Echoes of Karbala: A personal journey through Muharram in Old Dhaka

In the late nineteenth century, Dacca (now Dhaka) stood as a thriving commercial and cultural centre of Bengal under British rule. At its heart lay the Old Town, a historic quarter of narrow winding lanes, bustling bazaars, and centuries-old brick and timber buildings that carried the memories of generations. Yet the story of Old Dhaka stretches far beyond the colonial era. Its roots reach deep into the Mughal period, when emperors and nobles transformed the city into one of the most prominent urban centres of the subcontinent. Magnificent landmarks such as Lalbagh Fort, Ahsan Manzil, and Choto Katra still stand as reminders of that glorious past, bearing silent witness to the city's evolving history.

My connection to this history is not merely academic; it is deeply personal. According to family records and oral traditions passed down through generations, my forefather, Syed Fida Hussain, journeyed from the sacred city of Medina during the reign of the Mughal Emperor Jahangir. Travelling through Delhi and Calcutta, he eventually settled in Dhaka, where our family took root. His descendants continued to serve and shape the city in different capacities. Syed Ghulam Hussain was succeeded by his son, Syed Faizuddin Hussain, who served as Kotwal during the time of Murshid Quli Khan and was entrusted with maintaining order in the city. Later, Syed Muzaffar Hussain became a close associate of the Nawabs of Dhaka. The family's intellectual and spiritual legacy continued through Syed Faqihuddin Hussain, a devoted disciple of Ubaidullah Ubayd Suhrawardy, and then through Syed Sharfuddin Hussaini, affectionately known as Sharaf Sahib, a distinguished poet, nobleman and chronicler of his time. Through Syed Manzur Hussaini and, later, my father, Syed Faizul Hussaini, born in 1962, this lineage continued uninterrupted. Over the centuries, our family became inseparable from Dhaka itself, its soil, its sounds, its traditions and its soul.

It is through this inherited lens that I have come to understand Muharram in Old Dhaka. The moment the moon of Muharram is sighted, a transformation unfolds in the lanes surrounding Hussaini Dalan, and an indescribable atmosphere of sorrow, longing, remembrance and reverence settles over the neighbourhood. Built in 1642 by Mir Murad during the governorship of the Mughal prince Shah Shuja, Hussaini Dalan has stood for centuries as the spiritual heart of Muharram observances in the city. Local tradition holds that Mir Murad was inspired by a dream of Hussain Ibne Ali (RA), leading him to establish the imambara as a house of mourning for the martyrs of Karbala. From its halls emerged generations of majlis gatherings, the preservation of sacred symbols such as the zari and alam, and the Muharram processions that continue to define Old Dhaka's cultural landscape. 

Its Naobat Khana once echoed with ceremonial drums announcing religious observances, while the Ganj-e-Shaheedan housed towering tazia structures carried through the streets during Ashura. The symbolic horse Zuljanah, representing the steed of Hussain Ibne Ali (RA), likewise became an enduring part of these commemorations. Muharram marks the beginning of the Islamic New Year, yet in Old Dhaka it has never been a season of celebration; what may appear to outsiders as a festival of lights, gatherings and visitors from different faiths is, in reality, a profound expression of collective memory and mourning rooted in the tragedy of Karbala. Over the centuries, these customs transcended religious ritual and became woven into the very identity of the city itself.

Muharram marks the beginning of the Islamic New Year, yet in Old Dhaka it has never been a season of celebration; what may appear to outsiders as a festival of lights, gatherings and visitors from different faiths is, in reality, a profound expression of collective memory and mourning rooted in the tragedy of Karbala.

Having been born into a family whose documented presence in Dhaka spans nearly four centuries, I have been privileged to witness these traditions not only through my own experiences but also through the stories passed down by my forefathers, grandfathers and father. Many of these survive in the carefully preserved writings and diaries of my great-grandfather, Sharaf Sahib, whose accounts continue to bridge the Dhaka of the past with the one I know today.

As a child, another question would inevitably arise every year as Muharram approached: What is a Majlis? Why were the elders suddenly dressed in black? Why did familiar faces become solemn and withdrawn? Why did gatherings that usually echoed with laughter give way to evenings of remembrance and reflection? These are questions I grew up hearing and asking myself as the moon of Muharram appeared over Old Dhaka.

With time, however, I came to understand that a Majlis was far more than a gathering of mourners. It was a gathering of memory. In the majalis I attended with my father, uncles and elders of the community, the remembrance would begin with the praise of Allah, the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and the Ahlul Bayt. Thereafter came the retelling of Karbala, not as a distant historical event, but as a living lesson in faith, sacrifice, courage and resistance against oppression.

Through these gatherings, I learned of Imam Hussain (RA)'s journey from Medina, his refusal to legitimise tyranny, the thirst endured by his family beneath the scorching desert sun, the loyalty of his small band of companions, the sacrifice of his sons and loved ones, and the suffering of the women and children who survived the battlefield. Year after year, listening to these accounts, I understood why Muharram cast such a profound emotional shadow over Old Dhaka. The sorrow was not rooted in ritual alone, but in the remembrance of a sacrifice made to preserve the very principles upon which Islam stands.

Whether one studies Sunni or Shia historical sources, the tragedy of Karbala remains among the most moving chapters of Islamic history. For me, the Majlis became a classroom without walls, where history, spirituality and morality were passed from one generation to the next, ensuring that the lessons of Karbala would never fade from memory.

If the Majlis taught me the history of Karbala, it was Marsiyakhwani that taught me how a city remembers. In those days, the lanes of Old Dhaka carried more than the fragrance of attar and rosewater; they carried the echoes of marsiya. Within the courtyards of Bara Katra, the halls of imambaras and the drawing rooms of old aristocratic homes, poetry was not merely recited; it was lived. Marsiya, an elegiac form of poetry dedicated to Imam Hussain (RA) and the martyrs of Karbala, became one of the most cherished traditions of

Muharram in Dhaka, blending devotion with literature in a way unique to the city. 

My own introduction to this world came through my grandfather, Syed Manzur Hussaini, whom we affectionately called Dada. Clad in his white panjabi and pyjama, he would spend long evenings with Nawab Syed Taqi Muhammad Buddhan, discussing poetry, history and faith over cups of tea. As a child, I was fascinated by the handwritten notebooks scattered around them. One day, curiosity got the better of me and I opened one of Dada's khatas. The pages were filled with elegant Urdu verses that I could neither read nor understand at the time. Those notebooks, preserved carefully by my father and uncles for decades, remain among our family's most treasured possessions. Even today, many of the verses written by my great-grandfather, Syed Muhammad Abul Fatah Sharfuddin Sharaf Al Hussaini, continue to be recited during Muharram gatherings. His journey from Dhaka to Patna and Lucknow exposed him to some of the greatest literary minds of the age, and when he returned, he helped revive and refine Bengal's tradition of marsiyakhwani through his salams, nauhas, musaddas and rubaiyat. Through poets like him, Karbala was not merely remembered; it was felt.

If the Majlis taught me the history of Karbala, it was Marsiyakhwani that taught me how a city remembers.

A traditional marsiya unfolds like a living narrative, introducing its heroes, describing their virtues, recounting farewells, battles, martyrdoms and finally the grief of those left behind. Listening to these verses during Muharram, I often felt as though centuries had collapsed into a single moment. The voices of the reciters, the flickering candles, the rustling pages of old bayaz manuscripts and the tears of the listeners all became part of a tradition that linked my family, my city and the memory of Karbala across generations.

One such marsiya by Sharaf Sahab is still recited within our community on the night of Ashura. As a child, I heard these verses long before I understood their meaning. Yet even then, their cadence carried a sense of foreboding and grief that lingered in the air long after the recitation had ended:

“SUBHE SHAB’E ASHURA, AYEK HASHRE BAPA HOGA
MAYSURE BALAWO MEIN SHAHE SHOHADA HOGA

صبحِ شبِ عاشور، ایک حشر برپا ہوگا
میدانِ بلا میں شاہِ شہدا ہوگا
 

KASHTIYE HAYATE SHAI, YUN DUBEGI KHUSKI MEIN
SAILABE SITAM HOGA, TUFAN E BALA HOGA”

کشتیٔ حیاتِ شےؑ یوں ڈوبے گی خشکی میں
سیلابِ ستم ہوگا، طوفانِ بلا ہوگا

“On the morning of the night of Ashura, a Day of Judgment shall unfold;
Amidst the plains and wilderness shall stand the King of Martyrs.
The vessel of life itself shall seem to sink upon dry land;
A flood of oppression shall rise, and a storm of affliction shall descend.”

Even today, when I hear these lines recited, I am reminded that Marsiyakhwani is far more than poetry. It is the preservation of memory through verse, a means by which one generation passes its grief, devotion and understanding of Karbala to the next. In many ways, Marsiyakhwani remains one of Old Dhaka's greatest cultural treasures, a bridge between history and emotion, between poetry and devotion, and between the past we inherited and the memories we continue to preserve.

With the Hijri New Year 1448 AH having begun on 16 June 2026, the familiar atmosphere of sorrow and remembrance has once again descended upon Old Dhaka. The drums of the Naobat Khana at Hussaini Dalan echo through its narrow lanes, not as an announcement of celebration, but as a call to reflection, a call to remember the sacrifice of Imam Hussain (RA) and the timeless values for which he stood: truth, justice, dignity and humanity.

Once again, mourners will gather with heavy hearts and tearful eyes, seeking solace in remembrance and drawing strength from a story that has endured for more than fourteen centuries. Mothers will bring their children to the majalis, introducing a new generation to the names and sacrifices of Karbala, while elders will sit quietly, listening to accounts they have heard countless times before, yet which continue to move them as deeply as ever.

For the people of Old Dhaka, Karbala has never been merely a historical event; it is a living lesson that transcends time, speaking to every generation confronted by injustice, oppression and moral choice. It teaches the courage to stand for what is right even when the odds are insurmountable, and it reminds us of the strength and resilience of figures such as Zainab Binte Ali (RA), whose voice carried the message of Karbala long after the battle had ended.

Around this story, entire worlds of culture, poetry, mourning traditions and collective memory have flourished and been preserved by generations of devoted custodians. Whether in South Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Europe or the Americas, these traditions represent humanity's shared capacity to remember, to empathise, and to respect the ways in which others preserve their heritage and faith.

Just as the story of Karbala continues to inspire hearts across centuries, so too do the legacies of those who carried its memory forward in Old Dhaka, from Mir Murad, whose vision gave rise to Hussaini Dalan, to poets and scholars such as Sharaf Sahab, whose marsiyas, nauhas and qasidas continue to resonate long after their authors have departed this world.

The people pass away, the generations change, and the city itself evolves, yet the memory endures. In the beating of the drums, in the recitation of a marsiya, in the tears of a mourner, and in the stories passed from grandparents to grandchildren, Old Dhaka continues to remember.

Syed Faizanul Hussaini spends his weekdays navigating the world of HR and talent acquisition and his spare time wandering through the lanes of history, heritage and Urdu literature. Equally at home with recruitment reports and the verses of Mir and Ghalib, he has a habit of turning forgotten stories, old neighbourhoods and cultural traditions into subjects of curiosity. Fascinated by the living heritage of Old Dhaka, he writes about faith, memory and community, occasionally pausing to admire a well-crafted couplet and wondering why modern emails cannot be written with the elegance of classical Urdu prose.

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