“Prepare my grave for me, next to where my husband is buried.” Those were Mummy’s last words as she made the call to the caretaker of the cemetery.
“Begum Sahib, please don’t say that. May God grant you a long life,” the caretaker said.
“Just listen to me. Prepare my grave.”
At the other end of the world, on that early morning of January 3, 2014, my phone rang. Mummy had passed away. New York was engulfed in a blizzard and the earliest flight I could get was two days later. I called my cousin Khurram. “Please ask the hospital to hold her body in the morgue until I arrive.” My tongue stumbled over ‘her body.’
“I have already taken care of it.” Khurram said.
My flight landed at Islamabad airport three days later. Remember, you lose time while traveling—at least 10 hours. My sister Neena picked me up and we went straight to the army hospital morgue for the ghusl—bathing of the body. Khurram was waiting outside the morgue, after getting special permission to have the morgue opened before business hours. An ambulance stood by to take her body home. I hugged him. He had taken mummy to the hospital to be declared dead. I was then ushered into the morgue. When the staff opened the compartment and pulled out the tray with a shrouded body in it, I trembled with disbelief. Is that my mother! In a tray! I unwrapped the shroud covering her face. Its mummy, and she is gone. Its mummy, and she is gone. I kept telling that to myself but couldn't comprehend it. They carried the body into the bathing room, placed it on the raised slab, and departed, saying, “The staff will be with you and help you bathe the body.” Its mummy, and she is gone.
Two female staff of the hospital, trained in bathing the deceased, walked in, wiping their hands dry. They had just performed the wudu, the ritual purification. They walked me and Neena, step-by-step on bathing mummy’s body. Well trained and experienced, they handled her body with utmost respect. We shrouded her in a white unstitched fabric. I rode with mummy in the ambulance and brought her home. As soon as the ambulance pulled into the driveway of her home and I stepped out, I was enveloped by Razia, our cook for 28 years, who was wailing uncontrollably. The family had gathered out on porch. Khala Mano, my maternal aunt was weeping uncontrollably. Jedi Mamoon, my maternal 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 in the stretcher. Mummy had been gone for three days, and this is the first time anyone had seen her face. They had been waiting for me to arrive.
It was 10 am, and until they took mummy away for burial at 1pm, I sat next to her, with Jedi Mamoon by my side. The ladies were with mummy in the living room, the men outside in the lawn, under the tent. Khala Mano sat on her other side, reciting the Quran. I decided that I would recite the Quran after she is taken away; now I want to just look at her face. Maybe if I keep looking at her, I will believe that she is dead. Jedi Mamoon was beside himself with grief, so I stayed put next to him. The room filled up quickly with women visitors; and each time he got up to leave saying 'I should go join the men', I pulled him back. "It’s cold outside. Stay with mummy. She will be leaving soon". And he stayed.
Mummy looked beautiful. Her face looked youthful, all the wrinkles were gone, she had a slight smile on her face, was so serene, I almost thought I saw her eyelashes flutter. People would walk in, break into tears, and I found myself consoling them. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around. Was I still in shock and denial? I don't know. I did cry once. Uncle Azhar, daddy and mummy's closest friend who named me Sabeeha, came to the door and asked for me. 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 her for burial, I asked Jedi Mamoon and Khala Mano to say their goodbyes and then covered mummy's face. I joined the pallbearers as they took her to the waiting ambulance, and then she was gone. I didn't cry. All my friends from college were there—friends from 40 years ago. We talked about mummy for hours until the men returned from the cemetery. Someone had taken care of lunch—and I remembered that I hadn't eaten in how long, was it?
I visited the cemetery the next day. But first I stopped at the flower shop to pick up a bag of red rose petals. She loved flowers, and I sprinkled the petals over the fresh dirt of her grave. 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. 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, not one, but two.
She would say to me, every time I left Pakistan to return home to New York, ‘Please pray that I die while I am still functional. Chalte Phirte.’ Until she took her last breath, she was giving orders, and seeing to it that she got her rightful place next to the man she loved. After calling the cemetery, she lay down on the sofa in her sun room, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.
In the days after her passing, when I would get up for Fajr prayers at daybreak, I’d walk past her bedroom door and tiptoe so that I wouldn’t wake her up. Then I’d remember that she is in eternal sleep.
Rest in blissful peace, Mummy.
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