Syed Nissar H Gilani
People come and go. While some leave deep impressions, few are truly remembered, and only a select few manage to make history. Yet, every single person born into this world leaves an indelible mark—an imprint we can recall long after they have departed. This legacy doesn’t have to be monumental; it might be an enduring act of kindness, a notorious deed, or simply an unusual story that becomes a legend within a family circle. Ultimately, my conviction is that no one vanishes without a trace; something always remains to remind us of the unique lives they lived. This is particularly true for my late uncle, Syed Mehraj u din Bukhari, the brother-in-law of my dear mother, whose life taught me that the deepest impressions are often etched by quiet resilience and steadfast discipline.
My uncle, Syed Mehraj u din Bukhari, was born in the year 1928, in the quaint Kashmiri village of Keereri, Pattan. His formative years were marked by a pivotal family decision: his father migrated to Srinagar, settling the family in the spiritual heart of the city, near the revered shrine of Makdoom Sahab. The youngest of three brothers, Syed Mehraj u din received a formal education in Srinagar and, upon its completion, secured a highly valued and dependable government position within the State Road Transport Corporation (SRTC). In 1954, he married my aunt, establishing a home and settling into a professional trajectory that promised stability and security. With the assurance of a regular income, he dedicated himself to building a meaningful future.
This stability, however, proved fragile. Just three years later, in 1957, his life took an unexpected turn when he was struck by a sharp, persistent pain in his left lower back. Initial doctor consultations confirmed a severe urine infection, and subsequent, albeit rudimentary, tests revealed a major problem: a sizable stone in his left kidney that was actively interrupting its normal function. Given that advanced medical science and sophisticated imaging tools were virtually unavailable at the time, this diagnosis presented a formidable and frightening challenge to a young man just beginning his life.
As the relentless pain continued, he was taken to consult the region’s most famous physician, Dr. Ali Jan, who, after careful examination, advised immediate surgery. Dr. Ghulam Rasool, another veteran surgeon, agreed to operate and attempt the stone removal. This was a decision fraught with peril; in those times, kidney stone extraction was considered major, high-risk surgery, a world away from the minimally invasive laparoscopic procedures common today. The operation was finally scheduled for the summer of 1958 at SMHS Hospital in Srinagar, nearly a year after the diagnosis.
We gathered outside the operating theatre, enduring four excruciating hours of waiting. The anxiety peaked when we saw Dr. Ali Jan rushing quickly toward the theatre, his entrance casting a fearful, gloomy hush over the assembled relatives. After five and a half hours, the tension broke with the announcement: the operation was successful, and my uncle would be shifted to the ICU. The sense of collective relief was immediate and overwhelming; he recovered his senses the following day, and normal post-operative protocol began.
Yet, our joy was tragically short-lived. On the third day, a quiet murmur circulated among the core group of relatives, disclosing the grim reality: the stone had not been removed. It was a dense, intricate “staghorn” calculus that had completely embedded itself and enveloped the entire left kidney. The medical consensus was devastating; the left kidney would eventually need total removal—a nephrectomy—an operation considered a catastrophe in that era. The experts advised a second, definitive surgery only after my uncle had recovered fully from the initial shock and met all necessary protocols.
Faced with this immense physical and emotional setback, my uncle chose not to rush. The advice he received from various surgeons, coupled with consultation from traditional Indian System of Medicine (ISM) practitioners, emphasized a life of meticulous discipline: massive fluid intake and an extremely restricted diet. The period between 1958 and 1970 became a twelve-year testament to his quiet fortitude. He lived every day under the shadow of chronic pain and a ticking physiological clock, yet his discipline never wavered. He carried out his government duties, maintained his responsibilities, and managed his health with a precision and patience that was astounding to witness. He never complained, transforming his pain into a source of inner strength.
Finally, in January 1970, with the conviction that it was time to seek a permanent solution, he made the firm decision to travel outside the state. He sought admission to the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) in New Delhi. Exactly twelve years had passed since the first surgery, and I, a university student enjoying winter break, was asked to accompany him on this defining journey.
Upon reaching New Delhi, we settled into an accommodation in a mess with a close relative who worked at the J&K Arts Emporium on Prithvi Raj Road. After two days, we reported directly to AIIMS. The All India Institute of Medical Sciences was, and still remains, one of the top medical institutions in the country. This was my first and only visit to the beautiful and well-maintained campus. To my surprise, there was hardly any queue. Securing an admission ticket was remarkably easy and affordable; one could walk straight to the receptionist without hassle. The entire hospital, with its cleanliness and calm atmosphere, gave the impression of a five-star hotel—a truly revolutionary experience in healthcare delivery for its time.
On the first day, my uncle secured an appointment in the concerned department and was examined by, if I recall correctly, Dr. Bapna, likely the Head of the Department of Nephrology. Dr. Bapna advised immediate admission for investigation and mandatory tests. My uncle was admitted the next day, and a week of rigorous testing followed. During this period, I remained with my uncle during the day, returning to my base near Lodhi Garden at night. The lack of crowds and the ease of transport were memorable; I traveled effortlessly between Lodhi Garden and AIIMS for just fifty paise (50 paisa) round trip.
My lasting impression from that stay was the exceptionally dedicated paramedical staff, most of whom were nurses from Kerala. One nurse in particular deserves mention: Alima, a Christian woman around 25 years old. She was beautiful, profoundly dedicated to her profession, and unlike any nurse I had ever encountered. She cared for her patients with such affection that they would forget their best care attendants. I observed her during her duty hours, covering five to six kilometers back and forth across the ward. She would feed patients politely, clean their faces, and even pause for a gentle chat. Alima was the most sought-after nurse, not only in the Urology ward but arguably the entire hospital, embodying the highest standards of compassion and skill. My uncle quickly developed a deep respect for her, and I, too, formed a respectful relationship with her.
The verdict finally arrived: the left kidney had to be surgically removed—a nephrectomy. The surgeon also noted that his right, remaining kidney was abnormally sized, but provided assurance that my uncle could live a normal, full life with only one functional kidney. Despite the tremendous facilities and expertise available at AIIMS, my uncle made a surprising decision, one I initially felt was misguided: he decided to return to Srinagar for the operation.
Months later, the definitive surgery was successfully performed back in Srinagar. His diseased kidney was removed, and he lived quite comfortably and without major complications for the next twelve years. He continued his work, eventually rising to the respected position of General Manager for the passenger fleet at the SRTC. His life returned to a rhythm of stability, discipline, and quiet contribution.
Then, in January 1982, his journey of fortitude came to a sudden close. He complained of chest pain throughout the day and night. Doctors provided medication, but before he could be shifted to a hospital the following morning, he suffered a massive heart attack and breathed his last at the young age of 53. He died in harness, still serving in a respected position, leaving behind his sobbing wife, daughter, and all loved ones who adored him for his wonderful qualities. He was a true human being, a gentle soul, and unfailingly helpful to his friends and relatives alike.
Rest in peace, Uncle Syed Mehraj u din Bukhari. Your story is the perfect realization of the philosophical truth that even in a quiet life, an exceptional character leaves an imprint—an enduring testament to strength, discipline, and the profound power of quiet fortitude—that can never be erased.
The writer is former Assistant Commissioner of Revenue Department, can be reached at nisargilani57748@gmail.com
