The day before my dada (paternal grandfather) died on a cold winter morning, I saw him reading the day’s newspaper. His small frame was barely visible in the mustard sweater he was wearing, and the brown blanket he had been tucked into. He was leaning against the bedpost, his wooden folding study table – his lifelong companion – firmly balanced on his thin legs. He clipped a news article, and meticulously filed it in a folder lying on his bedside.
The day before my dada (paternal grandfather) died on a cold winter morning, I saw him reading the day’s newspaper. His small frame was barely visible in the mustard sweater he was wearing, and the brown blanket he had been tucked into. He was leaning against the bedpost, his wooden folding study table – his lifelong companion – firmly balanced on his thin legs. He clipped a news article, and meticulously filed it in a folder lying on his bedside.
Syed Ayub Raza, my dada, was 88 years old when he passed on December 27, 1997. He had returned from the hospital a few days earlier as his end was near. We knew it, and so did he. There was an eerie nervousness in his room. He sat alone reading and writing, and we kept going in and out to check if he needed something. To check how much time he had.
On December 27, when he passed, he was surrounded by newspapers and books. It felt strange to clear up his bed without seeking his permission. He was finicky about anyone touching his papers or books, lest we put them away in a corner where they were not meant to be, or worse, misplaced them.
His rare collection of books and maps, his own writings – his diaries and letters – the mountainous piles of newspapers and newspaper clippings stared at us after his demise. We experienced a range of emotions. We were overwhelmed, we were proud, but mostly we were scared to touch his neatly arranged things. His belongings were moved from his own house to his trusted nephew’s and then to our house a couple of years later.
Over the years, the room where his books and papers were stored was often opened and we talked about the strange order in those chaotic piles. And, how could he focus on reading and writing when he was fully aware that the angel of death was waiting to take his soul away?
A month-and-a-half ago – 25 years after his death – we learnt that my dada had made a grand shajra (family tree) of our family. My brother and I decided to finally take the plunge and browse through his things to find it. As we gaped at the rarest of rare maps, and held books by famous writers we had only heard of, the guilt of not having discovered this treasure earlier plagued us. Some of the maps were fraying at the edges, and the book bindings were beginning to come off.
We spent days sorting and cataloging dada’s collection of books, maps, diaries and letters. In between, we took time to read his diary entries. To our surprise, we discovered that the collection of books and diaries was ancestral. The collection included my great grandfather’s books and writings too. In one of my great grandfather’s diaries, I found an entry which mentioned dada’s roll number, when he appeared for his class 8 exams. I found registers in which my great grandfather and his forefathers, at least up to two more generations, had taken notes as students. A hand-drawn map of Spain, and the history of Spain that followed, melted my heart.
The real discovery was the shajra – the family tree. However, there wasn’t just one. We found over a dozen, and we haven’t quite given up the search yet.
Tucked inside envelopes made of newspapers, protected with additional layers of newspapers, the shajras were quite an accidental discovery. Had we not known dada well enough, we would have, perhaps, tossed them away as refuse.
Suddenly, it felt like we were on a treasure hunt. The thrill of discovering one more shajra carefully wrapped inside newspaper envelopes, firmly held in a cardboard file, tied with a white string, kept us going. In between, we would stop and try to decode the beautifully-drawn family trees, with their calligraphic writing, which was barely readable. We would send photos of the shajra to our father, to an uncle, to acquaintances, to strangers, seeking their help to read them. We would sit with a magnifying glass to decipher the fine handwriting. And, when everything else failed, we would use translation apps.
One of the shajras led me to discover that my home town isn’t quite where I was born. A quick trip to my newly-discovered “home town” in search of relatives mentioned in the family tree threw up plenty of surprises. I learnt about a legendary ancestor, a renowned historian of his time, who set up one of the first madrassas in North India. It was a centre of learning which was open to Hindus and Muslims. A famous student from this madarsa, Ram Chandra Saxena, popularly known as Lalaji Maharaj, was initiated into the Sufi order in 1891 by a Sufi saint, Shah Fazl Ahmad Khan, a teacher at the madrassa.
Ramchandraji became his first Hindu disciple. This eventually opened the door for students across religions. Ramchandraji’s mission eventually spread to the UK, Europe and the US. Earlier this year, the government of India issued a commemorative stamp and coin in Ramchandraji’s honour. His samadhi is in Fatehgarh, not far from his teacher’s mazaar.
I visited my ancestors’ graves and learnt how, in recent decades, the status of the madrassa had degraded. This residential school for scholars of Arabic, Persian and Urdu, established in 1809, has now been reduced to a primary school. A large area has been encroached, and classrooms converted into garages. The red stones and wooden beams peeking out of the old structure, once spread over 114 acres, and the “haunted wing”, which had been left untouched, reflected its past grandeur.
The other shajras helped me connect with long lost family. My grandfather and his father left behind detailed notes on how to carry on with the silsila (tradition) of continuing the shajras. They wanted future generations to document names, and other relevant details such as dates of birth. The fun moment was to hear relatives, even those who have retired or are on the verge of retiring, tweak their date of birth for the shajra. Not by a year or two, but often by half a dozen years!
Dealing with family members who migrated to Pakistan was an ordeal. They were too scared to connect or share their family tree, which, ironically, was an extension of the tree prepared by my grandfather. After a fairly long and pleasant phone conversation, a close relative in Islamabad developed cold feet.
Through the family trees, I could trace the route my forefathers took 1,000 years ago to reach the subcontinent after a long stopover in Lahore. The real shocker was when it dawned on me that my ancestors had come to India via Termez (Uzbekistan) with Sultan Mahmood Ghaznavi. Yes, the notorious plunderer!
I can only seek solace in the fact that Ghaznavi himself was not a relative. Unfortunately, of the 60 to 70 families that came around his time, only six or seven survived, and served in various courts as advisers, or as teachers. British historian William Irvine writes in some detail about my ancestors in The Bangash Nawabs of Farrukhabad and on their journey from Lahore to northern India. The portion that excited me was the description of the manuscripts written by the ancestor who bought several houses to establish the madrassa and dedicated his life to teaching and writing. Today, nobody even knows where the library stood, never mind the precious manuscripts.
I can also seek solace in the fact that, in the Indian Mutiny of 1857, two of my ancestors were martyred. And my great grandfather took an active part in the Khilafat Movement. He was jailed for a year and it was my grandfather’s duty to visit him.
After dadi’s demise in 1992, dada connected with family wide and far, and even made a trip to Pakistan to trace relatives a few months before his death. He came back with photos of every single relative, captioned it with names, addresses and telephone numbers. He made a separate tree for each branch of the family and handed them over to responsible members of the family.
Dada’s shajras are a work of art, apart from being an obvious labour of love. I have tried to replicate them in a bid to take forward the lineage and make it accessible to present and future generations. So far, I have failed. Not on one, but several counts.
I not only lack the artistic ability and the vision that he had for making shajras, but also the knack to connect with people. He managed to bond with everyone easily. However, my earnest efforts have backfired.
Since dada did not live in our town, we saw him only during vacations. I have vivid memories of him greeting us with much warmth and then immersing himself right back into his world of newspapers and books. Often, dadi would chide him for not indulging us, for not spending time with us.
Dada had his priorities clear. He was focussed on the treasure that he would be leaving behind for us. I am glad he did what he did. And, I am sure, my dadi is too.
Lamat R Hasan is an independent journalist. She lives in New Delhi.
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