Ballad of the Reshmi Roomal by A. Asad

Preface Ballad of the Reshmi Roomal is not just a poem — it is a remembrance. It revives the silenced voices of those scholars, freedom fighters, and spiritual leaders who chose gallows over silence and silk threads over swords. In an era when the British Empire ruled with cruelty and fear, a quiet revolution began — in the mosques, in the madrassas, and in the hearts of the brave Maulanas and Hafizes who dreamt of a free Hindustan. This ballad brings forth forgotten names and sacred sacrifices — from the Fatwa of Jihad issued at Darul Uloom Deoband, to the secret message of the Reshmi Roomal Tehreek, and finally, to the hanging trees of Delhi that bore the weight of both bodies and belief. “It is a poetic tribute to the fearless freedom fighters who gave their all for a nation unborn and a future unseen. Here, history and poetry unite to sing India’s struggle.” About the Poet Abdul Asad is a poet whose words echo from the soil of sacrifice and the silence of history. Known for his deeply nationalistic and soulful poetry, he explores themes of identity, truth, loss, and the unheard voices that shaped the nation. Rooted in the traditions of classical Urdu-Hindi poetry and inspired by India’s long and painful freedom struggle, Asad brings the past to life — not just as a historian of emotion, but as a guardian of forgotten names. His verses often bridge the personal and the political, the sacred and the revolutionary, making him one of the rising literary voices of contemporary patriotic poetry. Poet’s Reflection When I wrote Ballad of the Reshmi Roomal, I did not hold a pen — I held my breath. I was walking among ghosts, beneath the tamarind trees of Delhi where Maulanas were hung without trial, and beside the silk cloths that carried freedom in every secret word. This poem is not mine alone — it belongs to Maulana Mahmood Hasan, to Ubaidullah Sindhi, to Hafiz Karim, and to every unnamed soul who sacrificed their lives so that we may breathe freely. As I wrote, I realized that ink can carry pain, but verse can carry legacy. This ballad is my nazrana, a humble offering at the feet of those who walked to the gallows with a smile and left behind the flame of Hindustan. Ballad of the Reshmi Roomal By Abdul Asad I. The Fatwa of Flame In Deoband’s hall, the silence broke, As Maulanas rose and the minbar spoke. “This zulm must end, this firangi rule— Jihad is wajib, O nation’s school!” Maulana Mahmood Hasan’s fiery gaze, Lit up the soul like sacred blaze. “Islam and Hind, they breathe as one— And now their war has just begun.” From Darul Uloom to village dome, The fatwa reached each humble home. It wasn’t swords they summoned first, But faith, resolve, and nation’s thirst. II. The Silken Secret Then came the handkerchief—Reshmi Roomal, A soft-spoken storm, a secret call. No cannon’s roar, no marching drum, Just coded lines to stir the slum. Maulana Mahmood Hasan, bold and wise, Wrote letters with hope in captured eyes. To Turkey, to Kabul, messages flew, In silk embroidered, in faith so true. Beside him stood Ubaidullah Sindhi, Dreaming a land forever free. From Kabul’s dust to tribal flame, He sent the call in Allah’s name. III. Betrayal and the British Chain But spies were sharp and scripts were caught, And with it all, their dreams were bought. The Reshmi plan, now torn and known, Would cost the pious flesh and bone. Arrested, beaten, shackled tight, Dragged like shadows from holy light. Maulana Ahmad Saeed they took, And from his hands, his Qur’an and book. No soldier’s grave, no final prayer, They hung them from trees in Chandni’s air. Their bodies swung in Delhi’s breeze, While angels wept above the trees. IV. The Hafiz and the Noose Hafiz Karim, who taught the youth The words of peace and verses of truth, Was called a traitor, burned in shame— And kissed the rope in Allah’s own name. V. Forgotten But Free No statues mark their silent graves, No medals hung, no national praise. Yet Hindustan, in dusk and dawn, Breathes through the breath of those long gone. O children of this sacred soil, Your freedom grew from saints who toiled. With pen, with prayer, with silken thread They wrote their love, and then they bled. Remember them in whispered name, Who saw no throne, who sought no fame. The Maulana, Hafiz, tree and rope, Still hold this land in sacred hope. Epilogue — The Poet’s Prayer So let this verse be witness still, Of those who walked with iron will. Their tale now blooms in written flame, In every drop — a hallowed name. And one who heard their silent tread, Who wrote the words they never said. He signs this song with soul and pen, A voice for all forgotten men. — Abdul Asad, A poet of dust, of hope, of dawn, Who sings for those forever gone.