The Man Who Became Our Strength: A Tribute to My Grandfather

When I think about the people who shaped my life, the first name that comes to my heart is my grandfather, Syed Abdul Rashid Gilani.

He was not just our grandfather — he was the light of our home. After we lost our father, he became our strength, our guide, and our silent source of support in every possible way.

Born in 1927 at Khanqah Moulla in Srinagar, he came from a respected religious family. His father, Maulana Syed Mohammad Yasin Shah Gilani, was a renowned religious personality of his time. At a time when very few Kashmiris pursued formal education, my grandfather graduated from Punjab University, Lahore.

He began his career as a Supervisor in the Kashmir Valley Food Control Department and retired in 1982 as an Assistant Director. But his true identity was never defined by his job title. It was reflected in his simple, honest, and disciplined way of life. He lived quietly, staying close to his family and faith, with a deep love for reading and writing.

He wrote ghazals, naats, and reflective poetry in Urdu, Persian, and occasionally Kashmiri. However, he never published any of his work. He didn’t call himself a poet, though he did write under the pen name “Showk.” His poetry was deeply personal — like his silent prayers — between him and his Creator.

From childhood, he was influenced by his uncle Maulana Syed Mubarak Shah Gilani, known by his pen name Fitrat, a well-known poet and author who mostly wrote in Persian. It was under his uncle’s gentle guidance that Abaji discovered the beauty of poetry and learned the art of expression.

He spent countless hours reading classical poets. Among his favorites was Dr. Allama Muhammad Iqbal, whose life and literary works deeply inspired him. He often quoted Iqbal in serious conversations, especially when offering guidance.

He admired Mirza Ghalib, the master of wit and wisdom, whose poetry reflected the bitter truths of life with beauty and subtle humor. Another poet who touched him deeply was Mir Babbar Ali Anis, the famed elegy writer whose marsiyas on the tragedy of Karbala moved him to tears during Muharram. My grandfather had a quiet, unwavering love for the Ahlul Bayt (a.s.), the noble family of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). During Muharram, I would often see him alone, reading Anis, tears gently rolling down his face.

He also appreciated poets like Zauq and Daagh Dehlvi, who wrote elegant verses about life, manners, and human emotions. He didn’t merely read poetry — he lived it. It influenced how he thought, how he lived, and how he treated others.

Then came the darkest day of our lives — 12th June 2001. On that day, we suddenly lost our beloved father, Syed Iftikhar Gilani, to a heart attack. I was still a child, and my sisters, Yasmeen and Sabiyah, were even younger. We didn’t fully understand what death meant, but we felt the heavy silence that filled our home.

In that moment of deep loss, our Abaji, our grandfather, rose. He didn’t say much. He didn’t cry in front of us. He simply took over. He became our support, our protector, and our source of strength.

Alongside our grandmother, Syeda Sakina Gilani, he stood by our mother, Shahida Chishti, with immense love and respect. He treated her not just as a daughter-in-law but as a daughter. He gave us what we had lost — love, stability, and guidance. From that day on, his own comfort no longer mattered. We became the center of his life.

He became more than a grandfather. He became a father to us. He gave us the love, discipline, and strength our father would have provided — and more.

He lived a very organized and clean life. He woke up early, prayed Fajr, recited the Holy Qur’an and Aurad Sharif, and then worked in his garden. Even at the age of ninety, he remained active, alert, and fully independent. He walked daily, read English newspapers, and helped us with our studies. His command of English was strong — his pronunciation better than many teachers.

He never gave long speeches. He didn’t raise his voice. But through his actions, he taught us honesty, patience, and discipline. We learned more by observing him than from any textbook or classroom.

I still remember the soft sound of his footsteps as he entered our study room, just to check if we were focused. I remember his quiet smile when we returned home from college or work. I remember his calm, unwavering presence during every important moment — always there, always gentle, always strong.

He passed away peacefully on 13th March 2016, in the home he had lovingly built in 1982 — Gilan House, Lal Bazar. He was 90 years old.

His passing left behind a silence that still echoes. We didn’t just lose a grandfather. We lost the foundation of our home — our anchor, our moral compass, the man who held our broken world together.

Even today, when I sit down to write, or when I’m faced with a tough decision, I think of him. His calm demeanor, deep faith, and quiet strength still guide me. He left behind something more valuable than wealth — values, character, and unconditional love.

He never asked for anything.
But he gave us everything.

He never tried to be remembered.
But we can never forget him.

Today, he rests in his ancestral graveyard — Makbara Sadaat-e-Gilani, located within the premises of Khanqah Moulla Shrine, Srinagar.
May Allah grant him the highest place in Jannat-ul-Firdous. Ameen.

His love and his values will live in our hearts — forever.

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Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer by profession and a storyteller by passion. He writes about family, grief, and life’s deeper emotions. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.