DADDY, I MISS YOU: A Son’s Tribute to Syed Mashooq Hussain Zaidi

One week of silence where there was once warmth.

One week of emptiness where there was once presence.

 The world continues to spin, but for me, time has stopped at that moment when I watched my father in a coffin.

My father, Syed Mashooq Hussain Zaidi, left this world one week ago.

He returned to his Creator, leaving behind a void that no amount of success, no applause from film sets, no words on paper can ever fill.

I am Tanveer Zaidi, his son, and this is my tribute to the man who shaped me, who believed in me and who loved me in ways I am only now beginning to fully understand.

The Man Behind the Name

To the outside world, my father was a man of quiet dignity who held a reputed position in the confidential department of the Railways.

He rose through the ranks to become one of the most respected employees, honoured with the Best Staff Award three times in a row.

He also served as the manager of the railway cricket team—a role that combined his love for sports with his natural leadership abilities.

But to me, he was so much more. He was my first teacher, my greatest supporter, and my most profound inspiration.

My father was a man of principles. Honesty was not something he practised; it was something he breathed.

He spoke his heart because he knew no other way to speak. His words were few, but they carried the weight of deep wisdom.

When he gave advice, it was not just words—it was a map for living a meaningful life.

He was also a deeply compassionate soul. His philanthropic work was extensive, but he never sought recognition for it.

He built a mosque and remained actively involved in its activities, yet he never allowed religion to become a barrier between him and others.

His closest friend, until his very last breath, was Srichand Bhagia—a wonderful Hindu gentleman who became like a real uncle to us.

This was my father’s true spirituality: not in empty rituals, but in genuine respect for all faiths and all people.

A Legacy of Strength: The Wrestler Grandfather

My father came from a lineage of remarkable strength and character.

His own father—my grandfather, Syed Sadiq Hussain—was a wrestler and businessman of extraordinary repute.

In his prime, my grandfather achieved what few could even dream of: he fought a wrestling bout with the legendary Gama Pahalwan, the world champion wrestler of his era.

The mere fact that my grandfather stepped into the ring with the great Gama Pahalwan speaks volumes about his courage, his physical prowess, and his indomitable spirit.

He was a man who feared no opponent, who bowed to no on,e and who carried himself with the dignity of a true warrior.

Beyond wrestling, my grandfather was an astute businessman.

His company manufactured essential parts for printing presses—a business that reflected his precision, his eye for detail, and his commitment to quality.

He was also a zamindar, managing his lands with the same dedication he brought to his other pursuits.

My father inherited this strength—not just physical, but moral and spiritual. He carried his father’s legacy forward with the same grace and determination.

A Father’s Love: The Axe Incident

I was eight years old when I learned just how deeply my father loved me.

It was an ordinary day, and I was watching a woman chop wood. Curiosity got the better of me, and I bent down for a closer look.

The woman tried to pull the axe free from the log where it had gotten stuck. In that moment, the axe came loose, and its back portion struck my left eye.

The bleeding was immediate. I remember the shock, the pain, and then the sight of my father rushing toward me.

 He did not waste a single moment on panic. He picked me up and took me straight to the hospital.

 I was placed on the operating table and my father, having secured special permission to stay by my side, stood watching. But he could not bear it.

The sight of his son in that condition was too much for him. He collapsed. He fainted.

That was my father. His love was so immense, so overwhelming, that he could not even bear to watch me suffer.

It was not weakness—it was love in its purest, most raw form.

The Cricket Years and the Master Sadiq Memorial Tournament

My father’s love for cricket was legendary. He played the game for the Railways in his youth and later became the manager of the railway cricket team.

 He would take me along with him across the state and country for various tournaments.

 I had the privilege of bowling to some of the greatest players of that era during net practice sessions—moments I still cherish.

But perhaps his greatest contribution to the world of cricket was the Master Sadiq Memorial Cricket Tournament.

Named in memory and tribute to his own father—my grandfather, Syed Sadiq Hussain—this tournament was organized by my father for over a decade.

Teams from across the state and often from all over the country would participate.

 I witnessed some of the finest international-level players grace those matches.

A beautiful souvenir related to the tournament was published every year, capturing the spirit of the game.

Beyond cricket, my father had a refined taste for snooker—a game he learned during his stay abroad.

He would spend quiet evenings perfecting his shots, his focus and precision reflecting the discipline he brought to every aspect of his life.

My Teacher and The Mentor

My father had a unique way of teaching me. He would hand me English books, one by one, and say, “Translate two pages into Hindi, and I will give you five rupees for each page.” This simple method turned learning into an exciting challenge.

I devoured books on various subjects, absorbing knowledge not through force but through curiosity and reward.

He taught me that learning is not a burden—it is an adventure.

He was also a deeply emotional person. He never hid his love for us.

He would express his feelings openly, without any hesitation.

 In his youth, he had a wonderful appreciation for music.

The tabla, the flute, and the mouth organ were his companions in quieter moments.

He would often play these instruments and sing many melodious songs in his melodious voice, filling our home with melodies that still echo in my memory.

 My mother is also a God-gifted singer. Mummy and Daddy often used to sing and record their songs for us to listen to.

When I started modelling and acting, my father did not discourage me. He did not impose his will on me.

Instead, he gently nudged me toward completing my education first. He wanted me to have a strong foundation before I chased my dreams.

I often participated in theatre plays and regional movies, and finally Bollywood.

The famous play ‘Adrak Ke Panje’ by Babban Khan was one of my first plays.

 That was his way—supportive, yet wise; encouraging, yet grounded.

The Husband and The Family Man

My father’s love for my mother was evident in everything he did. He never did anything that could hurt her or bring distress to his children.

He was caring, considerate, and always put the needs of his family before his own.

 The home he built was not just made of bricks and mortar—it still is a sanctuary of love, safety, and warmth.

His life was remarkably organized. He had complete faith in God, and that faith was reflected in his daily routine.

Yet, he was never fanatical. He respected other religions as much as he respected his own.

 His ardent friendship with Srichand Bhagia was a living example of this harmony.

They remained best friends until my father’s last breath, proving that true friendship knows no boundaries of faith.

In his struggling moments in the hospital, he so many times pronounced the name, “Let me talk to Sri (Srichand), I want to hear him.”

The Final Days: A Son’s Heartbreak

The last month was the hardest. My father had been admitted to a hospital in Allahabad and later Lucknow—he was not willing to go out of state—and for over a month, he remained there, fighting bravely.

I visited him whenever I could, each time hoping to see some improvement, each time praying for a miracle.

On my second-last visit, he spoke to me. Despite being in the Intensive Care Unit, despite his own suffering, his first concern was for me.

He looked at me with those tired but loving eyes and asked, “Why have you come, son? You yourself are not well.”

 He knew I was unwell. In his weakest moment, surrounded by beeping machines and the sterile smell of medicine, my father was worried about me.

Tears were my answer. I could not speak. I could not find the words.

All I could do was stand there, tears streaming down my face, overwhelmed by the depth of his love.

The last time I saw him alive, he was lying in his hospital bed.

I leaned close and whispered, “Daddy, see, I am here.” He tried to open his eyes.

I could see the effort, the struggle, the desperate attempt to respond to his son’s voice.

For a brief moment, there was movement—a flicker of recognition, a silent acknowledgment that he knew I was there.

But he was too weak. He could not speak. He could not interact.

 His body had given up, even though his spirit was still fighting.

I stood there, watching my father—my hero, my guide, my everything—fading away, and there was nothing I could do.

Exactly one week has passed since he left us. The memory of those final moments in the hospital and his body in the coffin at home still haunts me.

 But so does the memory of his love, his sacrifice, his unwavering concern for me even when he was the one suffering.

That is the legacy he left behind—not just a life well-lived, but a love that never wavered, even in the face of death.

The Grief That Words Cannot Capture

One week has passed. The absence is still raw, still unbearable. I try to be strong for my siblings and my mother. I do not want them to see me break down.

 But in the quiet moments, when I am alone, the tears flow uncontrollably. The heaviness in my head and heart feels like a weight I cannot lift.

Sometimes, I want to scream, to shout out loud, just to release the pressure building inside me.

 But I hold back. Because that is what my father taught me—to be strong, even when everything inside is falling apart.

I miss him. I miss him more than I ever thought possible. I miss his voice, his smile, his presence.

I miss the way he would sit quietly, his mere presence bringing peace to our home. I miss the cricket matches, the journeys, the lessons. I miss everything.

A Legacy That Lives On

The Railways will continue to manage train-related services. The cricket field will still host matches.

The mosque he built will still echo with prayers. But for me, for my family, the world is a little less bright, a little less warm.

Yet, I know that my father is not truly gone. His spirit lives on in every kind word I speak, in every honest deal I make, in every person whose life I touch.

He taught me how to live with integrity, how to love without conditions, and how to face life’s challenges with courage.

He gave me a responsibility—he launched a computer academy named ACTI, and after retirement from a reputed rank in the confidential department of the Railways, he started a public school called ACTI Public School.

 He lived a remarkable life.

 And in doing so, he taught me how to live mine. That is the greatest gift any father can give, and it is a gift that death can never take away.

My father, Syed Mashooq Hussain Zaidi, may no longer be with me in body, but he will remain in my heart forever.

And as long as I live, I will carry his legacy forward—with the same honesty, the same love, and the same quiet strength that defined his life.

—–About Actor, Author and Educationist Tanveer Zaidi

Tanveer Zaidi has played lead roles in over a dozen Bollywood movies and numerous television series. He has authored several fictional novels and numerous articles on various subjects.