Uncle liked numbers. I am fond of words. He had been a Maths teacher, who rose to become a Zonal Education Officer (ZEO) in Baramulla and Budgam. I am a journalist who often wonders whether Robin Puck Goodfellow was indeed a mischievous sprite or just an obedient servant to Oberon, the King of fairies, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Uncle, a man of mathematical temperament, had little appetite for fairies and elves. There was however one area where not only did our paths meet but we got along so well that we became friends. It was our common interest in politics.
So wherever and whenever we met — no matter the circumstance or occasion or place — be it Kashmir, on a four-hour flight, or in Dubai, we would invariably slip into animated, long discussions on all things related to politics.
An almanac of knowledge, uncle had an abundant repertoire of anecdotes and historical nuggets on Kashmir’s very rich and chequered political history.
I would always be taking these quick mental notes of his words, which flowed like a charm. If ever I do non-fiction on Kashmir, those experiences would find a way into my pages.
“Everyone descended on Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah’s (Kashmir's first Prime Minister) funeral. One end was in Hazratbal while the other was near Lal Chowk. All of us were curious and found a seat on a bus from Sopore after much difficulty. As we neared Batamaloo, it looked like kuli jahan (mankind) was walking to some final destination. Forlorn, dejected, crying,” he went on.
I would listen with rapt attention. Having only read about these important milestones in our history, here was someone who had been through the vicissitudes. It was incredibly enriching to hear it from a first-hand, knowledgable source, who recalled things with clarity.
An understated elegance
In the last decade he often flew to Dubai, where his son, a close friend of mine, works. This gave me access to his personality, which was inherently simple. Not caring much for the age gap between us, which ran into several decades, he had an easy, understated elegance, that helped him connect with people.
Blessed with a razor sharp memory, he quoted dates, sometimes to the exact day in the week. It was June 1977, he recounted (I am sure he had the exact date which I’m too lazy to remember), that Morarji Desai — the first non-Congress Prime Minister of India — visited Sopore.
“Degree College ground filled with public. Sensing that Sheikh Abdullah was popular elsewhere in Kashmir, and Sopore stood defiant along with a few other pockets, Desai famously worked up the crowd: We have fielded Janata Dal candidates everywhere in the valley. Vote for them. And where you can’t — go ahead and vote for your (Janata) candidate," uncle rasped. “It was a subtle endorsement of Syed Ali Geelani, who was contesting from the Sopore assembly seat.”
Politics, sometimes, gives way to personal. We talked about people. Characters from history, characters from our town we knew intimately. These conversations were so good natured that often enough one didn’t realise how time went by. Sitting in his company was like enjoying a book full of gripping stories.
And it is these stories that stay with us. Stories are important because people love them. People need them. Not only do stories humanise us, they enrich our lives and make us what we are! This universe of ours is made of stories, not of atoms, Muriel Rukeyser, the great American feminist poet once said.
Uncle was a great story teller. Some of those tales, he restated more than once, but it was still beautiful, still humane, still precise. One didn’t have the heart to interrupt. I am glad I never did.
Two years ago, on August 5, 2019, when India revoked Kashmir's political autonomy, I met uncle and talked about the significance of the move. "I wished they didn't do it my lifetime," he gasped. Exactly two years later, he met his maker on August 5, 2021.
There is something about numbers, dates, patterns. Someone who dabbled in numbers all his life would know.
I am oddly depressed tonight and I suspect I know why. Those long, legendary darbars and conversations over endless cups of tea will never come back. Neither will the affectionate, affable accent of uncle.
God speed, dear uncle. May the angels cantillate to you in the heavens. Until we meet and pick up the good humoured chatter again.
G Q Bulla - academic, friend and guide (1943-2021)
