This November, my great-aunt Begum Hamida Habibullah turned 100. It is a little hard to wrap my mind around that number. She would have been of 30 years before this country achieved Independence, and once, speaking about returning to Lucknow, she said, “Yes, I remember returning from Hyderabad to India.” It took me a little while to figure that out.

Begum Habibullah’s childhood and young adult life were spent in the quasi-independent Hyderabad State, where her father, Nawab Nazir Yar Jung, was a judge in the high court. Returning from there to Lucknow, a place that would always be home, she said she returned to “India”. In a sense, Hyderabad is as good a place as any to begin. The close relationship I shared with my great-aunt was built more on affection than just blood ties. My grandfather, just a year younger, was her first cousin. He spent a part of his childhood in Hyderabad, and remained deeply attached to his “Apa” as long as he lived. But their life as children was more different than I can imagine.

My great-grandfather was Sheikh Masood uz Zaman, a member of the Legislative Council, the upper house of parliament for the United Provinces. He would be the last elected deputy president of the Council before it was dissolved. While one of his sisters married Nawab Nazir Yar Jung, the other married Maulana Abdul Majid Daryabadi, a leading theologian of his era. My great-aunt’s childhood, then, was one where the vistas of legislature, law and theology were all open, within the family. It was an enviable position to be in, not least because a doting father ensured excellent education for her.

Hyderabad, however, is not the only trip of hers that makes my head spin. Talking of Kashmir one day, she casually mentioned the beautiful drives from Rawalpindi to Srinagar that she and Bubbles went on. The “Bubbles” she was referring to was her husband, Major General Enaith Habibullah. He was given the nickname because Habibullah sounds a bit like “hubble bubble”, the British slang for a hookah. Whether the nickname came from his British schooling, or during his days in World War II, when he served on the North African campaign, it stuck, so much so that his family used it unthinkingly. As a military officer in pre-Partition days, Bubbles and my great-aunt could drive from the military base in Rawalpindi to Srinagar. Today, just thinking about the barbed wire, deaths, and soldiers between those two places makes my head hurt. You would never think of it as a holiday drive that the general — who was the first Commandant of the National Defence Academy at Khadakvasla — would take with his wife.

Despite the fame and fortune of the people who surrounded her, my great-aunt is also very much her own person. She joined politics in the 1960s, after her husband retired, and has been a member of the UP Legislative Assembly, twice a minister of State, and a member of the Rajya Sabha.

Perhaps her finest legacy is her work on women’s education, especially through the Avadh Girls’ Degree College, an institution of which she was president and remains the patron of. She worked to make the Self Employed Women’s Association (also known as SEWA), Lucknow, a success, and went on to serve in various government roles. Today she remains financially independent, thanks to her pensions from her terms as an MLA and MP, and her husband’s military service.

To be honest, this was always somewhat beyond me. My father was a petroleum engineer working with State agencies in India and Saudi Arabia. Like most children from the middle class, much of my life has been about a decent education, and the desperate hunt for a decent job. The rarefied world of politicians, generals and aristocracy was something you read about, but did not participate in. And while my great-aunt was always kind to me, I was always intimidated and unsure of myself to take that affection for granted. Over time, though, these things have eased. I visit her and listen to her talk of the old days. It is still beyond me, but it makes me think how much the world can change within a single lifetime. It gives me hope, and makes me fear. And these days, quite often, as I get up to leave, my great-aunt will give me a hug, and tell me how much I resemble Anwar, my grandfather, who passed away almost 30 years ago. And maybe all the wisdom in the world is nothing next to that affection.

Omair Ahmad is the South Asia Editor for The Third Pole, reporting on water issues in the Himalayas

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