Goodbye Maa
When my dadi was in hospital, she masterfully trained a maid to smuggle her paan to her from under her hospital bed
The writer is the recipient of the James A Wechsler Award for International Reporting and a graduate of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. He tweets @Mbilallakhani
“Why’re you crying Maa?” I asked my grandmother around three years ago, as I was preparing to move out of Pakistan for a job assignment. “I’ll be back to see you very soon Maa,” I said, trying to console her. She continued to sob uncontrollably. Nothing I said was making her feel any better. There was an unspoken tension rising in the room; she appeared to suggest that we might not see each other again and I started crying too. Like a dutiful Pakistani grandson, I took my best chance to cheer her up. “You have to be strong Maa, you have to get us (grandsons) married and raise our kids.” Instantly, her tears disappeared and she started smiling like a schoolgirl. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. Even though I saw her in person several times after this conversation, the moment remains etched in my memory. Unfortunately, my Dadi, or Maa as we called her, passed away recently. This article is an attempt to cherish and celebrate her life, her stories and her disarming wit.
Maa went through a lot in life, losing her husband while her children were still very young. But she was a fighter and a survivor. She always put on a rosy lens through which she viewed her past and advised us to do the same. She married around the age of 14 and had her first son around the age of 17. Of her childhood, she fondly remembered how her father would spoil her and how her mother’s eyes were so beautiful. My nana and dadi happen to be siblings (long story). Before Partition, their father had bought land to build houses for all his children, next to one another in their village in India, she proudly told us. They gave up that land when moving to Pakistan and built their lives from scratch in a new country. Somehow, she only had good memories from her childhood despite the trauma of the Partition. She used to tell us about the first time the men of the house brought shampoo to their new home in Karachi. The women of the house didn’t know what they were supposed to do with the shampoo, so they started washing the floors with it.
Among other things, Maa loved telling stories, eating out of her paan-dan. Even in old age, she was hungry to live life to the fullest. According to my father, when her doctors told her she would need to stop eating dessert and high cholesterol dishes, she innocently asked if it’s okay for her to eat these if she’s invited to someone’s house for a dinner party. The doctor grudgingly obliged, assuming these would be few and far in between. Next, Maa started inviting herself to dinner parties with special requests for dishes that were otherwise off her diet but very much alive in her heart. Where most dadis would have their grandchildren finish their veggies, Maa would always have a penchant for us to bring her pizza, brain masala or Karachi Broast. Whenever I would go out with friends, she would ask for takeaway. Once, when she was admitted into hospital, she masterfully trained a maid to smuggle her beloved paan to her from under her hospital bed without any of us knowing. She loved life with all its flavours.
My dadi had an endearing flair for the dramatic. She also enjoyed teasing and being teased by her grandchildren. Coming from a memon household, Maa had somehow managed to amass a treasure trove of solitary tissue papers and toothpicks in her cupboard, which would otherwise go to waste, unless rescued and protected by her. A few years back, when she wasn’t feeling well and was hospitalised, my taya and I were sitting by her hospital bed whispering the doctor’s comments so that she wouldn’t wake up. Next, a scene out of a Zee TV drama transpired. My dadi suddenly woke up and said you guys are talking to each other about money (inheritance) aren’t you. “Yes,” I replied. “We’re deciding which one of us gets to keep the toothpicks and who gets the tissue papers.” All of us started laughing, despite the grimness of a night in the hospital. No matter how much pain she was in personally, she always found a way to lighten the mood and bring joy to her family. She was an irreplaceable force of nature. May God grant her His mercy and forgiveness. We really miss you Maa.
Published in The Express Tribune, August 12th, 2016.
Maa went through a lot in life, losing her husband while her children were still very young. But she was a fighter and a survivor. She always put on a rosy lens through which she viewed her past and advised us to do the same. She married around the age of 14 and had her first son around the age of 17. Of her childhood, she fondly remembered how her father would spoil her and how her mother’s eyes were so beautiful. My nana and dadi happen to be siblings (long story). Before Partition, their father had bought land to build houses for all his children, next to one another in their village in India, she proudly told us. They gave up that land when moving to Pakistan and built their lives from scratch in a new country. Somehow, she only had good memories from her childhood despite the trauma of the Partition. She used to tell us about the first time the men of the house brought shampoo to their new home in Karachi. The women of the house didn’t know what they were supposed to do with the shampoo, so they started washing the floors with it.
Among other things, Maa loved telling stories, eating out of her paan-dan. Even in old age, she was hungry to live life to the fullest. According to my father, when her doctors told her she would need to stop eating dessert and high cholesterol dishes, she innocently asked if it’s okay for her to eat these if she’s invited to someone’s house for a dinner party. The doctor grudgingly obliged, assuming these would be few and far in between. Next, Maa started inviting herself to dinner parties with special requests for dishes that were otherwise off her diet but very much alive in her heart. Where most dadis would have their grandchildren finish their veggies, Maa would always have a penchant for us to bring her pizza, brain masala or Karachi Broast. Whenever I would go out with friends, she would ask for takeaway. Once, when she was admitted into hospital, she masterfully trained a maid to smuggle her beloved paan to her from under her hospital bed without any of us knowing. She loved life with all its flavours.
My dadi had an endearing flair for the dramatic. She also enjoyed teasing and being teased by her grandchildren. Coming from a memon household, Maa had somehow managed to amass a treasure trove of solitary tissue papers and toothpicks in her cupboard, which would otherwise go to waste, unless rescued and protected by her. A few years back, when she wasn’t feeling well and was hospitalised, my taya and I were sitting by her hospital bed whispering the doctor’s comments so that she wouldn’t wake up. Next, a scene out of a Zee TV drama transpired. My dadi suddenly woke up and said you guys are talking to each other about money (inheritance) aren’t you. “Yes,” I replied. “We’re deciding which one of us gets to keep the toothpicks and who gets the tissue papers.” All of us started laughing, despite the grimness of a night in the hospital. No matter how much pain she was in personally, she always found a way to lighten the mood and bring joy to her family. She was an irreplaceable force of nature. May God grant her His mercy and forgiveness. We really miss you Maa.
Published in The Express Tribune, August 12th, 2016.