As far as the eye could see, there were stretches of green lawns dotted with colourful stalls, a festive scene. I was studying at the University of Manchester on a British Council scholarship and had gone to the University of Lancaster to attend an international conference. During breaks between sessions, participants strolled through the book fair at the event. It was there that I met Urmila, or perhaps her name was something similar. In conversation, she mentioned that she belonged to the family of the renowned Urdu writer and poet, Kanwar Mahinder Singh Bedi “Sahar.”
“Really?” I said.
“You know his name?” she asked.
I told her that anyone who loves Urdu literature knows his name. A spark of pride lit up her eyes, but then she said in a wistful tone, “I wish I could read Urdu so I could enjoy his writings.”
That was my first and last meeting with Urmila.
Many decades have passed since that day. Today, while attending a university literature carnival in Islamabad, the sight of green lawns, colourful stalls, and lively crowds felt strangely familiar. Where had I seen such a scene before? Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, the fog of memory does not clear.
At the carnival, many well-known Pakistani writers were in attendance, and the atmosphere resembled that of a grand fair. From one of the book stalls, I purchased Yadon Ka Jashn (A Celebration of Memories), the autobiography of Kanwar Mahinder Singh Bedi. When I saw his name on the cover, it was as if distant bells started to ring. The fog lifted, and suddenly the faded image of the Lancaster conference and Urmila from Bedi’s family reappeared vividly.
That evening, at home, I lost myself in Bedi’s Celebration of Memories. It is the story of a man born in Montgomery (now Sahiwal), educated at Aitchison College and Government College Lahore, who later held senior positions across undivided India. After Partition, he migrated to India, but his heart never stopped longing for Pakistan. Bedi’s book is like an enchanting spell; you lose all sense of time while reading it. When I finally finished it, dawn was breaking. Time and again, I was struck by how kindness, compassion, and good manners can carry one through life’s most difficult paths.
Having spent most of my life as a teacher educator, I am often asked: What makes a good teacher? I believe that beyond knowledge and teaching methods, a teacher’s attitude matters most — their empathy, the way they listen to students, value them, and treat them with respect. All this came back to me vividly as I read this passage from Bedi’s childhood:
“My education began at Government High School, Montgomery. I studied there until class five, but those early years left a deep mark on my life. It was there that my lifelong love for the Urdu language began. Sometimes, seemingly small incidents shape a person’s entire outlook on life. At that school were two teachers: Master Bishambar Das, who taught us arithmetic, and Maulvi Abdul Majeed, who taught us Urdu. The difference in their temperament was like that between earth and sky.
Master Abdul Majeed, Principal Kelly, and the mother are all timeless symbols of love and compassion. They stand apart from the crowd, still glowing like lamps in the corners of memory
Master Bishambar Das would bask in the sun while his disabled son made us memorise tables. The poor boy drooled constantly, and his odd gestures made us laugh uncontrollably. He would then complain to his father, who, without inquiry, would thrash us with a cane.
Maulvi Abdul Majeed, on the other hand, was gentle and kind. He explained lessons with stories and examples. If any student was absent, he would visit his home the next day to ask after him. His compassion made students love him deeply. I, too, was devoted to him, and through that devotion, I fell in love with the Urdu language.”
Bedi describes a similar experience at Aitchison College, writing how one teacher’s kindness wins hearts:
“During my college days, Mr Kelly was the Principal and Mr R. G. Wright the Vice Principal. The two were worlds apart in nature. Mr Kelly was kind, humble, and God-fearing; Mr Wright was self-centred, irritable, and conservative.
Mr Kelly always rode a bicycle, his dog Rory running beside him, even into the classroom while he taught. Mrs Kelly was equally gracious, treating students like her own children, perhaps because she had none of her own. If a student fell ill, she personally cared for him, sometimes bringing him home to nurse him. The students loved her dearly.”
And when speaking of love, how can one forget a mother, the truest symbol of selfless affection? Bedi writes:
“One day, as I was meeting petitioners at my residence, an elderly woman came in, sobbing uncontrollably. She said her son, under his wife’s influence, had beaten her mercilessly. I called a doctor to treat her wounds. The old woman wailed that she would not rest until her son was punished in the same way.
I phoned the local inspector and asked him to bring the son before me. A few hours later, he arrived with the young man. The mother pointed at him, crying, ‘He’s the cruel one who beat me! Punish him as he punished me!’
I ordered the inspector to make him squat as punishment. The inspector began to beat him with a shoe, and within moments the boy screamed in pain. The old mother, standing nearby, suddenly leapt forward, threw herself over her son, and cried, ‘He is my child, forgive him!’ She snatched the shoes from the inspector’s hands and shielded her son with her body.”
Master Abdul Majeed, Principal Kelly, and the mother are all timeless symbols of love and compassion. They stand apart from the crowd, still glowing like lamps in the corners of memory.
Love, that wondrous feeling which defies logic and reason, cannot truly be described — only felt. It is the fragrance that lingers among colourful flowers, the stream that runs through green valleys, the ray of light that enters the dark forest of life. Today, the fragrant memories of Mahinder Singh Bedi surround me once again; the man born in Montgomery, who rose to distinction, shone like the sun in the sky of poetry, and who, until his last breath, remembered the land he had left behind.