Syed Majid Gilani
On June 11, 2025, as the sun rises over the quiet streets of Khanquahi Moulla, Srinagar, my heart sinks into the weight of a memory that never fades. Twenty-four years ago, on this day, my world shattered when my father, Syed Iftikhar Gilani, left us forever. His absence is a wound that time has not healed, a void that echoes with the love, wisdom, and silent strength of a man who was my everything. Today, as I pen this tribute, I am not just a son grieving but a storyteller carrying forward the legacy of a father whose life and loss continue to shape me.
Born in 1950 in the heart of Srinagar, my father was a man of quiet grace. A 1972 Electronics graduate from S.P. College, he joined the Sales Tax Department, serving with integrity until fate cruelly cut his journey short at just 50. His life was a tapestry of simplicity, discipline, and boundless love for his family. To me, he was more than a father—he was my compass, my confidant, my hero. His laughter still rings in my ears, his warm embrace a memory I cling to when the world feels cold.
The day he left us—June 11, 2001—replays in my mind like a haunting reel. It began innocently enough. He returned from work, weary, his breath labored, sweat beading on his brow. “I drank seven glasses of water today,” he said, brushing off his discomfort. That evening, I too arrived home from Banihal, where a recent transfer had left me restless, my heart racing, my nights sleepless. Seeing him offering Maghrib prayers, I ran to him, tears spilling as I buried myself in his arms. Just days before, he had been vibrant, full of life. That night, his embrace felt like a lifeline.
After Isha prayers, we sat for dinner, a fleeting moment of togetherness. But soon, his breathlessness worsened. Panic gripped us. My maternal uncles from the Chishti family rushed him to SKIMS Hospital, Soura. An ECG showed nothing alarming; a diazepam injection was administered, and doctors sent him home, assuring us it was minor. How could we have known we were counting down his final hours?
Back home, he couldn’t rest. Lying in a liminal state, he recited the last Surahs of the Quran, his voice steady yet faint. At 4 a.m., he proclaimed “Qul A’udhu bi Rabbil Falaq”—“I seek refuge with the Lord of the dawn.” A chill settled in the room. He spoke of candles, a tailor, cryptic words we couldn’t decipher. Then, with a serene urgency, he recited Kalimaat, urging us to prepare for dawn. We made him sweet tea, helped him bathe, and watched helplessly as his face paled, his voice faded.
In the living room, on the mattress where he prayed and read the Quran, he sat, holding my sisters Yasmeen and Sabiya’s hands, whispering “Allah, Allah, Allah.” We surrounded him, tears streaming, rubbing his feet, praying for a miracle. Neighbors urged us to return to the hospital. As we supported him toward the car, his gaze lifted, fixed on something beyond our sight. In that sacred, shattering moment, he was gone. I closed his eyes with trembling hands, my heart breaking as the light of our home dimmed forever. It was June 12, 2001.
The days that followed were a blur of grief. My mother, Shahida Chishti, only 42, became our rock. With unshakable courage, she pieced our broken family together, raising us with the values my father held dear—faith, dignity, and resilience. Her sacrifices are the foundation of who we are today. My paternal grandparents, Syed Abdul Rashid Gilani and Syeda Sakina Gilani, enveloped us in their love, guiding us with wisdom and moral clarity. Their embrace carried us through the darkest times, and I pray Almighty Allah grants them Jannah for their boundless care.
Standing by my father’s grave in our ancestral graveyard, I speak to him in whispers, sharing joys and sorrows, the words I never got to say. When my sons, Arshad and Murshad, recite Quranic verses at his grave, or my daughter Sarah’s voice fills our home with the Holy Quran, I feel him near. It’s a bond that transcends time, a love that flows through blood and faith. My children never met their grandfather, yet through their prayers, they are tied to him—an eternal connection that brings me solace.
My father was a man of few words but profound impact. His life taught me to cherish every moment, to love fiercely, and to hold faith tightly. His death taught me the fragility of life and the enduring power of family. As I pray for his soul’s peace for his soul and for paradise for our ancestors, I ask Allah Almighty to guide my children with health and righteousness. May the thread of love and prayer that binds us never break.
(Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer and writer in Srinagar, weaving stories of family, faith, and human connection. Contact him at syedmajid667@gmail.com.)
