Seven Years and a Morning Visit (Dad Part IV)

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since he left - though it’s a complicated kind of absence, more presence-in-absence than true departure.

My father, Abu, was not the type to explicitly guide or advise. He was not a mentor, and certainly not a friend in the typical sense. We did not have those deep, heart-to-heart conversations. Instead, he was this quiet, steady presence in my life, sometimes maddeningly so.

A provider? Yes. But as a father, in the conventional sense - someone I looked up to, leaned on, shared my struggles with? Not really. And yet, in some strange way, he was always there, quietly shaping my life choices without interference, accepting whatever I was doing, however unremarkable.

I have often wondered if he would approve of the decisions I have made, like the time I signed his code status as Do Not Resuscitate. I remember standing by his side, grappling with that decision, feeling both alone and strangely anchored by the quiet figure he had always been. And again, as I walked through his “new home” at the graveyard after his passing, I found myself questioning the nature of our relationship - wondering if there was a deeper layer I had not grasped?

Today, something compelled me to visit him after a long absence. Maybe it was because of the coffee I had had earlier with an old friend I had not seen in years. We spoke about his father, now crossing 90. My dad passed at 86 - a rough estimate, as he never really paid much attention to the exactness of numbers or age. Still, hearing about my friend’s father stirred something in me; a reminder that time moves differently for each of us.

The air was cooler than usual for Karachi, softened by the early morning light. Birds flitted about, bees and butterflies danced around the overgrown greenery, and ants marched in steady columns at my feet. Nature was alive here, unconcerned with the human stories these stones hold. Yet somehow, the simple aliveness of it all made this visit feel more connected, more intentional.

I take a photo. “The obligatory selfie with Abu,” I caption it - ritual disguised as irony. Somehow, it makes the moment feel more real, more anchored. A digital nod to a man who never cared for photographs.

I can almost hear him chuckle at the idea, that quiet, unassuming humor that he had - humor he never imposed but that I came to recognize only after he was gone. I imagine him shaking his head, amused at my need to frame these moments.

As I step back from the frame, my gaze drifts sideways to the neighboring grave - Shahnaz Fatima. Her stone bears a date that is burned into my memory; the year I completed med school. She has been here for decades, part of this landscape that Abu is now woven into. I wonder if her family visits as I do, making sense of her absence with small, symbolic gestures. Grief takes different shapes, and maybe this is mine: a selfie, a silent nod, a quiet prayer. A design of remembrance I didn’t know I was creating.

I reach out, placing my hand on his headstone, tracing the letters of his name, feeling the warmth of the stone under my fingers. In life, he was complex; his demons glimpsed but never fully understood.

He was not a figure I consciously turned to, and yet his quiet acceptance of who I was - in medicine, genetics, or wandering the world of ideas through writing - offered a kind of grounding I didn’t recognize until now. His lack of overt direction or advice left a space for me to make my own choices without fear of judgment.

The greenery around his grave has grown wild in my absence. "Nice greenery and wilding happening," I murmur, half to myself, half to him. It suits him, I think. He would have appreciated the unkempt beauty of it, the small rebellion of nature reclaiming its space. I can almost hear him say something about the resilience of life, or perhaps he would not say anything at all, just nod in quiet acknowledgment.

In a moment of impulse, I pull out my phone and play Intoxicated by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Michael Brook—a song that feels both haunting and comforting, a melody that captures something of his complexity.

"Played this for him," I text my friend, followed by "He liked it," as if he is just across the room, rather than beneath the earth. It is an indulgence, maybe, but it feels right, a way of bridging the silence between us with music, something we could both quietly enjoy without needing to say a word.

Did he intend to shape my life? With worsening dementia during much of the latter part of his life, I do not know, but his influence lingers in ways I did not see coming.

As the music fills the air, mingling with the birds and the hum of bees, I let myself sink into the moment. It is a meditation of sorts, a silent conversation, a prayer that holds both questions and acceptance.

I take one last look at the scene around me. Life has carried on without him, and so have I. But in some ways, nothing has changed.

As I walk away, I feel Abu still; woven into the wild greenery, into the air, into the quiet music. A steady hand I only now realize was guiding me all along.

Dedicated to WK

References

1.     He can’t say what it’s called because he’s already forgotten (Dad Part I) by Asad Mian

2.     Dear Yoda, would dad approve of my decision to sign his code status as DNR (Dad Part II) by Asad Mian

3.     Making my way through my father’s new home-the graveyard (Dad Part III) by Asad Mian

 

from Narrative Medicine