By Muzamil Farooq
I took a break from my academic work with the hope of clearing my mind, maybe even sorting the path I had been walking for the last few years.
Each time I opened my notebook, the same presence returned.
My father entered the room without sound, the way memories do.
I would sit with a cup of tea on the table, books spread around me, and still all I could think of was him, the greatest teacher I ever had.
Months passed before I found the courage to write about him. Grief sits in the throat for a long time.
I used to think I would speak to him someday, tell him what his presence meant to me. I never did.
We had the kind of bond where words were few, where respect shaped every silence. Even now, when I write “Abu,” I feel the same mix of warmth and restraint that I felt in front of him.
Abu, I wish I could tell you everything. You always smiled at small efforts, the way one smiles at a child’s first drawing. I know these pages would have made you smile too.
Through all the degrees I earned, through each exam I passed, the praise that touched me most came from people who said they woke up to your Azaan each morning.
Kashmir mornings have a distinct chill, and your voice traveled through it with a calm strength that belonged to you alone. People remembered the humility behind that call more than the notes of the voice.
I grew up as the son of a Muazzin, and that identity has stayed more intact in me than any academic title.
You taught me how temporary this world is. You shaped the way I look at life even now, as I live in Norway where everything runs smoothly, where systems function with such precision that people claim they have reached the peak of human comfort.
I walk through these clean streets with your lens still fixed to my eyes. Comfort loses its glow when it is not connected to purpose. You gave me that understanding.
Every conversation with you began with a Hadith or a verse. You spoke like someone who carried a library inside the heart. I tried hard to remember the way you phrased certain words, the way you paused before quoting something sacred.
I still try to carry that habit forward. In my own small way, I hope to sound grounded in knowledge the way you did.
You moved through the world with humility. Your steps were steady, gaze low, and mind somewhere in remembrance. Illness followed you for almost thirty years, still you lived with a trust that I cannot describe fully.
I remember the long line of doctors, the herbal healers, the home remedies. You turned to all of them, though your real reliance rested on Allah.
Whenever people asked how you managed the pain, you spoke of Prophet Ayyub [A.S]. I have never seen Ayyub, but watching you helped me understand what his patience might have looked like.
Some days I feel I could write about you forever. You appear in my prayers, in small daily habits, and even in my doubts. Your teachings stitched themselves into my life without effort.
A weight remains though. You left this world without giving me a chance to serve you in those final hours. I was far away, and distance has a way of turning regret into a constant companion.
I wanted to care for you the way you cared for me. I wanted to hold your hand even once when your strength was failing. Life did not grant that moment.
When I visited Harvard, a dream I carried for years, I felt a strange stillness inside me. Achievements feel different when the person who shaped you is no longer there to witness them.
A carpenter who never entered a university made it possible for his son to stand under the lights of some of the world’s oldest institutions.
I think of that contrast often. Your sacrifices worked like unseen bridges under my feet.
I believe Allah’s plans have a wisdom I cannot grasp from here. I pray you are in a place of ease, free from all burdens.
Your prayers still walk ahead of me, I feel it in the way life opens and closes with purpose.
To anyone whose parents are alive, I say this with sincerity: take care of them. Hold them a little longer. Tell them what they mean to you. Life keeps moving, and we keep assuming there will be time for these things. Time has a way of surprising us.
Abu, I carry you with me in every step, in every choice, and in every thought that leans toward goodness. You remain my greatest teacher.
- The author is a Marie Skłodowska-Curie PhD Research Fellow at the Centre for Innovation Research, UiS School of Business and Law, University of Stavanger.
