18/05/2026
What do I say? Where do I start? I truly do not know. Many times I wanted to write about him—about his love, his devotion to the people he cared for, and the life I saw him live—but each time I stopped myself. Not because there was nothing to say, but because I never imagined I would be writing about him like this, and certainly not after losing him so suddenly.
And yet, today I find myself writing. Not because I feel ready, but because I feel I must. I feel a deep need to put these thoughts into words—for him, for my family, and for everyone who knew him, even if only for a short while.
To many, he was Mr. M.T.M. Rizwan, the Managing Director of Thihariya International School. But to me, he was family. He was my brother-in-law, yet I always saw him as an elder brother, and he treated me like his own sister. “You will always be my baby sister,” he would say, and he meant it. No matter how much time passed, that love never changed. Even in the smallest ways, he showed his care—bringing me little things he knew I would like, remembering the smallest details, always thinking of others.
He knew each one of us so well, often even before we could say what we wanted. Whenever we met—whether at home or somewhere else—he would always have something for us. It was never about how big or small it was. It was just his way. He could never come empty-handed when it came to people he cared about.
Over time, I understood that this was not just something he did—it was who he was. A giver. To family, to neighbours, to employees, to anyone who crossed his path. There is a saying that there are two kinds of people in the world: givers and takers. Takers may move ahead faster in life, but givers are the ones who leave behind something that truly lasts. When I look back now, I realise he was exactly that kind of person. He may not have made noise about what he did, but he quietly built something lasting in the lives of so many.
There was also something about him that naturally drew people towards him. From little children to elders, even strangers who met him for the first time—people respected him and felt comfortable around him. Whether it was at a restaurant, a petrol station, an airport, or anywhere else, he carried himself with a kind of dignity and warmth that people noticed without him even trying.
My journey with him began in 2004, when he married my sister. From that day until the day we lost him, he remained someone I deeply admired. In all those years, I never once saw him raise his voice or his hand at my sister. He cared for her with a kind of love that felt rare in today’s world—patient, respectful, and steady.
He showed me that being a man is not about being loud, strong, or dominant. It is about how you treat people—especially the ones closest to you. Through him, I learned that real strength lies in kindness, patience, and respect. He set a standard that is not easy to find.
The school itself was built on a powerful vision by its founders, Mr. and Mrs. Jalaldeen—to make English-medium education available to those who otherwise would not have had access to it. It was never meant to be a privilege for a few, but an opportunity for many.
When my parents stepped down in 2005 and handed over the responsibility to my sister and him, I remember how young they were, yet how determined. Running a school is not easy. It is not just about administration—it is about shaping young minds, guiding lives, and protecting a vision that affects an entire community.
In him, I saw someone who took on this responsibility not as a role, but as a duty. He carried it with sincerity and commitment. Whether it was helping a child whose parents were away, supporting staff, or working towards the growth of the school, he gave his time and energy without holding back. Many times, he carried these responsibilities quietly, without expecting recognition.
Today, the one who carried so much of this has left us. And the weight of it now falls heavily on my sister to continue what they built together. I have always believed that each person is brought into this world for a purpose, and I feel that his purpose was deeply connected to this school and the people it serves.
He was taken from us far too soon, at a time none of us were prepared for. We miss him deeply—his presence, his guidance, his way of being there for everyone. No one can ever replace him.
But even in his absence, what he built remains. The legacy he helped create—with so much care, effort, and selflessness—continues to stand strong. What began as one institution has now grown into separate schools for boys and girls, continuing the same vision.
We remember him not just as a leader, but as a man who gave without expecting anything in return. A man who lived with purpose, cared deeply, and left behind something meaningful.
And as we move forward, we hold on to what he stood for—education that is accessible, meaningful, and not reduced to a business, but kept as a service to society.
May the Almighty forgive his shortcomings, reward him for all his good deeds, and grant him the highest place in Heaven.
With love, respect, and prayers,
Hanzar Farwin Akbar
