It is six days and 4 hours since my mum has passed away and I am finally on the plane mid-flight, en route to Bangladesh.
We have chosen to fly with the official Bangladeshi airline for ease of transporting mum but the conditions in economy class make the usual no frills airlines seem positively five star!
My sister and I are cramped in our seats - there is poor ventilation, no TV and not even a radio available on board; in fact my sister has tried going to the bathroom and has decided it would be best to hold herself for the next twelve hours of the flight instead of trying to endure the sheer smell of the crap (quite literally) left everywhere. In brief, someone has squatted on the toilet itself and, well, quite bluntly, has missed the china!
"To be fair, the poor guy or gal has probably never seen a toilet seat!!" I say, grinning slightly which is as close to having a laugh as I can seem to muster since mum left.
Dad is not sitting with us but is instead, further back in the cabin but has managed to get a seat which has no one next to him so he is sprawled across the two seats fast asleep. My sister is urging me to wake him and see if the offer of upgrading us to first class was still there but he has enough to think about so I decide we should hold fire, "Let him sleep sis - maybe on the way back", I say.
I put my ear plugs in and blindfold on although my sister is still wanting to talk about the appalling conditions in the loo and how "it probably is not an issue for guys as they can at least stand and pee but life is not so convenient for girls" punctuated by her being sick in a bag caused by a very serious bout of air sickness, but I pretend to have fallen fast asleep as my mind cannot help but flit back to the last few days before we actually took flight.
First and foremost, I think back to the texts and consequent conversations I had with my wife since the catastrophic events of last Friday.
She is heartbroken to hear the news of my mum and the pain I am going through but as we live in the West, her work is not willing to play ball and let her have compassionate leave as my mum is merely her mother-in-law plus she does not have any more leave left to take.
I try and make her feel better that as we still had not sorted things out regarding the funeral service here and in Bangladesh that she need not worry and to wait for me to let her know what to do next. I tell her that the funeral will probably be on the Sunday but in my heart I am aching from the weight of my loss and am desperate to see her.
There is a part of me that hopes she will use her judgement and say "fuck it all", and come hurtling towards London from up North like a meteor crashing down towards Earth - after all, although she is not Bangladeshi, we have been together 10 years and married for over two of those so surely she knows me well enough to do that and rally around me and my family - but she does not.
I try and reason with myself that despite being with me for so long, she has never been in the position where one of my close relatives have died to know what is culturally expected of one's wife under those circumstances and having been frowned upon numerous times before by so-called friends of the family for not being Bangladeshi or Muslim, she did not want anything to detract from the loss of my mum nor marr her reputation, anymore than necessary that is. But, in my mind that is not enough.
Forget everything else - no cultural divide surely can overrule matters of the heart, and I feel somewhat betrayed that my wife does not bomb down to see me.
In fact, despite calling me on the Saturday and the Sunday, and clearly realising that there will still be no service in London due to the fact that we still were trying to get paperwork sorted from the Registry Office, she still does not come.
The pain inside me continues to grow to the point of becoming unbearable but I still make no insistence on my wife to be by my side, "I'll let you know when the funeral is sorted - if you can't come, there's very little that can be said about that."
When we finally manage to pull some strings and get the death certificate issued on the Monday, we are still told that mum cannot be moved instantly. Assessments have to be made to confirm mum can indeed travel abroad and obviously, the arrangements for the funeral in London and transporting mum to Bangladesh needs to be sorted all of which will take a few days. However, the hospice advise us that they will let the immediate family including daughters and sons-in-law pay their respects but only for a very short window of around an hour in the late afternoon that day.
I ask my wife if she can try and get out of work to at least do that as considering she was not Muslim anyway, it did not add anything here nor there if she actually attended mum's service in London. Upon hearing this request, the penny drops that despite her reservations of coming into the madhouse that was now the Khan family household, constantly full of never-ending friends and family swamping dad and ourselves with gifts and food, I wanted her there so she manages to get a half day and travel down - "I love you so much you know. I'm on my way."
But she gets stuck in traffic for over four hours in Nottingham and by the time the fifth update comes through to me from her via text, I do not have the strength to say anything more than "Go home!" when I ring her in my most harsh and disappointed tone to express my sheer amazement of what I perceive to be her lack of effort to get to me...to get to mum.
By the Tuesday evening though, we have managed to sort the service that is meant to take place here before we head to Bangladesh - it will be late afternoon on the Wednesday, so I give my wife another chance to try and be there for me and she finally makes it through.
I am still icy cold with her when she arrives and through the course of her stay, cannot seem to bear to look at her because of the sheer anger and hatred that has started welling up inside me. Not because of her to be honest, but more so because of the failure of the doctors who let mum down, the so called All Mighty who betrayed mum despite her never losing faith in Him, the relatives constantly interfering with how we should be going about things as they know better, and so on! The absence of my own wife - my best friend - failing to be there for me until six days after is merely adding fuel to my fire and although I know my cruelty towards her is completely irrational I cannot seem to help myself nor can I put into words how I am feeling despite her attempts to elicit some constructive response.
As if my distant behaviour is not enough, despite her efforts and being able to attend the service, by the time she manages to come out of the Mosque where the prayers are held, she once again has missed seeing mum.
You see, in Mosques here in England, men and women are seated separately due to the misguided belief that the women will distract the men and vice versa, if they were together - this line of thought is followed in most Western countries albeit, this clearly contradicts the way of thinking that takes place in Mecca, the centre of Islam, where men and women all congregate and pray together - "People forget the idea of distraction as they are so overwhelmed in being so close to Allah at Mecca" I have often been told by elders and clerics...bullshit I say! Islam is all loving and all encompassing and if men and women were created by Allah, surely he did not create them so that one is inferior to the other? But I'm going off into a tangent!
In short, for some bizarre reason it is only after the funeral service that the undertakers decide to tell the exiting men of the congregation headed by myself and dad, that we in fact have a very limited window of opportunity to say our final farewells to mum because they have to urgently transfer her to the airport that evening in readiness for the flight the next day! However, despite getting this news, there is no way to get this information relayed across quick enough to the women who are tucked away in their own little corner of the Mosque.
Although it later transpires that the delay in my wife, my sister and the rest of the female contingent coming out is due to the extremely beautiful intention of commemorating mum's memory with more than mere prayer, by sharing stories of her life and reciting poems she has written, these wonderful gestures manage to do nothing more than to drive a further wedge between myself and my wife; the funeral car pulls away literally as she emerges.
"You missed her again" seems to be all I can muster when she tries to hold my hand as tears stream from her eyes in failing once more in saying a proper goodbye.
I keep thinking about how hurt I was due to the whole situation surrounding my wife and my mum and how hurtful I was to her and whether the two perceived wrongs made any rights at all? "Unlikely" I think to myself as my thoughts are briefly interrupted by sounds of my sister gagging in the background due her air sickness, "but the all consuming rage that burnt inside me didn't fucking allow me to respond in any other way so hands were somewhat tied I guess!"
It also probably does not help matters that when my wife desperately displays her wish to come along to Bangladesh with me, I stop her due to mine and dad's promise to mum that when my wife puts her feet on Bangladeshi soil for the first time, it will be to the sound of music - not the film by the way, but to the sound of cheering and joyous melodies - not tears, tantrums and hounding by the media.
However, due to the visible anger overshadowing every move she is making, my prevention of her joining me on my exodus comes across as merely further expression of resentment despite my efforts to explain the reasoning behind my standing in her way in this instance, as I help her pack her things and ask her to bid us adieu the next morning to go back to the life she is more accustomed.
In spite of all the outwardly aggression shown to her at the time, I sit in the plane and feel my heart throb with sadness as I relive the taste my wife's tear drenched lips on mine as she kisses me goodbye and feel the never-ending hug as if she will not see me forever all over again; "I will try and sort things once I have got mum safely home," I promise myself.
The second thing I cannot seem to shake out of my mind as I fidget uncomfortably in my minuscule seat is that of Hajii Matin - the religious elder who came over to help dad and us in making arrangements for the funeral and moving mum to Bangladesh.
A scrunched up, white haired old Bangladeshi man, the son of a bitch, some how found out about mum dying and turns up at my parents' house looking all solemn on the Sunday morning - "I've just heard of your wife's death" he says to dad, "is there anything you need me to do to help with?".
For some reason I have an awful feeling regarding this self-proclaimed Hajii (which by the way is usually a very general term given to someone who is meant to be really pious and been to do the pilgrimage to Mecca - so calling himself that so self-indulgently as if it were a title like Lord or Sir before his surname...well, you can see why I did not trust him), so I ask dad who on Earth he is seeing as living up North like I did, I am somewhat out of touch with exactly who my parents hang out with regularly and what in particular this Hajii's line of work was, if you could call it that.
Dad has no answer except, "Your uncle is a religious man who helps all the elderly people living in North London with funeral arrangements and your mum knew him."
"Someone who has the reputation of offering everyone, not just friends and family, something for nothing is clearly talking a pile of shite" I think to myself so I decide to stay by dad's side as this Hajii is ushered into our sombre household.
We sit down in the living room as various aunties and younger cousins who have practically set up camp in the house, rush in and out to say hi to the Hajii and offer him tea and nibbles and dad begins telling him of mum's wishes to be buried in Bangladesh and that we need to sort arrangements quickly.
A cup of tea arrives and having a sip, the Hajii just listens as dad continues telling him of whom he has planned to speak to, to make the necessary plans of mobilising mum and then he interrupts, "Ahhh, yes - yes, I know them very well" and he reels off some Bangladeshi names which are the equivalent to saying John or Jane Doe, so whilst I frown, dad is very excited as the Hajii continues, "if you want, you can leave everything to me. You just sort out the death certificate and paperwork and pass it all over to me and I'll chat to them."
Dad's so eager to get help in sorting matters seeing as the family from Bangladesh has called about thirty times now in the last hour that he's half getting up from the sofa to get the Hajii all the details when I pipe up, "How much is this all going to cost?"...there is silence in the room as clearly no one has ever had the audacity of questioning him, "How much do you think it will cost? Whatever you think is what you will pay for transporting the cargo."
"Cargo? CARGO? Did you just refer to mum as cargo?" I am half tempted to throttle the smarmy little man and say the price should be nothing considering the idiot has literally referred to mum as an object but before I respond, dad has already apologised for my impertinence seeing as I have just lost my mum and am only a child, and then to my amazement, utters the words "two grand" to the old git!
The Hajii takes another sip of his tea and then in his best contemplative pose says, "It may be more than that but not by much - you sort the death certificate like I said and let me know when you have it and I'll sort things out...", he pauses looking at me staring daggers at him, "if it helps you and your family, I'll pay for everything out of my own pocket, ask them to invoice me and I shall in turn invoice you."
With that the little shrivelled up man gets up and disappears out of our door almost as quickly as he appeared...and I disappear to the computer to do some research regarding our plans so I can check prices for myself.
As it turns out, my instinct is right, to dad's horror.
Not only has the funeral parlour not even heard of the Hajii nor are there any undertakers there by the names he had proclaimed to know, but the cost actually comes in under a grand and a half.
The cheeky bastard was trying to sting my poor dad for over five hundred pounds. This was not a case of the Good Samaritan at all!
I speak to dad about either having a direct conflict with the so-called Hajii or spreading the word amongst the Bangladeshi community of the game he is playing or better still, doing both but instead my dad lectures me on how that is a no go area despite what I had found out as most of the Bangladeshi community respect him and listen to him so going after him will just isolate dad once he returned from Bangladesh...even after he has the sheer nerve to turn up at mum's service at the Mosque asking whether he might be able to help with anything else seeing as I prevented dad from using him for the funeral arrangements, am I told to bite my tongue!!!
"Disgusting!", I murmur...
"Sorry bro - I'll try to be quieter when I'm being sick" my sister says loudly and somewhat agitatedly.
I suddenly come back to the present and lifting my blindfold, take my brown paper sick bag from the back of the seat pocket in front of me and hand it over to my sister.
"If you want to spew - spew in this," I say in a weird drugged up squeaky voice, doing an impression of a character from one of my all time favourite comedy movies and my sister being a fan of the same, finally forgets about being sick and starts laughing.
20091230
20091228
Chapter Three: Messages
By the time we walk through the door with some of mum's things from the car and get to my parents' living room, the phone is flashing with at least twenty messages waiting to be heard. I turn to look at my sister to see if she has taken notice of this in the hope that at least for now, we can have a little respite from the harassment yet to come but I'm too late.
My sister has spotted the flashing red light and pounced on the answering machine like a cat. Unable to resist the allure of hearing voices of sympathy and support that has been so lacking from myself since we left the hospice, so presses the play button, albeit shaking as she does.
Clearly the news of my mum's passing has already spread like wildfire hence all the messages, but in the emotional trauma of it all, my sister seems to have forgotten that though we lived in England, traditional Western style messages of comfort being left would probably make up only a third of those left at best when it came to the Bangladeshi community we were a part of - most would be pressing us to tell them when the funeral was taking place, what they could do to support our dad as we were only children despite being 32 and 37 respectively, whether we even knew how to conduct a proper Muslim service having married into Western families - and so on.
Messages would not just be from family and friends I actually gave a shit about either, but those who actually believed they felt more pain and sorrow than us and would thus, be screaming down the phone as they shed their tears for the loss of our mum. These were folk who were mourning the loss of someone they "loved" so much that they had never visited her nor helped her or us in anyway especially when mum's health was getting progressively worse and when they actually did bother to call, all they had to comment on were how we were not doing things correctly or that we should just pray more to help ease mum's pain without ever giving tangible solutions!
I flinch slightly with anger at the thought of this but try to keep a lid on my rage as my sister begins writing down who has called and what they have said so she can discuss the contents with dad upon his arrival - but it's not interrupting her sense of duty that stops me from exploding, but rather the fact that she is making these notes through floods of tears.
I decide to walk away and deal with relieving my sister's Mini of the weight of mum's remaining goods instead; murmurs of people's voices echo in the living room in the background sounding almost robotic, as I march back and forth from the drive, up the stairs and into my parents' bedroom to place mum's things.
Quite honestly though, occasionally I do find myself lingering on the border of the living room and the stairwell as I do my best bell boy impersonation, curiosity regarding the messages taking over. But I snap myself out of it and remind myself I have no interest in listening to what people have to say when there is so much to do and hopefully I have many years yet to come to listen to people's pointless comments anyhow - I grin slightly, "Now that's something to look forward too..."
After I have taken the last of mum's bags into my parents' room I start to look around at the pictures on the walls and the empty night dresses and gown hung behind their door and sit heavily on to their bed.
The room feels cold and the unmade bed where dad had caught up with some rest just before coming back to the hospice only moments earlier, is freezing.
There is still mum's carafe on her side of the bed and her brush, face cream and box of medicine lie untouched. They stare at me expectantly, speaking to me like the echoing voices over the answering machine, awaiting confirmation as to what will happen next but I have no answer - and that is perhaps the reason I feel so much resentment in listening to the messages already left for us despite some being of genuine support.
Mum won't be walking out of her en suite anytime soon to use any of the belongings that speak to me so softly. There will be no rekindling of what once was - all that was now over and we all needed to move on. The purpose of these items had been removed - they were there to do a job for mum but now they were useless and that metaphor resonates in me mirroring my own feelings of loss; everything I had planned to do for mum had gone to oblivion - was there really any purpose to anything?
My sense of melancholy is broken by the sound of dad's car pulling onto the drive and my sister greeting him. I wait for a bit as I hear them talking about who had called and more importantly, how the conversation with me went regarding mum's last wishes.
I decide to give them a few moments before I make my entrance, so count up to 10 and take several deep breaths to recompose myself - a trick my mum taught me for all those head boy speeches I did in school; a trick she had learnt herself from numerous events she had presided over as chairperson or guest of honour during her better years.
I intentionally stomp down the stairwell to alert my dad and sister that I was on my way and walk into the living room where they are already waiting for me, as though it were a scene from the Apprentice and I were a candidate.
We begin talking about the plans bearing in mind that mum has died on a Friday so all relevant authorities such as the Registry Office to issue mum's death certificate are closed - "We need to pull some strings to get mobilised as matters cannot wait until Monday," dad says looking at myself and my sister very seriously, "It is absolutely important we do everything we can to ensure your mummy has the send off she deserves in line with our religious beliefs and in the manner her family, friends...and even her fans expect...whether we like it or not."
Dad's sentence ends but his stare is fixed on me as his full stop falls into place.
It was not the case that we were putting ourselves under pressure to get things sorted quick smart though. You see, what made things worse was not just mum's wish to be buried in Bangladesh but that under Islam, the burial of the dead has to take place in days (the fewer the better). In addition, family in Bangladesh had already been told of mum's wishes and upon her passing, they had rung dad several times to find out when we were going to be landing so they could get transport, paperwork and funeral arrangements in place not to mention, "organise the press conference upon [your] arrival" as one of my uncles put it.
It suddenly dawns on me that there is plenty of time to be an asshole and tell people exactly what I thought or better still, ignore whomever I please, but now was not the time to be that asshole.
I needed to butter up all the right people and fuck the consequences for now so if there was anyone who could help amongst all the pretentious "friends" out there, we needed to get them on our side if they weren't already - after all, with everyone knowing of mum's death including the Bangladeshi media, we could not afford to put a foot wrong.
Mum had always been adored by everyone including her Bangladeshi readers, both at home and here in the West and no one was going to change that and even if they did, I'd be damned if that someone was going to be me.
My sister has spotted the flashing red light and pounced on the answering machine like a cat. Unable to resist the allure of hearing voices of sympathy and support that has been so lacking from myself since we left the hospice, so presses the play button, albeit shaking as she does.
Clearly the news of my mum's passing has already spread like wildfire hence all the messages, but in the emotional trauma of it all, my sister seems to have forgotten that though we lived in England, traditional Western style messages of comfort being left would probably make up only a third of those left at best when it came to the Bangladeshi community we were a part of - most would be pressing us to tell them when the funeral was taking place, what they could do to support our dad as we were only children despite being 32 and 37 respectively, whether we even knew how to conduct a proper Muslim service having married into Western families - and so on.
Messages would not just be from family and friends I actually gave a shit about either, but those who actually believed they felt more pain and sorrow than us and would thus, be screaming down the phone as they shed their tears for the loss of our mum. These were folk who were mourning the loss of someone they "loved" so much that they had never visited her nor helped her or us in anyway especially when mum's health was getting progressively worse and when they actually did bother to call, all they had to comment on were how we were not doing things correctly or that we should just pray more to help ease mum's pain without ever giving tangible solutions!
I flinch slightly with anger at the thought of this but try to keep a lid on my rage as my sister begins writing down who has called and what they have said so she can discuss the contents with dad upon his arrival - but it's not interrupting her sense of duty that stops me from exploding, but rather the fact that she is making these notes through floods of tears.
I decide to walk away and deal with relieving my sister's Mini of the weight of mum's remaining goods instead; murmurs of people's voices echo in the living room in the background sounding almost robotic, as I march back and forth from the drive, up the stairs and into my parents' bedroom to place mum's things.
Quite honestly though, occasionally I do find myself lingering on the border of the living room and the stairwell as I do my best bell boy impersonation, curiosity regarding the messages taking over. But I snap myself out of it and remind myself I have no interest in listening to what people have to say when there is so much to do and hopefully I have many years yet to come to listen to people's pointless comments anyhow - I grin slightly, "Now that's something to look forward too..."
After I have taken the last of mum's bags into my parents' room I start to look around at the pictures on the walls and the empty night dresses and gown hung behind their door and sit heavily on to their bed.
The room feels cold and the unmade bed where dad had caught up with some rest just before coming back to the hospice only moments earlier, is freezing.
There is still mum's carafe on her side of the bed and her brush, face cream and box of medicine lie untouched. They stare at me expectantly, speaking to me like the echoing voices over the answering machine, awaiting confirmation as to what will happen next but I have no answer - and that is perhaps the reason I feel so much resentment in listening to the messages already left for us despite some being of genuine support.
Mum won't be walking out of her en suite anytime soon to use any of the belongings that speak to me so softly. There will be no rekindling of what once was - all that was now over and we all needed to move on. The purpose of these items had been removed - they were there to do a job for mum but now they were useless and that metaphor resonates in me mirroring my own feelings of loss; everything I had planned to do for mum had gone to oblivion - was there really any purpose to anything?
My sense of melancholy is broken by the sound of dad's car pulling onto the drive and my sister greeting him. I wait for a bit as I hear them talking about who had called and more importantly, how the conversation with me went regarding mum's last wishes.
I decide to give them a few moments before I make my entrance, so count up to 10 and take several deep breaths to recompose myself - a trick my mum taught me for all those head boy speeches I did in school; a trick she had learnt herself from numerous events she had presided over as chairperson or guest of honour during her better years.
I intentionally stomp down the stairwell to alert my dad and sister that I was on my way and walk into the living room where they are already waiting for me, as though it were a scene from the Apprentice and I were a candidate.
We begin talking about the plans bearing in mind that mum has died on a Friday so all relevant authorities such as the Registry Office to issue mum's death certificate are closed - "We need to pull some strings to get mobilised as matters cannot wait until Monday," dad says looking at myself and my sister very seriously, "It is absolutely important we do everything we can to ensure your mummy has the send off she deserves in line with our religious beliefs and in the manner her family, friends...and even her fans expect...whether we like it or not."
Dad's sentence ends but his stare is fixed on me as his full stop falls into place.
It was not the case that we were putting ourselves under pressure to get things sorted quick smart though. You see, what made things worse was not just mum's wish to be buried in Bangladesh but that under Islam, the burial of the dead has to take place in days (the fewer the better). In addition, family in Bangladesh had already been told of mum's wishes and upon her passing, they had rung dad several times to find out when we were going to be landing so they could get transport, paperwork and funeral arrangements in place not to mention, "organise the press conference upon [your] arrival" as one of my uncles put it.
It suddenly dawns on me that there is plenty of time to be an asshole and tell people exactly what I thought or better still, ignore whomever I please, but now was not the time to be that asshole.
I needed to butter up all the right people and fuck the consequences for now so if there was anyone who could help amongst all the pretentious "friends" out there, we needed to get them on our side if they weren't already - after all, with everyone knowing of mum's death including the Bangladeshi media, we could not afford to put a foot wrong.
Mum had always been adored by everyone including her Bangladeshi readers, both at home and here in the West and no one was going to change that and even if they did, I'd be damned if that someone was going to be me.
20091225
Chapter Two: Standing on the Frontline
We meet my dad downstairs with all the bags packed up from mum's room and load my sister and my dad's car.
The sky is grey and rain sizzles on the roof tops but none of it seems to matter anymore.
Dad looks at us both, "You both head to mine and your mummy's house and I'll meet you there." With that he heads back into the hospice like a man on a mission to sort out some of the final bits whilst my sister and I pack ourselves into her little Mini and begin driving off to our childhood home in North London.
Although it is a mere 5 minutes that pass, feels like hours before either of us say anything over U2's With or Without You blaring on the radio but eventually we start talking about how we're going to go about taking mum home - neither of us have any idea and suddenly realise that we are in the hands of dad to sort things out seeing as he will be funding the venture and as morbid as it sounds, he had been preparing to say goodbye to mum over 3 years ago when he first knew she had pancreatic cancer unlike my sister or I who tried holding on to a little bit of hope that she would make it through.
If anything, I genuinely thought like those cheesy American movies, the power of her mind would bring her back from death's door - such a fucking shame that is not how the world works!!! Good people always tend to die too young!
Anyway, I digress. The truth of the matter that slapped us right across the face was that relying on dad was somewhat worrying really.
Despite being a very successful neuro-surgeon, it was mum that dealt with all practicalities seeing as dad tended to be such a hypochondriac and panicker - guess they do say doctor's make the worst patients seeing as they know every symptom but still, you'd think my dad'd be a tad tougher than he was especially with him becoming full time carer for mum over the last few years! However, if anything, from the moment mum was diagnosed to perhaps 6 months before she died, you would have probably thought dad was the one terminally ill due to him losing so much weight and his beautiful head of thick black hair turning bright white; compared to how he was at 60, in only 3 years he had become a sliver of a man.
After much discussion of what to do I finally piped up, "I was planning to go back to work up North, but think it may be an idea if I call it a day until we get everything sorted. Will definitely help dad and think mum would want that!"
Upon uttering these words, my sister seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Not that she was incapable of supporting dad in making the necessary arrangements but rather, having a full time working husband and two children under 3 would make it difficult for her to accompany dad everywhere and totally impossible to stay with him 24-7 at the house when she had her own household to sort.
Add to the mix that all those we knew in the Bangladeshi community would be constantly harassing us for updates on funeral arrangements and badgering us continually regarding our thoughts and feelings, and you had a very good reason as to why she preferred having me present on the front line at the house. You see, Bangladeshi folk don't mourn in private - they shout, they scream, they cry blue murder. They beat their chests and whale and expect you to do the same. A slight change to this over-dramatic reaction and then the interrogation starts: "Why aren't you crying? Didn't you love your mother? You obviously did not care about her as much as we did!". The next thing you know, instead of sorting out mum's last wishes, guess my sister was worried that she would become embroiled in arguments and usually end up justifying her existence whilst offending some elder auntie or uncle by saying they were talking bollocks! Did not matter whether the auntie or uncle was a real blood relative or not, when it came to the Bangladeshi community, you were equally likely to get flack from blood relatives as you were a mere stranger especially if they were older than you!
It also did not help that my sister having lived only 30minutes away from my parents in London, had already suffered enough - some of the narrow minded people in our community constantly wittered on to my parents about how disgraceful it was that my sister had not moved in with them to help with looking after my mum. Despite her calling everyday, visiting every other day and cooking every three days, they all felt she could have done more. Did not help that mum had not been strong enough to verbally retaliate nor have the strength to say to my sister that she did not give a rat's ass as to what this minority group of plebs believed, nor did it help that my dad said nothing at all due to his nature of wanting to avoid any kind of conflict!!
Quite honestly in quite a large proportion of Bangladeshi communities, be it in England or in Bangladesh, the entire family tends to stand together and support one another under the same roof, so when my sister and I bucked the trend by adopting the best of the East and the West - the cultural beliefs of both cultures whilst filtering off the nonsense which meant both her and I had learnt how to speak, read and write Bengali, enjoyed Bollywood films to the max, knew all the essential prayers to practice Islam but we also married outside of the community, learnt how to love and appreciate other cultures and had become fiercely independent and moved out and away from our parents - some people didn't like that at all as it gave their children ideas of independence and free thought which was not necessarily a good thing! Don't get me wrong - this was not a majority opinion but my sister just could not bear to take the continuing flack now that mum had gone hence, so the thought that I had volunteered to become the first line of defence now she liked a lot. A lot indeed!
The sky is grey and rain sizzles on the roof tops but none of it seems to matter anymore.
Dad looks at us both, "You both head to mine and your mummy's house and I'll meet you there." With that he heads back into the hospice like a man on a mission to sort out some of the final bits whilst my sister and I pack ourselves into her little Mini and begin driving off to our childhood home in North London.
Although it is a mere 5 minutes that pass, feels like hours before either of us say anything over U2's With or Without You blaring on the radio but eventually we start talking about how we're going to go about taking mum home - neither of us have any idea and suddenly realise that we are in the hands of dad to sort things out seeing as he will be funding the venture and as morbid as it sounds, he had been preparing to say goodbye to mum over 3 years ago when he first knew she had pancreatic cancer unlike my sister or I who tried holding on to a little bit of hope that she would make it through.
If anything, I genuinely thought like those cheesy American movies, the power of her mind would bring her back from death's door - such a fucking shame that is not how the world works!!! Good people always tend to die too young!
Anyway, I digress. The truth of the matter that slapped us right across the face was that relying on dad was somewhat worrying really.
Despite being a very successful neuro-surgeon, it was mum that dealt with all practicalities seeing as dad tended to be such a hypochondriac and panicker - guess they do say doctor's make the worst patients seeing as they know every symptom but still, you'd think my dad'd be a tad tougher than he was especially with him becoming full time carer for mum over the last few years! However, if anything, from the moment mum was diagnosed to perhaps 6 months before she died, you would have probably thought dad was the one terminally ill due to him losing so much weight and his beautiful head of thick black hair turning bright white; compared to how he was at 60, in only 3 years he had become a sliver of a man.
After much discussion of what to do I finally piped up, "I was planning to go back to work up North, but think it may be an idea if I call it a day until we get everything sorted. Will definitely help dad and think mum would want that!"
Upon uttering these words, my sister seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Not that she was incapable of supporting dad in making the necessary arrangements but rather, having a full time working husband and two children under 3 would make it difficult for her to accompany dad everywhere and totally impossible to stay with him 24-7 at the house when she had her own household to sort.
Add to the mix that all those we knew in the Bangladeshi community would be constantly harassing us for updates on funeral arrangements and badgering us continually regarding our thoughts and feelings, and you had a very good reason as to why she preferred having me present on the front line at the house. You see, Bangladeshi folk don't mourn in private - they shout, they scream, they cry blue murder. They beat their chests and whale and expect you to do the same. A slight change to this over-dramatic reaction and then the interrogation starts: "Why aren't you crying? Didn't you love your mother? You obviously did not care about her as much as we did!". The next thing you know, instead of sorting out mum's last wishes, guess my sister was worried that she would become embroiled in arguments and usually end up justifying her existence whilst offending some elder auntie or uncle by saying they were talking bollocks! Did not matter whether the auntie or uncle was a real blood relative or not, when it came to the Bangladeshi community, you were equally likely to get flack from blood relatives as you were a mere stranger especially if they were older than you!
It also did not help that my sister having lived only 30minutes away from my parents in London, had already suffered enough - some of the narrow minded people in our community constantly wittered on to my parents about how disgraceful it was that my sister had not moved in with them to help with looking after my mum. Despite her calling everyday, visiting every other day and cooking every three days, they all felt she could have done more. Did not help that mum had not been strong enough to verbally retaliate nor have the strength to say to my sister that she did not give a rat's ass as to what this minority group of plebs believed, nor did it help that my dad said nothing at all due to his nature of wanting to avoid any kind of conflict!!
Quite honestly in quite a large proportion of Bangladeshi communities, be it in England or in Bangladesh, the entire family tends to stand together and support one another under the same roof, so when my sister and I bucked the trend by adopting the best of the East and the West - the cultural beliefs of both cultures whilst filtering off the nonsense which meant both her and I had learnt how to speak, read and write Bengali, enjoyed Bollywood films to the max, knew all the essential prayers to practice Islam but we also married outside of the community, learnt how to love and appreciate other cultures and had become fiercely independent and moved out and away from our parents - some people didn't like that at all as it gave their children ideas of independence and free thought which was not necessarily a good thing! Don't get me wrong - this was not a majority opinion but my sister just could not bear to take the continuing flack now that mum had gone hence, so the thought that I had volunteered to become the first line of defence now she liked a lot. A lot indeed!
20091224
Chapter One: Checkmate
"At 330pm today 8th May 2009, the Khans had to say farewell to beloved Maria Khan - devoted wife, mother & grandmother. May she rest in peace & love to you always xxx"...that is the text I have composed and sent to every person I know or more precisely, have in my mobile phone as my sister walks through the door of mum's room, tears pouring from her eyes and her sobbing uncontrollable.
As she hugs mum, dad (who became a retired doctor only 3 years ago to become mum's full time carer) very calmly stops her from moving mum too much "It is imperative she stays as straight as possible" he says in the most monotone voice - almost as if his medical/logical side has taken over to maintain some control of the situation.
She looks up at him and understands what he means and whilst I try not to dwell on it too much I do take note of the fact that there's some level of understanding passing between father and daughter that I clearly am not privy too.
I stand away from them all, holding my mobile in my hand and furiously texting back to people as their condolences flood in knowing not what else I should do until my sister tears the mobile from my hand and gives me what feels like an ever lasting hug...the cliche of a group hug being necessary in times of cheer or catastrophe then come true when my dad joins us and the three of us begin to shed a few tears.
Suddenly a small cough enters our broken world and we look up, all three of us quickly wiping the little gleaming diamonds of water from our eyes to see one of the hospice nurses standing on the other side of the bed near the door.
"We really should make preparations, Dr Khan - let me know when you are all ready."
Preparations?
Suddenly my mind goes haywire as that had not even entered my mind yet...coming from a Bangladeshi-Muslim background, there was much to do over and beyond the usual paperwork and mum being a well known author and journalist meant the funeral would have to be tad large and definitely a little special to say the least.
"Dad, should we be calling anybody?" I say, by now having broken out of our American-football style huddle.
Dad says nothing but just indicates that he needs to have a word with the nurse, then looks at my sister as he leaves the room as if now was the time to tell me something.
As dad walks passed mum, stroking her icy cheeks one last time, my sister asks me to sit down on the comfy reclining chair near the window of mum's room and begins to speak.
The only words that really get through to me are "Last. Wish. Burial. Birthplace. Bangladesh."
"WHAAAAATTTT???!" I shriek. My sister expecting that response tries to explain to me how much mum loved her little village back home and because she could not go back there in the last years of her life, she had told her and dad that those were her wishes.
I ask why I had been conveniently left out of the loop but the answer is already obvious to me, I was my mother's son!
You see despite how much my mum was loved by family, friends and even fans of her writing, she was a strong character to say the least. I loved that personally, but sometimes being told point blank what someone thinks of you, your beliefs or your ideas especially if that person perceives them as wrong and is unwilling to falter in their opinion despite much heated debate, is not instantly likable.
In fact, "Battle Axe" was a term some people behind closed doors had often said about her...which included myself and my sister...
So what did I mean by "I was my mother's son"?
No - I was not as forthright and to some extent, so set in my ways as my mum - in fact, those who know me would probably say I could be somewhat wet at times and a little too mousy. I was like my mother in that I always tried to stay true to myself, always gave honest opinions (only when asked of course) but above all else, I was a Battle Axe when it came to my mum as I used to hate it when no one wanted or could stick up to her.
This particular family-similarity between mother and son often was the cause of much friction at family gatherings but at the same time, the reason my sister always said I was her golden child and that she was prouder of who I was always more than her.
BUT using that as the reason for not telling me this fundamental change of plan was ridiculous. Guess she knew I would explode despite her being in her death bed; that I would argue with her until I was blue in the face (or at least maroon in the face being quite brown in the first place).
Don't get me wrong - my issue was not the logistics of flying her out to Bangladesh. Not the finance nor the issue of having to traipse 12hours each way to visit her - compared to my sister, my wife and I tended to always have more disposable income so, no, these weren't issues at all..OK, maybe they were a little but not the crux.
My anger was triggered by confusion and pain - I already lived 400miles away from London where she and the rest of the immediate family were based but at least, if I ever wanted to see her I could get to her in 3/4 hours each way - so her being buried in London made sense.
Also, let's face it - no one would ever love her more than myself, my sister and dad. Not her brothers and sisters, not her other relatives and definitely not her fans. So why? Why this stupid decision at the last minute and not want to try and discuss the issue.
My sister tries to tell me discussions had taken place but clearly mum's mind had been set but I knew mum knew that if I had been part of those discussions her mind would be split.
I begin shouting out all the thoughts whirling around in my head at my sister but she takes every hit I fire out verbally probably having prepared herself for this having had the heads up from mum regarding her plans so long ago.
"I never got to see her anyway whilst she was alive...my kids have not even been born and never got to experience any of her love like your children did and now they will have to wait to see her only once a year at best whilst some fucking losers in her village will be able to see her whenever they fucking want!!!"
I break down again but as my sister puts her hand on my shoulder I throw it off.
"Don't touch me - don't fucking touch me!" I say as the nurse walks back through the door.
The coldness of death in the air changes awkwardness as the nurse shifts uncomfortably as she looks across at us clearly showing signs of an argument - our mother having just died - and then bravely picks up the courage to ask us to begin making our way outside to meet our dad to sort arrangements to empty the room and sort the funeral as the hospice staff start sort their paperwork and move mum to some holding room until we can come and collect her to take her home.
My sister complies straightaway, rubbing my back lovingly to help sooth me before she leaves my side and kissing mum on both her cheeks and hugging her for what feels like eternity as I stare at the nurse with so much wraith clearly drawn over my face that she actually steps out backwards from the room and shuts the door.
I am alone with my mum and look over at her. There is so much I want to say I don't even know where to begin not that I have to - she knew exactly what I would say, after all she had intentionally kept me in the dark - but I still sit down next to her and hold her hand.
Anger turns to sadness turns to anger only to turn into laughter to my complete surprise.
"For someone who always used to look over at dad and I saying you couldn't believe anyone would spend as long as we did playing chess and that you would never be able to play it as there were too many rules and too much strategy, you sure as fuck played me well in this instance, eh mum? God you're so annoying..."
I pause and take a deep breath. My eyes start welling up again but I hold them back and instead smirking slightly, lean in close to mum and speak softly into her ear - "I love you mum and if you asked me to go to hell and back I would, so Bangladesh ain't half bad...Touche mum - checkmate to you!"
As she hugs mum, dad (who became a retired doctor only 3 years ago to become mum's full time carer) very calmly stops her from moving mum too much "It is imperative she stays as straight as possible" he says in the most monotone voice - almost as if his medical/logical side has taken over to maintain some control of the situation.
She looks up at him and understands what he means and whilst I try not to dwell on it too much I do take note of the fact that there's some level of understanding passing between father and daughter that I clearly am not privy too.
I stand away from them all, holding my mobile in my hand and furiously texting back to people as their condolences flood in knowing not what else I should do until my sister tears the mobile from my hand and gives me what feels like an ever lasting hug...the cliche of a group hug being necessary in times of cheer or catastrophe then come true when my dad joins us and the three of us begin to shed a few tears.
Suddenly a small cough enters our broken world and we look up, all three of us quickly wiping the little gleaming diamonds of water from our eyes to see one of the hospice nurses standing on the other side of the bed near the door.
"We really should make preparations, Dr Khan - let me know when you are all ready."
Preparations?
Suddenly my mind goes haywire as that had not even entered my mind yet...coming from a Bangladeshi-Muslim background, there was much to do over and beyond the usual paperwork and mum being a well known author and journalist meant the funeral would have to be tad large and definitely a little special to say the least.
"Dad, should we be calling anybody?" I say, by now having broken out of our American-football style huddle.
Dad says nothing but just indicates that he needs to have a word with the nurse, then looks at my sister as he leaves the room as if now was the time to tell me something.
As dad walks passed mum, stroking her icy cheeks one last time, my sister asks me to sit down on the comfy reclining chair near the window of mum's room and begins to speak.
The only words that really get through to me are "Last. Wish. Burial. Birthplace. Bangladesh."
"WHAAAAATTTT???!" I shriek. My sister expecting that response tries to explain to me how much mum loved her little village back home and because she could not go back there in the last years of her life, she had told her and dad that those were her wishes.
I ask why I had been conveniently left out of the loop but the answer is already obvious to me, I was my mother's son!
You see despite how much my mum was loved by family, friends and even fans of her writing, she was a strong character to say the least. I loved that personally, but sometimes being told point blank what someone thinks of you, your beliefs or your ideas especially if that person perceives them as wrong and is unwilling to falter in their opinion despite much heated debate, is not instantly likable.
In fact, "Battle Axe" was a term some people behind closed doors had often said about her...which included myself and my sister...
So what did I mean by "I was my mother's son"?
No - I was not as forthright and to some extent, so set in my ways as my mum - in fact, those who know me would probably say I could be somewhat wet at times and a little too mousy. I was like my mother in that I always tried to stay true to myself, always gave honest opinions (only when asked of course) but above all else, I was a Battle Axe when it came to my mum as I used to hate it when no one wanted or could stick up to her.
This particular family-similarity between mother and son often was the cause of much friction at family gatherings but at the same time, the reason my sister always said I was her golden child and that she was prouder of who I was always more than her.
BUT using that as the reason for not telling me this fundamental change of plan was ridiculous. Guess she knew I would explode despite her being in her death bed; that I would argue with her until I was blue in the face (or at least maroon in the face being quite brown in the first place).
Don't get me wrong - my issue was not the logistics of flying her out to Bangladesh. Not the finance nor the issue of having to traipse 12hours each way to visit her - compared to my sister, my wife and I tended to always have more disposable income so, no, these weren't issues at all..OK, maybe they were a little but not the crux.
My anger was triggered by confusion and pain - I already lived 400miles away from London where she and the rest of the immediate family were based but at least, if I ever wanted to see her I could get to her in 3/4 hours each way - so her being buried in London made sense.
Also, let's face it - no one would ever love her more than myself, my sister and dad. Not her brothers and sisters, not her other relatives and definitely not her fans. So why? Why this stupid decision at the last minute and not want to try and discuss the issue.
My sister tries to tell me discussions had taken place but clearly mum's mind had been set but I knew mum knew that if I had been part of those discussions her mind would be split.
I begin shouting out all the thoughts whirling around in my head at my sister but she takes every hit I fire out verbally probably having prepared herself for this having had the heads up from mum regarding her plans so long ago.
"I never got to see her anyway whilst she was alive...my kids have not even been born and never got to experience any of her love like your children did and now they will have to wait to see her only once a year at best whilst some fucking losers in her village will be able to see her whenever they fucking want!!!"
I break down again but as my sister puts her hand on my shoulder I throw it off.
"Don't touch me - don't fucking touch me!" I say as the nurse walks back through the door.
The coldness of death in the air changes awkwardness as the nurse shifts uncomfortably as she looks across at us clearly showing signs of an argument - our mother having just died - and then bravely picks up the courage to ask us to begin making our way outside to meet our dad to sort arrangements to empty the room and sort the funeral as the hospice staff start sort their paperwork and move mum to some holding room until we can come and collect her to take her home.
My sister complies straightaway, rubbing my back lovingly to help sooth me before she leaves my side and kissing mum on both her cheeks and hugging her for what feels like eternity as I stare at the nurse with so much wraith clearly drawn over my face that she actually steps out backwards from the room and shuts the door.
I am alone with my mum and look over at her. There is so much I want to say I don't even know where to begin not that I have to - she knew exactly what I would say, after all she had intentionally kept me in the dark - but I still sit down next to her and hold her hand.
Anger turns to sadness turns to anger only to turn into laughter to my complete surprise.
"For someone who always used to look over at dad and I saying you couldn't believe anyone would spend as long as we did playing chess and that you would never be able to play it as there were too many rules and too much strategy, you sure as fuck played me well in this instance, eh mum? God you're so annoying..."
I pause and take a deep breath. My eyes start welling up again but I hold them back and instead smirking slightly, lean in close to mum and speak softly into her ear - "I love you mum and if you asked me to go to hell and back I would, so Bangladesh ain't half bad...Touche mum - checkmate to you!"
20091223
Prologue
I find myself standing in an empty corridor outside room 11 at the hospice where I left mum literally a few moments ago.
My palms are sweaty, breath heavy and heart racing.
"Your mummy has left us" dad's voice said over the phone but that couldn't be possible - could it?
I have a flash back to when I was with her just a moment ago - holding her hand and trying to remember lines to nursery rhymes she used to sing to me all the time as a child; her eyes partially open from all the morphine, I still carried on singing ignoring the harsh fact that she probably could not hear me.
Shortly after, dad walked through the door having freshened up at home and now ushering me to do the same, so I jumped up, kissed mum on the forehead and then grabbed dad's keys to the car so I could do just that; mum always had a strong sense of smell so perhaps it was me and not the morphine making her so groggy I thought to alleviate the moment so what changed?
I find myself back outside the door and trembling, push the handle down and the door falls open.
There is a stillness in the air.
Dad is on the other side of the bed away from the door, his hand on his forehead he stares out of the window whilst mum lies in her bed...a statue. No sign of breathing, or any movement at all.
"Mum...mum?" I call out, my voice getting quieter and quieter as I walk closer to her hoping she will flinch and ask me not to be so loud as she always used to when she had more strength - but there is nothing.
I touch her and she is already growing cold.
My breath becomes heavier and tears well up as I lean over and kiss her on the forehead as I had mere moments ago.
As I look up, my dad is looking at me with tears also in his eyes but with an expression that clearly exudes sadness not for the loss of his beloved but the upset of seeing his little boy finally realise there was no miracle to come; no cure this time.
I walk round to the other side of the bed where dad sits and break down, my head falling into his lap like a lead weight and I begin to sob.
My palms are sweaty, breath heavy and heart racing.
"Your mummy has left us" dad's voice said over the phone but that couldn't be possible - could it?
I have a flash back to when I was with her just a moment ago - holding her hand and trying to remember lines to nursery rhymes she used to sing to me all the time as a child; her eyes partially open from all the morphine, I still carried on singing ignoring the harsh fact that she probably could not hear me.
Shortly after, dad walked through the door having freshened up at home and now ushering me to do the same, so I jumped up, kissed mum on the forehead and then grabbed dad's keys to the car so I could do just that; mum always had a strong sense of smell so perhaps it was me and not the morphine making her so groggy I thought to alleviate the moment so what changed?
I find myself back outside the door and trembling, push the handle down and the door falls open.
There is a stillness in the air.
Dad is on the other side of the bed away from the door, his hand on his forehead he stares out of the window whilst mum lies in her bed...a statue. No sign of breathing, or any movement at all.
"Mum...mum?" I call out, my voice getting quieter and quieter as I walk closer to her hoping she will flinch and ask me not to be so loud as she always used to when she had more strength - but there is nothing.
I touch her and she is already growing cold.
My breath becomes heavier and tears well up as I lean over and kiss her on the forehead as I had mere moments ago.
As I look up, my dad is looking at me with tears also in his eyes but with an expression that clearly exudes sadness not for the loss of his beloved but the upset of seeing his little boy finally realise there was no miracle to come; no cure this time.
I walk round to the other side of the bed where dad sits and break down, my head falling into his lap like a lead weight and I begin to sob.
Introduction of sorts....
I have no idea how this will pan out.
I seem to have the tendency perhaps like most, to have big ideas - no, dreams - to do something with my life that I enjoy that will have an impact on other people's lives but never seem to follow them through for one reason or another - usually the "I'm far too busy with real life to follow my dreams" or better still, "I'm far too lazy to do anything about them".
So here I am.
But what is it I plan to do? Well, as morbid as it sounds I hope to tell you a story of one guy's "journey" from his mother passing away in bustling London, England and the events leading up to her burial in a remote little village in the fringes of Bangladesh - the place where his mother asks to be buried; the place of her birth which she longed to visit but failed to do in her last years as her health became ever more fragile.
Seriously - that in a nutshell is what I hope to tell you about. A semi-autobiographical tale in the style of one's inner monologues loosely based on my experiences of saying farewell to my own mother who passed away tragically on the 8th of May 2009; this tale is dedicated entirely (for better or for worse) to her!
Will I really enjoy the experience? I don't know. Will it really make any impact on other people's lives? I don't know that either. But I do know that parts if not the whole will often shock, bewilder or bemuse fellow bloggers and that has to count for something I guess!
I really hope you get something out of it and I hope I do too!
I seem to have the tendency perhaps like most, to have big ideas - no, dreams - to do something with my life that I enjoy that will have an impact on other people's lives but never seem to follow them through for one reason or another - usually the "I'm far too busy with real life to follow my dreams" or better still, "I'm far too lazy to do anything about them".
So here I am.
But what is it I plan to do? Well, as morbid as it sounds I hope to tell you a story of one guy's "journey" from his mother passing away in bustling London, England and the events leading up to her burial in a remote little village in the fringes of Bangladesh - the place where his mother asks to be buried; the place of her birth which she longed to visit but failed to do in her last years as her health became ever more fragile.
Seriously - that in a nutshell is what I hope to tell you about. A semi-autobiographical tale in the style of one's inner monologues loosely based on my experiences of saying farewell to my own mother who passed away tragically on the 8th of May 2009; this tale is dedicated entirely (for better or for worse) to her!
Will I really enjoy the experience? I don't know. Will it really make any impact on other people's lives? I don't know that either. But I do know that parts if not the whole will often shock, bewilder or bemuse fellow bloggers and that has to count for something I guess!
I really hope you get something out of it and I hope I do too!
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