“In the passing of Ambassador Yusuf Buch, Kashmir has lost aformidable indigenous voice of reason and rationale. Since his peaceful passingto a better world, I’ve heard several kind words from generations of worldvoices describing him as a Distinguished Diplomat, Iconic Expert, LegendaryIntellectual, Moral Compass, Over-Achiever, Meritorious, Mentor, Guiding Light,Resolute, Intelligent, Wise, Scholarly, Advisor, Brilliant star, LivingEncyclopedia, Son of the Soil and so much more.
He led a fulfilled life, a life that I know shall inspiregenerations to come. To have vision with the kind of clarity he had withunwavering commitment to truth and fairness, publicly for over 8 decades, withsteadfastness, strength and courage despite all the challenges he was facedwith, is indeed unique.
Reams of paper would probably summarize his uniqueexperiences, presenting a true chronicle of Kashmir history in the last 100years. He died at the age of 98, but had a unique mastery of Kashmir historysince we have known it.
I shall not venture today to write about Amb Buch theseasoned and brilliant Diplomat, Intellectual or Socio-Political Scholar, but Iwant to share with all, the amazing family man he was, My Grand Uncle.
My earliest memory of him is from 1980, winter at KashmirHouse, 5 Prithviraj Road, New Delhi. We were all in awe of him knowing of hisachievements that spanned continents. His was a personality so charming and sograceful, it was magnetic.
I was all of 5, pattering around in my blue dress withpansies and daises, when his older brother my other Grand Uncle GhulamNaqashbund had arranged a photo shoot of the family on the terrace garden,since Uncle Yusuf had finally been able to return to briefly visit his familyafter a very long forced political exile spanning 30 years at the time. As Iwas posing for the pictures, he remarked gauging my confidence that I shouldconsider modelling as a profession, which instantly not only catapult myconfidence further but won me over as my favorite Grand Uncle. Such was hispersona and instant connection to a 5 year old, who he inducted in his fan clubfor life in an instant.
In all his letters, emails and conversations, with me overthe next 4 decades his profound love and affection for each member of thefamily always shone through. Ironical that he never truly had a family that helived with most of his life, but he never ceased to provide family values andguidance to his extended family.
As a son, I saw in him the most deeply obedient, caring,compassionate offspring who revered his beloved mother with all his spiritualmight. He was clearly the mothers favorite. More so, since he was the one she pinedfor the most. The mother was a very progressive lady. Living mostly apart fromher husband who traded in the then Bombay, she was entrusted with not onlycaring for the family, but also ensure quality education for the children thatshe strived for from the many windows of her Kalashpora mansion against severalodds where her cousins and extended family almost revolted towards her stanceof western education of the Buch family. She was a remarkable lady, deeplyspiritual who overcame the pain of separation from her worthy son, in actuallyachieving a level of literacy wherein she could write him letters. For years,all he had as communication with the family was letters .The mother would havethe letters read to her, again and again and then literally memorize them, andstare at them, until one day she gathered the strength to start writing one, onthat blue airmail. What the two conversed through the letters between a highlyliterate and just about literate ends was fluid motherhood on one and a deep longingfor the mother on the other. There was seldom a conversation where he failed topay some tribute to his mother until the last time we met in Sept of 2018.
As a brother, he shared his deep affection for his sister inmost conversations we had. Reminiscing the times she spent in New York withhim, he often remembered minute details like where it happened, how ithappened, all her reactions associated with the memory. After her tragic deathat a young age, he embarked on a journey to pay lasting tributes to her memoryand legacy in various ways. Whether it was serving as a mentor and guide to hersons, or creating a trust in her name for educational grants, he kept true tohis values and not only missed her, but found ways to effectively channelizethe brotherly love to actionable outcomes that helped serve as a means tobetter other lives. Very often he would share nostalgic tales of times she hadvisited him in New York, and places they had visited and experiences they had.Although much of their life, they hardly met, he distinctly remembered alltimes he spent with her. For him, the time that she had recommended to packsweaters in the small bag he took with him during his arrest (it was April andhe was convinced the separation would not be more than a few weeks, so asweater would not be necessary), to the regular letters through which they keptin touch over the years, the brother-sister relationship was a chronicle ofsibling values, that anyone would love to pass on to their offsprings.
His relationship with his brothers also bore the storiesthat one can derive history from. All three of them shared love for English literature, Persian poetry, playingchess, and intellectually opining on various world matters. In being witness totheir conversations one could learn an ocean of information. Whether it wasSaadis romanticism, or the tragic symbolism of Keats, or opinions about thesocio political situations anywhere in the world, the conversations wereastute, deep thinking and full of questioning and learning from one another.Uncle Yusuf and Uncle Naqashbund spoke on the phone for hours when both werewell into their 90s and I wondered often how much they could talk? And aboutwhat?After all, one does not really see siblings having long drawn conversationsevery single day about anything and everything. They were the best of friends,that not only cared deeply for one another but were also blessed in sharingvarious ideologies and had very similar interests.
He connected with all his nieces and nephews, individuallyleaving a strong mark on their identity. In him, I witnessed each one of themhaving the highest reverence of him, and in him I saw deep rooted and caringaffection. He also understood each one of them very well as individuals andwould often remark at being blessed in having an extended family that wasdiverse and spread across the continents like a string of pearls, yet connectedwell with the bonds of longing and love for one another. Although many of themdid not get to see him as often, and many saw or met him rarely, therelationship they shared was never diluted by the pain of forced separation. Hewould often remark to me, how he felt my mother spoke like a 19 year old on thephone (the voice of a young girl)and how in his eyes, she was always the 3 yearold he had in his lap when he was torn away from his home. Whenever we met, thelove was obvious and he never ceased to ensure she was doing ok. Sometimes, wewould try to speak to one another in Kashmiri and he would often stop and questionme, and test my knowledge on some words. He would be delighted if I passed anddisappointed in my failure. This was a language that he got to speak for onlyabout 1/3rd of his life, yet he maintained his hold on it, right to his lastdays. To him language was inherent to identity and he believed our language wastestimony for our existence and resistance.
Another remarkable talent he had, was to understandrelationships. When I got married in 2004, he had the best advice for me, whichI not only cherish and live by, but also hold it as some sort of a motto tolive a married life by. He said- “the beauty of this relationship is yourendless devotion to one another”. That is so true. A complex relationship canbe made beautiful by that simple motto. To stay devoted.
He reminisced very often about Kashmir. About its expansiveand vivid beauty , it’s unique cross roads culture and it’s strugglingsocio-economic conditions. About how his parents (especially his mothers)astutestance on education at the turn of the century for the four siblings changedthe course of history for the family. His pictographic memory coupled with deepeloquence of expression was remarkable during all conversations we had. When hespoke of the “Nallae Mer”, the water body comparable to the Grand Canal inVenice on the banks of which their Kalashpora home was located, there was fluidhistory that traversed the conversation. His times in Aligarh, Pakistan,Europe, New York City were studded with being witness to insides of historicalevents, that one only gets to read or hear of, but rarely being witness to. Heoften spoke about Kashmir’s cultural connections to Central Asia andextensively talked about his visits to Samarkand, Yarkand, Bukhara, Khatlan,Khiva and other places on the ancient silk route. There was never a dull momentor a moment one would not learn something new from these conversations.
Last week, as we drove from Islamabad to Muzaffarabad viaMurree and Nathia Gali to fulfill his last wish, to be buried in Azad Kashmir,I felt like I knew the region fairly well, although I had never been therebefore and he had not visited in about 20 years, his conversations capturedevery detail with such visual beauty, it became a part of my living memorywhich gave me a strange sense of being acquainted with the region.
He came back to finally rest at the place he deeply loved,as a revered hero that shall inspire generations to come. Beneath a pinetree, besides his mentor (Mirwaiz YousufShah), adjacent to his dearest counterpart Khwaja Hassan Khurshid, with twoChinar trees in the back, surrounded by snow capped mountains and alibrary/reading room full of books and newspapers, with people of all ageslearning from them right besides. At the university in the other side of Kashmir,a chair is proposed in his name, along with a scholarship in Central Asianstudies. It could not be a more symbolic resting place.
Rest In Peace and absolute power my dearest Uncle Yusuf.Your guidance helped shape my identity and in me, you shall live until I do,and I know far far longer than that in so many stories of courage andbrilliance.”