The fragrance my Dadi left behind
[Editor's Note: This article is published as part of Inherited Memories, a series by Slow Reads in which we invited our readers to share personal essays and reported stories about family objects and the lives and memories connected to them. We continue to welcome submissions from our readers and the Slow Reads community. Details of the submission guidelines can be found at the end of this essay.]
I was born in a house that had too many doors and even more stories: Sharaf House, Begum Bazar, Dhaka, where bricks carried generations and balconies carried gossip, and somewhere between all that, my Dadi, Syeda Kubra Bano, lived like a sacred thread binding it all together.
I was four when she died, so all I have now is a collage of blurry memories stitched together with smells and sounds. I remember her uneven teeth, her round glasses, and the way her saris folded into themselves like poetry. She wasn’t as fair as my Dada; her skin was the warm brown of monsoon soil, but to me, she glowed, especially when my father called her “Ammi”. That word still echoes in my ears. “Ammi.” It meant softness and safety. It meant home.
Carrying Ballia across the border
She was born in Ballia, Uttar Pradesh, India, back when the subcontinent still moved as one. Her father, Syed Agha Ali Haider, worked as a Deputy Secretary in the Ministry of Home and was known for his writing and literary criticism in Urdu. Sometime after Partition, he moved the family from India to what was then East Pakistan, now Bangladesh. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t just a change of address; they brought along their language, their customs, and the way they did things at home.
Threads of devotion and the Alam of Abbas
Belonging to a Shia family and community, she had complete faith in Allah (s), Muhammad (p), and the Panjatan (a). Remembering the sacrifice of Imam Hussain and observing the rituals of Muharram were matters of deep seriousness for her. I still remember her removing her nose pin and earrings as soon as the moon of Muharram was sighted and putting away all her colourful clothing. I remember her taking us to the Imambargha in our neighbourhood, Muhammadi Begum Imambargha, for the ritual of tying a dhaga (thread) to the Alam (flag) on the 8th of Muharram, in remembrance of Hazrat Abbas. To this day, I tie my hand to the Alam of Hazrat Abbas and listen to the Nauha (elegies) “Un-chā rahe apnā ‘alām” with all my heart, renewing my pledge of allegiance to Imam Hussain and offering a prayer for her soul.
Clay pots, Niyaz, and open doors
Sharaf House in Begum Bazar was legendary for its culinary treasures, each delicacy a masterpiece lovingly crafted by my Dadi. Our home was alive with traditions: ‘Hazri ka Nazar’ (more commonly referred to as ‘Hazri ki Niyaz’ or ‘Hazri ka Fatiha’) is a cultural and religious ritual practised primarily by Shia Muslims in South Asia (India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh). It refers to a consecrated food offering (Nazar or Niyaz) made to seek blessings or convey spiritual rewards (Eesal-e-Sawab) to the Prophet Muhammad and his family (Ahl al-Bayt).
On the 8th of Muharram, rotis came piled with keema, paneer, onions, fresh pudina leaves, seasonal fruits, and a sweet halwa that melted on the tongue. On Ashura, doodh ka sharbat was served to soothe the soul, but it was her Faka Shikni, the traditional act of breaking a symbolic state of hunger and thirst on the afternoon of Ashura (the 10th of Muharram) in Shia Islam, that truly set our gatherings apart: a fiery red laal sagh, slow-cooked and served steaming in earthen clay pots, a sacred recipe passed down from her hometown. Her legendary handi kabab sizzled with spice, and the chane ka halwa, made in mountains by the kilo on Shab-e-Barat, left a delicate sweetness lingering long after the last bite.
I still carry that fragile taste of nazar and halwa on my tongue. And her pickles, especially the kuchla achaar (grated raw mango pickle), are a siren’s call to my senses, making my mouth water even in memory. We hosted people every other day for dawats; my Dada and Dadi never hesitated. Guests would arrive from who knows where, unannounced and unexpected, and yet they were always welcomed. Only God knows where they came from, or where they were headed; what we knew was that they were to be fed, and fed well, with love.
I remember how much Dadi cared for her chacha, her very own Ishtiaq Chacha, Syed Ishtiaq Ahmed, a Bangladeshi lawyer, constitutionalist, and Attorney General. He wasn’t just an uncle to her; he was like a rock, especially for Kubra Bano, who looked up to him like a second father after her own father was gone. I remember how excited Dadi would get whenever she heard that Ishtiaq Chacha was coming over, whether for lunch, dinner, or just to visit. That was always a good day. And I have this fragile memory of Ishtiaq Dada too, sitting on a plastic chair at Hussaini Dalan, holding his stick, his eyes full of tears when Dadi passed away and they were preparing to bury her. It was a heavy moment; it felt like all the sadness in the world was sitting there with him.
The memory
I just dreamt about my Dadi a few days ago. She was sitting at a dining table with all the people she loved: her father, her Ishtiaq Chacha, her brother Refaat, Raina, and right beside her was my father, Faizi. They were all having ice cream together. She left this world quietly on the afternoon of 31 January 2001, her hand resting in the hand of the man she had shared her life with. There were no big goodbyes, just a peaceful stillness, the kind that comes after a life well lived. It’s been over 24 years since Dadi passed, and though I was lucky to have four beautiful years with her and 23 with my father, I still wonder what it would have been like to have more time with them both. But sometimes, in the dead of night, like tonight, when I hear the soft hiss of oil frying or catch the distant echo of a nauha, I wonder if she ever really left.
Maybe she’s still here, in the sharp scent of mustard seeds, in the way “Ammi” still rings in my ears, in the thread tied tightly around my wrist, in that old house breathing heavily under the weight of the Begum Bazar balcony. And somewhere, in that half-lit kitchen of my childhood, she’s still there, still cooking.
Syed Faizanul Hussaini spends his weekdays navigating the world of HR and talent acquisition and his spare time wandering through the lanes of history, heritage and Urdu literature.
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