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!"