I often remember my grandmother Janaki, who left us a couple of years ago but lives on in her beautiful, powerful, yet simple personal stories, which she would share so poignantly whenever she visited us. Muharram is one such story, or rather an experience, that I always remember, and I remain grateful to Ammamma, as I call her, for sharing it with me. In late 2024, a family friend was performing Sozkhwani as part of the Awadhi Muharram tradition in Delhi. Sozkhwani, as I understood it, is the recitation of elegies to mourn the departed, especially during Muharram. When my mother generally mentioned the performance to my grandmother, it sparked an engaging conversation. Ammamma began recalling how Muharram was celebrated in her village in Telangana as Peerla Pandaga (Festival of the Peer).With her characteristic gentleness, she turned to me and asked, “Ragini, will you write about it?” I said yes because her stories always drew me in. They were layered yet simple, vivid yet tender. I loved the way she remembered them, recalling every detail with such clarity, even at 84. I recorded her, sometimes leaning on my mother to help me with the Telugu words. Looking back, I realise I was not merely recording a story. I was trying to preserve a way of remembering, a world that lived so vividly within Ammamma and emerged each time she began to narrate.Ammamma explained that a wise and spiritual person is called a Peer. “During the battle, Ashanna (Imam Hussain), his followers, and his children fought with all their might. But one by one, he lost his brother Ushanna (Imam Hasan) and his children. When Ashanna’s youngest son was brutally killed, he was devastated. He laid his son’s body on the ground and prayed for strength, but as he prayed, enemy soldiers killed him. Muharram is observed to mourn Ashanna’s brutal death in that battle,” she said.I tried to read more to understand and learned that its history goes back to the Battle of Karbala, when King Yazid’s troops killed Hazrat Imam Hussain, the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, and his followers. Shia Muslims around the world mark this loss through mourning, penance, and sharing food with the community. What intrigued me was why Muharram in Telangana took the form of Peerla Pandaga. I decided to reflect on that later, as I needed more reading and understanding, and instead continued listening to Ammamma in her own way. Over the years, I have learned that facts and histories can always be looked up later. What cannot be recovered so easily is the texture of a lived memory once the person carrying it is gone.Also read: How My Grandmother Remembered India’s First Independence DayShe explained that in her village in Telangana, it was not only Muslim communities but also Hindus from different castes, especially those from lower or backward castes, who kept their own alam (a flagpole relic with sacred symbols). On the first day of Muharram, an alam was installed with a panja, a hand-shaped motif, atop it.“Each lane in our village was dedicated to a Peer,” Ammamma continued. “Our lane’s Peer Panja belonged to the barber community. The washerfolk and toddy-tapper communities, all Hindus, had their own Peer Panjas as well. For nine days, people visited Peerla Pandirlu (also known as Ashurkhanas) to offer incense, resin, flowers, jaggery, and malida (a sweet made with jaggery and wheat flour). Later, I learnt from my readings that the panja symbolises a protective hand, with its five fingers representing Prophet Muhammad, his daughter, Bibi Fatima, her husband Imam Ali, and their sons Imam Hasan and Imam Hussain.Dawoodi Bohra community members take part in a procession, marking the eighth day of Muharram, in Bhopal, Wednesday, June 24, 2026. Photo: PTI.As she described the rituals, she narrated, “I’ve watched the burning of this gigantic mound of wood in a firepit (Agni Gundam) slowly turn into a carpet of glowing embers. People walked barefoot on the burning coals with deliberate, measured steps, chanting ‘Ashanna, Ushanna, Juloi’, and loudly, ‘Yaa Ali’. Some asked for boons, while others had their wishes fulfilled and made offerings.”On the tenth day, Ashura, the Peer, was taken out in a night procession. Men performed the Dhula, a dance to the beat of drums, in which men from both Muslims and Hindu communities took part, chanting “Yaa Hussain” all night long. My mother explained that Dhula is like an art form in which people stand in a semicircle, with one starting the song and the others carrying it forward in rhythm. The songs honoured the sacrifices of Ashanna and Ushanna and mourned their deaths through matam (ritual of mourning).In her sweet, feeble voice, Ammamma sang a line: “Ashanna Ushanna annadamuloi – Ashanna oye Ushanna…” (Ashanna and Ushanna are the two brothers…). She said the song continued with verses about their lives and sacrifices, but she could not recall the rest. That incomplete fragment stayed with me. Even those few words were enough to remind me that memories are often carried in fragments and that a fragment can hold the weight of a much larger history.During the procession, she added that if a childless couple prayed to the Peer Panja and were blessed with a son, he would be named Ashanna (anna meaning brother); if a daughter was born, she would be named Ashakka (akka meaning sister). After the night-long procession, all the Peers were immersed in the lake. People returned in the morning, weeping and singing mournful elegies. She recalled that the Panja was stored in a box at the neighbourhood mosque until the next Muharram, though she was unsure. It was also interesting to learn how Muharram rituals unfolded in Telangana, where certain Hindu communities revered Muharram and the Tazia. Listening to Ammamma, I was struck not by the fact of communities living alongside one another, but by the way grief itself was shared. In Ammamma’s recollections, participation did not seem to be determined solely by religious identity. Both communities came together because those rituals were part of a shared social world and, in an ordinary sense, belonged to everyone. Joy and sorrow were felt collectively. These everyday relationships often mattered more than the boundaries of religion and caste. No one seemed particularly concerned about where one tradition ended and another began.Ammamma added, “In our village, Muslim families also joined in celebrating Dussehra and Holi and flew kites during Sankranti, all with equal reverence.” These stories were more than nostalgic recollections of an earlier time. For me, Ammamma embodies that syncretic past, not as a symbol of it, but as someone who carries its textures in the ordinary details of her memories.Ragini De is an aspiring freelance journalist and a former ACJ student with training in classical ballet.