Syed Quamer A. M. A. Hossain

Dearest Uncle Quamer There is a word that continually comes up when people speak of you. The word is "inspiration". Surely the definition of inspiration is the motivation one gets to undertake a particular course of action. The source of that motivation would be regarded as inspirational. Your upright conduct, your humility, your faithful dedication, your boundless kindness, your considered wisdom - they are all inspirational. While I know you yourself would shy away from being referred to as such, for us to regard you as an inspiration is certainly no embellishment. In the time since you have departed I often find myself thinking: what would Uncle Quamer do in this situation, what would he say in this moment, how would he react to this development. With every such thought I become increasingly aware of the profound impact you had on me. And I see now that you were similarly inspirational to so many more. Many of us in Oxford are physically distant from our families. You and Auntie Mary opened your home and your hearts to us all. You gave a home to students. You attended graduations. You hosted Eid gatherings and wedding receptions. You played matchmaker. In doing all this and more, you filled a void for so many of us. Unknowingly, you and Aunty Mary became like father and mother to a community you knitted together. You were always a foodie at heart and I am so glad we had the opportunity to eat together as often as we did. Alhamdulilah there were abundant home-cooked meals full of flavour and blessings. We got you to try out sushi at Sticks & Sushi. And the wonderful oven baked meals at Za'atar. We managed to satisfy your craving for thaali at Dosa Park. And we certainly cannot forget the rather raucous experience at Antep. Meals were not just about the food though, they were an opportunity to listen to your colourful stories. Like when you were hiking in the mountains and lost Aunty Mary. There were the stories about the best mangoes of your youth in Bihar or your eventful journey to Europe. You would recount episodes from your roadtrip holidays when Saad and Ahmad were little. A glance at your wall of books revealed your passion for Eastern literature, and you often referred to the Muqaddimah. I recall a couple of occasions when you regaled us with the Urdu poetry of Mohammed Iqbal and Mirza Ghalib at the dinner table. We learned of your interest in photography and that your hands made a special appearance in Peter Saunders' book. We learned that you had a particular disdain for political discourse. And you certainly had a penchant for teasing Aunty Mary about her fabulous culinary skills, making the odd comment with a wry smile on your face followed by a child-like giggle when she looked away. During one Ramadan a few years ago I would cycle daily to taraweeh and invariably I would cross paths with your VW Up as you drove to the masjid. I did not know you that well at this point yet you would always offer me the warmest of greetings, as though we may have been well acquainted for years. There is an abiding memory from this Ramadan I will forever cherish. I recall one evening the rain was so heavy that I had to take a change of clothes. As I arrived, soaked to the bone, you said to me: "Young man I am pleased to see the rain has not kept you from the evening's vigil". I may have been cold and wet, but your words warmed and fortified me. The following evening you sought me out before the start of prayers and handed me some dates. "These are some very special dates from Mecca for you to break fast with" you said. You were right the dates were special, though perhaps not in the way you meant. Perhaps for you this was but a small gift. To me though, this was much more than a gift. That you had thought of me and taken the time to package the dates and then actively sought me out to hand deliver them. A thoughtful act with nothing expected in return, a most pure act of selflessness and kindness. I haven't the words to express the impact this had on me, suffice to say it was profound. That evening's taraweeh was perhaps the most vivid vigil I have ever experienced. In that moment you had my heart. As I got to know you in the years since, I realised this is who you are, I realised your act of kindness was not confined to me. Rather you were kind and considerate to all whom you encountered. You welcomed unmet travellers to your home for dinner. You conversed at length with complete strangers on the street. You listened attentively to someone you had only met moments before. You were equally kind in your words to those you agreed or disagreed with. You were modest in your manner, but boundless in your kindness. I will be forever thankful for being amongst those to have received this kindness. You never asked for anything in return, and you would only ever make the one request: "Please don't forget an old man, come see me often" you would say. When Layla and I did visit, you would say "Thank you for remembering this old man" as though we were doing you a favour. Little did you realise that we were the ones who gained most, that it was in fact us who were thankful for having spent time in your company. Layla and I are grateful for the conversations we had. We are grateful for the meals we shared. We are grateful for the memories we created. We are grateful little Aaliyah and you had opportunity to meet. We are grateful for the opportunity to learn at your feet. We are grateful for having known you. Dearest Uncle Quamer, we may not now hear your wisdom yet you continue to shape our lives; you may have departed but you will forever remain in our hearts. Thank you for your example, thank you for being an inspiration. May Allah SWT accept your multitude of good deeds. May He reward you for inspiring us all. May He shower you with His mercy and blessing. May He usher you through the Gates into the Gardens of Abundance. Ameen.