This Father’s Day, I Mourn a Man Who Was an Era in Himself

Sheikh Sameer

In 2024, as I launched my website, I had just one memory to recount that truly captured the essence of what my father meant to me. A memory so vivid, so personal, that it became a part of the story I shared with the world. It was about the strength, wisdom, and love of a man who always stood like a mountain between me and the storms of life.

But as Father’s Day 2025 arrives, my heart is overwhelmed not with a single memory but with an entire world of recollections. A world that opened up after his departure. A world that I never knew existed until people began coming to me, not just to console me, but to tell me what my father meant to them. He left for his heavenly abode just a month before I could create more memories with him. His death wasn’t merely the passing of a man; it was the end of an era.

I used to think I knew everything about him—after all, he was my father. But only after his passing did I realize that the man I had known was just a part of a much greater soul. His friends, relatives, colleagues, and even strangers came forward, each narrating tales of kindness, bravery, honesty, and compassion that left me speechless.

My mother, heartbroken yet strong, often tells me how he carried the burden of our family after the death of my grandfather. She reminds me how deeply he mourned that loss but still stood up like a pillar for everyone else. “He never thought about himself first,” she says, “Always about others, about society.”

It felt like he possessed a sense beyond the normal—he could predict things, warn us about troubles ahead. His foresight, his instincts, his uncanny awareness of people and situations often made us wonder if he had some supernatural power.

One of the values he taught us was honesty. I remember vividly how he used to scold us whenever we used electric cooking heaters before our area got electric meters installed. He would say, “We’re consuming more than we’re paying for. It’s not right.” He was never the one to tolerate dishonesty, even if it came at a personal cost.

His acts of compassion still echo in the hearts of those he helped. A lady narrated how once in a forest, she got injured by an axe. My father rushed to her, tore off his brand-new shirt to bandage her wound, carried his firewood on his shoulders with just his vest on, and ensured she got home safely.

His friend Mir Sahib from Tral said something that I will never forget: “There are men, and there are MEN. Sheikh Sahib was the kind that doesn’t come often. One for all, all for one.” Mir Sahib recounted how my father saved him from bankruptcy by identifying fraudulent entries in his accounts, putting on his coat, and going with him to confront the cheater.

Another colleague from Khansahib, Budgam, spoke of the time my father returned from his posting in Delhi and Chandigarh to an office in Srinagar in complete disarray. The staff hadn’t been paid in three months. He didn’t sit on his chair for the first 15 days. Instead, he traveled to Shopian, Baramulla, Pulwama, and Anantnag to reconnect with suppliers and restore faith in the system. By the second month, he ensured two months of salaries were cleared. The office was reborn under his leadership.

Even after his retirement, he continued to help those in need. He would hire elderly laborers and carpenters no one else would employ, simply because he believed they too deserved dignity and livelihood.

For me, he was not just my father. He was my savior, my mentor, my guiding star.

I remember an incident that still brings tears to my eyes. A man began quarreling with me in the market over a scratch on his car caused unintentionally by my handcart. I was already in distress when my father, tired and sweating, rushed to defend me. He stood like a shield, sick yet fierce, telling the man, “Who are you going to kill? He is my son.” I was 33, but in that moment, I was just his child.

His illness never truly made him weak. Even after a heart attack in 2021, he never let himself become bedridden. He was conscious, responsive, and always mentally alert. He only spoke when necessary, but earlier this year in February, it felt like he had been reborn. He was talkative again, full of stories and recollections—of revenue records, of politics, wars, and village tales. He was alive in every sense.

He once saved me from radicalism by taking me to Jammu when I was just in Class 6 in 2000. He sowed in me the seeds of patriotism. He knew the power of love for the nation and ensured I grew up with that.

Even in his final days, he was concerned not about himself, but about others. On May 8th, when missiles hit Jammu, he grew restless. My younger brother was there, and the fear of harm kept him awake all night. On May 9th, though visibly tired, he pushed through. On May 10th, when my brother returned safely, my father seemed relieved. He got a haircut, bathed, dressed neatly, and even let me trim his nails.

He asked me to stock up on essentials—fuel, medicines, cooking items—sensing the tension after the Pahalgam attack and Operation Sindoor. On May 11th, we had lunch together. Though slightly exhausted, he was peaceful. He even told stories that evening.

That night, everything seemed normal. But the next morning, he showed signs of discomfort. My mother hadn’t called us because he assured her it wasn’t serious. Around dawn, he got up, went to the bathroom, and returned. As he stepped back into his room, he suddenly collapsed. My sister-in-law held him as we rushed to the hospital. But it was too late. He was declared dead. Just like that.

It wasn’t just a loss. It was the fall of a pillar, the shattering of a lighthouse, the silence of a song that once echoed in every corner of our home and hearts.

This Father’s Day, I don’t just miss my father. I miss a whole era of wisdom, compassion, and courage. He lives on—not in flesh, but in the stories, in the people he helped, in the principles he instilled, and in every heartbeat of mine.

This Father’s Day, I do not celebrate. I bow. I remember. I honor.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

You were, are, and will always remain my hero. You are not gone. You are just elsewhere—watching over me, still scolding me silently for using too much electricity, still pushing me to be honest, to be kind, and to be strong.