By Syed Shams Uddin
In the quiet twilight of his life, a wise old man, sensing the nearness of his final hour, gathered his children and offered them a parting counsel unlike any farewell. His words were not adorned with sentimentality, nor burdened by emotional demands. Rather, they were imbued with realism, spiritual depth, and a remarkable foresight—crafted not just for his children, but for all who may one day face the irreversible reality of losing a parent while being far from home.
In an age where migration, employment, study, and life’s unpredictable paths scatter families across the globe, the old man's message rises as a voice of clarity amidst grief's storm:
“My dear children,” he said softly, “if my death comes while you are far away—perhaps in a foreign land or a distant city—do not rush home in desperation. The moment of passing is beyond retrieval. Nothing you do, no matter how swift your travel, will restore what has already returned to its Creator. Do not allow your sorrow to lead you into a futile effort. Stay where you are, mourn with patience, and know that your love and remembrance reach me even from afar.”
He knew the grief would be heavy. He did not deny their pain, nor expect them to be unmoved. But he urged them to rise above helplessness, to avoid the torment of arriving “too late,” and to accept that death is the final certainty of life—neither delayable nor reversible.
But the old man’s wisdom extended beyond that moment of personal loss. He offered yet another layer of practical counsel, born of experience and spiritual simplicity:
“And if I am, by chance, in a land that is not our native place—be it for a short stay or a longer sojourn—do not make any effort to transport my body back to our home village or ancestral land. Let my burial take place right there, wherever I pass. The earth is vast, but to the dust we all return—no soil is foreign when one meets their end.”
These words may feel unorthodox to some, especially in communities like ours, where transporting a body back to the ancestral soil is often seen as a final gesture of honour. But behind this advice lies a deeper wisdom: that death, though sacred, is not bound to geography. The struggle, expense, and emotional toll of transferring a deceased parent to their homeland may seem dutiful, but in many cases, it prolongs sorrow and burdens the living unnecessarily.
“Let my body rest where my soul departs,” he added. “The prayers said beside me, no matter the location, carry the same weight before the Almighty.”
This father’s guidance is not a call to emotional distance—it is a call to spiritual maturity. In acknowledging the limits of what the living can do, he offers comfort and clarity at a time when most are consumed by chaos and confusion.
In today’s world, where millions live far from their birthplace, these words bear immense relevance. Sons and daughters of Gilgit-Baltistan, like those from many regions, often reside abroad or in large urban centres, tied by profession, education, or service. When a parent passes, the urgent instinct is to return, to do something, to reclaim even a moment of presence. But the reality often proves merciless: the funeral is over, the grave is filled, and what remains is only the grief—and, sometimes, the guilt of absence.
The old man’s wisdom relieves his children of this impossible burden:
“Don’t allow absence at my funeral to burden your soul. Your duty lies not in the distance you travel, but in the prayers you whisper, the values you uphold, and the patience with which you bear the moment.”
This is the essence of his message—a timeless counsel for all:
That grief should be borne with patience, not panic;
That remembrance transcends location;
That burial is a matter of dignity, not geography;
And that mourning must never become a source of further suffering.
Let this final testament echo beyond a single family. Let it serve the countless others whose loved ones may leave this world while they are abroad, or while the deceased themselves are away from their place of origin.
To those who must grieve across borders and time zones, know that your love is not measured by miles. Your tears from afar, your silent prayers, your continued good deeds in the name of the departed—all are counted, all are heard.
As the wise father said, “Every soul must taste death.” What remains is not how fast we return to the body—but how faithfully we carry the soul's memory forward.
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