Inevitability

Like puffs of warm breath against the chill,
Like waves returning to shores,
Like the end of days,
Like death,
You were inevitable.

Umma

I have a favourite grandparent. My apologies to my maternal grandmother (my only surviving grandparent), but it's not her, I'm afraid. It's her counterpart, my father's mother. She was, by all accounts, and from what I can remember of her, a wonderful human being.

I wish I knew more about her life from before she was married. Her husband was born with a congenital heart defect, and doctors declared later that it was a miracle he managed to have four perfectly healthy children. I think they had a good life together, but he died when their children were young enough to still be unmarried, and then the care of all of them fell to my grandmother. She took to the task with strength of mind, and not a small amount of creativity.

My earliest memories of her are a haze of childhood moments from when she lived with us in Oman. I couldn't have been older than six or seven then. She used to sit by me and peel green grapes, tear them in half, and then feed them to me by hand. She spoilt us silly, and I took particular joy in it, I think. I've been told I was her favourite. I suspect now that's an exaggeration, but I refuse to believe otherwise anyway. I've also been told that I look like her, and this I do genuinely believe. It's my favourite feature of my appearance, and one that I will always find joy in.

My sister, Umma and me, sometime in the '90s

Whenever I look back on those times, the first thing I remember is the warmth and wisdom she radiated. The warmth was easy, what with her ever-present smile and her twinkling eyes behind those large, old-fashioned glasses. Her wisdom came from her hands, from the careful and practiced way they would move around any task, be it smoothing our clothes over or feeding me those grapes. Such an indulgent thing to do. But I only remember feeling joy and peace, not greed (a convenient perspective, of course). Even now, remembering her as an adult, I feel love - pure, whole, and unconditional. She was everything you typically wanted in a grandma, the quintessence of all of the fun with none of the rules.

I don't remember her moving away from Muscat to return to India. I do remember, though, visiting her when we moved to India ourselves. By then, she was nearing the end of her life. She passed away within three years of our reunion. Her dementia was both heart-breaking and adorable. She would forget where and when she was, and would talk to us as if it was decades ago. There were times she would fail to recognize one of us, but I don't think she ever forgot another one of her grandchildren on whom she doted, and me. Maybe she saw her own image in my face. I hope she liked that.

She died on New Year's Eve, 2001. Nearly all of her children, and her children's children, were with her at the time. I heard my mum and aunt say later that it was a blessed death; it was relatively painless, and she died surrounded by her legacy of love. We spent a long time just huddled around her bed, passing around a small bowl of Zamzam water, each of us feeding it to her by hand.

Umma with one of her grandchildren, 2001

Hers was the first death I witnessed. One moment, she was struggling to breathe, and the next, she exhaled one final time and stilled. My mother closed Umma's eyes, and kissed her cheek and continued crying, like all of us around her.

Her funeral the next day was a blur; I only remember pieces. Being hushed away so Umma's body could be moved out of the house. All of us grandchildren drawing water from the well in the backyard to be used for the ritual of cleaning Umma's body. The haunted expression of tiredness and sorrow on my mum's face as she returned from that ritual. Taking part in funeral prayers even though, even at that age, I sensed that Islam was not for me, and praying anyway for Umma and her journey onward. My father's face when he questioned why something as festive as ghee rice was served that day for lunch, and my mother's and aunt's exhaustion as they explained their decision, that it was the easiest thing to prepare.

I remember returning to my grandma's room in that house after her death. I haven't felt the same about it since, and her absence is conspicuous.

Ma loved Umma more than her own mother, I suspect, though I'm sure she wouldn't agree with me. I don't blame her for it. But that's not to say that my maternal grandmother was unloving or unpleasant, not at all. But there was something about Umma that drew you in. When my mum waxes nostalgic, her stories always involve Umma. She credits Umma for most of her skills as a cook, for the joy she takes in feeding and taking care of people. She credits her also for being able to find strength to get through times so tough that nothing could have trained you for it.

Me, Umma and Ma, around 1993

I wish she was alive today so I could talk to her as an adult, so I could get to actually know her as a person, and have more than just the memories of a child and a self-involved teenager. I wish I could have endless conversations with her about what her life was like, what she regretted, what she loved, what advice she might have had for me, what her guilty pleasures were, what she would never tire of. I have nothing concrete of hers with me, no heirlooms or gifts that she left behind to remember her by and to pass down from one generation to the next. We have photographs and memories, all of which are cherished and precious. I can only hope she's at peace, wherever she is.

My family and I recently reminisced about Umma, and those stories made me want to write about her. I don't know why the need arose so suddenly, but it was a persistent, nagging urge that didn't fade until I wrote this post. I won't question it. If anything is worth dusting off this blog, it's her.

Last Will and Testament

A friend's father passed away a few days ago. It was very sudden and no one was prepared for what was to come after. And it got me thinking: everyone important in my life, the kind of important that would mean they're in charge of my affairs after I'm gone ("my affairs," ha - it makes me sound so important) -- do they know of my wishes? Do they know how I'd like them to proceed? 

Let me first say that I'm not afraid of death. Why should I, why should anyone? After all, you will be dead. You won't care. It's the thought of the cause that frightens me. I don't want a long illness; nothing drawn out, please. I'd prefer it to be painless, obviously. But if there was to be any pain involved, I'd rather it was something so severe that death would be instant. It's pain I'm scared of.

Anyway, whatever the cause, when it's all done and some doctor in the ER or OR (if it's the kind where I'm taken to a hospital) has called time of death, know this: I don't want to be buried. I want to be cremated.

First, tell the doctors that I've donated my eyes and organs. They can take whatever they need. I do hope that someone gets my heart, though. I have this romanticized notion that if my heart goes to someone else, I'll live on somehow because a part of me, literally, will still remain after the rest turns into ashes.

After the doctors have done their job and sewn me back up, take me to a crematorium and burn my body. I'm Muslim by inheritance, so there may some dispute about this amongst family (or not; maybe no one will care). But this I insist: you must cremate me. I do not want to be buried. I don't want to take up space when I don't have to. Plus, if I'm cremated, I can be returned to the earth or the seas, which I think is ideal for someone who is pagan by belief.

My possessions, if I have any, you may dispose of as you please. My family can decide. As long as they are given away to people who will take care of and make use of them, it doesn't matter to me so much who gets what. Just keep using whatever it is that you get; don't let it sit in your house -- on your bedside table, in your living room cabinet shelf -- and just be there until it has lost all purpose and is nothing more than ornamental or commemorative.

Finally, hold a little... Wake, I guess? But wakes are usually so sober and serious. I'd like mine to be more light-hearted. Try and remember the good times we had, as clichéd as that sounds. Remember that no matter what the circumstances, if I'm dead, it was meant to happen. And most important: play all the music I cherished. I want everyone to groove and, if they're sad, be distracted for some time. It would be nice, to have the Chili Peppers be the soundtrack for my wake. Maybe Venice Queen. I have loved that song since the moment I first heard it, and have always thought it was one of the best tributes I have ever heard. That would make my day, to pretend that I'm who they're saying farewell to. 

I've discovered that my habits and tendencies as a reader have changed over the last three or four years. I used to be more patient. I used to be more persistent with a book that I set out to read but then couldn't get through as easily as I expected to. I think this has to do with the end of the Harry Potter series. I devoured those seven books like a starved infant, and I'm quite sure that they also spoiled me. Since The Deathly Hallows, I've very rarely felt a sense of urgency with any book, that need to ignore sleep and meals until I know what happens next.

Wait. There was Gone Girl. Which reminds me: if you haven't read it already, do. You must.

If a book was turning out to be more laborious than I had expected, I used to be able to persevere. I didn't, and still don't think that it's right to abandon any book mid-read. If you start reading it, you must finish. It's disrespectful not to. When I was younger, there was only one that I abandoned -- and didn't feel the least bit guilty about it -- Chetan Bhagat's Five Point Someone. I tried to get through it twice, but I found it to be so stupendously boring that I simply couldn't find the will to keep going.

I still read, but not as feverishly as I used to. Everything I've read in the last couple of years, I've read slowly. And it wasn't because I wanted to take my time with it; process whatever I had read, mull it over and then resume reading. I simply don't think my attention span is what it used to be. It worries me. I used to be able to trudge through. I did that with The Fellowship of the Ring, when I realized that I was taking many, many days to get through the first 50 pages. I kept going, and it eventually became one of the books I've most enjoyed. I did that with One Hundred Years of Solitude. Most Marquez books take a while to get through, anyway.

I couldn't do it with One Thousand Chestnut Trees by Mira Stout, which I tried to read recently. I had never read a novel about Korea, and when it was gifted to me I was quite interested in sinking my teeth into it. And while the stories had a great deal of depth and the history that was being presented to me was fascinating, I found the subject matter to be too intense and simply wasn't interested in reading it every night before bed. Korea's history is tragic, and I found that despite how much I was learning as a reader and as a citizen of the world, I simply didn't want to read a book with such upsetting subject matter. So I abandoned it at the halfway point. I've since loaned it to my sister, and I doubt I'll pick it back up again anytime soon.

And yet, I recently finished reading Dan Brown's Inferno in a matter of days. I'm not a fan of the author; I find his writing inconsistent and, sometimes, annoying. But as someone who studied a portion of The Divine Comedy in college and who's generally interested in Dante, I dove into the novel and read all 461 pages in a matter of days.

I read The Cuckoo's Calling with no trouble at all. But then, that was written by J.K. Rowling. Again... I've been ruined.

Next on the list is all five parts of The Hitchhiker's Guide. Wish me luck.