Ali Anware died on January 11th, 2020 of a heart attack in the village of Majiri, about hundred miles south of Bombay. He was about sixty five years old.
My earliest memories of Ali Uncle, or Ali Bhai or Al-lee, as he was most often called, are from my grandmother’s Nagpada apartment in the early seventies. His was a presence that was impossible to ignore: an unkempt mop of black curly hair, a bushy mustache falling over his large buck teeth, bushier eyebrows accentuating his large, piercing eyes, his dark skin glistening with sweat and large feet that stomped through the apartment. His personality was even louder. Boisterous and opinionated and loving and helpful, obnoxious and annoying, religious and decadent all in equal measure.
Ali insisted his family descended from Siddi royalty and his features and appearance lent some credence to that claim. The Siddi’s were East African slaves brought to India in the sixteenth century by the Deccan Sultanates and used as mercenaries to fight in battles with the Mughals. Over the course of time, they grew powerful enough to create their own kingdoms including the princely state of Murud Janjira. The fort of Murud Janjira surrounded on all sides by the Arabian Sea is where Ali’s family lived until India’s independence in 1947, which brought an end to the patronage provided by the Siddi nobility. Along with several other destitute families from the fort, they settled in a small village off the Konkan coast called Majiri. Looking it up on Google maps shows two parallel roads less than half a mile long lined with tiny shacks and a Mosque at the farthest corner. It is quite literally a place in the middle of nowhere in the middle of nowhere.
He never went to school and in his early teens was likely hired as domestic help by my grandparents in Murud. When my grandmother moved to Bombay, Ali moved with her and stayed with the family till his early twenties. Through some luck and his excellent social and networking skills he landed a job as a day laborer in Bahrain. He worked there for four or five years and saved enough money to help his brother start a taxi service and pay for his sister’s wedding. Soon after he got married himself, to a Konkani girl who was enamored by this young man who had just returned from the Middle East. Ali in turn fell head over heels in love with the smart, bubbly, beautiful and oh so fair girl, who had agreed to marry him. All through his life, Ali’s love for his wife knew no bounds. If she was sick, he’d pack up and head right away to Majiri. He saved up to buy her saaris and jewelry every year for Eid. Even a mention of his wife made him blush and plastered a sheepish grin on his face.
The hard labor in Bahrain took a toll on Ali’s health and after some serious injuries he had to return back to India. He did some odd jobs but his injuries prevented him from doing anything intensive and he fell back to working as house help. During this time he worked for some famous Bollywood celebrities including the comedian Johnny Walker and the iconic villain, Ajit. Between jobs he used to come work at my grandmother’s house in Bandra and when I visited, with Ali around, the experience was always memorable. Whether arguing with other domestic help, or admonishing my uncles for their laziness or providing unsolicited advise to my aunt, the days were never quiet. I remember traveling with him in a packed Bombay local when a lady carrying an infant entered the overcrowded train. Ali pushed people around to make room for her and then proceeded to chastise her for traveling in a crowded train with an infant. The lady, already miserable in the oppressive heat and surrounded by sweaty men did not take kindly to this advise and proceeded to curse Ali with colorful words that made the entire train go quiet and even forced Ali to retreat in silence. Why, I remember asking Ali, why did you have to do that. With a puzzled look, Ali shrugged his shoulders, and then proceeded to tickle the child’s feet. During Ramazan he fried the samosas and cut the fruit and washed the dates and prepared the Rooafzah and when everyone was done, cleaned up the table and led the evening prayers. After dinner Ali would head down to share a smoke with the chowkidar as they both lamented about their lot in life, discussed the latest neighborhood gossip and reminisced about their wives and children back home.
Ali was present by my grandmother’s bed when she died, he was there taking care of my father when he was recovering from a heart attack, he was there when my aunt needed help with her newborn, he was there to cook and clean for my uncle when he visited India from the US and he was there to help setup and lockup my mother’s apartment in Pune every year. Ali was always there and it’s hard to imagine that now he’s not.
My brother Arif, wrote this beautiful poem dedicated to Ali.
Peripheral Losses
There are some you do not cry for
When they leave for what may be a better place,
“ Enough if there is a glisten in your eye
Or a hint of a frown on your face.
Yet somehow their lives had intertwined
With yours is those mysterious ways,
Not quite a knot but more than just a graze,
Just the common thread of humankind.
(For Al-ly)
For those of us privileged enough to know Ali, we will miss him. But as he often liked to proclaim in his phonetically made up English, tension not, Issaybehan … it will be fine.
Please do share your memories (and photos) of Ali Bhai.