ABDUL
NAAFAY
By Her Gravestone, I Sat Down And Wept
I stared at the clock. Time hadn’t stopped. Sitting in the lounge waiting for my eye optician, my nerves had burst forth and the insides of my sclera were twitching. Mother’s hand squeezed mine. I stared at her, trying to dig out the expression on her blank face. Was she thinking the same as me? There was only one explanation: Doctor Sajid Ali was not coming to Ziauddin Hospital. Our suspicions turned out to be wrong. Hustling through the long corridor, we departed Ziauddin only to be greeted by a buzzing Supernova in my pocket. Father now spoke to Mother of the critical state of Gram who was going for the dialysis process. On returning home, panic flooded everywhere; no one knew what to do. We did the only thing we could: pray.
11.36 was what the clock registered. The phone buzzed. Mother dropped it, half-listening. Something was not right. Tears, now. My sisters and I got to her but to no avail; she would not speak. Through the war between cries and emotion, she told us that Gram was in a critical state in Fatima Memorial Hospital, breathing her last and struggling for life. Of course, we tried to console her. But Gram is Mother’s mom and you know it gets kind of emotional in that case. Mother then told us to pray for her to Allah, the Healer and the Protector. Wajeeha and Abeeha got their hands on rosaries and started to pray. Mother joined them. I took off to the living room with a Sipara in my hand. According to me, the Quran is the best aid seeker. The clock ticked on.
Everything was silent until 12.51, the phone rang again. This time it was different and more devastating. It was Mahvush Apa telling Abeeha that Gram was…was…not breathing anymore. Yes, she had passed away. According to Hazrat Anas bin Malik, this type of death is termed as martyrdom as laid down by Shariah laws. However, that wasn’t the matter at the moment. Mother went into a state of hysterical crying. There appeared to be a black hole now that seemed to suck me in. I felt a tiny little hole in me that wasn’t there before. It was the first time someone so close to me had died. I had no idea how to respond. I was fighting the same war as Mother: Grief versus Depression. There was no hint of anxiety, cherished memoirs or conviction of any sort. That would come afterwards. First, I shall tell you the tale of the woman who made my and our world worth living and my friend; it is a tale that will make your hearts weep before her struggles in life. Now let me take you to the hearty summers of the 1940’s…
-0Though the early age of Mehmoona Khawaja was consumed by the British Raj over her homeland of Sindh, (although her forefathers were of Kashmir), Mehmoona never complained of her usual workdays where every member of the family would help in the Head’s of the house business. Like many of the muslims at the time, she moved to Lahore after her wedding in 1956.
Mehmoona would spend her time as a child playing games outdoors but there were many restrictions placed upon her by Ghulam Rasul and Ashraf Sultana, her parents, who would want nothing more but to keep Mehmoona safe. One day, she would come home after having played with her friends.
She would notice the grim face of her mother. Mehmoona would go to her and hold her hand. ‘‘Why are you so sad, ammi?’’
Ashraf Sultana would place a hand on Mehmoona’s face. ‘‘Beta, every girl has to leave home one day. Your turn will come,’’ she’d say.
Mehmoona would put up a confused look. ‘‘No ammi, I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay with you.’’
Her mother would smile at her thirteen year old daughter. ‘‘Every girl has to marry and go with their husband. You will too someday. You will have your children to look after and your own life will start,’’ she told her.
“Ammi, where are you going,’’ Mehmoona asked suddenly.
There was a dreading pause. Ashraf Sultana’s tears would well up in her eyes. ‘‘We all have to die someday. We all will go to Allah Ta’alah when we die and live happily.’’
Mehmoona would start crying, ‘‘Ammi don’t go...’’
‘‘Promise me something, Mehmoona…’’
‘‘Of course,’’ she said between tears.
‘‘Never break any relations-’’
‘‘I won’t,’’ Mehmoona would cry.
‘‘Be loved by everyone, beta, if you think someone dislikes you, still care for them. Love your brothers and sisters, if you find a child who has no home or no protector, help him. If your children fight amongst themselves, teach them what is right. Always thank Allah for what He has given you. Can you promise me that?’’
‘‘Yes, I promise, I promise ammi,’’ Mehmoona said between sobs.
‘‘I love you.’’
The clock ticked on. Mehmoona turned seventeen and was married to Shoukat Rathore, a wealthy worker in the High Railway Commission. Shoukat bought a fine luxury house in Gulberg 3, the finest area of Lahore at the time.
The house to Mehmoona was a present plush Renaissance mansion with Louis the sixteenth furniture, hand-frescoed walls and a colossal mahogany four poster bed. Nevertheless, the melancholy figure of Mehmoona was to stay. She was burdened with the crushing responsibilities of the house even though she was a child inside, being seventeen. To load into her worries, she was to live in the house alone for there were times when Shoukat arrived late and being alone there was little in the house to cheer or entertain Mehmoona. Always remaining isolated from the outside world, depression seemed to be swallowing up her happiness. As days evolved into months, there was finally something to lighten her up: on March the sixteenth 1959, a girl was born who became known as Roohi. Oh bless Mehmoona, who showered all her affection and love on her child. Mehmoona would wake up at nights to make sure the baby was sound asleep, she would feed her, play with her and sacrifice her drowsy nights to attend to the baby’s crying. Mehmoona would go through many tensions but miraculously her smile never turned upside down.
Afterwards, the woman gave birth to four more; two boys and two girls. It appeared rather daunting how a young woman as Mehmoona was to endure the chores of the house as well as the duties of her children. Naveed, Nadeem, Roohi, Sibihi and Nadia were what her children were called. As her children grew, they would run around the house, shouting and laughing, at times studying and at times playing, but they failed to see the exhaustion on Mehmoona’s face, they did not see the depression gnawing at her sides but children are children; they cannot repay their parents’ debt of love.
After time dragged itself to years, her children started to realize their mother’s burden of work and feelings of emotion and regret crawled over them as they saw their mother in a state of constant struggle. They helped take off her load and soon began to understand what she had done for them. However, a tragedy occurred that not only Mehmoona recoiled but was deeply injured by the fatal blow.
On a journey to the safety of their house, Mehmoona’s brother, Hamayun, along with his family were struck by ill fate as an oil truck collided with their own vehicle. Of all the members of the family, only Rizwan, Hamayun’s son could be saved. Mehmoona sought the courage to take it upon her duty to bring him up. She summoned every ounce of her love on Rizwan and loved him like his own son. She would play and laugh with her children but deep inside she knew she was growing weak. However, m’ friend, the cruel fate was just beginning.
After worrying about her mother, Mehmoona was dreading the fact that Ashraf Sultana was suffering from blood cancer and the stage was none less critical. However, it seemed fate was just switching sides. Unexpectedly, Ghulam Rasul endured a heart attack even before Ashraf Sultana’s death and passed away. The thunderstruck face of Mehmoona could not be forgotten. The woman who had done so much for her family knew suddenly: one of her darkest nightmares had come true. Being a 500 miles away from her father’s corpse, Mehmoona was never going to take it easy. She asked God something…something that made her cry herself. All she wanted to know was if He was angry at her.
My friend, the woman who from the beginning had neither been prone to err nor major sins, who suffered no more than a hundred times more pain than any one of us, after meeting whom everyone was provoked to praise her loving and subtle nature, from whom no one shed any tears, from who’s guidance we are standing today, who got separated from her brothers and sisters by the swearing pain of distance and who’s parents died leaving her alone in this hostile world, such a woman will never be forsaken in the history of the Khawaja family and even ours. Say not of her as dead for she is living and she will always live in our hearts as long as we continue to breathe.
Blame me for emotion, I will accept it. But amigos, pain for my Gram was just starting and was less excruciating than the one that was about to strike her now…
After trekking the journey from Lahore to Karachi for her father, she was deeply grieved that fate had been so unfair to her. She hadn’t got a chance to serve her father, oh the tears that trickled down her cheeks…Soon after Mehmoona was to face another test of fate, another death and this time, of the woman who gave birth to her. Ashraf Sultana’s death was as unexpected as the last death and soon Mehmoona lost herself and for the first time she felt she was alone in this world.
One after another, Mehmoona witnessed many deaths, including her own husband, many of fate’s evil sides, and this had a lasting effect. However, she regained her inner self and became strong. Mehmoona now indulged in many prayers and prostrated before her Creator every time she could, listening to the praises of Hazrat Muhammad (P.B.U.H) on TV and also reciting some herself. She had a powerful memory few possessed. She never cared about her clothes, only for the future of her children and never looked at someone with disgust. Whom she never praised, she praised that person behind their backs.
With her grandchildren, she laughed and played. With her children, she called them everyday to see how their lives were going. With her daughter-in-laws, she never imposed any burden on them, with her son-in-laws she treated them with kindness and respect and to strangers, she treated them as if they had been friends since decades.
Sitting in the congested Shaheen, I glance out the window. Darkness. Just like inside my heart and probably more in Gram’s childrens’ hearts. I sighed. It was not going to be easy adjusting to the sudden emptiness in our lives. I was pondering over how when someone dies we suddenly realize the person’s importance but when they were alive, we could hardly find their significance in our lives. The plane was full of happy faces. The seats 36A, 36B and 36C were the only ones holding non-exhilarated passengers. I stared at Wajeeha and Mother who were grasped by silence. Mother had cried on the Jinnah Airport and I didn’t blame her. First her father and now her mother…..it was unbelievable how any one of us could die like that but I knew it was a fact. Tears were escaping her eyes and her dupatta had covered her eyes: she was still crying. For some time, I couldn’t believe that a person like Gram could have died and so suddenly….I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her….Last time she had been so healthy, happy and joyful…..That had changed. Everything had changed. I thought of Mother. The pains and fears, I knew, whose emotional scars would always rake at heart, were going to be ever lasting. What have I done? I should’ve spent the time I was talking and laughing as serving and catering Gram’s needs. So the long flight was a regret of past memories. Memories that were starting to dissolve in the mist of the night.
Gram was like Le Capitaine of the ship of our family. She steered this family and protected it from obstacles in the way. Without the captain, how can the ship be steered? Yes, our path has become difficult and we are alone to steer the ship out of difficulty. Mistress Mehmoona Khawaja est gone Deaux minutes……
What? I was daydreaming. Deaux minutes? There were an announcement of having reached Allama Iqbal International. Oh. We were in Lahore. My wrist watch blinked. It was 11.45pm. At the luggage compartment, Mother was swifter than normal and we hurried out to the humid, foggy air of my hometown.
Four men were there to greet us: Naveed, Rizwan and Sami Mamoo with Rohail bhai. After an exchange of emotions, we were led to the parking lot. I had thought we were going to hail a taxi but it turned out wrong. Mother was insisting Naveed Mamoo to take her to Adil Hospital for Gram…
‘‘Naveed, take me to my Mother!’’ she pleaded, crying.
Mamoo shook his head, ‘‘Nadia, it’s midnight, the doors of the hospital have been locked and you can’t go in there! I’ll take you and Roohi baji tomorrow.’’
Mother wasn’t giving up. ‘‘Naveed, I want to go there now! God, my mother, my mother… they will let me in, Naveed take me there please Naveed…’’
Naveed Mamoo was adamant. ‘‘Nadia, I’ll take you tomorrow morning, I- ’’
When Mamoo failed to help, Mother turned to Sami Mamoo who was driving the car. ‘‘Sami, please take me to Adil Hospital, I want to see my mother, Sami please…’’
I held her and tried to console her emotions and she became silent.
Hundreds of faces popped up at Gulberg 3, 84-K, many of whom were talking loudly while others had their heads bent. I was shaken and couldn’t decide whether to go in o hide out. Rizwan Mamoo took me in.
Being told by someone to relax in Gram’s room, my heart sunk. I hadn’t set a foot in this room since the arrival. In fact, I was avoiding confrontation since the moment I entered her house. I was reluctant. Forcing back tears (for the first time), I switched on the light. I couldn’t look in this room: too many memories, too many fears, too much pain….I looked. In it’s lustrous glamour it stood, the room. It was alive. Breathing. It still had Gram’s spirit in it. Everything sat beautifully in it’s place. From the gigantic ‘four poster’ bed to the Shishum-carved side desk, everything was just beautiful. The bed. Gram had sat on it, reciting naats, watching TV, calling her children using the phone on the side desk… Then there was the 1280x1420 sized black and white picture frame of Gram and Shoukat Rathore. I pictured the smile in my mind, thinking how Gram had no way of knowing she was going to pass away like this, how she had no way of knowing everyone would remember her in their hearts like we do today, how…she had no way of knowing everyone was going to love her even after she had passed away. No way of knowing…
My hand raced against the frame. Both of them were together now, resting in heaven, smiling at their children from Paradise and feeling proud of having raised such a responsible bunch who never fought against each other after she left and I mean, NEVER fought against each other over some minute differences in opinion. Not even about a man being religious or not or caring about the fact if his teachings are correct or not about Islam. And absolutely there were no fights over if one’s daughter was right or the other one’s daughter. They forget about why they had gathered at Gram’s house and that the sons of the devils had instigated spite in them.
I rotated 180 degrees and saw a small photo frame of all Gram’s grandchildren along with her. How could this happen… I was stopping myself from doing anything.
The night evolved into a May the twenty-ninth and today was going to be the most painful day in my heart, today was the day I would meet my Gram. Yes, my friends, the last chapter of this tale comes to an end.
She approached the gates of her own house in a white cloth. Our people supported her inside and in the living room she lay, resting on a charpai. She was being followed by tearful eyes everywhere. Many had congregated for the woman who had changed their lives. The men folk were seated outside by magnificent arrangements made by Rizwan Mamoo while the women sat on the white sheets in the living room. Everyone was present even Sibihi Khala who watched her mother through skype. Soon it was time. Time for the most difficult of tasks: the burial.
Gram was meticulously led towards the gates by about thirty to forty people who were hoisting the charpai on which our Gram slept. After proclaiming the Kalama-e-Shahadat, she was led into the siren-blowing ambulance to take her to her graveyard. The men folk followed the ambulance in their respective vehicles, eventually stopping at the cemetery after a 240 seconds drive. Led by my uncles, Gram was taken inside the cemetery and to the prayer area where her namaz-e-jina’zah were offered by hundreds of people. Then during the time it took us to get to her grave, everything was silent except the wind caressing the trees.
With time, Gram was brought to her grave, set aside carefully by my mamoos. I stole a glance inside the grave. With six to seven feet deep, the grave was narrow but clean and smooth. Father was there, now standing in the grave below, lowering Gram into her resting place. My eyes shielded against the beam of sunlight that struck my face suddenly. Squinting, I looked up and saw a tree a few inches from Gram’s grave. May this tree protect her grave from any difficulty or hindrance.
Many strangers who had collected around Gram talked busily while my mind raced with unnoticed apprehension. I wanted to scream, I could run, I could cry. I remained standing. Staring at Gram who lay lifeless, unmoving. Kidney Dialysis. It had done this to her. I had lost control over anger; it was just pouring out of me. I would never let anyone have dialysis ever-despite the fact the surgeon might be good. After the Fatihah, Gram was placed inside her grave.
Many decided to leave, many were already dispersing. I stood. Someone was calling my name. I stood. Someone was telling me it was going to be alright. I stood. I wasn’t crying neither was I serious. The expression was blank while the emotion was filling in. I would never see her again. She is dead. Dead. The word was haunting me. Even though Gram’s heart was a place where problems thundered in like freight trains but the solutions were told with barely a whisper. Mehmoona Khawaja. I sat down under the tree, eyes on the grave. For the first time today, by her gravestone, I sat down and…wept.
