A Morning Like No Other – A Daughter’s Grief

It was still dark. The world was quiet, sleeping.
But I woke up — not by my alarm, not by a sound from my room — but by the powerful echo of the Adhan, “Allahu Akbar…”
As the call to prayer rose through the air, something stirred deeply inside me.
I could feel tears silently rolling down my cheeks. Goosebumps ran all over my body.
Was I dreaming?
My heart raced.

Trying to open my eyes fully, I reached for my phone — 3:20 AM.
But the moment I saw the time, the dream I just had began to play back in my mind, I couldn’t pause.
It was so real… like it really happened.

I heard someone shouting, “Bappa kootu varanga!”
My cousin’s voice.
I was running…no, flying!! out of my house.
The streets looked so familiar, like the ones etched into my childhood.
There was a fresh, green coconut sapling on the side, gently swaying.
Everything was so clear, so real.

And then I saw him.
My Baapu!
Standing there, smiling, dressed just the way he used to for Jummah prayers.
Tall, radiant, and peaceful.
“Emmmaaa…” he called out. That voice. His eyes on me!
I ran to him like a child who had been lost for years — and finally found home.

I hugged him tightly. I couldn’t stop crying.
I don’t remember what I said to him, but I way saying lot to him non stop..

 I only remember one thing:
“Romba kashtama iruku, Baapu…”
It’s so hard, Baapu. Life without you hurts.

He didn’t say much, but he gently patted my shoulder — just like he always used to.
And that smile… MaShaAllah, the same beautiful smile I grew up with.
It was just him, unchanged.
So full of light.

Then, I walked into the bathroom to make wudhu for Fajr.
And as I looked into the mirror, the same images flooded back.
I wept. I let the tears falling.
Somehow, I pulled myself together.
I stood for prayer. I moved through it slowly.

But after I finished, I couldn’t raise my hands to make du’a.
I didn’t ask for anything.
I just sat there… still… with the silence of grief sitting beside me. Then I opened the Qur’an..Recited!

The clock now read 4:30 AM.
I just sat down, my heart filled with memories of you, Baapu.

I remembered the days at our little maligai kadai.
How I used to watch you in awe.
The way you packed things so fast, the way you folded newspapers to wrap items.
The way you used the tharasu with such skill and precision. Adding prices in your head like a human calculator.

How were you so sharp?
So cheerful and welcoming with every customer?
You remembered everyone’s names. You made jokes, teased the children, respected the elders.
You had a word for everyone. You spoke to them in ways their hearts could understand.

And I’ll never forget the time you wrote a speech competions for me in school.
One I remember now, it with: “Iru kai oosai than kooturavu…”
This was in the late 90s— a time when even the word “internet” was unknown to us.
Yet you managed to write  such meaningful content.

How did you know so much, Baapu?
You didn’t even finish your schooling… and yet your wisdom was endless.
You filled our minds with stories, hadiths, life lessons.

When the shop was quiet, you’d read Qur’anin Kural and other Islamic magazines.
You were a storyteller, a philosopher, a guide — all rolled into one.

You clipped articles about herbs and medicines from newspapers..
You even had a book where you’d write down the chemical names of allopathy medicines.
I remember that book.

You kept track of every rupee we spent — like a true financial manager.
Your handwriting — so elegant, so you.

You’d ride us on your bike so we wouldn’t miss our college bus.
Though money was tight, you never let us go without food or education.

You were the one everyone turned to in our family.
Even when you got angry, it was out of love and care.
You gave advice tailored to people’s ages, their situations.
You understood people.

I remember how, around the age of 55, you started learning Arabic — from scratch.
You started with “alif, baa, taa” just like a child.
And you completed the entire Qur’an.
Such commitment. Such faith.

You gave food. You donated generously.
You made du’a for everyone who asked.
You remembered their needs without fail — and you’d ask us to pray for them too.

Yes, after my marriage, we had less time together.
We spoke less.
But not once did I miss you and mom in my du’as.

You were — and always will be — our pride.
I’m nowhere near the kind of person you were.
But I try.

We will never drift from your legacy.
We will carry your light, your love, your lessons.

And here I am now, typing this through a blur of tears, tissues piling beside me.
Because I don’t want to forget. It’s been a month, but I still can’t believe you’re gone..
I want this memory, this dream, this moment — to stay with me.
Forever.

I miss you, Baapu 🙁
And I love you more than words can ever say.