It’s hard to fathom that he’s gone and never coming back. I grew up in Karachi, Pakistan, until I was sixteen. While most moments from those years were filled with joy and wonder, some were marked by fear. But what is fear, really? I often ponder this question. For me, fear and anxiety are rooted in the ultimate loss—losing someone you love or something you hold dear.

When I turned eight, my mother was bedridden after giving birth just a few days earlier. She wasn’t well enough to celebrate my birthday. It was one of the few days besides Eid ul Fitr that I eagerly anticipated because it meant cake, laughter, and time with friends and family. But that day, as dusk approached, the house felt unusually sombre and dark. There were no birthday wishes, and no favourite meals were being prepared. I felt utterly alone.

My father, who always returned home from work at 5:30 p.m., wasn’t back yet. It was a chilly winter evening, and as the Azaan echoed from the mosque, an inexplicable dread began to settle in my heart. Civil unrest was a constant backdrop in Karachi, and fear of violence or tragedy in some parts of the city was ever-present. I prayed desperately, Please, God, bring my father home safely. I don’t care about my birthday. I just want him back.

He finally arrived after what felt like an eternity—maybe thirty minutes or so. I ran to him and hugged him tightly. He smiled, prayed Maghrib, and then quietly slipped into the kitchen. I had no idea what he was up to until later when he emerged with a cake made from semolina. He hadn’t had time to get cream or decorations, but it was perfect. We shared dinner and then a simple cake. It was a memorable birthday, one I would cherish forever.

My father had a way of making every occasion memorable. He celebrated every achievement, every birthday, and every moment that brought people together. He often said, “Hum khush toh ho sakte hain lekin khushi mana nahi sakte logon ke baghair” (We can be happy on our own, but celebrations need people). He was right. Without him, celebrations will now feel incomplete.

Even as he aged, he would sit quietly, watching us with a gentle smile, his presence alone filling the space with warmth. Though his hearing began to fade, and he couldn’t sit for long, his memory remained sharp. He didn’t suffer from dementia or Alzheimer’s; his mind was as intact as his generous spirit. He was, and always will be, an extraordinary person.