There is so much that I wanted to say to you while you were still alive. But alas, here we are. All praise is due to Allah.
These past few days, I’ve tried my best to collect my thoughts, and every time I tried to begin writing this letter, my mind would go blank.
How do I describe what it meant to be loved by someone like you for my entire life? And to lose that kind of pure love is an indescribable feeling. You were the pillar of our family for decades, and the void you have left in our hearts can never be filled.
I am reminded of your gentle nature, calm demeanor, and immense wisdom. You understood the importance of passing down knowledge to the younger generation, and you did so with sincerity, wisdom, and love.
I reflect often on the reminder you engrained into us: that Allah created us simply to worship Him. You reminded us that our purpose on this earth was to serve Him, and by extension, humanity.
This reminder carried me through high school, college, and post-grad. To this day, it forces me to question whether the way I am living my life aligns with this divine purpose.
You embodied this purpose through your actions, words, and reflections.
You also reminded us to consistently seek knowledge, not for the title or money, but in a continuous effort to serve humanity. As I prepare to begin my master’s degree in the fall, I hold this intention and your memory close to my heart.
I’m grateful to have known you, to have been loved by you, and to have learned from you. I would do anything to sit with you one more time and see you smile. But Allah is the best of planners.
I carry your reminders and your legacy with me, forever etched into my heart. I hope to make you proud.
The reason for the loss I feel is not simply your passing from the desert of life. No, it is because of your will—the great will that tamed death itself. That is what I grieve: the absence of such a force.
I am sorry I didn’t talk. But I had no time. The reason wasn’t time alone; it was my own struggle with the concept of time, my inability to hold it, shape it, give it. So I promise you this, my beloved Nana: I will turn the sand of time into the blood of my veins. I will carry you forward in how I live.
For I didn’t lose you. I lost an idol—a will that conquers death. And that is a different kind of sorrow.
I congratulate you on your passing from the desert of life. I hope you are having joy in the next part of the journey, wherever it may be.
Speech delivered on the Soyam, held at Astaana-e-Zehra, New Jersey, on May 12th, 2026.
On behalf of our family here, in Pakistan, Iran, and UK, I want to thank everyone for their duas, support, and messages.
It is difficult to summarize over a century of life, and impact into just a few words. Nana was 1 of 6 brothers and sisters, had 5 children, 15 grandchildren and 20 great-grandchildren. All who he met.
Until the very end of his life, he remained mentally sharp, engaged, and responsive. Just days before he was admitted, he had just completed yet another article and was preparing to begin a new one.
He was such an active person — physically, mentally, intellectually, and spiritually. We would brag to others that our grandfather is 90+ and climbs stairs, gardens and does everything on his own – I remember him scolding me a few years ago, right outside of Astaana-e-Zehra, when I tried to help him walk and that he could do it himself.
Professionally, he was as a civil engineer, overseeing major infrastructure projects in Pakistan and Iran. Projects like • the construction of the Karachi Deep Port, Malir Cantt, and the Karachi–Hub Highway, • and the supervision of two major dam projects: Shohada Dam and Pishin Dam.
For many of us, Nana was not only a grandfather — he was a teacher, a mentor, a thinker, and a source of guidance through every stage of life.
He taught many of us how to read namaz and read Qur’an — but more importantly, he taught us that the Qur’an was meant to be understood, reflected upon, and lived.
He was very firm on the idea that faith should never become blind ritual or empty repetition. He constantly encouraged us to understand what we were reading, understand why we believed what we believed, and understand the deeper meaning behind our actions of worship.
One thing he pushed constantly was education.
He strongly believed in dedicating oneself to learning and research. He encouraged us to pursue advanced studies, professional excellence, and even PhDs, not for status or titles, but because he genuinely believed that knowledge was one of the greatest ways a person could serve humanity and advance the mission of devotion to Allah.
He deeply believed that many of the problems facing humanity — especially poverty, injustice, and suffering — were rooted in mankind drifting away from Allah’s guidance.
He saw it as a great failure of the Ummah that so much poverty and hardship continued to exist in the world despite the values of justice, compassion, and responsibility that Islam teaches so clearly.
And rather than simply criticizing society, he spent his life trying to contribute toward improving it — through his writing, discussion, and constantly encouraging others to think more deeply about their responsibility toward Allah and humanity.
Imam Ali (AS) said:
سلوني قبل أن تفقدوني “Ask me before you lose me.”
Nana truly lived by that spirit. He always made time for conversations to allow s to talk and debate to grow our minds and intellect.
He often said:
“Himmat-e-Mardan, Madad-e-Khuda.” “With the courage of men comes the help of Allah.”
This defined him — discipline, perseverance, and constantly striving toward knowledge and toward Allah.
In the past few days, much has been said and written about him. He was a “baghban” — a gardener. Another saying – “He was a gardener in more ways than one.”
It truly captures who he was.
Not just because he loved tending to his garden and plants, but because he spent his life cultivating people.
He nurtured our minds, encouraged growth, and planted patience, discipline, curiosity, and faith into everyone around him.
He was the best amongst us — always inspiring us to become better human beings first, and through that, better Muslims.
And what made all that so impactful was that he inspired us not just through his words, but through the way he lived his life.
And I think many of us here would say that we grew into ourselves simply by being near him. We were all a part of his garden.
The void Nana leaves behind is immeasurable. His absence has created a vacuum in our hearts that can never truly be filled. Yet we pray that his legacy lives on through every act of kindness, every prayer, every charitable deed, and every life changed, because of the values he instilled in us. His guidance remains etched within our hearts and though he has returned to his Creator, his memory will forever shine amongst us.
And while this loss is deep for our family, as we’ve lost our Patriarch, it is also a loss for the wider community. As Maulana Rizwan mentioned before the Namaz-e-Janaza, people like Nana do not only belong to their families — they belong to the community. Their knowledge, wisdom, guidance, and presence impact everyone around them.
Before concluding, we’d like to express our sincere gratitude to Murtuza Bhai, Danish Bhai, and the entire Masjid-e-Ali ghusl team for helping expedite Nana’s ghusl and kafan arrangements.
We also want to thank Maulana Rizwan and Sarfaraz Uncle for constantly fielding our many calls and helping coordinate transportation and qabrastan arrangements. Finally, I especially want to acknowledge Mamu and Mumani — the home where Nana lived.
We all visited. We all loved him. But you were there every single day.
You cared for him, engaged with him, supported him, and preserved his dignity in a way that allowed him to continue living not just long, but meaningfully and actively.
And honestly, I truly believe a major part of his longevity came from that care, companionship, and consistent engagement.
You carried a responsibility that is not easy, and you carried it with patience, love, and commitment. You did well.
And I genuinely believe that not only was Nana grateful for that care, but I have no doubt that Allah is pleased with you for taking on that responsibility the way you did.
Once again, thank you for all for the support and may Allah elevate Nana’s status amongst his highest.
There is a particular kind of grief that arrives wrapped in guilt — the grief of someone you loved so completely, but never really showed, never really let them know. The grief of someone you let yourself believe was permanent. NaNa called. He always called. And somewhere along the way, I let those calls become background, knowing he was there and that I would always have his voice to listen to. I’d pick up the phone, set it on speaker, and move through my world while his voice filled the room. I heard him, but now I will never hear “him” again.
That is the thing about people who love you without condition — they show up so reliably that you start to take the showing up for granted. He was the patriarch. The constant. The one who had already survived every scare, every close call, every moment we held our breath. He had outlived most of his siblings. He had endured the kind of grief that breaks most people — the untimely loss of his own daughter and son-in-law, a weight no parent should ever have to carry. And still, he carried it. Still, he showed up. He had cried wolf so many times — or so I told myself — that I stopped bracing for the worst and ultimately, thought to myself that he was immortal. I thought I had learned that he was unbreakable. How could someone who had survived so much, lost so much, and kept going — how could he not be?
As his first grandchild, I carried a particular pride and closeness with NaNa — the kind forged in those early years before the family grew, when Adeel and I were the first granddaughter and grandson, and the world as he knew it still had room enough to hold us completely. I was the one who came first, who he held first, who first made him NaNa. And perhaps that is why, somewhere deep down, I believed his permanence most fiercely of all. He had always been there — he had always been there for me, in ways that went far beyond presence.
Part of that certainty came from a running joke we shared as a family. NaNa went to the hospital periodically — enough times that we stopped treating it as a point of immediate concern and started treating it as routine. We’d laugh and say he was just going in for a “maintenance check”, that he’d be back soon, refreshed and recharged, good as new. It sounds cavalier now, but it was really just our way of loving him through fear. It was easier to joke than to sit with the possibility that one day he wouldn’t come back. And every single time, he proved us right. He always came back.
“Foolish of me, to confuse someone’s will to live with immunity from leaving.”
This time last week, I was packing a bag for New Jersey. Mother’s Day weekend. A trip to be with Ami, a chance to be close to my siblings, nieces and nephew, ordinary in the best possible way. I was not packing to say goodbye. I was not prepared to return home as someone who had lost the foundation of our family. The thought never crossed my mind — not seriously, not really — because NaNa was just there. He had always been there. Now I sit with the weight of all the conversations I half-attended. The calls I let run to voicemail and returned later. The questions I forgot to ask. The stories I let trail off without asking him to finish them. I know, somewhere deeper than guilt, that love was never in question between us. But knowing that doesn’t dissolve the ache of realizing what I left unsaid — what we both left unsaid — in all that ordinary time.
What I read in his tributes, in every word written in his memory, is a man who was far more present for others than I gave him credit for in those distracted moments. He checked in because he meant it. He called because I mattered. And I — half-listening, half-elsewhere — let those moments slip through my hands like they were renewable. Like there would always be another call.
“There will not be another call. And somehow, I have to learn to live inside that silence.”
NaNa, I am sorry I put you on speaker. I am sorry I thought we had more time. I am sorry I confused your resilience for immortality, and your steadiness for something I could always return to later. You were not a story I could pause and come back to. You were a person — irreplaceable, and mine — and I did not treat every moment like the gift it was.
But I also know this: you knew I loved you. The calls kept coming because you believed in me more than I showed up for you. That is the kind of man you were — patient, constant, reaching out even when the reach wasn’t always met halfway. You were my NaNa, and I was your first grandchild, and nothing will ever undo the particular grace of that bond. I carry that love now. I will carry it better than I held it before.
Rest well, NaNa. The angels finally came and none of us were ready. But I was yours — your first, always, even in the distracted, foolish, human way that I was. I hope that counts for something. I have to believe it does.
Written in grief, guilt, love, and gratitude — for the patriarch of our family.
My great grandfather, Syed Muhammad Musanna, the greatest, kindest and eldest author I’ve ever met, is silently loving and helping me out of my shadows, just like his daughter, my lovely grandmother, Talat Syeda.
I spent just a few days with him, when he stayed at our house, but I love him since the very moment I made eye contact with him.
I silently pray for them both everyday: Bismillah may Allah shine his light upon them, Insha’ Allah.
سلام علیکم و رحمۃ اللہ و برکاتہ إِنَّا لِلَّهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ۔۔۔ مخلص، مفکر، مصلح، اہل قلم، خاندان کے بزرگ، پھوپھا صاحب مرحوم و مغفور کی رحلت کی خبر سن کر بہت افسوس ہوا۔ یقینا ان کا فقدان بہت بڑا نقصان ہےـ وہ صرف ہمارے خاندان کے لئے نہیں بلکہ پوری انسانیت کے لئے بڑا قیمتی سرمایہ تھے ـ افسوس کہ اب وہ انسانیت کا درد رکھنے والا دل رک گیا ، جہالت کی تاریکی مٹانے کے لئے کوشاں چراغ خاموش ہو گیا … لیکن ان کی بے لوث خدمات، ان کی یادیں دلوں میں زندہ رہیں گی … میری ادھر ایک عرصہ سے، جب سے یہاں واٹس ایپ کا مسئلہ ہوا، پھوپھا صاحب مرحوم سے بات نہیں ہو پائی تھی۔ ورنہ وہ بزرگوار اکثر کال کر لیتے تھے۔ ان کی گہری علمی گفتگو اور بزرگانہ نصیحتوں میں ایک خاص شفقت اور لطف محسوس ہوتا تھا۔ خداوند متعال سے دعا ہے کہ مرحوم کو غریق رحمت کرے، درجات کو بلند کرے، جوار اہل بیت علیہم السلام میں اعلی مقام عطا فرمائے ـ اور ان کے تمام چاہنے والوں، مخصوصا آپ سب کو اس غم میں صبر جمیل اجر جزیل عطا فرمائے… اور ہم سب کو انسانیت کی بے لوث خدمت کا جذبہ عطا فرمائے ان شاء اللہ … شریک غم رعنا نقوی قم مقدسہ
