“If only I had not broken my father’s heart that day…”
Mian Ghaffar Ahmad
At 12:05 last night, my son, son-in-law, and both daughters sent me Father’s Day messages. That is when I realized it was Father’s Day. May Allah’s mercy be upon my late father. My mother and siblings lived in Lahore, but I spent most of my life with my father wherever he was posted during his government service. I lived with him in Sahiwal, Mianwali, Multan, and Sargodha.
Last month, while traveling to Islamabad, I asked my driver to take the route via Bhakkar بکھر, Mianwali, and Talagang. The real purpose was not the journey itself, but to revisit memories—and to see the house in Mianwali where I had once lived with my father.
That house also once hosted Mahmood Aslam Lillah, who at that time was the Social Welfare Officer in Mianwali and later retired as a Member of the Income Tax Department.
It was in that very house that I shaved for the first time in my life. Proudly, I told my father that I had shaved earlier I used to have my beard cleaned only with a machine. My father was an only child, without siblings, so he never treated us merely as children. He treated us as companions, almost as friends, and celebrated even our smallest joys with deep affection. He was delighted at my simple announcement. The next day he had an official meeting in Sargodha. When he returned, he brought a gift for me a famous “Old Spice” shaving set, beautifully packed with a ribbon, containing a safety razor, brush, perfume, and other accessories. He untied the ribbon himself and placed the gift in my hands. I have always been a simple person, distant from luxury and formality. The set was expensive, so I said: “Father, keep this with you. You travel for meetings and meet people. You will need it more. A simple razor is enough for me.” He immediately became upset. “Keep it, Goshay گوشے” he said, using my childhood nickname. “I brought it with love for you.”
But I insisted again that he should keep it. His voice rose: “You have hurt my heart, Goshay.”گوشے He placed the set on a shelf and went to his room after Asr عصر, covering himself with a blanket. I also went to my room. Moments later, something happened that still cannot be explained. There was no storm, no earthquake, no movement at all. Only the two of us were in the house. Suddenly, a loud crashing sound echoed through the home. A fragrance spread instantly through the air. We both rushed out. Everything on the shelf was exactly in place except the Old Spice shaving set. It lay shattered on the floor in hundreds of pieces, and its fragrance had filled the entire house. We stood frozen. No one had entered. Nothing had fallen. My father looked at me quietly and said: “You broke my heart, and see what I brought with love has broken.” Tears filled my eyes. He turned away, pulled the blanket over himself again, and went back to sleep.
Forty-two years have passed, but that moment still lives with me like a wound that never heals.
After that incident, I never rejected anything my father said. I always agreed with him. Except once. When my wife passed away, my children were still very young. My father would often say: “My mother died when I was only four years old. I still miss her. I don’t want you and your children to suffer the same hardships I went through. You should remarry.”
I did not agree. At that time, I felt justified. But today, with age, I realize how far-sighted his thinking was compared to my fears and assumptions. Forty years ago, I had planted nearly three dozen sheesham and jamun trees around our Mianwali home. Last month, when I returned, I found only ruins. The garden was gone. The jamun trees had been cut down. Not a single sheesham tree remained. The boundary wall had collapsed. The road was broken. The raised veranda where I once stood, with flower pots at its corners, was gone too. Even the green lawn had turned into stagnant sewage water.
An officer still lived there but I felt no desire to meet him. The sight of that place had already broken something inside me. I stood there silently for a long time, while my driver recorded videos of the memories. As I walked outside, I suddenly felt as if my father was walking beside me again, cigarette in hand, just as he used to forty years ago. We would walk slowly together, talking about life, people, and the world. He was not there anymore but his voice, his presence, and his memories were still alive within me. While the video was being recorded, I kissed the wall of that house without thinking. Then I left with tears in my eyes. My father was a man who constantly recited Durood-e-Ibrahimi. After his passing, he once appeared in a dream to my doctor sister, who also recites it regularly.
He advised her: “My daughter, recite Durood-e-Ibrahimi at least seventy times daily. It carries great blessings.” The Punjab Assembly hostel and the Children’s Library on Lawrence Road, Lahore were projects completed under his supervision. He was a man of hard work and discipline—perhaps that same spirit came down to me.
Father’s Day brings back countless memories, but I will end with just one more.
Before my marriage, my father took me to Shadman Market in Lahore to buy a suit. He selected a fabric worth 12,500 rupees—an enormous amount at that time. I chose one worth only 2,500.
He rejected my choice and explained: “That fabric will not fall properly when stitched. The crease will not stay sharp over your shoes; it will look uneven.” He understood tailoring and style far better than I did. Still, I insisted on the cheaper one—and saved him ten thousand rupees. The shopkeeper remarked that in his entire business life, he had never seen a son argue for a cheaper suit against his father’s choice. After forty-two years of smoking, my father’s health declined. One day he told me calmly: “I only have about a year and a half left.” He looked healthy at the time, still walking, still active, still praying on his feet even in old age. But his words proved true. A year and a half later, he returned to his Creator. I still meet him not in this world, but in dreams, or at Miani Sahib میانی صاحب graveyard. When I recite Surah Yaseen at his grave, I often see him in my dreams within a few days. He always appears in a white shalwar kameez, silent, peaceful, with a calm and content face.
May Allah grant him the highest place in Paradise. Ameen.
