Ulfat Manzoor
There are some deaths that leave us saddened, and then there are some that leave us stunned into silence. The sudden demise of my dear friend, Muzamil Iqbal, belongs to the latter category. Even as I write these words, it remains difficult to believe that he is no longer among us.
Monday (22 June) was a holiday on account of the Kheer Bhawani festival. I was at home, having already spent Sunday with my family at Harwan and Shalimar Gardens. It was a normal afternoon. I was preparing for Asar prayers when my elder sister called.
Her voice carried unusual urgency. She told me that Muzamil had died after suffering a heart attack.
For a moment, I could not understand what I had heard. “Which Muzamil?” I asked. Surely, she meant someone else. There are many people named Muzamil. It could not be my friend. I asked again, hoping I had misunderstood. But she insisted it was the same Muzamil I knew.
I ended the call, still refusing to believe it. My mind tried desperately to convince me that he had only suffered a heart attack and was perhaps under medical observation in a hospital. He could not have died. Not so suddenly. Not at this age. Not him.
I froze for several moments.
When I informed my wife, I only told her that Muzamil had suffered a minor heart attack and that I was going to Maloora to inquire about his condition. I could not bring myself to utter the words that he had died.
Even on my way there, I avoided calling relatives and friends in Maloora. Deep inside, I feared hearing confirmation of what I was struggling to accept.
But when I reached his home, reality struck with full force.
What I witnessed there is difficult to describe. The entire area was engulfed in grief. Women were wailing. His mother was inconsolable. Men stood in stunned silence, unable to process the tragedy. It seemed as though everyone was present physically, yet nobody truly knew how to respond to the shock.
Then came the sound of the ambulance siren.
In an instant, the atmosphere transformed into devastating grief. Cries echoed through the neighbourhood. Tears flowed freely. Hearts broke together.
Muzamil’s body was brought into the courtyard of the house he had recently built. I remember how happy he was to finally have a house of his own. Like many married men in Kashmir, building a house was one of the biggest responsibilities of his life. He had completed that journey and was finally beginning to enjoy the fruits of years of hard work.
He had moved into the newly constructed house with his wife, son, and two daughters. It was supposed to mark the beginning of a more peaceful chapter in his life.
Instead, it became the place where family, friends, and well-wishers gathered to bid him farewell.
One by one, people came to see him for the last time.
The most heartbreaking moments were those involving his family. His mother stood beside him, unable to accept that her son was gone. She cried that it should have been her on the deathbed instead of him. His wife, devastated beyond words, spoke to him as though he would answer back, reminding him of the responsibilities they still had to share and the life they had built together.
Those moments will remain etched in my memory forever.
We waited patiently as relatives, friends, neighbors, colleagues, and countless well-wishers arrived to have a final glimpse of him. Muzamil came from a large family and had earned the affection of everyone around him because of the way he treated people—with respect, kindness, and genuine care.
Later, preparations for his Gusul were completed. We then took him for his final journey. Such was the love people had for him that the Janaza could not be accommodated at the usual place. It was shifted to a larger ground to accommodate the massive gathering of mourners.
At around 10:20 p.m., thousands of hands were raised in prayer as we offered his Janaza. Thereafter, we accompanied him to his final resting place, where he was laid to rest.
As I stood there, memories of Muzamil flooded my mind.
I knew him as a man who always carried a smile on his face.
He had a wonderful sense of humour.
He was sincere, caring, and dependable.
He was a true friend who often called simply to meet, talk, and share life’s stories.
He was always willing to help anyone in need.
Above all, he was humble, soft-spoken, and kind-hearted. He maintained warm relations with everyone and never left a conversation without making the other person feel valued.
There is another reason I felt compelled to write these words.
Muzamil always appreciated and promoted the good work of others. He believed that people should be recognized for their contributions and goodness. Today, when he is no longer with us, I feel it is my duty to tell people who Muzamil really was—a noble soul, a loving family man, a dependable friend, and an exceptionally good human being.
The world does not stop when a person dies. Life moves on. Roads remain busy. Offices continue to function. Children continue to play. Yet something significant changes for the person who departs and for those left behind. A chair remains empty. A phone call never comes. A smile is missed.
Muzamil’s struggles were beginning to ease. He had fulfilled many of his responsibilities. He had built his house. He was caring for his family. It seemed that a more peaceful phase of life awaited him.
But Allah had written a different destiny.
As Muslims, we believe that every soul has an appointed time, known only to the Almighty. Though our hearts grieve and our minds question, we submit to His will.
My dear friend Muzamil, your departure has left a void that can never truly be filled. You will be remembered not for the years you lived, but for the goodness you spread, the friendships you nurtured, and the love and respect you earned from everyone around you.
May Almighty Allah forgive your shortcomings, accept your good deeds, widen your grave, illuminate it with His mercy, and grant you the highest place in Jannat-ul-Firdous. Aameen!
(The author can be reached at [email protected])
