Baba’s Silence
“Hama amada hastand? (Is everyone ready?)” Baba’s voice echoed inside our silent house, his eyes never meeting ours as we nodded, before he began walking out with the rest of us following behind like ducklings following their mother duck.
Our little journey to the cars awaiting us outside was eerily silent, with just the sound of our burkas swishing with the movement of our legs while I clasped my gloved hands in front of me. My sisters, their husbands, and my brother held equal expressions before we finally made it to the cars that will take us to our ancestral home in Istalif.
Baba was on the front seat with the driver, with Jawad, my brother, my third and fourth sister, Laila and Nilab, and I on the back, our emotions shrouded behind our niqabs. In the second car was my eldest sister Marzia, her husband Hamid and my second sister Soraya, with her husband Farid. Hamid and Farid never really got along, so I cannot say how awkward that ride must have been. I mean, my own ride was awkward enough, with not a single word exchanged. Or was it a peaceful silence in disguise?
There was a third vehicle trailing behind us, silently, all alone, but a part of us nonetheless. Nobody inside my car spoke a word about it.
The city of Kabul passed by us in the blink of an eye, until we were surrounded by lush greenery, followed by mountainous terrains. Not long after that, the roads began to look familiar, livelier, as villages came to view and I knew we had made it to Istalif. And soon, we’d make it to our ancestral home, where I’d finally have to face my reality. The reality I’m trying so hard to avoid.
Someone in the car sniffled, I couldn’t say who, and I didn’t want to find out either. Comforting each other was pointless, for there was no comfort to be found anywhere at the moment. Speaking would only make me confront the reality, and the reality would make me do more than just sniffle, and I didn’t want to do that just yet. For the little time I have been given to myself, I wish to spend it in quietness, without thinking about where I’m headed.
At long last, the cars came to a stop, but not without being greeted by a series of faces of men I quickly recognized as my uncles and cousin brothers, all holding solemn expressions as they made way for me and my sisters to be let out.
Like a puppet, I followed my sisters’ movements and went wherever they did, but I could not bring myself to lift my head and look up at whatever everyone else was looking as the third vehicle rounded the corner and came to a stop before everyone’s eyes, and there it was. The bier.
The sniffles got louder among the ladies, but quiet enough not to anger the men as they all gathered around the bier to lift it up and place it inside our house, where my maman will receive her final goodbyes from the family she had known for more than fifty years.
Yet, I could not bring myself to lift my head, even as my maman, now wrapped inside a kafan and held up by the bier, was placed in her living room that she had decorated herself years ago. As the scent of incense took over the whole area and people began excusing themselves to give us, her children and husband, a minute.
Yet, I could not lift my head.
I could not, for the life of me, still accept that maman, whose warm hands I held not even twenty-four hours ago, was now cold as ice. I did not even want to think of it.
I did not want to believe maman could die.
Why Maman?
Ever since my family moved back to Afghanistan from the UAE, there has not been a single winter in our lives when we didn’t have to visit the hospital. It was always one thing or the other, and it always concerned maman.
Starting from the winter of 2013, when she had her first brain stroke, not to forget the menopause and the toll it took on her already depraved health. Barely conscious, paralyzed, and sanity halfway gone, I believe part of her had already died back then.
The following winter was spent making sure we didn’t have a repeat of the previous one. Then came 2015, and we must have cut some slack, because then started her seizures, body convulsing like a fish out of water. It was scary, as if she was possessed, with her mouth foaming and eyes rolling backwards. The doctors later said she had epilepsy. Another added to the list.
There was no time to take precaution for the winter of 2016, for a surprise was already awaiting us. Maman was maman alright, but her body had started a new dance of trembling from head to toe- literally. Her speech was more disoriented, and she could barely hold an object without including it in her dance moves. We were later told she had Parkinson's.
Did peace return to us after that? Probably, if one can call it that. With the threat of dementia slowly taking over our maman day by day, we spent the next few winters in a strange bliss, ignorant bliss, perhaps. Marzia got married in the winter of 2018, which might have been the happiest winter we’ve had since coming back to Afghanistan. Then came 2020. Covid.
Not to worry, maman did not get diagnosed with that. We made sure she was protected to the best of our abilities. But unfortunately for us, we forgot to protect her from the rest of the demons lurking in the shadows.
When we rushed her to the hospital this time, we were told she had only three days left to live. Fifteen days for the GBS to take over the organs and shut them down, and it was day twelve already. Her whole body was paralyzed. The only thing functioning was her heart and head.
Lucky for us there was a cure, and it could still be administered before the fifteen days are up. It sure cost us a fortune, but we were willing to take our chances, no matter how slim it may be.
Maman, once again, beat the odds and survived. Recovery took months, almost a year, but she was alive and living, that was all that mattered.
2022 came and Soraya got married. This wedding wasn’t very fun, for like every winter, it was spent worrying over mothers declining health, and this time she could not make it to her daughter’s wedding even.
2023, and she was looking so much better than ever before, to the point she made a grand entrance to Laila’s wedding. It seemed like good fortune was smiling down at us in those years, for she was well enough to see through not only Nilab’s wedding as well, but also her first grandchild, Marzia’s daughter.
The heavens were really smiling down at us, only to hide their evil smirk behind.
Because it so happened that Nilab was the only one who didn’t marry during winter, so the winter of 2025 was still to be accounted for. And when it did arrive, it came bearing gifts.
Not only was maman diagnosed with severe pneumonia with risk of damaged lungs, but was also septic from the hospital ICU. Chances of survival were slim.
Fate is a funny thing. How it always expected maman to withstand all of this was beyond me. Maman was no wonder woman, how much more did they expect from her? How long could she take it?
But I must have misunderstood her, for once again, maman defied all odds and survived. Once more, she made it back to us. Fate threw all the turd it could find at maman and she still chose to return to us, which was why I always believed she would come back to us, no matter what. That nothing could bring maman down, and we had a lot of time in our hands.
She was still to see me and Jawad get married after all.
So when I held her warm hands with my own and felt her delicate skin against mine, I did not know it would be the last time they’d ever be this warm. That the ever-aging hands of maman would suddenly turn ice cold, and hard as stone only seven hours after that.
And the funniest part, this is me only guessing. I do not know whether she really is cold and hard as I say, for I still haven’t touched a part of her. It is only what I’m told dead people feel like.
My aunts made their way one by one, gently pried the kafan from her face to expose it and laid gentle kisses on her forehead in a silent farewell. I knew they were crying, I could hear them in the silence, but any noise louder than that and things could get ugly.
The people poured in like rushing water, some even coming to pat us on our heads and offer chaste kisses on our cheeks, but I was too out of it to address them. They didn’t mind. I was bereaved after all.
My sisters were now starting to talk, deciding on which guests to greet, and when it would be our turn to bid farewell. Some of our closest female cousins were huddled around them, offering support when it came to greeting the more unfamiliar faces. My sisters were handling it fairly better than me. Why?
Was it because they already had families after marrying? Another mother to always turn to? Children to look forward to? A husband to lean on?
Then what of me? Who do I turn to?
The only family I have is this. The only mother I had was maman. So, who will I go crying to?
I’m not even married yet. Maman never got to see me marry. Why…
Baba and Jawad made their way inside the room, and instantly the hubbub disappeared. It was only then did I finally lift my head up and look at them, at anyone at all. My face, veiled under the niqab, was evidently bone dry, unlike my sisters. I was still to shed a single tear.
Baba’s face was moist just like the rest of them, eyes bloodshot as he fidgeted with his cuffs before turning to all his daughters.
“Waqt ast.”
It is time.
Color of Death
The bile stuck in my throat suddenly felt like it was turning to lead, making it harder for me to swallow as my sisters all got to their feet at once, expecting me to do the same. Like the puppet I was, I did, albeit in shaky legs, for I knew what was to come next. I had seen what happened next in kaka Ibrahim's funeral.
The first to break down in a fit of tears was Marzia herself, for she had always been the louder one among all when it came to crying. Hamid had rushed to her in an attempt to lower her voice so the elderly wouldn’t frown at her, making Farid rush to Soraya too although his wife was much quieter than Marzia. Cousin Bushra held Laila as she cried her heart out, her niqab sticking to her face as she glanced at maman before burying her face in Bushra’s shoulder. Jawad stood beside Nilab and patted her on the shoulder with one hand in order to calm her whimpers while also wiping his own tears on the side.
They were all expressing their grief at the loss of their mother. It was the most normal thing to do. So why was I yet to shed a tear?
“Roya.” I heard maman’s voice in my head, the last time she ever called my name as she gently grabbed my hands in her soft warm ones, smiling at me as her eyes turned to crescents. “Biya pesh az in-ke meyla basta shawa, yak bar-e diga berem, janam? (Let’s go to the fair once more before it closes, alright?)”
I grin plastered on my face, her suggestion making me giddy all over knowing how against she was about going to the fair before until we had forced her to come. For the first time in years, maman had seen the outside world without the hospital windows and it’s safe to say, she loved it. I eagerly nodded, placing my hands on top of hers. “Chera ke na? Waqti Soraya bargasht, yak bar-e diga merem. (I don’t see why not? Let us go again when Soraya returns.)”
“Bale! Bale, hatman merawim! (Yes! Yes, we will!)” Maman agreed like a child. “Wa in bar metanem Jawad ra ham ba khod bebarim, Farzana ra ham. Motma'en hastam ke u ham khosh meshawa ba Jawad yakja biyaya. (And we can also take Jawad with us this time, and Farzana as well. I’m sure she’d love to come along with Jawad.)”
My smile faltered at the name, but I held my ground and agreed, despite knowing all too well that the woman named Farzana would never join. For she was not even real to begin with. She was someone maman had created in her own mind.
Have I mentioned that maman’s memory has been failing more and more lately due to dementia? Oftentimes, it was hard for her to even recognize us.
“Albata. (Of course.)” I forced my smile to stay. “Farzāna ham bā mā meyāya. (Farzana will come along too.)”
Someone must have pulled maman’s hand out of the kafan, because now it was out on display, and that was the first thing I noticed the moment I decided to look up.
Maman’s hand, once a warm beige, now a pale grey. Like the color of death.
And then, the first drop of tear fell.
The Windows of the Soul
I remember kaka Ibrahim’s funeral. Baba, Jawad, Laila and I were the only ones who could go. Baba was devastated, for it was his oldest brother and the one who adored him the most. Kaka Ibrahim was a kind soul indeed, he was the only one who made this place feel like home since we returned to Afghanistan. Now he was gone, and his home felt like a distant memory of the past.
Laila and I had gone with his daughter’s-in-law to bid him farewell, and behind us was his wife and two sisters. They cried like they had never cried before, howling so loud I feared the men would come barging in. But nobody did. It was Kaka Ibrahim’s family after all.
Laila was crying too, holding on to kaka Ibrahim’s granddaughter as she too bawled her eyes out. I too was crying, but I could not bring myself to be loud, I barely interacted with him. Yes, he was a great man, good to my family, and baba loved him a lot. I spied baba through the door watching Laila and me, and that was what made me tear up, seeing baba cry like a little boy for his brother.
Kaka Ibrahim didn’t look anything like himself.
They say the soul defines most of our appearance, and perhaps it was because the body no longer had a soul, kaka Ibrahim looked unrecognizable.
Maman must look beyond unrecognizable too.
I remember her chubby cheeks, her lopsided smile that I inherited. The way her eyes would crinkle when she chuckled, or how her once stubby hands turned wrinkly not with age, but with illnesses.
Her hands.
They were unrecognizable.
“M-Mam… maman.” The first word of the day had finally slipped my lips, barely audible, but out nonetheless. My sisters were calling out to her more and more, as if begging her to wake up and come back to them, only that she never did. Maman never came back.
She was dead.
My maman… was dead. And I only shed a tear.
Was it because I was still to come to terms with my reality? That maman was indeed gone? Is that why I couldn’t even bring myself to help in washing her body when my sisters did it just fine?
Were they fine?
With trembling lips and eyes burning with unshed tears, I finally willed myself to do that one thing I had not done in the last seven hours. I had not looked at maman’s face even once, even when I had refused to help in washing her body. Too scared of what I would find, or how it would feel to touch her, I ran away, leaving my sisters to complete the task.
I could not bring myself to look at a version of her that will never look back at me again.
But goodbyes only come once, and sometimes don’t come at all. Only the fortunate get to say goodbye. Should I count myself fortunate to get a chance to see my maman’s dead face?
Someone held back a moan, a male, and instantly, my eyes shot up, only to find baba, once again, crying to himself silently, just like the day kaka Ibrahim had died. Only this time he wasn’t a little boy, but a husband that lost his wife.
Baba, the strongest figure I know, cried his heart out as he stared at his wife’s face. Maman’s face.
And as if that was the push I needed, I too did the same.
I did not wait to brace myself, or tell myself I didn’t need to. Before I knew it, I was already looking at her, and oh… I was right.
Maman was unrecognizable.
Gaunt cheeks replaced her chubby ones, mouth slightly parted in a final sigh. hairs pushed back to expose her full face and her eyes, her pretty chocolate brown eyes…
I could not see them. They were hidden behind the veil of death.
“Maman.” I whispered, and all too suddenly, it seemed like the body was coming to life. As if I had just spoken the magic word, and the body on the bier was becoming the maman of my memories. The maman I knew.
“Maman?” Like a fool, or like a child lost, I called out for my mother, eyes stinging with tears as the second drop fell and then the third, while my trembling hands lifted up to hover over her own cold once. Those warm hands that held mine not long ago, making me promise about the fair.
Will they still be that warm?
My fingers closed around her own, and I flinched.
It was ice cold.
Maman was dead. Right before me.
Death’s Embrace
Why did nobody ever tell me that goodbyes were this painful? Is it because it cannot be described in words? Is that why I cannot put into words as to what it feels like holding my mother’s ice-cold hand in mine?
With trembling hands, I lift her hand up to my veiled cheeks, trying to feel anything at all, only to come out empty handed. It’s hard and stiff like cardboard, but the wrinkles say this is maman no doubt.
I want to ask her to wake up like Marzia is doing, howl and cry like madar kalan is doing as she feigns to miss her daughter, but my voice seems to fail me. All I can do is whimper like a lost kitten, hold on to her hand as it gets heavier in mine and repeat one word over and over again.
“Maman. M-maman…”
It’s getting harder to speak with the never ending bile stuck to my throat, and the burning in my eyes as the unshed tears finally spill out, first once, then twice, then thrice, until I lose count. I’m finally crying, finally mourning my mother, and I do not even know what to say.
What should I say? That I miss her? That I wish she was still here? Will she hear me?
All around me is my family tearing their hearts out at the loss before us, the noises so loud one could go deaf, but everything feels like a distant siren to me. Like I’m under water. No one, but just maman and me in our own world.
When holding onto her hand gets exhausting, I reach for her gaunt face, brushing a trembling finger over her concrete like face which makes me sob even harder, knowing how much she’d hate this.
Maman always took care of her skin. She always had a Glow & Lovely cream that she applied, and when Marzia married, she brought her a better Nivea moisturizer. She’d hate her skin like this.
“Oh maman…” I wailed despite myself unable to hold myself back anymore as I buried my face in her chest and let it all out.
What do I do now? How do I live in a world where maman is no more?
She will never see me married, never see my children, never get to travel like we promised her. She had only started enjoying the little joys in life, and now she was gone.
What could I do now!?
“MAMAN!” I felt hands nudging me to let her go, trying to pry me off of her but I could not do so yet. I could not let go. I could not let her be buried under all that soil. Maman still had so much to see. I still had so much time to spend with maman. Why must I lose her so?
“Roya. Roya!” My siblings were hugging me now, in an attempt to pry me off as we cried our hearts together. Someone must have pulled the kafan over maman’s face, because now I no longer could see it, and that sent me in a panic mode.
“Maman! Maman!”
But my cries fell to deaf ears, because soon, the bier was lifted, and baba, Jawad, Hamid, Farid, and the rest of the men took my mother away from her home one last time, to put her to her final resting place. And all I could do was wonder one thing as the sorrow began to settle in.
What will I do if maman ever dies like this?
The Voice in My Head
“M-Maman…” My wails were slowly turning to whimpers the moment the realization dawned on me that the bier was long gone from the room. It was time for me to come back to reality, but oh did it hurt so much.
The idea of me never being able to see maman smile despite all her illnesses again was like the fires of Jahannam for me. Which was all the more reason I should be pulling myself together now. I must.
I tried to compose my breathing, but the tears that began flowing would just not stop. My eyes were still closed in denial, the last scene being that of maman in the bier, resting in her living room one last time.
That image needed to go.
“…Wa baʿdesh, ba Jawad megoyam az Farzana beporsa ke u ham mekhaya ba ma biyaya ya na. Ya fekr mekoni khodam azash beporsam? Roya jan? (…and then, I will ask Jawad to ask Farzana if she would like to come too. Or do you think I should ask her myself? Roya?)”
My breathing was still erratic, hands still trembling, but the images before my eyes were now turning into a blur, as if dissolving.
“Roya? Roya jan, bacham, chera inqadr gerya mekoni? (Roya? Roya, my child, what has you crying so?)”
As soon as the voice registered itself in my mind, the images of my ancestral home living room were gone, and so was the nauseous scent of incense. The hubbub had died down too, replaced by a sheer sense of peaceful silence, the scent of warm sunlight wafting around me. And the next time I opened my eyes, my surroundings were completely different, but not unfamiliar.
I was home. Back in Kabul.
With maman.
“Roya.” The warmth of her hand in mine began to course through me all over again, as if she was breathing life into me anew. As if I was the one coming back from death. But nobody had died to begin with. Maman was right here, right before me.
“Gerya nakon, bachem. Hama-chi jor mesha. (Don’t you cry, my child. It will be alright.)”
A gasp escaped my lips, like someone had pulled me out of water and filled my lungs with air again, realization dawning on me over what I had done. Or what I was doing. Crying my heart out over something I had created on my own, by myself, in my head. A figment of my imagination.
But it felt… so real, maman’s death felt… so inevitable.
What was I thinking?
“Hama-chi jor mesha. Dafʿa-ye baʿd ke ba meyla raftem, har chi khasti barat mekharam, ha? (It will be alright. I shall buy you whatever you ask the next time we go to the fair, hmm?)”
Maman’s aging hands reached out to wipe the tears I had shed over the idea of her eminent end, one that has never even happened yet, but felt so real in my head.
Perhaps, everything will be alright indeed. It will be. The tragedy I imagined just now is nothing but just what I said- imagination. Maman was not going anywhere anytime soon. There won’t be any funeral in the next seven hours. I was just… catastrophizing.
And I cannot even help it.
Maman may be alive, but every day her survival hangs by a thread. Every day is a walk on eggshells, a ticking time bomb as we wait with our breaths caught in our lungs as we wonder and wait for something… anything out of order to happen. Every day is a survival game for us.
Because nobody knows when will be the last day maman smiles at us as she’s doing now.
For this once, I did not want to tell her that Farzana wasn’t real, and that she was all in her head. Not that I didn’t want to, I could not.
I sniffled, pulling my tears back while leaning into her touch with a smile. “Har tor ke shomā bekhāhin, māmān jān. (As you wish, maman.)”
For even if maman is alive and well now, our minds have already begun preparing us for the worst that we cannot bring ourselves to face. Our minds are catastrophizing in their own way, showing us what it’d feel like if the inevitable comes to pass.
But the real question is, do I even want to prepare myself for it?
Does preparing me for the loss actually protect me from the grief it brings?
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THE END
