Last evening, as the golden sun dipped behind the fields of Punjab, a chapter of my family’s history quietly came to an end. Uncle Jagir Singh—our beloved Fufad Jagira—left this world at the age of ninety-three. For me, he was more than just a relative. He was the last surviving member of my father’s clan. My father had three brothers and three sisters, and one by one, they all left us. Only Jagira remained, carrying the laughter, the stories, and the warmth of a generation now gone.
Six years ago, my aunt Shindo, his lifelong companion—had passed away. Since then, Jagira lived alone in his ancestral house, just fifteen kilometers from Amritsar. His children had settled in cities and abroad, his grandchildren thrived in Canada and Australia, but Jagira stayed rooted in his village. Perhaps it was stubbornness, perhaps love for the land he had tilled with his own hands, or maybe the comfort of the familiar—the evening gossip with neighbors, the sight of laborers tending his fields, and the quiet dignity of sipping two pegs of whiskey every evening in the home he built.
He had lived a full life. Born without formal education, he carved thirty acres of land from sheer hard work. He educated his three sons and a daughter, gave them opportunities he himself never had, and watched them rise. Yet, despite his achievements, his evenings were spent alone, with memories of his wife and his simple joys to keep him company.
And then came the night that stole him from us.
Four young men—addicts consumed by Punjab’s drug scourge—broke into his home. They wanted his savings, his small treasures. But Jagira, even at ninety-three, was not the kind of man to surrender easily. He resisted, and in his resistance lay both his pride and his fate. They beat him mercilessly, slashed him with sharp weapons, and when they couldn’t pull off his golden ring, they cut his finger to take it.
Bleeding and broken, he lay on the floor of the home he had so fiercely protected. At dawn, neighbors passing by heard his cries and rushed him to Amritsar hospital. His sons came—one from the city, another from Chandigarh, the third from Australia rushing as fast as he could. But by evening, his wounds claimed him. The laughter of Fufad Jagira, the sparkle in his eye, the cheer in his voice—all silenced forever.
What pains me is not only his death, but the way it came. A man who could have lived another five, perhaps ten years, left the world not in peace, but in violence. A man who had given everything to his family, who had lived with dignity and independence, was reduced to a victim of greed and addiction.
Yet even in his final hours, he was brave. Ninety-three years old, and still he chose to fight back. His last peg may have been taken the night before, but his courage became his final toast to life.
Today, I mourn not just my uncle, but the loss of an entire generation. With him gone, the tree of my father’s family stands bare. His story is also the story of many elders in Punjab—men and women left alone in villages while their children build lives far away. They are vulnerable, easy prey for desperate youths destroyed by drugs. What happened to Jagira is not just personal grief; it is a reflection of the times we live in.
Goodbye, Fufad Jagira. May you be reunited with your beloved wife, and may your laughter echo in a place where cruelty and sorrow cannot reach. You lived brave, you died brave. Your memory will always remain a toast to life itself.
Guchi.
Improve Your Life 