I saw him through the haze, alone, strong and dressed in white, a contrast to the gray of the wall. I walked up to him and then, I saw the grief written on his face, like unmistakable graffiti screaming at me. The urge to hug him and tell him it will all be okay engulfed me. But I felt conservative eyes on me and saw the hesitancy on his face as he held out his hand. I shook it, urging my eyes to convey what I knew he needed to see. “How are you?", I asked and then immediately regretted it. That is not a question you ask at a point like this, I chided myself. He smiled his broken smile and said "I am okay".
He pointed me to a narrow stairs, easily overlooked in the architectural confusion. "Ladies that side" he said, matter of factly. I smiled at him and turned. The dark, dingy, steep stairwell made me claustrophobic. I took a deep breath and walked up.
Multi-colored hues startled me as I reached the top; blue, purple, pink, green and a few expected black. What happened to sober colors, I thought. Wasn’t that the official dress code for events like these? And then the silence screamed at me. Why is it so quiet? Why isn’t anybody crying?
Curious eyes looked up from their prayer books. Somebody grabbed my hand and led me to a room overlooking the main gathering area. The room had no windows and no space to move. Claustrophobia resurfaced. I sat at the edge of a door, my back towards the room, facing the women. Somebody cleared their throat and suddenly there were no more eyes on me. I still felt like an intruder, someone who, so clearly, didn’t belong. The woman next to me picked up a few more date seeds and continued chanting and adding seeds to the pile in front of her.
This is nothing like on television. This is so much more unreal.
Sunlight came down in streams through the gaps in the parapet. It was a hot day. I wish I would have had time to have a proper bath, I thought to myself.
I heard the faint chanting as my ears adjusted and filtered the sounds coming from the neighboring houses; the pressure cooker that was refusing to leave any pressure, the incessant knocking of a door, the children playing and laughing. It was a Sunday in some other world. Over here, there was just grief, palpable and obvious, boring into your soul while you slept, pushing itself into reality while you ignored its existence.
I had never met her, this woman who was loved and revered; who I had heard about always with respect on peoples tongues. I wasn’t there for her. I was there for him. But I never really saw him after that. Just a few flashes of white. I hope he will be okay, I thought, every time I spotted that brilliant color through the gloom.
It was time and everybody moved together like an invisible force was pushing them. They all wanted to see her one last time. The crying started as one by one, they came out from the room where she was laid. I stood in line and waited patiently for my turn, for the others to whom she meant so much more. When I saw her she was wrapped tightly in white. She can’t move! I thought unreasonably. I quietly crept out before my mind took on thoughts I knew it had no place for.
The men came, all in blinding white, to take her to her final resting place. I marveled at their ability to negotiate their way down the narrow stairs I had come up from, all the time making sure she didn’t lose her dignity.
Stories were told by the eyes that were deep in sorrow, wet with fresh tears. She wanted to open a school, I learned. "She was courageous even when she was breathing her last." "She had met Allah much before her body gave up." "She had always lived her life for others."
I left hoping he will be okay. She meant so much to him.
Tomorrow is another day.
