Spirit of those no longer with us

AS we drove from Ghazipur railway station to our village in east Uttar Pradesh last weekend, I noticed that the mango trees that line the highway have lightened up with fresh yellow-green flowers — a sign that winter is handing over the baton to spring and soon it will be mango season in north India. My daughters, my parents and my brother were travelling with me. We were on our way to the chaliswa ceremony and commemoration of my late father-in-law’s legacy, on the 40th day since his death in the ninth decade of his life.

My husband, sisters-in-law and a large section of our extended family were already at home when I reached. We were expecting our friends and hundreds of people who had known, admired and loved Mirza Ashfaq Beg, our papa. Our hearts were heavy with loss yet the atmosphere was charged with a peaceful energy. Kittens appeared from their hiding places and fresh white buds fluttered on Ammi’s rose bush, as if to welcome us home.

The day began with a collective reading of the Koran. My husband offered me an English version and reminded me again how to find verses from the index in the holy book. My father read a Hindi version on his smartphone.

With minimal coordination among us, papa’s grandson, Fahad, my husband and I switched into host mode to facilitate the public function that had been planned in the open village square just outside the courtyard in front of our home. Fahad had edited a video with diverse photos of papa’s life, ranging from black and white images from pre-Independence India to every stage of his journey as a teacher, mentor, community leader and family man. On the soundtrack of the video were excerpts of papa’s speeches and conversations.

I had chosen a saree from my late mother-in-law’s wardrobe as my quiet personal homage to the woman whose love has nourished my adult years. I was going to conduct the day’s programme, standing in the exact place where papa used to sit every day. As I stepped forward to welcome everyone, I found myself facing people who represented the mosaic of India’s diversity. There were villagers and political leaders. My family and my husband’s relatives. Friends and relatives from as far as America and Mumbai and others who had given Papa company in this village.

“Will the women of the family sit outside the home?” one of the aunts wondered aloud. “No, we will watch the proceedings from the windows behind the stage,” she said, answering her own question.

“Chaliye, baaji, we have arranged a special sofa for you,” my husband said to her, escorting her lovingly to a space she had never stepped into before. Just like that, there was no need to honour an imaginary purdah anymore. Papa would have approved. We knew that.

As memories, anecdotes and lessons were shared, the list of people who wanted to address the gathering grew longer and longer. Everyone remembered the soft skills of Mirza Sahab — he resolved conflicts, he made no distinction between the rich and the poor, men and women, Hindus and Muslims, the young and the old. Papa offered unconditional acceptance to all, even those who were ideologically and politically divergent from him.

“I cannot remember my Nana without also paying homage to Ammi, my Nani who was the safest home I knew in my childhood,” shared Fahad. “I grew up believing that I was their favourite person, but I know that this is a belief that many more people hold with equal confidence. This was their greatness, that they could make so many feel loved and special.”

Papa’s daughter in Karachi and other grandchildren abroad participated in the event via video. I found myself introducing people I had never met before and yet feeling like we were all one community. The spirit of those who were gone was palpable around us; their love and lived ideals were there to guide us.

As we played Fahad’s video again to mark the end of speeches and the beginning of lunch, Papa’s prescient voice boomed over the speakers and all around in the village. Addressing a group of schoolchildren on India’s Independence Day a few years ago, Papa had said, “When you are asked who will protect this country, you always reply that you will do it. How will you do it?

“The country does not need to be protected with guns and weapons. Our duty is not just to celebrate the sacrifices of our ancestors and what they did for the country. We contribute towards our country by building character. Your success will be the success of this country. May your future be bright. Your development is important for all of us. This is my blessing to you. Ab tumhare hawaale watan saathiyon.”

There could not be better words to conclude the commemoration. As I stood on the threshold of our home and the world outside, I felt a strong sense of belonging and acceptance. “This is our home, our playground, our responsibility,” I thought to myself, feeling a shower of blessings around us.

— The writer is a filmmaker & author