By Muhammad Mohsin Iqbal
Although mid-January arrives with icy winds at their fiercest and the mercury seems to sink perilously close to freezing, it is also the season when memory awakens with unusual intensity. The chill in the air carries with it the warmth of remembrance, drawing the mind irresistibly toward the narrow, winding streets of Lahore. What the younger generation now terms the “Walled City,” what others know as Androon-e-Shehr, and what Lahoris simply call Shehr, was then a living organism, breathing history, culture, and intimacy. Winter nights echoed with the rhythmic calls of “Garam Aanday,” while peanuts and pine nuts were sold by lantern light. Afternoons were softened by sunshine and sweetened by oranges and kinnows, and mornings began with the unmistakable aromas of Siri Paye, Bong, Nihari, and Chanay, served generously with hot Kulchas or Puri Halwa, meals that nourished both body and soul.
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As January waned, conversation everywhere turned toward the first Sunday of February, for Basant had already been officially announced. The mere mention of the word was enough to ignite anticipation. Those living abroad would send messages weeks in advance, declaring their return especially for Basant and urging families to fix weddings of their relatives and close friends during those auspicious days, so that marriage and Basant can be celebrated at the same time. Relatives and friends working in the Middle East were entrusted with a specific task; bringing back Nar’ra (Thread), regarded as superior and reliable. In Lahore, Kasur, and nearby towns, string-coating Addas bustled with activity. Orders were placed well ahead of time, colors carefully chosen, and once the string was ready, eager customers lined up at kite shops. It was customary to take along seasoned Ustaad (expert) who could judge the balance of a kite or the smoothness of a spool at a glance. The kites and Guddis purchased earlier were handled with reverence, adjusted, tested, and carefully set aside.
In the days leading up to Basant, Lahore itself seemed to change its rhythm. Rooftops were cleaned, parapets repaired, and ladders readied. Nights were spent tightening and stretching kites and spools under dim bulbs, hands numbed by cold yet driven by excitement. Sleep was a rare luxury on the eve of Basant. At dawn, the first triumphant cries of “Bo-kata!” pierced the air, soon multiplying across neighborhoods. As the sun climbed, the sky blossomed into a riot of color, countless kites dancing like living beings, responding to every gust of wind. Women dressed in yellow, bangles clinked, and turmeric-hued dupattas fluttered from rooftops, while traditional songs and playful taunts drifted from house to house.
By noon, special dishes marked the festivity; Qeemay Walay Naan in many homes, Gajraila simmering slowly in others, along with an array of sweets and savories shared generously with neighbors and guests. Friendly rivalries sometimes flared into minor scuffles, but elders intervened swiftly, restoring harmony with a few firm words and gentle counsel. Basant was, after all, a festival of togetherness. As evening approached, the celebration intensified rather than faded. At the end of the day, the era of giant kites would begin in the name of Sham Kalyan, which was a great treat for the eyes.
With the onset of night, rooftops and grounds were illuminated by floodlights, transforming the dark sky into a glowing stage. Night Basant had its own magic. Giant kites were launched under brilliant lights, their shadows gliding majestically across illuminated clouds, while specially prepared spools were tested in dramatic contests that drew cheers from all around. The glow of floodlights, the hum of generators, and the echo of laughter gave Lahore a festive brilliance unmatched by daylight.
In those days, Basant largely belonged to the lower-middle and middle classes, who celebrated it with sincerity rather than spectacle. Many children from elite families viewed kite flying as undignified or feared injury, and thus remained distant observers. The festival’s transformation began later, when it received formal government patronage. In Lahore, much of the credit for promoting Basant at an official and international level goes to Kamran Lashari, then Commissioner Lahore. With private-sector collaboration, the festival was reshaped, marketed, and projected globally. While this recognition elevated Basant’s profile, it also altered its character, pushing it beyond the modest means of those who had once been its custodians.
Tragedy followed when chemical string replaced Door (traditional cotton-coated string). The sky that once symbolized joy became a site of mourning, as lives were lost and families shattered. Gradually, the festival faded into silence. Today, the Punjab government has once again sought to revive Basant under official supervision, banning chemical string and hazardous practices. Whether these measures will be enforced effectively remains uncertain. God forbid, if blood again stains this celebration, not only will cherished lives be lost, but the very survival of Basant may be threatened.
Kamran Lashari remains among those still engaged with this festival, and it is hoped that lessons of the past will guide present efforts. Even now, I profoundly miss those days. Perhaps these recollections will awaken dormant memories in others as well, and in doing so, bring to mind those dear souls who once stood beside us on rooftops, eyes lifted to the same sky, hearts united by the simple, radiant joy of Basant.
