Observing Ashura
and its message
“Do you have any plans for lunch today?”, asked a colleague, a while ago. “Not really”, I replied. While we were deciding where to have lunch, I recalled that Ashura is today and I should be observing a fast. At home, I would be abstaining from eating anything until dusk. As I’m sitting in my office like any regular day, I cannot help but recall how different today would’ve been if I was home.
Today is Ashura, the tenth of Muharram, commemorating the battle of Karbala. A day of mourning, today our home echoes with only noheys or Muharram lamentations. Parents are busy with finding the right spot to perform Ashura prayers, while the rest of the house remains eerily quiet. All regular affairs of the day are suspended on Ashura including, cooking, laundry, studying, etc. The helpers are on leave, and anyone who is hungry needs to survive on biscuits and tea.
Custom dictates that one should stay up all night before Ashura, remembering Hussein and his family’s ordeal. As a kid, I would accompany my grandmother to all the Imambaras that remained open and lit, to pay homage to each one of them. Nani would let me light candles while she carefully held my hand, as I tried fixing them on the molten wax upon the stairs leading to the decked up sacred hall. Fervent believers would chant the lamentations and stay up all night, inciting enthusiasm in the worshippers. The present times are different. We go to bed by 2 am after attending the late night Majlis (religious congregation) and wake up around 8 am.
My parents then proceed to perform their prayers. Standing over a mat under the open sky, prayers known as A’maal are performed in the early hours of Ashura. These include recitations from the Quran, while retracing the steps that Imam Hussein took before proceeding towards his final encounter with his opponent, Shimr ibn Ziljushan, at the battle field. The steps are synonymous of the conflicting emotions that Hussein underwent before relinquishing to the demands of his fate. Believers walk back and forth seven times, commemorating Hussein’s agony at delivering his youngest son, Asghar’s mortal remains to his mother, Rabab.
The prayers last for nearly two hours, and then we proceed to perform a Majlis at our home’s Imambara. Unique to Shia households, Imambaras are commemoration halls that house replicas of flags that Hussein’s family and supporters carried to Karbala. Replicas of mausoleums and minbars (pedestal for a preacher) are part of an imambara, and are decked up with incense and lights. Arabic verses adorn the walls turning the hall into a sanctuary of prayers. One our family’s recitals are done, we then drive to the largest imambara in the city, from where Ashura’s procession is organised.
Ashura, though a strictly Shiite observation, pulls large crowds of believers from other dominions too, who on this day, gather or the procession. The police is on duty and guards the route of the rally. The rally constitutes giant flags decked with flowers, a horse named ‘Zuljana’ recreated as Hussein’s last ride, people wearing black, with some reading out noheys while others flagellating themselves. Over the years, this practice of self-flagellation has been denounced by many and instead blood donation camps are set up on the route. Commotion ensues in these places sometimes, when attendees want to inch closer to the symbolic flags. As the rally proceeds, my mum, sister and I, wait for Dad and my brother to return.
The timing of Hussein’s assassination is believed to be at Asr, the afternoon prayer time. At that point, our family holds another majlis, before sitting down to eat rice and lentils, the most basic meal possible. Nazar, or Quranic recitations over food, are performed over sherbet and rice. Once the meals are done, we all depart to our rooms for a quick rest. As night falls, Ashura is over but the memory of the wrath that Hussein’s remaining family had to endure in the aftermath of the battle is relived. Our family gathers again at night in the Imambara and recites nohey in dim light, recapturing Zainab’s (Hussein’s sister) ordeal as the sole guardian of the family.
I’m typing this out while sitting in my office, dressed in black as a symbolic gesture marking Ashura today. Time and life choices can take us to different places, but the memories always remain with us. I believe in Hussein’s values of justice and speaking truth to power, without necessarily believing in the customary obligations that today enshrines.
I’m not performing the A’maal or skipping work. Neither am I holding a majlis. What I am retaining is the message that Karbala, Hussein and Zainab espouse. Of moral incorruptibility, of insurmountable patience and innate belief in righteousness. If I can live these values each day, Ashura’s message remains intact.
