07/08/2026
accept, ARM & Strive
An excerpt for friends and family.
"What's in a name?” Shakespeare.
Mazhar.
Let us go then, T.S. Eliot and I.
We are all gifted by our Creator (swt) in many different ways. I was born with an elephant's memory. I have always remembered each and every individual I have ever come across in my life, recognizing them instantly even when we meet again after decades.
Gao, an executive from a Chinese multinational corporation, was absolutely stoked when I addressed him by his first name during a meeting at their corporate headquarters in Qingdao, China. He had driven me around in his maroon Chevrolet hatchback a few years prior.
Even more surprised than Gao was the CEO of a Pakistani firm who had traveled with me for the meeting. Moin—whom I secretly nicknamed 'Cassie the Curious'—asked, "How do you remember the names of thousands of people you meet in the corporate world?"
I responded, "It is not that difficult. I relate people to something important."
He probed further, "How did you remember Gao?"
I said, "I drink its milk every day."
Looking a bit nervous, he asked, "How would you remember me, then?"
I smiled and said, "Pakistan’s wicketkeeper-captain, Moin." The CEO heaved a huge sigh of relief.
I must admit, my Creator (swt) has always kept me in the arms of angels, keeping me alive despite my own best efforts to die.
How the machinery of life works!!!
My grandmother, Amma Ji, used to sing to me: 'Bittu Mera Ghori Chadhaya'.
Aged four, I was home alone one day in 1976 with my Amma Ji, Bibi Ghulam Fatima. Due to her advanced age, Amma Ji suffered from mobility issues and was mostly bedbound. Though she had platoons of grandsons and granddaughters, I remained her absolute favorite until the day she breathed her last. She always kept me close to her heart and body.
On that eventful day, I was lying in bed in the arms of my Amma Ji. When she fell asleep, I slipped out and headed to the street to play with the other children. At the time, we lived at 35 Nisbet Road, Lahore—our ancestral home. The houses in that residential area did not have a large footprint, but they made up for it in height, standing at least five storeys tall.
While playing in the street, we children wandered into the house directly opposite ours. The foyer was small, roughly five by seven feet, where a red Yamaha motorcycle was parked on its double stand. The other children urged me to climb onto the motorbike and pretend to ride it. Because I was so small, they helped me up. Sitting atop that bike, I felt like a king surrounded by six to eight courtiers.
Mid-play, one of the children accidentally pulled the fuel line from the motorbike. The tank must have been full; a massive amount of petrol spilled over my left leg and pooled across the floor. The small foyer where the bike was parked had only two ways out: the single main exit door and a steep flight of stairs leading to the mezzanine floor.
One of the older boys suggested that a single matchstick, if lit and thrown onto the petrol, would create a spectacular ball of fire. Being only four years old, I sat there like a sitting duck atop the motorbike, with absolutely no idea of what was about to happen. One of the kids—a boy nicknamed Tamba—ran off and quickly returned with a matchbox. The oldest boy, Shera, who had come up with the idea, struck a matchstick and tossed it directly into the spilled petrol.
In a flash, a massive ball of fire erupted all around me, roaring up to the seven-foot ceiling. Terrified by the sudden explosion, the children panicked. As they scrambled to escape, they slammed the main exit door shut and bolted it from the outside.
At just four years old, my legs and thighs caught fire. As the flames consumed me, I kept burning, screaming and crying in total terror, completely helpless. It was a truly horrific experience. For a long time, I wondered why my Allah (swt) would allow an innocent four-year-old child to burn in such an inferno.
Perhaps the Creator (swt) wanted this Faqir to fire a profound warning shot for modern times—an era where immodesty, vulgarity, and indecent behavior have become commonplace across our country and the wider world. Moreover, it taught me a vital, practical lesson: we desperately need the strictest Safety, Health, and Environment (SHE) measures embedded into every household and workplace, both in Pakistan and globally.
People, please listen to this Faqir intently.
Hell-Fire is unimaginable. Roger, Roger, Roger that!
Repent, and seek Allah’s (swt) Forgiveness, day in day out.
My first super natural wonder on the planet Earth occurred. With fire all around and I being helpless, an invisible force with a pair of two soft feather light hands lifted me from the motorbike and made me stand on the ground, which too was burning. Then the invisible force started directing and pushing me towards the flight of stairs.
The Faqir kept climbing the stairs with half of his body on fire.
Amma Ji, Thank you. Your Bittu Ghori Chadh eee Gaya.
My Allah (swt) is Witness to all this, if I lie I burn in Hell-Fire.
I could not see who exactly lifted me, could be an angel or “someone else”. I vividly recall those were 12 to 15 steps, leading to the mezzanine floor. That invisible force guided the Faqir till a point where another human being could see me burning.
The first person who witnessed me in that condition was the mother of my childhood best friend Touqi. His mother used to call me Bittu Bao. I watched the angel woman screaming and running for help. After that I started losing my consciousness.
When I regained some consciousness, I found myself in the arms of another angel, nervous and in a hurry. That man took me to Mayo Hospital, Lahore in a rickshaw. On that day the doctors had gone on strike and the emergency was closed (guys never ever close an emergency, even if the sky falls). That person was determined, and then I was taken to Sir Ganga Ram Hospital, Lahore. The fire on my body had gone out, and huge boils, burnt skin and even a bone became visible.
I was taken to the operation theatre, and when the anesthesia lost its magic, I found both my legs and thighs wrapped in surgical cloth and gauze.
I remained hospitalized for months and underwent multiple surgeries. Two persons in particular looked after me 24/7. My beloved mother Ammi Jaan, as my Daddy was hyper-sensitive, and did not have the heart to see his only son (at that time) suffering. The other person who looked after me day and night was my Chacha Muhammad Hussain who worked as a laborer at a Tandoor at the corner of our street. He somehow got attached to us, and became a family member. Chacha Ji after my full recovery showed me Maula Jutt and all Punjabi movies run in the cinemas those days. He would get me cold drinks and snacks there. Once home, I told everyone I’m hungry as Chachi Ji did not get me anything.
Oye, maulay nu Maula na maray tai maula naeyo marda.
Thank you Chacha Muhammad Hussain!
Once discharged from the hospital, I returned home to be looked after by my eldest sister, Mashal (whom my Sunny nicknamed 'OG'). She would always run to fetch me a glass of water whenever the traumatic aftereffects of that raging fire gripped me. Then there was my elder sister, Shabnam ('Aapa')—the very mention of her name brought an immediate sense of coolness around me.
I was also enveloped by the love of my first cousins, Mahrukh Kirmani Ali ('Rukhi Baji') and Gulrukh Kirmani Nabi ('Guria Baji')—the daughters of Syed Ahmad Saeed Kirmani, a prominent minister—and my all-time favorite aunt, Begum Shaista Kirmani. She was an extraordinary woman who would feed me with absolute devotion at every breakfast, lunch, and dinner whenever I stayed with her at her beautiful homes, first in Mozang and later in Shadman Colony, Lahore.
My army of cousins, which looked after me requires a separate book.
Thank you all!!!
During that painful period, I asked only one thing from my Mom, get me Burnol, get me Burnol, and get me Burnol.
Burnol finally arrived. One of our distant neighbors Chadda Ji another angel known for his humor in our entire community one fine morning entered our house and without seeking anyone’s permission, took out a bottle from a bag and forcefully applied some strong smelling dark maroon liquid on both of my legs and thighs. In the evening after work my Daddy saw the medicine on my legs and got angry with my Ammi Jaan for allowing Chadda Ji to do so. My Mom had no answer. But the answer was in that magical medicine, my burnt skin started healing quickly and my Allah (swt) eliminated my excruciating pain.
So guys, the Faqir warns you.
There won’t be any Burnol in the Afterlife.
accept, ARM & Strive now.
It took me more than a year to get back on my feet. But the scars on my body are dark and deep giving me every day reminder about the torments of fire.
In 1992 after graduating from GCU, Lahore, I got attached to some mystics who most of the time remained out of the sight of people and disliked fame. During that time I kept a beard (also now), and wore a turban according to their teachings.
One day I came to know that our neighbor Pa Hameed (a milkman) had passed away.
It was evening time and I went to attend his funeral. When his body was laid for the funeral prayer there was no maulana to lead. I being ba shara (following Sunnah of the Final Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah (swt) be upon him) at that time was asked by many people to lead the funeral prayer of Pa Hameed.
I did so, and prayed for him.
As willed by my Allah (swt), my young son Abdurrahman Mazhar fell ill on the 18th April 2024, almost a year after graduating from LUMS, and met his Creator (swt) on the 30th June, 2024.
I felt deep pain for my loss, and my Ammi Jaan felt deep pain for me.
One day, when my Ammi Jaan came to visit me at my home, I shared the vivid memories of my childhood fire accident with her. I said to her, "Ammi Jaan, it could have easily been me at four years old returning to my Creator (swt). Yet, here I am, having outlived my own son”.
Her reply was simple, anchoring me in faith: "Abdurrahman's life was written by Allah (swt) exactly like that”.
Seeking answers to a lifelong mystery, I then asked my Ammi Jaan, "Who was the kind man who took me in his arms and rushed me to the hospital when I suffered those severe burns?"
She told me that he was Pa Hameed.
More than three decades later, the pieces finally fell into place, and I realized why I had been chosen to lead the funeral prayer for Pa Hameed. Perhaps it was Nature's profound way of allowing me to finally say to him: "Thank you. You saved my life."
We live in an inter-dependent world, and the purpose of life that I learnt from mystics and good souls is "help others unconditionally".
