Syed Majid Gilani
This is the story of a man whose memory has never faded from my heart — my beloved father, Syed Iftikhar Gilani. Born in 1950 in Khanquahi Moulla, Srinagar, he graduated in Electronics from S.P. College in 1972 and joined the government’s Sales Tax Department through the Services Selection Board. Fate, however, had a different plan. My father left this world while still in service, in the prime of his life, leaving behind a family shattered but proud of the life he lived and the love he gave.
Even now, years later, the memories of my childhood with him feel fresh. I consider myself fortunate to have grown up under his care and affection. When I look back today, those memories stir a mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy, because they remind me of the warmth and love he gave us. Sorrow, because he left too soon, at just 50 years of age. His life, from birth to death, was one of simplicity, wisdom, and silent strength. He was a man of discipline, humility, kindness, and endless love for his family, and his teachings still shape my life and the lives of my siblings.
I can never forget June 11, 2001. It was an ordinary day that turned into a nightmare. My father returned from his office, visibly exhausted, complaining of breathlessness. He mentioned drinking seven glasses of water at work due to excessive sweating. Despite feeling unwell, he offered his Maghrib prayers and kept reciting praises of Almighty Allah. That same day, I too had come home from Banihal, where I had been transferred just two days earlier. I wasn’t feeling well there — my heartbeats were irregular, I couldn’t eat, and I spent sleepless nights. Feeling restless and homesick, I left Banihal and arrived home around 8:30 p.m.
As soon as I entered, I saw my father offering prayers. I embraced him tightly, tears filling my eyes. Just days earlier, he had been healthy and active. His warm embrace brought me comfort I cannot describe. After Isha prayers, we gathered for dinner as a family. But soon after eating, his breathlessness worsened. In a panic, I called my maternal uncles from the Chishti family. They arrived without delay and took him to SKIMS Hospital, Soura. The doctors did an ECG, which surprisingly appeared normal. They gave him a diazepam injection and discharged him, telling us it was nothing serious. None of us could have imagined that those were the final hours of his life.
On the way home, he spoke normally but kept mentioning his difficulty in breathing. We reached home, and he tried to sleep but couldn’t. Lying in a half-sleeping, half-waking state, he began reciting the last Surahs of the Holy Quran. At around 4 a.m., he loudly recited “Qul A’udhu bi Rabbil Falaq” — “I seek refuge with the Lord of the dawn.” A strange uneasiness spread in the room, though we thought it was the effect of the medicine.
He then softly told me to light the candles and call the tailor. We didn’t understand what he meant. Then, he began reciting Kalimaat and asked us to be prepared because dawn was near. Still, we failed to grasp the depth of his words. We made him some sweet tea, and he went for a bath. After changing into fresh clothes, his complexion turned pale, and his voice grew weaker. We helped him to sit on a mattress in the living room, the very spot where he used to offer prayers and recite the Holy Quran.
Even in those final moments, my father kept reciting Quranic verses and Zikr. Holding my sisters’ hands — Yasmeen’s in his right and Sabiya’s in his left — he softly repeated “Allah, Allah, Allah.” We sat beside him, silently crying, rubbing his feet, and praying for his recovery. Neighbors from the Shah family rushed in, insisting that we take him back to the hospital. Yasmeen and I supported him as we tried to move him to the waiting car.
At that moment, something beyond our understanding happened. His gaze fixed toward the horizon as if he were seeing something none of us could. We tried to wake him, calling his name, but it was too late. I softly closed his eyes with trembling hands. The light in our lives had gone out. In the early hours of June 12, 2001, my father left this world at the age of fifty.
In the days and years that followed, it was my mother, Shahida Chishti who held our broken family together. At just forty-two, she showed unimaginable strength and courage. She raised us with dignity and discipline, instilling in us the values my father cherished. She ensured we stayed rooted in our culture, faith, and family traditions. Today, whatever goodness remains in us is because of her resilience and sacrifices.
I can never forget the role of my paternal grandparents, Syed Abdul Rashid Gilani and Syeda Sakina Gilani. After my father’s death, they embraced us and our mother as their own. They raised us with love, discipline, and moral teachings. Their wisdom became our strength, guiding us through life’s most difficult times. May Almighty Allah reward them with a special place in Jannah for the love and care they gave us.
Whenever I visit our ancestral graveyard and stand by my father’s grave, my heart silently speaks to him. I share with him my joys, my sorrows, and those unspoken words that life left unsaid.
Now, when my sons — Arshad and Murshad — recite Quranic verses at his grave, and when my daughter Sarah recites the Holy Quran at home, an indescribable peace settles in my heart. In those moments, I sense the warmth of an unseen connection — a bond of love quietly flowing from one generation to the next.
It feels like a silent promise that the love of a father and a grandfather never fades, never dies. It lives on, deeply rooted in the blood we inherit and the genes that silently carry the echoes of those who came before us.
What makes it even more moving is that while my children were fortunate enough to see my late grandfather, they never saw their own grandfather — my father. And yet, through these recitations, these silent prayers, and this sacred inheritance of blood and faith, they remain bonded to him in ways words cannot describe.
I pray to Almighty Allah to bless my father’s soul with eternal peace, to grant our ancestors the highest place in paradise, and to protect my children with health, faith, and righteous deeds. May the chain of love, prayer, and remembrance never break.
(The author is is a government officer who writes on real-life stories about emotions, family bonds, moral lessons, and reflections on life. He can be reached at [email protected])
