And then there is you…

A son reflects on his father’s life, lessons, faith, and final days — a deeply personal tribute to Abu Hazur (1934–2025).

I close my eyes, and I open them. I breathe in, and I breathe out. Sometimes I speak, but mostly I stay silent. I spend my day in meetings, handling escalations, assigning work, coaching my team, and coding my dreams – always trying to do what is required of me. The daily hustle becomes tough, and I want to stop, but the world is not kind to people who stop. Minutes would turn into months and months into years without me realizing how far back I had fallen. So I put one foot in front of the other, move from one task to the next, and keep going. But sometimes everything comes to a grinding halt. The world keeps on spinning, but I just cannot move. I know that I should move and work and dream and travel and read and write and code – there are still so many things to do… but then there is you… 

Your giant palms are scrubbing Nivea on my tiny 8-year-old face to protect me from the dry Abu Dhabi weather. You and Ammi are going out for a walk, and I, taking advantage of being the youngest, want to tag along. ‘It is a long walk, and you will get tired,’ warns my mother. I don’t know what long and tired mean, but halfway through, I am dragging my feet and dreading the remaining part of the walk. Suddenly, in one big swoop, I am in your arms, my head on your big chest, totally relaxed and comfortable. 

After retirement from the Pakistan Air Force in 1977, you were commissioned in the UAE Air Force. That is where you worked for 17 years till you retired and moved back to Pakistan in 1994. You spent most of these 17 years alone, sacrificing for the education and health of your children. It was only after having kids of my own that I realized how big a sacrifice you made for us.

***

I am lying on my bed sick with Hepatitis and missing you. In the beginning, I didn’t feel much, but now it feels like something was eating me from the inside. My mother is also worried; her brother, my Nasir Mammoo, had succumbed to that same disease a few years ago. The doorbell rings, and you are here, now sitting beside my bed. I still feel weak, but I know that I am going to be fine. You are here. As soon as you had heard about my condition, you applied for leave, booked a ticket, and simply appeared. I needed you, my mother needed you, and without a second thought, you were there. That was the essence of who you were: never hesitate when your family needs you. 

In 1994, you retired from the UAE Air Force and came back to Karachi to live with us full-time. It was the first time in my adult memory that I was living with you for more than a few months. You maintained a very active and disciplined life: waking up early, having breakfast, reading the entire newspaper, and then taking a light nap. After the nap, you would always find something that needed fixing or repairing. From car detailing and repairing broken appliances to AC servicing and fixing shelves, you loved doing things by hand. Often, you would sit and stare at your tools and your latest project, imagining the solution before starting the work. Your projects would often take you to Saddar to hunt for parts in Electronics or the famous Empress market. Instead of a laid-back retirement, you had a very active one.  

If you did not have an active project, you would spend time reading books. I can still see you lying flat on your bed or a sofa with a book on your chest. You could read a book for long hours without getting restless. Once, I remember, you read all eight volumes of Maariful Quran in a few months. You always read non-fiction; politics, current affairs, and history were topics you were most interested in. You loved to watch many sporting events, but snooker and cricket were your favourites. 

***

I am sitting in front of you with my Urdu textbook. One of the things that you were passionate about and I was not was Urdu Ghazals. You used to attend Mushairas, often quote ashaars, and even check and correct the work of some of your poet friends. Meanwhile, I needed to memorize, for my coursework and good grades, explanations of ghazals and essays on the life and works of well-known poets. And I was bored to death doing that. I had made the mistake of thinking that was all there was to Ghazals. So here I was sitting in front of you, hoping that you could transfer some of your poetic skills to me, and I would start getting good grades. 

You asked me to read a Ghazal from the textbook, and I did. There is a smile on your face as you sit semi-reclined on your bed with your hands resting on your chest. Gently, you correct my pronunciation and wazan, i.e., the weights with which some words had to be delivered, especially the radeefs and qaffiyyas. Then you explain the meanings of the difficult words, and then you explain the meanings of the meanings of those words. That is when the magic of poetry starts to reveal itself to me. After a few more repetitions, I am sold on the art of poetry. The next day, I read the Ghazal in my class and stunned my Urdu teacher. She immediately calls out to the class ‘This is how Ghazals should be recited‘ and asks me to read again.  I never got good grades in Urdu, but from that day, I never stopped loving poetry.  

I still read the Ghazals today, not for their deep meaning or the enchanting imagery of their words. I don’t read them for the revolutionary spirit they produce inside of me or the flowers that their romanticism blooms in my heart – I read them instead to maintain a connection with you. To feel, once again, the same way that I felt all those years ago, sitting beside you, with you reclining on your bed and with your arms on your chest.  

It was around those years that the world was beginning to open before me, and with it came the struggles that confront every person from a middle-class background. Without generational wealth to fall back on, whatever we hoped to earn – and whatever comfort we wished to build for our families – depended on gaining admission to good colleges and universities. That was the only path available to us.  

But my educational performances started going South as soon as I left school. From 1992 to 1998, I was performing poorer and poorer with each passing year. I was getting rejected from all the major universities that I applied to – medical and engineering, both. I felt ridiculed, degraded, and started losing faith in myself. You accompanied me through all these failures but rarely showed any frustration or disbelief. I am sure you would have been frustrated on the inside, but on the outside, you kept on nudging me towards the next possible options with your customary phrases, ‘The ball is in your court’, ‘You are the architect of your future’. And all through this time, you never were too close to influence my decisions nor too far for me to feel alone.  

Finally, I got admission in the computer science programme at Bahria University in the middle of 1998. I was a bit apprehensive about being three years late in joining a university. And my anxiety was doubled when someone close said, ‘Kya saari zindagi parhtay raho gay, kuch kamao gay nahee?’  To which you immediately replied, ‘If you want to do computers, you will do computers. I will sell my skin for your education’. A bit dramatic, but that settled all debate. I could feel that invisible swoop and immediate feeling of protection and comfort that I had felt years ago from our walk in Abu Dhabi. Completely protected. Completely safe.  

In all this struggling time, I learned one important lesson for fatherhood. Be not too close and not too far from your kids. Guide them, but let them make their own decisions and then support them.  

The next few years at the University were one of the best phases of my life. Learning subjects that I liked and was also good at, establishing life-long friendships, and also the extra co-curricular activities. All these things played a very positive role in shaping my personality and my future. Once I graduated, I got a job in a start-up without much waiting.   

***

It is sometime in 2006, and after toiling in the garbage, also known as the public transport system of Karachi, I return home. I left home at 8 AM, and it is 9 PM now. I crash on the bed beside you and stare at the roof. Life is fun when you don’t have any responsibilities; life is hard when you have. Besides a gruelling but fulfilling job, I have too many things going on in parallel – I am married, just shifted to a new home, doing Masters and best of all – we are expecting our first child!  

I, staring at the roof, am inundated with emotions of frustration, worry, tiredness, and even elation, wondering how long I could keep up with it. But then I feel your big palms as they gently squeeze my forehead. It was as if you were taking all my worries away for me. You never liked touch, but you liked me. I feel relaxed and want to stay there forever. And in one form or another, I still do return to that safe, relaxed zone – staring at the roof and feeling your palm on my forehead.  

Things kept on moving at a fast pace. By the end of the year, I am a father and also have a new job. The new job has eased my short-term financial worries. Soon, I got a job offer from Kuwait. I am not sure whether to accept it or not. Kuwait only considers wife and kids for family visas, so I cannot take you and Ammi with me. Free video calling is still far away, which practically meant that I would have to forget about my family, which I was not prepared to do. Also, things are financially stable, and as everything new confuses me, I am not very keen to accept the job offer. But you teach me about inflation and how the cost of living will keep on increasing. And how important it is to consider the future of my children over my own emotions. Reluctantly, I accept the offer and move to Kuwait. Within a few years, I found out that it was the right decision that you had made for me.  

It is 2009, and it is your and Ammi’s first visit to Kuwait. Noor Uddin is 2 years old, and you have brought many toys for him, including an orange push car, which all his brothers used. We are a bit worried as he still does not speak. Initially, he was a bit shy, but within a few hours, he is on your lap and even started speaking, and that too, non-stop. He refuses to let go of you throughout your visit. And in many ways, he is still inseparable from you and your memories. There are so many things that I see in him that I saw in you. His reading posture, his usual relaxed, laid-back person, quickly converts into a busy gait and assured steps when work needs to be done.  

During your visit, I also got my driving license. We both go and shop for a new car. You were so proud and happy, and I was so happy to see you happy. I hope that all the anguish you suffered because of my failures is now remedied. I thank Allah for letting you see some of my success.  

***

The many perks in the life of an expat are often accompanied by layers of stress and anxiety. The hustle of a demanding career and a growing family were starting to take a toll on me. There were many times that I needed but was miles away from that swoop where you would pick me up and let me rest my head on your chest, or your giant palm on my head, or you putting Nivea on my face. 

More than anything, there was this dread that age and health would catch up with you like it always does.  And every visit to Karachi would start and end with me checking how older or weaker you had become. But every time I asked, you would always tell me, “Kyon? Mujhay kya hua? I am fine”. And your confident and strong tone would always put me at ease.  

But time was catching up. Hip surgery, prostate surgery, and then multiple brain strokes had started to take a toll on your otherwise energetic gait. You were now walking with a stick. If not as strong physically, mentally, you were still very strong and would always try to walk on your own. But you still would reply, whenever I would ask, “Kyon? Mujhay kya hua? I am fine”. A part of me was always relieved. But now a part of me had started to worry.  

They say that men can never be happy with the present because they are always anxious about the future. My world started turning towards the thought that I might be losing you. While the fear and the anxiety just kept growing inside of me, you kept on telling me, “Kyon? Mujhay kya hua? I am fine’’ 

***

I am holding the door of the car for you. We have come for Juma prayers. I give you my hand so that you can use it to get out of the car. You refuse and signal to me to move away. You want to get out of the car by yourself. Your grandson holds your cane, and you signal him to give it to you. And then after stabilizing yourself, you ask for my hand. I immediately give it to you. You walk a few paces with me, holding your right hand. Your giant palm that once used to calm my nerves, now needed my small hand for stability. But it was not me holding you; it was you who were still holding me. I still needed the comfort and safety that you brought. Just after a few paces, probably realizing my fragile need for reassurance, you push my hand away and start walking on your own. Maybe you wanted to walk on your own, or maybe you wanted me to walk on my own. I would never know, but I stay by your side, not too far and not too close.  

***

It is the summer of 2024, and I am sitting in front of you. Ammi is worried that you have become very quiet over the past few weeks. So I, just like old times, read a ghazal for you ‘aik nanna say larka tha main jin dino’.  Ammi loves how I read it, but you shake your hand and head, signaling “No. Not good”. I laugh. I know I have been a bit off since it’s been a while since I last read Ghazals. But I am pleased that you still had the ear to spot the gaps, and you still loved ghazals so much that you would not accept a below-par reading effort.   

All through the summer, I had wanted to spend as much time with you as possible. Maybe I should have spoken more, but I was afraid that you would get tired, like you often did when you spoke. Maybe I should have gone out with you more, but I was afraid that something would break in your fragile body. I still needed you, I still needed the protection and safety that your presence still provided.  

*** 

It is early October of 2024, and I am sitting beside your bed in the ICU ward of Shifa Hospital. As soon as I heard, I came rushing to Karachi. Multiple strokes have caused your entire body to be paralyzed. You cannot speak or move your body – you cannot even open your eyes. The only thing that seems to be working is your right arm and right ear.  

I know that I am losing you. I know that I cannot do anything. But I refuse to allow helplessness to take over me. I am looking for solutions, I am reading, Google, ChatGPT, anything and everything. I am desperate to know what is going on and how I can fix this. I have to fix this. I cannot let you go. There is still so much help that I need. I am desperate. I hold your right palm, asking, maybe begging for you to stay with me.  

And then you squeeze my hand with your giant palm – not too hard to signal pain, not too soft that I won’t notice. I get up immediately, thinking that you need something. I go up to your ear and say 

‘Abu, you need anything?’  

Promptly, you signal ‘No’ with your right index finger. But then you signal me to speak like someone would gesture ‘come on’ with their hand. I try asking different things you loved and kept yourself updated with, like news and sports. You signaled ‘no’ but prompted me to ask for more. Finally I ask 

‘You want to know about kids?’ 

You give a thumbs up. And I tell you about them. I play their voice messages that they recorded for you. I’ll tell you about my job. About the projects that I am working on and the courses that I am taking. About the book that I am reading. You listen intently and calmly, and then you fall asleep.  

I immediately go back to my search. You can communicate. So all is not lost. Maybe you can open your eyes eventually. Maybe you can speak a few words. I am trying desperately to discover a miracle drug or some experimental research. I remained by your side, searching. Then you move your right arm. Maybe you felt my anxiety, or maybe you were bored. This time, you just take your right arm a few inches above your bed, make a fist with your palm, and then let it fall into my palm. I try to grab it, but then you take it back up and let it fall on my palm again. This is the palm game that we play for the next few moments. I try to understand why you would want to play this game. I don’t get it till I do. You cannot speak, you cannot open your eyes,  you cannot move any part of your body, but still you want to tell me ‘‘Kyon? Mujhay kya hua? I am fine”. This time, I am not ready to believe you. This time, I let my worry and anxiety take over me.  

I pray for more time. I was prepared to spend whatever was needed. I even whispered fall promises in your ear like ‘you would be fine’, and ‘You will be able to speak and open your eyes soon’. I am sorry. But those promises were not for you; they were for me. I wanted you to be fine. Maybe you realized that, as every time I  would say something like that, you would just start playing the palm game, telling me “Kyon? Mujhay kya hua? I am fine.“  

I am back in Kuwait, and your medical complications persist. The prognosis, as one specialist said, is not good, and chances are very grim. We just have to manage the ‘situation’. But I refused to accept. How can I accept the prognosis? Every day, I tried to find a miracle that, at least, you would be able to open your eyes and talk.  

***

We are sitting together – Ammi, Apa, Bhai, Noor, and me. Talking about you. Your room is empty now. A few days back, you peacefully transitioned from this world to the next. My brother tells me that when I left for Kuwait, you hardly spoke through your hands or played the palm game. It probably was a special effort that you made for me, just to tell me that ‘you were fine’ and that I should not get worried.  

***

It has been more than a year now since you left. A year should have been enough to get on with my busy life. But grief can never be cured. There is no medicine or magic to fill that empty void called grief. The only thing that we can do is to continue living with the void and build whatever life we have left around that void. I have learned to keep the grief of losing you in a separate place in my mind. And sometimes, when it decides to come out of that compartment and wreak havoc, I let it because in some weird, desperate way, it becomes a way for me to connect to you and to your memories.  

Your going away does not mean that you have left my heart or my life. You still live deep within me and deep within each of your children. I don’t know how the strange world of barzakh, souls, and the afterlife works. I don’t know how our dreams are connected. But you often come in my dreams, sometimes praying, sometimes talking, and sometimes silent. Sometimes you are enjoying food, sometimes you are walking and busy with some tasks that you have conjured for yourself.   

I still find that many problems can be solved from the words that you commonly used like ‘A man is known by the company he keeps’, ‘It is better to reach late then never to reach’, ‘You are the architect of your future’, ‘The golden rule of never losing anything is to keep things in their correct places’,  ‘The ball is in your court’, ‘I will sell my skin for your education’. Different phrases from different phases of my life. Different phrases that still provide guidance and help whenever I need.  

I still gain so much courage from your unquestionable commitment to following the true path of Islam, as derived from the Quran and Sunnah and as preached by the learned Ulema. I remember to stay not too close and not too far from my kids so that they learn to make their own decisions, and that I support them whenever they need. I remember to accept and work on my mistakes and faults. I remember you.  

Like a photo album, pictures of your memories come in front of me.

    You sitting on your chair, staring at your tools.
    Me, helping out, holding a shelf you are fixing. “Hold it still.”
    You reading for hours without restlessness.
    You, every night, recounting your day to Ammi.

All these memories will, I hope, stay with me for the rest of my life.

And I still see you everywhere. I see you when Saad is reading a book, when Zayyan sits still on his LEGO table thinking and developing a solution in his mind. I see you in the busy gait of Noor and in Saif when he refuses to budge from a thing on which he has decided on.   

I still close my eyes, and I open them. I breathe in and I breathe out. Sometimes I speak, but mostly I stay silent. I spend my day in meetings, handling escalations, assigning work, coaching my team, and coding my dreams – trying to do what is required of me. The daily hustle becomes tough, and I want to stop, but the world is not kind to people who stop. Minutes would turn into months and months into years without me realizing how far back I had fallen. So I put one foot in front of the other, move from one task to the next, and I keep moving forward. But sometimes everything comes to a grinding halt. The world keeps on spinning, but I just cannot move. I know that I should move and work and dream and travel and read and write and code – there are still so many things to do… but then there is you… 

… there will always be you… 

Abu Hazur 
1934-2025 

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