by Sama Zehra
He never threw away his used pens, often saying, “This pen has honoured me—to deliver justice, to gain knowledge, and to share it with so many people. My soul does not allow me to get rid of it so easily.”
My childhood unfolded against a backdrop of turmoil and conflict. The turbulence of those years made it impossible to rely solely on school for a well-rounded education. I desperately needed guidance, someone to anchor me through the chaos.
That guidance arrived in the form of my uncle, Raja Tasleem Abbass. When I was in the sixth grade, he began conducting regular two-hour evening classes for my cousins and me, helping us sharpen our writing skills and grasp the basics of English grammar. He undertook this responsibility despite the exhausting demands of his job at court.
My uncle possessed a profound passion for teaching and a deep concern for our education. He believed education to be essential not only for intellectual growth but as a foundation for one’s moral compass and principles. Naturally, his lessons often revolved around ethics and values. Each evening at 8:30, he commenced class with a thirty-minute lecture on moral virtues. Afterwards, we were instructed to write our reflections and takeaways from his discourse.
That was when I began to write.
I remember a moment from school when I was asked to prepare an essay on ‘responsibility.’ Instinctively, I turned to my uncle for his immediate—and what felt then like “urgent”—assistance. He began the essay with the line, “Sense of responsibility has a paramount role in our lives.” From that day onwards, I adopted a clever shortcut: I would replace “responsibility” with any given topic—loyalty, sincerity, or any other virtue—and use the same sentence to begin every essay. It may not have made much logical sense, but the teachers adored my work. I was immensely proud of that trick, a small inheritance from my uncle that served me well.
As time passed and my writing matured, I came to realise that the style was his, even if the thoughts were mine. The voice was my own, but the syntax was undeniably his. The greatest compliment I ever received—perhaps the greatest any mentee could hope for—came when, after reading something I had written for college, he remarked, “It feels like I’m reading something written by myself.”
Though my writing began under his shadow, it eventually evolved into a more collaborative process. I would draft, then wait eagerly for his comments and feedback, always conscious of his enduring presence in my work.
Later, when I embarked on my legal journey, I hoped to begin legal writing anew, once again under his mentorship. I had envisioned leaning on his wisdom to develop new methods and rediscover the craft, completing yet another circle of learning under his guidance.
But an unfamiliar storm lay quietly in wait.
In the face of the profound grief of losing him, especially given that he had taught me the very art of writing, I felt there could be no more fitting tribute than to bid him farewell with a piece of writing. I pen this now on my own, painfully aware that it will never be perfect without his meticulous input, yet hoping it will somehow capture the essence of his being. Had he been here, he would have teased me, accusing me of stealing all his favourite phrases. But I wrote his story today, using his words.
A Life Built on Faith and Grit
My uncle’s legal career began modestly as a Junior Assistant at the District Court in Bandipora before he was eventually transferred to Kargil. He had embarked on his professional journey even before earning his degree. Balancing a full-time job while pursuing a law degree from the University of Kashmir was no small feat.
In his final year, the end-of-semester exams were scheduled for December and January. But the path to Srinagar was treacherous—buried under four to five feet of snow, the roads were virtually impassable. Missing the exams would mean delaying his education, an option he could not afford. He resolved to find a way.
Two thoughts preoccupied his mind: the disappointment his mother would feel if his education were derailed, and a request from his sister for a Tibetan tea-saucer set. Placing his faith in God, shielding his head with his arms and cradling the delicate tea set he had purchased, he leapt off the snowbound Zojila Pass—risking everything for a better future. Miraculously, he made it to Srinagar—bruised, but intact, and ready to sit the exam, which he passed with distinction. Today, such determination might seem improbable, but that was Raja Tasleem Abbass—a man of unshakeable resolve and unwavering faith.
My grandfather, too, belonged to the legal fraternity—a man renowned for his honesty and dedication. It was he who handed down the legal legacy to my uncle. After completing his degree, my uncle joined the Bar and began practising at the law firm of Hakim Ishtiyaq Hussain—a figure he continued to speak of with great admiration, even years after his passing.
The Bench He Never Left
On one occasion, both he and Hakim Ishtiyaq Sahab returned from court disheartened by the conduct of a judge. In that moment of quiet despair, laced with hope, Hakim Sahab encouraged my uncle to consider the judicial services examination. Though initially hesitant and lacking confidence, my uncle eventually agreed. Together, they collected the application form and filled it out on the spot. That precise moment marked the beginning of his journey to the bench—the bench he always deserved. The bench he never left.
According to the stories told by my grandparents and by my uncle himself, he studied with unrelenting discipline for six months, without a single break. The only pauses he allowed were for the five daily prayers. He devised a personal study routine: every morning at Fajr, after offering his prayers, he would place five books on one side of the table. His daily goal was to read and understand all five, then move them to the other side. Without fail, he met this goal each day. At the time, he lacked guidance, and his language skills were not particularly strong. When he encountered difficulty, he would sit with it until he understood it himself.
I remember one story in particular. While studying the Law of Torts, he came across the case of Rylands v. Fletcher. The reasoning and legal analysis eluded him at first. Confused, he read and re-read the case until every detail made sense. That was his way—no room for confusion, not even an inch of doubt. He loved the law in its entirety: its intricacies, its contrasting opinions, and its elegance.
On the day of the KCS examination, the hall brimmed with anxiety and silent, sincere prayers. It was then that my uncle looked down at his clothes and realised, “I am wearing my torn night T-shirt—and I did not even notice.” After each paper, he would assess his answers and award himself a score. When the results came, his self-assessment almost perfectly matched his official marks.
During the brief interval between completing the exam and officially joining the legal fraternity, he served in the J&K Police as a Prosecuting Officer. He was appointed alongside his close friend, Khursheed-Ul-Islam Sir (now a Sessions Judge), and the two trained at a base camp in Udhampur. He once told me that while waiting for the results, he would often imagine hypothetical cases, write judgments based on his legal reasoning, and sign them off with “Raja Tasleem Abbas, Sub-Judge.”
The wait did not last long. One day, someone at the camp shouted, “Raja judge ban gaya!” Both he and his friend had passed. He had cleared what once seemed impossible and made a quiet promise to himself: to help as many people as he could, to spread the message of peace and justice, to become a beacon of hope for the poor, and to deliver justice to every corner of Kashmir. And that is what he did—he became the candle that lit the dark paths of so many.
A Judge of Integrity
During the 23 years he served as a judge, he was known not only for his judgments but for his integrity, honesty, and fearlessness. He never bowed to higher authorities and always stood firmly by his decisions, without hesitation or fear. He distanced himself from any sense of entitlement, avoided entourage, disapproved of flaunting authority, and was firmly against using workplace resources for personal matters. His principles ran so deep they extended even to the smallest of things—details most would overlook.
I was surprised to learn that even for the simplest of tasks—like writing an essay for us, drafting a letter to his children’s school, or jotting down a phone number—he refused to use the court’s pen. He kept two sets of pen holders: one for official pens used strictly for court orders and another, purchased personally, for private matters. He believed in the sanctity of a pen. He never threw away his used pens, often saying, “This pen has honoured me—to deliver justice, to gain knowledge, and to share it with so many people. My soul does not allow me to get rid of it so easily.”
A Mentor’s Path
This same reverence for purpose helped shape my journey. Our mentor-mentee bond, forged in childhood, deepened in 2019 when he advised me to sit the All India Law Entrance Examination. He had just returned from a two-week training programme at the Delhi Judicial Academy, hosted at NLU Delhi. At the time, I had no idea what a National Law University was or what it could mean for my future. We spoke at length, and the next day, he bought me the Manorama Yearbook, 2019 edition, and told me to start covering current affairs immediately. I was confused and a little lost, but under his guidance, I began to explore a new path for my career.
Studying for an entrance exam at home, without proper resources, was immensely challenging. But he supported me at every step, clearing my countless doubts and explaining complex legal concepts in simple, everyday language. He became the pillar of support I never realised I needed.
I remember being utterly perplexed about the difference between murder and culpable homicide. I could not grasp the nuance. Despite his demanding schedule, he would call me on his way home, walk me through examples, break down the distinctions, and clear every doubt. The more questions I asked, the more animated he became in answering them. I was thrilled to finally understand. I even shared a voice recording of our call with friends. I still recall him sipping tea and laughing as he said, “This ideally should be a privacy breach. But the law has not reached there yet.”
A Lasting Presence
Sometime in August 2020, on the eve of my entrance examination for NLU Delhi, he told me something I have carried with me ever since. “You have tried your level best. There is nothing more you could have done. From now onwards, leave everything to God. If this works out, then it was meant for you; however, if it does not, God surely has bigger plans for you.” These words have guided me through every difficulty since.
Once college began, he became an even more integral part of my life. I would study cases and assign readings to him. At the time, I did not even know how to approach a case, but his sentence-by-sentence method—what he jokingly referred to as “spoon feeding”—helped me navigate my initial semesters.
I remember the Speluncean Explorers case in particular. We read the entire judgment together, line by line, agreeing and disagreeing, arguing our way through its ten or fifteen pages. Our debates intensified when we reached Constitutional Law. I admired Justice Iyer’s work, while he critiqued it for meandering into poetry and legal jargon. I would present an opinion, and he would challenge its originality, saying, “This idea is the impact of westernisation and colonisation.” I could not quite grasp what he meant by “Critical Legal Studies,” but none of our disagreements ever slowed us down.
We would go back and forth until everyone around us looked on in boredom. I would concede, saying, “But you agree my opinion is at least fifty per cent right?” He would reply, “That is the sign of weakness. You are not confident in your argument anymore.” Eventually, in the public interest, we would stop, and the conversation would shift elsewhere.
Visiting him became a part of my life, not just a routine. I cannot recall a day when we did not speak. Sitting in the garden on Sundays, sipping tea, laughing and talking—those were our ideal afternoons. Every weekend I would ask, “Will you be home tomorrow?” He would nod, and we would sit together for as long as possible.
Though his official working days were Monday to Saturday, I always saw him working. What surprised me more was how content he seemed while doing so. I would get annoyed when people came to the house with legal issues even on weekends. “Do you not have court for this?” I would ask. He would smile and say, “No, they need my help and are not comfortable coming to the court.”
When I say he was a self-made man, I mean it in every sense. He was not a man of inherited privilege. He built everything through sheer determination. Wherever he served, he left the legal fraternity in awe with his case disposal rates. He truly invested himself in people’s problems and often said, “Do justice considering it to be a part of worship.”
On 15 February, when he was admitted to the emergency ward, the first thing he told me was, “Today I completed writing an order and was about to release someone who has been in jail for the last fifteen years, but due to my health, I had to leave early.” He deeply regretted leaving the court before passing that order. This was our first conversation at the critical care unit. How does one reach such a level of commitment?
Knowing how he became a judge, one might assume he would be engulfed by pride. But I never saw him act superior. There was no space for ego in his world. He would always advise us never to bow to money or power. He remained a pillar of optimism, encouraging everyone to follow their passions and reach their potential. Nothing mattered more to him than self-respect. “Do not ever let anyone scratch your self-respect. Honour it and treasure it,” he would say. He wanted us to embody the principles he held close to—fearlessness, honesty, and dignity.
I believed I knew him. But after his passing, I am only now beginning to understand who he truly was. I am proud of him—of the person he was and the life he led. He truly lived. He followed the path he had promised himself at the start of his legal journey.
This may be his story, but I do not think mine would even exist without him. Had he not been my mentor and guardian from the beginning, I would be adrift. He practically raised me, shaped the person I have become, introduced me to law, and opened doors to greater opportunities. He served my future to me on a silver platter. Without him, I would not be a fraction of who I am today. He called me “Jaana” and was the unwavering pillar I leaned on.
Though fate ended our mentorship too soon, he remains ever-present in my writing. His voice echoes in my words, his phrases borrowed, his style now my own. But truthfully, he does not need anyone to keep his memory alive. A personality like his is immortal in the hearts of the many he helped, the students he mentored, the prisoners who found hope through his decisions, and all who had the good fortune of knowing him.
I have always admired Agha Shahid Ali and his Veiled Suite, though I never fully grasped his poetry until now. He writes, “It rains as I write this. Mad Heart, Be Brave.” Today, I understand it—and I hate that I do. Agha, it does rain as I write this, but I do not know if my mad heart has the strength to be brave.
My mad heart is constantly drawn to these lines from my uncle’s favourite song:
Gham aur khushi mein farq na mehsoos ho jahaan,
Main khud ko uss maqam pe laata chala gaya,
Main zindagi ka saath nibhaata chala gaya.
(Sama Zehra is a student at National Law University, Delhi. Ideas are personal.)
