5th October 2018

 5th October, 2018

Room no. 21

Maroof International Hospital, Islamabad, Pakistan.

I woke up on the sofa in your room, Ammi. You were still in a coma, unconscious - but stable, they said. I hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Baba and Haider both had insisted I spend the night at the house, but I had refused. I hadn’t flown all the way from London to stay away from you. I was convinced that the minute I took my eyes off of you, your soul would take off - like the saying that watched milk never boils. And so I watched you like a hawk. How naive of me.

I remember discussing home-care for you; worrying about the costs; getting frustrated at the well-meaning “beta tum fikr mat karo” from relatives. 

Main kiun fikr na karun aakhir?? I wanted to scream. But I just nodded politely. 

Later in the day someone visited - someone I hate from the bottom of my heart; someone I believe to be at the root of your psychological trauma. The nerve of some people. And Baba whispered in my ear, “Nafrat hai mujhe iss aurat se!” 

My gentle Baba, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, proclaiming his hate for someone. That just goes to show you that person’s character. 

The air was thick with tension - some tried to alleviate it with fake joviality, but Baba, Haider and I had our shackles up. Someone suggested we go downstairs to the cafeteria for lunch. Haider and I argued over who should stay behind with Ammi - “that woman” wouldn’t be left alone with her for a second. Eventually Haider and Baba left, with the rest of the entourage. “She” remained perched on the sofa; I prayed the afternoon prayers.

After lunch, Haider and the others convinced me to go to Wajju Mamu’s to freshen up - he lived close by, they said, so in case of an emergency, getting back to the hospital would be easy. I put up a fight but Baba insisted, so I went. How I wish I hadn’t.

We must have been in Wajju Mamu’s house for a maximum of 10 minutes when Baray Mamu got a call - I can still hear his trembling voice, saying, “Chalo chalo - foran chalo! Ya Allah khair!! Ya Allah khair!!”

Everyone kept asking kia hua Baray Bhayya? Kis ka phone tha? But Baray Bhayya could not speak. All he could do was invoke his Lord as he rushed toward his baby sister.

I shot out of the car the second it stopped moving. I didn’t care that I was being disrespectful of my elders by walking ahead of them. I had to get to Room 21.

Haider met me in the hallway - and tearfully shook his head. I burst into the room to see her lifeless body, head lolling to the side; 2 nurses removing the needles and pipes and various paraphernalia from her pale, limp form; as Baba and a relative stood quietly, watching. There was also an unknown lady, dressed in a red shalwar qameez, standing at the foot of the bed - saying things like “bohot achi theen bechari..” and sort of fake crying. I was like, who are you?? Baba pulled me back, said she was an acquaintance. I said to him this was no time for acquaintances! This was a time for family!! I excused myself to use the toilet. When I came back she was still there. My anger overflowed as I said to her, why are you still here??? Please respect our privacy!! 

She finally left, as our esteemed relative watched my rudeness unfold in disbelief. At some point the relative also left. I went to shut the door just as someone was about to enter. I heard the wails from the corridor but in that instance I didn’t care. We needed privacy. Cue more horror induced stares.

Baba put his arms around both of his children - and all 3 of us stood in silence, simply looking at Ammi as she lay on that bed. We didn’t cry or wail or do anything dramatic. We were eerily still; in shock at the unexpected turn of events.

Our privacy was short lived. The door soon burst open and all the relatives present began piling in. One woman after another pulled me into a hug and cried great gushing tears. But I was a wooden puppet; incapable of crying or hugging back. I tried to take charge of the practicalities - but no one would let me; “Beta tum fikr nahi karo. Beti hum sambhal lenge.”

Ofcourse they meant well. How would they know that this emotionally stunted beti was trying to cope in the only way she knew how - to disconnect from her emotions and focus on the practicalities?

Baba seemed to have entered a zombie-like state, and did not mind me taking charge. Together with him, we paid off the bills and took care of the death certificate. I remember how upset Baba got when he saw they had written the incomplete name - “Naam toh sahi likhna parega warna humein tang karengi!” he said. “Dekho beta, spelling toh theek hai na?”

“Jee Baba, theek hai.”

The two young doctors dealing with us were smiling sympathetically. I didn’t have it in me to smile back. I gave a death stare to the poor girl. I’d apologise now if I knew her name. 

I remember aimlessly hanging around in the corridor with Haider and the rest of the men - I assumed the body would have been packed up and taken to the morgue.

“Not yet,” my brother told me. 

And so I headed back to Room 21.

The room was crowded with the wonderful, caring ladies of my family - all busy in praying for the recently departed soul. They made space for me on the sofa and never once judged me for my aloofness. Someone handed me a copy of the Quran but I don’t think I could read. I stared at the pages - silently conversing with Ammi. Fighting with her. Complaining to her.

“You weren’t supposed to leave yet!!!” I railed in my head. “They said you were getting better!! We were supposed to repair our relationship!! This isn’t the way it was supposed to end!! You promised you’d teach Urdu and Islamic Studies to my children!!”

Eventually it was arranged that her body would be taken to Karachi for burial. Baba, Haider and I headed home - and as Baba went through her things, I saw him break down for the first time in my life. 

It has taken me 2 years to be able to write about that fateful day. Maybe one day I’ll be able to write about everything before and after as well.