India, July 13 -- Scrolling down Facebook on a lazy afternoon, the gaze is suddenly arrested by a face so well known and well remembered in a profile picture. How could it be? It is the picture of the rare Punjabi poet, Amitoj, who once shone in full glory, giving a whiff of fresh air to the Punjabi poetry, enjoying fanfare like never before and then choosing oblivion. I was watching some old Hindi film with a story of rebirth and then I almost heard the haunting refrain of an old song: "Ayega aane wala, ayega, ayega." I suddenly sat up worried about my own condition, which in Punjabi is referred to as "satara-batara". Well! such confusions are bound to happen when you touch the number 70. I rub my eyes, fix my specs and gaze again at the profile picture and there it's him for sure with his handsome face, sparkling eyes, charming smile and the unmistakable mole on his left cheek. Was I seeing a ghost? Or has someone dedicated an FB page in his memory? In panic, I look at the name above the pic and it is Vakeel Brar. I want to call a friend of Amitoj to verify, but most of them are lost or are no more. In panic, I copy the picture and save it in my photos. Then I send it to poet-professor Bhupinder Brar, a close younger friend of his, and ask, "Is this a picture of Amitoj?" Promptly comes the reply: "100% Amitoj". "Then why Vakeel Brar?" I ask? Brar's calm answer is "Must be a fan of his poetry." I come out of my panic attack and smile: Well who wasn't his fan? We all were. It was the year of the Emergency but it was also the year when many of us covered the seemingly short distance from the Government College for Girls to Panjab University to join different courses. I had read some of Amitoj's poems translated into Hindi by his friend, Phool Chand Manav, an avid translator, who was later referred to by Amitoj as the 'Flower Moon Man'. The poems were eloquent and one hoped that one would get to see the poet on the campus. Of course, at 19 in those times one did not have the courage to go and meet a poet of his fame and stature. But the journalism class had some older students too and one of them was a rather witty goodlooker, who claimed to have had a brush with the ultra left movement. He would crack jokes with the faculty and seemed to know just about everyone. He called himself Darshan Jack, after Jack London, if you please. One day after the class, a few of us were at the Student Centre and when the poet walked in with a swagger, his coat slung on one shoulder and patronisingly greeted Jack asking if all was well with him. We girls looked at Jack with wonder and asked if he would introduce us to Amitoj? So when Amitoj had his cup of coffee and was walking out, Jack stopped him and said these girls want to meet you. The poet stopped, said hello and I mumbled that I had read his poems. He gave half a smile and walked on saying, "Enjoy, have a good time" with Devanand-style dismissal. Such was his persona and stature. It took a couple of years and an entry into journalism to get to exchange a few words with him. Only after a short poem of mine was published in a magazine, Youth Times, did he come out of his way to compliment me on a line, "You hurt and fled like a drunken driver". "Good riddance Nirupama that Jack was nothing more than a truck driver". But whenever I suggested that I would like to talk to him for a story in the newspaper, his reply would be, "No interview please". Once I asked him why he had not published a collection of his poetry, he said that the day of books was a thing of the past. I will perhaps exhibit them in a gallery with music playing in the background. Which he was to do later in his extremely popular show on Jalandhar Doordarshan called 'Kach dian Mundran'. Theatre was indeed his thing and he remained associated with 'The Department of Indian Theatre' on the campus. It took Patar to get his book published with the title 'Kach dian Mundra'. And it is one of the finest collections of experimental and deep poems in Punjabi. Recently when I shared that picture of him on FB, many fond memories came, including one by his dear friend Harjit's wife Teji in the form of a girl, also a poet, who once loved him and he loved her too. Where has love gone? Lost perhaps in the theatre of absurdity, also called life. But what remains in the end for poets are their words. And Amitoj's poems live on....