It’s 1974. I am at the Punjab University’s canteen with some friends. After leaving the Government College, Lahore, I took shelter in one of the university hostels. It’s a teachers’ hostel.

Izzat Majeed, a unique human being and generous to a fault, who teaches at the Department of Administrative Science, lodged me in his apartment that he doesn’t use but is entitled to. A man comes striding to us. He is noticeable by his appearance; he is tall and lanky with a seemingly wild-eyed look. His eyes when looked into surprisingly show no signs of rage or desperation. They are rather full to the brim with a childlike sense of wonder. Someone tells the man is an Urdu poet and a leftist. He quotes his verses on the Balochistan military operation launched by Z.A. Bhutto’s regime. The man is a diehard supporter of Bhutto. And yet he has the moral courage to denounce the atrocity which would have a disastrous impact on the country’s political landscape. The dialogue turns to the much-neglected role of mother language and indigenous culture. The question has come to the forefront in the wake of the recent political upsurge. The man listens carefully but shows neither agreement nor disagreement as if he is weighing things up. I am perhaps the only one in the group who writes in his mother language, Punjabi. The guest is a Seraiki (previously Multani) speaker from Multan. We imperceptibly cozy up to each other for some unknown reasons. Perhaps it is my speaking in Seraiki that delights him. This is our first meeting. The man is Abid Ameeq. He also meets other writers including Najm Hosain Syed during his visit.

The same year we meet again in Lahore. Unlike so many middle-class Seraiki intellectuals he loves Lahore. “It’s a happening city where one can talk on any subject, even on the tabooed ones, with the city intelligentsia,” he says with obvious relish. “I have started composing poetry in Seraiki,” he announces with a glow of pride. We talk about all the things under the sun in our youthful zeal. Politics too is a matter of intense debate. Because of his political instinct, he is connected with the political cadre of the Left but in an unobtrusive way. He has no wish to be at the centre stage. Backstage is his zone of comfort. He knows social transformation is a product of collective effort. But strangely he is a loner. He is passionately involved in literature, art and aesthetics unlike political workers. Poetry is his forte. We frequently meet. He stays with me whenever he is in Lahore. Droves of intellectuals from different regions regularly pour into the city. Air breeds dreams.

Martial law is imposed in 1977. Political activities are banned. He helps organise trade unions’ protests in their resistance against newly enforced draconian laws. He is transferred from a college in Multan to Government College, Sahiwal, my ancestral town. He persists in his activities for a democratic society. One night he is picked up and imprisoned in Sahiwal jail known for being a hell for its prisoners.

Nabila Kayani is perhaps the only person among friends who periodically visits her in prison. Nasreen, my wife, who lives in Sahiwal regularly goes to his home to help Saaji, Abid’s wife, to take care of her three lovely kids. Together, both the women try to sort out other small but important things in a trying situation to make it possible for the family to stay on track.

Abid is finally released but not let off the hook. He is constantly stalked by moles to restrain his activities. He doesn’t mind as long as he is not physically threatened, he tells me laughingly. “Their presence, visible and disguised, is surely unsettling but now I am used to it. They especially follow me when I leave for Lahore or leave Lahore. I at times have tea with one of the moles I am familiar with in the dining car on the train while traveling.” He talks of a military major who meets him on the train and warns him of a trap laid for him by spooks in a show of sympathy. He fondly remembers major’s graciousness while castigating the martial law regime. He along with Salahuddin Haidar, his colleague and a reputable intellectual, is transferred to Narrah Kanjur, the boondocks in district Attock as a punishment. The place is totally cut off from the world; It’s accessible only through a banger-like local train that chugs with difficulty. Every month he has to travel to district headquarters Attock to collect his pay cheque. He suffers from severe migraine as a result of his neuro disorder that causes epileptic fits making moving and traveling an ordeal even in the best of conditions. He finds an aesthetic way of alleviating his pain; he starts exploring the area. It’s hilly, rugged but weirdly enchanting.The wild landscape comes as a relief and subtly becomes the stuff of his poetry. A local river Nanda makes a hauntingly mysterious appearance in his poems. One of his stunningly sensuous love poems has it in the foreground: “…Like children suddenly we both start running, together, with the bloom in our laughter/How your stole flying like a bird in the strong wind finally lands on the waters of Nandna, with the blissful poise!”.He talks of the river with me but not of the woman who made the experience significant as a poetic expression. I don’t insist. Not insisting to know more than what is volunteered is an unwritten agreement between us regardless of whether it’s a love affair or political activity. We both love privacy like Europeans.

Abid is not left alone though he seems to be away from the political centre of gravity. His movement is tracked and his activity is monitored making him realise that Big Brother watches. Spooks at times meet him and try to persuade him to renounce his anti-dictatorship political views for his personal safety. He neither submits nor acquiesces to their suggestions.“… How long will you loaf around? / Write something/ Write about the weather if nothing else occurs to you / I won’t write about the weather/ Why should I be beaten with shoes? / It’s different weather now…”. — soofi01@hotmail.com

Published in Dawn, January 17th, 2022