Syed Nissar H Gilani
Destiny often works in quiet, unexpected ways, choosing the most ordinary moments to introduce the extraordinary. For my family, that moment arrived on a crisp February morning in 1974, within the timeless embrace of Delhi’s Red Fort.
My father, lost in his love for history, was making his way toward the serene Moti Masjid when a woman’s gaze fell upon him. Her name was Jay Devi Sood. She stood, transfixed, a portrait of stillness in a simple sari. Then, without warning, a storm of emotion broke through her composure, and she began to sob with a grief so profound it seemed to shake the very air around her.
We watched, perplexed, as this stranger, wracked with sorrow, composed herself enough to approach my father. When she spoke, her voice was thick with tears, but the word she uttered was one of pure affection: “Pitaji,” she called him. Father.
The reason for her outburst was as simple as it was astonishing. My father was the mirror image of her own, who had passed away. When she showed us a photograph, the resemblance was uncanny; they were two souls cast from the same mold. My father, a man whose heart had always been a wellspring of compassion, didn’t hesitate. “I have no daughter of my own,” he said gently, “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 stranger; he rewrote our family’s story.
Our first meal together in a small restaurant was a quiet celebration. We were no longer strangers but a family, sharing addresses and stories, laying the first stones of a bond that would last a lifetime. Soon after, a letter arrived from Jay in Chandigarh. She wrote of her work at Punjab University and the quiet strain of living with her sister, her words carrying a deep yearning for independence and a heartfelt request for her new father’s guidance. At his bidding, I became his scribe, and our letters back and forth became the threads that wove our distant lives together.
The summer of 1979 brought her to us. When I met her at the Srinagar airport, it felt less like a visit and more like a homecoming. For two weeks, she was one of us, sleeping beside my mother as a daughter would, her laughter echoing through our home as we explored the majestic beauty of Kashmir.
On her last night with us, she shared a secret that filled our home with light. She had fallen in love with a man named Satish and sought my parents’ blessing for their marriage. They gave it freely, their hearts overflowing with joy for the daughter they had found by chance. Though we couldn’t be at their wedding, we had the honor of hosting their honeymoon, wrapping the newlyweds in the warmth of our home and family.
Life unfolded beautifully. Jay and Satish were blessed with twins, Anand and Deepti, and our families grew closer with each passing year, our connection a constant, comforting presence in our lives.
But life’s tapestry is woven with threads of both light and shadow. Jay was taken from us by cancer, her vibrant spirit dimmed too soon. Her beloved Satish, already navigating the world without her, then faced a horrific accident that cost him an arm. Yet, even in the face of such profound loss and tragedy, the foundation we had built on that day in the Red Fort held strong. Our families remained a source of solace and strength for one another.
It has been more than fifty years since a woman’s tears of grief led her to a new family. The bond we formed that day has weathered every storm and stands as a powerful testament to the idea that family is not always about the blood you share, but about the love you choose to give. Rest in peace, Sister Jaya. You are woven into the fabric of our lives, forever.
The writer is former Assistant Commissioner of Revenue Department. and can be reached at nisargilani57748@gmail.com
