My Greatest Teacher

From a carpenter’s workshop in Kashmir to academic halls abroad, a father’s lessons remain the son’s true compass.

- Muzamil Farooq

I took a break from my academic work with the hope of clearing my mind, maybe even sorting the path I had been walking for the last few years.

Each time I opened my notebook, the same presence returned. My father entered the room without sound, the way memories do.

IT would sit with a cup of tea on the table, books spread around me, and still all I could think of was him, the greatest teacher I ever had.

Months passed before | found the courage to write about him. Grief sits in the throat for a long time. I used to think I would speak to him someday, tell him what his presence meant to me. I never did.

We had the kind of bond where words were few, where respect shaped every silence. Even now, when I write “Abu,” I feel the same mix of warmth and restraint that I felt in front of him.

Abu, I wish I could tell you everything. You always smiled at small efforts, the way one smiles at a child’s first drawing. 1 know these pages would have made you smile too.

Through all the degrees | eared, through each exam I passed, the praise that touched me most came from people who said they woke up to your Azaan each morning.

Kashmir mornings have a distinct chill, and your voice traveled through it with a calm strength that belonged to you alone. People remembered the humility behind that call more than the notes of the voice.