Today, I found myself surrounded by what felt like an endless tide of humanity—nearly two hundred thousand people, each one drawn by love, grief, and reverence, to say goodbye to a man whose silence spoke louder than most people’s voices ever could: Aga Syed Mohammad Baqir.
The crowd moved slowly, solemnly, with a kind of sacred discipline, carrying his coffin like they were carrying not just a body—but an entire era. It was not just a funeral. It was history being lowered into the earth.
I had come early, searching for a shortcut through the winding terrain, hoping to climb the hill before the crowd swelled. The shrine stood like a sentinel atop the elevation, waiting to receive the man who had spent a lifetime in service to his faith and his people. But as I weaved through the mourners, I realized I wasn’t just climbing a hill—I was walking through a living memory. A collective cry. A moment stitched together by thousands of souls.
Everywhere I looked, I saw eyes brimming with tears, but also pride. Respect. Devotion. Leaders of the Shia community were present, nearly all of them. Religious scholars, elders, community figures—men who seldom stood together stood today, shoulder to shoulder. Even Chief Minister Omar Abdullah offered Janaza, not as a politician, but as a human being humbled by the legacy of the deceased.
And then, through the thick crowd and the heat that clung like a second skin, I spotted Aga Syed Hadi—my childhood friend. His face was pale but firm, his voice rising above the unrest, trying to calm the growing wave of people, their emotions boiling under the punishing sun. For a moment, I was pulled back into memory—two kids racing through the narrow lanes of Budgam, laughing, dreaming, unaware that one day, one of us would be trying to hold a grieving crowd together.
As I stood, lost in the moment, I overheard a passerby whisper, “Hadi’s relative has passed away.” That was it. A towering religious scholar, a man whose sermons shaped minds, whose quiet presence filled rooms—reduced, lovingly but curiously, to a relative.
And suddenly, something shifted inside me.
What are we, really, if not someone’s child, someone’s friend, someone’s memory? No matter how high we rise, how grand our titles, the world will always bring us back to the human bonds we share.
And standing there, as the chants of “La ilaha illallah” swept through the valley like wind through leaves, I felt something I didn’t expect—smallness.
In that vast ocean of people, I was just another face. A few recognized me, offering brief smiles, nods, hands placed on hearts in silent salaam. But deep down, I felt the unmistakable weight of a question that’s hard to answer:
Have I done anything worth remembering?
Will anyone gather like this for me? Not because of fame, but because I touched their lives in ways words can’t explain?
That thought lingered like incense smoke in a shrine—slow, curling, impossible to ignore.
It’s easy to get lost in routines. Work. Screens. News cycles. But today reminded me: Death is not the opposite of life. It’s a part of it. A checkpoint. A mirror. A reminder. That in the end, all that will matter is the legacy we leave in people’s hearts.
And some people—like Aga Syed Mohammad Baqir—leave behind a silence that roars.
As the earth closed over him and prayers drifted into the skies, I didn’t just mourn him. I envied him. Not for his status. But for the way he had lived. Quiet. Grounded. Devout. And yet, when he left—he moved mountains.
And I walked away with a heart full of emotion, a mind full of questions, and a soul quietly whispering:
I want to live like that.
