Abbu

For most little girls, fathers are larger than life.

Mine truly was.

Growing up, I idolized my Abbu. He seemed to occupy more space than everyone else in the room. Not because he was big, but because his personality certainly was.

He arrived with energy. With stories. With mischief. With laughter. If Abbu had a spirit animal it would be the Cat in the Hat from Dr. Seuss. There was never a dull moment. Life simply became more interesting when Abbu was around.

As the oldest child, I was his favorite. At least I was convinced I was. Whether that was actually true or not hardly matters now. What mattered was that he made me feel that way. He had an extraordinary gift for making people feel seen. And entertained. He was so witty, and with a quick joke, would turn an ordinary encounter into a memorable one. He loved an audience, whether it was one person or one thousand. Abbu was one of the most charismatic people I have ever known. 

People who met him rarely forgot him.

Years after his death, I still encounter people whose faces light up when they hear his name. Almost everyone has a story. A joke he told. A kindness he showed. A conversation that stayed with them for decades.

He had that kind of presence.

He also loved to sing. Anywhere. Anytime. Sunday brunch culminated in a family sing-song with his briefcase transforming into a drum. Abbu always had a song that fit the moment. Or maybe each song is forever paired in my mind with a moment of memory. When I hear certain melodies, my heart, my head, my whole being turns to him.

This natural exuberance belied how painfully he started his life. Abbu arrived in the world on the same day his young mother departed, leaving seven children behind, aged zero to thirteen. It was 1935. It was the same year as the great Quetta earthquake that claimed 50,000 lives. In those days, years of birth were generally forgotten but Abbu’s is tragically etched in the collective family memory. To a baby whose life had such an inauspicious beginning, Allah was graciously merciful, blessing Abbu with a joyful spirit and an exuberant heart.

Confidence came naturally to Abbu. Not arrogance. Confidence.

He walked into unfamiliar places as though they were simply places he hadn't explored yet. And exploring was one of his favorite things. Long before air travel was easy, Abbu was curious about the world beyond his own borders. At nineteen, he became the first among his siblings to leave his country.

A fearless adventurer, he wanted to see what was over the next hill, across the next ocean, around the next corner. And that's the spirit he brought to our childhood. Whether it was exploring the zoo on the back of a ramshackle rental bicycle, to pointing out the names of stars in a pitch black night, life was full of discoveries. From the craggy peaks of Yemen to the emerald jungles of the Congo and the torrent of Niagara Falls, Abbu showed us that the world was vast, fascinating, and worth exploring.

Abbu also excelled at bridge. Not everyday bridge. Bermuda Bowl level. As in actually being the captain of his national team. Chess was another love. Table tennis looked effortless in his hands. As a child, I assumed this was all normal. Abbu never boasted. Only later did I realize how unusual he really was.

Despite holding senior positions throughout his career, Abbu never seemed particularly impressed by titles. He cared far more about people than status.

One story became family legend.

When he was leaving a position in rural Pakistan, his hundreds of workers organized a farewell celebration for their boss unlike anything ever heard of. They decorated a camel cart, seated him on it, and paraded him through town. As a child, I thought it sounded amusing. As an adult, I understand what an extraordinary tribute it was. Long before conversations about social justice became commonplace, Abbu was writing poetry about the oppressed and forgotten, and those whose voices were rarely heard.

How Abbu managed to feel so deeply while never taking life too seriously, I don't know. There was a fearlessness and joyfulness about him that never seemed to disappear. Even when he was old.

Like when he walked in, unsuspecting, straight from a bridge match into an armed robbery happening at his own home.

Did he run?

Did he surrender?

No.

At age 70, Abbu decided to engage the robbers in hand-to-hand combat (while screaming at the top of his lungs). The robbers were so rattled they ran for their lives, leaving all their loot behind!

Or once when he was 85, in an ambulance on the way to the hospital during a medical emergency, he thought he would lighten the mood by engaging the young EMT in a conversation about his love life and inquired if he had a girlfriend.

When we are children, our parents seem simple. Heroes or villains. Good or bad. Yet as I have grown older, I have also come to understand that people are rarely just one thing.

As an adult, I've begin to see my parents more clearly. More honestly.

My father was extraordinary in so many ways.

But he was not perfect.

One of the hardest realizations that comes with maturity is recognizing the parts of our parents' lives that we could not see as children. As I've gotten older, I have much more compassion for my mother, and my heart aches when I think about some of the challenges she carried within their marriage.

My father was not always kind to her.

That truth doesn't erase the love I feel for him. Nor does it diminish the wonderful memories. But it has added complexity. And perhaps wisdom.

Because life is complicated. People are complicated. The people we love most are often capable of both great beauty and great disappointment.

The older I get, the more I realize that maturity is not about choosing one version of someone over another.

It's about holding both truths at the same time.

My father was brilliant.

And flawed.

Generous.

And sometimes selfish.

Loving.

And sometimes hurtful.

Adventurous.

And sometimes unaware of the impact he had on those closest to him.

Both things can be true.

Perhaps all human beings are like that.

What I know for certain is that he left an enormous imprint on my life. And I owe him a debt I can never repay. His curiosity shaped mine. His confidence taught me to take risks. His willingness to step into the unknown taught me that the world is bigger than our fears. And above all, he taught me to live joyfully.

One of the things that still amazes me is how fittingly he left this world.

Abbu died in his sleep. Peacefully.

And those who were with him, said that he was singing, before he fell asleep.

Of course he was.

I can't imagine a more fitting end for someone who moved through life with a melody in his heart.

When I think of him now, I don't picture the traveler, the intellectual, or even the father.

I hear the music.

I hear the laughter.

I remember the pillow fights.

The adventures.

And I remember how much I love him.

Happy Father's Day, Abbu.

The song goes on.