When I first met her, I was a sixteen-year-old teenager going through an upheaval of hormones, pronounced on my cheeks as acne, and through my depressive demeanor, totally confused, trying to make sense of my grieving self, which was more in shock than grief.
I was grieving the demise of my uncle (my mother’s elder brother), who was hale and hearty a day ago, succumbed to multiple organ failure, and was brought back dead in a span of a few hours after he was taken to the hospital.
Before I could inquire further, Mom gave me more than the required details about her first husband, who almost killed her, in an inberiated condition, hitting hard on her head with a sword but remained unsuccessful, with two young boys and no one to turn towards , she decided to quit her marriage, remarry her long-lost cousin, someone who claimed to be her silent lover since eons, but with already two wives and seven children.
The work was laborious, but she readily accepted all the tasks explained by Ammi and Chachi and also agreed to work upstairs at Bijoma’s house.
Quitting a violent past to become the third hidden wife of a man under the burden of two large families, perhaps made her open and accepting of any tasks assigned in all the houses on the premises.
She worked tirelessly, loyally, and sincerely for decades, serving not just my grandparents but my parents, me, my siblings, and the children of our next generation.
Her services spanned twenty-seven years, encompassing both the good and the bad that the families in those premises went through.
While her siblings and their respective children moved out of their existing poor economic standard, she remained stuck as a sole breadwinner, with both her sons, just like their father, turning out to be violent alcoholics.
Her lover husband kept sailing in three boats simultaneously and exploiting her physically and financially as he deemed fit.
Several decades later, a year ago, the fourth stroke left her impaired without speech and memory. But before her speech and memory could go, her lover husband had already deserted her years ago, and so was the case with her sons, who would cite reasons and emotionally torture her for choosing this man over their father, and thus felt they had every right to abandon their mother.
Physically damaged and mentally exhausted, she was amidst all but nowhere.
That day, as she was leaving, I asked her if she was regularly taking her heart medication; she replied yes but wanted to say more. I didn’t pay much attention, but without my conscious effort, I don’t know why I went up to the main gate and bid her goodbye.
Three days later, I received the call about her fourth stroke. I rushed to the hospital and crowdfunded and partially sponsored the entire medical treatment, including admitting her to rehab.
A year and a half passed, and she recovered but remained oblivious to the world around her.
Despite my sincere efforts, I could not make anyone in her immediate family, siblings, sons, grandchildren, or daughters-in-law, understand the gravity of the situation.
I was searching for empathy and kindness in a world where poverty had erased all emotions, reducing existence to mere survival, awaiting the inevitable.
I didn’t give up and, through social media, tried to find a “HOME” for people who are not alone but very lonely.
My search took me to some old age homes where she didn’t meet the criteria of a widow or a childless mother, nor was she someone who had no one in the extended family.
Restless and sad, I wondered what would become of her if I were unable to find her home!
I sincerely prayed that my effort would help her find a home.
I also reached out to doctors I knew for help, but was met with a convenient silence that spoke louder than words.
A day went by, engrossed in my work; I received an unknown number from the Gulf at an odd hour in the afternoon. It was from her sister, who called to inform me of her passing away a few minutes ago, silently and in peace.
I told myself she returned home.
Warmly,
Mehnaz Amjad.
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