Having a funeral

I believe the very first funeral that I hold memory of was that of my grand-father. My Nana was a tall, sturdy man with broad shoulders and heavy feet. He was a man of few words as I remember him, being probably just 8 years old. I couldn’t just jump onto his lap or throw a tantrum as he came across as a serious man.




We were living at Asghar Mall in Rawalpindi which used to be my grandparents or my mum’s home. I remember worried discussions happening around me, related to his failing health. I found it very pressurizing and wanted to just travel back to Karachi where no bad news ever reached the ear. Yes, that was Karachi at one time when people could walk out of their houses at late hours feeling no fear.


The night was quiet and I heard some commotion in the room. My mum was preparing to go to the hospital as Nana was not so well. I saw the panic in her eyes. My dad was composed as always and the ambulance was on its way. I sat up in my bed not knowing what to say. She left the room and I did not dare to walk out to witness the event. There was noise as Nana was a heavy man and carrying him to the ambulance was a task.


They all left and sadly returned empty handed with few words to share. There was crying in the middle of the night. We all woke up and people started to pour in the house to share the grief. The children were limited to a bedroom in the supervision of older cousins. It was a long night and each time I heard a loud cry of pain, I felt sad for my mother and her loss. Of course at that time, it was impossible to pin down emotions but what I remember distinctly is the desire to get out of that room and the event to pass quickly.


In the morning, we were called by our mum who eventually could not place a veil on her emotions and said, “Come and see Nana for the last time. He is leaving us now.” I remember being dragged to the drawing room where his body lay still. I felt fear and my senses just could not accept the need to witness such a ritual. My brothers and sister stood with me near him for a minute and all the while I stared at someone who used to cough really loudly and tease my grandma to annoy her lovingly. There was no motion what so ever. What appeared as a dreadful thought was that they were going to bury him under the soil. Graveyards were scary and I was so panicked that I quietly left the room. And the funeral procession left the house in screams and disbelief on part of some whilst for some it was a release of anguish held inside for a long time. People came in day and night in the following days to offer their sympathies, appearing as just words that were framed carefully to match the occasion.


The images were printed on my mind and I believe I carried them with me for a long time. Each time there was a funeral, I would feel the dreadful ending. With age, it became more acceptable but with my mum passing away, it all came back with agonizing force. The difference was that this time, I wanted to be a part of every ritual and imbibe every moment left with her soothing image.


The rituals happened as usual. Condolences were offered and life took its usual course. I would get flashes of the funeral every single night as the impact was huge. Often I looked at the far horizon and see the birds gliding through the open sky. I wondered if she had turned into a bird flying freely, watching over me. It was a silly thought but gave me solace.


I was still in the frame of the body being carried away, when the most disastrous Earthquake happened in North Pakistan. It was less than two months since my mum’s funeral. The news came in and we made worried calls to my father, sister and in-laws to ensure their safety. Allah had been kind and we were grateful to learn about their well-being.


The magnitude of the earthquake left people around the country speechless. There was complete disruption of life and soon the appeal to help and contribute for the sustenance of the survivors became the driving force for each and every Pakistani around the globe.


As I watched the coverage on television, stories of families lost and victims found dead began to circulate viciously. The images I saw were of wrecked houses, destroyed schools and complete localities plundered to non-existence. It was tearing to hear stories of families searching for their loved ones. I distinctly remember one such story about a young girl they tried to rescue from under the wreckage, who eventually could not fight the odds.


All this time, my mind was on a journey to discover the reality of death. The necessity of a funeral. The authenticity in a condolence. And as sad as this daunting calamity was, it left my heart in peace. I was grateful to Allah for blessing my grandpa with a funeral. For allowing us time to grasp the reality of my mother leaving, for people who walked in numbers to help us talk about the loss. Having a funeral is indeed a blessing. It’s something to be thankful for.