Khawaja Masum Bellah Kausarey: It was a quiet Fajar morning in 2017. After prayer, I lay on my bed, half-asleep, half-awake, as soft morning light filtered through the window. Suddenly, my slumber was broken by my father’s trembling voice over the phone. He was preparing for Hajj at the time. There was a wave of deep sorrow in his voice—like the memories of centuries past flowing through his throat. He said, “Son, I have upheld the spiritual lineage of our forefathers and continued the service of Deen and religion in our home. After my death, you must carry this silsilah forward and continue serving Deen and faith. That is my bequest to you.” His words fell silent, but they continue to echo in my heart to this day. In that moment, I felt an invisible burden descend upon my shoulders—an otherworldly pressure arose within me. A silsilah, a legacy, a responsibility, a spiritual promise had been entrusted to me.
Silsilah does not only signify a bloodline, but rather, it is a responsibility of the soul. My great-grandfather, Hazrat Shah Sufi Khwaja Faizuddin (RA), was not merely a descendant of a noble lineage, but a practitioner of spirituality, a struggle against the nafs, and a beacon of sincere worship. This chain traces back to Hazrat Abdul Qadir Jilani (RA), to Hazrat Ali (RA), and extends across Bengal’s Chandradwip and the soil of Baliyatali, embedding itself in the hearts of simple, noble descendants of the Nawabi family. The essence of this silsilah was to build a relationship with Allah—to ignite in the heart the light of His fear and love.
In my father’s eyes, I saw the flame of that spiritual realization. He never imposed it, nor did he boast about it, but in every step of his life, I felt the fragrance of his tawajjuh (spiritual focus), his tawakkul (trust in Allah), and the heartfelt invitation he extended. “Is patient, mountains of hardship will come,”—those paternal words still ring in my ears. My father often told me, “Son, be patient. Mountains of difficulties will come. Everything will pass. Endure, and you shall survive.” Those words have become like a mantra in my life. So many hardships, humiliations, and seemingly impossible obstacles have come my way—but those words gave my heart the strength of a stone.
At the time of leaving home, my mother placed her hand on my head and said, “My son, wherever you are in the world, no matter your condition, my prayers will always be with you.” She never spoke much, but every word from her was a compass for my life. My mother was extremely modest and God-fearing. I rarely saw her without Tahajjud prayer. During a point in my life when I was utterly broken and directionless, my mother told me, “Son, the world is vast—don’t shrink your heart. Always keep your heart big. In every difficulty, in every calamity, Allah’s help will surely come. Just be patient.” Her words have remained my sustenance in life. Her prayers and counsel gave me courage and guided me through every darkness.
My father used to say, “Just as there was distance between Prophet Yusuf (AS) and his father Yaqub (AS), there will be similar distance between us. But this separation will one day turn into a bridge.”
I did not understand these words back then. But as I gradually took on responsibilities of religious service in society—when adversity, deceit, confusion, and fear emerged—I realized that my father had heard the echoes of the future long before. In the mirror of memory, my father’s face appears clearly. Every time I sat before him, he would close his eyes and remain silent for a few moments. He would say, “You must become a scholar. You must become a muttaqi (pious). It is the muttaqis who change societies and eras. After my death, if you can become a muttaqi, only then will the rights of this silsilah be fulfilled.”
Our ancestral silsilah is deeply rooted in virtue and ethics. In his words, I often glimpsed the shadow of my own future. Every day, I felt as though I was sitting in an exam—the question paper had been given by my father, and I was writing the answers with my life.
Why was this bequest given to me?
I still pause at this question: “Why did my father entrust me with this bequest?”
I have brothers. I have relatives. There are so many disciples and followers—yet why me? Perhaps he saw something in me that I did not yet realize. Perhaps he sensed that I had silently stood by him through every prayer gathering, drawn by the pull of the umbilical bond—out of public sight, but deeply felt. I firmly believe that though many trials, losses, and hostile situations have come my way, I have remained safe by Allah’s immense mercy. I am convinced that behind this protection and success are the tearful prayers and heartfelt supplications of my God-fearing parents. Their Tahajjud prostrations, their cries, their pleas for my forgiveness at the Divine Court—these have been the shield in every calamity of my life.
As the Qur’an says, “At-Taqwa Tanzilul Bala”— through piety and supplication, hardships are lifted. I deeply believe that whatever calamities I faced in life, Allah removed them because of my parents’ prayers. Their duas are my life’s greatest treasure, and beneath the shade of those prayers, I remain sheltered in Allah’s mercy.
My father once said: “You speak little; understand much—your silence is a sign of my trust. Allah will make great use of this silence.” That “silence” now seems to have taken shape in words, in pen, in service. Bequest is not just about responsibility—it is also a trial of love. Bequests are not always burdens; they are sometimes a test of love.
Whom we love, we entrust. And in bearing that trust, we must pass through many trials of love. My father loved me—but his love did not lull me into comfort. Rather, his love pushed me into a battle—against the nafs, against the decay of society, against my own doubts and temptations.
Today, my father may lack the strength to walk like before. He is beset by conspiracies, but his bequest still lives on. When I speak of humanity in society, when I work in spreading Deen, when I guide the new generation towards spiritual elevation—I realize, I am preserving my father’s legacy.
This bequest has not only made me religious—it has made me sensitive, wise, and responsible. Today, I no longer see myself as merely “my father’s son”—I see myself as the bearer of a silsilah. A silsilah survives on patience and love. My father would say, “This responsibility will remain on your shoulders until your death. You may make many mistakes, but never flee. Never lose courage. Allah will give you strength. Be patient.” Indeed, “InnaAllaha Ma’as-Sabireen”— surely Allah is with the patient. Today, I carry that patience.
Whenever I begin to fall beneath life’s many adversities, I hear my father’s voice ring in my heart. Then I rise again, write again, stand beside people again—because I know, this silsilah is not mine. This silsilah is Allah’s. I am merely a humble bearer of it.
Author: The Executive Director of a Nongovernment Research & Development Organization, senior journalist, and Human Rights Activist.
