Syed Nissar H. Gilani
Some family events are so extraordinary that time does not fade them; instead, it polishes them into an enduring chapter of family history. We come across an old album—whether by pure chance or quiet intent—and suddenly, decades melt away, letting memories rush back with all their original color and warmth.
Mughal Gardens, Srinagar (July 1975) — Dr. Amin with family and Sister Jayadevi Sood Bhardwaj
This photograph, snapped in the radiant sunlight of July 1975 in one of Srinagar’s iconic Mughal Gardens, captures far more than a cheerful family picnic. Behind the lens was my own camera, gathering those dearest to me: my late father, Dr. Amin, sitting at the center with his characteristic calm dignity; my son; my cousin; my brother-in-law, Mr. Iqbal Mantoo; a close relative; and standing lovingly right behind my father, Mrs. Jayadevi Sood Bhardwaj.
To look at Sister Jaya in this frame—her hands resting near my father, her warm smile set against the backdrop of late-summer blooms—is to recall a miracle of human connection and destiny.
Mughal Gardens, Srinagar (July 1975) — Dr. Amin with family and Sister Jayadevi Sood Bhardwaj
A Destiny Sealed at the Red Fort
The story truly began on a crisp February morning in 1974. During a family holiday to New Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, and Ajmer, my father—a man deeply fond of history—stepped toward the serene Moti Masjid within Delhi’s historic Red Fort complex to offer his Namaz.
Nearby stood Jayadevi, a young, unmarried graduate working as a senior clerk at Punjab University in Chandigarh. As my father prayed, she stood transfixed, gazing at him in utter stillness. Once he completed his prayers, a sudden storm of emotion broke through her composure, and she began to sob with a grief so profound it shook us all.
We gathered around to console her, perplexed by the stranger’s tears. When she finally composed herself enough to speak, she looked at my father and uttered a single word thick with tears: “Pitaji”—Father. She explained that my father bore an uncanny, undeniable resemblance to her own beloved father, who had passed away a few years before. When she pulled out a worn photograph of her late father, we were stunned—it was an absolute mirror image, two souls cast from the very same mold.
My father, whose heart was always a wellspring of compassion, did not hesitate. He looked at her softly and said:
“I have no daughter of my own, but from this day on, you are my daughter. My son is your brother, and my wife is your mother.”
With those words, he didn’t just comfort a grieving daughter; he rewrote our family’s story. We sat down for a quiet, celebratory meal together at a nearby restaurant, exchanging addresses and laying the first stones of a lifelong bond.
Letters across Cities & Summer in Srinagar
Soon after returning home, letters began arriving from Jaya in Chandigarh. She wrote of her work at Punjab University and the quiet strains of her life, carrying a deep yearning for independence and a daughter’s heartfelt request for her father’s guidance. At my father’s bidding, I became his scribe. The back-and-forth correspondence between Srinagar and Chandigarh became the golden threads weaving our distant lives together.
In the summer of 1975, she traveled to Kashmir to stay with us. Meeting her felt less like receiving a visitor and more like a long-awaited homecoming. For two weeks, she lived as one of us, sleeping beside my mother as a daughter would, her laughter filling our home as we explored the valley. It was during this memorable visit that we went for a picnic to the Mughal Gardens, where I clicked this picture—capturing a family bound not merely by blood, but by choice, compassion, and destiny.
Blessings, Honeymoon, and Life’s Tapestry
Before her visit ended, Sister Jaya shared a secret that filled our home with light: she had fallen in love with a gentleman named Satish and wished for my parents’ blessing for their marriage. My parents gave it freely, overflowing with joy for the daughter they had found by chance.
Though we could not attend their wedding in Chandigarh, we had the honor of hosting the newlyweds for their honeymoon in Srinagar, wrapping them in the warmth of our family home. Years unfolded beautifully—Jaya and Satish were blessed with twins, Anand and Deepti, and our families grew closer with each passing year.
An Enduring Legacy
Life’s tapestry is woven with both light and shadow. In later years, Sister Jaya was taken from us entirely too soon by cancer, while she was still in active service and had risen to the distinguished position of Assistant Registrar at Punjab University, Chandigarh. Her husband Satish later faced a severe accident, yet through every storm, the foundation built on that afternoon outside Moti Masjid held firm, keeping our families bound in mutual support and love.
Decades have passed since I clicked this photograph in the garden. Today, three cherished souls pictured in this frame are no longer with us: my father, Dr. Amin, who departed at the age of 74 in 1994; my wife’s brother-in-law, Mr. Iqbal Mantoo, who passed away at the age of 60 in 2006; and our dear Sister Jaya. Rest in peace, all.
Looking at this picture today brings back the crisp garden air, the blooming dahlias, and the timeless truth my father showed us that day: family is not always about the blood you share, but about the love you choose to give.
Rest in peace, dear ones. You remain forever woven into the fabric of our lives.
The author is a former civil servant. He can be reached at nisargilani57748@gmail.com
