A NEW YEAR’S BURDEN: GRIEVING THE LOSS OF MOAZZAM BHAI AMIDST WITHERING LEAVES

A PAGE OF MY DIARY

January 13-14, 2008 

MAHTAB BASHIR
03335363248
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
ISLAMABAD

“HAPPY NEW YEAR” — is a phrase that has become a burden for me over the years. As January draws near, a heavy sadness settles in my heart, and the sight of withering leaves only deepens my sorrow. It was in this very season that the leaf of Moazzam Bhai’s life fell.

Since Friday, Moazzam Bhai’s health has been on a steep decline. He has been sedated for days, and when we sought the doctors' counsel, they offered a bittersweet message: “Pray for the quality of your loved one’s life; it may extend his time... but keep praying.”

His respiratory struggles weighed heavily on us. My cousins, Nomi and Saqib, and I transformed the room into a makeshift “single room clinic,” surrounding him with all the medical equipment we could muster, hoping to keep him close.

That night, dark thoughts crept in, whispering fears of losing him. To shield my tears from little Maryam, Zainab, and Guria, I slipped out of the house, wandering the streets and seeking solace in a nearby park. All the while, I poured my heart out in prayer, yearning for a miracle.

Saturday night was particularly harrowing. As Nomi and I walked together, we shared a painful truth: “There’s no greater joy we could hope for than to return home and find Moazzam Bhai standing tall, greeting us with his familiar smile and playful banter, teasing us about our mismatched outfits and scuffed shoes.” But that joy never came.

درد میں بھی یہ لب مسکرا جاتے ہیں 

  بیتے لمحے ہمیں جب بھی یا د آتے ہیں 

As the shadows of uncertainty loomed over us with Moazzam Bhai's health spiraling downward, Nomi and I felt a profound urgency to reach out to Ammi Abbu in Islamabad. We needed to bring Bhabhi’s family into our circle, for we instinctively knew that this was a moment woven with fate.

Muhammad Moazzam Bashir, 47, a commoner of 15th and 17th CTP, served with distinction as an additional commissioner of income tax. He was a humble, generous soul, brimming with kindness and an appreciation for life. He was an officer of Income Tax Group (now Inland Revenue). He also served as Deputy Secretary in the Ministry of Commerce. In recent years, during a visit to the Foreign Office from the National Defence University (NDU) for the National Media Workshop (NMW), I inquired of Raza Bashir Tarar, who was briefing the participants, about my late brother, who was his batchmate. I asked, “What do you think would have become of him had he lived?” Without hesitation, he replied, “First, I want to offer a prayer for Moazzam’s soul. He was truly one of the most competent officers at the FBR. It's tragic that he left us too soon. Without a doubt, had he been alive, he would have ascended to the role of Chairman of the FBR or an equally significant position.”

I still remember the determination that surged through Moazzam Bhai after his first surgery in December 2006. He emerged from that experience not just as a survivor but as a beacon of vibrancy, immersing himself wholeheartedly in the fabric of life. One fateful day, amidst his duties at the FBR in Islamabad, he turned to me at dusk and said, “Yar, tomorrow you have to come with me to Gujranwala. The kids need some time with you.” I hesitated, citing my obligations at the office, but he waved my excuses away with infectious enthusiasm, insisting, “Chadd yar, just call and let them know. I have some personal matters to attend to. Now, set the alarm for 6 AM!” And so, I complied, propelled by his spirited resolve.

As the sun began to rise, we started our journey around 8:30 AM, a bittersweet adventure laden with unspoken emotions. This travel with Moazzam Bhai felt different—his spirit seemed shrouded in mystery, and I sensed the weight of his health struggles, as well as the heavy burden of his family's future, pressing on his mind. Typically so expressive and vibrant, today he was wrapped in a quiet introspection.

As we drove, he handed me his cellphone, signaling me to place it on the dashboard. Strangely, he resisted answering any calls. Yet, every twenty minutes, as if compelled by an invisible thread, he pointed towards the dashboard, silently asking for the phone. Each time, he unlocked it, gazing at the screen that revealed his youngest daughter Maryam’s radiant smile, only to pass it back to me with glistening tears pooling in his eyes. This ritual repeated throughout our three to three-and-a-half-hour journey, a poignant reflection of his love and longing.

With the car’s interior infused with the soulful strains of Abrar-ul-Haq’s album, the only cassette we possessed, we surrendered ourselves to the haunting melody of “Nara Sada Ishq Aay.” Every few minutes, he gestured for me to rewind the song, and though I was lost in my own swirling thoughts, I couldn't help but feel the profound weight of the Sufiana verses. The lyrics carried a timeless truth—reminding us of our mortality and the inevitability of death, urging us to rise above the fleeting distractions of this world.

As I listened to the lament of “Chal Melay Nu Chaliaay,” my heart shattered under the weight of loss. There has never been a love quite like that which I have for my dear brother—this aching sadness envelops me. Even after all these years, his memory lingers painfully in my mind, intensifying my longing to simply be by his side. He brought joy into my life, filling my thoughts with profound echoes of reflection. Here are the poignant lyrics of that song…

Hania ..orak jana e mar way Chal Melay Noo Chaliaay

Balia ... orak jana e mar way...Chal Melay Noo Chaliaay

Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian

Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian

khasman noo khanda e tera ghar way

chal melay noo chaliaay

Hania... orak jana e mar way

Chal melay noo chaliay

Pehla maila Aadam keeta

Malka sir sajday wich keeta

Pehla maila Aadam keeta

Malka sir sajday wich keeta

Tay Iblees gia wicho sirr way

Chal melay noo chaliaay

Hania ..orak jana e mar way

Chal melay noo chaliay

Dooja maila Khaleel lagia

Zibha karan noo putar litaya

Dooja maila Khaleel lagia

Zibha karna noo putar litaya

Tay gia aap chaati utay char way

Chal melay noo chaliaay

Hania ..orak jana e mar way

Chal melay noo chaliay

Teeja maila raati hoya

Aan bohay tay Jibreel Khaloya

Teeja maila raati hoya

Aan bohay tay Jibreel Khaloya

Tay Sohna (pbuh) gia burraaq tay char way

Chal melay noo chaliaay

hania ..orak jana e mar way

Chal melay noo chaliay

Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian

Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian

khasman noo khanda e tera ghar way

Chal melay noo chaliaay

I can still recall those school days with startling clarity. Whenever any of us felt a cough bubbling to the surface, we would quickly stifle it, desperate to keep it hidden from Moazzam Bhai. We’d flee to another room or scuttle away to the storeroom, trying not to let him hear. Reflecting on those moments now brings a wave of bittersweet irony; what seemed like an innocent cough back then starkly contrasts with the relentless grip of the cancer he would come to know so intimately. He was remarkably knowledgeable about medical conditions and home remedies, often questioning doctors with a keen instinct, dissecting their responses with the precision of a surgeon.

He faced multiple major surgeries, endured Biomap injections, battled through radiotherapy, and withstood the harsh reality of chemotherapy. Despite the endless prayers from his parents, family, and loved ones, it felt like nothing could quell the storm that raged within him.

On that Saturday night, Nomi and I reached out to Ammi and Abbu in Islamabad. The following morning, Sunday, January 13, 2008, they arrived at Income Tax Colony, Gujranwala, accompanied by Rehana Bhabhi's siblings from Lahore. All day, they occupied themselves with worried questions about Moazzam Bhai’s health, while Nomi and I, painfully aware of the truth, clung to a façade of reassurance, repeatedly saying, “… yes, Masha Allah, he is improving.”

As Ammi and Abbu entered Moazzam Bhai’s room, the atmosphere charged with an unsettling blend of hope and fear. Ammi's tears flowed freely, while Abbu bravely began reciting Quranic verses and durood-e-Pak, filling the air with prayers. Once Abbu finished, he mustered what strength he could and gently whispered, “Masha Allah—Moazzam’s health is improving, and the swelling has lessened. What do you think, Mahtab?” With my head bowed in sorrow, I replied, “… absolutely, you’re right. He is indeed feeling much better.”

As night settled in, Rehana Bhabhi’s relatives began their journey back to Lahore. The house grew quieter as, later that evening; it was just my parents, Nomi, Saqib, and three of Moazzam Bhai’s young daughters (nieces) with us. Amid the heaviness of the moment, father and Mamu made plan to head to Lahore, as father stating, “I’ll handle some medical matters in the morning and return soon after.” They departed at 10:30 PM, leaving behind a palpable tension that wrapped around us like a shroud.

There is no sorrow in this world quite like that of an elderly father grieving the loss of his young son. My father, Bashir Hussain Nazim, endured this heart-wrenching moment with a remarkable patience granted by the Almighty. On the occasion of his son's Chehlum, in an article published in Nawa-i-Waqt on February 24, 2008, he poured out his soul, expressing the deep pain, anguish, and devastation that consumed him in that unbearable moment.

Monday, January 14, 2008, 1:17am 

As the night wore on, the three of us—Nomi, Saqib, and I—took turns caring for Moazzam Bhai, dividing the hours into three shifts to ensure he received oxygen and any medical assistance he needed. While the children, our mother, and Bhabhi’s sister drifted off to sleep, Saqib took the first watch as the attendant. In the meantime, Nomi and I desperately reached out to doctors from Lahore, Gujranwala, and Islamabad, only to receive the crushing advice that what we really needed was dua, not dawa.

Seated in the drawing room before the flickering heater, Nomi and I made a silent pact: at dawn on Sunday, we would call Dr. Mukarram at CMH Rawalpindi and Dr. Shaharyar at Mayo Hospital Lahore. Then, suddenly, a wave of fear gripped us—Bhabhi dashed into the room, her face stricken with panic. “Moazzam is not well. His eyes- something is terribly wrong!” she cried. We hurried into Moazzam bhai’s room, hearts racing, each glance exchanged between Nomi, Saqib, and me cementing the grim truth—we sensed he was nearing his final moments.

Nomi wasted no time and called for the doctor, while Saqib and I rushed to the nearest hospital. The chill of the night was biting, and though I wore just a T-shirt, I was soaked in a cold sweat, each droplet a reminder of the fear coursing through me. On our return, Saqib leaned in close and whispered, “Mahtab, it’s over… there’s no need to go.” I knew he was right, but we pushed on regardless.

When we finally returned home, the reality hit us like a sharp blow: the doctor was already in the room, his expression somber as he confirmed what we dreaded to hear—Moazzam Bhai was gone. The air thickened with grief as our world irrevocably tilted on its axis.

Ammi and all the bhatejis were nestled in their sleep in another room when a sudden outcry pierced the night, jolting them awake. I took the hands of Maryam and Zainab, gently guiding them outside into the stillness of the night. “What’s happening, Mahtab Chachu?” Maryam asked, her brow furrowed with concern. I fought to keep the tremor from my voice as I replied, “Nothing, Maryam. Your papa was just in a hurry to meet God,” tears threatening to spill as I spoke.

“What does that mean, Mahtab Chachu?” Zainab inquired, her innocent voice echoing my own confusion. “It’s really chilly outside; let’s go inside,” I suggested, desperately trying to redirect their attention. “What happened to Papa? Why are Dadi Ammi and Mama crying?” they pressed, their questions sharp daggers piercing through the fog of my thoughts. I felt utterly lost, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions, grappling for the right words but unable to find any that wouldn’t shatter their young hearts. The words I dreaded most hung heavy in the air, just beyond my lips: “Your dad is no more, dear ones.” I clung to my silence, wishing to protect them from that devastating truth.

Bhabhi’s sister broke the news, calling upon all our relatives. She even reached out to my father, who was just moments away from Lahore; I could only imagine the devastation he felt upon hearing the news of his beloved son.

In a moment of desperation, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed my sister Bushra back in Islamabad. She had often warned me with fierce resolve, “Bring Moazzam Bhai to Islamabad, standing on his own feet, or I swear I’ll kill you.” But now, as the weight of sorrow settled over us, I simply said, “Moazzam Bhai’s condition is critical; please keep him in your prayers.” She listened intently to my strained voice, the silence stretching between us like a chasm. Before she could respond, I ended the call.

Later, a brief conversation with the doctor confirmed our worst fears: Bhai had never truly emerged from the shadows of his illness. We all had known it deep down, yet we chose to bury the truth, just as he had done.

Dear readers, I ask you to recite Fatiha and send your prayers for Moazzam Bhai’s soul. This is all I seek, and it is the one thing you can offer to us in our time of need. Your heartfelt prayers could light the path for my family to find their smiles again amidst the darkness. May Allah the Almighty bless you all.

Requiescat in Peace Bhai! 

تجھے کھو کر بھی تجھے پاﺅں جہاں تک د یکھوں 

حسن ےزداں سے تجھے حسن بتاں تک د یکھوں 

دل گیا تھا تو یہ آنکھیں بھی کوئی لے جاتا 

میں فقط ایک ہی تصو یر کہاں تک د یکھوں 

For more readings, please click on ...

http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/03/in-memory-of-my-brother_06.html

http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/03/my-brother-walking-lexicon-walks-away.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/03/most-important-part-of-body-is.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/04/tere-bina-xindagi-bhi-laikin.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/05/if-i-could-work-miracles.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/09/mein-zindagi-kay-azab-likhoon-kay.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/09/eid-sans-moazzam-bhai.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2008/12/end-of-circle.html
http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2009/01/please-join-us-in-prayers.html