Uncle Hassan the Elder – Part One

Uncle Hassan the Elder was my mom’s uncle, but we all called him “Uncle Hassan the Elder” to distinguish him from another, younger Uncle Hassan. This one, though, was a real character, a proud elder, stern-faced, tight with money, and unintentionally hilarious.

He was the only one among his brothers who hadn’t pursued higher education or found professional success, yet he always made vague, confident claims like “That orchard is mine” or “That house belongs to me.” He had no legal ownership, of course—but nobody ever called him out. He was the oldest, and in our culture, that came with automatic respect and a free pass to rewrite history.

Our maternal side of the family had an unspoken, long-standing rivalry with my grandma’s sister’s side—my mom’s aunt. It wasn’t hostile, just a quiet, generational competition. Think: one-upmanship, subtle digs, and constant comparisons over who’s more successful, more stylish, more anything.

So, one random weekday evening, the house phone rang. My mom answered and then turned toward my dad, raising her eyebrows. “It’s Uncle Hassan the Elder. He wants to talk to you.” That was odd. He never called for casual chats. We all paused and watched as my dad picked up the phone.

He listened silently, then nodded a few times. “Yes, uncle. Of course, uncle. Right away, uncle.” When he hung up, he explained:

“Uncle Hassan says there’s a shop selling high-quality men’s suits at great prices. We should go before they run out.”

Naturally, we didn’t want to disappoint him—and maybe, just maybe, we were a bit curious. So, my dad, my little brother, and I went the very next day. Let me paint the picture:

The shop was tiny, lit by yellow bulbs that hummed like tired bees. The racks were jam-packed with outdated suits in the oddest of colors—mint green, candy purple, electric blue. It looked like a costume rental store run by someone who’d recently lost a bet.

But among the chaos, there was one tolerable option: a navy-blue suit. Sleek-ish. Standard. Harmless. We all picked that one. It was the only safe bet. We matched them with basic white shirts and plain black shoes. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy—just something nice enough for a formal event, in case one ever came up.

And lo and behold, a few months later, we were invited to a wedding banquet. Not just any wedding, either—it was hosted by the rival family. This was an occasion where first impressions, appearances, and family bragging rights all mattered deeply.

As we arrived at the venue, my cousin greeted us at the entrance. He looked us up and down—then leaned in and said quietly, “Guys… whatever you do, don’t sit together.”

Strange. Why? We walked into the hall—and that’s when we understood. There were navy-blue suits everywhere.

Not just a few. Not just one or two other relatives. I mean dozens of men. All wearing the exact same navy suit, white shirt, and black shoes.

It was like an army of clones had been assembled for a low-budget musical.

From across the room, my mom’s cousin raised her arms theatrically and shouted: “Ladies and gentlemen, presenting... the school choir!”

I’ve never seen my dad’s face switch from confusion to horror to laughter so quickly. We were trapped in a uniformed embarrassment—like extras in a movie we didn’t audition for.

Only later did the truth come out.

Uncle Hassan had secretly called nearly every male relative and convinced them to buy the same suit from that shop. Each conversation ended with, “But don’t mention it to anyone else—they’ll all miss out.”

Why? Simple: commission.

Turns out the shop owner was an old friend, and our dear uncle had struck a referral deal.

So thanks to his genius plan, the entire male population of our family showed up looking like backup singers for a 90s boy band.

It was humiliating, hilarious—and in retrospect, brilliant. Because to this day, it’s one of the most talked-about stories at every family gathering.We laugh about it now, especially whenever someone says they bought a suit.

Someone always goes: “What color? Let me guess... navy blue?”