Sitting at Nadir’s Table
We shared beginnings - different years, same places: Karachi Grammar School and Aga Khan University. A thin but sturdy thread in the doctor fraternity. We also shared the country club in Karachi, and in its gym is where we often crossed paths. Not to spot each other’s lifts but to swap maps of the world. Like the time I was heading to San Francisco for a conference and Nadir, between sets, gave me a street-by-street guide to the city, covering both work and after hours. He could have been moonlighting as a tour guide. That trip of mine went fantastically.
He was never my official career counselor, yet we had enough one-to-one sessions in the club’s garden to make it seem otherwise. He would talk about being at AKU, then moving away, shifting between academic medicine and private practice. When I spoke about my own trajectory in similar terms, he was always gracious in his mentoring. Later I realized he was like that with many others too. His funeral, with its sea of people carrying their own Nadir stories, made that abundantly clear.
He was one of the
first to try my workout-wellness experiment, and also one of the first to drop
out. Still, when I told him I wanted to launch it as a startup, he readily
agreed to write a testimonial so older patients with chronic illness wouldn’t
be put off. That was Nadir: encouraging, generous, always supportive of
relevant entrepreneurship.
He had a knack for making you belong. At the Winter Ball in
2023, he didn’t just invite me, he insisted. I joked about being his +1, and he
laughed. Then he made it clear I was to sit at his table, offering to pick and
drop me so I wouldn’t feel alone - or worse, chicken out. That was also Nadir:
part gracious host, part gentle trickster.
I was never his patient, but I distinctly remember one I
referred to him. A young colleague, panicked at the thought of multiple
sclerosis, her anxiety writing the ending before the story had begun.
She later told me, “Dr.
Nadir said whether you have this illness or not, that’s for us doctors to worry
about. You shouldn’t be worrying about it; just take it easy.”
He gave her a thorough review, managed her case, and she
checked out fine. She and her family were grateful - not just for the diagnosis
she thankfully didn’t have, but for the way he cared in the process and
afterwards.
Since his passing, people have come out of the woodwork. Memories everywhere, social media flooded - sometimes more speculation than condolences. What matters most now is quiet strength for the family he leaves behind. Meanwhile my phone buzzes with medical chatter: cardiologists urging calcium scans, others recommending statins whether you need them or not. Reflexes to the same jolt: someone young, buff, mythical, seemingly untouchable - gone in an instant.
Nadir’s sudden
passing resonates even more because he was not only a friend but one of
Pakistan’s leading neurologists, deeply trained and widely recognized. With so
few specialists of his experience in the country, his loss is felt across an
entire field, not just among those who knew him personally.
Last night I watched an episode of The Sandman where
Dream’s sister, Death, appears. It was about Death herself, not about dying -
and how we treat the two differently. Perhaps we can be more deferential to
Death, if we see the presence she manifests. She may also be a gift, as that
episode suggested.
I was reminded of the Latin phrase Memento Mori - remember you will die. It became an important lesson for me years ago, mostly from working in the ER, partly from a dive into Stoicism.
Death is inevitable. So is life.
I keep thinking of the small moments where he made me feel
seen, and I hope I did the same for him. When someone like Nadir leaves, it
strips away the illusion that the finish line is far away. You remember your
own mortality.
And then you remember that once upon a time, someone like
Nadir made sure you had a seat at the table. That’s what lingers.
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