We all belong to Allah, and truly, we shall return to him, but the way you left us, mamu, I was not in a position to handle your loss.
The moment I started to write about my mamu, I was overcome by nostalgia. He would tell me often that whenever we write, we ought to think of the one of whom we write: does he deserve to be written about?
I am unable to write; what shall I write? Shall I write that you are not with us anymore? You who would all the time ask me, “How are you?” You would seek me everywhere. There is a saying: “The maternal home is alive when there is an uncle; once he leaves, the maternal home is dead.”
I spent most of my childhood at my maternal home, and still I am to go there and remain for a couple of months. But now the situation has changed through and through. A couple of months ago when I went to my maternal home, I felt strange. I entered the courtyard, and the flowers were looking ominously at me. They seemed to be frightened. The sky above my head was not the sky under which I had spent my whole childhood with my mamu. The earth beneath my feet was not the earth on which I would walk along with my mamu, talking to each other about perspectives of life.
How could I forget the day when you took me and Tufail, your son, along and you taught us the real meaning of “relationships.” You said one should never forget one’s relatives, for they are the best gifts that God provides.
My mamu was the apple of everyone’s eye. My cousin, Tufail, would tell me that the respect he gets from everyone is because of his father. My mamu would solve many complicated problems with his wisdom that others failed to solve. My mamu discoursed on all subjects so confidently that it gave us goosebumps whenever we heard him talking. Once, I had a convoluted discussion with my cousin on “verb and subject agreement,” in front of my mamu. I was trying to see whether he knew it or not, but when he started talking about verb and subject agreement, I fell silent and felt astonished, for he was a maths teacher.
These memories pierce my heart and scratch my throat. The death of my mamu has changed all our lives, particularly my mother’s. She says: “My world seems to be on fire without him.” And the same happens with me.
My Mamu left for the heavenly abode on 18th of March, 2022. The clock was at 5:00 am. The night was the night of Shab-e-Baraat. I had just come to my room after offering Salah. I started talking to my friend, who was offering the salah all night. I ate and started using my cell phone. My friend asked me to go to sleep. I out the quilt over me and began using the cell phone under the quilt. After a while, I thought of sleeping and was about to fall asleep when my elder sister called. I did not answer the phone. She called me three or four times. I was amazed.
The I called her back. She picked up my call as fast as a bullet comes out of a gun. And she started crying. I asked her, “What happened?”
She answered, “Mamu left this world yesternight at about 11 o’clock.” She added, “Come fast”, and hung up the phone. My body turned lifeless. I lay motionless. My face contorted and I pursed my lips. I felt I was about to die. Abruptly, I uttered a terrible cry. My friend tried to comfort me, but I could not stop crying. I rushed toward the Sumo taxi stand. But I could find no Sumo over there. An auto was there, and I asked him to drop me off at Batamaloo. He realised that I had to reach there at any cost. He demanded Rs 250 in cash, though normally the fare was Rs 100. I got into the auto, not arguing with his demand. All the way I was weeping terribly in the auto. The driver didn’t even ask me why I was weeping. I reached Batamaloo but I could not find any taxi there. I asked the auto driver how much he would take for Sopore. At first he said that he could not go there. After a while, he said that he would take Rs 1200.
I did not have that much cash. I told him that I could give only Rs 500, but he refused. If I had that much money in my wallet, I would have given it to him. I waited for some time, crying terribly. After an hour, a Sumo came. I rushed into it. It waited for passengers. Finally, with the passage of time, there were six of us in the Sumo. The driver began driving very fast as he had seen me weeping.
When I arrived, I rushed toward my maternal home. On the way home is the family graveyard. I saw people offering funeral prayers. I ran as fast as I could, but I failed to offer the funeral prayers for my mamu. I felt numb. I looked at Tufail, whose cheeks had become red from crying all night. It looked to me like someone had coloured his cheeks red. He lifted the coffin upon his shoulders. I heard people asking him to move ahead, but he didn’t. My energy was so depleted, I did not have the strength to lift the coffin upon my shoulders. I was only seeing people around me crying.
When mamu was being buried under the soil, I could not say anything, but Tufail yelled and screamed loudly, “Aba Abaaaa Abaaaaaa!” After some time, people left the graveyard, and I remained still over the grave of my mamu. I told him that you didn’t complete your promise. You would tell that whenever I felt like going anywhere, I should seek you out. You called your son to lift the coffin and offer the funeral prayer, but you couldn’t call me. Would I call it disloyalty, or did you think of not disturbing me?
The sky had darkened with clouds. It was about to rain. The earth had become so dark that it looked like black soil. My cousin took me along, and we went away.
The demise of my mamu taught me one bitter lesson that I can never forget. It is best to go to the maternal home when there is an uncle. I am no longer getting the respect I used to before, and the same is happening with my family members as well.
—The writer is a student of Urdu literature at Government Degree college Sumbal. ub***********@***il.com