The next day, the first thing I did was visit my mother. The moment she saw me, her face lit up with a huge smile, and just like that, the exhaustion from my travels seemed to vanish. She pulled me into a warm embrace, and for a while, everything else faded away.
Mother: "How was your trip, my son?" she asked, her voice as comforting as ever.
I returned her smile. "It was wonderful, Amma. I saw so many incredible places and tried all kinds of foods. Each city had something special about it."
I spoke only of the wonders I'd seen, leaving out any mention of the revolution or the challenges ahead. I didn't want her to worry—there was no need to burden her with thoughts of what lay ahead.
After the warm reunion, I shared a light breakfast with my mother. As we ate, I told her more about my travels and how every place seemed to have its own unique way of starting the day.
Qadir: "In Lucknow, they served me a soft, fluffy naan with nihari—it was rich and spiced just right. Faizabad's breakfasts were simpler, with warm puris and sweetened milk. But Kolkata was different entirely, Amma. There, I had luchis with potato curry, and their sweets are something else—sandesh, soaked in syrup, melts in your mouth."
I paused, taking a bite of fruit, before continuing.
Qadir: "Hyderabad had its own flavor—kebabs and khichdi for breakfast, and in Mumbai, they start the day with pav, those small, pillowy breads, served with spicy bhaji."
My mother listened with a smile, enjoying the tales as much as I had enjoyed the food. It was the perfect distraction, but I knew my mind would soon have to turn to heavier thoughts.
After breakfast, I excused myself and headed to my study. The time had come to get serious, to begin laying down the foundations for the future. The revolution of 1857 was fast approaching, and I knew every move, every decision, would have a lasting impact. A single mistake could shift the tides, and that wasn't something I could afford.
As I sat down in my study, I called for my servant.
Qadir: "Bring me some paper and ink. I need to jot down my thoughts."
He returned promptly with the materials, setting them carefully on the desk before me. I dipped the pen into the ink, but as I stared at the deep black liquid, a thought crossed my mind: How foolish I've been.
I had improved the paper, but what about the tools to write on it? The irony wasn't lost on me: incomplete plans, incomplete progress. I shook my head, realizing that if even small things were left unfinished, how could I expect to succeed in the larger scheme?
But I had no time to waste on such thoughts. The ink could wait—India couldn't.
I divided my plan in my mind, mapping out each step with a newfound clarity. If I were to unite this fractured land, I had to be strategic, and precise.
First, I needed to identify the root causes of our divisions. Why were we so scattered? Why did every region, every ruler, cling to their own power while the British quietly drained us of ours? Was it religion, language, or simply the comfort of familiarity? Understanding this was the foundation—without knowing the why, I couldn't address the how.
Second, I had to decide if these problems could be removed entirely or, if not, bent in such a way that they could work for us rather than against us. Could our diversity be turned into strength? Could the differences between us be seen as threads in a larger, more unified fabric? These were questions I would have to answer as I moved forward.
Third, and perhaps most importantly, I needed to implement these ideas carefully, one by one, and observe the results. If something worked, I'd refine it, perfect it. If it didn't, I'd have to adjust and try again. There was no room for pride or stubbornness in this; the stakes were far too high. It was a cycle of constant improvement until it worked perfectly.
As I stared at the blank paper, another question came to mind—what did we have in common? What could serve as the foundation for a collective identity?
We had our land—vast and rich, from the towering mountains in the north to the fertile plains and rivers that nourished our crops. It was a land we had lived on for centuries, one that had sustained us through famines and wars alike.
Then there was our history. It was filled with empires, rulers, and warriors who had once united us under grand banners, who had fought fiercely to protect this land. There was pride in our shared past, a reminder that we were capable of standing together when it mattered.
Food, too, was something that linked us. Every region had its own dishes, its own spices, but there was a common love for the meals we shared. Whether it was the simple dal from the plains or the rich biryanis of the south, food had a way of bringing people together—at the hearth, at the table, across social divides.
But beyond that? I thought deeper. There was our spirituality. Despite the differences in faith, there was a common reverence for life, for nature, and for the unseen forces that shaped our world. Whether Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, or others, our people believed in something greater than themselves.
And finally, there was the struggle itself. Whether oppressed by heavy taxes, the British military, or the loss of land, we all felt the weight of their rule. This shared suffering, this longing for freedom, could become the force that united us, if I could harness it properly.
I now had a list. The land. The history. The food. The spirituality. And the struggle. These would be the building blocks of our revolution.
Seeing these similarities, a soft smile crept onto my face, one I didn't even notice at first. At least I had found something—a common thread that ran through all of us. It was a start. Now, the real challenge was figuring out how to leverage these connections and turn them into a solution.
I leaned back in my chair, thinking deeper. What did our future freedom fighters use? What tools, ideas, or strategies did they employ to bind such a diverse nation together? They had used symbols, no doubt—something as simple as a flag could inspire pride. They rallied around leaders, people who could give voice to the collective struggle. And they crafted stories—tales of resistance, of past victories, and of hope.
They also drew upon the power of poems and songs, weaving words that stirred emotions and inspired action. A well-placed verse could move hearts, just as a song sung in unity could ignite a fire in the spirit of the people.
Perhaps I needed to think like them, to find something that would stir hearts, something that could make everyone, from the farmer to the prince, feel part of the same cause. Symbols, leaders, stories, poems, and songs—these would be key. But what would work in my time? What could ignite that spark?