For my whole life, I felt like I never knew my father. There was the fact of his death, of course, which happened when I was around 5 or so, leaving me and my sisters orphans. But, there was also the fact that I grew up without his family, without those who knew him. When I would ask my mom’s family about him, I was often met with silence, with vague statements (ie, ‘oh, he was kind and quiet.’) and I knew very little beyond a resume of his that my sister had been given in our twenties.
This year, I was able to travel back to Pakistan for the first time since my dad’s death, and meet his family—his brothers, his sisters, their kids. I was able to go to see his grave for the first time, to be on the land where he lived, to see his face reflected back to me in the faces of my family.
But most importantly, I was able to hear stories. I was able to hear stories from his family of him that painted the picture of a man alive, a man flawed, a man beautiful and kind-hearted, a man who grew and changed and lived. For the first time in my life, I felt that I was given the gift of knowing the man who had helped create me, the man who I can only vaguely remember before he left my life.
I’m forever his kid; and he is a forever mystery.
Recently, I was talking to a friend, and he mentioned that each person was their own universe. It’s impossible to compare people when you think of them this way—you’re not thinking of someone’s attributes or their physical sense—you’re thinking about the entirety of the gift of them, what it feels like to be in their orbit, the mystery that unlocks more mysteries of them. To spend time in another’s universe is such a gift, to be granted the privileged of knowing. And then, sometimes, that universe is gone, suddenly and unexpectedly. Whether it be by death, by a break up, by a falling out, or by distance.
All of us on this planet, made up of our own universes. All of the people who came before us, who had their universes, who still leave small threads and traces for us to be able to find them again.
Here are some things that I learned about my father that I love; he loved oranges. Kinu, in Urdu. That he would love the oranges from the village that he was from, and whenever someone would go visit the village they would bring back the oranges. That he never dressed special to impress anyone, my Aunt joked that “the village never left him,” even when he went to America. That he loved movies, and he loved watching them. That he would bring medical textbooks back from England and America to Pakistan because the education was outdated and when he learned something, he wanted to spread his learning. That he was responsible, that he cared for others.
This has been a season of grief in my life. I’ve been going through various deep heartbreaks that have actually started to manifest as a low latent physical pain I feel in my heart. The only time that I stop feeling it is when I am sitting in prayer or with Reiki, and I feel the medicine working to dissolve it. My heart has been breaking quite deeply, and I can only pray that something more beautiful, something softer and more tender comes through in the clearing. I am deeply in the process of tending to the pain and of the breaking, of trying to manage it as best as I can.
My dad died of a heart attack. Earlier this week, his brother also died of a heart attack. Another universe gone, a man I got to meet and spend time with when I was in Pakistan in February. I know how deeply my family is Pakistan is grieving, and it’s hard to be away from them when this is happening.
It’s Eid today, and there are so many people who exist in the Muslim world who are so far away from celebration. This season of Ramadan, Eid-al Fitr and Eid Al-Adha have felt so deeply bereft with grief as we’ve seen what’s happening in Palestine and Sudan, as well as Tigray, the Congo and Kashmir. Yesterday I saw a video of two little girls in Palestine, dressed in Eid clothes, telling an interviewer that they have nothing to eat. I don’t know how anyone can be in this world at this moment and not have their hearts be broken by what’s happening, by what we are seeing.
Life is so short and it’s so precious. Hold the people you love close, treat them well, face the shadows in yourself so you don’t unnecessarily contribute to the pain of others. All of our universes are so precious and tender.
Happy father’s day & Eid Mubarak.