Dear Mummy,
I think of you often during these times. I wonder how you would have reacted to ‘life in the age of Coronavirus.’ I don’t believe you ever lived through a pandemic.
Every time we spoke over the phone, you asked, “When are you coming?” I would rattle off a list of reasons why I am not coming anytime soon, limited vacation time topping the list. And when I did tell you that I was coming ‘next month’, your first question always was: “How long will you stay?” “Can you stay longer?”
I thought of you on that day in February—Feb. 27th to be precise. By then, you had been gone six years. What would you have said when I called to tell you that I am not coming because two cases of Coronavirus have been reported in Pakistan? I could picture the disappointment on your face. You would have said: “I understand,” as your voice choked. After hanging up, you would have cried.
I thought of you when New York became the epicenter of Covid-19. We would have been chatting on WhatsApp. “Bia, you would have been safer in Pakistan. See, we have hardly any cases here.” I know how much you would have worried about us.
The day New York was Sheltered-in-Place, you would have waited for the sun to rise in New York, waited for me to wake up, and then called. “Does this mean you cannot step out at all?” “No Mummy, all it means is . . . .” I would have gone on to explain ‘essential services, social distancing. . . . “Are you going to step out?” “No. We have decided that given Khalid’s immune status, it is best that we not leave the house—at all.” “How are you going to get groceries?” I would have explained Instacart, Fresh Direct, Amazon Fresh. You would have nodded, remembering the days when the milkman delivered fresh-off-the-cow milk every morning, the fruit vendor rolling his cart through the neighborhood, a culture now gone with the winds of progress.
“But you need fresh air.” “Mummy, we go to the rooftop of our building once a day and get some exercise, fresh air and sunshine.” Now you know all about rooftops; after all we would sleep on the rooftops in the summer before we had air-conditioning. You would try to picture the view from the rooftop of an apartment building. “Let me take you there,” and I would, phone in hand, take the elevator up and show you the view of the tall buildings surrounding us, the empty street below. I would be walking back and forth along the breath of the 25-feet footprint, fenced by the railing (conjuring the image of a tiger in a cage).
”Don’t you get bored? Aren’t you lonely?”
I would explain Zoom meetings, virtual iftars.
A siren wails, getting louder.
“Is that an ambulance?” I hear the dread in your voice.
“Did your groceries arrive?” You asked the next day.
Would I have been honest and said: “We couldn’t get a delivery time-slot . . . we then tried . . . we finally got a booking, but hours before delivery, they postponed the date . . . but don’t worry, we have enough food.”
Then when we hit the apex—over 500 deaths in one day—you would have panicked. “Why don’t you go to Saqib’s house in New Jersey.” You wouldn’t be convinced if I said that I prefer to remain in my own home, and as long as we are super careful—which we are—we should be o.k. What I wouldn’t want to say is: “Saqib works in a hospital; he may be exposed” because then you would panic, perhaps call Saqib, and seeing him wearing a mask at home, you would have worried yourself to no end.
“I am praying for you, all the time,” you would say.
“I know.”
Matters would reverse.
“Mummy, cases in Pakistan are now rising rapidly. Did you get the masks? Hand sanitizer? Please don’t let your domestic workers leave the house; have one of the family members in town deliver groceries . . . .”
And what if you had gotten sick, with Covid-19. No flights, no visitation, no goodbyes. I am grateful that you departed peacefully, painlessly, in the comfort of your home, and I was there to bury you.
As I am writing to you, my phone keeps dinging with Happy Mothers Day messages. I am grateful that you did not live through these times. You are in a better place.
Happy Mothers Day, Mummy.
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