Kaifi’s relationship with his children was that of a friend. If ever the children did something wrong, he did not tell them off, but gave his opinion on the matter. Moreover, he loved them beyond measure. Shabana was little, and we were not well off. Mangoes were expensive and were rarely seen at home. One day, Shabana brought two dozen mangoes from her friend Parna’s house and told me very happily, ‘Mummy, some mangoes came to Parna’s house from her village, and her mummy gave me so many.’ Shabana loves mangoes. Her words pierced Kaifi’s heart, but he remained silent.

After his illness, when the idea of living in his village came to him, all he had left was five bighas of land. After his father and mother left for Pakistan, people from the village had occupied his father’s house and land. He was putting up at some relative’s. The first thing he did was to hire a truck and go to Malihabad, from where he returned with 300 mango saplings. He planted a mango orchard, and kept a servant, and after five years when they bore fruit, the first thing he did was to bring several hundred mangoes to Bombay for Shabana. That mango orchard is still there, and it’s a foregone conclusion that mangoes from there will arrive for Shabana. And this year too, Kaifi’s servant brought mangoes for Shabana, but this time Kaifi was not there to witness his daughter’s happiness.

At times the words Kaifi uttered could only have come from a sage. For Mijwan’s welfare and progress, Kaifi created a welfare society. Its office operated on his land, and he had ceiling fans installed in every room. One night, someone stole all four fans. There was pandemonium in the village, but Kaifi remained silent.

Shabana asked him, ‘Aren’t you frustrated by what has happened?’

He turned to Shabana and said, ‘Bete, when you are working for change, you should give some leeway to your hope, in the recognition that perhaps this change will not happen in your lifetime, but even so you must carry on with your work.’

Shabana turned to me and said, ‘Mummy, hearing Abba, I felt that this is not Abba, but some sage speaking.’

After his son Baba became a cameraman and his first interview was published in a newspaper, Kaifi cut it out, had it framed and hung it on the wall facing his desk. Father and son would sit silently together for hours, but there was exceptional communication between them. Today, Baba says, ‘If I can live my life following the path shown to us by Abba, only then will I be able to do justice to his memory.’