Who ARE You?

Mr. Abdul Hamid Dar is a remarkable senior and a cherished patient of mine since my tenure as the Medical Coordinator at Ahata Waqar, the day-care center for seniors in Chanapora. A noble soul, he faced immense difficulty in walking after a severe accident. Yet, with unwavering willpower and resilience, he refused to let his struggles define him—overcoming every challenge with grace and determination.

Recently, he sent me a voice note narrating a story close to his heart. At Moul Mouj Foundation, staying true to our commitment to seniors, we transcribed his words to preserve and share his narrative.

Here is his story that he shared with us:

“Who are you?”—three words, piercing and cold, shattered the silence on the other end of the line. The voice belonged to someone I had always turned to in times of distress, someone who once knew me well. And yet, in that moment, I was a stranger.

I held the phone in my trembling hands, trying to comprehend the weight of those words. Who am I? Had I truly become unrecognizable? Had my existence faded into oblivion, reduced to nothing more than an antique showpiece in my family’s drawing room—my essence, my zeal, my very being, swept away like dust in the wind?

Since birth, I have worn many identities—first a pet name, then a formal one, both bearing the brunt of life’s trials. I was a boy, a student, a dreamer. Then I became a groom, a civil servant, a father, a provider. For over three decades, I toiled as a sarkari babu, striving to build not just my identity but also a legacy for my family.

But time is merciless. One day, a piece of paper declared that my service was no longer needed. Retirement. A quiet exit. Retired, yet not tired. But with time, I lost more than just my title—I lost my parents, my brothers, my dearest friends, my mentors, my well-wishers, my youth. The laughter that once filled my home grew faint; the echoes of my past faded into silence. Was this the price of my identity? Had I merely been the sum of my roles, now discarded like an outdated document, obsolete and forgotten?

And then, fate struck its hardest blow. An accident left me physically challenged, altering the very way I moved through the world. By Allah’s grace, I survived—but I was changed. I saw, with painful clarity, how people around me changed too. Some stood by me like an iron wall, unwavering and strong. But many others turned away, slipping into the shadows, retreating to their safe havens. I was no longer significant. No longer useful. No longer someone.

Desperately, I clung to worldly markers of identity—my ex-official ID, my PAN card, my credit card, my house number, my revenue records. I recited my past titles, my achievements, my credentials, hoping they would remind the world, remind myself, of who I once was. But deep within, I knew the truth. These were mere scraps of recognition in a world that had already begun to forget me. My existence was questioned, even by those closest to me. And that hurt more than any physical pain I had endured.

But then, clarity dawned. In the quiet moments of reflection, I realized: these earthly identities are fleeting, mere specks in the vast ocean of existence. True recognition, true solace, lies not in names or numbers, not in titles or roles. It lies in the eternal truth—the One who is ever-present, ever-knowing.

As Kashmiri wisdom whispers:

“Alas, you have no individual existence or identity of your own. It is Allah, the Lord, who is omnipresent. Strive for your identity in the Hereafter. Be careful and travel light in this mortal world.”

Thank you.

Abdul Hameed Dar, Bagh-e-Mehtab.