Dear Papa

As I was walking home, reading an obscure book about an old economist, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and the conversations we would have about such things and the way in which we would analyse every bit of it.

It seems I don’t just think, sometimes I speak to you unconsciously, murmuring the responses you might have given, laughing to myself and thinking about what I could have said to you in replies.

It’s been five years since I’ve last talked to you, the last few days being your son was tough. I think of myself as a late boomer and might have behaved in such a manner that is unbecoming of your son.

Nevertheless, I know you didn’t care, for you loved me unconditionally. I don’t think words can explain what unconditional actually means, a love well beyond the conventional father-son relationship.

I must say this relationship corrupted me deeply. Since you’ve been gone I can’t seem to find my footing. Career-wise, I’m all over the place, that’s not a bad thing at all. I enjoy each of the jobs I have and Alhamdulillah, they are plenty.

I designed 3D flying animals in my previous 9-5 job, now I read and write articles for a living, teach grammar in the evenings and, between all this, read and think of you. Can’t complain, Allah has been kind and supportive, filling me with endless responsibilities and very little time for recollections. But I still find something missing from my life.

Murmuring your voice is something I’ve been doing since the time I left your side inside the grave. I always have you at the back of my mind, for guidance and in prayer, my world revolves around you still, and for all this time, I am feeling lost. Like the simplest things are becoming so hard because I couldn’t be like you, nor am I finding you in my young adult life.

By the time you were my age, I understand you were already married, or so I think. Mamoni never gives me the same answer twice. But for sure you were way bolder and more uplifting than I am. The self-belief you carried, the confidence one needs before jumping off a cliff just uttering “Allah vorosha”, is immense. I envy that because I couldn’t find it. I am trying though.

October and November are hard. Your birthday and mine, your day of passing, perhaps in future also mine, are linked to these months. I now can understand when Dadu passed why you looked lifeless; it meant something part of your own had passed.

I’ve been feeling the same way for five years. I am in a crisis, but a crisis not of opportunities, career prospects or simply money, a crisis of faith, not in a religious sense, but of faith in thyself.

I find it increasingly difficult that, with me being the scared 26-year-old that I am, can I make everyone happy?

A harsh but practical way of thought may be: who cares?

The reality is, you did, and so I have to as well. I am scared that my closest ones now may misunderstand my next decisions, I am scared that I won’t be able to keep the promises I had so boldly made, and finally I am scared of seeing an increasingly ageing, lovable mother. A mother I have loved more than anything, maybe even more than you, but often I’ve failed to show it. Above all, I am scared that she’s the one who will misunderstand my decisions the most.

I know to you, these are nothing but temporary, fixable self-confidence splits that were no issues in your 20s, but for some reason, these small things are world enders for me. Don’t worry, I’ll untie the knots of entangled emotions step by step, I have that much imān at least.

However, I needed you in this untiring pursuit, as a guide, as a father but most importantly my only friend. I can’t believe that with all the great people I know and the connections I’ve built up, it is you who I can only call my friend. I am not comfortable with anyone else; your love corrupted me that much.

I visit you every week on Friday, but that too takes a toll on me. I feel my heart beating faster than ever even after five years. I think of digging the grave once more and laying down beside you.

Where can I find solace? My work helps, the students I teach and the articles I write are all a tribute to you. I wish you could see how I conduct a class. It is just like you, when you would share your views with me at one in the morning after finishing a talk show.

I wish you could have read one of my articles. I can hardly believe I get paid to write something that wholeheartedly resembles a late-night conversation between you and me.

How lucky I am to have been picked up by you, and subsequently what a curse that is. Love truly is a double-edged sword. One that has given me life and friendship beyond comprehension, but also it has corrupted me to the point that I cannot accept its diminishing nature.

I will surely name my son (I’ll modify it somehow if it’s a daughter) after you, just so you did in my case. I yearn for the afterlife, the world is too deserted for me to operate without you.

Again, I wish you could have seen me, filled with the hundreds of responsibilities, but not overwhelmed by it. That is the tightrope I am walking today, a task no more dangerous than crossing the ‘pul sirat’. I hope to do that successfully because I know you’ll be already waiting to see if your loved ones make it. Mamoni will, surely. Let’s see if I am able to cross it and meet my beloved father, friend and only confidant once again.

Thank you for being the person you were for the 21 years I’ve known you.

Sincerely
Papa