I had a baby sister. She died. She had lived for six months. All I remember about her is her gorgeous eyes, jet black hair – the same color as her eyes. That, and her dead face. Round black eyes, open, and still. She was in white.
I had been playing outside, away from home, or I would have seen the car pull up. I skipped back to our house and found Daddy standing outside the house, on the gravel driveway by the front lawn. I ran up to him.
“Annie had been crying and crying for you,” he said, “and now she has died.”
“She has died?” I knew what it meant to be dead; I was six years old. But Annie dead? What did that mean?
Daddy took me inside. There were ladies gathered in the living room, sitting with Mummy. The room was quiet. He walked up to the table by the window where she lay, a white sheet draped over her small body. Daddy gently uncovered her face. She was still. I looked.
“Her eyes are open,” I remember saying to Daddy. I don’t remember what he said. Then he covered her face with the white sheet and walked outside with me. He stood under the tree, alone. And I ran off to play.
I saw a friend of my mother’s walking up to the house. I caught up with her. “Auntie, you know my sister, not Neena, but the baby. She died.” Looking down, Auntie nodded. I walked in with her, took her to the living room, escorted her to the table, removed the white sheet, and showed her Annie’s face. Auntie burst into tears. I didn’t understand why she cried. Why everyone was crying? So I ran out to play.
When I came back home, Annie was gone. The table was bare. Mummy was crying, all her friends had surrounded her, and they were all sobbing. I ran out to play.
Did I ask, “Where is Annie?” Maybe. Maybe not. Somewhere, sometimes later, I knew that Daddy and his friends had taken her for her burial.
I never spoke to my parents about her. I never asked, “What happened? How did she die?” I knew that it would upset Mummy. And Mummy never said anything to me, perhaps for the same reason. But I would hear her talk about Annie with her friends. “It was diarrhea,” she would say. “We took her to the doctor….we waited for so long in the waiting room…by the time the doctor saw her, she had died.”
Now I wonder. How did Mummy react when the doctor told her that her baby was dead? Did she burst into tears? Go into shock? Scream? And what about Daddy? Did he take Mummy into his arms and hold her tight? They brought Annie home. Who carried her when they walked to their car? Daddy? Probably. But then when they got to the car, Daddy had to hand the body to Mummy to get his car keys out of his pocket and unlock the door for her? How did Mummy feel, holding her dead baby? He must have opened the door, taken the baby from her hands, had her sit, and then handed the baby back to her, as he made his way to the driver’s side of the car. And in that state, he drove them home, trying to be strong for Mummy. He would have walked in the door and placed her on the table, then looked for a sheet to cover her. And Mummy? Did she just sit there in shock? And how come so many people gathered in the house? How did word get out? Why was Daddy standing alone outside in his moment of grief? Where were his friends—all the uncles? I suppose they were at work. Did they all come straight from work to comfort Daddy? Who made arrangements for the burial? They all must have accompanied Daddy to the cemetery. Did Daddy drive? Probably. We were one of the few families that had a car. Did one of the uncles hold the baby while Daddy drove? Did Daddy place Annie in the grave? What was it like to let go of his baby girl?
I never asked. But years later, I heard Mummy say to a friend that on that day, after all the friends had departed and Mummy and Daddy retired to their bedroom, Daddy broke down and cried. Dear Daddy. How it must have broken his heart to tell me that Annie had died. I will forever remain grateful that he had the heart and the wisdom to show me her face, as she lay still in death.
One day—it must have been a few days later—Daddy walked in, accompanied by my grandparents. He had picked them up from the train station. I went running and hugged them, squealing with delight. Mummy rushed into her mother’s arms, calling out “Ammi” and started sobbing. Why was Mummy crying? Annie. I stepped away.
Often, I would hear Mummy telling someone, “She was the prettiest of the three girls.” Sometimes she would say, “Annie would have been six by now.” Or “ten” or “twelve.” Somewhere along the line, Mummy stopped counting. Her baby photo, framed and on the wall, remained a fixture in our house long after Mummy had passed away. Her only photo.
When I was ten, Daddy got transferred back to Quetta, the city where Annie lay buried. We traveled by car, and as we approached the city, Daddy said, “We will first stop at Annie’s grave.” That was the first time I saw her tombstone by the small grave. Mummy cried, and I remember feeling sad. As we sat back in the car, Daddy said to her, “Last time, we came to Quetta with three children and left with two. Now we are coming with two children and will leave with three.” Mummy was pregnant.
We made several visits to the cemetery during the one year we were stationed there. I went along, tried to memorize the inscription on the tombstone, returned home to my homework, and my books. Five years later, we were back in Quetta. I was a high school student now, and we made many more visits to Annie’s resting place.
The last time I heard Mummy talk about Annie was with Khalid, my husband. He had probably asked Mummy about her. She started telling him that a few years ago, she had gone back to Quetta with some friends. They had traveled by car, and Mummy asked if they could first stop at Annie’s grave. They stayed in the car when Mummy went to her grave site. “I sat by her and told her all about what was happening in our lives. I told her that she has a brother and her sisters are now married with children. I told her how my life would have been with her, how it has been without her. I know she couldn’t hear me, but I felt the need to tell her. That was the last time I visited her.”
I sat by listening. I didn’t interrupt and ask for more. I could have. But I didn’t. And she didn’t say anything to me either.
My sister, who lived with Mummy, tells me that a year before she passed away, someone we knew had gone to Quetta, and Mummy had asked him to go to the cemetery and see how Annie was doing.
I have never been back—to Quetta, that is—and if I do, I won’t know where to look for Annie. I never asked.
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