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.
No comments:
Post a Comment