Some people never really fade from our memories, even long after they have departed from this world. Their presence lingers in familiar surroundings, their words continue to echo in our minds, and their memories return with renewed intensity at the slightest reminder. Janab Asif Pasha was one such person. I shared a close bond with him, a relationship that grew deeper in the course of writing his biography.
The other day, when I visited his home in Falcon Valley, Shaikpet, memories of our long conversations came flooding back. The drawing room, where I had spent countless hours interacting with him, looked much the same as it always had. The sofa set on which he would sit, the revolving bookstand that stood nearby, and the familiar surroundings were all in place. Everything seemed just as it had been during his lifetime. Everything, except the man himself.
His absence was striking. It was difficult to reconcile the stillness of the room with the lively conversations that had once filled it. I could almost picture him sitting in his favourite place, ready to share a thought, recount an experience or embark on one of those engaging discussions that could stretch on for hours.
The room had retained his presence, even as it silently testified to his absence.
His daughter, Husna Anjum, and son, Afaq Tanveer, took me down memory lane as they recalled their father’s final moments on December 28, 2025. It was an account marked by a quiet poignancy. After dinner, he had taken his regular medication and switched on the television to watch the news. His daughter was arranging his medicines when, moments later, she turned around to find him slumped in his chair. That was the end.
There was no prolonged illness, no visible agony, no drawn-out struggle. He appeared to have slipped away peacefully, almost effortlessly, into his heavenly abode. For a man who had lived life on his own terms, there was something deeply moving about the manner in which he departed.
Perhaps what makes his passing even more poignant is the remarkable coincidence surrounding the completion of his biography. Asif Pasha had been waiting eagerly for the book to be completed. A day before his death, I met him at the Media Plus office, where we saw the first copy of his biography, No Regrets: The Life and Times of Asif Pasha. He turned its pages, looking through the work that had captured the story of his life. He then asked me to meet him the following day.
But that meeting was never to take place. He passed away that very night.
Looking back, the sequence of events seems almost like a perfectly timed finale. He had lived to see his life’s journey take the shape of a book. His long-cherished dream had been realised. The first copy was in his hands, and his story was ready to be told to the world. It was as though he had completed the final chapter of his earthly journey and quietly turned the last page.
One cannot help wondering whether there was a certain completeness in that moment. He had seen his biography, held it in his hands and known that the work he had been waiting for was finally accomplished. For someone who had lived a full and purposeful life, perhaps there was little left that he felt he needed to wait for.
On an earlier occasion, Asif Pasha had collapsed while chairing a meeting at his home. He regained consciousness a short while later. The incident, however, left him reflecting on the nature of death. He told his daughter how wonderful it would be if one could pass away just as suddenly, without prolonged suffering.
In the end, that wish seemed to come true. When his time arrived, death came quietly, without the pain and anguish that so often accompany the final hours of life. Interestingly, on his last day he had read the Quran as usual. I wonder what verse he recited that day. It was the final verse of Surah Ya-Sin (36:83):
فَسُبْحَانَ الَّذِي بِيَدِهِ مَلَكُوتُ كُلِّ شَيْءٍ وَإِلَيْهِ تُرْجَعُونَ
“So glory be to Him in Whose Hand is the dominion of all things, and to Him you will be returned.”
Asif Pasha was a man with a heart of gold, a rare individual who stood apart from the crowd. Though he had his share of public life and political associations, he carried none of the airs and graces that so often accompany those who occupy positions of influence. He was unassuming, approachable and refreshingly free of pretence. His was a personality that did not need outward display to command respect.
What I particularly remember about him was his natural warmth and the ease with which he engaged in conversation. There was no artificiality in his manner, no attempt to impress. He was simply himself, and perhaps that was one of his greatest qualities.
My recent meeting with his children was, therefore, a deeply gratifying experience. It was a pleasure to converse with Husna Anjum and Afaq Tanveer, both of whom share their illustrious father’s keen interest in religion and books. Their intellectual inclinations and thoughtful recollections offered a glimpse into the home and the values that had shaped Asif Pasha’s life.
As I listened to them, I felt that something of their father continued to live on through them. His love of learning, his intellectual curiosity and his engagement with matters of faith had not disappeared with him. They had found a home in the next generation.
As I left their house, I carried with me more than memories. I carried the image of a man whose life had touched mine in a special way, whose story I had the privilege of recording, and whose absence had made the familiar surroundings seem strangely incomplete.
