Abba ji (rahimahullah)
Abbaji, my paternal grandfather, Hakeem Muhammad Idrees Khan, passed away on 24 Ziqa’ad, 1432 AH (October 23, 2011). He was 88 years old - the last grandparent I had. He studied at the famous Tibyya College, Delhi, and remained a practicing Hakeem throughout his life. Allah had blessed him with so much shifa in his medicine that people used to come from far away places to get themselves treated. He lived an extremely humble life in a small town, Kaloor Kot, situated at approximately 4-5 hours drive from Multan. He was a disciple of his father-in-law, who we all lovingly remember as nanaji – another pious friend of God, Hafiz Abdul Ghafoor rahimahullah, who was given the khilafat by Hazrat Shah Abdul Raheem Raipuri, Hazrat Shah Abdul Qadir Raipuri, and Hazrat Munshi Rahmat Ali Jaalandhari (May Allah have mercy on all of them). Towards the end of Abbaji’s life, we often used to ask him if he was also given the khilafat by his Shaykh (nanaji) and he always evaded the question…
It won’t, however, be incorrect if I say that he was the most pious of all the family members. He was an ardent reader and valued books in an age when book-lovers are constantly decreasing in number. He was an immaculate time-manager, emulating his akaabir in his daily routine. He was someone who associated with Allah in each an every matter of his life. He experienced many difficulties in life and yet remained a satisfied man. He never wished to leave the small town he inhabited, and I am glad that his final resting place is where he always wished it to be – near his Shaykh.
Abbaji’s mother passed away when he was hardly four or five-years-old. He often recalled the incident – the faint memory of which never left his mind – when his mother was on her deathbed and he silently stood by her side. His mumaani asked his mother as to who she wished to entrust her kids to at that time of parting, and his mother, pointing her finger towards the sky, answered, “Allah.” Abbaji used to say that it was in the later part of his life that he realised the (spiritual and worldly) effects his mother’s decision to entrust him to Allah had on him.
Allah had increased him in his rizq, specially in his old age. He was a completely independent man till his last breath. Although he loved all his sons dearly, Allah never made him ask them for a single penny. His wife, our daadi (who was known as aapa by all), passed away in 2008. After her death, he was struck with paralysis. It was then that we brought him here with us in Karachi (alhamdulillah, he recovered a great deal after the regular physiotherapy sessions he had). He lived with us for four months, and it was then that I got to know him inside out – or probably none of us was ever able know him inside out! It was only after his death that the hidden aspects of his personality started coming to fore. His generosity, his akhlaaq, his taqwa, etc.
For me, he was a source of immense knowledge – the anecdotes he narrated about the Pakistan Movement; the incidents he related from the akaabir’s lives, many of which included his own encounters with them; the asha’ar he recited in both Farsi and Urdu; his idea of success in life, which always remained subservient to the idea of success in the hereafter; the forbearance he displayed in harsh times of life; his tawakkul ilal ALlah; his ability to divorce himself from unnecessary and unfruitful tasks and activities; his love for his spiritual elders; and his ikhfa – his habit and ability to hide his piety from those around him. We always knew that he was a pious man. We never knew he was a Wali too.
Last Sunday afternoon (October 23, 2011), he was in his makeshift matab (after his paralysis and the subsequent recovery, he used to attend to patients in a small room of his house only), attending to a patient. He penned down the prescription and sent the slip to the man who used to prepare medicine in the old matab situated in bazaar. A young boy, Mujeeb, who is a distant relative, and who used to stay with Abbaji all the time, had gone outside the room to fetch the wheel-chair so he could take Abbaji to the washroom. When he returned and started to help Abbaji on to the wheel chair, he felt Abbaji’s weight shifting backwards. Abbaji’s countenance, however, showed no sign of pain. Mujeeb shouted out to Ali (a fifteen year old cousin), and our chachi immediately went running towards the room in which Abbaji was present. They all started calling out to him but he did not reply. After a few moments, he gave a small gasp and his soul united with Allah Subhaanahu wa ta’aala.
May Allah fill his grave with immense Noor and shower His mercy upon him. Usually on Eids, when we all got together, he used to ask us – the children – to pray that may Allah gather us in the same way in Jannah in the Hereafter.
Abbaji is an addition in the list of the beloveds with whom I wish to be united in Jannah. in sha Allah!
It won’t, however, be incorrect if I say that he was the most pious of all the family members. He was an ardent reader and valued books in an age when book-lovers are constantly decreasing in number. He was an immaculate time-manager, emulating his akaabir in his daily routine. He was someone who associated with Allah in each an every matter of his life. He experienced many difficulties in life and yet remained a satisfied man. He never wished to leave the small town he inhabited, and I am glad that his final resting place is where he always wished it to be – near his Shaykh.
Abbaji’s mother passed away when he was hardly four or five-years-old. He often recalled the incident – the faint memory of which never left his mind – when his mother was on her deathbed and he silently stood by her side. His mumaani asked his mother as to who she wished to entrust her kids to at that time of parting, and his mother, pointing her finger towards the sky, answered, “Allah.” Abbaji used to say that it was in the later part of his life that he realised the (spiritual and worldly) effects his mother’s decision to entrust him to Allah had on him.
Allah had increased him in his rizq, specially in his old age. He was a completely independent man till his last breath. Although he loved all his sons dearly, Allah never made him ask them for a single penny. His wife, our daadi (who was known as aapa by all), passed away in 2008. After her death, he was struck with paralysis. It was then that we brought him here with us in Karachi (alhamdulillah, he recovered a great deal after the regular physiotherapy sessions he had). He lived with us for four months, and it was then that I got to know him inside out – or probably none of us was ever able know him inside out! It was only after his death that the hidden aspects of his personality started coming to fore. His generosity, his akhlaaq, his taqwa, etc.
For me, he was a source of immense knowledge – the anecdotes he narrated about the Pakistan Movement; the incidents he related from the akaabir’s lives, many of which included his own encounters with them; the asha’ar he recited in both Farsi and Urdu; his idea of success in life, which always remained subservient to the idea of success in the hereafter; the forbearance he displayed in harsh times of life; his tawakkul ilal ALlah; his ability to divorce himself from unnecessary and unfruitful tasks and activities; his love for his spiritual elders; and his ikhfa – his habit and ability to hide his piety from those around him. We always knew that he was a pious man. We never knew he was a Wali too.
Last Sunday afternoon (October 23, 2011), he was in his makeshift matab (after his paralysis and the subsequent recovery, he used to attend to patients in a small room of his house only), attending to a patient. He penned down the prescription and sent the slip to the man who used to prepare medicine in the old matab situated in bazaar. A young boy, Mujeeb, who is a distant relative, and who used to stay with Abbaji all the time, had gone outside the room to fetch the wheel-chair so he could take Abbaji to the washroom. When he returned and started to help Abbaji on to the wheel chair, he felt Abbaji’s weight shifting backwards. Abbaji’s countenance, however, showed no sign of pain. Mujeeb shouted out to Ali (a fifteen year old cousin), and our chachi immediately went running towards the room in which Abbaji was present. They all started calling out to him but he did not reply. After a few moments, he gave a small gasp and his soul united with Allah Subhaanahu wa ta’aala.
ستارے نے کہا گرنے سے پہلے
زمیں پر اب کوئی مجھ سا نہیں ہے
May Allah fill his grave with immense Noor and shower His mercy upon him. Usually on Eids, when we all got together, he used to ask us – the children – to pray that may Allah gather us in the same way in Jannah in the Hereafter.
Abbaji is an addition in the list of the beloveds with whom I wish to be united in Jannah. in sha Allah!
The room, which I have referred to as his 'makeshift matab' above.
Abbaji's pillow and the stack of Islamic books and magazines which he always kept by his side
The minaret of the Faisal Masjid in Kaloor Kot, commonly referred to as 'bazaar wali masjid'. Occasionally Abbaji used to call out the adhaan from here.
A view of Abbaji's cupboard
نایاب ہے یہ گردش سیّارگاں کی راکھ
کچھ سر پہ ڈال کچھ کف و دامن میں لے کے چل
P.S. The first couplet in this post is by Shahnawaz Farooqi, and the next by Ahmad Navaid
Comments
I dont know who is the writer but whoever it is, it is from a rarest of rare breed that we are looking for these days. Well bred and well read and well connected !
He has the correct understanding of Islam ,clear image of Tasawwuf + connected to the choicest of God-Fearing people around. Zahe Naseeb !
May Allaah swt shower HIS blessings upon the Marhoom Hakeem Sahib......Aise logon ko hum dhoondha kiye..........
We sooraten ilaahi kis des bastiyaan hain
Ab jinke dekhne ko ankhen tarastiyan hain !
This is Khalid Bin Umar form New Delhi.
Was'salaam
Khalid
Jazaakumullahu khaira!
Khalid Bin Umar:
Jazakumullah for all the kind words, brother, and praying for my grandfather. All praise belongs to Allah Who blesses even the worthless.