Day 23, Month of Rabi’ al-awwal (Early Spring),
Uchhali Lake, Soon Valley, Punjab (present-day Pakistan), 1867 CE
Abdul Rasheed Sayyah sat on a stone worn smooth by generations of travellers, enthralled by nature which seemed determined to display her finest wares: below, the Uchhali Lake shimmered in the light of the setting sun, the edges deepening into black where tall deodars came to the meet the surface — while the skies above shifted into a pleasing kaleidoscope of colours. A breeze swept through the valley; birds twittered half-heartedly, for, most were safe in their nests … just as Yasmin Chughtai had settled into hers.
The fragrant aroma of makki ki roti and saarson ka saag wafted through the woven door, mingling with the scent of pine cones. He smacked his lips.
“Almost done,” grinned Yasmin’s father Ismail Chughtai, as he sat down next to his guest.
Abdul smiled sheepishly. “Somehow, I seem to be hungrier in the mountains,” he explained, even as Yasmin arrived at the front door with a plate of rotis . Abdul sat forward eagerly, only to be disappointed.
“I have to give these to Ameena; she’s ill and cannot cook,” Yasmin said. Her eyes met her father’s for a fleeting moment; a strange expression crossed Ismail’s face, but vanished so quickly that Abdul thought he had imagined it.
“By all means, daughter.”
“I’ll make you fresh ones the moment I return,” Yasmin said, and walked gracefully down the uneven street.
The conversation might have slipped Abdul’s memory for good, had it not been for something that happened the very next day. Yasmin had prepared the night’s meal — naan — this time, and heaped them on a plate by the oven. Obviously she had been called out suddenly for, when Abdul entered the hut, a dog was sniffing eagerly at the food.
“Shoo!” Abdul yelled, scampering to the oven. “Out! Go!”
The pitiful mongrel leapt sideways, upset the platter and scampered out; Abdul muttered under his breath and knelt to assess the damage.
Signs of a rebellion
He was still kneeling, staring at the food in his hands when Yasmin entered...and stopped dead. Behind her stood Ismail. Both stared, wide-eyed, as Abdul slowly raised the naan to the window, where the setting suns rays pierced it … to reveal a drawing. A letter. One character of the Punjabi alphabet, burnt clearly, cleverly into the naan .
“You could lose your heads for this,” Abdul said, slowly. His hands went cold even thinking of the Chapatti Movement during the 1857 War that had almost brought the British to its knees. “You know how...you know that learning Punjabi language is banned. You know how many primer books, the qaidas were confiscated?”
“The British offered two annas for swords but six annas for books!” It wasn’t Ismail who burst out, but Yasmin. “Do you know how many women could read and write in this village 50 years ago?” Her face wrap fluttered in her fury. “All of them. Do you know how many can, now? Just one. Me.”
She paced about the tiny hut in frustration. “Once, women could do the household accounts themselves. We could read texts. I’ve lost count of the hours I spent immersed in divine poetry. But now? Now I daren’t speak in my language — my own mother-tongue!” Yasmin took a deep breath. “So, I defy an unlawful law the best way I can. I write a Punjabi character in every roti I make. I distribute them to the women I know. We learn together. We keep our language alive, together.”
“There were hundreds of schools that taught everything from mathematics to logic before the British imposed their edict, you know,” Ismail said, conversationally. “I used to be a teacher myself, in this very village. I know how many hearts broke when qaidas were burnt in public.”
“But we’re healing our hearts.” Yasmin raised her head. “As we feed our stomachs, we feed our souls.”
“Is it worth the risk?”
Yasmin smiled. “ Lohaa hoven piaa kuteeven;Taan talwaar sadeeven hoo,” she quoted. “One of our greatest poets sang this. If you can, find out the meaning.”
Day 23, Month of Rabi’ al-awwal (Early Spring),
University of Punjab, Lahore, 1882 CE
Having just enrolled her son at the prestigious university, Yasmin was on her way to meet its founder — a prospect that terrified and delighted her in equal parts. Women did not have the opportunity to move in the public sphere, but having seen her son’s admission form, Dr Gottlieb Wilhelm Leitner had actually asked to see her. Why?
She stepped into the large, airy room; a distinguished European rose in welcome.
“I am glad you are here, Madame,” he said in faultless Punjabi. “Scores have walked these lands before me, both learned men and invaders. The former spread their knowledge where they went; the invaders — Greeks, Romans, Persians, Arabs, Turks — did their best to erase what was here, and replace it with what was theirs. My people might have invaded, but I seek to restore your heritage. Your son shall learn his native tongue.”
Yasmin listened, touched. “Why did you wish to see me?”
“Do you see that plaque, on the wall?”
She craned her head and glimpsed beautiful, cursive lettering. “Just as a piece of iron to be forged into a fine sword, so must you bear the iron smith’s constant, heavy blows,” she read aloud.
“Years ago, a wise woman quoted the original — Sultan Bahu’s Punjabi poem — and asked me to understand its meaning.” He smiled. “I merely wanted to tell her that I did.”
Historical Note: Dr. Gottlieb Wilhelm Leitner (1840 – 1899) was an Orientalist, and an expert linguist. There are stories that he travelled in the East in disguise; his love of the cause for Indian Education prompted him to found a great many schools and colleges. His tomb contains the inscription, “The learned are honoured in their work.”
