Peerzada Masarat Shah
In the breathtaking valleys of Kashmir, where the towering chinars dance with the wind and every season unfurls like a painter’s canvas, a poet once emerged with a voice that roared louder than the gusts sweeping through the trees. Ghulam Ahmad Mehjoor, revered as *Shair-e-Kashmir* (Poet of Kashmir), didn’t merely craft verses—he ignited a revolution. His poetry, a dazzling fusion of lyrical grace and searing social commentary, jolted Kashmiri literature out of its slumber and into a new era. At the pulsing core of his legacy lies “Walo Ha Baghawano” (“Come, O Gardeners”), a work so potent it transcends time—a fiery summons for cultural renewal, national solidarity, and a fierce stand against the rot of complacency. This isn’t just poetry; it’s a thunderclap, reverberating through the mountains and into the hearts of Kashmiris even today.
Mehjoor’s words were never meant to sit quietly on a page. They were born to stir, to provoke, to awaken. In an age when Kashmir’s spirit was battered, his verses became a lifeline—a rallying cry for a people desperate to reclaim their dignity. “Walo Ha Baghawano” is the crown jewel of this mission, a masterpiece that doesn’t just sing of beauty but demands action, sacrifice, and unyielding resolve. It’s a call that feels as urgent in 2025 as it did over a century ago, a testament to Mehjoor’s uncanny ability to speak across generations.
A Voice Born in Turmoil
To understand Mehjoor’s genius, rewind to the early 20th century—a Kashmir trapped in a chokehold of feudal oppression, grinding poverty, and the lingering shadow of colonial influence. The air was thick with despair, the people voiceless, their dreams buried under the weight of exploitation. Into this stifling silence stepped Mehjoor, a man who saw poetry not as an escape but as a battering ram. He wasn’t content to let his homeland languish; he wanted to shake it awake, to remind its people of their worth and their power.
“Walo Ha Baghawano” captures this spirit with electrifying force. The poem’s central metaphor—the garden— isn’t some quaint image of floral serenity. It’s Kashmir itself: its culture, its heritage, its soul, all teetering on the edge of neglect. “Bar khoon gulraas andar sowakh gulun, kar sukhrawaani,” Mehjoor declares—water this garden with your blood, and let new flowers burst forth. It’s a visceral, almost brutal challenge, a demand for sacrifice that doesn’t flinch from the cost of renewal. He’s not asking for polite gardening; he’s calling for a revolution, for a people to pour their very lifeblood into reviving what’s been lost. This was Mehjoor’s gift: turning beauty into a weapon, making poetry a call to arms.
That call resonated because it was rooted in the reality of its time. Kashmiris weren’t just fighting for survival—they were yearning for identity, for a sense of self that had been stripped away by centuries of subjugation. Mehjoor gave them that voice, a megaphone forged in verse. He spoke to the farmers toiling in the fields, the women weaving quietly at home, the youth restless for change. His words weren’t elitist or detached—they were raw, relatable, and razor-sharp, cutting through the fog of despair to light a path forward.
Mehjoor’s Greatest Hits
“Walo Ha Baghawano” may be his most iconic work, but Mehjoor’s brilliance shines just as brightly across his other creations. His poetic arsenal is a gallery of masterpieces, each one a vibrant explosion of emotion, intellect, and purpose. Take “Gaaem Kaur,” a poem that weaves together the ache of personal love with the fervor of patriotic devotion. It’s tender yet tough, a love song to a woman and a homeland in one breath—a reminder that for Mehjoor, affection and allegiance were two sides of the same coin. The lines pulse with intimacy, but they also carry a defiant edge, urging readers to cherish and defend what’s theirs.
Then there’s “Sahibo Saath Chum Mai Chaani,” a work that dives deep into the wells of longing and loss, only to emerge with a steely resolve. Here, Mehjoor transforms personal sorrow into a universal anthem, wrapping heartbreak in a cloak of resilience. The poem aches with the pain of separation—echoing Kashmir’s own history of division—but it refuses to wallow. Instead, it stands tall, a testament to the strength found in shared struggle. These works, like “Walo Ha Baghawano,” blend the lush traditions of Kashmiri and Persian poetry with a modern, muscular voice that speaks to the here and now.
Mehjoor’s magic lies in his versatility. He could pen lines as delicate as a spring breeze or as fierce as a winter gale, often in the same breath. His language was alive—accessible to the common ear yet rich with metaphor and meaning. He drew from the classical forms he loved, but he bent them to his will, infusing them with themes of justice, education, and unity. Whether he was exalting the brilliance of women or summoning the youth to rise, his poetry crackled with purpose. “Toh asith wathiv yaesih babel tchhi naalan peyda kar,” he cries in “Walo Ha Baghawano”—raise brave hearts like Babel, make the path blaze. It’s a line that could rally a crowd today as easily as it did a century ago.
A Legacy That Won’t Fade
Mehjoor wasn’t just a poet—he was a force of nature, a catalyst who didn’t merely observe Kashmir’s story but helped write it. His verses didn’t sit idle; they sparked movements, fueled reforms, and breathed life into a burgeoning sense of Kashmiri pride. He championed education when ignorance was a shackle, lifted women’s voices when they were muted, and preached unity when division threatened to tear his people apart. His pen was a sword, slashing through apathy and planting seeds of hope that still bloom today.
That legacy endures because it’s more than literary—it’s visceral, cultural, political. Young poets pore over his lines, finding inspiration in their rhythm and fire. Activists quote him in their marches, wielding his words like banners. Dreamers turn to him for courage, seeing in his vision a roadmap for a better tomorrow. In a Kashmir still wrestling with its complexities—political strife, shifting identities, the pull of past and future—Mehjoor’s voice cuts through the noise. “Walo Ha Baghawano” isn’t a relic; it’s a living manifesto, a demand that the garden of Kashmir be tended with sweat, intellect, and love.
His influence stretches beyond the page. Mehjoor reshaped how Kashmiris saw themselves—not as victims of history, but as architects of their fate. He gave them a language of resistance and renewal, a way to articulate their pain and their power. Today, as the region navigates its turbulent present, his poetry remains a beacon—a reminder that a nation’s soul isn’t found in its borders but in its people. His call to action, to sacrifice, to rise, feels as urgent now as it did then, a timeless challenge to make the barren bloom again.
In the end, Mehjoor’s work—whether the rallying cry of “Walo Ha Baghawano,” the tender defiance of “Gaaem Kaur,” or the resolute ache of “Sahibo Saath Chum Mai Chaani”—is a gift that keeps giving. It’s poetry with a pulse, art that doesn’t just reflect the world but demands it change. His voice, forged in the crucible of Kashmir’s soil, rings out across the decades: tend the garden, fight for it, make it thrive. In a world drowning in noise, Mehjoor’s anthem stands apart—unyielding, unforgettable, and as alive as the land he loved.
