Long, long ago in 1961, the Indian High Commissioner to Nigeria had a party in Lagos. His wife introduced their daughter, barely eight years old, to one of the dignitaries, Uncle Hussain. The girl was silent, confused. The mother nudged her to shake hands, but the little girl was troubled and asked loudly: “How does he have an Indian name?”
That little girl was me.
For me, Hasan, Hussain or Sakina, Ahmad were common Indian names, so how on earth did a person in Africa acquire one?
My mother’s parents were from Lucknow, historically the seat of the Ganga-Jamuna Tehzeeb – the syncretic culture of the region. I remember Hindus setting up piyaos, or water kiosks, for Muslims on Muharram.
There is a well-known story about a time during the reign of the last king of Awadh Wajid-Ali-Shah. Ashura, the 10th day of Muharram, happened to fall on the same day as the Hindu festival of Holi.
The king got up in the morning and realised that people were not on the streets playing…
