Don’t tell me the child of ancient farmers can’t tell agriculture from ecocide; the waaris of Waris Shah poetry from crudity; the heir to Bade Ghulam Ali, Salamat/Nazakat Ali music from travesty; the builder of Harappa, dignified existence, from a rat’s nest; the child of Vaisakhi 1699, true revolution, from lip service. Don’t worry, he’s just tripping, riding out the bad trip. And when he wakes up, everything will be accounted for — the dead, the living, the comatose. Till then, we all play our parts. Shore up your version of Punjabiyat. Look at your kids’ faces. What would you like to pass on to them? Pass that. Whose light do you want them to reflect? Cast that. Which song do you want them to remember you by? Sing that.
Rabbi Shergill, ‘Rhythm of an ominous beat’, Tribune
