean closer. People in Punjab say Waris Shah wrote not just a romance, but a manual for the heart.

five rivers sing—
one word for water, love
spoken five ways

Long after Waris Shah died, the land was torn in two. Neighbors who had shared bread and songs were separated by lines on paper. This is called Partition. In the poem, the speaker calls to Waris Shah: “Come back, speak from your grave.” She asks the old master of love to wake and witness a new sorrow—daughters weeping by the thousands, families scattered, songs broken.

border on a map—
ink dries, but the wound
stays wet

In Heer Ranjha there is an uncle named Kaido. He fears love’s freedom and whispers poison into the family’s ear. In the poem, “everyone is Kaido” means betrayal has multiplied—pettiness, envy, and violence crowd the lanes where children once chased kites. The girls’ tiranjan—their evening spinning circle—and the charkha (spinning wheel) were places where women wove thread and community. When the poem says the songs and spindles stop, it means daily life has been snapped—silence replacing the ordinary music of making.

spindle gone still—
night hears its own breath
lose cadence

The poem names the Chenab—one of Punjab’s great rivers—and says it runs with blood. It says poison was poured into the five rivers, and the earth drank it. This is not chemistry; it is moral weather. When water is bitter, the fields grow grief. When it says every bamboo flute became a snake, it means the sweet pastoral music of Ranjha’s wanjhli has twisted into a hiss: tenderness turned to threat.

flute to hiss—
same hollow reed
another wind

You may also hear the name Bulleh Shah—another Punjabi poet, singer of fearless love. He scolded the proud and comforted the poor, saying the real temple is your heart and the real ritual is kindness. Waris Shah and Bulleh Shah are like two old trees on the same road: one tells the parable of lovers, the other sings the parable of the soul. Both ask us to be larger than our fears.

two saints of dust—
one plays, one sings
same note

When the poem mentions the pipal tree (sacred fig), it points to a village companion: shade, gossip, prayer, swings tied to its arms for festivals. To say even the pipal’s arms are torn is to say even the tree of gathering has become witness to separation. When snake-charmers’ spells fail, and fangs take human flesh, the tricks of calming violence no longer work; cruelty has learned our language.

pipal without swings—
summer stands up
nowhere to rest

At the end, the speaker begs: “Open the Book of Love and turn a new page.” She is not asking for an escape into romance. She is asking for a revision of how we live: a page where neighbors are neighbors again, daughters safe, songs unbroken. She is asking for love to become public policy.

new page—
river drinks light
forgets the knife