By: Syed Majid Gilani
It was the night before Father’s Day, in June 2025. While the world around me prepared to celebrate their fathers with flowers, hugs, cards, and joyful gatherings, I lay alone in my room, as I do every night, a father without his children, a heart without its beat. The world outside was silent, but within me stirred a storm of memories, prayers, and silent cries. I thought of my three precious children: my Arshad, my Sarah, and my Murshad.
They have been taken away from me, living beyond my reach. Yet every single moment of my life belongs to them. Not a day passes when I do not call their names in my prayers, long to hear their voices, feel their arms around me, and see their innocent faces light up with joy the way they once did. Every night, I close my eyes with their names trembling on my lips and beg Allah to keep them safe, to let me see them again. I know this forced separation is temporary, and so, with a heart torn but steadfast, I wait with patience.
Last night, as the world slipped into sleep, the prayer of a broken-hearted father reached the heavens. I drifted into a restless slumber, and what followed was no ordinary dream. It was life itself, returned to me for a few fleeting, precious moments. In the depth of the night, I felt the door of my room creak open. I turned, and there they were. My life. My soul. My everything. Arshad stood tall, a fine young boy now, yet the same familiar pain shimmered in his deep, gentle eyes, the same pain that quietly eats away at my heart. He came close, held my hand, and whispered, “Papa… I miss you every single day. Not a moment passes when I do not think of you. I remember how you woke me for Fajr prayers, how we walked together on frosty mornings, those cycling trips to Shalimar Garden, how you taught me to skip stones on Dal Lake, and how we laughed while eating golgappas, corncobs, and belpuri by the boulevard. I miss visiting your office, playing with your pens, and riding in your lap. I miss our Maghrib prayers at Hazratbal Shrine. Do you remember, Papa, how you would lift me up to kiss the sacred walls? I miss everything, Papa… I miss you.” “Those were the happiest days of my life, Papa. They still are.” I held his hand, trembling in that moment of warmth I had longed for so desperately.
Then came Sarah, my beautiful, gentle daughter. Her face, brighter than a full moon, was now shadowed by the sadness of our forced distance. She wiped her tears and sat beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. Her voice, soft and broken, reached my ears like a sacred prayer. “Papa… I miss your bedtime stories. I miss how you called me your princess, how you waited at the school gate. I miss the surprise gifts you brought in your pockets, those little pens, books, and chocolates. Do you remember, Papa, how you promised you would teach me to drive when I turned eighteen? I still hold on to those promises. I haven’t forgotten.” I kissed her head, feeling my heart burst with grief and gratitude all at once.
Then came my little Murshad. My innocent one. He ran into my arms, just like before, no words, no hesitation, only the pure, unshaken love of a child for his father. He buried his face in my chest, his tiny hands clinging to me as though afraid I might vanish again. “Papa,” he said, his voice thick with tears, “why are we living elsewhere? I miss sleeping next to you. I miss your bedtime stories about our beloved Prophet (PBUH) and his faithful companions (RA).”
I could no longer hold back my tears. In that dream, my heart shattered and healed at the same time. I pulled them all close, kissed their foreheads again and again, and told them how not a single moment passes without their names in my prayers, their faces in my heart, and their voices in my ears. I told them how I live only for them, how this world means nothing without them. I reminded them of everything I had taught them: to be truthful, to be kind, to trust Allah in every storm, to choose good friends, to never hurt a soul, to live with simplicity, and to always walk with dignity and faith. “Your Papa is always waiting for you,” I whispered, “and whether you are near or far, my prayers will find you.” Sarah clutched my hand and spoke through her tears. “Papa, we don’t want to live away from you. Every day we think of you. We know you are still fighting for us. Even though we are far, in our hearts we stand with you, Papa. We love you. And we remember everything.” We laughed. We cried. We spoke of everything, about the old days, the games we played, about how we would sit together during the evening power cuts making up stories. I told them how I still look at their pictures, their school awards, and their innocent faces in those old photographs. I told them I had kept their toys, their books, and their clothes, treasures of my heart.
But like every dream, this too began to fade. One by one, my children disappeared into the darkness, their voices lingering in the room, “We love you, Papa. We love you.” I woke up, my pillow soaked with tears. The room was still and silent, and the world outside was beginning to prepare for Father’s Day, a day meant for joy, love, and togetherness. But for me, it was another day of longing, another day of aching memories, and a love that refuses to die. I sat by my window, staring into the empty night sky, holding onto that dream like a precious gift from Allah, the only one this Father’s Day could bring me. I raised my trembling hands toward the horizon and whispered, “Ya Allah, keep my children safe. Protect their hearts. Bless them with good character. Grant them peace. And let them remember their Papa with love and turn to their roots.”
And to every father like me, those whose children have been forcibly kept away from their father’s warmth by hands that once promised to raise them together, I feel your pain. I know the emptiness of your rooms, the weight of old memories, and the sound of absent laughter. You remember their tiny fingers wrapping around yours, their innocent voices calling out ‘Papa’, their arms clinging to your neck. No words can ease the ache of a father’s heart that beats only for his absent children. But believe this: your love reaches them. The prayers you whisper into the night, the tears you silently wipe away, the words you send into the sky, they find their way.
Arshad, when your tiny hand first held my finger, my heart overflowed with joy. Sarah, your radiant smile and endless curiosity became the light of my soul. Murshad, your birth was a divine blessing, and your innocent laughter was my refuge. Though fate has pulled us apart for a while, my love for you remains unshaken. I cherish every memory, every smile, and every tear. I promise to keep fighting for you, loving you, and praying for you until my last breath. And on this Father’s Day, while others celebrate with gifts and gatherings, I hold tight to a dream, to a memory, and to a prayer. May Allah shower you with happiness, health, faith, and peace. And with every breath I take, I love you more.
(Syed Majid Gilani is a Government Officer by profession and a storyteller by heart. He writes about human emotions, family bonds, moral values, and heartfelt experiences drawn from the unseen threads of community life. He can be reached at [email protected])