Father's 'I Get To' Philosophy Transforms Grief Into Gratitude

When journalist Asra Nomani's father died at 93 this August, she inherited more than his power washer and yard tools. She discovered the invisible labor of love that shaped everything she became.

Zafar Nomani arrived in America from India in 1962 as a visiting teacher at Kansas State University. One moment changed his life forever: watching his professor washing cars alongside students at a church fundraiser.

"I saw the dignity of labor," he told his family for decades afterward. That single scene shaped how he approached every day of his 93 years.

Born during British colonial rule in India, Zafar survived the 1943 Bengal famine as a boy. He stood in food aid lines, choking down coarse red grain meant for animals. But he never framed his life around suffering.

Instead, he built his days on a radical philosophy: not "I have to" but "I get to." I get to work. I get to study. I get to care for my family.

When his family lived in poverty in graduate student housing in New Jersey, they heated their home with the oven in winter. His wife babysat other children to afford plane tickets. Yet they still threw backyard birthday parties for their daughter.

On his wedding night in 1962, Zafar shared his life purpose with his bride: "Serve humanity." He carried that mission through decades as a nutrition professor, working morning to night without complaint.

His daughter spent years believing her strength came from challenging his authority. As a journalist and feminist, she learned to question patriarchy and push boundaries.

Sunny's Take

This summer, Asra spent two months caring for her father in the hospital before he took his last breath in Room 8. Amid oxygen tubes and fear, she fell in love with him all over again.

The grievances of a lifetime melted away. What remained was clarity: her father's quiet service, performed alongside her devoted mother, created the foundation that allowed her independence to flourish.

She thought she succeeded by overcoming the patriarch. She now sees she succeeded because of him.

His love language was never words but service. The ordinary caregiving that never appears on timesheets. The invisible labor that provides shelter, safety, and the space for others to grow.

This Labor Day weekend, as Asra pushes a shopping cart at the same Kroger her father frequented, she carries forward his gift. Not the burden of "I have to," but the privilege of "I get to."