on the 10th of muharram, our imambada in shafa'atpota has a series of short majalis, local zakirīn one after the other, reciting the masāib of different shuhada; someone chooses asghar, some abbas, qasim, saeed, ali akbar, then finally hussain. the senior most narrates hussain.

the tempo rises with each successive narration. the intensity of grief increases with each majlis that lasts for just 10-15 minutes. gradually you lose patience, your handkerchief is wet, your cheeks are wet, a physical weakness sets in with constant wailing. everyone is crying.

some sob convulsively, some put their heads between their knees in silence. the masāib of asghar precede hussain's, and the public is now nearly out of control: the entire hall is vibrating with loud wailing, men and women. it is a moment of pure emotion, sincerity.

the senior most zākir then rises and sits on the minbar: it is now Hussain's turn to face the enemy. seven attacks on the left, seven on the right, as yazid's army is chased by the lonesome Hussain. he is of course, the son of Ali, who has now lost everything and everyone.

then the voice from the skies, 'O reassured soul, return to your lord, well-pleased and pleasing [to Him] . . .' (89:27-30), he lays down his sword, and is now attacked from all sides. the words in urdu remain the same every year: 'koi patthar maarta thha koi neza maarta thha..'

the majlis has reached its climax and people rise beating themselves in utter grief. the turbat is carried out, the drums are beaten, the horse is taken out - today dressed in only white, smeared with red.

every year this is the time i experience pure emotion, as i walk behind the horse, feeling in the absolute sense, that i am walking in hussain funeral procession. one can't hold back tears on this day. it is magnanimous, surreal, sublime.

this particular julūs is mohalla centric, the crowd less, the speed slow, you move through the bazār. marsiya recited again and again. it's noon, hussain has just been killed. and you are sobbing profusely, eyes all blurred, your back bent, as if your own father had died.