The Sweetness of Grief in God’s Mercy: On the Anniversary of My Father’s Passing

He was a person who shone like a beacon in the darkness.

یوں نہ پھرہو گا کوئی نغمہ سرا میرے بعد

اورہی ہوگی گلستاں کی فضا میرے بعد
راہ سنساں مکاں خستہ مکیں ا فسردہ
کیسا ویراں ہوا شہروفا میرے بعد

There will be no one like me to sing melodies after I am gone.
The atmosphere of the garden will be entirely different after my departure.
A desolate path, a broken abode, dejected inhabitants—
How desolate the city of loyalty became after me!

Tall and stately, strong and robust, a fair complexion, an elegant physique, a rosy and innocent face, a broad forehead, uniquely handsome—Beautiful almond-shaped eyes sparkling with a brilliance akin to diamonds, with red veins from sleepless nights, observing with a discerning gaze. A straight and prominent nose, delicate thin lips, a wide and graceful mouth, cheeks flushed like a Kandahari (Red) pomegranate. His beard, soft and silky, black merging into white, almost covering his chest. Trimmed moustaches, a shaven head covered by a traditional Karakul cap. His voice carried humility and passion, his tone commanding, his stride exemplary, his disposition fiery, yet his personality was the epitome of steadfastness. His gait exuded authority, and his words carried weight.

He was a living embodiment of the sublime qualities of Kashmir’s grandeur—gentle as the breeze and fierce as thunder. A living, breathing story, a symbol of the paradise that is Kashmir. A presence whose proximity exuded majesty and whose absence nurtured devotion. His visage was imperial, but his character unparalleled. This was a glimpse of the man whose name was Habibullah Malik.

جن کی یادوں سے رگِ جاں میں دکھن ہونے لگے
ذکر چھڑ جائے تو پتھر کا دل بھی رونے لگے

Whose memories start to hurt in the veins of my soul.

If the memory is forgotten, even a heart of stone starts to cry.

Memories That Sting the Soul
It has been 63 years today, on Friday, 3rd December 1965, at 3:13 PM, in Room No. 5 of Civil Hospital (Lyallpur) Faisalabad, that a distinguished personality turned away from the fleeting joys of this temporary life, as if knowing that their destination lay in an eternal abode—a garden of everlasting fragrances.

Just as everything has a value, the ticket to enter that celestial garden does not come cheap. The precious wealth of life must be surrendered to receive the gift of death. And death, in itself, is the means to unite with the Beloved and to attain eternal life with Him. What could be a greater blessing than eternal union with the Beloved? How fitting, then, that thousands of hearts’ beloved was now in the presence of the Divine Beloved.

اب یادِ رفتگاں کی بھی ہمت نہیں رہی
یاروں نے اتنی دور بسائیں ہیں بستیاں

Now I don’t even have the courage to remember the places I left.

My friends have settled so far away.

Reflections on a Remarkable Life
Some lakes in the world are said to have waters that are simultaneously sweet and salty. One part flows with fresh, sweet water, and the other with bitter, saline waves. It is a marvel of nature that these two layers of water remain separate, maintaining their unique flavours. Whenever I think of him, I imagine such a lake—a blend of sweetness and poignancy.

Many years have passed, and countless times I resolved to pen these reflections, to give voice to these beautiful memories, but an unseen fear always held me back. Perhaps I feared that my weak and timid self would fail to encapsulate these memories adequately. But today, that limit has been surpassed. Sometimes, the powder keg of dormant memories is ignited by sparks from current events, causing an explosion of recollection.

On Friday, 3rd December 1965, I sat beside him in Room No. 5 of Civil Hospital, Faisalabad. With half-open eyes, he asked, “What day is it today?” My uncle responded, “It is Friday.” He glanced towards his wife, who immediately understood his unspoken desire. While still on his bed, he performed ablution. That day, his health seemed better compared to the past ten days—his face, though frail, radiated a newfound glow. On his special request, his long-time companion, Hafiz Sahib, recited the Qur’an for an extended period. I still remember how, upon reaching the final verses of Surah Al-Hashr, tears streamed down his face. Unable to bear the sight, I turned my gaze towards the window.

He instructed us all to perform the Friday prayer in the mosque. We left for the mosque adjacent to the hospital, but an inexplicable heaviness in my steps made it difficult to walk. My eyes kept turning back to the room, a strange unease gnawing at my heart. My mother, who had not left his side even for a moment during the past ten days, seemed to know that this was their final farewell. After years of companionship, the time for eternal separation had arrived, with their next meeting destined only in paradise.

Final Days
During his hospitalisation, the entire city seemed to gather around him. On several occasions, the hospital staff had to intervene as a full team of doctors remained present at all times. Even the other hospital staff seemed to treat the situation as an emergency. Despite enduring unbearable pain with remarkable resilience, his face never betrayed his suffering.

You had been at the country’s forward borders for weeks, tirelessly welcoming displaced refugees from occupied Kashmir. Making your third trip from Faisalabad with a fully loaded truck of warm clothes and essential items, you not only devoted yourself to relief efforts but were also in search of your brother, Asmatullah Malik, and other relatives. Upon reaching Faisalabad with several maternal relatives, you returned disappointed, once again unable to locate your brother. The deep anguish within you was visible on your face.

One evening, you painted such a vivid picture of the helplessness and displacement of the refugees that everyone listening was moved to tears. Despite resettling several families, your heart remained with the refugees of Kashmir, perhaps because your own past struggles as a refugee had been freshly rekindled. Engrossed in aiding their rehabilitation, you were suddenly struck by severe back pain. That night, you suffered intensely. The following morning, you mentioned the pain to your friend, Hakim Riyasat Ali. Without a proper diagnosis, he administered an expired penicillin injection into your left arm. This ill-advised treatment marked the beginning of your end.

The day passed with great difficulty, as the pain grew unbearable. You were rushed to the hospital, where it was discovered that the expired Penicillin injection had caused a severe infection throughout your body. Doctors were astonished that you had survived the past 24 hours, as such infections are typically fatal within hours. Undoubtedly, you were waiting for your destined time of departure.

In an urgent response, your entire blood supply was replaced. For the first three days, your condition was critical but stabilised briefly on the fourth day. However, your health suddenly deteriorated again, and the doctors recommended amputating your arm to prevent the infection from spreading further. Your uncle, a renowned doctor who had been by your side throughout this ordeal, immediately consented to the operation. Meanwhile, the local newspapers reported the incident, and a wave of public anger swept the city, demanding Hakim Riyasat Ali’s arrest. He fled the city with his family, closing his clinic in the process.

One day, Hakim Riyasat Ali unexpectedly returned with his family, falling at your feet in the hospital, begging for forgiveness. Even from your deathbed, you comforted him. Turning to those around you, you said:

“I have forgiven Hakim Sahib for this unintentional mistake. From this moment, anyone who causes him harm will have no connection with me.”

Your words carried such weight that no one dared defy your wishes. Hakim Sahib was sent away with dignity. Outside the hospital, Maulvi Ismail sat on his cart, fervently praying for your recovery. It was you who had lovingly forbidden him from begging despite his paralysis. Not only did you provide him with a cart, but you also set up a small stall near your hotel, allowing him to earn an honest living—even though that prime spot had attracted lucrative offers from others. You often remarked that such deeds might serve as your salvation in the hereafter.

For years, it was your practice to arrange breakfast and tea daily for a long line of impoverished and needy individuals outside your hotel, considering it a moral obligation. Your staff were strictly instructed to carry out this duty with care and kindness. Despite this compassion, you maintained a firm bond with them, treating your employees with paternal affection. Many of them, being Kashmiri, had worked with you for years, creating a small “Kashmir” within your establishment.

Your friendships with the city’s intellectuals, scholars, and community leaders were remarkable. Daily gatherings at your hotel saw discussions ranging from local issues to national politics. I recall that, despite your immense respect for Fatima Jinnah, you supported Ayub Khan, believing Islam emphasised a woman’s role as the ruler of her home. This sparked occasional debates at home, particularly with your wife, who, despite her lack of political knowledge, sympathised with Fatima Jinnah as a fellow woman. On one occasion, this led to a brief disagreement, but you soon apologised and restored harmony.

You deeply revered Islamic scholars and considered attending their gatherings an honour. This respect was undoubtedly rooted in your close association with the late Hazrat Ataullah Shah Bukhari of the Majlis-e-Ahrar. While maintaining strong ties with Ahl-e-Hadith leaders like Maulana Siddiq and Maulana Abdul Qadir Rupuri, you also cherished friendships with Barelvi figures such as Sahibzada Faiz-ul-Hassan. You held the famous Deobandi scholar Mufti Syed Siyah-ud-Din Kakakhail in high regard, entrusting him to lead your funeral prayer. On the day of your funeral, the entire city gathered, with scholars from every school of thought joining in to bid you farewell.

دیکھ لو آج پھر نہ دیکھو گے
غالب بے مثال کی صورت

Look, you will not see it again today

Such an unprecedented situation will not be seen again

The word has spread, but the memories continue to stand in rows. Who should I take and whose should I leave! I know that the flowers of love are in the pots of the eyes, which are watered under the protection of the eyelids, but the harvest of years has ripened and is now gathered in this flowerpot of the heart and is being poured on these pages. Perhaps this would not have happened even today if this day of December 3 had not demanded and demanded indelible impressions. In fact, when a person carries the lamp of sorrows on his palm, its light makes the scars of happy memories visible on his face and then sometimes a person becomes a spectacle in love, but if this lamp of sorrow is hidden and lit in the heart, its light illuminates and perfumes the soul. Then a person becomes a part of the pain and suffering of others. This is the reason why for almost the last six decades, the lamp of your memories has not been dimmed. The word has spread, but the memories continue to stand in rows. Who should I take and whose should I leave! I know that the flowers of love are in the pots of the eyes, which are watered under the protection of the eyelids, but the harvest of years has ripened and is now gathered in this flowerpot of the heart and is being poured on these pages. Perhaps this would not have happened even today if this day of December 3 had not demanded and demanded indelible impressions. In fact, when a person carries the lamp of sorrows on his palm, its light makes the scars of happy memories visible on his face and then sometimes a person becomes a spectacle in love, but if this lamp of sorrow is hidden and lit in the heart, its light illuminates and perfumes the soul. Then a person becomes a part of the pain and suffering of others. This is the reason why for almost the last six decades, the lamp of your memories has not been dimmed.

اندر بھی زمیں کے روشنی ہو
مٹی میں چراغ رکھ  دیا ہے

There is light in the earth too

I have placed a lamp in the soil

I know why and where you have gone, yet more or less every day I see countless such questions swirling in my heart. Now, many have come to your house in the neighbourhood of Aros. On one hand, you have kept your mother’s love aside and along with that, you have also invited your life partner. Where your uncle and uncle are participating in this gathering, your young son Ijaz Malik, whose eyes have not yet been wet, and Ehsan Malik, who is also very young, are also sitting with you in a gathering.

معشوق ریاض اٹھ  گئے اس بزم سے کیا کیا
جاتی ہوئی دنیا ہے رہے نام خدا کا
Beloved Riaz got up, what is being done with this party?

The world is passing away, let the name of God be with you.

I remember your unsavoury way of telling stories, with what wisdom and wisdom you would instill the desired advice in our hearts. You never hid the suffering of your poor homeland, but always remembered it as a lesson and brought it to our hearts. You advised us to keep Pakistan a miraculous state and dearer than our lives, that there is no greater blessing in the world than the sacrifice and self-sacrifice of millions of lives. Your hard workday and night had blessed us with all the rewards of life, but the memory of Kashmir often drowned us. You left no stone unturned in educating and training all of us. You were an example in family upbringing. When you built a house with the grace of God, you provided all the comforts of living in a part of the house to many homeless members of the family. You tried your whole life to ensure that the legitimate desire of a child did not become “longing” and that he was forced to say, “I wish! It had been like this.” You did not like to hear this. I myself was content and practically encouraged him.

Once during the summer vacations, a group of school students were ready to go to Swat and Gilgit for a study tour. I also got my name written down. When I asked for your permission, you gave permission after much insistence, but what do I see that you yourself came to the railway station to see me off and in parting, I had a long conversation with my headmaster, Mr. Zakaullah Sahib, and other teachers. This agreement was later revealed that a certain amount of money was quietly handed over to the headmaster for travel expenses so that none of my wishes would be turned into regret. I also brought several baskets of fruits with me, which all my fellow students enjoyed very much. When I returned from a month-long tour, I learned from my family that you remembered me a lot every night, especially during the mango meal, and that you were so eager that you used to listen to the letters I had written several times a day. During this trip, I bought a “Swati style” cap which you kept on for many days to please me, even though I knew that you always used a Qaraquli cap.

خواب بن کر رہ گئیں ہیں کیسی کیسی محفلیں
خیال بن کر رہ  گئے ہیں کیسے کیسے آشنا
What kind of gatherings have become dreams?

How familiar have become thoughts?

How much did you care about your mother’s pleasure? You stayed with her all your life, even though the houses of other children were also close. Such unparalleled love, once in winter, you bought a warm blanket for her for a hundred rupees, presented it to your mother at home, and she immediately embraced it with love. What came into her heart that she asked the price of this warm blanket? You kept on being quite evasive, but finally, when you were forced to tell her, you told her the extremely unusual price simply so that her mother would not get angry after hearing the real price, considering it a waste of money.

ہمارے بعد اندھیرا رہے گا محفل میں
بہت چراغ  جلاؤ گے روشنی کیلئے
There will be darkness in the gathering after us

You will light many lamps for light

You had a great desire that I travel abroad for higher education. For this, you even advised your close friend Muhammad Hanif Sahib from his deathbed. I was also listening. This is the reason why this desire of yours has supported me despite numerous obstacles and now a time has come when I have travelled more than half the world, but still, some foreign trip awaits me every year.

You have left your immense memories in the hearts of everyone who is related to you and have gone to your beloved Lord. I know that death is not a new thing, everyone has tasted its taste, neither a prophet nor a saint is exempt from the law of death, whoever comes leaves this world after fulfilling his appointed time, it is a great blessing for someone to leave this world in a state of faith. Then coming into this world is actually a prelude to leaving, but some who leave experience such grief for their eternal separation that it is very painful and intense, and it takes a lifetime to cope with this shock. After all, you too could not wait for your mother for more than three months and went to sleep by her side forever.

ہے رشک اک جہان کو جوہرکی موت پر
یہ اس کی دین ہے جسے پروردگار دے
The whole world is jealous of the death of the essence

This is the religion of the one whom God gives

Some people’s departure is not even known to their neighbours, and even if it happens, there is no one to cry for them except a few eyes. Some people’s families are saddened by their departure, but some people are such that their departure causes a world of sorrow and grief. Whoever hears the news, their eyes become moist, and their hearts are filled with sorrow. With their departure, the seat of love and affection becomes golden, the balance of love and compassion is turned upside down, and the entire family is deprived of their prayers, blessings, and attention. Your death is not the death of a person, but the death of an action whose void will remain for years to come. Your death is the death of humility and modesty, the death of nobility and decency, the death of a compassionate father, a loving husband, and a sincere friend. The death of a great man whose footsteps life finds its way to. The death of a high-ranking creative father with whom a chapter of love has been completely closed. Your heartbeat has stopped and badly trampled the heartbeat of hundreds of hearts.

You were a beacon of light for us, in whose light the courage to face difficulties returned. You yourself used to melt like a candle and provide light to a world. In the harsh sun of the world, you were present as a very refreshing shadow on everyone’s head, you yourself used to distribute the wealth of peace to everyone, being restless. When you spoke, such priceless pearls would fall from your mouth that your swing would seem narrow to accommodate everyone. If you had remained silent, you would have been a high example of dignity and tranquility. What virtue should I mention and what deprivation should I point out now, as if now even walking barefoot on these rocky stones in the scorching sun has become a habit.

Grief affects different personalities in different ways. For some people, the news of grief falls like an electric current, for some people, the current of grief runs through them and soaks them, for some people, after hearing the news of grief, their minds become blank, then the grief falls drop by drop. When I saw you too, decorated with flowers, I suddenly became blank. I knew that now the grief would fall drop by drop, it would continue to fall, my greatest benefactor who was gone. The greatest observation of my life, that which was the greatest kindness of Allah upon me, after whose departure I was left completely alone, as if milk is taken out of an earthen bowl and now only an empty vessel remains! You were a gift from Allah from which we all used to benefit and now Allah has called you back. What a day you have found for the journey to the hereafter. After offering Friday prayers, we all returned quickly, and it was found that for an hour straight, he continued to advise his life partner with great satisfaction to face the hot and cold winds of the world, humbly sought clarification of his affairs, and raised his eyes to the sky and prayed with great helplessness.

O Ghafoor-ur-Raheem! With my wrong deeds, I am appearing in your court as a candidate for your mercy. If you forgive me, it is no big deal. I have also completed my worldly journey without any help from you, and it is still the same. He kept repeating these Persian verses of Allama Iqbal

تو غنی از ہر دو عالم من فقیر
روز محشر عذر ہا ے ٔ من پذ یر
گر تو می بینم حسابم نا گز یر
از نگاہ مصطفی پنہاں بگیر
O Allah: You are the Giver of both worlds, while I am Your beggar and poor.

On the Day of Judgment, accept my apology and forgive me.

If the account of my deeds is inescapable, then,

O my Master, keep it hidden from the eyes of my master Muhammad Mustafa (peace be upon him).

He met his Lord while reciting the Kalima Shahadah, making the people present in the room witnesses. Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

اِنَّا لِلّٰہِ وَاِنَّآ اِلَیْہِ رَاجِعُوْنَ

“Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.”

The sadness that is descending like a black cloud in my heart, lower and lower…… .lower and lower, I hold my heart and pray for them:

O Ghafoor-ur-Raheem! You are the Lord, we are the servants, You are the prostrate, we are the prostrate, You are the giver, we are the taker, You are the merciful, we are the seekers, forgive the mistakes and grant the respected father a high place in Paradise. Allahumma Amen

وہ لوگ ہم  نے ایک ہی شوخی میں کھودیئے
ڈھونڈاتھاآسماں نے جنہیں خاک چھان کر
We dug up those people in a single joke

The sky had found them by sifting the dust

(On the occasion of the 59th anniversary of the respected father