Grief

After hugging everyone, I went to his desk and sat in his chair. I gently put my hand on top of his papers. On his desk were stacks of scientific work, religious print-outs, photographs and a personalized thank-you note from Rosalynn and Jimmy Carter.

That's my Abbu.

I was in shock for a long time. We got to my grandmother's house and Bert had to hold me up to walk in the door. I saw everyone and I went numb. We do not embalm, so I knew the funeral would be the next day. I sat down and began work on his obituary (previous post). I wanted to make sure that everyone knew how amazing he was. If you didn't know him, I wanted you to read it and wish that you did.

I went with Mama to the masjid. There was a plain pine box in the center of the room, up on a stand of some sort. It was closed. The room was freezing. The windows were opened. The men in my family had prepared his body. Muslims do not embalm, as we take "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" literally. He was treated as if he were alive, and they used warm perfumed water. Ammi said he loved the smell of perfume.

My mom opened the coffin. I ran out of the room. I crouched outside of the bathroom and sobbed. The pain was immense. After a few minutes, I felt him say to me, "Nisee Baby Doogie, Please don't cry." In Urdu, doogie represents the number 2, the smallest number in a deck of cards. I was his first grandbaby. The smallest. We believe the soul lingers with the body until burial. I know it was him, truly speaking to me. Then Mama came and I started again. She told me that I would upset Abbu's soul with my sobbing, so I stopped. I would never want to hurt him.

I sat down by my grandmother and did the kulma. It is similar to the rosary - you say prayers 100 times, while keeping count with the beads. Allah Akbar. God is great. Subhan Allah. Glory to God. And so on. In Dewa, where he was born, they finished 20 Qur'ans for him and a million kulmas. We prayed. Fasts were done. And tears, well they were certainly shed. My grandmother and his children spent the night at the masjid, praying. I stayed up most of the night working on a program for the next day. I woke Bert up at 4:40am, as I laid down. It was time for him and my father to get ready to go to the masjid for fajr prayer. I slept. For a few hours, the pain was gone.

I still go back and forth between shock and heart-wrenching pain. My mind only allows me to believe it for a few minutes at a time. It is truly a horror. He was truly my second father. The first memories of my life involve him. I just saw him last week. What I would give to talk to him once more.

The visitation. The fellowship hall was full. "He was a lot smarter than the rest of us," said one of his colleagues. It was true.

The funeral. It is a blur. I prayed. I told him I loved him.

The burial. I stood with the women. He knew where he would be buried. It was on a hill. It was a peaceful place. I told my mom that I wanted to be buried there too. She said she had 5 plots. I must be there when my time comes. Strange how my extreme fear of death subsided. For when my day comes, Abbu will be there. May God allow me to live a long, healthy life. But at the end, I will not be alone.

His parents thought he hung the moon. I pray to God that his parents and sisters greeted him. He was adored. Upon the news of his birth, Dewa erupted in celebration. He was loved, all over the world.

He was a true genius, the only one I have ever known. As my mom said, he had a beautiful mind. The most beautiful.

Labels: family