It would probably have been an eternity before any of us decided to settle down and remember why we were there and that our duties were far from over if it were not for Dada.
Coughing loudly to clear his throat, he asks me to help in lifting mum’s head so that dad can pull the white cotton wrap from under her head and complete the task of wrapping her up in readiness for her burial.
However, dad looks at both of us with his bedraggled hair sticking out from under his little prayer hat, his eyes red and swollen and Dada decides to take on the responsibility himself and nods at me to begin lifting.
I lift her head as gently as I can but the weight is surprising; it’s almost like she is pushing her head against my hand to stop me from raising her up and to be honest, I half expect her to open her eyes and tell me off for waking her up from her slumber.
I can hear her soft hair rubbing underneath the cloth and feel the unevenness of her hair on my palm; her angelic face practically shines out from the coffin – over powering the darkness of the wood and cold metallic lead that surrounds her.
I flinch as Dada shakily covers mum’s face, clearly doing what needs to be done but holding back the tears that I know are raging to break out within him.
And then she is gone.
A body lies before us, mummified.
Since losing mum, she had suddenly come back into our lives one last time but her fleeting visit felt more like torture than a gift – seeing her once more was excruciating.
It was bad enough knowing mum lay within the confines of the coffin we had all been protecting all this time, like a treasure chest full of precious cargo, but still, there was a certain level of desensitisation that I had no idea I had started building up…until that is, it all came crashing down - having opened up Pandora’s box so to speak, and seen what lay within!
Dada can see the sadness in my eyes as I stand up and stare down at mum lying there whilst the rest of the family remains seated around the coffin still crying unreservedly. In Auntie Poppy's case, I am surprised she has not lost her voice yet bearing in mind the level at which she is howling away.
He stands up as well and putting his arms around me, gives me as loving a hug a macho war hero can, and then he walks towards the door and opens it calling over to Goldie, Princess’s father and a few others to come in and carry mum out of her resting place to the plinth from which we would take her to the grave that had been lovingly dug by the villagers at the rear of the mosque I had spied earlier.
The select men walk in and take a moment to compose themselves before they reach down to lift mum, asking dad and my sister if that was okay as they did; my sister can barely look at them she is crying so much but dad manages a nod so they reach in to carry her out.
Refusing to be pushed out of the equation, I ensure no one touches mum’s head save for me, and we carry her out steadily from inside the cool inner walls of the bungalow to the burning sun and tremendous heat of the Bangladeshi summer.
As the heat warms my face, I stare up into the sky and cannot help notice just how wonderfully blue it is, something that seemed to have quickly become overshadowed by dust clouds when we were surrounded by the parade of people trying to catch a glimpse of the action.
Don’t get me wrong this wasn't to say the crowds had entirely died down!
Despite the tighter security at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, there are plenty of people in small packs scattered around us as we step down from the bungalow to the plinth to lay mum down – the main difference however was that those who were around were not rushing around like Tasmanian devils kicking up a storm and in turn, quite literally throwing up sand and gravel into the air.
Oddly enough, the combination of the heat, beauty of the azure sky and respectful silence brings a gentle smile to my face although as with so many occasions during this trip, tears manage to find their way through my tear ducts and trickle softly down my cheeks; tickling me as they do – as if they are trying to cheer me up - they swiftly drop off my face into the dusty plateau beneath my feet.
For a moment, I see things through my mum’s eyes and despite my reservations, suddenly it all feels alright.
“This is where her life began. This is where she wanted it to end – how could she not be at peace in such a beautiful place?” I hear myself say as I lay mum’s head onto the warm wood of the plinth.
I go to lift up the plinth with Goldie and a few others but before we can do this, we are interrupted by the Molabhi who has arrived seemingly out of nowhere, to advise that under Islam only the men will be allowed to instigate the burial and the women will have to stay away until mum had been completely covered.
He is saying this as he stares almost glaringly, at the doorway of bungalow where my sister, Neema and Auntie Poppy are standing – as if he knew that they had every intention to help in the actual act of the burial.
“…And why the fuck not?!” I want to shout out at him but custom was custom even if I did not agree with it.
My sister is visibly upset but looks at me as if she has heard my thoughts, and somehow manages a sombre smile as if to acknowledge my thoughts but asking me to let it go.
And begrudgingly I do.
Taking a deep breath I compose myself and get a handle on my anger and with a roar, lift mum up alongside the other fellows assisting and we carry mum to her burial site.
Unfortunately, what I thought would be a few strides turns out to be slightly more taxing than that as through the heat once more, we have to walk out of the cul-de-sac and around the other side, through the side entrance of the mosque.
Sweat drips down my face as the pain in my shoulders from the crowd crushing carnage of Banglastonbury and carrying mum return with a vengeance, but I soldier on.
As we get nearer to the graveyard, we are asked by the Molabhi to balance mum above us and take off our shoes which is a traditional sign of respect to the dead under Islam and by some miracle, I manage to do this without wincing too much.
As the cool muddy clay surrounding mum’s site oozes into every crevice of my toes and feet, I am surprised to feel a certain sensation of relief as having followed the Molabhi we finally reach the edge of the burial site and lower mum’s plinth from our shoulders to the ground.
The physical pain is still throbbing but I know I have reached my destination and the cold mud is inadvertently working its magic in reducing the all-encompassing heat I am standing in, so the combination works well to cheer me up the best it can.
I look over to the bungalow and see that my sister, Neema and Auntie Poppy along with other aunties and female cousins and relatives stand about 15 feet away watching us from the other side of the fencing, marking out the rear edge of the mosque, and quickly stop my wincing and wipe my sweat from my face – “there was no way I was going to let them see my pain to merely add to their woes” I think as I do so.
I then hear Princess’s father speak out my name although I do not catch what he has said before that and for a moment I am utterly confused when Goldie starts to practically push me into the grave itself.
I look at my sister as she cries profusely as I slowly turn and climb down into the darkness of the hole having shoved Goldie’s hands off me; Princess’s father already stands below waiting.
It still takes me a while to even realise what I am doing there – the truth hitting me hard in the form of mum’s mummified silhouette being lowered down above Princess’s father and I and voices from above asking whether we had safely caught her in our arms.
My heart breaks as I feel mum’s head and shoulders fall into my arms and I see Princess’s father’s face as he appears to hold on to mum’s legs for dear life – neither of us wanting to lay her down and leave her here in this cold darkness alone.
Despite everything I felt about Princess’s father, our eyes lock in that moment as tears begin flooding his eyes - the sister who was like a mother to him was gone and here we were, him and I – six feet under saying goodbye to one of the most amazing women we would ever have the honour of knowing.
We say nothing to each other but somehow muster up a smile at each other and then look down at mum before Princess’s father climbs out and puts his arm down to help me out.
I take hold at first and begin clambering out, my pearly white Punjabi which is a traditional Islamic shirt or tunic, sodden in mud and essentially brown in colour, but then look back down at mum and let go, returning to her.
There is barely any room but somehow I manage to crouch down and I kiss mum’s head three times – “The first is from dad who having nursed you for the last three years and now lost you – the love of his life – has become but a sliver of the man he used to be and barely has the strength to walk let alone do what I have done.
The second one is from your first born who by some cruel twist of fate was born a woman and thus prevented from doing what I know she could have done better than any son or brother in this world and the next…”
I choke as I speak what I know will be my final words to mum, “…and the third one? This is from your baby. Your last born. All I have to say is forgive me for who I am and always give me the strength to be who you always hoped I would become. I love you – I never said that enough to you but I hope and pray I did enough to ensure you knew the truth.”
And with that, I reach up again and am drawn back into the light by Princess’s father who hugs me tightly before I have even properly emerged.
We look at each other once more; neither of us being able to find the right words to say but floods of tears pouring out of our eyes as the hole starts getting filled behind us as the Molabhi begins reciting some prayers, but as we turn to look at mum one last time as she disappears under the earth, I find myself saying to him, “Gayer mae gaye feeroth ach-chay, uncle…the village girl has returned home…”
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