The Asma Jahangir I knew

he Asma Jahangir I knew, albeit briefly, was an extremely affable and loving person. She had the energy of a little girl, was easily excitable and very gregarious. She was far removed from the persona of a woman who took on dictators and the religious establishment; even military officers.

The first time I met her was during my college years. Aaji (Azhar Ali Malik) was our classmate and lived off Ferozepur Road. On one of my visits to his house, I saw two girls, almost our age but slightly younger, around. They were not always there during my visits. Asma, in particular, was eager to engage in conversation with the boys, confidently taking them on – a confidence that made my knees shake, draining my own.

It was during one such visit that we met a man – Aaji’s uncle. He was a kindly, affectionate man, willing to engage in small talk with boys four decades his junior. At the time, we did not know that this uncle was Malik Ghulam Jilani or that the two girls were none other than Asma and Hina. Nor did we realise that Malik Jilani was a well-known politician who had found himself on the wrong side of those in power. As we later learned, his properties had been confiscated by the government, forcing him to move into the house of a close relative. That was how we came to meet him and his daughters.

The next time I encountered Asma was a couple of years later, at a play we were staging. Dark Room by Sarmad Sehbai was struggling – its avant-garde script clashed with a production that was far too conventional. The director, Farooq Zameer, had done his best, but it was not resonating with theatre-goers. By the second or third night – possibly a holiday – we were hoping for a larger audience and, more importantly, decent ticket sales. The proceeds were vital, as we had to pay rent for the auditorium at APWA, cover the cost of props and settle the printing expenses. The earnings from the first two nights had been so dismal that we were on the verge of defaulting on payments to those working on the production.

Imran Aslam and Usman Peerzada had done their best to invite friends and sell tickets. Since girls were also invited, it was an exciting opportunity. On the third evening, the turnout seemed reasonable and we expected ticket sales to more than cover our expenses. It was a satisfying and thrilling sight – especially with a fair number of girls in the audience.

Salman Sheikh, who was in charge of tickets, seemed to be managing things well – until his two cousins, Seema Iftikhar and Gupplo Sheikh, arrived with a friend in tow. That friend was Asma Jilani. At the sight of these three young women, Salman Sheikh lost all sense of duty. Eager to impress and be chivalrous, he grandly escorted them to the best seats in the auditorium, abandoning the ticket booth – and the cash drawer.

At the time, we were in awe of the vast array of female friends Salman Sheikh appeared to have. But in his excitement, he had neglected to secure the proceeds he had placed in the drawer. Playing the perfect gentleman and self-proclaimed Casanova, he focused on chaperoning and engaging in glib conversation. When he finally returned to the ticket booth, he discovered that not only had all the money been stolen, but the unsold tickets had also vanished. The theatre was full, many audience members had somehow acquired tickets, and all we could do was lament our losses. Once hailed as a hero, Salman Sheikh quickly became the villain of the night. We had all secretly hoped that these ladies would at least come to commiserate with us. Alas, they did not.

Decades passed. Asma Jilani became Asma Jahangir, an internationally renowned figure, fearless in taking on the world. In certain circles, she was cast as villainous.

Despite her stature, she was a gracious host, even to semi-invited guests like me. Once, I mentioned to her that I had opened a girls’ school in my village but was struggling financially to keep it running, let alone expand or upgrade it. Without hesitation, she invited me over the next day to plan a fundraising effort.

When I arrived, she took me out to lunch at a restaurant recommended by her daughter, Muneeze – Asma herself had no idea where to go, as she rarely spent time away from the pressing issues that constantly demanded her attention. Over lunch, she began making phone calls – without hesitation, without a moment’s doubt. She called important people and organisations that were funding large initiatives in the country. She contacted donors from various NGOs, passionately advocating for my school.

The way she spoke about the initiative, she made it sound like a grand, game-changing project. Listening to her, I felt as though she was describing a completely different school – one that bore little resemblance to the small, tentative initiative I had conceived. She exaggerated and embellished every detail to make it sound crucial, urgent and indispensable.

Her enthusiasm was so overwhelming, her belief so absolute, that I found myself feeling small in comparison. In truth, I was so intimidated that I failed to follow up on many of the promises people had made at her insistence. My own vision felt inadequate against the sheer force of her conviction.

That was Asma Jahangir – a woman whose response was always full-throttle, never cynical or reserved. Unlike so many in positions of power and influence, she did not hesitate, did not weigh her actions with suspicion. She took things at face value, responded with warmth and enthusiasm – almost to a fault.

The writer is a culture critic based in Lahore