Death keeps no calendar” is an absolute truth. Death does not wait for you to be ready. It reaches you even inside fortified towers. You cannot escape death by paying ransom to Allah. You cannot cheat it, cannot bargain with it, cannot bribe it. The Quran makes it clear: “The Angel of Death will take your souls, then the souls shall be brought back to your lord.” But even though death is such an inevitable part of life, it still leaves a heartache that no one can heal.
What made me write this article after three years of Abbu’s death is the communication breakdown that I feel with my Abbu. The pangs of separation from him sear through my heart, repeatedly. If I am not mistaken, I believe humans cannot survive alone, for we are all inter-connected in a web. The day Abbu left us, it devastated the whole family. It sends shivers down my spine when I recall that grim episode of my life when our neighbours started to clean our courtyard and I did not know the reason behind it. It was 27th September 2017. After battling for life for more than two days, first in SDH Sopore and then referred to SMHS Srinagar, my papa left for his heavenly abode. Through all the measures humanly possible, we tried to save our Abbu, but death defies even the best doctor.
My father, Ghulam Rasool Kar, lived in Mundji Sopore. He worked as a humble government employee in the PHE Department, initially in Srinagar and then in Sopore. As a daughter I can remember very well some of his qualities. He was not only my father but a best friend, guide, storyteller, a true mentor and, more importantly, a lover of humankind. He was a practical religious man and a torchbearer for many in almost every field of human activity, especially in religious and social spheres. He was an epitome of simplicity, sincerity, honesty, kindness, and love. He would support us and mentor us on how to discover our own passion and fields of interest in life. He would nudge us towards developing a passion for Islamic literature. He in his entire life never trampled on the rights of his neighbours or anyone else. Never did he hurt the feelings of any of our relatives. Alhamdulillah, not only me but almost every person of our village, where he spent most of his life, testifies to his piety, humility and soberness.
My Abbu was a king in his own realm. He would always say during his last days of illness, “Rubiya, you are the laadla beta of your papa, and you have to take charge of this home like a responsible elder son, after me.” He was indeed a man of character and an example of the perfect father that one could imagine. He did all that a man can do to nourish, groom and educate his children. Today, whenever and whatever little I write, my Abbu sits near me and whispers into my ear, “Rubiya, the sky is your limit.”
He was always grateful to his creator. Whenever the family would face any trouble, he would say, “Soun chuna khuda soub”. He protected his Salah throughout his life. He was never lazy in performing Salah. He would always love to call a spade a spade.
It is a gospel truth that we all have to go back to our creator. But I feel impotent at comforting myself for the last three years. Each and every time my eyes fill with tears when I think that Abbu has gone forever. I am unable to move out of this grief. I miss you too much, Abbu.
Rukhsat hua to aankh
mila kar nahi gaya
Wo kyun gaya ye bhi bata
kar nahi gaya
Wo yoon gaya ki baad-e-saba
yaad aa gayi
Ahsaas tak bhi hum ko
dila kar nahi gaya
May Allah accept his good deeds and grant him eternal bliss. To err is human and definitely as a human my Abbu must have made mistakes, so may Allah forgive his sins and elevate his good deeds. I have a humble request for all those who are reading this: please pray for my Abbu’s Magfirah. I shall be obliged to you.