Moharrum: Mourning for the martyred
For sixty years, I have seen rivers of tears flowing as tribute to this unparalleled human tragedy. What is it that even after fourteen hundred years the pain of Karbala does not abate?, says Syeda S Hameed

The most poignant memory of my childhood is mourning for the martyred family of the Prophet during Moharrum. As long as I can remember, the first ten days of Moharrum in our household, were times of great sobriety. My mother was the moving
spirit behind those days. Certain start-up rituals were observed by her, which we imbibed without question. We removed all ornaments and dressed only in black or green. Women, who came especially for the occasion from her hometown, Rampur, set up the Imambara in our house. They bathed in rosewater all the silver Alams, emblems of the Husain’s ‘army’. They tied the banners to the base of the Alams and lovingly placed them inside the Imambara. After every Majlis all those who attended were given packets of sweets or savories to take home. We children sat through the Majilses and the words of the recitation just seeped into us, even though we did not understand much of the language or poetry. Sometimes it was father, sometimes mother, an aunt or an uncle who read the main marsia or poetic rendering of the event. We children were asked to join in the chorus of voices which preceded and followed the main recitation and sang poems called soz and nauhas.

It was mother’s faith in this event which has left the deepest impact on me. Today when I observe the decorum around the tragedy of Karbala, it is her image which rises before my eyes. For sixty years, I have listened to the same narrations in prose and poetry. In each one of these years, ten days in a row, I have recited and heard the verses of the immortal poet, Mir Anis. For sixty years I have seen rivers of tears flowing as tribute to this unparalleled human tragedy. What is it that even after fourteen hundred years the pain of Karbala does not abate? As the poet Najam Afendi has said:

Sab gham hain do roza gham e Shabbir wohi hai
Chaudah sau baras baad bhi taseer wohi hai
All grief is momentary but for Shabbir’s grief
Fourteen hundred years! And still the same pain

The story of Karbala can be folded into a simple narration. Husain, grandson of Prophet Mohammad, refused to place the leadership of Islam in the hands of Yezid, the ruler of the day. He knew that the stewardship of Yezid would mean the end of Islam. Yezid could remain the temporal head of the Islamic world but not the spiritual head. On his part, Yezid knew that unless Husain gave him the mandate no one would recognize his authority. All attempts to influence Husain failed. The only way for Yezid was to kill Husain by finding some pretext, and cornering him in a remote place. This he saw as the only way he could become Khalifa of the Islamic world. He therefore, plotted to waylay Husain as he was on his way to Kufa where he had been invited by the people for tabligh.

Even as he left his home in Medina Husain knew what would happen. He knew Yezid’s moves and intent. But instead of collecting an army, Husain collected his family and friends and set out on the arduous journey. Just before entering the desolate desert, Karbala, a spot which has become synonymous with hardship, he called together his small band and made the most unforgettable offer in human history. ‘You all know what awaits us in Karbala. Í am extinguishing the candle. In the cover of darkness, I offer you my friends a chance to leave quietly and escape certain death’. The Imam blew out the candle. When it was lit later, he noticed that not even one of his followers had moved.

Finally dawned the day when Husain would show the world, by personal example, the meaning of sacrifice. He had a band of 72 in his ‘army’. Yezid had sent his Generals with an army of thousands. They forced the Imam to move away from the only water source in the desert, Nehr e Alqama which had been given as mehr to his mother Fatima. Yezid’s force thereby stopped him from drawing water, so thirst also became a symbol of Karbala.

On the 10th day of Moharrum known as the Day of Ashura, the battle started. Husain’s small band consisted of 80 year old elders like Habib Ibn Muzahir, young boys like his brother’s son Qasim who was 13, and his own child Ali Asghar who was 6 months old. One by these men and boys, Husain’s followers, would go to the battlefield, recite rijz and perform Jehad. One single person fought with thousands of archers, swordsmen, lancers and foot soldiers! As they fell from their horses with severed limbs and hundreds of gashes, the drums of victory would be sounded. Husain would go the battlefield to bring home the dead. After the friends, it was the turn of family members. Finally, even the six month old baby Ali Asghar paid his due when an arrow from the ace archer pierced his tiny neck. Only Husain was left to perform the last rite of sacrifice. It is said that when Shimr, one of the Generals put the sword on his neck, Husain had placed his bloodied forehead on the burning sands of Karbala for the last sijdah. When someone asked Shimr what the Imam was murmuring as his last words, even the executioner shed tears and said ‘He was praying for the redemption of the Ummah’.

Although most of those who commemorate Moharrum in every corner of the world are Shias, but Sunni Muslims, as well, hold it in great esteem. Tazia processions all over the world are taken out by all, not only Shias and Sunnis but also by Hindus. My friend Prof Bimal Prasad recalls his village in Bihar when he was a child. ‘We used to dress in new dhotis and participate in Tazias. It was our village tradition to set up sabeels for offering water and sherbet to the mourners’.

I remember, as a child, listening to the poet Gopi Nath Aman reciting his own composed Marsias in large gatherings. For the last twenty years, I have listened to the best rendering of soz and salaams by Jyoti Pande currently our Ambassador in Kyrghistan. During this entire period, his voice rings in my ears. As recently as last night, which was the night before the penultimate day of Ashura, there were 100 women in my house attending the last Majlis. The room was packed. My friend Vidya Rao, who most people know as a famous singer, opened the recitation with rendering of a Hindi soz about Hazrat Bano, wife of Imam Husain, who was lamenting the killing of her sons and her husband. I have never seen such outpouring of grief as I saw last night. Simple ordinary women cried openly at Bano’s tragedy. It was a dirge unparalleled. At the end of the majlis a young Hindu woman came in quietly to pray for her children and touched her forehead to the ground before the Imambara.
This for me is the real power of Moharrum. Cutting across caste, class and even religion to touch every heart and elevate every soul.