A week after I buried my mother, I sat down in my mother’s home in Pakistan, to write to my family and friends at home in the US. That was seven years ago today.
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Dear family and friends,
Three more days in Pakistan and then I head back home to the US.
It was on Jan. 3rd when my cousin Khurram in Pakistan called to tell me that Mummy had died at home and he was taking her to the hospital to be officially pronounced. “Can you please arranged to have the body held in the morgue until I get there,” I asked him. He leaned on the hospital authorities and prevailed. I had difficulty getting a flight. New York was enveloped in a blizzard and the earliest I could leave was two days later; add to that a twenty-hour flying time and ten time zones. Three days after mummy’s passing, I landed in Pakistan in the wee hours of the morning.
My sister Neena was waiting for me at the airport and took me straight to the hospital morgue for the ghusl—bathing of the body. Everything had been arranged like clockwork. Khurram stood outside the morgue building, waiting for my arrival. He had arranged for the morgue to open well before business hours. An ambulance stood by to transport her body home. I hugged him. The staff ushered us into the morgue and when they opened the compartment and pulled out the tray with a shrouded body in it, I trembled with disbelief. I unwrapped the shroud covering her face and as I looked at her still face, I kept telling myself "Its mummy, and she is gone." But I still couldn't comprehend it. The well-trained female staff of the hospital helped us bath her body and wrap mummy in a white shroud. I rode with mummy in the ambulance and brought her home.
As soon as we pulled into the driveway of our home and I stepped out, I was enveloped by Razia, our cook for 28 years, who was wailing uncontrollably. The family that had gathered in the verandah and Razia and Aurangzeb—our help for over 40 years—and all the other help came rushing out. My aunt was weeping uncontrollably; my uncle cried when he hugged me. I must have been in a daze, because I started consoling them, and at the same time, was giving directions on the handling of the body as it was brought into the living room. This was the first time they were seeing mummy’s face.
For the next three hours, I sat next to her in the living room, where she lay on the charpoi bed, with my uncle beside me. Women had assembled inside with us, the men outside under the shamiyana tent. People would walk in, embrace, and then start reciting the Quran. I decided that I would defer reciting the Quran until after she is taken away; now I wanted to just look at her face. Maybe if I kept looking at her, I will believe that she is dead. My uncle was beside himself with grief, so I stayed put next to him. The room filled up quickly with women visitors; and each time uncle stood up to leave saying 'I should go join the men', I would pull him back: "It’s cold outside. Stay with mummy. She will be leaving soon." He stayed.
Mummy looked beautiful and at peace. Her face looked youthful, all the wrinkles were gone, she had a slight smile on her face, a serene look, so beautiful, I almost thought I saw her eyelashes flutter. Women would walk in, break into tears, and I found myself consoling them. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Was I in shock or denial? I don't know. I did break down once. One of daddy and mummy's closest friend, who named me Sabeeha, came to the door and asked for me. I stepped out. He looked like he had lost everything. I leapt into his arms and sobbed against his chest. When I pulled away, he looked at me and said, "My turn is coming." I didn't say, "No, don't say that." I used to say that to mummy.
When they came to take mummy to the cemetery, I asked uncle and auntie to say their goodbyes and wrapped mummy's face in the shroud. I joined the pallbearers as they took her to the waiting ambulance, and then she was gone. I didn't weep. All my friends from college were there and we talked about mummy for hours until the men returned (In Pakistan, women do not participate in the burial). Someone had taken care of lunch—and I remembered that I hadn't eaten in how long, was it?
I often go to the cemetery where she lies besides daddy. She loved flowers, and I make sure her gravesite is adorned with red rose petals. Mummy fought long and hard for that space—to be buried beside daddy. The army graveyard does not take reservations. Its first-come-first serve, but she got them to make an exception and got it in writing. Just before she died, she called the cemetery and told them to prepare her space. So clued in were all family members on her wish, that even after her death when the paperwork was processed for her grave and the site was prepared, members of the family stood guard at the site to make sure no one else got buried there. Mummy got her dying wish.
Evenings have been hard. The visitors have gone home, the house is quiet, and that is when we feel the void. She had a presence: very sociable, a beautiful woman—as you know—and spent her hours decorating anything and everything. Her touch is all over the house.
I have been busy handling and sorting her affairs with Neena. Today we spent all morning in the courts, filing paperwork. That too is a necessary part of bringing closure. Dear, dear Pakistan, it has such an antiquated court infrastructure. But that's another narrative entirely. We have been sorting her belongings, and that hasn't been easy, but has to be done. It is very cold here and so many people have no gas to heat their homes. One of the first things we did was to donate her winter clothing to the families of the household help. I spend hours talking to Neena, as she tries to reorganize her new life and build a future without mummy. Will she stay in this house where she spent decades with mummy and daddy? How to reorganize the household help, who to keep, who to retire? I have been preparing my niece to take charge of the household affairs.
I have been reciting the Quran for mummy and hope to complete the Quran before I leave. Grieving in my own way, I talk about her life and her loveliness; and am seeing to it that her house and garden is kept as exquisite as it was in her lifetime. She lived beautifully and passed away in peace. I am grateful for the many years I had her—so many of my friends were not so fortunate. When I get up for the morning Fajr prayer, I walk past her bedroom door, and tiptoe so that I don't wake her up. Then I remember that she is in eternal sleep.
If I have been rambling, forgive me. But that is how I grieve. Thanks for listening.
Much love, Sabeeha
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