Returning to Islamabad from my ancestral home a few days ago, I felt something I had never felt before. It was not the vastness of the city that struck me – it was its emptiness. A week in the village, surrounded by siblings and relatives, had somehow kept the heart occupied. But the moment I returned to the city, it felt as though the ground beneath my feet had disappeared – as if a foundational wall of life had quietly cracked.
In the city, the composure you maintain as the eldest son – especially after the passing of your father – begins to falter. You hold yourself together before your younger siblings, believing strength is now your responsibility. But solitude has a way of shaking you from within. Only the person himself knows how broken he truly is behind a composed exterior.
City life is peculiar. Here, even the sense of morning and evening comes from a calendar notification or a mobile screen. One remains bound to schedules, meetings, and responsibilities. Yet amidst this mechanical routine, whenever thoughts of home surfaced, there was always an inner reassurance: my father was alive. He was there. The shade still existed.
Now, when I look back, I see a void that perhaps no lifetime can fully fill.
There is a couplet that captures this truth beautifully:AI
“A father is the tree of the house.”
A dense tree, whose mere imagination brings the comfort of shade and coolness.
My father was a small farmer, but in dignity, he stood taller than many influential men. He never allowed us to feel deprived. His circle of friends included both the young and the elderly, and he was equally respected by all. He had the rare ability to make anyone feel close within minutes. Even today, people in our area recognise me through his name. The overwhelming number of people who came to offer condolences testified that he did not belong only to us – he belonged to the entire community.
We often wait for better circumstances — better income, better time, better stability — believing we will do more for our parents then.
He was a traditional landowner – someone who understood the difference between friendship and rivalry. He kept disagreements within their limits. No matter how serious the conflict, he never spoke ill of anyone behind their back. Once, when someone criticised one of his rivals in harsh words, he immediately stopped him and said, “That is between him and me. You do not need to speak about it.” Such restraint is rare.
He embodied what I often describe as the spirit of standing for truth – the courage to confront injustice and to speak plainly when something was wrong. He was never intimidated.
My father had unwavering trust in God. He considered wasting time a sin. Financially or otherwise, he never depended on his children. And God preserved that dignity until his last breath. At 74, he departed this world living a life of independence and honour, without being dependent on anyone.
Nearly ninety per cent of those who came for condolences told me they had met him just days before his passing. He had even visited a relative with whom he had disagreements for years – he went to his house, stayed there, reconciled, and cleared his heart before leaving this world. Perhaps that was his way of settling accounts.
He would only visit Islamabad for medical check-ups and would refuse to stay longer despite our insistence. Yet, surprisingly, a week before his passing, he came without any pressing reason and spent the night at my home. At the time, it seemed like an ordinary visit. Later, I realised perhaps he had simply come to see me one last time.
He had been a heart patient for twenty years, but endured illness with patience and faith. I regularly sent his medicines from Islamabad. After his passing, I learned that he often gave those medicines to people who could not afford them. Perhaps someone else’s pain mattered more to him than his own.
On the night of February 15, when he suffered severe cardiac pain, he was taken to the THQ Hospital in Jand. The essential sublingual emergency tablet was not available. There was no time to procure it from outside. The window of survival closed too quickly.
This tragedy is not merely a personal loss; it is a systemic question. At the very least, sub-district level hospitals must be equipped with basic emergency cardiac and stroke response units. In such cases, minutes determine life or death. Many patients do not survive the journey to the district or divisional headquarters.
After my father’s passing, I understood for the first time that being the eldest son is not about order of birth – it is about responsibility.
Every one of us has gone through this experience, or will. It is an inevitable chapter of life. But if there is one thing I wish to say from the heart, it is this: do not delay serving your parents. We often wait for better circumstances – better income, better time, better stability – believing we will do more for them then. That ideal time rarely comes.
Whatever you have, give from that. Whether it is money, time, attention, or companionship – give it while you can. Regret later never fills the emptiness.
A father does not merely provide; he gives identity. He is a silent assurance. He is the tree whose presence shields you from realising how harsh the sun truly is.
Today, the city is the same. The roads are the same. But I am not. Earlier, I stood under a tree’s shade. Now, under the harsh sunlight of responsibility, I must become the shade myself.
Finally, I extend my heartfelt gratitude to all friends and well-wishers who offered condolences in person, by phone, or through messages. May God reward you abundantly.
May Allah grant our departed parents the highest place in Jannah.
Ameen.
The writer is a journalist, strategic communication specialist and IR scholar based in Islamabad.