In Celebration of my mother, Razia Fatima
This July 23rd is my mother, Begum Razia Fatima Siddiqui’s 100th birth anniversary.
My mother was 36 years old when my father passed away. She took up the helm of being the sole parent to me, my sister Farhana and my brother Azhar. Educated us and got us settled in life.
After her children, her main focus in life was always helping the poor. She had already picked up this mantle in Hyderabad but her philanthropic activities took a vastly different approach when she moved to America in the late 1970’s.
After having led a privileged life in Hyderabad as the daughter of Nawab Deen Yar Jung, she came to the USA and reinvented her life to another high standard.
Her early years in the USA were spent in Boston where my sister Farhana and brother Azhar resided. In Boston my mother learnt to drive, bought a car, worked at two jobs and continued supporting the needy in Hyderabad. Her social status in Hyderabad did not prevent her from working at a hospital and a fast food place here in the USA. She relished the opportunity and proudly fulfilled her responsibilities.
Whatever her work compensation was, was used in helping the poor back in Hyderabad. She built many houses for the poor, educated many children, supported countless families, financially subsidized many many weddings, paid off debts and on and on and on.
She would collect used clothing from families in Boston, make packages, carry them to the post office to be mailed to the poor in Hyderabad. Inside each package she would enclose a letter addressed to the postmaster in Hyderabad, beseeching him not to put custom duties on the recipient of the package. That these were old clothes and the recipient would not be able to pay the tariff.
The surprising thing was that all her packages reached their destination without any applied duties.
My mother touched and enriched many a life and many have found a firm footing in their existence because of her. She gave of herself entirely, her generosity was bottomless, her kindness all encompassing, her love boundless. A life lived for the downtrodden. A life well lived.
She was a people’s person. Everyone who knew her, relatives and friends alike held undiminished love and respect for her which is evident in the way they speak of her. Her memory is a blessing.
My mother moved to Chicago in the last years of her life. Her health had deteriorated, she was diagnosed with kidney failure. But her optimism for life was never ending. Her good nature and her smile ever present. My children Ali and Yasmin and their families became an integral part of my mother’s life and she of theirs. The memories that all my grandchildren (Imaan, Zayd, Adil, Zain, Adam, Riaz, and Yusuf) created with their great grandmother will always be their most precious treasure.
Attached below is a video of my mother’s 80th birthday celebration. Our family gathered for the event with the cake ready to be cut. My children, my khala Mrs. Ruqia Ali who we called Bibi and my cousin Luku and nephew Raza were all there to celebrate my mother’s milestone birthday.
I got the brilliant idea of putting 80 candles on the cake for my mother to blow out. This idea was initially vetoed by family who were in favor of just putting one candle on the cake, but my decision prevailed. The cake was ready and the 80 candles were lit.
Mummy was asked to come out of her room. She sensed that some celebration was ongoing in the kitchen so she proceeded to make herself presentable by combing her hair, and took her own time doing it.
In support and on behalf of myself, all that I can say is that if one candle was put on the cake to be blown out then this 80th birthday celebration of my mothers would have been another birthday celebration come and gone. But with the 80 candles on the cake and the mayhem that ensued, and since Ali caught the whole episode so well on video, this 80th birthday celebration of my mother Begum Razia Fatima Siddiqui will be celebrated and enjoyed for a long time by her descendants.
My mother passed away February 18, 2014. She would have been 90 years old that July 23rd.
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Even though so many of us have left our homeland for distant shores, we must not forget our roots. We have an illustrious family history and the story of our ancestors should be conveyed to our children. Our younger generation only knows about the Aziz Bagh family as a WhatsAp Group or a photo taken of all family members gathered at a wedding. It is up to us, the older generation, to partake in small conversations with them (be it on this site or otherwise).
I do not mean to ride on the coat tails of my ancestors but I do believe that there is a lot to learn from them. They were philanthropists, writers, poets, researchers and inventors and much more. They served their country and king loyally. The walls of the house of Aziz Bagh echo their deeds. This is why, to this day we proudly say that we belong to the Aziz Bagh family.
Our younger generation should know the story of Aziz Bagh. And it is our responsibility (we the older generation) to tell them. Be it in small anecdotes or other means.
This WhatsApp group is a great platform to do this.
As a start (and a small lesson in the history of Hyderabad) I am posting a photo here. (Attachment below)
This is the photo of the handshake between General Chaudhry of the Indian forces and General El Edroos commander of the Hyderabadi army when Hyderabad was turned over to The Indian Union. My grandfather Nawab Deen Yar Jung is in the middle, overseeing the takeover of Hyderabad by India. This was a hard sell for the staunch Hyderabadis of that time, loyal to their Nizam. They gave up their country with a smile on their lip but a tear in their eye. An emotion that you can see on Nawab Deen Yar Jung’s face.
To our younger generation- please don’t be silent. It is not that you do not have time. You are on social media for a good part of the day. Please make your presence known on this site too. Ask questions, give your insight. It will be appreciated and encourage us older people to partake in this dialogue.
The Aziz Bagh Chabootra (Raised Platform)
My mamoon Dr. Hasanuddin Ahmed (Agha) once said to me: “you know, if you just take the main building of Aziz Bagh, it is not very unique, spacious or practical. It is the chabootra that gives the building its distinctiveness and grandeur. The chabootra is everything.”
Even though I do think that the main building is attractive in its own right, Agha’s comment does hold true. I do agree with Agha’s statement that it is the chabootra that gives Aziz Bagh its flair, it’s originality, it’s elegance and its character. And what a character the chabootra helped build.
Aziz Bagh was built in 1899 by Nawab Aziz Jung. Nawab Aziz Jung did not come from an aristocratic family. He was a self made man, a scholar. He constructed Aziz Bagh from the proceeds of the books he wrote.
From its very inception, the chabootra has been a host to very many philanthropic events and projects. In 1908, Hyderabad was devastated by the River Musi flood. Aziz Bagh opened its doors to the flood victims. Relief work was conducted from the chabootra.
During the spread of the worldwide flu epidemic of 1918, free medicines were supplied to the affected people from the Aziz Bagh chabootra.
In the early twentieth century, movements of social reforms and abolition of un-Islamic orthodox customs and rituals were initiated in meetings on the chabootra.
While growing up in Aziz Bagh I have witnessed the chabootra hosting many different activities. The chabootra has always been sacred ground, always meant for important things.
I remember how every morning, my grandfather Nawab Deen Yar Jung (Nawab Aziz Jung’s third son) before going to the Nizams court, would greet the people gathered on the chabootra awaiting him. Every morning people seeking help and assistance would throng on the chabootra seeking audience with Nawab Deen Yar Jung. My grandfather would stop and talk to each person, listening to their pleas. His secretary standing close by would note what my grandfathers recommended help options were, and then he would move on to the next person. Deserving eligible people would be allotted monetary help from the Nizams charitable trust. Baba would listen to their requests for assistance and extend his help. This was his daily morning routine before he left for his duties with the Nizam. This is how the day would start, with Baba extending help and we observing it.
I have seen Agha mentor and guide students on the chabootra. Students from destitute families would come seeking help. Help with educational fees and the so very important needed advice would be given to them on how to pursue with careers. So many many young people have owed their future stability to Agha, who would patiently converse with them, weaning out their abilities and steering them towards their goals and helping them with their tuition expenses.
My mother Razia Siddiqui was a magnet to the destitute. All year long people would seek her out for help. She lent of herself to the needy, who would be awaiting her on the chabootra . She built houses, conducted weddings, distributed food and clothing to whoever needed the help. She and the chabootra welcomed all.
My husband, Habibuddin Ahmed carried on the mantle. Eventhough he resided in USA, all his endeavors were in helping the helpless is Hyderabad.
On his yearly visits to Hyderabad his day would be spent in helping poor destitute men and women gathered on the chabootra. Once again, as Agha had done, Habibuddin Ahmed gathered young people on the chabootra , advising them on their educational pursuits and helping them with their educational tuition needs.
Shamsuddin Ahmed (Unu) and Zaheeruddin Ahmed (Luku) Agha’s sons, in step with their father’s and forefather’s principles, are carrying on the philanthropic tradition of the family now. The chabootra facilitates their purpose of monetary help, distribution of food and overall help under their guidance.
Throughout the year and particularly in the month of Ramadan, deserving folks gather on the chabootra seeking help. No one is turned away. Help in the form of money or food/clothes or advice is given. To this present day these philanthropic activities are a constant.
Very many social events take place on the chabootra. Dignitaries are entertained, family weddings performed, bismillahs conducted and funeral rites held. The chabootra has seen and hosts it all.
The chabootra is made available free of charge to poor families in need, if they require space to conduct a wedding ceremony. Numerous weddings have taken place on the chabootra to accommodate the needs of the deserving.
And so we gather on the chabootra, resident families and families visiting from abroad. We gather on the chabootra and become a part of it. We proudly stand on the chabootra because we are from the family that enabled the positive outcome of that space, and the Aziz Bagh chabootra welcomes us all.
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It was the year 2019. My sister Farhana and I were on our way to Hyderabad.
Our mamoon, Agha, my mother’s only surviving sibling was in ill health. From 2017 onwards my sister and I would make our annual trip to Hyderabad to visit with him. Our trip would be short, just for a week, but it was exclusively for Agha. We did nothing else but stayed at his bedside and connected with him.
Farhana would fly from Boston to Dubai. I would take my flight from Chicago. We would meet at the Dubai airport, then take the Emirate flight together to Hyderabad.
It was January 2019. The year before COVID struck. I disembarked at Dubai and made my way to meet my sister who would be awaiting me at our designated spot.
I walked towards Farhana. She was sitting in the waiting area talking to a Hindu woman. I joined them and we all made small talk.
The Hindu lady was an IT person working in the States, now on her way to visit her folks in Hyderabad. When she learnt that we were from Hyderabad, she blurted out “you two don’t seem to be Haiidrabadees.”
We don’t? I was incredulous.
I was born in Hyderabad, lived there till I was 19 years of age. Came to the States after I got married and have been living in America for over half a century. I love America, wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, but deep down I still consider myself a Hyderabadi. And now this someone tells me that I don’t “seem” to be a Hyderabadi. If I don’t, then who does? What does a born and bred Hyderabadi supposed to “seem” like?
Of course the present Hyderabad is not the same Hyderabad of my youth. Of course everything changes but I am from Hyderabad, the Hyderabad where my memories take me, the Hyderabad of my childhood. So, don’t tell me that I don’t “seem” to be a Hyderabadi. (Agha (Hasanuddin Ahmed) passed away August 2019)
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It is important that our younger generation also learn the experiences and struggles of the ‘first immigrants’ who came here as students in the early 1960’s and soon after.
With Allahs grace our children have grown up with the proverbial silver spoon in their mouth.
We parents cannot thank Allah enough for granting us the capacity to meet this obligation of ours of providing for our children and succeeding in our duty as parents in the most fulfilling way.
Our children have grown up wanting nothing, needing nothing. Every necessity of theirs has been provided for, every appropriate wish granted. The world has been their oyster. They have had the best education and with Allah’s grace have been able to go forward in life successfully. They have made their parents proud.
But to make this possible did not come without a lot of hard work on the part of the ‘bread winning parent’ who had immigrated to this land in search of better education and better professional opportunity which enabled them to be better providers for their families.
Light should be shed on the struggles of the immigrants who ventured to these shores as students. They were the ones who came, studied, supported, survived and became successful family men.
Some of the first immigrants experiences are funny, some not. They should be told because they are so different than the lives that our children were handed. If nothing else, it will show our younger generation the hardships that the first immigrants faced and the responsibilities that they had to fulfill and how they faced it all and prospered.
Most of the immigrant from India/Pakistan can be divided into three categories.
1. The first immigrants who came as students
2. The wives who then followed
3. The extended families who came later
For the wives it was easy. They came when the husbands had finished their studies, had procured good jobs and could provide decent life for their spouse.
For the extended families who came later, there was still a sense of comfort that there was someone to ‘receive you at the airport,’ there was someone who had laid the groundwork for you. You still had to struggle, you still had to work hard to get your own life on track but there was someone there for moral support and advice at least.
It was the first immigrant who came as students initially who had to do it all on their own. They had ventured into the new world not seeking adventure but seeking a future with which they could not only better their own lives but also extend a helping hand to their folks also. Majority of the immigrants came with this goal.
Going to America for studies would be a very big deal for the average family in India. Many would give up their life savings, sell their possessions, take loans so that their offspring could buy his/her passageway to a bright future. So for the immigrant student there was the pressure to succeed, to prove their capabilities. They “sailed” to the American shore and in a sense burnt their boat behind them, because going back home without accomplishing what they came to do was not an option.
The foreign exchange available to foreign students in the 1960’s was $8. That’s what they had in their pockets when they landed on the American shore. So with that start they moved on forward.
In the early 1960’s the Kennedy Peace Corps was very popular in India.
‘The American Corner’ was also operating in Hyderabad. It provided access to materials and conversations on aspects of life and culture in the United States. It provided information about political, economic, cultural, educational and social trends in the United States. It was also a space for dynamic conversation on topics of interest to the Hyderabadi community.
My husband Habibuddin Ahmed ‘Rauf’ of course became its member. He investigated American universities and enrolled as a student with admission into the Oklahoma State University into the Mechanical Engineering Masters program. So in 1964, he left for USA.
Rauf was a very optimistic person. The glass was always half full for him. Every life experience was an adventure, a challenge. He always had that twinkle in his eye which conveyed the excitement with which he approached life.
His experiences in Oklahoma were all positive. His professor Mr. Harrisberger, a wonderful human being. His host families who invited him time to time for dinners were caring. But occasionally, sometimes, he would relate other stories. Stories that would give you cause to pause and reflect that maybe, every thing was not as easy as he made it out to be.
The following are the little tidbits of his student life that were volunteered.
Rauf landed in Chicago, he got a map at the airport and after carefully studying it took a cab to an acquaintance’s apartment. The person was not there at the time so he had to sit in the stairwell awaiting his arrival. Hunger and fatigue from the international flight made the couple of hours wait very hard indeed.
The next day he boarded the Greyhound bus for Oklahoma. The counselor at the university directed him to other students from India and so was arranged a one bedroom apartment to share with five other students and his student life in Oklahoma State began.
In the crowded apartment, everyone couldn’t get a bed to themselves so they took turns on the mattress or bunked on the floor without complaints.
Studies were not difficult but understanding the professor needed getting used to. The American accent was so very different.
To cover rent, food, books and other basic necessities, odd jobs were procured. One job, or when the class schedule permitted it, even two.
Bus was the means of transportation and once when time was of essence and the bus wasn’t arriving, had to run miles to arrive at work on time. Could not afford to lose the job as a bus boy at the restaurant.
Worked as a bellhop in a hotel. This job was lucrative as the tips were good. Money saved enabled living space with couple Hyderabadi friends in a bigger apartment with own bed.
At the second job at an eatery, the customer ordered a pint of beer. This was served over ice cubes. This job was lost. Serving alcohol wasn’t his forte after all.
Contact with family ‘back home’ would be with letters only. Phone calls were too expensive.
This was 1964 America. Still the Jim Crow era. Even though the The Civil Rights Act prohibiting discrimination on the basis of race and color was enacted, it took a great deal of time for it to take effect.
Once the friends decided to eat at a restaurant. They all dressed up in clean shirts and tie, looking forward to a nice meal.
They entered the restaurant and could sense a silence that fell with their presence. The Maitre d’ approached and firmly told them to leave. They would not be served there. They were not the right race.
On days when there were no classes and no jobs to go to, staying in bed late was beneficial. This way you could sleep through one meal. One meal less to worry about.
Finally the two year masters program was over. Onwards to Chicago and the open job market there.
Onwards with life.
These surely are not the experiences of everyone across the board, but certainly of great many who came to this country around that time. Who paved the way for others to follow.
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I have always held that every adult should record aspects of their life for their own children. I had read somewhere that once you hit 30 years of age, you should start writing your own life story. But then, who has the time to do this when you are only 30 years old. As you enter the third decade of your life you find yourself in the throes of responsibilities. Professional responsibilities, family responsibilities, social responsibilities. Your life at this stage has really just begun and is not fully complete for you to memorialize it.
You can only pay justice to writing your memoirs when you are in your twilight years, when you are retired, when you can sit back and reflect on your past life experiences. You can then write about your life for your progeny.
I have done just that. I have completed my personal memoirs for my children and grandchildren. They will one day, when they have time, sit back with my book in hand. Learn about my life and that of their ancestors and in doing so, will hopefully find themselves in it.
We are defined by the life we have lived. Reading that story would help our children to understand and appreciate us more.
So I encourage all our older family members to do this. Write down your life story because every life has a story to tell. This is a priceless gift that you can pass on to your children. Giving them a piece of yourself that they can always hold on to.
In response to Nadeem’s suggestion, I am going to write my memories of the America I came to, some more than half a century ago. And what a different America that was.
THAT WAS THEN
In the 1960’s, immigration to the US was with a preference system, designed to unite immigrant families and attract skilled immigrants to the United States. This drastically moved the source countries of immigrants away from Northwestern Europe and for the first time shifted to Asia.
This bill made it easy for the students from India and other Asian countries who had gone to the US for higher studies, to return home, get married and go back with their wives to the US for jobs that were awaiting them there. Green Cards were not too hard to procure.
Marriages “back home” were mostly arranged between two families. Proposals were sent and accepted and couples united in wedlock. Young brides usually in their late teen or early twenties would follow their husbands to the distant lands where the highly educated husband had procured a good job. Parents, siblings, close relatives, everything familiar was left behind, “seven seas” were crossed and a new life begun in a new and strange foreign land.
Practically all people from “back home” who I got acquainted with in the USA in the late 1960’s, fell into this category of life.
It was early November 1966 when I embarked on the plane at Begumpet airport in Hyderabad with my husband Habibuddin Ahmed (Rauf), to start my married life in Chicago.
Some of my husbands friends were the receiving party at Chicago International Airport. The airport then was very different from the present O’Hare. The International customs were done on the first floor with the receiving party standing around on the second floor behind closed glass, gazing at the arriving passengers below. They could look down on the weary travelers opening their big suitcases for the inspecting custom officers.
There was little limit to the size of the two accompanied suitcases, which would be large and bulky. These would be mostly stuffed with clothes and a few momento’s from the life left behind.
My first impression of America was not at all new or strange to me. I had seen and had been acquainted with it all through (now please don’t laugh at this, but this is really true) the many comic books I had read all through my childhood. Those comic books, depicted the US landscape so well that arriving in America for the first time, it felt as if I had seen it all before. I knew a lot about American lifestyle, their eating and dressing mores and a little bit of their mindset too, and all this from those colorful fantastically illustrated comic books.
But the average Americans did not know too much about me or about anyone like me. I was an anomaly to them. A strange species from an exotic land. My sari and long hair very strange indeed. They asked me questions about my life in India. Did people live in houses in India? Did we attend schools? What food did we eat? So on and so forth.
Seriously, for the common ordinary Americans of that time, America alone was their center of the Universe. Nothing much existed for them beyond their own sphere. They knew very little of the world outside their own realm.
They were surprised that I spoke English, and that too the “kings english.” And why shouldn’t I speak it, I was one of the last remnants of the British Raj’s educational system, wasn’t I? Yes, I fell in that category.
It was a very different America I came to in 1966. Very different from what it is now.
Women then wore dresses mostly, and had just stopped wearing white gloves. Men still wore the Fedora hats, but those were fast waning away too.
Lyndon Johnson was the president then and the Vietnam war was at its peak. Young adult males were being drafted in droves and sent across the seas to fight for democracy.
It was hard being away from “home,” my mother and my siblings. Keeping in touch with them was by letters – aerogrammes, which took 10 days to reach their destination. But once you received a letter from your loved ones it was like receiving a piece of heaven. You would read and reread the letter and store it away to be read later again.
Phone calls were another thing. You had to call the operator and “book” a call to Hyderabad. The call would be connected three days later. You could speak the initial three minutes for the regular international call price which was $12. Each additional minute would add on to the price. So you would try to keep the call going for the initial three minutes, but then the connection would be so bad that 3/4 of the time would be spent trying to confirm that you were heard on the other end.
A weeks worth of groceries would cost $10
Gallon of milk was .95 c
Loaf of bread was .20 c
First class stamp was .5 c
A gallon of gasoline was .32 c
You could live very well for under $800 a month.
The Americans then were steak and potato eaters. Rice was not generally favored or consumed. The only kind available were small “Uncle Ben” ounce packages on the grocery shelves. Common spices available in the grocery stores were paprika, salt and ginger. Garlic, in American folklore was used to ward off satan and it gave you bad breath anyway so not consumed too much. There was an Italian store called “Conje de Savoia” where we would shop for ginger, garlic and red pepper. No halal meat was available of course. Edible meat was kosher meat.
Shopping was by cash. Credit cards weren’t used then. Sales people would ring up individual prices on the cash registers. All stores were closed on Sundays.
Smoking cigarettes was prevalent all over. People smoked like chimneys. The black and white TV’s would be inundated with Marlboro, Camel and Winston cigarette advertisements.
Gas stations were full service. You didn’t need to get out of your car. The service person filled up the car, checked oil if asked, took your money and made change.
The South Asian immigrant population in Chicago was small. Small enough for the Eid prayers to be held at someone’s home.
Lake Shore Drive had the S curve. Two 90 degree curves which drivers had to navigate. At night, all lights were kept on in the downtown high rise buildings. Every floor, every suite had lights on. The downtown looked like a jewel in the dark. Energy conversation did not start till the early 1970’s.
Winters were brutal. My first winter greeted me with the blizzard of 1966 with 23 inches of snow. And the blizzard of 1979 with its 20+ inches of snow stranded me overnight away from home. Had to spend the night stranded in a grocery store with other hapless people.
Homesickness for “back home” was a constant. The feeling of not belonging where you were was always there. The nagging question of would you ever go back to the familiarities that you had left behind was persistent.
But then something happened. You can never quite pin point the time when it did, but the change happened. Did it happen when your first child was born? Did it happen when you had lived here for more than a couple of years. Or did it happen when you became a Naturalized American citizen? Deliberately, definitely the change in your outlook did happen.
It was gradual, but the admiration for the country you were living in now, the country that was giving you so much without asking for anything in return except your loyalty took hold. You exulted in the freedom it offered, the opportunities it made available. You admired the intellectual mindset and integrity that surrounded you. You were thankful that you could live your life according to your own terms. You became used to the luxuries and the ease of every day life. Most of all, you knew that your children were being given a life that was the best option available to them anywhere. You were at peace.
Now placing your hand over your heart while facing the ‘Old Glory’ came naturally.
When you went back for a visit to the “old country ” it was a strange land to you. It was no longer yours. Everything had changed there, nothing was the same as you remembered. You spent time there visiting but couldn’t wait to go “back home” to the United States of America.
AND THIS IS NOW
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After the Police Action of September 13, 1948 and the complete takeover of Hyderabad by India, it took a while before things could completely settle down.
A drastic change of lifestyle for the Muslim Hyderabadis was inevitable. Some were opting to immigrate to Pakistan but the vast majority chose to remain in their homeland hoping and praying that the loss of their muslim supremacy and the handing over their power to the Hindu majority rule wouldn’t drastically change things.
Before life could normalize, the Indian government also had to make certain that possible dissidents who held high positions under the Nizams rule were weeded out. So, right after the Indian takeover, many high officials who worked for the Nizam were either put in jail or put under house arrest. Freedom would only come after each individual case went through the judicial process.
On February 20th 1950, my grandfather Nawab Deen Yar Jung (Aliuddin Ahmed) was placed under House Arrest. A guard was stationed by the front door of Aziz Bagh, making sure that Nawab Deen Yar Jung did not leave his home confinement.
Baba would for the most part of the day sit in his arm chair in full view of the guard at the front door. He would take all his meals and spend maximum time on the front veranda.
When asked as to why he preferred sitting in the front he replied “the guard placed by my front door has been given the responsibility of guarding me and making sure that I do not escape to Pakistan. Aziz Bagh has several back doors. If I wanted I could easily walk away from one of the back doors. I want to make the guard feel that he is doing his job of keeping me confined to the house by being visible to him and showing him that I haven’t escaped.”
It was around this time that Laiq Ali, who was the last prime minister of Hyderabad under the Nizams rule, and who was also placed under house arrest did escape with his family to Pakistan. It was rumored that he had managed to escape by donning on a woman’s burqa (head to toe veil) and walked right past the guard stationed at his front door.
After Laiq Ali’s escape in 1950, fearing that others would escape to Pakistan as well, all Hyderabadi political prisoners who were under house arrest were moved to free standing jails. Nawab Deen Yar Jung too was now confined to a jail.
Conditions in the jail weren’t ideal of course. The case by case court dates also kept prolonging. It became evident that freedom was not so forthcoming.
Nawab Deen Yar Jung decided to appeal to the first Indian Prime Minister, Jawahar Lal Nehru to intercede in the Hyderabad affair. He had heard that Nehru was a just and unbiased person, who would be able to give an impartial judgement. Moreover, Nehru himself was jailed and held as a political prisoner by the British when they were in power in India, so he would know the travails of the Hyderabadis now held in confinement by the prevailing Indian government.
Nawab Deen Yar Jung sent off a letter requesting an audience with Nehru.
Jawahar Lal Nehru had heard about Nawab Deen Yar Jung, and how he had mitigated the takeover of Hyderabad, and by his acumen and level headed decisions had kept relative calm in Hyderabad which resulted in minimal loss of life in the city at the time of the Indian invasion.
Nehru asked that Nawab Deen Yar Jung be given permission to leave the jail and come to New Delhi.
A five minute audience was granted with Nehru.
Jawahar Lal Nehru and Nawab Deen Yar Jung met. It was mutual respect at first sight. Nehru was quite taken by Nawab Saheb (this is how he addressed Baba).
Five minutes passed, The aide de camp entered the room to remind the prime minister that his next appointment was waiting.
Nehru was a short tempered man. He snapped at the aide de camp and told him not to disturb him again. Nawab Deen Yar Jung’s audience with Nehru went beyond the initial five minute period to over an hour.
At the end of the meeting, Nehru assured Nawab Deen Yar Jung that by the time he returned to Hyderabad, the judgement on the Hyderabad cases will be made.
Well, it did not happen so fast, but Nehru did intercede and hasten the process.
Nawab Deen Yar Jung and other Nizam officials who were political prisoners were freed from confinement.
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My posts are tidbits of bygone era. Sometimes I feel that they are redundant and do not relate or pertain to our younger generation.
They are but little pieces of history that resonate only with those who are interested. The younger generation might not relate to them but then again, who is to know, some might find them readable enough and pass these stories to their own kids as I do now?
These stories from long ago were told to me when I was young. This is how oral history is passed on. This is how we hold on to our heritage, not just with information about our immediate and extended family, but of our community as well.
Our older generation already know these stories. It is mainly for you younger folks that I pass them along. (Also, I incorporate Aziz Bagh’s role in them whenever possible).
In any case, I do not have too many stories to tell. Just a couple more to relate. So lend me your ear for a little while longer to hear another Hyderabadi tale:
Every Deccani (Hyderabad before 1948 was known as Hyderabad Deccan) remembers the month of September (Sitambar in Urdu, also, sitam means oppression) for the repeated hardships the month of September has put them through.
– The Thughyani (flood) of September 28, 1908: When the city of Hyderabad was destroyed, when River Musa breached its banks.
– Police Action of September 17, 1948: When The State of Hyderabad was taken over by India.
– And, if you want to go much further back in history – September 1687: When the Mughal king Aurangzeb captured Golconda fort and the city of Hyderabad was left burning for days.
These September stories are passed on from one generation to the other, with each generation reliving these difficult times of their city.
So with the advent of the month of September every year, a true Hyderabadi heart skips a beat, fervently asking, “what is in store for us now?”
THE FLOOD
The Musa river flows through Hyderabad dividing the old city from the new.
The devastating Musa river flood occurred on September 28, 1908.
The flood, known as Thughyani Sitambar (September flood, or flood of oppression), shattered the lives of the people of Hyderabad. It is still considered today as the worst tragedy of the State of Hyderabad.
The thughyani was a result of a deluge on the nights of September 27 and 28, 1908 (the aftermath result of a hurricane in the Bay of Bengal).
Torrential rains caused the river Musa to breach its banks: the river rose, flowing through the city. The water level in the old city by Charminar rose higher than the shanty house rooftops.
The sixth Nizam of Hyderabad, Mir Mehboob Ali Khan lost no time going into the city on an elephant, amid the swirling flood to survey the situation. Stunned by the death and destruction he broke down in tears.
The flood rendered people in the old city homeless. It completely destroyed the Nizam Hospital which stood where the Osmania General Hospital now stands, drowning the patients. It washed away the three main bridges.
A 200-year-old tamarind tree which still stands to this present day inside Osmania General Hospital grounds, saved people who survived clinging to its branches. (Just last month, a ceremony was held remembering the flood and a big placard was placed by the tree to commemorate its role as a savior in time of need).
Hyderabad was known for its religious tolerance. This tolerance between the Muslims and Hindus created friendship between the two groups. This prevailed because the king created this atmosphere by participating in a respectful way towards all religions.
The court astrologer who was a Hindu, advised Nizam Mehboob Ali Khan to pacify River Musa. Rivers are considered Goddess in Hindu culture and are offered puja to pacify them. In response Nizam Mahboob Ali Khan asked the astrologer to perform the puja with fruits, flowers, coconuts, as per Hindu religious customs, to pacify River Musa. The Nizam would go to any length to save his city.
The Nizam opened the gates of his palace during this flood crisis to whoever sought help in this time of need. Kitchens were set up in various parts of the city, which were in operation for months feeding the destitute.
The next day, September 29th, although the rain had stopped, a large part of the city was still submerged and the living struggled to cope with the aftermath. Many were still clinging to trees and rooftops. The city was like a vast graveyard.
Aziz Bagh’s role in the flood:
Nawab Aziz Jung opened the doors of his newly constructed home Aziz Bagh. He let the destitute victims of the flood into his home.
Medicine, food, clothing were distributed on the chabutra (raised platform) in Aziz Bagh. Throngs of people came in seeking help and received it in this dire time of need.
Aziz Bagh was very close to the river. Although on slightly higher ground it was still in peril of being flooded and soon this fear was realized. Nawab Aziz Jung was advised to leave his premises for safety sake.
He refused to do so. Eventually he did send his family to a safer region some miles further away from the river, while he and his eldest son Ghazi Yar Jung stayed back to help those effected by the Thugyani. Aziz Bagh doors stayed open. Affected people streamed in and were taken care of and helped in every possible way. Ever since then, the Aziz Bagh chabutra kept up its role of being patron of those in need.
My mother, related the flood episode to me and Aziz Bagh’s role in the flood. She said she heard it from her chacha Nawab Rukunuddun Ahmed (younger brother of Nawab Deen Yar Jung).
Rukunuddin Ahmed was 8 years old at the time of the flood.
Nawab Rukunuddin Ahmed is the dada of: Nida Mohiuddin and Naheed Sharfuddin, and Imaad Kamran and Faraz Kamran, and nana of: Unu (Shamsuddin Ahmed) and Luku (Zaheeruddin Ahmed) and Shahana Hyder and Romana Sayeed (see page 13 of the digital Aziz Bagh Genealogy Tree).
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Permit me to go off on a tangent on education in Hyderabad.
In the 1950’s and 1960’s, the Hyderabadi community comprised of the largest immigrant group to leave their homeland for distant shores, in search of higher educational and professional opportunities.
This was due to the fact that the educational opportunities that were offered in the State of Hyderabad enabled the young Hyderabadi immigrant to establish his/her presence alongside any other counterpart in the western countries.
Big emphasis was placed on education in Hyderabad.
Elite schools like Madrasa e Aliya established in 1872, Mahbubia Girls school (1907), St George’s Grammar school (1834) Rosary Convent, St. Joseph etc. etc. set the goal for a good base in primary education.
The Osmania University established in 1917 by the Nizam was one of the best universities of the time. Its primary language of instruction then was Urdu which was replaced by English in 1948.
The last two Nizams and the Anglican/Australian missionaries had a big role to play in advancing the educational system in the State of Hyderabad.
Higher education, plus the fact that the economic condition of the Hyderabadi muslims was so much better than others in India enabled an easy transition for the young Hyderabadi to immigrate to the western countries in search of a better future.
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When Nawab Deen Yar Jung’s request for retirement was denied by the Nizam of Hyderabad.
Aliuddin Ahmed was the third son of Nawab Aziz Jung (who built Aziz Bagh).
The Nizam of Hyderabad, Mir Osman Ali Khan, bestowed the title of ‘Nawab Deen Yar Jung’ on Aliuddin Ahmed.
Aliuddin Ahmed was popularly known all over Hyderabad as Nawab Deen Yar Jung. At home in Aziz Bagh, he was addressed by his given family name.
Hyderabad became a part of India in 1948. The last Nizam, Mir Osman Ali Khan no longer ruled his kingdom. He was given the title of Rajparmukh (Governor) of Hyderabad. He held this position till 1956.
From 1956 onwards, the territory of Hyderabad was divided between other surrounding Indian states, the Nizam now held sway only over his vast personal estates and family members.
During his tenure in the Nizams court, Nawab Deen Yar Jung (Aliuddin Ahmed) was appointed first as Director of the Eccleciastical Department, then as Commissioner of Police and then Inspector General of Police. Now lastly, after the Nizam was no longer the ruler of his kingdom, Nawab Deen Yar Jung held the position of Chairman of the Managing Committee of the Nizam’s Private Estates.
It was now November 12th,1961. Due to health reasons Nawab Deen Yar Jung wanted to retire. He sent a letter to the Nizam requesting being relinquished of his duties.
(Note the language used by the king and his subject)
Nawab Deen Yar Jung’s request for retirement:
My royal Master, My Lord. Who dare deny the fact my Masters boundless grace and generosity has always accompanied this your devoted subject and that he for all time remained bounded to his person, and that my Master has been all along solicitous of his well being. These are the favors of which this devoted subject cannot be oblivious of as long as he lives.
Despite these favors, the truth of the matter is that this devoted subject is no longer capable of satisfactorily serving his Lordship, and he therefore prays with all respect that if he be relieved of his office at the end of the current year, of which one and a half month remain, it will be an act of benignity.
May the sun of his Lordship’s life and prosperity ever remain radiant.
Verily Allah does what he pleases and intends.
Your loyal-bond subject.
Deen Yar Jung
The Nizams reply and observations: denying Nawab Deen Yar Jung’s request for retirement were printed in the newspaper ‘The Nizam Gazette,’ November 13, 1961.
In view of his present state of health and its general deterioration consequent to his recent illness, he has resigned which I deem to be quite reasonable and do realize that under the circumstances rest is highly essential in his case.
On the other hand, my difficulty is, that it is impossible for me now to get an officer of his caliber and fidelity, the attributes of which he was an embodiment and his long record of unwavering loyalty and service to me and the State are things unforgettable, which I highly appreciate. My decision therefore is subject to certain conditions that is: I condition his relief upon my finding an able and trustworthy substitute who will serve on the Managing Committee as Deputy Chairman, so that he may experience and win my confidence and prove a worthy and true successor of Deen Yar Jung; till then his relief is out of question. Not until these stages are covered that it is possible for me to accept the resignation. In other words an interval of six months or a year shall have to elapse after this new arrangement from January 1st, 1962 and till then it shall not be possible to bring about a change.
Finally, I do hope that this will be acceptable to Deen Yar Jung; otherwise I shall have to influence him to acquiesce as this is my firm resolve which, I regret, is unchangeable. I do realize that I am putting him under a strain for some time to come but this is inevitable under the circumstances.
Nawab Deen Yar Jung’s submission: (November 14, 1961)
My Master, My Patron:
Today’s Nizam Gazette carries My Lords appreciation of this devoted subject. Need he say that my Lords observations are a source of great pride and inspiration to him. My Lords appreciations have leased a new life in his subject and have braced his energy with a fresh ardor.
The arrangements under my Lords contemplation are, forsooth, suitable and to this, your hereditary subject, is a matter of bliss rather than a fix.
May Almighty Allah endow my Lord with longevity, is the prayer of your hereditary bond subject.
Deen Yar Jung
(Nawab Deen Yar Jung passed away in 1964).
(Go to page 7 of the digital format of Aziz Bagh Genealogy Tree to see Aliuddin Ahmed’s (Nawab Deen Yar Jung) offsprings and descendants.)