Since the official announcement of Basant’s revival in Lahore this year under certain restrictions, I found myself defending many things at once: my Punjabi identity, my Lahori identity, my socio-economic class; even my profession as an academic. I have had to convince people that the need to have fun should not always require justifications. As a Pakistani, having grown up around the Taliban insurgency, sectarian violence and a general absence of the rule of law, the unbanning of Basant seemed like something I had to fiercely defend.

As a Punjabi, I attach immense cultural value to this festival. History reminds us that Basant had long been a secular celebration, deeply tied to the Punjab’s agrarian rhythm: spring, renewal and hope for an abundant harvest. Yet, the festival also carries religious layers that demand reflection. The story of Haqiqat Rai — a Hindu boy from Sialkot, in 18th-Century Subah Lahore — takes us in that direction.

The ballad of Haqiqat Rai (Haqiqat Rai di Vaar), written by a Sikh poet, Aggar Singh, in 1784, claims the legacy of the young boy, barely 13 or 14 years old, being stoned to death by the clergy of the time on allegations of blasphemy. The Mughal Empire still ruled Lahore, with Zakaria Khan serving as the subedar. Under intense pressure from the clergy, compounded by a misunderstanding that Haqiqat Rai was a Sikh, the execution was carried out. Sikhs at the time were a persecuted community. Although Zakaria Khan had initially tried to halt the stoning on the condition that Haqiqat Rai convert to Islam, he eventually reversed his decision. Rai maintained his innocence until his last breath. He later came to symbolise resistance for both Hindu and Sikh communities in the region. His death anniversary continued to be commemorated for decades. It fell on the day of Basant.

Muslims in the Punjab too, have celebrated Basant with great enthusiasm. Historical accounts link the festival to Sufi Islam, particularly through the poet Amir Khusro’s writings about Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya’s fondness for mustard flowers. Following the death of his young nephew, Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya was consumed by grief. One spring day, women from nearby villages dressed in yellow, danced through mustard fields, as was the tradition. In an attempt to lift his master’s spirits, Amir Khusro dressed in yellow himself and presented him with mustard flowers. It is said that this gesture brought a rare smile to Hazrat Nizam’s face. Since then, Basant has been celebrated within Sufi tradition, with tens of thousands of devotees — Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs — gathering annually to honour the devotion of a disciple to his master, dressed in yellow, immersed in qawwalis and paying homage at his dargah.

Regardless of whether one subscribes to these historical narratives, Basant has held great significance for Lahore. At one point, Lahore and Basant were inseparable. People from across the world travelled to the city to witness the celebrations. They included Bollywood celebrities like Vinod Khanna and Rekha in 1989; corporate figures such as John Reed, a former chairman of Citibank; and the Duke and Duchess of Somerset, who were invited by Imran Khan during his cricketing days in the 1980s.

Traditionally, kite-flying took place during the day and in parks. However, by the 1980s, night flying and rooftop battles had taken centre stage. This centuries-old tradition came to an abrupt and unsettling halt in 2007, when the government imposed a ban following repeated fatalities. While the loss of life was the stated reason, the ban was also the result of sustained pressure from religious clerics. Each year, protests would erupt declaring Basant a Hindu festival and branding Muslim participants as deviating from Islam.

The sentiment persists today. Travel content creator Bilal Hassan recounts being reprimanded by a ride-hailing app driver in Lahore, who insisted that celebrating Basant was haram.

Beyond religious contestation, the economic dimension of Basant is substantial. A group of friends and I had booked a rooftop in the Walled City, near Akbari and Delhi Gates. I purchased barcoded kites two days in advance from a registered shop and clothing store. The markets were overwhelmingly male-dominated. I remember feeling a strange sense of triumph until I realised that buying kites was the easy part. The real challenge was finding pinna. There was a shortage across markets and we were mocked for being “late” despite the fact that Basant was still two days away.

Reluctant to visit Mochi Gate, I eventually found myself there. Wrapped in a large black shawl, my face masked, I entered a sea of men. I spotted only two other women in my limited field of vision. Mildly claustrophobic, the search for pinna became unbearable by the minute. When we finally gave up and turned to leave, we noticed a small gathering near rows of motorcycles with metal rods jutting out front, as per government directive.

They have the pinna, we all seemed to think. After confirming the barcode, we bought it for Rs 15,000, a price far beyond what it should have been.

As the first day of Basant arrived and we prepared to celebrate on a rooftop in Old Lahore, an unfamiliar mix of excitement and anxiety had settled in. The joy was expected; the anxiety wasn’t. A flood of images on social media of friends and families celebrating in parks and on rooftops had triggered a quiet unease.

In Pakistan, joy is almost always accompanied, or swiftly overshadowed, by grief. As I looked at my turquoise and purple, silk shalwar qamees — the brightest outfit I had chosen to wear on Basant — I was transported back to my school days, waiting eagerly for a class trip, with my coloured clothes hanging near my bed, only to learn the trip had been cancelled due to a suicide bombing in the city.

Sadly, history seemed to repeat itself. An imambargah in Islamabad was attacked in a suicide bombing, on the first day of Basant. The tragedy forced many to reconsider their celebrations. Those who had already participated were left grappling with guilt layered over grief. Some of us subdued our festivities in solidarity with the bereaved.

What lingered for me were questions rather than closure. As a woman who has lived in Pakistan for over 30 years, I found myself asking if I was being apathetic for continuing with life as it unfolded, or if this was simply a desperate attempt to cling to sanity? Should I have not defended Basant on the pretext of a lost chance to breathe and have some fun? Perhaps fun and happiness in Pakistan always comes with strings attached, quite literally.

Faaria Khan is a lecturer at LUMS and a human rights researcher. Her research interests lie at the intersection of education, gender and South Asian minorities