To a Lost Loyal Friend: Last Letter to My Father (Safdar Ali Tarar)

When I look back at the memory desk of my life, the first memory of my father’s presence comes from a crossroads. He was explaining to me and my brother, both nearly six or seven years old, where we had to turn on our way to school. Bags were on our shoulders, and he said, “Look, it’s easy. Go straight, then take a right turn, and in the next street take a left.” He had to go for cutting grass and had no time that early morning, so for the first time he left us to make the journey ourselves. We took the first right turn, but at the next street we became confused, took the wrong turn and were terrified on an unknown street. We came back, remembered his map, and finally reached the tuition centre on time. That was our first adventure alone. Otherwise, he always left us at the mosque door and later at the school gate.

My father, Safdar Ali Tarar, was a farmer by profession, living almost a hand-to-mouth life. Still, whenever there was demand, he worked as a labourer at different construction sites. He was known for timely and honest work. Masons trusted him because he accepted difficult tasks as challenges and completed them on time. Almost everyone in the village knew and respected him. He never rested; he was almost a workaholic. But in 2018, a heavy gate struck his head. He nearly lost his life, received multiple stitches and remained in bed for almost a month. He recovered, but his body was no longer able to carry the burden of labour.

If I see my life in phases, the first was childhood. He was like a strict warden. Early morning mosque, prayer, 8am school, tuition after 2pm and only one or two hours of cricket on the rooftop. Going outside, making friends and playing freely was strictly prohibited. At that time, we had nothing but obedience. Later, that discipline became our strength. We passed Matriculation with distinction and topped the government school, receiving the Dr. A. Q. Khan Gold Medal for tehsil and district toppers. For a labourer father, it was a proud moment. But that was only the beginning.

In my teenage years, he sent me to college for F.Sc Pre-Engineering. Education was free because of my distinction, but travelling from our village to the city, nearly 20 to 30 kilometres away, was difficult. He bought me a bicycle and a keypad phone, saying, “If there is any issue or you get late, call me.” College was from 9 to 1, academy from 2 to 5, and I returned home around 6 or 7. Late nights, early mornings and the pressure of the next day continued. I was focused on myself and did not realise that he was suffering under the same pressure, perhaps even more. He worked overtime after 5pm to meet our growing expenses. Two years later, I again passed with distinction and topped the college. He was in the air. Education was his dream because he never had the opportunity himself. Slowly, the strict father started becoming softer, giving us space to ask questions and even share a little laughter.

Then came university. I got admission in Islamabad, nearly 300 kilometres from our village. He supported me against every difficulty. A scholarship covered tuition, but hostel and other expenses remained. He carried that burden without complaint. I also started private tutoring to reduce his pressure. Whenever I returned after a semester, I saw him growing older and weaker. That was painful. He would advise me to take care of myself and my health. I wanted to say the same to him, but somehow I could never say it.

After my engineering degree in 2018, I found a job as a lecturer while continuing my MS, and later joined industry as an Electrical Engineer. He was happier than me. A labourer’s son had become an engineer. He felt his sacrifices had finally paid off.

And then, in the last phase, we were no longer simply father and son. We became friends, buddies. We shared jokes, discussed daily routines and went grocery shopping together. I would take him to buy clothes, but he resisted: “I don’t need them; I already have many.” If I insisted on shoes, he would say he already had two extra pairs. He considered my earnings his own, but never wanted to waste them on himself.

He was generous, humble and always ready to serve others. Whenever my friends visited, he would bring cold drinks and serve them. As a husband, whatever he earned, he placed in his wife’s hands without demanding anything in return. As a brother, he visited his younger brother every weekend, encouraged him and helped with medication. He lived to make others happy.

Then came 26 July 2026. He went for his usual walk, returned from the village and suddenly vomited and collapsed. I rushed towards him, tried CPR and took him to the nearby emergency hospital, only five minutes away. The doctor said he was dead.

I was waiting for recovery. Instead, my mind went blank.

Today, I want to tell my father what I could not tell him enough in life: I love you more than my life. I wanted to explore the world with you beside me. I wanted to pay back your hardships. I wanted you to live many more years so I could add something to the inner peace you gave me.

Now, whenever I enter home, an empty bed reminds me of your absence. I cannot sleep in the bed beside yours because I cannot see that space empty. I am not emotionally weak; I have simply lost the father who became my friend.

Dad, it feels as if we are standing at that same crossroads again—the one where you left us years ago, asking us to remember the way. This time, we are afraid. We do not know which way to turn.

I hope and pray your soul is at eternal peace. As your son, I may never be able to repay what you gave me. But may God be pleased with you and shower countless blessings upon the grave of my lost, loyal friend—my father, Safdar Ali Tarar.

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