Syed Majid Gilani
A few days ago, a dear friend of mine, Azhar Abbas, came to my office and asked me a question that stayed with me long after he left. He said, “Majid, you often write about pain, loss, separation, and the struggles of ordinary people. But why have you never written about Karbala? After all, it is one of the greatest tragedies in human history.” For a moment, I did not know what to say. Then I smiled and replied, “Azhar, it is not that I do not want to write about Karbala. It is that every time I try, my pen stops.”
Whenever I think of Karbala, I feel too small for such a story. My mind always goes back to my childhood.
I remember Abaji, my grandfather, during the days of Muharram. He was a gentle and deeply religious man. He did not speak much about his feelings, but they could be seen in his eyes. Every Muharram, he would take out his old copy of the marsiyas of Mir Babbar Ali Anees. He would gather the family, recite the verses, and explain their meaning to us. The book was old and worn. Its pages had turned yellow with age. After the recitation, he would sit quietly near a window and continue reading. Soon, his eyes would fill with tears. Slowly and silently, tears would roll down his face. As a child, I did not fully understand those tears.
I also remember Amma, my grandmother, and my mother preparing babri treysh during Muharram. My father would distribute it among the passers-by as an expression of love and respect for the Ahlul Bayt (RA). Amma would also observe voluntary fasts during those days.
At that age, I did not fully understand these traditions either. I only knew that something in the story of Karbala touched the hearts of the people around me so deeply that it brought tears to their eyes year after year. I would quietly watch them. Without realizing it, I was learning something that stayed with me for the rest of my life. I learned that faith can ache. I learned that love can weep. I learned that some memories never leave us.
Abaji had a deep love for the Ahlul Bayt (RA), the noble family of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). The marsiyas of Anees touched him deeply. Through those verses, he seemed to relive the sorrow, courage, and sacrifice associated with Karbala. Even today, whenever Muharram and Safar arrive, I remember him sitting by that window, lost in remembrance.
For me, Karbala was never just a chapter in history. It was something I first saw in the tears of my grandparents and parents. Whatever little I know about Karbala comes from what I saw as a child, what I heard from elders, and what I felt whenever Karbala was remembered. Perhaps that is why I hesitate to write about it.
Like millions of people around the world, I know the names of Hazrat Imam Hussain (RA), Hazrat Abbas (RA), Hazrat Zainab (RA), and Hazrat Ali Asghar (RA). I know of the sacrifices they made for truth, dignity, and faith. I know that their memory continues to live in the hearts of people generation after generation. And I know that Karbala is remembered not only because of what happened there, but because of what it continues to mean to those who remember it.
Whenever Muharram arrives and I hear a marsiya or attend a gathering where Karbala is remembered, I still find it difficult to hold back my tears.
A few minutes after our conversation ended, Azhar left my office. But his question remained behind. Why do you never write about Karbala? That evening, my thoughts returned to Abaji. I could see him once again sitting quietly by the window. Anees’s marsiyas in his hands. Tears gently rolling down his face. And perhaps the answer to Azhar’s question was there.
I first came to know Karbala not through books, but through the tears of those who loved and remembered it. That is why I hesitate. And perhaps that is why some stories are not written easily. They are remembered. Ok, they are felt. They are carried quietly in the heart. Because when it comes to Karbala, words often fail.
(The author is a Government Officer. He can be reached at [email protected])
