Aisa Kahan Se Laun Ke Tujhsa Kahen Jise – Mirza Ghalib
This house feels a hollow shell where your laughter used to ring. The porch where you sat is cold as ice. That vacant space echoes with the lonely sighs of my mother. Dear baba, the anger is a fist that clenches in my chest every time I think of you being gone. There’s so much left unsaid, so many fights we never finished, apologies never offered. I miss you, even the parts of you that irked me, at times.
It hurts most that you won’t see what I (have) become. Will I make you proud? Did I ever? The silence on that front is deafening. There’s a gaping hole where your guidance should be, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost. The world spins on indifferent, a clock that ticks uncaring. Sorrow’s tide engulfs me. When memories softly creep, tears trickle down like raindrops. I am longing for the voice to set me straight. I know the compass of your wisdom is sealed by the cruellest fate.
With blocks of laughter, we built dreams unfulfilled so far. Dear Baba, you whispered secrets in the stars, showed me constellations and I promise not to let your guiding light extinguish. I keep finding myself reaching out to you just to hear your voice, even if it’s to rebuke. It feels like you took a piece of me with you, a piece that understood your gruffness, your jokes, and your way of showing you cared, even when it felt distant. Maybe someday the anger will fade, replaced by a gentler ache. But right now, it’s raw and sharp, a constant companion. I just wish you were here, dammit.
Your simplicity, faith, and resilience in the face of life’s challenges inspire me. Despite the hardships, you never lost hope. Dear Baba, you epitomise success—a father who fulfilled every role in life with dedication and devotion. From 2000 to 2018, my journey with you was the most precious time of my life. Six sad years have passed, and your daughter, your Maslale, still looks for you.
Listening, caring, inspiring, sharing, encouraging and always loving-you were there for me- in both elation and distress. You always taught me to love, to be humble, and to help people in whatever way possible. Once in a millennium soul you were. Trust me on that Baba, there is no one like you.
Let’s have a candid chat. Alright! Ready? Tell me, do you remember packing apples and other fruits in my lunchbox till my class 8th? Do you remember calling me “Maslaloo, talai yoore walle.” That call was music to my eardrum. Why did you stop it for no reason? Come on, I am not sending you an explanation notice. I just want to know your go-to phrase was “Patience is power” and you religiously believed in being patient and getting rewarded, but why didn’t you tell me how it feels for daughters- would be brides, who leave their paternal homes without their father’s pat on the back and a kiss on their forehead or that last warm hug.
After 52 years of successful marriage, my mother lost her companion in you. Being the youngest child, I feel I needed more of you, and I see you in my mother’s longing eyes and tears of separation at bedtime. You are my unsung hero. To make us feel happy at home, whatever you could in your capacity, you played your part well. When your lifeless body was taken away in the coffin to be submitted to the soil, that departure felt like a dagger to the chest.
Life dances on the tunes of death. Death is dreadful. Life is unpredictable. Death is inevitable. I vividly remember the dates. Not that I was your Laadli but I was emotionally connected to you. On Feb 03, 2018, as I helped my Sarparast go to restroom, your reaction was different- never seen before. As your condition worsened, that moment of separation was palpable in our home. Death stares at everyone. It spares none. There is no way to foretell when grief will take your breath away, send you scurrying to the places where no one can see the big fat tears trickling down your cheeks.
Your eternal sleep on that fateful night created a void that could never be filled. You were the savior of my salad days, my default defender and my lovely lawyer. Now, when I recall that unconditional love, I feel I lost a gem of a person. The life of the one we love is never lost. The time I spent with you was priceless.
My life has not been same since you left us, Baba. We are shattered. We miss your radiant eyes that evinced a million tales or the curated words that conveyed so much beyond what was spoken. Sun shines, clouds cover sky, moon moves, everything is routine but my world has turned turtle. As I get up to prepare Iftaar for my brother, I recall John Didion, “Certain losses don’t get past you but you incorporate them into who you are. It is always a part of you.”
By Masrat Akhtar , Masters in Psychology, works as a special educator.