Chapter Four: Taking Flight

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.