Bhagat Puran Singh had become a household name long before I saw him. Some time in 1980, I happened to be addressing a convocation of the Khalsa College in Amritsar. I noticed an old man with a scraggy long beard, an untidy white rurban wrapped round his head, dressed in khadi kurta-pyjama, engrossed in taking notes on what I was saying. I could not take my eyes off him. He disappeared as soon as the convocation was over. Later I asked the principal of the college, who was sharing the dais with me, about the old man in the front row. ‘You don’t know him?’ he asked in surprise. ‘That was Bhagat
Puran Singh of the Pingalwara.’ ‘What was he writing while the speeches were going
on?’ I asked. ‘He always does that,’ replied the principal. ‘If he hears
anything worthwhile, he puts it in his newsletter published in Punjabi and English. In the Pingalwara, he has his own printing press.
I was very intrigued. On a subsequent visit to Amritsar, I noticed small, black tin boxes, with the word ‘Pingalwara’ written in white on them, in different parts of the city. These had a slit on top, through which people could put in money. I also learnt that Bhagat Puran Singh was often seen on the steps of the Golden Temple holding out the hem of his kurta for people to drop in it alms for his home for destitutes, It had also become a practice in many families to send money to the Pingalwara when there was a wedding in the house, or in memory of a deceased family member. Neither the Punjab government nor the Municipality gave him any financial assistance; it was only the people who gave him just enough to feed, clothe and render medica! assistance to over eight hundred sick men, women and children abandoned by their families.
I was determined to meet him. From Delhi I wrote to him seeking an appointment to visit the Pingalwara and talk to him. I got a reply written in Gurmukhi in his own hand asking me to come as soon as J could. Three days later, I was back in Amritsar. I took a taxi from the railway station and arrived at the Pingalwara. The first thing Bhagatji asked me was: ‘How did you come here?’
‘By train from Delhi, then by cab from the station,’ I replied, somewhat bewildered by the question. Maybe he thought I had flown in.
‘You should have come by tonga or on a bicycle,’ he said quite firmly.
‘Where would IJ find a bicycle for hire at the railway station? And a tonga would have taken more than an hour to get here,’ protested.
Bhagatji gave me a dressing down. ‘Do you know how much poisonous gas a motor car emits and fouls the air?’ He proceeded to give me a long lecture on global warming and what it would do to human and animal life, forests and vegetation. He thrust some sheets of his newsletter in my hand, commanding me, ‘Read this, and this, and this.’ Clearly, he was somewhat of a crackpot. I love crackpots.
I went round the Pingalwara. It did not answer the requirements of modern hygiene. People were lying on charpoys with flies buzzing around. Lavatory stench, mixed with the smell of phenyl and food being cooked, pervaded the air. Volunteers scurried round doing the best they could. Ir was evident that there was a shortage of everything-food, clothes, medicines, staff. How much
could one man do to help eight hundred people? I made a nominal donation, gathered all the printed
material Bhagatji gave me and returned to Delhi. Back home, I wrote in my columns about Bhagatji’s
dedicated service and the odds he was facing. I wrote to the Punjab Chief Minister and whoever else I could think of. The response was heartening. More money began to flow into the Pingalwara. Thereafter, whenever Bhagatyi came to Delhi, he dropped in to see me. I did not chide him for coming by taxi but made a token offering, which he accepted without counting the notes. A receipt followed some days later.
Bhagatji’s work began to receive wider recognition. He was honoured with a Padma Shri in 1979. People began to make donations on a regular basis. Conditions in the Pingalwara improved and its activities expanded.
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