I was born in 2000. My father was born in 1968. His father in 1935. And his, 116 years ago, in 1908. I do not know much about his father, but I have just one story about that man, my great great grandfather.
He grew up in a small village in present-day Pakistan. They were the only Hindu family in a predominantly Muslim village. For a wedding they had to fetch water from a well at the other end of town.
He and a few others traveled by foot to fetch some buckets of water. But a young Muslim man stood between them and the well.
“Come back later,” he demanded. “Or you can do me a favor if you need the water now.”
A choice stood before them. Give into the man’s demands, or bribe him with the scarce money they had on hand. By meeting his demands now, they could expect steeper and steeper demands each time they would need the well in the future. Paying him now would mean paying him every future time too.
They chose neither.
They did indeed leave, but they would be back shortly. Indian families were large, then and now, and so they returned twenty-strong. Under British occupation, Indian citizens were not permitted to own guns, so they came with swords and daggers. And a cloth in each hand.
The commotion drew many to the street, including the family of the Muslim man.
My family placed the cloths over their faces and challenged: “We are ready to die for this, are you?”
The Muslim family relented. “You have been part of this village for many, many years. You are our friends. We will help you carry the water.” They were never again stopped from retrieving water.