Muzamil Manzoor
“All I can see is that you never put your phone on silent mode, my friend,” he remarked politely as we sat together at a restaurant on the banks of Dal Lake, engaged in a discussion with a few other friends.
“I used to, but not anymore,” I replied calmly, with a faint smile.
“Come on, at least put it on silent during an important session like this,” he suggested, glancing discreetly at our other friends, perhaps expecting their agreement.
I smiled but said nothing.
How could I explain to him that there was a time when I had kept my phone on silent, and that decision had cost me something I could never recover?
How could I tell him that sometimes a phone call is not merely a call? Sometimes, it is a hand reaching out from the other side of life, asking you to hold on before it slips away forever.
I took a deep breath and looked towards Dal Lake. The water was calm, the mountains stood quietly in the distance, and the evening breeze carried the familiar scent of the valley. Everything seemed peaceful. Yet, somewhere deep inside me, a storm began to rise.
And then, as it had done so many times before, my mind travelled back to that day.
It was a few years ago.
I was sitting in a session much like the one I was attending that evening. We were busy discussing important things, exchanging opinions, laughing at jokes, and pretending, as people often do, that the world could wait until we had finished talking.
My phone rang.
The name flashing on the screen was Papa.
I stared at it for a moment.
It was unusual for him to call me during the day. Papa knew my routine. He knew when I was busy, when I was free, and when I would usually call him in the evening. He had memorised my schedule with the kind of affection that only a father possesses—the quiet habit of knowing his child without ever needing to ask.
For a moment, I wondered why he was calling.
Then I looked around at my friends. The discussion was intense, and I did not want to interrupt it. I pressed the red button.
The call ended.
I sent him a message:
Papa, I’m busy right now. I’ll call you later.
It took only a second to type those words.
I did not know that I had just postponed a conversation that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I put my phone aside and returned to the discussion. The conversation continued. People spoke, laughed, disagreed, and moved from one topic to another. Time passed without asking for permission.
And Papa waited.
Perhaps he sat somewhere with his phone beside him, looking at the screen from time to time. Perhaps he thought I would call as soon as I became free. Perhaps he told himself what fathers have told themselves for generations:
My son must be busy. He will call when he gets time.
He had spent a lifetime understanding my silences, forgiving my mistakes, and waiting for me to return home. That day, too, he waited.
But I forgot.
Not deliberately. Not because I did not love him. I was simply caught in the ordinary busyness of life—the very thing that makes us believe we can always make time tomorrow.
I did not realise that some tomorrows never arrive.
That evening, Papa called again.
This time, I was free.
I picked up the phone.
“Assalamualaikum, Papa!”
There was silence for a moment.
Then I heard his voice.
Oh, that voice!
It was broken, trembling, and strangely unfamiliar. The same voice that had once called me home for dinner, guided me through difficult days, and filled my childhood with a sense of safety now sounded as though every word required an enormous effort.
“Papa! What happened? Are you alright?”
I could hear something in his breathing. Something that frightened me even before he spoke.
“Son,” he said slowly, “I haven’t been feeling well since yesterday.”
My heart tightened.
“Since yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Papa?”
There was a brief pause.
“I called you today,” he replied.
Those five words pierced me more deeply than anything else he could have said.
I called you today.
I remembered the missed call. I remembered the red button. I remembered my message asking him to wait.
For a moment, I could not speak.
Papa continued, explaining that he had wanted me to take him to the hospital. But when I did not answer, some unknown stranger had stepped forward and taken him there.
An unknown stranger.
Someone who did not know his name, his favourite food, the stories of his youth, or the sacrifices he had made to raise his children. Someone who had no memories of holding his hand as a child or hearing him pray for his family’s well-being.
A stranger had done what his own son had been too busy to do.
I felt a terrible heaviness settle in my chest.
“Papa, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I should have answered. I should have been there.”
I wanted to ask a hundred questions. I wanted to know where he was, what the doctors had said, and how badly he was feeling. Most of all, I wanted to be beside him, to hold his hand, to tell him that his son was coming.
But guilt has a cruel way of making even the simplest words difficult to speak.
“Papa, I’ll come. Don’t worry.”
I tried to sound confident, but I was already frightened.
And then, in the middle of that conversation, Papa said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“Son, a phone may be a distraction, but it can save a life if used judiciously.”
He did not say it angrily.
He did not accuse me of being careless.
He did not remind me that I had ignored his first call.
He simply offered me a lesson, as fathers do—even when they are the ones who need help.
I wish I had understood the full weight of those words at that moment.
I wish I had known that a father could be teaching his son one final lesson without either of them realising it.
I wish I had told him how much I loved him.
Instead, I held on to the promise that I would make everything right.
I thought there was still time.
There is always time, we tell ourselves.
Until there isn’t.
At nine o’clock that night, my phone rang again.
It was a friend.
I answered.
His voice was different. There was no greeting, no casual question, no ordinary exchange of words.
He paused before speaking.
Then came the sentence that divided my life into two parts: the life in which Papa was alive, and the life in which I would spend the rest of my days wishing I could hear his voice again.
“Your Papa has passed away. It was a heart attack.”
For a few seconds, I heard nothing.
Perhaps he said something more. Perhaps he tried to comfort me. I cannot remember.
The world had suddenly become unfamiliar.
My hands trembled. My throat tightened. I wanted to cry, but the news was too enormous for my tears to understand.
Papa was gone.
The man whose voice had once made every difficulty seem smaller was no longer there to answer my questions.
The man who had waited for me all his life had left without waiting for me one last time.
And I had not been there.
I do not remember how long I sat in silence. I do not remember what I did immediately afterwards. Some moments are so painful that the mind refuses to preserve them clearly.
But I remember one thing.
I looked at my phone.
The same phone that had carried Papa’s voice to me that afternoon was now lying silently in my hand.
I wished it would ring again.
I wished his name would appear on the screen.
I wished I could hear that trembling voice once more, even if it were only to say, “Son, are you busy?”
I would have left everything.
The discussion, the session, the people, the world itself.
I would have run to him without asking a single question.
But death does not offer second chances to those who finally understand the value of the first.
That night, I learnt that regret has a sound.
Sometimes, it is the silence after a phone call.
Sometimes, it is a father’s voice replaying in your memory.
And sometimes, it is the unbearable echo of a sentence you can never answer:
I called you today.
I returned to the present as my friend continued talking about the importance of keeping phones on silent during serious discussions.
I looked at him.
For a moment, I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to explain that I had once been the kind of person who silenced his phone to avoid interruption, who believed that an important conversation could wait and that a missed call could always be returned.
But how could I explain a grief that had taken me years to understand?
How could I describe the emptiness of having a father’s number saved in your phone when you know that no matter how many times you dial it, he will never answer?
I simply said, “My friend, I have my reasons.”
He looked at me, perhaps sensing something in my voice, and did not press further.
I took my phone out of my pocket and looked at the screen.
There were a few notifications, some messages, and missed calls from people who could be called back.
I thought of Papa.
I thought of his tired voice, his words, and the stranger who had taken him to the hospital when I had failed to answer.
Most of all, I thought of that last call.
The call I had received but never truly understood.
Since that day, I have never been able to put my phone on silent without remembering him.
Not because I believe every call is an emergency. Not because I expect tragedy whenever the phone rings. But because life has taught me something that no book, lecture, or discussion ever could.
The person calling you may be waiting for nothing more than a few words of reassurance.
They may want to hear your voice.
They may need your help.
Or they may simply want to know that you are there.
We often believe that the world will fall apart if we interrupt an important meeting, leave a discussion unfinished, or postpone our work for a few minutes.
But the truth is that most discussions can wait.
Most meetings can be rescheduled.
Most messages can be answered later.
But sometimes, the person on the other end of the line cannot wait.
Today, whenever my phone rings, I look at the screen a little longer than I used to.
And whenever I see Papa’s name in my old call records, I feel the same ache in my chest.
I still have so much to tell him.
I want to tell him about the things I have learnt, the mistakes I have made, the days I have survived, and the moments when I needed his advice but had no one to ask.
I want to apologise for that afternoon.
I want to tell him that I finally understand what he meant.
But the number remains silent.
And I am left with the words I never got to say.
Papa, forgive me.
I was busy that day.
I thought I could call you later.
I did not know that later would become never.
And now, every time my phone rings, a part of me still hopes it is you.
Because some calls end when we hang up.
Some calls remain unanswered.
And some calls become a lifetime of regret.
That was Papa’s last call.
And it became the longest conversation of my life.
Behind the Veil
Who says these words behind the veil?
Who calls to share this grace and joy?
Love arrives from all sides every moment
and tells new stories each time.
There are no goodbyes, no treachery for those
whose hearts yearn for thy mercy and kindness.
Load up. Say no to this dusty place.
Another world awaits and rides ahead of us.
Giving up the soul is the main business of this caravan
with the chosen one leading.
Be humble. Be cautious and careful.
Don’t look for justice here in the jungle
where your animal soul gives you bad advice.
Pour out enough wine so that you stop talking.
You are a lover, and love is a tavern
where no one makes much sense.
Be silent my friend. Seek your beloved.
And find the great treasure in this silence.
When tongue becomes a chatterbox,
It is useless to listen to the inner voice of the friend.
Even if you put words as diamond,
and held the kingdom as vast as the Solomon’s—
they become pointless.
Live in this love-ocean, the total marriage of souls,
and in the death-union.
Dissolve in friendship like two drunkards fighting.
When the inner voice of the friend is heard,
It becomes the golden ladder—
reaching unto the beloved.
Breathe. Break these iron chains.
You’re forever free. Escape.
About The Author
Irfan Alam is a writer and poet hailing from the valley of Jammu and Kashmir, India. A Post Graduate in English Literature, he is currently serving as a teacher in a local High School. Poetry fascinated him right from the very childhood and manifested the dynamic side of his life. The flavours of poetry influenced him in a fantastic way and uses it as a tool to express deep ideas and thoughts.
Experience Love
Sell your brain and buy love instead.
Many times reason makes you doubt things.
While love is a ladder reaching unto God
Step into it. Don’t falter in between.
Experience love.
And die before you die in Love.
We love this death. And die for more.
Only ignorance would say,
I will die the day after tomorrow.
Submit to love without thinking.
Be crazy enough and go mad.
Love holds many secrets.
Reveal it to none, but you.
Love escapes many times
leaving all the six directions of reason.
There is no north, east, south, west,
up, and down.
There are no limits or boundaries in love.
Love wanders with other business to transact,
Something to do with incomparable beauty.
There are secret things happening in love.
In this love the boundaries collapse.
The mind, that old architect of walls
lays down its compass and its ruler,
surrendering to the expanse of the beloved.
