A grandson’s tribute to the man whose cooking was an act of love, whose charity was silent, and whose death left a chill that remains
Er Umair Ul Umar
A man known affectionately by his alias Hassan Bab and formally as Gh Hassan Khanday, he was celebrated far and wide for his kindness, his open-hearted generosity, and his instinct to help anyone who crossed his path. He was not a figure from folklore; he was my grandfather. And to me, he was nothing less than a sheltering tree.
When I lost my mother during my KG years, life should have felt unbearably hollow. At an age when a child needs a mother the most, I was suddenly left without one. Yet this extraordinary man stepped forward and stood like a mountain, shielding us from a storm we were too young to grasp. He made sure the emptiness never swallowed us. We never truly felt the depth of our loss because his compassion filled every silent space in our home.
His calmness was a treasure. He never lost patience with our childhood mischief. He cooked for us. He prepared tea. He combed our hair before school, and even on Sundays, he gently ran a wooden comb through our hair with the tenderness a mother gives her children.
During school recess, he always had food ready, served with quiet love. And then came the moment we secretly waited for, he would untie the knot of his handkerchief and hand us a few rupees as pocket money, a tiny gesture filled with oceans of affection.
Whenever relatives invited him for meals, he would tuck cooked chicken leg pieces into the corner of his shalwar kameez so he could bring them home for us. Many times, he returned with coconut balls, knowing how they lit up our faces. His stories and lullabies wrapped our nights in comfort.
I was deeply fond of nun chai. While the rest of the family used a large samovar, he kept a smaller one for himself because he liked less salt. Yet after pouring his own tea, he always saved a cup for me, as if keeping a reserved place for me in his world. He loved meat, but the way he prepared it was unmatched, barely any oil, yet the taste still lingers on my tongue. He shared everything fairly, handing each of us a single piece of meat with quiet dignity. His cooking was not a skill; it was an act of love. And long before dawn, he would gently wake us with a warm cup of Lipton tea, beginning our mornings with kindness.
His virtues were countless. I remember once he was climbing a ladder while my elder sister was cleaning above. A slight slip happened, and a bag full of rice spilt onto the floor. He turned with wide eyes; a secret had been discovered. He had been quietly giving rice in charity without telling any of us. His left hand never knew what his right hand gave. His charity was not an act; it was his nature.
He had a unique habit. He would go out to the roadside and sit under a keekar tree near our yard. There, he would call out to the Bakerwals, inviting them warmly to eat because he believed they must be hungry. Most of the time, they ended up in our kitchen, and he served them personally with honour. His piety was genuine and his generosity boundless.
Even after his passing, many relatives arrived with envelopes of cash he had secretly given them during their difficult times. Poor people came too, sharing how he had supported them without anyone knowing.
He raised the children of his brothers and a sister as if they were his own. No wonder he was loved by everyone in our area. He had nurtured almost a hundred children in our mohalla, many of whom are now grandparents and parents themselves. This profound character earned him a household reputation. Even today, when someone visits our home, they still say, “I am going to Hassan Babun.”
We only realised after his death how deeply he shared everything. Relatives told us, “You do not share fruits with us as Hassan Bab did.” His virtues were vast, too many to be captured fully in words.
But then came a day that still chills the heart.
It was 28 January 2012, a freezing morning and a day carved with sorrow. He was wrapped in a rug, resting quietly. I took tea and lavasa to him. He ate half of it and then said softly, “Today I will die.” I grew upset, scolded him, and left the room, refusing to hear such words. I turned on the radio and began listening to Aaj Ki Surkhiyan at 9:05 AM.
A few minutes later, my little sister rushed to me, saying something had happened to the grandfather. When we entered the room, with my father beside me, he had already left this world. That day, we lost the epitome of kindness.
May Almighty Allah bless every child with a grandfather as noble and charactered as him, someone who builds foundations when life feels like a drowning flood of sorrow. May Almighty Allah grant him the highest station in Jannah. May Almighty Allah bless us with the honour of meeting him face to face in Paradise.
Aameen.
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