Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi
Our Higher Secondary results had come out in the daily newspapers during the long summers of 1977. As my father was unwell having suffered a damaged heart valve, he had arranged my solo visit to Lucknow where a maternal uncle of my mother and his son Rais Mamu lived. Rais Mamu was employed in the Shia Degree College, perhaps as a Finance Officer? I never knew and never enquired. I only knew that they dotted over me. Rais Mamu and Ladli Mumani, (herself related to me independently of her in-law connections) had no issue of their own, and thus treated me as their son. My mother’s uncle, Rais Mamu’s father had very rough relations with my Nana, over some issue: he thought that his dead sister’s daughter (my mother) had been deprived of her Nanihāl, and even some material belongings, which according to him, should have been given by my Nana to my mother. My mother had never mentioned any of this to any of us. However, I heard all this stuff whenever I was in Lucknow.
Rais Mamu and his wife, Ladli Mami, were regular at the annual “Jalsa e Majālis” of Shaheed e Sālis, at Agra, (whose name I later came to know was Qazi Nurullah Shustari, a Qazi under Akbar and Jahangir, usually held each year around Diwali those days. There was hardly any Shia worth his salt, who would not be there – people from Bollywood to politicians, from Nawabs to Khoja Isna Ashari rich merchant families. My father was the Secretary of the Anjuman e Moinuz Zaerīn and Mutawalli of the waqf of Shaheed e Sālis. He always, in my memory of those days, called Rais Mamu from Lucknow to be the Accountant during those annual public functions spanning over almost a week. When ultimately my father expired in 1978, and for years on, during the jalsa of Shaheed e Salis in Agra, my bed would be in the room allocated to Rais Mamu and Ladli Mami.
Coming back to the day when my Higher Secondary results were announced, I remember Rais Mamu all excited to take me to Chowk at a place where all the day’s newspapers were available. He was excited and feeling very proud as if his own son was going to get his first important result. Mami too was quite happy and I remember her preparing special meals for the occasion. Their excitement was making me very nervous for I understood that they had very high expectations from me, at best a mediocre, in reality a dud, who was more confused than anything else whenever any chapter of Mathematics or Chemistry or Physics was placed before me. I could understand only the English teacher, or feel enthusiastic only if taken to a historical or cultural location! Deep in my heart I feared for the result, for which the entire family of my Mamu was excited!
Ultimately we reached the place where dozens of newspapers were placed on wooden stands and hundreds of people were pouring over them. With great enthusiasm my Mamu dived into the crowd! From distance I could see him desperately scanning the numerous columns for that elusive Roll number. Ultimately he located it deep down below where the roll numbers of ordinary second divisions were placed. The excitement drained from his eyes. I could make out his utter disbelief and disappointment!
Yet when he came to me he said: “Chalo qulfi khātey hain! First division na sahi, kya hua? Pass to ho!”
I still feel the relief which I felt that moment: the relief of the first step which took me towards the hidden passion: History. When I returned back to Aligarh, my father received me with a smile: “merā beta tārikh ka ustād banega!” In fact, before I returned, our English teacher, Sir Ahmad, who was also the Vice-Principal at Our Lady of Fatima Higher Secondary School, and a friend of my father, had actually informed him that his son should “opt” for either English or History.
The rest, as they say is History! I vividly recall all this as I demit my service in the subject which I never opted for in school, but which ultimately gave me everything.
Looking back now from the other side of a full career, I realise that the best results are not always the ones printed in a newspaper column. Sometimes a quiet second division, a plate of qulfi, and a father’s knowing smile are enough to set a life on its true course.
(To be continued)
ASHA: Blast From The Past 