The Beloved Of Everyone, Our Janji

فَجَعَلَهٗ نَسَبًا وَّ صِهْرًا ؕ

Then He has made for him blood-relationship and marriage-relationship.
(Holy Quran—25:54)

The mutual linkage of blood lineage and relationships by marriage) becomes the foundation of a new family. When a man and woman are joined in the bond of marriage, they begin a new household through the blending of the environments and cultures of their respective families. And it is an accepted truth that both one’s lineage and one’s in-laws—in one way or another—influence a child’s physical and spiritual upbringing.

Two women of pure temperament entered the marriage of Doctor Saeed Ahmad—women who, in every respect, were worthy partners in his married life. Of course, as the poet says, “Every flower has its own color and fragrance,” yet nobility of character, tolerance, contentment, and quiet self-sufficiency were values they shared. That is why, for most of their married years, these two women lived under one roof with grace and forbearance, and the same values shaped the upbringing of their children.

A clear demonstration of these high-minded women’s contentment and inner richness appeared after the migration to Lahore from his homeland Abbottabad—where they had seen their settled home and belongings reduced to dust and ashes before their very eyes.

And then, in a state of utter dispossession, they began building a household anew.

Doctor Saeed Ahmad sold a portion of his property in Abbottabad and arranged some capital to meet expenses. From this, he offered each of his two wives a sum of money. Although he spoke to them separately, their replies were essentially identical, and were to the following effect: Even before this, you remained responsible for our needs—and even now you are fulfilling every necessity. Why, then, should we take this money from you—especially in circumstances like these?

Doctor Saeed Ahmad deeply valued all relationships, of lineage as well of marriage, and throughout his life he carried everyone along as though they were a single family. On the side of lineage, apart from his only sister, he had three paternal cousins; and on the side of marital ties, he had two brothers-in-law—each bound to him always by strong ties of affection and fidelity—so that he became “Janji” to them all.

“Janji”! The story of this unique and endearing nickname has its own charm. His sister taught her son, Mubarak Abdullah, to address him as “mamoon jaan” (dear maternal uncle). In village speech, people commonly add “ji” after a term of relation, so the boy himself appended “ji” and began saying “mamoon Janji.” But when his niece Ruqaiya learned to speak, she dispensed with the formality of mamoon altogether and began calling him simply “Janji.” This small, love-filled name suited his personality so perfectly—and was liked so widely—that he became “Janji” to the entire household.

The family into which “Janji” was born and raised consisted of only a handful of people, and even across the three or four generations before him, no one appears to have had a large number of children. Yet Allah the Most High granted him many children. Two beloved sons—Abdul Hayee Saeed (the first) and Abdul Karim Saeed (the first)—passed away in early childhood, leaving their mothers’ laps empty. Besides them, Allah granted him seven sons and six daughters, and he left no stone unturned in attending to their training and upbringing. He ensured that each of his children had the opportunity to obtain the best education then available, because this was important for earning a livelihood and living an honorable social life.

But in shaping human beings of sound morals and character, he never ignored the importance of awareness of religious knowledge. In a supportive and pleasant home environment, he provided his children with religious and moral training—through which his children, and especially his sons, were blessed with good opportunities for employment, and, because of their excellent morals and character, remained respected and well-regarded everywhere.

The reputation of Janji’s lofty ethics, integrity, and truthfulness was acknowledged in every place, and people regarded his children as bearers of the very same qualities. Once, his son Ikram Saeed appeared as a witness before a revenue officer. In deciding the case in favor of the claimant, the officer remarked that after the testimony of Khan Bahadur’s son, there was no need for any other witness. This is just one among many such examples that attest to the good name of the man himself and of his family.

His eldest son, Abdul Hayee Saeed, earned international renown as a physician. He is also credited with inventing an instrument used in diagnosing respiratory diseases. His younger son, Zahid Ahmad Saeed, is counted among the leading specialists in gastroenterological disorders. He introduced to the world—under the name “Saeed Six Shooter”—an instrument designed to stop gastric bleeding immediately.

Abdulla Saeed, in addition to rendering distinguished military service, was appointed to a diplomatic post. Muhammad Saeed, Ikram Saeed, and Nasir Ahmad Saeed were also affiliated with the Pakistan Armed Forces and demonstrated outstanding performance. However, their association with Ahmadiyyat stood in the way of promotion to the highest ranks. Even those residents of District Hazara who had once failed to value Janji were compelled to acknowledge the healing touch of Abdul Karim Saeed. Allah the Most High also granted this son (six years after Janji’s passing) the honor of serving as Ameer of the Ahmadiyya Movement, based in Lahore.

Janji lived to see all his daughters settled in their own homes, living prosperously and happily. He arranged for his eldest daughter, Ayesha, to receive medical education. In those days, the nearest medical college for girls was in Ludhiana (East Punjab). Without concern for distance or objections, he sent his daughter there to study. He had many hopes attached to his eldest daughter—especially that she would become a fine example for her younger sisters, who were ten to twenty years younger than her. Respecting this wish, “Bari Apa” lived her life with exceptional propriety and good order. For some time, she served as a professor at Allama Iqbal Medical College. Her colleagues and students regarded her with great respect.

When Bari Apa (Ayesha Baig) and her husband, Mirza Abdul Rahman Baig, decided to acquire U.S. citizenship, Janji—before their departure for America—presented her with the medal he had earned in anatomy as a gift, which brought joy to both father and daughter. An excerpt from Janji’s diary:

I presented Ayesha with my Anatomy medal (Beli Ram Lamont Medal), which I received in 1920—the same year Ayesha was born—and which no Muslim student before me had received. She was so happy that she clung to me and wept bitterly. My soul felt great peace, and I too wept a great deal. From my heart arose a prayer for their journey and for a safe life in their new homeland. I have shared sixty-three years of memories with Ayesha.

Through the marriages of his children, new relationships were formed, and bonds of kinship came to be linked with several other families. He gave his daughters-in-law and sons-in-law—and their families—a place of love and respect, and considered them part of his own family. When the engagements of three of his sons—Muhammad Saeed, Abdul Karim Saeed, and Nasir Ahmad Saeed—were arranged within Ahmadi households in the same year, he was deeply pleased and content. One day he said (in the presence of the biographer):

I see in my mind that, at the call of the adhan, my daughters-in-law’s footsteps turn toward the mosque; and when they return home, the courtyard fills with happiness. This sense and image of increasing liveliness in both the home and the mosque is, for me, a source of joy and deep reassurance.

Worldly prosperity is, of course, a cause for happiness, but Janji’s joy and peace of heart were tied to his children’s good name, their courage of faith, and their remaining steadfastly associated with Ahmadiyyat. By the special grace of Allah, his children—following in his footsteps—did not surrender before economic, social, or societal pressure, and remained firm upon the pledge of “placing faith before the world.” Allah the Most High also granted his children, in one form or another and according to their circumstances and capacity, opportunities to serve the faith.

From the sweet spiritual spring with which Janji had irrigated his garden, he also tasted the sweetness of its fruits in his own lifetime. His children remained obedient to him and always wished that nothing they did or said would wound the confidence and pride he held in them. He wanted to see his children prosperous—successful in both religious and worldly life—and adorned with bonds of kindness and affection among themselves. All his sons and daughters likewise desired to remain within Janji’s pleasure and approval. In his lifetime, his household was bound together as firmly as pearls strung on a single thread. He was pleased with all his children. Although he had set no expectations upon them for himself personally, whenever anyone showed him any kindness, he always expressed appreciation for it.

A Writing of Janji

I wish, relying on my memory, to put into writing a few notes about the kindness and loyal care my children have shown. The true accounting is with Allah, and the reward too is with Him. I am pleased with all my children, and I have no complaints against any of them. Differences of circumstance and temperament are part of the divine law. To this day I have tried to love all my children, and, as far as possible, not to place any burden upon them. Even so, if some burden has unavoidably fallen upon them, I do not regard it as a bad thing, and I am certain it will never be bad for them. All of them show consideration; they give love and they obey as well.

وَ اللّٰهُ عِنْدَهٗۤ اَجْرٌ عَظِیْمٌ

And Allah—with Him is a great reward. (Holy Quran—64:15)

In Janji’s lifetime, several precious members of his household passed away, leaving him with the wound of separation. Among them were his young grandson Muzaffar Ahmad Saeed; Muhammad Ahmad (son-in-law); Abdulla Saeed (son); Bibi Umm-e-Kulthum (wife); Bibi Zainab Saeed (wife); Feroze Alam Khan (son-in-law); and Anjam Saeed (daughter-in-law). In the face of these separations, he displayed the highest example of sabr-e-jameel—beautiful, dignified patience.

In his lifetime, his granddaughters and grandsons had also become parents. At the time of his passing, by the grace of Allah, the family had flourished so much that if everyone had lived in one place, Dar-us-Saeed would have taken on the form of a small settlement.

During his life, Janji taught all of us brothers and sisters the lesson of maintaining family ties, mutual harmony, consideration, and good conduct. After his death, our elder brother (Abdul Hayee Saeed) also wished to see his siblings move forward in life with the same mutual unity, and he expressed such hopes as well. Two or four days after Janji’s permanent departure, our brother gathered all the siblings who were present in Lahore into Janji’s room, and, in a very gentle and affectionate tone, addressed us all:

Our parents were a center for us: in every circumstance we remained attached to them, and in that way opportunities for us to remain connected to one another were also common. They are no longer among us, but values such as good conduct and consideration still exist within us. To remain bound to one another, we must uphold these values—and to keep our connection alive, we must continue, in whatever way we can, correspondence by letter, conversations by telephone, and visits and meetings.

All the brothers and sisters, with tear-filled eyes, listened to their soft-spoken brother. In that mournful atmosphere, Allah knows from where the courage to speak arose in me, and I said:

Brother, I too have something to submit to you. At the time of his departure, Janji left me in his home—a home that belongs to all of us. I understand that whether I continue to live in that home or move to another house, it will still be regarded as Janji’s home, and as the home of all of us. My wish is that all my siblings and relatives continue to come to this home and stay here just as it was customary for everyone to do in Janji’s lifetime.

Praise be to Allah that, to this day, all my brothers and sisters have honored this humble wish of mine. And the expectations and hopes our elder brother had expressed to his siblings—he himself remained faithful to them as well. Included here are two letters he wrote to me: one after Janji’s passing, and another shortly before his own death.

First Letter – December 8, 1996

My dear Safia,

No one can ever be another “Janji” for us. His children will keep his memory alive in their hearts forever, and it can never diminish with time. Everything that Janji did for all of us, and the happiness he brought us by keeping us connected to one another—these are the finest treasures of our lives. In the last few years of Janji’s life, you remained by his side. May Allah always keep you happy.

I regard all my brothers and sisters as equal with me. In keeping with my promise, I will remain in contact with everyone and will share in everyone’s joys and sorrows. May Allah bless us all with happiness.

Your offer, to everyone to stay in touch and to extend hospitality reflects your spirit of kindness and consideration.

Attiya and Saleema send you their greetings.

As always, yours,
Lala (Hayee)

Second Letter – June 24, 2009

My dear Safia,

Thank you for letting me know that you have returned. You must have had a delightful time in Canada with Waheed [Sadiq] and family. You were with Nasir [Ahmad Saeed] in his hours of grief (the passing of his wife), and you shared in his sorrow. I have tried several times to reach him by phone, but I have not been successful.

Attiya, along with me, sends you her very best wishes.

With affection,
Lala

Janji’s pure love and the flowing spring of spiritual blessings by which people were nourished were not confined to any single household, social class, or geographical boundary. The writings below have been set down—at the biographer’s request—by those devoted to him, by those who, with heart and soul, regarded him as their Janji. They have recorded these memories under the title “My Janji,” for this biography, Hayat-e-Saeed.

جَزَاھُمُ اﷲُ وَ اَحْسَنُ الْجَزَاء

May Allah reward them and grant them the best of rewards.

Abdul Ghafoor (Paternal Cousin)

How can I ever make your attributes manifest—how, and in what way?
Which blessings of your very being should I describe, and how many?

Once I told Janji that this time, in the village mosque, I too had led a few prayers. He embraced me and said: Our forefathers were among the righteous, and in Debgaran there are lofty traditions of our elders—and we must revive these traditions.

On one occasion, Shaikhzada Muhammad Ismail—who lived in the neighboring village of Shaikh Abad—and I became walking companions on the road. I was carrying some rolled-up papers in my hand. When he asked, I told him they were related to my artwork. He expressed a desire to see them. Among those papers was a pencil sketch of Janji that I had drawn only a few days earlier. When he saw the sketch, he spontaneously shouted “Zindabad!” and said: I am not capable of praising the doctor sahib, but I will say this: if prostrating to a human being were permissible, then by God I would prostrate to him.

When Mohsin Saqib learned that he had passed his MBBS, he immediately went to Dar-us-Salam to share the good news with Janji. Janji embraced him and said that the previous night he had had a dream: I saw some people gathered somewhere at the foot of tall buildings. When I asked them, they said, “We have come to congratulate Mohsin.” Janji used to pray a great deal for his success. In his final days, Janji once said to him: My heart very much desires to take you to the graves of my elders and tell you, one by one, about each grave. One evening, when we went to Shaikh Zaid Hospital to visit him, he asked, “Has my prayerful one not come?” [The MBBS degree of Pakistan is equivalent to the MD degree of the United States],

Some time before Janji’s death, someone saw in a dream that a boat—heavily laden with flowers—descended from the sky, and into the graveyard at Dar-us-Salam, stayed briefly, and then set off again toward the heavens. (This person, too, used to pray a great deal for Janji.)

May God show mercy to these lovers of pure nature.

— Abdul Ghafoor, son of Maulvi Muhammad Yaqub, resident of Debgaran

Along with this piece, my maternal uncle Abdul Ghafoor Saqib wrote the following note to me:

If, in these truthful incidents I have recorded, any incident seems to you unsuitable or does not meet the standard of this book, then you should certainly not include that portion. Or if, for any reason, you do not consider the entire piece appropriate, then strike it out altogether. I say this with complete honesty, taking God as my witness. Because this biography—written with such effort and painstaking care—should be wholly free of doubt and suspicion. You have accomplished a magnificent work, one which will be a source of honor for our entire family, and a guiding light for the generations to come, Insha’Allah.

Ayesha Rahman Baig

Note: Ayesha Baig—Janji’s eldest daughter—is no longer in this mortal world. Her daughter, Zahida Baig, recorded the events she had heard from her mother. The following piece is drawn from that account:

Janji—my father—raised and trained me in such a way that his self-confidence and strength of faith left a clear imprint on my character. My complete conviction in the recognition of God, and in the subtle, hidden-within-hidden workings of that Most Gracious Being, is itself a result of his upbringing and encouragement. He brought out the abilities hidden within me so beautifully that a passion to become a doctor took root in my heart—growing with time until, in the end, I became a successful physician.

This was in the days when Janji was afflicted with the dangerous disease of tuberculosis. For rest and recuperation, he took leave from Peshawar and came to Debgaran. After a few days, he had tents pitched in the dense pine forests of Koh-e-Bhingra, a few miles outside the village, and made that his residence. My mother, my younger brother Abdul Hayee Saeed, and I accompanied him. The place was exceptionally fresh and scenic—and also quite perilous. Armed attendants were always present, and it was under their supervision that my brother and I would move about and take walks.

This area was cut off from the wider world. Few—if any—would ever have been treated by a doctor there. Somehow the news spread that Doctor Saeed Ahmad was living in that forest. People began to come for medical treatment. Janji had brought medicines with him for emergencies and unforeseen needs, so no patient returned disappointed.

One day, a man arrived at our tent carrying his blind father on his shoulder. The old man had long since lost his sight due to cataracts. There appeared to be no means by which Janji could treat him, yet he did not send him away hopelessly. He quickly arranged—through his own contacts—for surgical instruments to be brought.

One day, when Abdul Hayee Saeed and I returned from our usual outing, Janji seated me—his eight- or nine-year-old daughter—before him and said:

Ayesha, tomorrow a blind man will undergo surgery. I have chosen you to assist me. You are young, but I have complete confidence in your abilities. You can do this. Look closely at all these instruments, recognize them well, and learn their names. During the operation, whichever instrument I call for, you will hand it to me immediately. There will not be the slightest margin for delay. Do not be unsettled by the sight of blood at all; rather, keep cleaning it as we go along with the help of bandages. God willing, Allah will help us in performing a successful operation.

The next morning, I was ready for my task. Father and daughter prayed together. The patient was laid on a flat rock. I stood beside Janji. With every passing moment, my heartbeat quickened—but I did not waver. I kept following Janji’s instructions steadily, and I found myself more and more awed by his mastery. Those were the decisive moments in which I fixed my aim: I, too, would become a doctor like my father.

A few days later, the bandage was removed. The sight of the man who had been blind for years had returned. He could hardly contain his joy. He said:

I used to pray to Allah, and I had complete certainty that one day, from the unseen, He would send someone for me—someone who would treat me. People called me mad and mocked me. Today they will see with their own eyes this truth and the wondrous manifestation of Allah’s power.

In that era, the modern instruments and medicines of today were not available. The success of an operation depended on the surgeon’s expert skill. Despite those extraordinary conditions and difficulties, such a successful surgery was clear evidence of Janji’s healing hand. That very incident gave my life a distinct and unmistakable direction. I proved to be a capable and skilled doctor, achieved notable success in medical research, and lived a life of high quality and purpose.

Colonel Mahmood Shaukat

There was a deep bond of Ahmadiyyat between Janji and our family. Our Ajiji (Khan Bahadur Ghulam Rabbani Khan) and Janji were not merely friends; they were like real brothers. They resembled one another so closely that a stranger could not even have imagined that the two Khan Bahadurs were not blood brothers.

When Janji was posted at the Mansehra Civil Hospital, I was still a young boy. Alongside his home, Ajiji had built a small mosque for the Ahmadiyya Movement community. Every day, Janji would join the Maghrib prayer, bringing his children with him. After the prayer, he would read Hadith to us. It was in those days that I became devoted to Janji’s excellent character, and in his personality I found an ideal model—someone whose every action I wanted to emulate. At that time Janji’s health was not very good. He would offer his prayer sitting down. Seeing him, I too began to pray sitting. One day, “Baji” (my grandfather) saw me praying seated; he took hold of both my ears, lifted me up to stand, and said: “He is ill, that is why he prays sitting. Is it necessary for you to imitate him in every single thing?”

As time passed, my love and reverence for Janji only grew. It is my good fortune that he accepted me as his son-in-law; in this way, my relationship and closeness with him became even deeper.

Janji and Ajiji would travel together to attend the Annual Convention, and we too were often their fellow travelers. Once, as we were journeying by train, some people boarded at a station beyond Rawalpindi and began quarreling with Janji over seating and space for luggage. As was his habit, Janji responded with patience and restraint; but Ajiji could not bear such behavior toward his brother. He immediately spoke in a stern voice: “Watch yourself—do not speak to him like that. He is a wali of Allah.” Such was the love, brotherhood, and mutual respect they had for one another.

At the Annual Convention, we often had the opportunity to meet elders of the Ahmadiyya Movement. Naseer Ahmad Faruqui would advise me that after retiring from employment I should dedicate my time to serving the faith. Janji had similar expectations of me. But I was only able to make that decision when, due to my job, I was living in Hyderabad and Janji spent a full month with us in our home. Day and night, there was prayer and religious conversation. His love for faith, and his yearning to serve it, so nourished my soul that the passion to serve the faith took firm root in my own heart as well. By the grace of Allah, I later had the opportunity in London to render some service—and even now, this desire remains alive within me, that I might be able to do more.

A few days after Janji’s passing, I saw him in a dream. Janji was riding a horse. Someone, introducing him, said: “This is the Qutab.” It feels to me that this was an indication of his spiritual rank.

Often I see Janji and Syed Asadullah Shah in dreams. I feel as though they are always present with me. In one dream—one I remember with complete clarity—I saw myself engaged in worship, and I submitted to Allah Almighty: “O Lord! So much of my life has passed; I have worshipped a great deal, yet the straight path has still not become clear to me.” In that very dream, Janji and Syed Asadullah Shah arrived. When I told them my dream, he said: “This dream of yours itself is the straight path.”

Janji would always ask me for prayers. I miss him greatly, and I also pray much for the elevation of his spiritual stature. May Allah Almighty accept these prayers, and grant me steadfastness upon the straight path and upon his footsteps. Ameen.

Mansur Ahmad

In my youth, during the days of the Annual Convention, Janji’s pure and luminous personality left deep impressions upon my mind and heart—yet I never had the good fortune of any personal acquaintance with him. All I was able to learn was that this spiritually uplifting figure was named Doctor Saeed Ahmad.

I went to the United States for higher education. In my absence, my parents chose Janji’s daughter, Khadija, to be my wife, and our match was settled. Thus a personal relationship was established between me and this righteous soul, and I was granted many opportunities to see and recognize a friend of Allah at close quarters, and to benefit from his spirituality. For this, no amount of gratitude I offer to Allah Almighty will ever be enough.

I recall an incident from the life of Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani (may Allah have mercy on him): a man heard mention of his piety and nearness to God, so he went to meet him and stayed with him as a guest for several days. During that time, he witnessed no miracle by which he might be convinced of his host’s special closeness to God. He grew somewhat disappointed and expressed his thoughts to him. Shaykh Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani (may Allah have mercy on him) asked: “Did you see any action of mine contrary to the Shariah, or contrary to the Holy Quran and Sunnah?” The man replied that he had not. He then said: “That, then, is the proof of one who has found Allah.”

I had several occasions to stay with Janji—in his company, in his home. I observed him closely in times of sorrow and in times of happiness. Later, as General Secretary of the Ahmadiyya Movement, I came even closer to him, and for fifteen years I remained with him day and night. With complete conviction, I can say that I never once found him doing anything—at any time, under any circumstance—contrary to the teachings of Islam.

Asma Shaukat

Janji was a righteous, upright, and God-fearing man. Both those close to him and those more distant were moved by his goodness—and who could ever forget him?

People of every kind, of high and low status alike, were devoted to him because of the grace and kindness of his dealings. Even with his own children, his affection and love had a distinctive warmth, and his approach to upbringing had a character all its own. He would always kindly overlook mistakes and, with gentleness, explain the difference between right and wrong. We too held a special love in our hearts for our compassionate father. We consistently avoided anything—any word or deed—about which there might be even the slightest suspicion that he would not approve.

Janji himself taught me to read the Holy Quran. In our childhood we lived at the Dadar Sanatorium. Between the Maghrib and Isha prayers, Janji would give lessons in the Holy Quran and Hadith—lessons that proved immensely beneficial in shaping our character. From an early age, religious and moral values became woven into who we were, and they later served as our guide.

Because of my husband Colonel Mahmood Shaukat’s service postings, we were transferred to different places. Once or twice each year we would certainly come to visit our parents, but Janji’s coming to stay with us happened only occasionally. However, when we were in Hyderabad, Janji stayed with us for a full month. Those days were profoundly special for us. A spiritual atmosphere prevailed in the home morning and evening. In the congregational prayer at dawn, his soul-stirring recitation—and then, throughout the day, the exchange of thoughts between Shaukat and Janji on religious and Ahmadiyya Movement matters—carried a particular, lasting effect. These days are a treasure of our lives, preserved forever in our hearts.

Before Janji’s passing away, I was granted the opportunity to spend several months with him in Lahore. He had become quite weak. At night, Safia [Saeed] would remain with him; in the morning, I would go and sit in his room. He would usually sleep after the Fajr prayer. When he opened his eyes and saw me, a beautiful smile would spread across his lips. One day he said, “What a wonderful daughter she is—when I open my eyes, I find her sitting right in front of me.” I would often massage his feet, and he would continue speaking to me in a soft voice. But alas, that time soon came to an end. At the moment of his departure from this world, all of us siblings were present with him. May Allah Almighty grant him an exalted station in paradise. Ameen.

Khadija Begum

My beloved Janji was without equal in nobility of character. He was a remarkably generous and compassionate man. His kindness and generosity were not confined to his relatives and family; they extended to everyone—without distinction. It would not be easy to put into words the breadth of his love for his children. He loved all of his children equally, even though each of us carried, in our heart, the feeling that perhaps we were the one dearest to him.

In raising his children, he never resorted to harshness. He would always, in a soft and gentle tone—according to the situation, and in keeping with a child’s level of understanding—adorn us with the finest morals, respect, and proper manners.

This incident is from when I was about five years old. One evening I was playing outside in the garden when I saw Gul Zaman Lala approaching. I immediately ran indoors to tell Janji that he had come. I said, “Janji! The barber has come outside.” Janji smiled, then called me closer and said, “If you address him like that, he will not feel good. You should call him Gul Zaman Lala—he is much older than you.” This counsel settled so deeply in my mind that it became part of my character.

When our grandfather (“Baji”) was still alive, my mother would mostly stay in Debgaran. I studied at the school at the Dadar Sanatorium. Every Saturday evening, Janji would take me with him to Debgaran. On the journey from Mansehra to Debgaran, I would ride on the mare in front of Janji. That feeling of traveling with him was so joyful that even today I can still sense its sweetness—especially because it also carried the eagerness of seeing my mother.

When I reached seventh grade, he sent me to Abbottabad to a boarding house along with my sister Asma, and he advised us, explaining: if you spend your time together with good conduct and graciousness toward one another, it will reflect the upbringing and atmosphere of your home, and you will be respected. The two of us spent our time together very happily, and to this day there has never been any disagreement between us.

He made every possible effort to adorn his children with education and lofty moral values. He taught us to be steadfast in prayer, fasting, and other religious obligations, and he instilled in us love and good conduct toward one another. At my wedding, he gave me the precious gift of Bayan al-Quran, saying that in his view there was no better gift than that. “Keep striving,” he said, “to understand it and to act upon it.”

It is my good fortune that a man of such integrity as Mansur Ahmad is my husband—someone who held deep love and reverence for Janji. Janji, too, loved Mansur and trusted him immensely. In the administrative affairs of the Anjuman, he regarded Mansur as his right hand. In this way, both of us—as husband and wife—were repeatedly granted opportunities for closeness to him. I, too, would sometimes be blessed with the chance to serve him in small ways. In many household and practical matters—especially the weddings of siblings, and matters of giving and receiving—I would assist him. Happily, he would say, “You are my vizir [minister]-daughter.”

All his life, Janji kept refining our moral sensibilities. Once, in the course of conversation, I remarked that a certain relative never comes to visit us. He replied, “Even so, you should still go and meet them. Maintaining family ties is beloved to Allah.” I always remember this counsel.

My husband Mansur Ahmad once mentioned an incident reflecting Janji’s deep absorption and surrender in prayer: the two of them were traveling together by car. Along the way, they stopped at a place and offered the prayer. After the prayer, Janji stepped aside and began brushing off his trousers, and Mansur noticed that large ants were crawling up his calf. He was astonished—how calmly Janji had completed the entire prayer in such a state. For an ordinary person, it would not have been possible.

My children also had the blessing of his company, and all four siblings were devoted to their maternal grandfather with heart and soul. We had complete faith that his prayers were accepted. Once we asked him to pray, the mind would be freed of every worry. With his passing, we have been deprived of that blessing. His presence was like a canopy over us; when that shade was lifted, the sense of loss became intensely greater. May Allah Almighty grant him every blessing of Paradise. Ameen.

Mubarika Alam Khan

My beloved Janji was an exceptionally kind and compassionate father. Countless memories of him are etched in my heart. What can I write, and what should I leave unsaid? All of his children were dearly loved by him. Yet I was the youngest among my sisters, and I used to think that perhaps I was the one he spoiled the most.

We siblings lived with our mother in Abbottabad. Janji would spend his Sunday holiday with us. In that single day, he would devote his full attention to our education and upbringing. He would listen to each child’s concerns, ask after our needs, and reassure us in every way. I did not have a particular passion for studying. He never pressured me; instead, he would always comfort me and encourage me. I remember it well: when I was in fourth grade, I had to submit my complete handiwork at school on a Monday morning, and a great deal of my work was still unfinished. Late into the night my mother and all the girls in the house were busy helping me complete it. A sofa set and a bed (for a dollhouse) still remained. When Janji saw this, he said, “Come, I’ll help too. I can at least stuff the cotton.” And so he stayed engaged with us until everything was finished.

After my marriage, when I had gone to my own home, he would write me letters filled with affection, and they eased the ache of being far from him. I felt him close to me, as though he were right there with me. My husband, Feroze Alam Khan, held Janji in great esteem and respect. In many matters, Janji would seek Feroze Alam’s advice and would say that his counsel always turned out well. Often, Feroze Alam and Janji would discuss current affairs.

When Feroze Alam left his military service, he chose Lahore for our permanent residence so that I might live close to my parents—because by that time my parents, too, had moved to Lahore.

But Feroze’s life did not remain with us; he left us far too soon. When Janji came to our home, I rested my head in his lap and wept. He kept gently stroking my head, consoling me, and he said: “My daughter, become content with the decree of Allah, and become a strong example of patience for your children. No one weeps with those who weep—and everyone laughs with those who laugh.” His comforting counsel gave me the strength to make peace with my circumstances. When Janji then departed from our home, I began to feel intensely alone. His reassuring words and his prayers used to support me—yet now only his loving memories remain with me. His goodness and his virtues will live on forever.

Muhammad Saeed

At around six or seven years of age, a small incident happened to me that turned out to be an important turning point in my life. As was customary, I was enrolled at the school in Dadar for my early education. I moved through the initial stages—kachchi, pakki, and first grade—and eventually reached second grade. Yet throughout that period I could not adjust to the school environment, nor did I develop any real desire to learn. Naturally, this situation was a cause of concern for Janji.

He made efforts to have an experienced, veteran teacher transferred to the Dadar school. But even he did not succeed in drawing me toward study. In the end matters reached the point where, one morning, I refused to go to school. Bubbo Ji (my mother, Zainab Saeed) tried endlessly, but I would not agree. Janji was called. He explained gently and lovingly, but I remained stubborn. When Janji adopted a slightly stern tone, I too—angry—picked up a vessel that was lying nearby and hurled it onto the ground. That act was beyond what Janji could tolerate. He seized me and delivered a strong slap.

Such an unexpected reaction from a loving father was enough to bring me back onto the right path. Crying, I set off for school with the servant.

This incident—together with my teacher’s opinion that “this child simply does not have the capacity to acquire learning”—compelled Janji to think about an alternative arrangement for my education. After consulting friends and making inquiries, it was decided to enroll us in Burn Hall, Abbottabad. Before admission, Babu Khurshid taught me the English alphabet and basic counting. I began to find studying somewhat interesting.

On the day of admission, Pasha and I—dressed in new clothes—were presented before Father Shanks. Janji would tell us that the moment he saw us, he said: “These children have been brought up very well.” Janji said that as soon as he heard these words, all his anxiety about our education disappeared. Pasha was admitted to Middle Kindergarten, and I to Higher Kindergarten. In the very first examination, I placed sixth, and my performance was deemed satisfactory. After that, my position improved gradually; within only a few years I began to secure first place in the class, and this continued throughout my entire education.

Sabiha Muhammad Saeed

The moment one mentions Janji, an ocean of memories comes surging forth. He was the axis of the entire family and the comforter of every individual. His heart held such breadth that everyone’s worries, anxieties, difficulties, and confusions could find room within it. He was a swelling river of reassurance and contentment.

My relationship to him was the delicate one of a daughter-in-law, yet he pampered me with the affection one gives a daughter. Masha’Allah, there were so many members of the household, yet he kept every person’s likes and dislikes in mind. When I came as a bride, bread from the tandoor was eaten in the home. Janji knew that I was accustomed to eating phulka (soft flatbread). Although I never expressed any dislike, he told the cook, Muhammad Zaman, “Make phulka for the lady.”

After moving to Lahore—partly due to frail health and partly because of the nature of his work—Janji would mostly remain in his room. But in the days in Abbottabad, after dinner he would sit among all the children and grandchildren and converse in a wonderfully engaging way, recounting past events with great charm. Those evenings will always remain with us.

There is so much one could say, but I will confine myself to two sentences of Janji that left a deep and indelible imprint upon my mind and heart.

The first: when my second daughter, Aaminah, was born, Janji called to congratulate me and said, “You know, don’t you, that we are very happy when we have daughters.” And truly, he valued daughters greatly. When he left everything in Abbottabad and moved to Lahore, at that time all the sons were employed outside the city. It was the daughters who served him in every possible way and looked after him—one would come in the morning, another in the evening, and another would come at night and sleep there. One day Janji said, “Now I understand how much of a mercy daughters are.”

The second sentence—which, to me, is my life’s true treasure—was this: a few days before his passing, I was standing beside him in the hospital when suddenly Janji said, “Do you know—you are very dear to me.” I found myself replying, “Yes.” Many times I wonder: did he say it to console me, and to draw a veil over my shortcomings? Or was it that in that heart—overflowing with love—there was room for me as well, despite my weaknesses?

وَاﷲُ اَعْلَمُ۔

And Allah knows best.

Among his many virtues, what moved me deeply was his good opinion of others. No matter how opposed someone might be—especially in matters concerning the Ahmadiyya Movement—he would still find some merit in that person. Once, in Janji’s presence, I mentioned to my husband that we should go visit a certain man. My husband replied, “He is always speaking ill of Janji. I won’t go.” Janji said, “You must go. Meeting and greeting often removes misunderstandings, and a path to improvement opens up.” Even within the family, he would overlook relatives’ weaknesses and keep his eyes on their good qualities. This is easy to say, but difficult to do. If, from Janji’s countless qualities, even a small portion were to fall to our share, we would count ourselves fortunate.

Abdul Karim Saeed

When a young child in the family first uttered the fresh, unusual form of address—“Janji”—it instantly delighted everyone’s heart. This mode of address is so perfectly in harmony with his personality that, across the world, those who cherish him adopted this very word—and he became “Janji” to all. It is a short word, yet it conveys the deepest feelings of closeness and affection that your ideal character and fatherly compassion awakened in the hearts of those who loved him. All who call him “Janji” are counted as part of his family.

Anyone who witnessed this side of his personality became devoted to him, and began to feel that he, of all people, was dearest to him. With complete certainty, that same feeling lived in my own heart as well—and indeed, it still does: that he loved me the most. Beyond this, there was also a special, deep bond between us as father and son, because we were both connected to the same profession. A sense of particular closeness always remained between us.

Of the countless dimensions of Janji’s life, for this writing I have chosen one: his love of knowledge. This dates back to 1957, when an artificial satellite named Sputnik was launched into space. In Abbottabad’s clear, transparent air, at some late hour of the night, it could be seen moving along its orbit in a star-filled sky. Everyone longed to enjoy that beautiful sight; so whoever saw it first would inform the others. Janji too was interested in it. And so, on one occasion, I woke him at two in the morning—despite the fact that he had returned that night from a long journey and had only recently gone to his room to sleep. Yet the astonishing thing is that he showed not the slightest annoyance at my disturbing his rest in this way.

Janji was a well-known and eminent doctor. He was constantly striving to stay informed about modern and up-to-date research related to medical treatment, and he never felt the least hesitation in seeking information about it in any way. With great humility he would ask others about such matters and expand his knowledge. When he was eighty-three years old, he learned the science of ECGs, and it left me utterly amazed that within a short time he was diagnosing heart conditions with great skill simply by examining ECG results. Even past the age of ninety, he learned about brain scans and the causes of stroke through this electrical/mechanical imaging of the brain.

People trusted him deeply. After consulting other doctors, they would show their prescriptions to him, and only after gaining full reassurance would they begin taking the medicines. If a prescription included a drug unfamiliar to him, he would call me on the phone to ask about it—and then he would advise accordingly.

Even at that age—when he was already in his nineties—patients would still come to him. He never sent anyone away disappointed; he would satisfy them regarding both diagnosis and treatment. He continued to study constantly so as to remain aligned with new research, new medicines, and their effects.

Until the very last days of his life, his devotion to learning and his eagerness to acquire knowledge remained alive in his heart. In my view, his practice and mindset were a complete embodiment of the Prophetic teaching that a believer should seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave. For every seeker of knowledge, his life offers a finest example. He remained in pursuit of knowledge, and in his prayers he would also include the Quranic supplication:

رَبِّ زِدْنِیْ عِلْمًا

My Lord, increase me in knowledge.

Sabiha Pasha Saeed

Janji belonged to the Hazara Division. He devoted his entire life to the tireless service of the people of his region, yet the treatment he received in return for his kindness is painful even to recount. In 1974, the buildings constructed with his lifetime savings—earned through his own hard work—were set ablaze before his very eyes, and that too as punishment for the “crime” that he had shown steadfastness in adhering to Ahmadiyyat. Our Janji and the other members of our family did not utter even a sigh of complaint; they set a lofty example of patience. Allah the Most High granted acceptance to this sacrifice and bestowed upon him the honor of leadership of the Ahmadiyya Movement. He fulfilled this responsibility until his very last breath.

Janji possessed a heart full of love, and his affection for children in particular was without equal. It felt as though there was a magnetic force hidden within him, drawing children toward him of their own accord. He was exemplary in maintaining family ties. He would support relatives in such a way that neither anyone else came to know, nor did the relatives themselves feel any sense of burden or indebtedness.

There was also a distinct quality to Janji’s worship. Seeing him absorbed in devotion would awaken a strange, profound feeling in the heart. I consider it my good fortune that Janji stayed with us in England. Later, when we returned to Abbottabad in 1981, he would also stay with us every summer. His presence had a special influence on the upbringing of our children, for which I give thanks to Allah. Even today, we feel the effect of his prayers in our lives. May Allah Almighty elevate his ranks in Paradise. Ameen.

Ikram Saeed

In this account, I wish to mention a few incidents from among the many—incidents that, on the one hand, reflect Janji’s nobility of soul and spiritual qualities, and on the other, continue to shape my character and my way of thinking.

In childhood, I developed the desire to learn how to give injections like Janji—so gently that the other person would not even feel pain. To fulfill this wish, I took out Janji’s syringe, filled it with water, and began practicing by injecting it into a fig tree. I even imagined that the water would make the tree greener. The syringe was made of glass; with the slightest pressure it broke. Having ruined an imported, expensive syringe, I waited—my heart filled with guilt and fear—for the day Janji would come from Dadar to Abbottabad.

I gathered courage and confessed my mistake to him. Janji’s reaction was the exact opposite of what I expected. He reached out, drew me to his chest, and kissed me. He was pleased by my honesty and said that he felt proud of my truthfulness. After that, throughout my life I never felt hesitant to admit my mistakes—and I did not even feel afraid of their consequences.

Another instructive incident concerns a beggar woman whom our pet dog had bitten. At the time, she immediately ran away. But a few days later, when the wound worsened and became infested with maggots, she came to Janji to complain. He gave her a place to stay. Morning and evening, he himself would dress her wound with his own hands, and he would take us children along to assist. He regarded it as his personal duty, and therefore did not seek help from the clinic attendants. Soon the woman’s wound healed, and she became completely well. Janji offered her the option of remaining in that very house with a fixed stipend—but she did not agree. She was a habitual beggar, and abandoning that habit was not easy for her. This example of Janji’s service and compassion left deep and positive marks upon my mind.

When Janji brought watches for my two elder brothers, I was still in fifth grade. It did not occur to me at all to feel that a watch had not come for me—because I knew that just as the bicycle was bought for me after my two brothers, the turn for a watch would likewise come later. But for some reason Janji felt that I had been displeased by it. He called me aside in private and, speaking with great affection, advised me that to be so affected by seeing something with others that one immediately desires to have it—or to carry feelings of envy for others—is not among noble traits. Rather, it is one’s duty to be grateful for what Allah Almighty has already bestowed upon one.

Then he gave me his precious gold watch—the one that King Abdulaziz ibn Saud had presented to him, as an expression of gratitude after a successful course of treatment. After that he said to me, “You are still young, so I will keep it with me as a trust. When you grow up, you will receive it.” I have never been able to forget that counsel. And never did greed or the love of worldly wealth so much as touch my heart.

I was studying at Burn Hall School, but because of a slight shortfall in academic standard, the principal stopped me from being entered for the Senior Cambridge examination—while placing on the examination list an Australian student who had obtained fewer marks than I had. For me, this was unbearable. I protested to the principal, but was not heard. When Janji learned of the entire matter, he held me in the strong embrace of his arms and said: “No matter how many times you face failure before you pass, I am with you. And never allow the thought to enter your heart that you are wasting my money. A person learns a great deal from failures.”

But I had become disheartened by the principal’s attitude. To study again in the same class at Burn Hall became a matter of pride for me. Janji gladly arranged my admission to Abbottabad Public School. And that same year, I passed the matriculation examination with distinction.

After the heart-rending events of 1974 and the burning of [our home] Dar-us-Saeed, Janji—together with other family members—took up residence with my brother Abdulla Saeed at his residence at the military academy. At that time I was posted in Quetta in connection with my military service. I took a few days’ leave and came to Kakul to meet my loved ones. When I embraced Janji, I was overcome by emotion and tears flowed uncontrollably from my eyes. Yet Janji remained calm and composed. Consoling me, he said: “Rather than shedding tears over the loss of worldly possessions, our tongues should be filled with words of gratitude—that we are all alive and well, and that we are able to meet one another.” Janji’s incomparable patience left such an example for me that after that day, over any worldly loss, not a single tear ever came to my eyes.

Alongside Janji’s countless other virtues, his forgiveness and forbearance were also without equal. He would pardon even grave mistakes—indeed, even acts bordering on wrongdoing—so completely that no resentment would remain in the heart. As a father, this is a supremely noble model for us and a guiding light. And I am convinced that he is counted among the high-ranked righteous and the friends of Allah.

Although I do not consider myself worthy, it is my honor to be his son.

Saeeda Begum (Daughter of Khan Bahadur Ghulam Rabbani Khan)

From as far back as I can remember, Janji was present in my life. My father (Ajiji) and Janji were always together—at family gatherings, in social and religious circles, even on the pilgrimage of Hajj, which they performed side by side. Apart from us, other people too believed that the two of them were real brothers. There was a special resemblance between their personalities, and they would usually dress in much the same way as well.

Between our family and Janji’s, deep ties had existed for generations. We were raised in such a way that we never even sensed that the two families were separate. If any one of us siblings fell ill, we were immediately entrusted to Janji. I remember that once, when I became unwell, I was sent to Janji in Dadar. All the elders and youngsters of the household would remain around me, attentive to every need, but I became so stubborn that until Janji returned from the hospital, I would neither eat nor take my medicine. Everyone would grow weary of pleading with me. Then Janji would arrive, my face would light up with happiness, and I would eat—and take my medicine too.

My brother Shaukat Mahmood married Janji’s daughter, Asma. When his [Shaukat Mahmood’s] first son, Tariq Ahmad Shaukat, was born, Janji said: “Now, in our friendship, a bond of blood has also been added.”

All of our children, too, believed that Ajiji and Janji were true brothers. When Ajiji passed away, Janji was not in Pakistan. When the time came to lift the bier for the funeral, my daughter Iffat created an uproar, insisting that until Ajiji’s brother arrived, how could anyone possibly commence with the funeral? With great difficulty we calmed her, comforted her, and explained that Janji was in England at that time and could not arrive immediately.

To encompass Janji’s love, compassion, and lofty character and qualities within the limits of writing is exceedingly difficult. I will say only this: he was love itself—gentle-natured, sweet-spoken, compassionate and kind, and dearly loved by all: our Janji. May Allah Almighty bestow upon him His gifts and honors in paradise. Ameen.

Gul Bibi (Daughter of Sayyed Abdulaziz Shah)

For many generations there had existed a fraternal bond between Janji’s family and the elders on both my maternal and paternal sides, and by the time it reached our generation that relationship of love and brotherhood remained fully intact. We grew up with the impression that Ajiji (Khan Bahadur Ghulam Rabbani Khan) and Janji (Khan Bahadur Doctor Saeed Ahmad) were both our maternal uncles, and Janji’s children likewise regarded our mother as their own real paternal aunt.

After Janji moved from Abbottabad to Lahore, I would often go to see him. During our conversations, he would recount episodes from his childhood and would always mention my grandmother’s kindness. In Janji’s childhood there was no school in Debgaran. His father enrolled him in the Daata primary school under the guardianship of our elders. Janji would say that our grandmother treated him with great affection. She would seat him before her and feed him with her own hands. He was not much of an eater and would stop quickly; but she would insist he eat more and, with deep love, would say: “Saeed Ahmad—your appetite is like a little sparrow’s. Do eat a little more.”

One day I went to Dar-us-Salam, and my son Waqar was with me. At that time Janji was in his room. A bright white sheet lay on his bed, and he himself was dressed in white as well. There was an almost celestial smile on his face. His tone was soft and gentle, and there was a remarkable sweetness in his speech that left my son deeply impressed. After we took our leave and came outside, Waqar asked me, “Ami Jan—Is Janji a human being, or an angel?” And in truth, he was an angel-like human being. Adorned with pure character—clear-hearted and dignified—his love, compassion, and graciousness are impossible for us to forget. May Allah Almighty grant him an exalted station among His close ones.

Hamid Rahman

Our Janji—so dear to all relatives and friends—Khan Bahadur Doctor Saeed Ahmad was a truly transformative figure who left profound imprints upon my life.

I was born in the mid-1940s. Before I even reached an age of full awareness, the leading spiritual luminaries of the Ahmadiyya Movement had already departed this world. When Maulana Muhammad Ali (may Allah have mercy on him) passed away, I was seven years old. I retain a faint memory of him, and somewhat clearer memories of Syed Asadullah Shah (may Allah have mercy on him). By good fortune, I continued to be able to listen to the sermons of Maulana Abdul Haq Vidyarthi. Yet among all these elders, I did not attain such closeness that their spirituality would affect me in a way that left lasting marks upon my being. I count it as my great good fortune that I received a closeness to Janji of such a kind that his spirituality engraved deep impressions upon me.

Our earliest childhood was spent in Lahore. During the days of the Annual Convention—and afterward, in private family gatherings—we would have the opportunity to see Janji. But in 1957, when my father, Abdul Rahman, was appointed Principal of Abbottabad Public School and we moved to Abbottabad, the opportunities to grow closer to Janji increased significantly.

I was a student at Burn Hall School in Abbottabad. My siblings and I understood well that children from a middle-income household like ours could attain a good place in life only if they pursued education with hard work and dedication. And we were also aware that the granting of success in one’s efforts ultimately depends upon the grace and bounty of Allah Almighty. For this reason, before every examination we would ask Janji to pray for us—and afterward, we would enter the examination hall with a particular confidence and inner calm.

Once, the teachers of Abbottabad Public School lodged a complaint against my father. They were unhappy with his discipline and standards of order. As a result, the government began an inquiry into the matter. My mother requested Janji’s prayers. My father had gone to Lahore in connection with this issue, while we remained in Abbottabad in a state of intense worry. It was a time of severe trial for our family. On his way to Dadar, Janji stopped by us for a short while. His presence among us—and his reassuring conversation—was like balm to us. Our fears and misgivings began to dissolve.

How can anyone encompass such a beautiful personality as Janji in a brief piece of writing? His personality influenced every person who ever had the honor of meeting him. For a period, Janji was associated with the Health Department of the Frontier Province. When I was transferred to the Secretariat of the Frontier Province (present-day Khyber Pakhtunkhwa), I met many men there who held Janji in loving reverence, and whose hearts still carried his memory. When people learned of my relationship to him, my standing and esteem rose even more.

One particular incident stands out in my memory: one of my senior officers—who later even served as Chief Secretary—was a great admirer of Janji. When he learned that I was related to Janji, he immediately embraced me and told me that his father had maintained friendly relations with Janji. In the days when Janji was in Peshawar, his father was transferred to another place. In his absence, Janji cared for his family as though they were members of his own household, and looked after them extremely well.

Janji’s love was of such a kind that every person who met him went away with the impression that he was the one most dear to him. Like many others, I too believe that there was surely a tender corner in Janji’s heart for me.

I can never forget that bleakest day of autumn: on the evening of 15 November, I returned home from the university to find my wife weeping bitterly. She gave me the sorrowful news that Janji was no longer among us.

اِنَّا لِلّٰهِ وَ اِنَّاۤ اِلَیْهِ رٰجِعُوْنَ

To Allah do we belong, and to Him is our return.

Arjumand Bano Anwar

To say or write anything about Janji is, in a sense, to fall short of his virtues and excellences. There are, of course, thousands of moments and incidents, but for this account I have chosen one from my own life—one that can serve as a guiding light for my sisters and elders, as it has for me.

This incident is from 1981, when it was decided that the late Anwar would go to London and assume responsibilities in the UK Mission. I, too, was granted the honor of coming with my late, martyred husband. Before we arrived, Janji called me aside in private. Taking my hand in his, he said to me:

I want to take a promise from you. The journey you are about to undertake as your husband’s companion is a very difficult and demanding one. In this life there will be no worldly comforts or ease whatsoever, and you will have to face many kinds of hardships. Worldly desires and relaxation will be entirely absent. In such circumstances, wives often place so much pressure upon their husbands that, even if they wish to continue, they are compelled and unable to carry on with their mission. The success of the London Mission is my greatest desire. I have hope in you, and I want your promise that you will never do such a thing.

By the grace of Allah, God granted me the strength and courage to uphold my promise—and God willing, I will continue to do my utmost until my last breath. I also appeal to my own sisters: keep this counsel of our Janji, and of the dearly loved late Ameer, in mind—and keep alive, always, that love which they had for the mission of the Ahmadiyya Movement.

We spent a long portion of our lives in the company of Janji, and his love and compassion will remain with us forever. May God elevate his ranks exceedingly high. Ameen.

Samina Malik

I held boundless love and reverence for Janji. He was my spiritual father. I had often heard his praises from the late Hafiz Sher Muhammad, but I had the honor of meeting him for the first time in 1981, when he came to Canada as part of his overseas tours and stayed in our home. Those days were for us a time of great joy and rich spiritual blessings.

At Janji’s invitation, I attended the Annual Convention for the first time in 1985. Janji himself—together with his daughter, Zubaidah Muhammad Ahmad, and Mian Fazl Ahmad, Begum Tahirah Fazl Ahmad, and the late Zakiyyah Shaikh—was present at the airport to receive me. Seeing all these honored persons there—especially Janji—at ten o’clock at night left me astonished and overwhelmed. Arrangements had been made for me to stay at the residence of Zubaida Muhammad Ahmad. Yet every morning Janji would send his driver to call me to Dar-us-Salam, and I would spend most of my time with him and the rest of his family.

When the Convention began, I fell ill the very next day. Janji came personally; after examining my throat he said that the ailment was not so severe as to prevent me from taking part in the Convention.

Once, I was sitting with Janji in Lahore when he said to his son, Abdul Karim Saeed “Pasha,” “Bring out the volume of Maulana Muhammad Ali’s English translation of the Holy Quran—the 1917 edition—from among my books.” Janji wrote in it, in his own hand, “For my dear Samina,” and then gave it to me. It is a priceless gift to me—first because it is a volume from the earliest edition, and second because it was personally used by Janji. In his student days in medical school, he had saved one pound from his pocket money for the purpose of obtaining this translation of the Holy Quran for himself.

Another precious gift he gave me was a pocket-sized Holy Quran, which Janji’s son-in-law, Mirza Abdul Rahman Baig, had presented to him. Janji would always keep it with him on his travels, and he had even noted a few points in it in his own handwriting. When he gave it to me, he said: “You travel in the path of Allah—this will be useful to you.”

About two months before Janji’s passing, I was staying in his own home in Lahore when I became seriously ill. Janji would come several times a day—together with Anwar Ahmad—to inquire after my condition. In those very days, he took a promise from me that I would not stop working for the Lahore Ahmadiyya Anjuman, and that I would also continue the work of repairing the Berlin Mosque. He also said that those who work in the cause of faith encounter hardships; one should keep working diligently while praying to Allah Almighty. For the life to come is the best life, while worldly life is only a brief time of travel.

On that occasion he offered another deeply valuable counsel: even if one notices a fault in someone, one should still keep one’s eyes on that person’s virtues; and if the virtues outweigh the faults, then the faults should be set aside altogether.

To encompass the qualities of this righteous servant of Allah in writing is no easy matter. I would like to mention here my final meeting with Janji. When I received news of his severe illness, I reached Lahore accompanied by his daughter Khadijah and his son-in-law Mansur Ahmad. I found him extremely frail and weak. He spoke very little. Every day I would go to the hospital to see him.

One morning I arrived there with Mansur Ahmad. He [Mansur Ahmad] approached the bed, and I stood just behind him. Janji asked, “Who is with you?” When he was told that it was Samina, he tried to sit up. I stepped forward and held his hand. He said, “The meaning of the name Samina is priceless.’” Our present Ameer, Abdul Karim Saeed, told Janji that Samina had brought the typeset of the Russian translation of the Holy Quran. Despite his weakness, Allah Almighty granted him strength, and he said in a loud voice five times: “Alhumdulillah.”

I feel the absence of this sincere, believing servant of Allah at every moment. He was the one who entrusted to us the work of translating books and kindled within our hearts the passion for the propagation of Islam. How could we ever forget this servant of God? It was he who impressed upon all chapters of the Ahmadiyya Movement outside Pakistan the importance of the headquarters’ work, and who established these chapters of the Movement upon firm foundations. All of this became possible through the tireless striving of this towering spiritual personality—one endowed with insight and inspiration. My prayer to Allah Almighty is that He grant him a lofty station in paradise. Ameen, then Ameen.

Aqeela Salam

Janji’s compassionate hand of shelter was always above my head—both before my marriage and after it as well. And when, after marriage, I began living at Dar-us-Salam, he cared for me in every way. He also treated my husband, Abdul Salam, with great affection. He trusted him deeply and would have his important letters typed by him.

Janji was extraordinarily kind-hearted and devoted to maintaining family ties, and he took genuine pleasure in looking after all of his relatives. We siblings had already been deprived of our father’s affection; he became the guardian and patron of us all. May Allah Almighty grant him a magnificent reward for his love and his goodness.

Abdul Salam

Doctor Saeed Ahmad was the third Ameer of our Ahmadiyya Movement. He was a deeply kind-hearted and compassionate man. There were four of us who would often sit with him for evening tea. Now only two of us remain; the other two have returned to Allah Almighty—Raja Bedar and Qazi Abdul Ahad. One of the two still living is I, Abdul Salam, and the other is Sardar Ali Khan.

The wife of Chotay Lala [Abdulla Saeed] gave us the name “The Four Dervishes”, and it remained with us until the very end.

Janji would implore Allah Almighty with great humility and earnestness. Once, when I was in Abbottabad, I awoke at the time of sehri one day and saw that he was standing before Allah Almighty, praying in tears—crying as he offered his prayer. May Allah Almighty grant him a lofty station in Paradise. Ameen, then Ameen.

A Letter Addressed to Abdul Salam and Aqeela Salam

In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

Dear and respected Abdul Salam, my very dear niece Aqeelā,

May Allah be pleased with you.

Peace be upon you, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings.

Your Eid card reached us at the time of Eid. It brought heartfelt joy. At the same time, I also felt that you took the trouble and bore an expense that was not really necessary. May Allah accept this expression of love from you, and bless you with the blessings of faith and of the world.

I hope that both of you are in good health. I, too, am well. As you know, these are times of great trial and testing. May Allah keep us—and all our loved ones in the homeland, our friends, and all members of the Ahmadiyya Movement—in His special protection, and bring our affairs to a good end.

With peace.

Saeed Ahmad

Masuda Bano

When I first opened my eyes in this world, Janji was already present in my life. We were related by kinship, and among my earliest childhood memories I found Janji very close to me, feeling his love and compassion.

It was the month of Ramadan, and I was staying as a guest in Janji’s home in Abbottabad. I used to sleep on the upper floor, and for sehri I would have to go down to the lower floor. Janji would himself come upstairs to wake me and would then walk with me. Out of respect, I would follow behind him. But he would tell me to walk in front of him, so that I would feel safe and would not be afraid.

The sense of his care became even stronger after 1970, when our father, Habib ur-Rahman Sadiq, was taken from above our heads. We siblings were all still young. At that time Janji became such a protective canopy over us that we felt no need for anyone else’s guardianship. I can never forget that catastrophic moment—the day my father left us and we were struck by the unbearable grief of permanent separation. My mother and I were broken with sorrow. Janji seated both of us beside him and strengthened our hearts. The words with which he comforted us are unforgettable. He said: “This grief is not yours—it is mine. For you, I am still here; but I have been left alone. My brother has been separated from me.” These words gave us strength.

Then, with his own hands, he poured yogurt into two bowls and said that he knew that in such a state it would be nearly impossible for us to swallow even a single bite—yet he still wanted us to eat it. “To endure such great sorrow,” he said, “you will need some strength as well.”

From Janji’s love and boundless compassion, relatives, friends, and members of the Ahmadiyya Movement all received a share, and everyone who loved him would claim a special closeness to him. I feel something similar myself. Perhaps this is a mystery that will never be solved for me: who, in truth, was the closest to him?

After my marriage, when I went to Saudi Arabia, he would write me letters filled with affection. I will quote brief excerpts from two of those letters:

The exceptional love and devotion you have for me cannot possibly remain without effect. In my heart too, surely, there is a place of respect and love for you. When you gave me the cloth, you expressed the wish that if I had it sewn and wore it, you would be pleased. So I have done exactly that. These days I often wear that very outfit, and I remember your love.
May you remain well, my very dear and loving Masoodah. May Allah always keep you in His special protection, and may Sadiqah and Abdul Rahman be the comfort of your eyes.
The parcel of the priceless gifts you sent arrived a week ago. When I opened it, your dear letter came out as well. I cannot understand what I should write in response to such sincerity. My heart has always been very pleased with you, and it will remain so. But the extent of what you spend for us causes me mental discomfort. In any case, my prayer is that Allah be pleased with you.

Janji also loved my husband, Sadiq Noor, and my two children immensely. I consider it my great good fortune that all of us were blessed with his prayers. The void his departure has left in my life is one that no one else can fill—no one can give such love, nor do what he did.

Where can we now find another—someone like you?

Faiza Najib Sadiq

In my parents’ home, I always heard my late father (Abdullah Jan Khalil) speak of Doctor Saeed Ahmad with praise and reverence. My father held deep devotion for him and would mention him with the utmost respect and honor.

But my first meeting with him was as my Janji, because my husband, Najib Sadiq, is his nephew. My marriage, too, had been arranged through his mediation.

In December 1994, during the days of the Annual Convention, I went to Lahore and had the honor of greeting him. When I entered his room with my husband Najib, he placed his hand on my head with love and tenderness. He spoke with me for a long while, and then, addressing Najib, he said: “She is a girl from a highly respected and distinguished family. Value her greatly.” He was so happy to meet me—and so pleased about our marriage—that, overcome with emotion, his eyes became moist. I will always remember those moments of that joyful meeting.

At the time of my second visit, Janji was receiving treatment at Shaikh Zaid Hospital in Lahore, and the third meeting took place during the Annual Convention of 1995. The last time, I went with my dear mother-in-law (Begum Habib ur-Rahman Sadiq) to offer him a farewell greeting before leaving for Canada. At that time I did not realize it would be my final meeting with him. He sent me off with special prayers.

In terms of meetings, they were only a handful. Yet the positive effects those loving prayers and conversations have had on my life are unforgettable. It is my good fortune that I was granted a relationship of closeness with a righteous person like Janji, and that I received his prayers. The void that has been created after his departure from this world may hardly ever be filled. May Allah Almighty accept his prayers in our favor and grant us the ability to walk in his footsteps. Ameen.

Faqir Muhammad (Radiographer)

I was granted the opportunity to live very close to Janji. For many years I lived with my mother in his home, under his protective care. He never regarded me as anything other than a member of his own family, and he continued to look after me in every way.

He ensured that I received an education. And if I ever showed any laziness in my studies, he would gently remind me with affection. If there was ever any shortfall in my academic standard, he would not become upset; rather, with great patience he would advise me and lift my spirits. In all the time I lived with him, I cannot recall a single occasion on which he ever scolded me.

He arranged my training in radiography, and then, under his patronage, secured employment for me at the Dadar Sanatorium itself.

The position I am in today—and the comfortable life I live with my children—have all come to me because of Janji. I can never forget his lofty morals and the graciousness of his conduct. May Allah Almighty elevate his ranks. Ameen, then Ameen.

Durr-e-Shahwar Rana

Whenever my revered father, Qazi Muhammad Azam Khan, mentioned his close friends at home, Doctor Saeed Ahmad’s name was always among them.

This goes back to 1942, when my elder sister, Tahoorah Apa, developed tuberculosis. The entire household was in a state of anxiety: what could be done, and where could treatment be found? My elder brother contacted the Medical Superintendent of the Dadar Sanatorium (Doctor Saeed Ahmad), and asked him to come for consultation. He came, examined Apa, reassured my father, and persuaded him to have Tahoorah admitted to the sanatorium so that he could treat her under his own supervision. In this way, recovery could be expected sooner. By Allah’s mercy and grace—and through the doctor’s special attention—Apa recovered completely. And in this way, closeness between our two families increased.

This was in my childhood. About seven years later, when Doctor Saeed Ahmad’s daughter Safia [Saeed] and I were studying at the Government High School, we became friends. My sister played a significant role in nurturing and strengthening that affection and friendship. In those days, it was not customary for girlfriends or friends to come and go freely to one another’s homes. Yet for the two of us, there was no restriction on meeting each other at any time. Janji—Safia’s father—became like an uncle to me, and he became my Janji as well.

Safia’s mother, Bubbo Ji, was extremely compassionate. My own mother had passed away when I was very young, and in Bubbo Ji I saw the love of a mother.

Our friendship remains just as it was sixty years ago. After three sons, when Allah Almighty granted me a daughter, the time came to choose her name. Many beautiful names were suggested from all sides, and a long list was compiled. But the name my husband and I selected was the one proposed by my sister Safia: “Durr-e-Sameen”—a name formed from “durr” and “sameen,” both Quranic words, and also close to my own name, Durr-e-Shahwar. Because of her charming personality, this name suits her beautifully.

Once I took Durr-e-Sameen to Abbottabad to Janji’s clinic. When I told him her name was Durr-e-Sameen, Janji asked with delighted surprise, “Who chose such a lovely name?” When I told him it was her Aunt Safia, he became extremely pleased. Janji liked the name very much.

Janji’s exceptionally beautiful memories are still kept safe in the hearts of me and all our family. I pray to Allah Almighty that He grants him a lofty station in paradise. Ameen.

Shaheen Ajmal

I first came to know Doctor Saeed Ahmad toward the end of the 1980s in the previous century, and I felt a quiet pang in my heart that this meeting had not happened earlier. His daughter Safia and I had maintained friendly relations for many years, and so—just as Janji was “Janji” to his children and relatives—he became “Janji” to me as well.

From our very first meeting, the compassion and serenity reflected on his luminous face left me deeply impressed and awed. His gentle speech and loving conversation compelled me to compare him with the arrogant, self-absorbed people of this noisy, clamorous world.

Alongside countless other noble qualities, his self-confidence, inner purity, and spirituality would instill self-confidence and strength in others as well. After that first meeting, I would often go to see him. At times I would ask him questions about charitable giving—qurbani, zakat, and sadaqat—and often I would come simply to spend some time in his company and to receive his prayers.

Janji had a special magnetism for small children. Children would be drawn to him naturally. I remember well the day I took my one-year-old nephew to meet him. In those days Janji’s health was not very good; he was resting half-reclined on his bed. I was holding Hamzah in my arms. The moment his eyes fell on Janji, he stretched out both arms and leaned toward him. Janji immediately gathered him into his own arms. Hamzah moved closer, looked at his face, and a lovely smile spread across his tiny lips. Then he touched Janji’s beard with both hands, feeling it—and smiled as though he had discovered a new treasure. Janji held him for some time longer, and then gave him a toy as a gift—one he had specially ordered for him.

Much can be written about Janji, but I will say only this: throughout all these years, despite meeting him countless times, I never once heard him speak to anyone in a raised voice or in anger. Perhaps it is such people who are counted among the ibād al-Raḥmān—the true servants of the Most Merciful.

Abdul Aziz Mubarik

Janji was a deeply respected elder of our family, an angel-natured human being. He dealt with everyone with love and sincerity, and for that reason he was revered by people of every rank and station. I had sensed, since childhood, the love and compassion he showed to my family and to me personally; but when I stepped into practical life, I came to meet countless people who acknowledged his goodness and, in one way or another, regarded themselves as indebted to him.

I was studying at Peshawar College. Janji also provided me with financial support. One day I received a notice from the college administration that my fees had been reduced. I was surprised, because I had made no such request. I later learned that the college principal had come to know that I was closely related to Janji, and so, of his own accord, he granted me this concession. The principal personally felt indebted to Janji and wished to do something for him in return for his kindness.

After my studies were completed, I again needed Janji’s support to secure employment. In that connection, he took me with him to meet the Chief Engineer of the Tarbela Dam, Shah Nawaz. Janji had previously been the physician of Shah Nawaz’s mother. She herself was present there as well. Mother and son both received Janji with profound respect and honor. When Janji spoke about my employment, Shah Nawaz immediately said that he had been waiting for years for the day when he might render even a small service to Janji in return for his lifelong favors. Janji entrusted me to Shah Nawaz and returned; and he arranged for me to be appointed to a good position.

From my father (Mubarak Abdullah), I had heard accounts of our forefathers. In Janji, I was blessed to see a living reflection of those elders’ righteousness, piety, and God-consciousness.

Muhammed Ahmad

When I look back over my past, I see Janji’s footprints with complete clarity along every pathway of my life. In my mind, I find the living embodiment of the Quranic verses

وَ عِبَادُ الرَّحْمٰنِ الَّذِیْنَ یَمْشُوْنَ عَلَی الْاَرْضِ هَوْنًا وَّ اِذَا خَاطَبَهُمُ الْجٰهِلُوْنَ قَالُوْا سَلٰمًا۝۶۳

And the servants of the Beneficent are they who walk on the earth in humility, and when the ignorant address them, they say, Peace! (Holy Quran—25:63)

and:

اِنَّمَا تُنْذِرُ مَنِ اتَّبَعَ الذِّكْرَ وَ خَشِیَ الرَّحْمٰنَ بِالْغَیْبِ ۚ فَبَشِّرْهُ بِمَغْفِرَةٍ وَّ اَجْرٍ كَرِیْمٍ۝۱۱ اِنَّا نَحْنُ نُحْیِ الْمَوْتٰی وَ نَكْتُبُ مَا قَدَّمُوْا وَ اٰثَارَهُمْ ؔؕ وَ كُلَّ شَیْءٍ اَحْصَیْنٰهُ فِیْۤ اِمَامٍ مُّبِیْنٍ۠۝۱۲

Thou canst warn him only who follows the Reminder and fears the Beneficent in secret; so give him good news of forgiveness and a generous reward. Surely We give life to the dead, and We write down that which they sent before and their footprints, and We record everything in a clear writing. (Holy Quran—36:11–12)

I find these verses’ practical form present in Janji’s very being.

Janji’s love for the Holy Quran, his humility and lowliness of spirit, and his peace-seeking nature influenced every person who was ever blessed to meet him. His gentleness, his soft speech, and his knowledge of the Holy Quran revived many dead spirits anew.

Among the countless memories I have of Janji, my earliest is from those few days I spent with him at the Dadar Sanatorium. I was five years old then. Every evening, a few people would come to his home to offer the Maghrib prayer in congregation with him. He would first turn his attention to the children present. This would create in our small hearts the feeling that we were important—special children.

Teaching the Holy Quran has long been a distinguishing hallmark of the Ahmadiyya Movement. For many years in Abbottabad, Janji kept this tradition alive. Even now, in my mind’s eye, I often see him the moment he hears the Maghrib call to prayer—walking briskly from the clinic toward the mosque. After the prayer, he would give the Quranic lesson. Then one of the other members of the Movement would read aloud a Prophetic Hadith and the sayings of the Promised Messiah. The call to prayer was assigned to the children on a rotating basis. In this way, the children were encouraged and their confidence strengthened. He would urge all of us to memorize Quranic and Sunnah-based supplications by heart. In particular, he instructed us to learn the dua of istikhara, so that we could benefit from it in future decisions. Many years later, when I was preparing to come to America and went to bid him farewell, he placed in my hand the dua of istikhara written out in his own handwriting—something from which I benefited for years.

Janji had a special intimacy with Quranic and prophetic supplications. In the Fajr prayer, his plaintive recitation of these supplications would create an atmosphere that nourished the soul. He would say that the words selected by Muhammad, the Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings be upon him), for prayer possess a particular power of effect.

One of the distinctive signs of the ibad al-Rahman is tawakkul—complete reliance on Allah. In Janji this quality was extraordinarily evident. During the sectarian riots of 1974, the way Allah Almighty protected the Ahmadi individuals living in and around the Jamia in Abbottabad is among the special signs of His mercy and grace. Two or four days after that event, I spoke with Janji by phone. His steadfastness—his resolve to place the service of Islam above worldly matters and to remain firm upon that pledge—was evident from the serenity in his voice.

Once, when my uncle, Professor Khalil-ur-Rahman, was hospitalized due to severe illness, I traveled to Pakistan. During those days, when I met Janji, I mentioned that I had intended to attend the Ahmadiyya Convention being held that year in Vancouver, but because of my uncle’s illness I could not carry it through. Janji then drew my attention to a saying attributed to Hazrat Ali (may Allah be pleased with him), that he said: “I came to recognize Allah through the breakage of my intentions.”

Janji’s humility, steadfastness, and truthfulness—his conviction and certainty—gave courage and resolve to many others. In old age, when he was already beyond eighty, he came to the United States purely with the determination to strengthen the Ahmadiyya Movement. At that time I was extremely busy in my medical office in the U.S. state of Louisiana. Janji called me and, in an exceptionally gentle and sweet tone, invited me to attend the convention being held in California. I offered all kinds of hesitation and excuses. I had many reasons: the pressure of work in the office, the difficulties of arranging a substitute doctor, and other obstacles. I had barely ended the call when a realization began to dawn on me: here is a man who—despite advanced age and a frail body—has traveled thousands of miles, driven by the single motive of doing some service for the strengthening of the Movement; and here I am, present nearby, searching for pretexts to avoid taking part in this good work. The moment I thought of his determination and spirit of sacrifice, I set everything aside and resolved to attend the convention.

I have complete trust and strong hope that the seeds of mercy that a figure like Janji—embodying the qualities of the ibad al-Rahman—has scattered in these distant lands will surely take root, flourish, and bear fruit, and that the truth of the Holy Quran will be proven.

Zahida Baig

How fortunate we are that a person of such extraordinary qualities as Janji was our maternal grandfather. At times, when I quietly compare other families with my own, I find my head bowing before Allah in gratitude for this blessing, and I thank that Pure Being that we were bound to such a great soul by such a close relationship. The positive impressions of Janji’s personal virtues and lofty character are clearly visible in all our relatives—near and far. Through Janji’s attention and his distinctive manner of speaking, I always felt as though I were someone important.

Although most of my childhood was spent in Washington, D.C., whatever days of closeness I was granted with him, I have treasured as beautiful memories in my heart. From those precious memories I would like to mention only two here: one from my early childhood, and the other from my youth, when I used to live in Los Angeles.

One summer, we were visiting Janji in Dadar. Early in the morning, while all the other children were still asleep, I would quickly get ready and stand at the door, waiting for Janji to come out so that I could go with him to the sanatorium. When I held his finger and walked alongside him, I barely reached his knees, and my height was level with the flowers blooming along both sides of the path. I was probably around three or three-and-a-half years old. Holding his finger with one hand, and waving the other as I walked, I would tell him all sorts of little stories. He would listen quietly, smiling, lowering his gaze to look at me, and replying when needed. For my sake, he would walk slowly.

Janji would be dressed in clothes that were immaculate and perfectly pressed. A light-colored shirt with a tie, and a white coat, would lend a special radiance to his presence. Even now, the clean fragrance of that crispness remains just as vividly in my mind. His fine dress delighted me so much that I would insist to my mother that she dress me in the very best clothes too—after all, I was going to the office with Janji.

In the office, Janji would seat me in front of him. Tea would be served to him, and for me milk and Ovaltine would be ordered. Janji would give instructions to the doctors and other staff members. I would sit proudly, listening to those instructions, as though I were part of his staff as well. A tall employee from the office was assigned to bring me back home. When my Ovaltine was finished, I would be handed over to him. He would lift me onto his shoulders. I enjoyed that ride immensely—just the way people enjoy the rides at Disneyland. Everything below looked beautiful from up there.

This morning routine continued for several days. These experiences with Janji—and his love—awakened in me a sense of my own worth and gave me such confidence that I never felt hesitation in expressing my views, in any situation. In my professional life, I have often had opportunities to exchange thoughts with highly educated and experienced individuals, and I have never found it difficult to state my opinion openly and to stand firmly by it.

After that childhood period, I was granted further precious moments in Janji’s presence in California, USA. When he first came to our home, we were living in an apartment in Beverly Hills. At that time we were eager to buy a newly built house. We had not been married long, our business was newly started, we had no significant savings in the bank, and no established business credit. In such circumstances, obtaining a loan to purchase a home felt like a far-fetched dream. Behind my desire to buy that house was also a deep attachment I felt to my homeland: the area resembled Dadar and Abbottabad, with dense pine trees, deep ravines, and narrow winding paths.

I took Janji to see the house. Around the newly built home there were piles of debris and mud everywhere. At my request, Janji stood right there and prayed that this house might be destined for me. It was a Saturday. On Monday morning, I received the unbelievable news from the bank that my loan application had been approved. This was a sign of the acceptance of Janji’s prayer. Everyone was astonished—because they did not even know my Janji.

Two years later, Janji came to California again, and by then we had settled into that home. He stayed with me for a full week. My Ab Ji and Ami also came there. Those days were exceptionally special to me. In the beautiful garden of my home, I would spread mattresses on the green grass and prop pillows on top. Bright roses were in bloom. The orange tree was heavy with fruit. New buds were showing their own spring-like freshness. Across the slope in front, green grass stretched far into the distance. And among the pine trees, finches were building their nests and singing. I had never before seen such tiny birds chirping with such melodious voices. Sitting outside, we would drink evening tea, enjoy the fragrant air and the birds’ song, and then offer the Maghrib prayer together in congregation.

These beautiful moments spent with Janji and my parents are something I will never forget. They—and the memories they left in their wake—are a precious treasure of my life.

Munira Rahman

I take rightful pride in my good fortune that I am connected to a person whose hands once held the hands of Hazrat Mirza Sahib, and who received thousands of blessings through that touch. That blessed soul is my maternal grandfather, Doctor Saeed Ahmad.

When I look back over my life, I feel the profound influence of my beloved grandfather—my Janji—upon me. How fortunate I am that when I first became aware of the world, I found Janji already present in my life; and in an almost imperceptible way, the deep impressions and effects of his pure character continued to settle upon my inner self. I feel that if there is even an atom of goodness in my life, it has been born from Janji’s positive outlook and his exemplary character and morals.

Janji spent his entire life in the service of humankind—whether through his medical service or his service to faith. One truly begins to grasp his stature when one sees complete strangers bowing their heads in reverence at his mention, and realizes how Janji lived in people’s hearts.

At a time when we were in Peshawar because of Hamid’s employment, I fell quite ill. Hamid took me to a well-known doctor for an examination. During the conversation, Hamid mentioned Janji in a certain context. The moment the doctor heard his name, he became so overwhelmed with reverence that he bowed his head, holding it with both hands. The color of his face changed, and he said: “Whose name have you just taken?” He had no words sufficient to express his devotion.

Janji held my husband Hamid, our children, and me very dear. He would write us letters overflowing with affection. In one letter he wrote: “This small household is very close to my heart. Without effort, prayers slip from my lips for them. May Allah grant them His nearness.”

May Allah enable us to live up to the hopes Janji had placed in us. Like me, my children too were blessed to receive something of his spiritual benefit, and they were also granted the opportunity to spend at least a little time in his company. Each one of us carries the feeling that Janji was his Janji.

There is an incident from Janji’s childhood: when his father introduced Janji to Hazrat Mirza Sahib, he said,

حضور یہ آپ کا غلام زادہ ہے

Sir—this is the son of your servant.

Indeed, Janji fulfilled that title [“son of your servant.”] He lived as Hazrat Mirza Sahib’s servant’s son in the truest sense, and spent his entire life in the service of faith.

Salima Agha

Some gifts from Allah are so special that we take them for granted, scarcely realizing how priceless they truly are. The fact that I am Doctor Saeed Ahmad’s granddaughter is, for me, an immeasurable blessing.

Childhood memories are sacred, and they become preserved in the weave of one’s life like a beautiful reflection. Of all my memories of Janji, my very first—and most lovely—is this: the train stopped at Haveliān Station, and when I leaned out of the window, I saw Janji standing right before me. There was a distinct sparkle of joy in his eyes, and a familiar smile spread across his face. That smiling face of Janji has remained present with me in every memory of my life. To capture in words the qualities and traits of so universal and towering a personality is not easy.

Janji was not only the finest surgeon of his time; he possessed the ability to heal every kind of pain—physical and spiritual. Watching the way he treated his patients, one would grasp an astonishing truth: when a person rises above natural weaknesses, negates the self, and forms within himself a determination to do something beyond the ordinary, then such capacities can emerge within him that one begins to wonder—what could he not do?

Janji and I were, in truth, like two friends. He was a person of the modern age: he spoke in keeping with current affairs and the demands of the times. It was not easy to confine the conversation of such a transformative personality to the past.

There are certain things Janji used to say—things that have now become part of my life—and when I recall them, I can hear his voice clearly. One of these is tied to a bitter reality and a painful moment: the time my only brother left me with the scar of permanent separation. Janji held my hand and led me aside, and he said to me, “I am not as strong as you are.” As he spoke these words, tears poured from his eyes like rain, washing over his face. I laid my head in his lap and wept my heart out.

Another agonizing event in my life was my father’s kidnapping. Janji and I would speak to each other every day. And it was Janji’s inner strength that gave me the power and steadiness to endure those forty-six days and nights of anguish.

There are countless memories of Janji. Yet I would like to mention here my favorite one. I wanted to send my fourteen-year-old daughter to a particular boarding school in England, but I faced a storm of opposition, and I was deeply distressed. In that state, I went to Janji. He brought out fruit cake and Macintosh toffees for me, and insisted that I drink a cup of tea. When I had become calm, he said:

I am proud of you. For people who live in foreign countries, providing their children with such educational opportunities is nothing unusual. But what you are doing is something special. Education is extremely important. Pay no attention at all to the objectors, and remain firm in your resolve.

I followed my grandfather’s counsel.

It feels to me as though Janji was an angel who came to live among us—and I feel that he is still here with us even now.

Naseera Ahmad

I can say with complete conviction that my faith and belief in the existence of Allah Almighty took root through witnessing the righteous example of my elders—above all, through the practical model of my maternal grandfather’s great personality. It was a great blessing for us that, from childhood, we were granted the company of the righteous. Again and again the thought arises in my heart: if only our children, too, had before them a living example as excellent as our Janji.

In our childhood, we would spend our summer vacations in Abbottabad under Janji’s protective care, where every day after the Maghrib prayer we had the opportunity to benefit from the lesson of the Holy Quran. Even in the busiest of lives, he was never heedless of the remembrance of Allah.

I was still very young when, once, I had the chance to travel with Janji in a car. All along the way he recited the Holy Quran with a beautiful, melodious voice. I was not yet accustomed to this, and I did not understand that he was reciting the Holy Quran. Innocently, I asked my mother, “What was Janji singing while sitting in the car?” When I grew a little older, I felt how deeply that moment had impressed itself on my heart; and now, whenever I am traveling somewhere by car, I find myself softly repeating Quranic verses or supplications under my breath.

Once, when I was still only a child, I fell ill. Janji came to visit me, and as he spoke to comfort and reassure me, he said: “When a person experiences such hardships, one’s faith in the existence of Allah Almighty—and in His powers—increases.”

His love and compassion were for everyone. But the way he loved children was entirely unique. They remained the special focus of his attention. Once, when my friend was mentioned, Janji said: “She is your friend, so she is very dear to us as well.” There is no substitute for such selfless love. I feel its absence profoundly in my life.

Janji loved humankind. There was a particular pain in his heart for people. He carried a strong longing to do something for them, and it was this very impulse that also lay behind his desire that the message of Islam should spread throughout the world, and that he might help convey it to every human being.

My special wish was to study at King Edward Medical College, because Janji had studied at the same college. Allah Almighty fulfilled that wish for me. In the Anatomy Hall, there is a board listing the names of all students who stood first in that subject and received the Serabir Ram Medal. It is a long list, largely of students from other religions—and then, among the Muslims who received this honor, Janji’s name is the first. And I felt a rightful pride in that.

After my marriage, when I was leaving for America for the first time, Janji said to me: “Keep praying during your journey. A prayer offered while traveling carries the status of being accepted.” And he added: “Make recitation of the Holy Quran part of your daily routine—if not much, then at least read one ruku.”

My final meeting with Janji was when he had become quite weak and would rest mostly in his room. Yet he came with me all the way to the door to see me off.

May Allah Almighty grant Janji a lofty station in Paradise, and grant us the ability to walk in the footsteps of our exalted grandfather. Ameen.

Arshad Rana

I still carry many beautiful memories of Janji in my heart. When I was very small, I developed a whooping cough. My mother (Durr-e-Shahwar Rana) took me to Janji for treatment. Then, a few years later, I had the opportunity to see him again when my younger sister, Durrī, was bitten by a dog.

On both occasions, I observed him from very close quarters, and I felt that he examined his patients with great calm and reassurance, and only after fully understanding everything would he prescribe treatment. He always tried, in whatever way possible, to give the patient complete comfort, and he would remain focused on relieving the person’s suffering until the patient recovered.

He possessed a beneficent and compassionate nature. He played an unparalleled role in the service of humanity.

Ejaz Ahmad

The first hour of April 2013—the moment just after my eyes suddenly opened.

Life is mortal. God is immortal. To write about the character of a benefactor is to catch—only for an instant—a tiny glint of God’s beauty. Alhumdulillah. It is like a traveler, exhausted from walking through the nights, glimpsing from a broken little lamp—or a light flashing in the sky—the outline of a hut in the forest.

It was the time of my revered mother’s maidenhood. The Dadar Sanatorium held a certain awe. In those days there were no injections to induce unconsciousness for surgery. To reach the lungs, ribs were broken. The effect of local numbing medicine meant there was no pain—but to smother the dreadful sound of a rib cracking, Kamal, the attendant standing by Janji’s side, would, with perfect timing, fling a stainless-steel bowl onto the floor—chhan-chhana chhan—so the patient might be spared the terror of hearing bone break. During the long, nerve-testing moments of her operation, my mother would cry out again and again, “My Janji, my Janji,” and Janji, operating all the while, answered each time in the same reassuring way: “Ji… ji.” [“Yes… yes”]

A child’s airs can be something else—at that age, a child is the king of his own little world. Yet God had granted Janji such a gentle, captivating presence that not only elders, but even children, became quietly respectful before him. In Abbottabad, Janji’s home and the mosque were a seven- or eight-minute walk from our house. We brothers often prayed Maghrib with Janji at the mosque. At that tender age, shaking his hand felt like an honor. We would barge straight into his clinic through one door; even though he was busy with patients, he would still examine us—and he would give medicine from his own stock as well. And then there was another charm: Janji’s Eid gift-money. Perhaps these days parents have become saintly—or children have become exceptionally capable. As for us, from the earliest classes all the way through “sixteenth,” we kept passing mostly on prayers. Under my father’s instruction, on the morning of an exam—before dawn—we would knock on Janji’s door. Muhammad Zaman Lala would take us into Janji’s room. He would greet us with warmth: “What brings you here?” And I would respond, “Janji! I have my paper today. You have to pray for me.” Sometimes the season was such that every second or third day we would arrive at his doorstep again, asking for prayers for yet another exam.

There is no substitute for the beauty of childhood. And if, among childhood memories, there are also a few dear and eccentric souls, that childhood becomes even more wonderfully beautiful. Master Abdul Rauf would come from Mansehra for Friday prayers, leaning on a stick—most likely on foot. Nasiruddin Sahib would come from Havelian to Abbottabad for Friday. My honored father, Muhammad Ahmad Sadiq, and Ilahi Bakhsh Pappa would close their shops and present themselves for Jumuah. Wherever Professor Khalil-ur-Rahman happened to be posted, he would still be there on Fridays. Then there was the all-embracing personality of Qazi Abdul Ahad; even the families—wives and children—of all these elders were steadfast in coming for Friday prayers. Janji’s sermon, and his recitation in the Friday prayer, make those childhood memories profoundly sweet. Those few worshippers who came from outside would, every Friday, also be guests at Janji’s table.

By the grace and favor of God, this humble one was placed, right at the end of boyhood, under the tender, fatherly care that put a motorcycle into my hands. Alhumdulillah. A motorcycle is an ordinary thing—but at times it would fill this insignificant one with joy; it would become a kind of calm, coolness of the eyes. Janji would say: “If you have time, drop me at Ahmad Park.” Or sometimes he would set out for Gulberg. Within the shelter of Janji’s touch, even the motorcycle seemed to run beautifully. The leaders of God’s community are a gathering of selflessness, humility, and modesty. Such egolessness and simplicity at nearly eighty years of age—

سُبْحَانَ اﷲِ وَ بِحَمْدِہٖ سُبْحَانَ اﷲِ الْعَظِیْم

Glory be to my Lord, the Most High, glory be to my Lord, the Great.

Today, the hours of 17 April are ticking by on the anniversary of my father’s passing:
O Allah, forgive him, have mercy on him, and admit him among Your righteous servants—just as You drew Janji close to You. A long portion of my father’s life passed in Janji’s nearness. At my father’s death, Janji was seen in deep grief.

Iqbal Ahmad

Janji was my mother’s maternal uncle, and it was under his sheltering care that she was raised. Because of this close bond, all of us brothers were granted the blessing that, after each of our births, he recited the adhan into our ears and bestowed our names upon us.

Janji’s personality left a deep imprint on our upbringing and the formation of our character. In Abbottabad we lived very near him, and in 1974 we migrated alongside him and settled close to him in Dar-us-Salam as well. In this way, from childhood into young manhood, we remained under the shade of his affection.

There are hundreds of incidents that live in my memory. But for this brief piece, I will mention one particular event.

This relates to the annual prayer gathering of 1990. In those days, he would often listen to most of the proceedings through the loudspeakers from his room. My brother Ejaz Ahmad delivered a speech at the gathering and then immediately presented himself to Janji. He expressed his happiness, and along with the gift of his prayers, he gave him his pen as a prize. Ejaz went around proudly showing that pen to everyone. Seeing this, a longing stirred in my heart as well: I wanted to give a strong speech too. I prepared thoroughly, and the very next day I was granted the chance to speak.

Eager to receive a prize from Janji, I went to him without delay. He was pleased and honored me with precious prayers. But I was not satisfied; I remained seated, waiting for an award. Janji wished to rest and said, “Now I would like to rest. You may go.” Reluctantly I rose and stepped outside. But where was my heart at ease? I returned at once and finally stated my true purpose. He said, “What would you like to take?”

I let my eyes roam about the room. Suddenly my gaze fell on that small set of prayer beads—the little tasbih I had so often seen in his blessed hand. I asked him for that very thing, and with his permission I picked it up and moved straight toward the door. But before I could step outside, Janji said, “These beads have a habit of being turned—keep turning them.”

For 33 years, I was granted Janji’s closeness. Even today he lives on in our hearts. His memory is the precious capital of my life—and it is the guide of my life. May Allah the Most High forgive him. Ameen.

Farrukh (Bina) Shaukat

Janji’s standing and significance is different for each person. For me, he was a grandfather who loved—deeply, tirelessly—and cherished me with all his heart.

My earliest memories of Janji are tied to his clinic in Abbottabad. We would spend our holidays with him there, and every day I would go to the clinic to see him. Although he was extremely busy, and my visits could have been a disruption to his work, he never once let me feel that way. He would always slip some rupees into my hand so I could buy my favorite little treats from the nearby shops and enjoy them.

As I grew older, my relationship with Janji became that of a confidant and a trusted friend. If I got up to some mischief and feared that Ami would scold me properly, I would tell Janji everything and ask him to put in a word with her. He would always do so—and he would resolve the matter gently, restoring peace.

Many aspects of Janji’s life were, to me, truly astonishing. I remember an incident in Quetta. He came into my room and saw that all my walls were covered with large photographs of the musicians that young people of that era adored. He wanted to know about each of them. For quite some time, he and I talked about the Beatles—their music and their singing.

Another bond between Janji and me came from his sense of humor and natural wit. In the days when he would stay with us in Quetta, every afternoon we would entertain ourselves by telling each other jokes. Even though my jokes were often rather silly, he would always listen and laugh heartily—and sometimes, at the end, he would add, Astaghfirullah.

In 1978, when we moved outside Pakistan, our in-person meetings with Janji also became limited. But our connection never broke—first through letters, and later through phone calls. His soft, gentle tone, his gracious manner of conversation, and his counsel were always a source of comfort—especially in the years when our Abu was no longer with us. I knew well that the grief of Abu’s separation was something we shared, and I felt no need to pretend to be strong and brave in front of Janji, as I had to do with Ami, Yahya, and Muhammad Ali.

His very presence brought positive energy into my life. What I learned from him, I did not learn merely through sermons and advice; I learned it through his living example. Everything I learned from him continues to guide me to this day—and I strive, always, to act upon the guidance he gave me.

Nasreen Sadiq

To feel the tenderness and love of one’s elders is one thing; to shape those feelings into words and set them down in writing is another—and a difficult one. Even so, I am daring to commit a few memories to the page.

Janji’s love and affectionate treatment were mine from the very beginning. But when, together with my mother, I lived continuously for a full year under his kind protection, it took on a different hue altogether, and I felt his care far more deeply. How could I ever forget those beautiful days that passed beneath the shower of his love…

On the evening of 30 March 1987, I returned home from the Kinnaird College graduation ceremony, my B.A. degree in hand—and Janji was waiting for me. He had specifically asked someone who was staying in Dar-us-Salam to come, someone with a good camera, so that a photograph could be taken on this special day of my life. That he thought of this—so that, given the circumstances we were in at the time, we (my mother and I) would not feel the lack—was a joy so heartening it cannot truly be put into words. One does not see anyone else in the world who thinks so carefully about another person’s happiness and consolation.

Two years before my wedding send-off, my nikah was solemnized by Janji himself—with Waheed Sadiq, the son of Habib-ur-Rahman Sadiq, who was Janji’s brother-in-law and devoted, lifelong companion. And it was also written in my good fortune that I would depart from his home. At the time of my rukhsati, his prayerful words—“I entrust you to Allah the Most High, because a trust placed with Allah is never lost”—have remained with me like a protective canopy. I always find myself safe within its shelter.

A few weeks after the wedding, I left for Jeddah. My mother saw me off from Islamabad. The evening she returned to Lahore, Shaheen Apa came to see her. She was sitting with Ami when, on his way back from the mosque, Janji noticed her and said, “Shaheen, how wonderful that you came today. I was extremely worried about how Safia would spend this evening.”

Both my children were born in Lahore. He recited the adhan into my son’s ear and chose the name “Muneeb” for him, and he named my daughter “Nausheen.” By good fortune, both of my children received the blessings of his lap. Whenever I came from Jeddah to Lahore with the children, he would become deeply happy and content to see us—assured that Allah the Most High had granted me every joy and comfort. When Muneeb was still crawling, if he saw him heading toward his room, he would toddle ahead of him and reach the door first. Smiling, he would say, “Muneeb is showing me the way to my room.” He would keep turning his room’s belongings over and examining them. He never forbade him, nor would he allow me to stop him. He used to say that needless scolding and constant restrictions affect a child’s mental capacities. Once, when I was still quite young, my foot struck the edge of a stair and my toenail was torn off. Janji removed the nail with such gentleness with his gentle hands that I did not even feel any pain. Then he applied ointment and bandaged it—and until the wound healed completely, he himself would clean it and change the dressing.

His love, his tenderness, and his beautiful way of treating others are among the finest memories of my life—memories that will remain alive in my heart forever. When he passed away, I was in Canada, and I was deprived of a final glimpse of him. May Allah the Most High grant him a lofty station in paradise. Ameen.

Akram Ahmad

My dearest and most beloved indiviual—Janji—was my maternal grandfather. Because of this relationship, I was blessed with countless opportunities to be close to himyou. Though I do not even consider myself worthy of being a menial servant of Janji, still, from the intimate observation that I was granted, I can say without the slightest doubt: I have complete certainty that Janji was a friend of Allah—a wali of God.

It was through recognizing a spiritual being like Janji that I came to understand the spiritual states of the elders of the Ahmadiyya Movement—how lofty and exalted they must have been, in whose company and at whose feet he sat and attained such spiritual excellences. Allah the Most High bestowed this favor upon Janji: as the Ameer of the Movement in Lahore, he rendered invaluable services in conveying the true teachings of the Promised Messiah [Hazrat Mirza Sahib] to others, and in cultivating within the Movement the true spirit and color of Ahmadiyyat. Janji would often recite Farsi couplets of the Promised Messiah in his speeches. Once, he recited this particular couplets:

؎ ہر کسے چُوں مہربانی مے کُنی
از زمینی آسمانی مے کُنی

Whomever You—O Allah—show mercy to

You elevate them from earthly to heavenly.

In Janji’s heart there always lived the desire that the members of the Movement should not make worldly concerns their sole aim, but should instead step forward toward spiritual progress.

Once, Janji was speaking about the Promised Messiah. He had seen him very closely in his own childhood. Describing his impressions, he said:

جس نے بھی حضرت صاحب کو قریب سے دیکھا، بس وہ اُن کا ہو گیا۔ بلکہ اُن کا ہی ہو جانا چاہئے۔

Whoever saw Hazrat Mirza Sahib closely—he became his. In fact, he ought to become his.

He added,

حضرت صاحب کی خدمت میں بیٹھنے کے جو مواقع مجھے جی بھر کرنصیب ہوئے ہیں، وہی میری زندگی کا اثاثہ ہے

The opportunities I was granted—to sit in Hazrat Mirza Sahib’s presence to my heart’s content—[and they truly] are the true treasure of my life.

Then he recited this Farsi couplet:

؎ آناں کہ خاک را بہ نظر کیمیا کنند
آیا بوَد کہ گوشۂ چشمے بما کنند

Those who, with a single glance, can turn dust into gold—

Will it ever be our good fortune that they might cast even the corner of an eye toward us?

As Janji spoke of his stay in Qadian and those experiences, his eyes became moist.

Janji’s healing touch was widely renowned. Even his manner with patients—his tenderness, his gentle speech—would grant the patient half their cure. With remarkable skill he would remove a patient’s anxieties, and the patient would seek treatment with the conviction that healing had already been destined for them. He had a special mastery in administering injections: he would give an injection in such a way that one would not even feel the prick of the needle. Once, Janji administered an injection to my father (Mansur Ahmad). My father had turned his face away, waiting for the moment Janji would do it. After some time passed like that, he asked Janji, “Will you be giving the injection a little later?” He smiled and replied, “The injection has already been given.” I myself had a similar experience: his injections caused no discomfort at all.

The very thought of Janji’s personality reminds me of a saying by the Swedish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard:

We learn about God by sitting in the presence of those who know God.

If only Janji were alive today—then, with my wife and children, I would sit on the floor before him, in his service. But where is that blessing now written for us? May Allah the Most High elevate his spiritual ranks, and grant humble souls like me the ability to draw light from his radiant life. Ameen.

Note by Safia Saeed, biographer:
Among those who shaped their feelings into words for Hayat-e-Saeed and sent them to me, my dear Akram [Ahmad]—he is like a son to me—surpassed everyone. Akram handed me this writing on 20 February 2005, with the following note: “I am setting down a few thoughts and presenting them to my beloved Khala Safia. If she feels that this writing could benefit any reader, then she should certainly include it in Hayat-e-Saeed; otherwise, my thoughts—like me—are worth no more than dry weeds and drifting chaff. It is Allah the Most High’s kindness that, in this way, I have been granted an opportunity to refresh some impressions and memories related to my beloved. Alhumdulillah Rabbil-Alameen.”

Rafia Alam Khan

Every moment I have spent with Janji is precious to me—especially the memories of childhood. They include the times we would go to Abbottabad to be with him, and also the period when we lived for a while with him in Dar-us-Salam in Lahore.

In Abbottabad, Janji would bring me chocolate and toffees. I would finish all of them the very same day—and the next day I would be ready for more. One day Janji said that from now on I would receive a fixed ration each day. After that it became a routine: for the sake of getting my sweets, I would get up early in the morning, because if Janji left for the clinic, then I would have to wait until midday. The moment I got out of bed, I would go straight to Janji’s room and say, “Janji! Ration,” take my ration, and hurry out again.

Janji would always say that children do not lie—they always tell the truth. One day Janji asked me to come with him to the mosque for prayer. I instantly made an excuse: I said Abu had forbidden me. Janji was a little surprised, but he did not say anything—whether I was lying or telling the truth—although Abu had never said any such thing. I was trying to take advantage of Janji’s belief. Later, Ami kept offering clarifications on Abu’s behalf.

When we were living for some time in Janji’s home in Dar-us-Salam, Lahore, and going to school from there, there were mornings when Ami would be getting us ready for school and my brother Umar would go and try to hide in Janji’s room. He would say, “Ami scolds me,” or “She hit me.” Janji did not like children being scolded or reprimanded at all. Umar would take advantage of that, and Janji would counsel Ami that children should be treated gently. All of us would benefit from Janji’s conviction that children do not lie.

Janji loved all of us very dearly. We are fortunate that we are connected to such a great soul—and that we always received a share of his love and tenderness. May Allah the Most High grant him a lofty station in paradise. Ameen.

Yahya Saaed

Although many memories from my childhood have faded from my mind, a few moments from Janji’s visit to Mexico—and his stay with us—are unforgettable.

One Friday sermon of Janji’s remains extraordinarily clear in my memory, as if each word were etched exactly as it was spoken. At the end of that sermon, he impressed upon us with great force that one should constantly seek istighfar—forgiveness—for one’s sins. He said that of all of Allah’s creation, human beings are the most prone to error. Even if a person reaches the highest spiritual ranks, the need for istighfar and prayer—for pardon and for overlooking one’s faults—remains just as present. Humans commit mistakes again and again, and Allah the Most High, each time, forgives the mistakes of those who repent and seek forgiveness.

Then, turning the philosophy of Allah’s repeated forgiveness in a beautiful way toward human social relationships, he said that it is profoundly important to overlook and forgive one another’s faults—not only in matters of kinship and family ties, but also in dealings with friends, colleagues, and even strangers. To keep relationships strong, one should respond to all kinds of wrongs—small or great—with patience, forbearance, and self-control, and by overlooking the faults of others. This brings stability and strength to bonds and relationships. Along with so many other dear memories of Janji, this finest principle for living well will always remain with me.

Samira Azhar ud Deen

My first introduction to Nana Jan (Janji) took place at the Annual Convention of 1974. My Nana Jan, Mirza Rafiq Baig, called me over and, pointing to a dignified figure, asked, “Do you know who this is?” I immediately replied, “Yes—this is the doctor sahib.” Nana Jan was neither pleased with my answer nor satisfied by it. He said, “He is a doctor, yes—but for you, he is your Nana Jan—exactly as I am. He is also my dear friend and my brother.”

Through that introduction, the relationship that formed between me and Nana Jan became lifelong. I never addressed him as “Janji,” nor as “Hazrat Ameer.” And I feel a quiet pride in this: that, across the whole world, I alone am the one who called him “Nana Jan.” All his other grandsons and granddaughters, and close relatives, addressed him as “Janji.” After that very first meeting, my coming and going to his home became a regular thing. I would arrive with all sorts of problems, and—without even pausing for breath—pour out everything. He would listen patiently, and then he would find a solution. And he would send me off with sweets in my hand—candy, toffees, or biscuits.

I faced a problem with school admission: my birth certificate had been misplaced somewhere. Now what? I went straight to Nana Jan. With his own seal, he made a certificate for me. When I turned seven, one of my milk teeth was ready to come out. I barged in to Nana Jan, and with the utmost care he removed it and placed the tiny tooth in my hand. I did not feel even the slightest pain—and then I was given walnut sweet to eat. I don’t know whether it was the sweetness of the confection, or the sweetness of Nana Jan’s love, but I remember that taste to this day.

Every Eid, I would send Nana Jan an Eid card—and he never once forgot to send me one in return. My Nana Jan was also my friend. In every sorrow and every joy, he supported me. After the passing of my father, he always kept watch over us. He would often go to the graveyard, and on his way back he would stop by our home. He would sit, unselfconsciously, on the charpai laid out in the courtyard, and speak with such soothing reassurance. He maintained this practice right to the last days of his life.

When I got married, he was unwell and could not attend. My mother wanted to postpone the wedding date, but he did not allow it. After the wedding, I went with my husband, Azharuddin, to visit him at Shaikh Zaid Hospital. It was my habit to pluck a single rose from the flowerbed in our courtyard and present it to him. That day, too, I went with just one flower. He smiled, took the rose, and placed it against his chest. Then he said to Uncle Pasha (the present Ameer), “Give Sumi a salami on my behalf.” Even in illness, he did not forget his refined courtesy and sense of propriety. That graciousness was, for me, a deep honor.

What should I write—and what should I leave out—about my beloved Nana Jan and the bond between us? He was the very embodiment of love and tenderness. As Nana Jan, he was the very best; and as Ameer of the Ahmadiyya Movement he was unmatched and without equal. May Allah the Most High grant him the highest station in Paradise. Ameen.

Fazeel Khan

Countless people carry childhood incidents and experiences that shape their future. My own experience is much the same.

This is from 1981, when Janji came to visit the branches of the Ahmadiyya Movement established in the Western Hemisphere. As part of that tour, he also came to Vancouver, Canada, and stayed with us in our home. I was ten years old at the time. Yet I was fully aware that Janji was an extraordinary human being, and that his personality was unique in every respect.

I had the opportunity to observe Janji closely. I saw him, as Ameer of the Ahmadiyya Movement, addressing members of the Movement; I saw him in informal conversation at ordinary gatherings; and I saw him resting in his free time. There was a complete balance within him: he was a wise, determined, steadfast leader—and also a loving, kind, compassionate friend. He was humility embodied. There was not even the faintest trace of arrogance or pride in him, and he was deeply sincere and warmly sociable.

One day, Janji was reclining in the back veranda of our house, reading a book. I was nearby, occupied with my own things. Suddenly Janji asked me, “What do you think—why do we pray?” According to my understanding, I assumed this was some sort of test, and that the answer needed to be “correct.” So I replied, “Because it is Allah’s command.” He asked again, “And at that moment, wouldn’t you feel like playing—or doing some other work?” I answered, “We should obey Allah’s command.”

He began to smile, and I understood that the questioning had ended. But for me, this was the beginning of something. I kept asking myself that same question—and the chain has continued ever since. I have questioned myself and searched for answers through reflection. And in time, this knot has been untied for me: performing prayer merely as a formality is meaningless. Allah the Most High has no need of our prayer—He is Ghani (self-sufficient). It is we who need prayer: for our own spiritual growth, and to bring about a revolutionary transformation within the self.

Surely Janji’s question was meant to see how far a child of my age could grasp this reality. If he had wished, he could have explained all of this to me in simple words. But through what he did, he planted a seed of inquiry in my heart. And through my own reflection, I came to realize that the truths that open up after thinking deeply about beliefs, actions, and all related matters—those are the truths that determine the direction of our deeds. And perhaps through this inquiry, this awareness, and then steady, sustained practice, that station may also be granted—the station that is the true aim of all righteous deeds.

At the time, I must have taken the incident lightly. Yet, unconsciously, it became the guiding principle of my life. And after that, through my own searching, I came to understand the reality of faith and practice, and shaped my actions in that very spirit.

May Allah the Most High grant Janji a magnificent reward. His lofty character and compelling personality have left deep impressions on hundreds of hearts. With his noble memories, he will remain alive in the hearts of all those people.

Mujahid Ahmad Saeed

Janji—my revered and beloved grandfather—is an ocean without a shore, a boundless ocean of comforting memories which I have gathered and held within my heart. The imprint of his personality is deeply engraved upon me, and without any exaggeration I can rightly say that every step of my life, in one way or another, remains guided by him.

The sweet memories of Janji’s enduring love are just as alive in my heart as those intensely painful and sorrowful moments when he departed from this fleeting world. After Janji’s burial, when I stepped out through the main gate of the Dar-us-Salam graveyard, the force of grief and the agitation of my heart broke every barrier of patience. I could not control myself. Tears flowed from my eyes, and the words that came unbidden to my lips were: “Now who will pray for me?”

Anyone who has ever attended the annual gathering of the Lahore Ahmadiyya Anjuman has witnessed that distinctive spiritual atmosphere: on that occasion, Janji’s prayers were never ordinary, routine supplications. They carried a quality all their own—so much so that the entire environment would become suffused with spiritual effect. In a state of profound absorption, with a heart at peace, humility and self-effacement embodied, he would place your pleas and longings before his Lord. And those listening would feel as though these entreaties were being presented directly in the court of Allah the Most High—as though you were seeing that Blessed Presence. In my close observation, to this day I have not seen any other person so intoxicated with divine love that comparison with Janji would even be possible.

Janji often used to say to me: “Pray for me—that Allah the Most High may be pleased with me.” Even the manner of your prayer was distinctive. And he took rightful pride in this: that the pledge he made in early youth to his father—regarding steadfastness in prayer—hefulfilled throughout his life, except as Allah may will.

He attached immense importance to congregational prayer. When he became elderly and frail, he would still pray along with the congregation established at Jamia Dar-us-Salam—through a speaker connected to his room. His complete obedience to Allah was evident in the quality of his long standing and prostration.

It was my childhood. I spent a great deal of time with Janji in Abbottabad. When the time for prayer drew near, I would go to you and say, “Janji, the time for prayer is near. Let us go to the mosque now.” With great pride, he would tell everyone, “Mujahid is the guardian of my prayer-times.”

Janji loved the Holy Quran. About two decades ago, at the annual training course of the Ahmadiyya Movement in Lahore held in July 1993, I took first position. For someone as insignificant as me, what better choice could Janji have made than the Holy Quran? You gifted me a special fine edition of Bayan al-Quran (both volumes) with the following prayerful inscription—asking that Allah the Most High increase my knowledge, especially my knowledge of the Holy Quran.

Janji’s inscription:
To my dear Mujahid Ahmad Saeed: in remembrance and as an award for my own witnessed six weeks of your day-and-night labor and effort in seeking religious knowledge, and in the end your attaining first position among a class of fifty to sixty in the training course—accept, with congratulations and prayers, this special edition of Bayan al-Quran in both volumes, and especially this prayer of mine:

اَلّٰھُمَّ زِدْ مُجاہِدْ عِلْماً عَلَی الْخُصُوْصً فِیْ عَلُوْمُ الْقُرْآن

O Allah, increase Mujahid in knowledge—particularly in the sciences of the Holy Quran. Ameen.

Dar-us-Salam, Lahore — 31 July 1993
Saeed Ahmad

I dedicate my thirteen years (1999–2012) of struggle and effort in launching—and then maintaining at a high standard—the approved official website of the Lahore Ahmadiyya Anjuman, AAIIIL.org, to the elevated and noble memories of my beloved Janji. When I first expressed to Janji my desire to transfer the books of the Promised Messiah to computer format, he was immensely pleased with the intention. To encourage me, he gifted me his personal copy of Teachings of Islam, with the following note—so that I might begin this blessed work with that book:

6 June 1992

بسم اﷲ الرحمن الرحیم

In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.

My dear Mujahid,
I was very happy to receive your letter, which I had been expecting, and I was also eagerly awaiting the excellent result of your examinations.

Your idea of transferring Hazrat Mirza Sahib’s books onto the computer is truly blessed and most welcome. How could I possibly say no to such a fine thought? I personally approve of it, and in the meantime I will also perform istikhara regarding it.

My suggestion is that, as a trial, you begin with Hazrat Mirza Sahib’s well-known work which Maulana Muhammad Ali translated under the title Teachings of Islam. This will be an experimental effort. May Allah guide you at every step.

Mujahid—keep praying for me. I am faced with countless difficulties. Convey my love to Owais and Obaidullah, and offer my greetings to your mother.

One who loves you,
Janji.

In our household, I was known as the most talkative. During Janji’s illness, the elders of the family assigned me the duty of sitting near his bed and talking with him—so as to provide him comfort.

The fire at Janji’s residence in 1974, and the ensuing “migration to Lahore,” stands as a monumental testament to his patience and steadfastness. But personally, I experienced this most directly when his son—my paternal uncle, Major General Abdulla Saeed—departed this world, and then again when my grandmother (Zainab Saeed aka Bubbo Ji ) passed away. Not even on a single occasion did a word of complaint come to his lips.

As the Ameer of the Ahmadiyya Movement, when he resided in Lahore, there was a cupboard in his bedroom where all kinds of sweets and chocolates were kept—among them, fine confections that guests from other regions would bring as gifts for him. He understood children’s psychology: how these sweets would scatter bright colors of happiness across their faces, how faces would instantly light up. So he would preserve them for us children—and then take them out from that special cupboard and give them to us.

In most of my waking moments I remain immersed in his beautiful memories—and sometimes, even in the world of sleep, I am granted a glimpse of him. Those moments revive my soul; and yet, because of the aching absence of his immense love and affection, a tender pain stirs within my heart, and my heart and soul soften and melt.

I believe that now the bond between me and my Janji is carried by this prayer that I make regularly: that Allah the Most High be pleased with my Janji.

Ayesha Waqeeh Saeed

My father, Brigadier Abdul Latif Shaheed, held profound devotion for Janji—and Janji, too, counted him among his own special loved ones. Whenever Janji traveled to Abbottabad, he would stay with us in Rawalpindi along the way. But it is my childhood meetings with him during the days of the Annual Convention that I remember most vividly.

Often Janji would have a Chitrali cloak draped over his shoulders and a Jinnah cap upon his head. His smile would draw us children toward him with an almost magical pull. His love for children was unmatched. When we went to meet him, he would give us his full attention—listening to everything we said, and replying with warmth and affection. I cannot remember ever visiting him and returning empty-handed. He always had something kept aside for us. The first time I ever tasted sugar-coated walnuts was from Janji’s own hand. Even now, whenever I eat walnuts like that, the memory of Janji becomes fresh again.

Because of the deep bond between my father and Janji, our ties with his family always remained alive. I consider myself extremely fortunate that I became the daughter-in-law of his son, the late Brigadier Nasir Ahmad Saeed, and that my younger sister, Maliha, was married to his grandson Tariq Ahmad—so that this bond of love and friendship was transformed into strong family relationships. May Allah the Most High grant Janji a lofty rank in paradise. Ameen.

Naseera Saadullah Jan

In our home, I had heard mention of Janji—words of praise and affection—from my father (Abdul Bari, Advocate, Peshawar) since my childhood. Yet until December 1995, I had never been granted the opportunity to meet him, face-to-face.

That was the final Convention of Janji’s life, and he came to the Convention grounds in a wheelchair. My paternal cousin Farooq’s wife—Sajida Bhabhi (daughter of Sardar Ali Khan)—and I came with the desire to take the religious pledge. We both performed an ablution, and then we took the pledge at his hand. In our hearts we felt an immense wave of devotion and love for him

In those few hours of meeting, I sensed that he was a being of deep love—gentle in temperament and profoundly compassionate. May Allah the Most High elevate Janji’s ranks, and grant us the ability to walk in his footsteps. Ameen.

Haleemah Saeed

In my earliest childhood memories, my bond with Janji was a very simple one: whenever we arrived in Lahore, we would run straight into his room, greet him, and then wait—eagerly—for him to take sweets out of his special cupboard for us. I had a firm belief of my own that a whole toffee factory must be operating inside that cupboard. That must be why there were always sweets in it—why they never ran out. We would get our sweets, and then off we would go again, absorbed in our games. Now, when I think back, I wish—how I wish—that I had also benefited from the sweetness of Janji’s knowledge and spirituality.

While Janji was alive, I felt a special strength and confidence within myself: that with Janji’s prayers, everything would turn out in the best way. Whether it was a sports competition, a debate, or a school exam, I would call Janji and ask for his prayers. Each time, hearing his reassuring voice—“May Allah the Most High grant you splendid success”—would settle my heart, as if there were no need to worry anymore, then success had, as it were, become my destiny. After Janji passed away, the first time I entered an examination room, I felt a strange inner turmoil—almost fear—as though our direct connection to Allah the Most High had been cut off. I wondered what would happen now.

Janji wished that all of us should attain higher education. By the grace of Allah, and through his prayers, I succeeded in the entrance exam for Aga Khan Medical College, Karachi [Pakistan.] When he heard the news, he was overjoyed. Janji said that he liked this field because it offers the finest opportunity for service to humanity. One should do it as an act of worship. And if one looks over Janji’s life, one feels that this is exactly how he practiced service to others—as worship. It was because of this sincerity of intention that Allah the Most High granted him a healing touch. I have also heard that before entering the operating room, he would offer two voluntary units of prayer and then pray for the patient’s recovery. I continually pray to Allah the Most High that He may place in my heart such love for humanity—and such a spirit of service—that I may stand honored before Janji.

Once, I asked Janji about the very Being of Allah the Most High. He explained that the first stage of faith is this: by sensing the spirituality of the people around you, you begin to perceive the existence of Allah. Then, gradually, within your own being, a sense of Allah’s presence and reality begins to arise. For most of us, through observing Janji’s personality, a longing and attraction to find the reality of Allah was awakened in our hearts.

Owais Ahmad Saeed

Few people in this world are so fortunate as to have the companionship of their elders from childhood all the way into the age when they are moving toward adulthood—when guidance is most urgently needed—and to receive not only their finest prayers, but also their prominent, formative role in one’s upbringing.

All those moments remain intact in my memory—moments when, in one way or another, Janji was shaping my training, striving to make me a better human being. During those twenty years of my life when Janji was with us, and I was granted time in his company, I never once heard him speak idly or without purpose. Whenever I would see that Janji had a few moments of leisure, a special calm would settle in my heart: now, I would think, my beloved grandfather is spending this time praying for me.

I continue to meet many people who, in one capacity or another, knew Janji. Yet to this day I have not met a single person who could say that they were ever hurt by Doctor Saeed Ahmad. That is precisely why that affectionate title suited him so well—and why, in truth, he was fully worthy of that beloved name: “Janji.”

Aaminah Saeed

Among my very first childhood memories, my Dada Abu [dear grandfather] is present. From an early age I felt there must be something special in him—something not found in other people—and that sense stayed with me even as I grew older.

When I was six, Abu [father, Muhammad Saeed] was posted to Rawalpindi, and Dada Abu came to stay with us for treatment. His arrival brought a strange kind of liveliness into our home. There was always someone present to meet him, and I became convinced that he must possess some special magic—an attraction that drew people to our house, people we would otherwise meet only once in a blue moon, on Eid and the like. Dada Abu had something else as well that made me even more certain of his enchanted power: whenever we children went to see him, he would always take chocolate out for us from his cream-colored cupboard. How could it be that a single cupboard could produce chocolate, at any time, for every child? I had only ever imagined such things in connection with Santa.

In my college years, when I spent more time with him, I came to understand his tenderness and hospitality. His door was always open to everyone. Whenever he met someone, there was a light and a smile on his face. In his eyes there was genuine interest in each person he met, and he would ask them about their home, their family, their studies, their work, and so on. Guests would come to him at all hours, but every day there were four particular guests who would arrive for evening tea—whom he affectionately called his “dervishes.”

As I grew older, I found myself acknowledging more and more of his priceless qualities—his spirituality, insight, progressive way of thinking, and simplicity. Yet in my view, the one thing that won over everyone, young and old alike, more than anything else, was that same love and compassion that defined him—something I had sensed since childhood as a kind of halo surrounding him. That is why, as a child, I used to think I was Dada Abu’s favorite. But when I grew up, I realized that everyone was equally dear to him.

To this day, we remember him all the time.

Sarah Ahmad

It would be fair to say that my connection with Doctor Saeed Ahmad was spiritual. Even though we lived in Dar-us-Salam, we would go to meet him no more than two or three times a year. Part of that was our own shortcoming, and part of it was the thought that we should not disturb his rest. Yet my heart was always comforted by the reassurance that he was there, and that whenever we wished, we could go and see him.

What I am really trying to convey is this: Doctor Saeed Ahmad’s spirituality was so profound that it shaped people’s lives far and wide, even at a distance.

His presence brought a special vibrancy to Dar-us-Salam. At night, when I would be out for a walk with my mother and sister, simply seeing his lighted window made us feel that we were close to him. Many times, my sister and I would deliberately go to Dar-us-Salam at the hour when he would be taking his walk, just so we might meet him. There was deep feeling in his Quranic recitation, and an astonishing impact in his speeches, delivered in a weak voice. When, at the time of the Annual Prayer Gathering, he would lead the prayer, he would insist that everyone say Ameen aloud. In this way, the prayer took on an intense, aching sincerity, and everyone prayed as though they were truly standing in the presence of God.

A friend of mine, who belongs to the Rabwah Jamaat, addresses her Khalifah as “Huzoor.” Our love for Doctor Saeed Ahmad made us [far] more informal; and so, for a large portion of the Ahmadiyya Movement community, he was, simply, “Janji.” We will always remember our beloved Janji. It is very difficult to fill the void he has left, but our prayer is that may God Almighty keep us steadfast, even after him, upon the mission of the Promised Messiah—and just as he placed faith above the world throughout his life, may He grant us, too, the ability and courage to do the same. Ameen.

(Paigham-e-Sulh, November–December 1997)

Ayesha Rahman

Janji—Janji! His very being was the wellspring of my strength and inner peace. Although I was raised in America, and between my dearly beloved great-grandfather and me there lay not only a distance of three generations but also seven thousand miles, I was still blessed with the opportunity to meet him a few times and to spend some precious moments in his company. Among those cherished memories are a handful of unforgettable moments from when I was three, six, nine, eleven, and fifteen years old.

Those precious moments include: at the age of three, showing Janji my dance; at six, sharing a meal with him; at eleven, during the period when I was studying in Pakistan while my parents were in America, his reassuring conversation and encouragement; and at fifteen—my final meeting with him—taking the religious pledge at his hand, and his farewell to me as he embraced me in an affectionate hug.

The special tranquility within me, and the spiritual impressions Janji left upon my personality, cannot in any way be attributed merely to those few meetings. I remember every moment of each encounter with him, and every word he spoke, and I regard them as the treasure of my life. As I grew older and became more aware, I realized that my beloved, beautiful, and unique memories were not tied only to me; there were others too—people he loved dearly—whose hearts held the same feelings, as though each one believed they were the special, most cherished person to him.

One of my most beloved memories of Janji is from when I was nine years old—a memory that made me feel deeply affirmed and trusted. It happened like this: at that time, members of the American branch of the Lahore Ahmadiyya Anjuman were arranging a new U.S. printing of The Muslim Prayer Book, published by the Ahmadiyya Movement. For this purpose, they had brought photographs from Pakistan. But once they reached America, they discovered that the photographs showing women performing the positions of prayer did not meet the required standard. When they spoke to Janji about it, he said to them: “Why don’t you take photographs of Ayesha? Ayesha is a very good girl.”

When my mother told me what Janji had said, she added something else as well: “Ayesha, you must never do anything that would make Janji think the opposite of you.” Janji had the ability to ignite spirit and enthusiasm in people’s hearts. The resolve to live up to the standard set by his inspiring personality—and the capacity for effort and action to meet it—also came from him. At every hard and difficult turning point in my life, my eyes remain fixed on Janji’s exemplary character. The awareness that I might displease him stands between my mistakes and me like a strong barrier.

Janji’s personality has left deep imprints upon me, and his affectionate guidance remains with me at all times, like a set of guiding principles for my life.

Siddiqa Sadiq

People as loving and compassionate as Janji must be rare indeed in this world. I have many affectionate memories connected with him, yet it is extraordinarily difficult to shape those emotions into words. Janji’s smiling face, his humility, and his gentle way of speaking are among the finest memories of my life.

It was during my childhood that, on one occasion, I went to Janji’s home in Lahore. Even before I arrived, Bubbo Ji [Zainab Saeed] had already bought and set aside for me a small, very beautiful tea set to play with. When I opened the set, I said that the very first thing I would do was serve tea to Janji in my little cups and teapot. Just moments before, Janji had gone toward his room to rest. Someone present said, “Now it’s Janji’s resting time—he has gone to his room.”

But Janji had not yet properly gone inside. My voice reached his ears, and he turned back and came out again, saying, “I will first drink tea from Siddiqa’s hands, and then I will rest.” Then he said to me, “Come, now—make tea for me.” This is something very special to me. To treat a child’s small wishes as important is no ordinary thing. It was qualities like these in our Janji that children found deeply appealing, and they would be drawn to him. This incident is priceless to me. And now I am the mother of a daughter who is the same age I was then. Whenever my daughter Ayesha plays with her tea set and makes “tea” for everyone, I always remember this moment.

Another important and deeply precious thing for me is that Janji chose my name, my brother’s name, and my cousin’s (my maternal aunt’s daughter) name in relation to our Nana Jan. My Nana Jan’s name was Habib-ur-Rahman Sadiq. From this blessed name, the first word—“Habib”—was granted to my cousin Habibah; “ar-Rahman” became part of my younger brother’s name, Abdul Rahman; and from the final part, “Sadiq,” I became Siddiqa.

Obaidullah Saeed

Only a few years of my childhood were spent in Janji’s company. Yet the love I received in those moments is unforgettable. Despite the great difference in our ages, he always felt like a friend to me. There was always a smile on his face. Children are often scolded by elders for their mischief, but Janji never once spoke to us in a raised voice. Whenever he needed to explain something, he would speak in the gentlest tone.

He would ask with genuine interest about my performance at school. And he would always give such a prayer for me that every worry would melt away and my confidence would rise greatly—as though even a child could be certain that his prayers would be accepted. My eyes were always on his cupboard, waiting to see when I might get chocolates or sweets.

I imagine other children’s impressions of Janji were much the same. But here I want to mention one particular matter—something that pertains only to me. There is a specific way of sitting in the qadah position during prayer, and despite my efforts, I could not sit that way. No matter what I did, I simply could not bend my feet into that position. I asked Janji for guidance. He had me practice many times, but I still could not manage it. I became deeply anxious that perhaps my prayer would not be accepted.

When I expressed this worry to Janji, he asked me, “What problem is there with the way you sit in prayer? Why do you think your prayer will not be accepted?” The search for an answer to that question opened my mind, and two things became very clear to me. First: there is no harshness in religion. Second: one should not try to force oneself into a painful change merely to appear acceptable in the eyes of others. Rather, one should do what can be done with ease—and what leaves one’s own spirit at peace.

Jamila Salam and Nabilah Salam

Janji was immensely dear to all of us. From childhood, we were blessed with his incomparable tenderness. Every evening it was our routine that, in the time between Asr and Maghrib, we would go into Janji’s room to offer our greetings—and each time he would give us something or other to eat. With great eagerness we would massage his legs, and he would shower us with many prayers.

Whenever there was a children’s speech competition, and both of our speeches went well, we would happily go and tell Janji, and he would give us a reward.

During the days of his final illness, Janji was admitted to Shaikh Zaid Hospital. We both wanted to see him, and after insisting to our father, we went there one evening. Janji held our hands and said, “You are going to Fiji. Study wholeheartedly and with full attention.” That meeting was our last meeting with Janji. We can say with certainty that whatever we are today, and whatever place we have reached, includes Janji’s prayers.

Fatima Rahman

Despite his many and varied responsibilities, Janji would still make time for those he loved. I used to write him letters, and he would promptly send a reply—written in his own hand. I have kept all of those letters, and to me they are an incomparable treasure—one I never wish to lose.

Whenever I would go to meet him with my parents, my sister, and my brother, he would certainly set aside time for us. He would speak with us with great care and affection. I would often feel as though, through his loving smile, a light had spread throughout the whole room. The memory of those beautiful, luminous moments is etched in my heart.

Basharat Ahmad Saeed

In my early teens, I was searching for guidance—trying to determine my place and my way of living in this rapidly advancing world—when I came to feel, with great intensity, that in my childhood Janji’s presence had been a spiritual refuge for me, and a guiding beacon of light. It was a time when, in the hard soil of my being, new ideas and concepts were being sown; and Janji, in an almost imperceptible way, kept nurturing that soil—like a gentle mist of tranquility and spirituality, quietly watering it as it took root.

True, because of my young age I could not really hold any meaningful conversation with him; yet I could still sense his personal magnetism and all-embracing love—in a son’s reverence and honor, in a daughter’s selfless affection, and in a life-companion’s care and attentiveness. And this spirit of respect and love was not limited only to his sons, his daughters, or his wife. An entire world seemed filled with the same feelings, and it was these very factors that stirred my own reverence for Janji.

All those people whom I considered invaluable and admirable themselves regarded Janji as belonging to a far higher and loftier station. They would entrust to him the decisions by which their intentions and hopes were to be fulfilled, and they would place his judgment above their own. At times, this kind of reverence, esteem, and trust was beyond what an eleven-year-old child could fully comprehend.

Now that I am an adult—someone who speaks openly about religion and allows no flexibility in my point of view—I feel a kind of envy toward those who, with a cup of tea in hand, could sit facing him and take in the grandeur and dignity that had come to him from dedicating his life to the service of faith and to the service of humanity.

Janji’s entire life is a living embodiment of these finest virtues.

Closing Remarks

As I read, translated, and then committed to writing the bouquets of love and devotion that have been presented to Janji in the form of tributes, I kept feeling the same thing in my heart: whatever each person wrote, all of it already lived within me. What name should I give to my own personal bond with Janji? That search will remain. And if I dare to scatter my feelings across the page, I worry that this boldness might be taken as self-praise.

I heard it from Janji’s own lips that I was born at the moment of the dawn call to prayer (adhan). When he intended to perform the Fajr prayer, the Quranic verse came to his mind

وَ لَیْسَ الذَّكَرُ كَالْاُنْثٰی

And the male is not like the female (Holy Quran—3:36)

and his heart filled for me with love, joy, and delight.

Unforgettable to me, too, are those moments when, because of my painful illness, my father—who loved me dearly—spent his days and nights revolving around my medicine and my prayers. To comfort me, the gift of a gramophone, and, amid perilous conditions, a journey to Kashmir for a change of climate, were not ordinary expressions of love.

I am Janji’s fifth daughter, placed exactly in the middle of all the siblings. Of all his children, it was my lot to spend the most time with him. Yet it is also true that, because of my own shortcomings, I neither fulfilled the right of service as it deserved, nor could I drink as deeply from that spring of spiritual grace as others did. Still, I can say with complete certainty: Janji always overlooked my faults and mistakes, and he was pleased with me. And if I ever managed—even in some small, insignificant way—to render any service, he would, with remarkable generosity, fill my lap with the precious pearls of his prayers.

Many of the ups and downs of my life caused Janji pain; yet he absorbed every sorrow into his own heart. He continued to grant me coolness and peace through the rain of his kindness and affection, and he turned each of my griefs into ease. I am among his fortunate children whom he honored in one of his letters with these words of love:

For more than one reason, you are my dearest child.

Janji’s far-seeing eyes could look deep into the distant future; whereas people of short sight like me can only look as far as what surrounds us. I recall the days when Janji was abroad and I was preparing for my middle-school examinations. Likely searching for an excuse for the shortcomings in my studies, I wrote to him in a letter that the children (my brothers) were on holiday these days, and they kept the house in constant uproar, so I could not study at all. Janji wrote back: “Your brothers are still very young. When they grow up, they will love you dearly and take care of you.” Who could understand the truth of these words better than I do? Indeed, my siblings love me deeply, and their respect and regard for me are something very special.

Another incident relates to choosing subjects for my education. Janji selected Farsi as my elective subject, saying that if I learned Farsi, I would be able to understand the insights contained in Hazrat Sahib’s Farsi writings. I cannot claim that, in this regard, I have gained any great benefit as yet; but I can certainly say that my familiarity with Farsi has helped me in language and expression, and in teaching and writing.

During the final decade of Janji’s life, I was continually blessed with the cool shade of his presence. From that same period, I recall a day when—being by nature sensitive and easily hurt—I was somewhat distressed, and it pained my dear Janji as well. As he comforted me, there was moisture in his eyes. He said to me:

You may not realize what your presence in this house means to me. You have authority over my black and white—do whatever you wish, and do it as you wish. Only do not take small matters to heart. It causes me pain.

Janji was always aware of this weakness of mine. After his passing away, Baji Gul (Asma Shaukat) told me that Janji had said to her: “Safia is extremely sensitive. Take great care that she is never hurt.”

To be “Bint-e-Saeed” [daughter of Saeed] is my honor. And my Janji has settled me in a town whose every lane is familiar with his footsteps. And when my feet fall upon these lanes, every gaze that rises toward me carries a glimmer of love and respect. It is through this very connection with him that I have been granted this standing and honor today.

In Janji’s heart there was a surging ocean of love—an ocean whose single wave could nourish every grain of the shore, and each grain would feel, in its own self, confident that it had been the most fully watered.

These writings are not the final word. There will be many among Janji’s lovers and beloved ones who have the ability, with the tip of their pen, to make rivers flow—or to contain a river within a small vessel.

An open invitation is extended to all who love and cherish him.

— Safia Bint-e-Saeed (daughter of Saeed)