My Brother Munawer Ahmad Nadeem

It’s so hard to imagine a world without Bhai Jaan, and yet here we are. I feel like I’ve lost my father twice. He was always there, someone I could consult when facing tough decisions. He always stopped me from wavering.

Every two weeks or so, he would call just to check on me… “Sab theek hai? Tum theek ho?” I would try to do the same, but he always had the upper hand.

I’m trying to remember things about him that I can write down, and I realise that apart from some memories I know very little about him. He was more than 15 years older than me, so I didn’t share a childhood with him the way my elder brother and sister did.

He was righteous and firm on moral principles. If he thought you were wrong, he would tell you directly, but with sincerity. As for me, he guided me and often pointed out things to me like an elder should.

I remember when I was in 3rd grade, Bhai Jaan used to have his coats hanging, and there was always a chocolate bar in one of the pockets. Every day I would eat it, but the next day there would be a new one waiting for me.

Once he told me to wait for him after school and that he would pick me up. But he forgot. I waited and waited, and then decided to go to my uncle’s house near the school. My uncle took me home. Bhai, on the other hand, remembered a few hours later and went to the school. He spent hours looking for me around Rabwah. There were no mobile phones at that time. Finally, when he got home, there I was chilling… and then I got a spanking. After some time, he realised it wasn’t my fault at all. He came and apologised, and then took me to Chargha House—our favourite spot for fried chicken. That night turned into a movie night; both of us stayed up late watching movies on the VCR.

I think I was in 4th grade at the time, just before both my brothers left for Germany. In our house there was a strange rule: we were only allowed to watch movies if the grown-ups had seen them first and knew what to fast-forward. That night was the first time I was allowed to watch a movie with Bhai Jaan as a peer.

I feel truly blessed to have parents that taught us patience and dignity and brothers and sister who one can proudly present as examples for how to be. To us kids, both my brothers were the real superheroes. The ones who would take us on picnics who would make things happen. We could see that they were inseparable I can only imagine what goes inside my elder brother Tanweer's heart, both of them were elders for us but they were a duo and above all, the best of friends and for us the best role models one could ever have.

Fridays at our house were ‘laundry day.’ Bhai Munawar would heroically drag out the washing machine and start the job, and just when Bhai Tanweer joined in and the work got going, Munawar Bhai would suddenly announce, ‘I’ll just make a quick trip to the bazaar…’ That ‘quick trip’ always lasted until the laundry was done — leaving Tanweer Bhai to wash the entire load by himself. It became their unspoken routine: Munawar Bhai the starter, and Tanweer Bhai the finisher!

My brother Tanweer said, “Before Naeem came, we were like one. We were called Cingoo Mingoo — always together, like a team, doing all sorts of work side by side. He was my elder brother, but he would often test me in his own way, sometimes letting me make decisions that were his to make, and once I made them, he would accept them and stand by them. I was his younger brother for 64 years — a long, long time. We knew each other’s secrets like no one else. Though we often differed in our thoughts, I always respected his decisions. Nothing was ever truly hidden between us. Allah gave us time to prepare, to comfort him in his suffering, and to stand with him as best we could. The way Adila, Mubaris, Narmeen, and his partner cared for him in those days is something we all deeply admire. Bhai lived the life he was given without complaint; he enjoyed it, he made others happy with his tricks, treats, kindness, and jokes — and even his anger, when it came, was only ever temporary. It is hard to bear that we were not with him when he passed, but our prayers were always with him, and his face will remain in our hearts and memories forever. Every soul comes from Allah and returns to Him, and this knowledge eases the weight of grief." 

He was such a storyteller. At family gatherings, he would recall old memories with such excitement that you would relive those events with him. We would laugh and spend the whole night talking. 

His daughter, my niece reminisces: “When it came to emotional matters, Abba was often a man of few words. He was a shielded person — he would cry in solitude but never shed a tear in anyone’s presence. Yet when he was truly happy, his voice would be loud and full of life. His jokes came naturally, and when he told stories from his life, he would do it with confidence and drama. He would make theatrical pauses, speak as if he were the hero in a movie, and we loved every bit of it."

He was an electronics genius. Even without degrees, he could stand shoulder to shoulder with any engineer. My love for computers, science fiction, and Star Trek came from that environment. I was too young to learn electronics from him, but I would see both my brothers tinkering and fixing things. He had an electronics repair shop on Railway Road in Chiniot for some time, and they would often bring difficult cases home. They had a lab at home as well. I would see them looking at diagrams of TVs, trying to figure out the faults, and when they solved it, it was triumph. 

He was a foodie, and so am I — and I believe I inherited that love of food partly because of him. Once, when I was very sick with the usual flu and a severe cough, and he himself was also not well, we both ended up at Dr. Zahir Sahib’s clinic. Just at its entrance was Ali Tikka Shop, and as we stood there, the smoke from freshly made tikkas wafted toward us while we waited for the doctor. Ten minutes later, we had completely forgotten about the doctor — there we were, sitting in the shop, devouring those tikkas with pure relish.

Around 2012, I was going through a very difficult time with chronic depression. Out of the blue, he called me and said: “Batao, kya pareshani hai?” I asked how he knew something was wrong, and he said: “Ami Jaan meri khwab mein aayi thi, unhon ne kaha tum se baat karoon.” I keep wondering—who will look out for me like that now?

He was thousands of miles away but always kept his presence felt. He would often express his regret that he couldn’t get me out of Pakistan earlier, but later he was so happy and content that I was finally able to come to Canada. “Sab set ho jayega,” he would say.

He had a quiet relationship with Allah. Once, when he was visiting us in Pakistan, I saw him offering Tahajjud. I had never seen someone cry and beg to Allah like that before. I watched him quietly for a while, and it left a deep impression on me. His daughter recalls, "Abu knew no grudge, he used to say "Maaf kardita, te gal khatam. Ya to maaf na karo, te jaddo kitta ae te dil saaf karo." 

If there was one word that personified him, it was love. If you wanted to see an example of Love for All, Hatred for None in action, it was his life.

Whenever he visited our home in Rabwah, it felt as though he carried with him an ocean of love. He treated my children and my wife with the deepest kindness, offered words of wisdom, and savored the meals we prepared for him. He was the kind of guest we longed and waited for, whose presence filled our home with warmth.

My children adored Taya Abu. When I told them about his passing, they took it hard. Aaniya kept crying for a long time, and Ahad—he’s just six, he doesn’t know how to express his grief—came to me and said: “Aaj aap Taya Abu jesay lag rahay hain.” I asked him, “Are you missing him?” He nodded.

I tend to believe Rohail and I have a different tolerance for grief, being no strangers to it. But grief creeps up on you when you least expect it, and all facades of strength break.

I cannot go there to see him for the last time. Still, I’m grateful that technology gave me a way to share those last moments. When he first got hospitalised more than a month ago, the doctors gave him a week. But Allah gave us more than a month, during which we laughed, shared stories, and spent time together—even if only virtually for me. An opportunity to gather a few more moments before he became just a memory.

Today, thousands of miles away, I sit here trying to grasp at memories, trying to string them into words. He was one of my guiding lights, and now that he’s gone, a part of me goes with him.

His relationship with his children and his wife I haven’t even touched upon. But anyone could see that he instilled his love and his impeccable moral convictions into his children. The way they have handled his illness and his loss is a living tribute to him.

I may feel as though I have lost my father twice, but I know he is not gone. In the values he lived by, in the stories we retell, and in the love that endures, Bhai Jaan remains with us. May Allah grant him the loftiest place in Jannat, and may we honor him by carrying forward the light he left within us.