I often imagine lying in my parents’ bed, spooned against Amma, her one arm and one leg draped over me, I can still smell her night cream. The softness of her clothes, the quiet warmth of her body, the familiar scent that has always meant safety. I play with her bangles until sleep pulls me under. In those moments just before drifting off, I feel six years old again the old window AC switched to high cool after Abba sleeps, the clean khais drawn over me, hiding inside Amma’s arms, dodging the monsters under the bed.

Some nights I still crave that exact slumber. The first Eid after Abba passed arrived loaded with grief taller than my own height. One by one, the people who once filled Eid with noise and light are turning to dust before our eyes. A conversation with Phuppi Jaan’s daughter left my heart sinking; we both grew hoarse while talking. She was missing her mother so much.

I sat alone in my room with fairy lights on the window and stared at them for hours. I never imagined life would also require acting showing everyone that everything is fine while unfinished songs and Netflix series sit waiting because there is never enough time, and the days stretch so long they refuse to end. Abba was fiercely punctual.

If he gave a time or received an invitation, he arrived exactly when the card said. In our society the written time is rarely the real start, but Abba refused to play along. More than once we reached a wedding only to find even the hosts had not arrived. Once or twice he confronted the host: “You wrote this time for the meal on the card and it has already passed.” When the host denied it, Abba produced the card itself. No one could silence him. Later Amma found her own solutions.

she would hide the card or tell him a time an hour later so he would not sit ready from late afternoon onward, making the whole house march to his schedule. That same urgency that made you reach every place early, Abba, that same speed with which you made even the largest decisions, could not be stopped when it came time to leave this world. This time you gave no one a chance to prepare. You simply went alone. From childhood until now I remember every car Abba owned and the stories attached to each one.

The first was a soft brown Lancer, a lovely machine that stayed with us a long time. All three of my brothers learned to drive in it. Then came a grey Nissan that broke down often. In college days, when I missed the bus, I would beg my brothers to drop me. When that car finally died, Abba bought a light-blue Cultus. After I got my first job he would drop me in the morning and collect me at exactly six in the evening. Later the brothers decided an automatic would suit him better and arranged a Pino. It was a small car, yet Abba loved it deeply.

When he went to Canada, the things he missed most along with the extreme cold, the cursed snow, the endless silence, and his friends were driving his own car and roaming the city freely. Abba was possessive and particular about his cars. Anyone who took one without asking faced real trouble. He cleaned them himself each morning. If something needed repair, sleep became impossible until it was fixed. His friendship with the mechanic was so deep it felt like a younger brother’s. The last car was a white Mira his beloved.

Even when his memory weakened, he would take it out every day and no one could stop him. When the forgetting grew dangerous, a driver was finally arranged, but Abba still needed to be driven. My last ride with him was to Waheed Kabab on Burns Road. The whole way my hands stayed over my eyes or ears, yet what an adventure it was. Sometime back Amma told me the car has been sold. The words left my mouth without thought: “You sold Abba’s car?” She was preparing for prayer and said it was all for us children. It felt like a blow to the heart.

The most precious person is already gone; now even his belongings are leaving one by one. Abba and I quarrelled with real heat. How can people who live under the same roof never clash? On those days Amma became the referee on one side Abba’s temper, on the other the hot head that came from his own blood. These were not ordinary quarrels; when they happened they were serious and lasted long. Abba had hundreds of virtues and also his shortcomings; anyone who lived with him or spent real time with him knew both. Those who understood him also knew how to deal with him. I did. I say this without hesitation: I was reprimanded by Abba.

I do not consider being corrected by one’s parents a matter of shame. Yet I give him this credit he never rebuked any of us in front of others because of someone else’s complaint. That is why, whenever I made a mistake, I always came home and told my parents myself. Amma and Abba always stood by us four offspring through the largest errors while teaching us the difference between right and wrong. But when we were rude to them, the consequence was certain. In a society where daughters are often treated as burdens and a sister’s inheritance is quietly taken, I was fortunate.

My parents never made distinctions. In fact I believe I was given better opportunities than my brothers. I studied in the institutions I chose, read the subjects I loved, wore what I liked, ate what I liked. None of this was my achievement; it was the result of their mature thinking, awareness, and logical minds that raised me to make my own decisions. Where many men wish only for sons, Abba always treated me as his pride. My creative abilities came from him. His drawing was excellent. Before any formal academy he taught me to make perfect circles and straight lines freehand. We used to compete  sometimes he would dictate an essay, sometimes we both drew the same object and asked everyone whose was better.

There was a children’s radio programme; the producer was Abba’s friend. When I passed the audition, Abba told every single person with such pride that his daughter had passed an audition many artists never achieve. He would list famous actors’ names and say it could have been arranged through influence, but his Puppo is intelligent. He recorded my dramas on cassettes. He proofread every essay I wrote, then had me read it aloud to check tone and delivery, correcting any diction mistakes.

There was no competition or exhibition I took part in where Abba was not sitting in the audience school prize distributions, speech contests, painting exhibitions, inter-city public-speaking events. In my eyes the greatest gift was the time my parents gave. Video games and computers existed even then, yet my parents chose to value creation and individuality above them.

These days Abba’s thoughts return with every breath, but today the feeling grew sharper when, after so many years, I sat in his office on his revolving chair and my childhood flooded back. Sometimes necessity brought me along when Amma and Abba went to work.

When Amma was in court she would seat me in her chamber and I would draw on paper, or stand in the corridor watching readers, bailiffs, peons, lawyers, and the accused who had come for hearings. I studied the policemen, the witnesses, the notaries under the trees, the anxious relatives who accompanied the accused. The whole scene was endlessly interesting to me. When Amma grew too busy, Abba’s junior would collect me from court and leave me at Abba’s office.

There my favourite pastimes were writing stories on his typewriter, pestering his clients, jumping on the stairs, slipping into the neighbouring office to visit one of Abba’s friends, riding the lift up and down, opening his files and copying case notes or judge’s minutes, calling friends from his phone, arranging his books and then reciting their titles and spellings to him.

He delighted in these performances. Often he would grab a junior and embarrass him: “Look how intelligent my daughter is she remembers every title and spelling.” Sometimes he arranged contests between the juniors and me; the winner received a prize. Sitting in his chair today feels strange. On the wall hang photographs of Abba and Chacha Jaan. Both are gone from this world. Instead of paper I write this story on my phone. Time has changed; the habits have not.

What an extraordinary man Abba was. After meeting someone only once he could read their character with complete accuracy. A few questions and he would know if the person was lying. Perhaps it was the effect of his profession, or simply his intelligence. I believe it was intelligence because without it he could not have thrived for forty years in a profession thick with lies, fraud, and crime, the very things that kept our household running.

If someone won him over at the first meeting with simplicity and honesty, fine. Otherwise it was goodbye. Amma always said, “If your father says yes the first time, good. After his no, do not ask again.” It was true. Yet I knew how to get my way with him. Different rules often applied to me. Whoever came to the house made him happy. He would immediately ask what they liked to eat, then tell them to come again so he could feed them that very thing.

Whether they remembered or not, Abba would call and invite them: “Come on suchand-such day; I have brought your favourite.” Amma would often grow irritated “Since when has this carpenter or that mechanic become so beloved that you are cooking expensive fish with your own hands or preparing beef curry for him in this heat?” Abba never cared about anyone’s financial status. If a person was genuine, that person was a VIP to him. As the youngest and only daughter I always received special treatment. Abba knew which fruits I loved and often brought them.

No one will ever peel and feed me as many pomegranates as he did. He never understood burger-and-pizza food, so I would ask him for the things he preferred snacks from a cart or a cold bottle of milk, sometimes kheer from Saeed Manzil, sometimes Waheed’s kebabs. When he was in a particularly good mood he would say, “Come, let’s make potato chips.” We would cut mountains of potatoes and fry them. He liked them crisp and always said not to take them out too soon; let them fry a little longer. Then salt and chilli, and the two of us would eat.

Even after I went to Canada the routine continued. When I visited he would ask, “Yes, Puppo, is the list ready?” We would go together to Sea View to watch the sunset. Abba loved the sea. Every week we went for fresh air and ate corn or qahwa or those spiced papads that always became soggy from the sea breeze. No one ever requested ghazals from me with the same affection. A strange light would come into his eyes, even though I never thought I had a particularly good voice. I would sing Tina Sani’s ghazals for him, sometimes Iqbal Bano’s.

He would laugh and say, “You are Tina the First.” It has been almost a year since Abba left, yet people still come to Amma for condolence. Despite every request to stop, the hostess inside her never tires. At first her discipline and composure frustrate me; later I think what an extraordinary woman she is. After fifty years of companionship Abba is gone, yet Amma’s balance remains intact. I am not even the dust of her feet. When I try to place myself in her position my mind goes blank. Recently one of her old friends came for condolence. She has known me since childhood and met me with great affection, yet the way she kept mentioning her wealthy clients eventually exhausted me.

I looked at Amma and offered a silent salaam to my mother’s greatness that after seventy years among such people she was never overawed and never became arrogant. Every few days I thank Allah that He placed me in the home of these two parents. The central truth that rises from all these memories is simple and urgent. Work, career, money, status none of them will sit beside you on the bed when the night cream smell is the only comfort left. None of them will drive you to Waheed Kabab or peel pomegranates or request a ghazal with shining eyes.

None of them will teach a child to draw perfect circles or sit through every school function or clean a car at dawn because it belongs to the family. Relationships are the only inheritance that cannot be sold, the only chair that still carries a person’s presence long after the person is gone. As I write this eulogy to my father, I urge you: put down the phone, leave the office a little earlier, sit with your parents while they are still here, argue with them, laugh with them, let them feed you the things they know you love.

Let your children see you valuing the people more than the deadlines. One day the revolving chair will be empty, the car will be sold, the fairy lights will be the only brightness in a quiet room. On that day the only wealth that will matter is the softness of a mother’s arm and the memory of a father’s pride. Choose the relationships now, while there is still time to choose.