Witnessing his incredible life over the years, I sometimes felt inspired to just write a post about Nana. I didn’t know I’d be writing one so soon.
I have always associated old age with weakness and dependency on others. Nana, however, was an 87-year-old who took care of us and of so many others around him (he would argue he was technically 88, having already completed 87 years of life). No long illnesses, no asking others for favours, no out-of-the-way compromises from anyone: dependancy was just not his thing. Always socializing, celebrating life and making sure he is always there for everyone who needed him. Even in his passing, he made sure he didn’t bother anyone.
He was pretty dramatic though. His language was 55% hyperbole, and 45% regular sentences. Every mild sickness later, he would announce his time had come. Each time Nani got hospitalized and recovered, he would dramatically claim that Allah will call him before Nani because he can’t live without her. I guess Allah Mian knew how strongly you felt about that, Nana.
He would amplify trifold every accomplishment, big or small, of his grandchildren, students and teachers, to the point where he would embarrass the persons being appreciated. He would announce to random strangers how proud he was of us. When I went to the dentist’s with him last month, he told everyone from the receptionist to the dentist about my scholarship program with such zeal that I ended up having to write the name and details of the scholarship for the clinic staff before leaving.
Until the day before he passed away, he lived life to its fullest. Being a traveler throughout his life, he had given up traveling these last several years because it was no longer possible for Nani to travel and he always wanted to be by her side. When I called his home this Friday, I was taken by surprise to learn that Nana had gone off for a one-day trip to Gawadar with friends. I found it so cute – Nana reliving his bachelor days again. He left soon after, living his last days as the happy and hearty man he was.
To me, Nana was my father. Thank you Nana, for encouraging me to fly higher in a way no other person can. I don’t know who I would be dying to call the minute I hear good news again. I don’t know who would possibly be more excited for me than I can be for myself. What I do know is that I aspire to have a life as ambitious, impactful, organized, healthy, active, joyful and full of love as yours, and a death as peaceful as yours.
Nana always told us he divided all his finances into four parts: one for each of his three children and the fourth for Allah. He was constantly aware that he was here temporarily, and he was always ready to go.
Nana and nani never cared for upgrading to a bigger house, a better car, newer furniture. Nana didn’t even have a cell phone for the longest time until we forcefully got him one. My cousins and I would joke about how nana nani managed to even keep their cutlery consistent across three generations. How our children will drink tea in the same cups our parents drank in as children. But there were some things Nana would always lavishly spend on: fruits for his household and presents for others.
Two weeks ago, when I hugged him a long, final goodbye before leaving for the airport, I told him his going-away present for me was a bit extravagant and he didn’t have to. He just put his hand on my shoulder and said “bus ap ko Khadija Kazi Ali ka khayal rakhna hai” (you just have to take care of Khadija Kazi Ali School). He would constantly say that, especially over the last couple of years of his life. His constant source of both solace and worry was Khadija Kazi Ali Memorial High School (a school which provides free and low-cost education to children who otherwise can’t afford it), and how it would fare after he had left.
I couldn’t in three lifetimes achieve what you achieved in one, Nana. But I want to channel my grief into at least making sure your desire of carrying forth the legacy of your mother, Khadija Kazi Ali, continues on.