This week, I found my six-year-old’s hair too dry.
It is a mandatory practice to put some oil in one’s hair and leave it for a while until it’s unbearable —and rinse, rinse, wash.
I rarely get the opportunity to take care of hair, mine or his — or his three-year-old sister’s. With every drop of oil, he started looking too familiar. He has Abbu’s forehead, and the same brown eyes. Eyes, like suncatchers; big, bright and beautiful when they meet on the intersection of light. Both my kids have the same eyes. It’s a beautiful reminder that many years ago, these eyes watched his two kids grow up but couldn’t, really. The questions I ask myself are many but I often wonder if we are going to have a big reunion when the disasters of this world conclude? How many years has it been that it doesn’t sting anymore? I’m finally able to recollect some memories of him, much of which is still a blur. I ask myself again, how many more years until I will completely forget him?
My son’s forehead was a gift passed on from my father – the same width, the same boldness. The last time I saw this shiny forehead was when he was watering our lawn. That was his daily practice after work, 5:30 pm sharp. Little drops of sweat turning into big giant ones as they all gathered in one place and splat – it would find a new surface to drop. I loved noticing them dance on his forehead. The day I saw him last, his forehead had no wrinkles, it was smooth. I was scared of making it dirty.
As I look up at the calendar, my hands stained with oil, I realize it is still the first week of May. In five days twenty-four years ago, my world had changed forever.
His superpowers were many: monotony, routine, not complaining. His pitch would always reflect his enthusiasm, most people thought he was loud but it was mostly something he could not help. We had a pretty big house to accommodate his voice. It was only until one day when we visited someone and I noticed that his pitch actually was high – but I also knew at that moment he was excited about a politician winning and representing Karachi in its deserved way. He was all about honesty and his voice, now I know, only represented it.
Hot summer days in Karachi were pretty common. And some days in the most intense heat, the electricity went out. Those were the most frustrating days because a big family house was no joke to manage and it looked like it was all a one-man-show. Until he was laid off. Our monotony found disruption, his oxygen cylinder found its old partner.
He would use a fan made of jute and move it first clockwise and then counterclockwise. We would negotiate with him if he knew any other way that would give us more wind to spend hours without electricity, as we could not afford a generator. It was painful then, but it gave us more empathy and gratitude for what we have. Today, I find ways to teach my children lessons like this, which are more natural than forced.
My father suffered through all of his life. He had a weak lung. Though asthma was to blame, I’m convinced he also had a wounded heart. The days leading to May 11th were most painful. His essentials in the most trying times were an oxygen cylinder, his medications, and a mandatory order for us to leave the room so we wouldn’t see him struggling to breathe. He had pearly white skin with little hints of red that differentiated him from any Pakistani living in our neighborhood. I grew up thinking he never belonged here. I hadn’t seen a person as straightforward as him. Sometimes I would think he was at a disadvantage because of his unfiltered honesty but he stood up for what made sense to him.
It was a hot sunny day when we came back from my naanijan’s place to be transported to a house that looked very much ours, but not. The tents, tables, and chairs could have told even a stranger walking 400 miles away that there was going to be a burial soon. Cars outside our house were parked in an order that was usual for celebrations. The grass outside our house had also died – there was no one coming back at 5:30 pm for them. I saw people adding up in numbers until our hearts couldn’t take it anymore.
His face was beaming.
La illaha illallah was heard loud and clear – and the invitation came. My naanijan had fainted. My mother stood next to us and in a matter of a few minutes (or hours?) our person disappeared into the air. I did not want to let him go just yet. I had so much rage for this world that I could have burned it all in that moment. Our mother held us together.
The night he passed away was cold in the stickiest of May. I had never had so many people accommodated into our room before. Most of my khalas and kids, all big and small, were crammed into temporary housing for the night. I heard whispers of my mom speaking to her sisters and I heard her telling them she had seen his death in her dream a few days ago but she didn’t fully understand. I gave up and slept. And woke up to whispers again. I still remember wishing to see him in a dream too that night. I remember waking up, convinced that my father had not passed and was instead on a long vacation to an island where he was deliberately sent to never return. And this gave me some solace.
It felt like all the emotions of being the daughter of a father who had difficulty breathing led to the moment my daughter was born. On December 25th 2020, Sofia was the most beautiful preemie I had ever seen. She looked more like her father, the way she was placed in the incubator told me she was a reward for something. I was careful with my feelings and only wanted to know that she would make it. Her oxygen mask, that mask was not new to me. I was trained to be here and not feel anything. The only thing I was worried about was her twin brother’s burial who did not make it — and to find a little piece of land to bury her brother in the holiday season. Twenty-four years ago, we didn’t want to let Abbu go for burial. I have come a long way.
My son’s hair feels better today. I feel accomplished. One child can have his clean scalp today while I go take care of other chores. I decided to leave everything midway because it’s already past noon and my daughter needs to be put to sleep. I have set up my son for some activities so he doesn’t come running to the room.
I close my eyes and imagine touching Abbu’s face while he was gasping to breathe. I open my eyes and shut them back again just so I can see him one more time. I hear Sofia muttering to herself next to me. I see him again. Gasping for air. His veins popping out on the forehead. The mask covering his face made a big “O” from behind and his eyes opened wide in despair knowing that his children were around. I try to recall how many times I have cried in silence for not having a father-like figure beside us. I missed the feeling of calling someone Abbu. Someone who could drive us for treats, who could make us breakfast, take us to the mountains and show us the visualization of Surah Rahman, in real time. Someone who could make my hair into finely-parted braids and someone who could drive us to a corner store for candy.
The possibility of getting married brought many questions for me to self-reflect. Moving out of Pakistan was a big one. But that’s all I had ever wanted when we were trying to navigate through his death. Coping is a science and everyone has a different way to process it. There were so many times I told my mom we should leave Pakistan. We were adjusting to a new life without any support system, and we could have done it anywhere in the world. But that was my naivety speaking. I now know that whatever support we had was still a lot during those times and I couldn’t see it then. This move was meant for my later years. Home was never home after 2000. Today, I am twenty-four years-old with this experience of grief, my first ever adult-like qualification.
With the loss of his life, also came the loss of our first house, our childhood. With this, also came an end to a brutal toxicity that comes with living in a joint-family system. Today, I understand that parents need a village to raise their children. Over time, supportive systems have mostly collapsed, and what remains is not a village. Love, faith, and respect are at the heart of every village. And in its absence, there is trauma, instead of strength.
With this loss of our father came our many firsts. Our first time moving out of our ancestral home and into a tiny apartment, our first time living in a densely populated area, our first time going grocery shopping as a struggling family. I still remember the feeling of having all eyes on us. Without our father, everyone felt they could manipulate us. We grew up always on alert, aware of our surroundings all the time. So along with all the difficult firsts, our freedom to make mistakes was also taken away. My mother was raising two girls on her own and had to play it safe in society in order for us to sustain.
After moving to a new house, we needed a phone to stay connected to our family. Pakistan Telecom Services was not available in the area at that time. So my mom had to eventually make the difficult decision to invest in an expensive alternative. I still remember her getting this phone for a total of 10,000 PKR which included a phone and a sim card. Most of this cost was for the Jazz mobile connection. A beautiful Motorola phone became a new highlight in our life. It was a big deal. That phone itself weighed as much as our hearts did that year.
She started to drive next. Our beautiful Charade found a new driver and we found some solace in knowing a little part of our previous life was still with us. It was strange knowing the real owner of this car was no more and this parking spot was not where this gray Charade was used to. Our school drop offs became school-bus drop offs. During our commutes, I learned to call Allah (SWT) for help. Alhamdulillah, by that time, we learned to stand on our feet. In this chapter of our struggle, old places became new. My mom’s now-sparkly forehead, beads of sweat just like my father’s, could tell me things she never complained about. She got better with time too. But I still would read ‘O Protector’ under my breath, almost like a secret.
My first board exams came some four years later. He didn’t live long enough to see my struggle through those. In his absence, Physics became Math to me and Math became Chemistry. My mother arranged tuitions but my brain was also rebelling against my teen hormones so it just became a difficult chemical equation. I somehow survived. Seven years after his death, I got into the only semi-government funded Art school. I made it to a list of 100 qualifying candidates (out of 900) taking the placement test. Of course, Math and Science had to be given up and my dreams to become a doctor or an aeronautical engineer were short-lived.
This time, I decided I was going to be an architect — until my second year, when I found out our university had a broken system and I didn’t want to spend the next five years not graduating. Most importantly, I discovered my strengths – graphic design was where I would excel and that’s what I did. After another set of four long years, I was so proud of my thesis. Luckily, I had so much of my mother and sister that this equation almost never found an imbalance, though I missed him so much. My graduation was a collective effort of all the people who supported me during those times, especially my mother and sister.
Thirteen years later, the day I signed my Nikkah papers, he was dearly missed. I wanted him to give me his approval before I made this difficult decision. If I focus on thinking of his absence for too long, my brain sometimes collapses and my body feels paralyzed. We relied on small wins and big faiths.
“Is he in Jannah?” My six-year-old asks me often.
My father was a person of faith. Someone who inspired an entire neighborhood to show up to his house on the day of his passing. It was the biggest funeral I have ever witnessed in my life, to date. He was a person of knowledge. Someone who could do complex Math, write English prose, would also read the Quran every single morning – he would stick to his routine. Ramadan in his presence was a different game altogether; I still crave for a time like that.
He had only enough of what he needed, never more, never less, just like how he spoke. His wardrobe was always tidy and ironed. As a child, I wondered if we were too poor to afford new clothes because he never invested in more than we needed. A special kind of occasion meant his elite navy suit with a red tie and his other three (or two?) suits meant they could be used anywhere else. What I know today is, his needs were defined. His hospitality knew no bounds. We used to host dinners very often. My mom used to take care of the kitchen and chores and I don’t know how she did that because it wasn’t easy being a wife to someone who liked to host so much. He used to be the only person on his feet taking notice of people’s empty plates so he’d almost force them into eating more. If there were five chairs and six people, he would never take a chair, leaving it for the other person to have it, even if it was a child. If there were four chairs and three people, he would still not sit for at least half an hour- until he would be sure that no one else required a chair.
With a personality like his, we also struggled on many fronts. I would wait for him to smile most days. He had the most beautiful shy-smile. His wounds and traumas were hidden from us. His generosity was as discreet as his personality. He preferred not showing off even if it meant at the expense of his own family.
To imagine all of this, is like collecting myself from many different parts of the world and still not be able to recollect all of it. It’s a puzzle, all there but not entirely. Home was a place where we were all a family despite our weaknesses. Home was where we all belonged together.
I kiss my children on their nose and it’s almost Maghrib time when I remember it’s May 11th the next day. I find myself overwhelmed but dates don’t really matter anymore and neither do years. All I want to do is remember him, his legacy of selflessness, and let my children know their Naana.
This letter is an ode to this journey of growing up, of living twenty-four years without him, of living each day after his death crawling like a caterpillar towards the finish line thinking it would soon be easy, of crying silently or together as a leftover family, of struggling through Math, Chemistry, and Physics without his lessons, of being bullied and mistreated in the absence of a father, of dealing with emotional turmoil, of not being able to get my mother remarried despite making plans to, of seeing her become a new person, of leaving childhood behind too soon, of not being able to afford presents for a younger sibling until much later, of not being able to study where we aspired to, of relying mostly on prayers and consistent hard work, of not being able to see him even in a dream since after he passed away, of not being loved by a father, of not being under his safe care, of not being able to go back home today in his embrace, of spending many sleepless long nights knowing something was missing and of missing all of the milestones where his presence truly mattered. It doesn’t get better — but you learn to cope.
This loss was inevitable and our time together was too short. It surprises me sometimes when I think about how much I didn’t know him, and yet I have so much to remember. I don’t think I have loved him enough but I have missed him more.
– May we get to see you again, Abbu. Until then, I’ll miss you and find you in all the places you don’t belong.
