Chacha Bukhari was a memorable character in many ways. He always wrote his name as Bukhari B.A. ‘Chacha,’ I once asked him, ‘when did you do your BA?’ ‘I’m a born BA,’ he would answer with a smile. Later when I grew up and was able to understand things better, I learnt that he had never done his BA. In fact, he had never gone beyond his intermediate. The letters ‘BA’ were, his initials and stood for ‘Bashir Ahmed’. It was then that I realised the full implication of his words and his smile.We are Brahmins but we are meat-eating Brahmins. So on the day of Bakrid, Chacha would bring us meat. ‘Abba jaan, Eid mubarak,’ he would greet my father. Father would embrace him and all of us and everybody in Chacha’s house put on new clothes on that day.On Diwali, it would be the same. The only difference was that on this day my father would send sweets to Chacha’s house. Chacha often said he was a Sayyad. ‘What’s a Sayyad?’ I once asked him. ‘A Sayyad is a Brahmin,’ he laughed. ‘How?’ I asked, puzzled.He explained, ‘Brahmins are Hindu priests. Sayyads are Muslim priests. Or put it this way: Sayyads are Muslim Brahmins.’ I nodded. It made sense.Anwar, Chacha’s little son, figured it out in his mind. ‘Abba Jaan,’ he spoke at last. ‘Then Niti is a Sayyad, isn’t he?’ ‘Yes,’ chuckled Chacha, ‘as much a Sayyad as you are a Brahmin.’The next day was a Friday. Every Friday, a beggar would visit Chacha’s house for alms. He came that day too as was the practice and Anwar put a katori full of atta in his bag. As the beggar turned to go, Anwar stopped him. ‘Don’t go away,’ he said, ‘go to that house also.’ He pointed to ours. ‘Get alms from there. That house also belongs to Sayyads.’The beggar hesitated. For many years he had been visiting the locality. He knew every house. He had fixed days for visiting Hindu homes and Muslim homes. He knew we were Hindus. He always visited Hindu homes on Tuesdays.I had stood watching all this from the verandah of my house. I saw the beggar’s hesitation. I also knew why he was hesitating. So I called him. He advanced reluctantly. When he came I put a katori full of atta into his jholi. The beggar smiled, blessed me, and went away.Chacha went to Lahore, Pakistan, after Partition. But he did not lose contact with us. We kept receiving letters from him quite regularly until the late sixties. He often wrote that he had reached Pakistan with just half his heart. The other half he had left behind. He missed us on Eid and Diwali. He never failed to write to us on these two occasions.Although we haven’t heard from him for nearly four decades now, his memory and that of our father’s, lingers in our hearts. We seem to see them together, every Eid and Diwali.
