The road stretched far into the night and ended at a crossroads, and right in the middle of it, a huge lamppost spread its dim radiance, illuminating both sides of the road but within a confined limit.
The lamppost stood outside the greyish, dark tin gate, with a bougainvillaea climber occupying the complete right side, and it had climbed halfway up the lamppost.
The clock arms were both up; the lane from our house stretched to the dead end where the lamppost stood, and the entire pathway bore shadows of the light emanating from houses on both sides of the lane; the silence of the night was occasionally broken by our giggles, chatter and the running race I was playing with my other cousins, awaiting her.
We all ran from our house to the lamppost, and I kept coming last.
I had no regrets; running was never fun for me, and between runs, I was more enchanted by the subtle fragrance of the Madhumalti climber, which had entangled with the bougainvillaea, and I stood there absorbed in understanding the entanglement and also realising, as a seven-year-old, my height would not support me to fetch even the hanging Madhumalti flower bunch. I went closer to the wall, found some withered jasmine flowers around the tin gate entrance, picked a few for her, and tried to cover it with the upper lace of my frilled midi dress.
She was very fond of flowers; even the withered ones, for from her I had learnt generosity, akin to flowers, which leave a trail of their presence and fragrance even after they are crushed between the fingers.
Lost in my world of thoughts, I saw a beam of light in the distance, and the white Ambassador was fast approaching. I called my other cousins, ran toward the car, and kept running with it, throwing the jasmine flowers on it as she asked me not to run and to stay away from the vehicle.
Ammana has arrived.
Year 2010; It was a dark, moonless night as she got out of the front seat of the car, wearing an overcoat and a cane to support her as she slowly walked inside. I was awake to receive her from the airport, and a lack of sleep had made me a little tired and groggy.
Her face was dull and sullen, and her eye puffs were swollen, as if they had been constantly moist almost the entire nonstop eighteen-hour flight from the US to India.
I kept staring and looked closely at the face, bearing a kind of resignation devoid of any hope, something very similar to when we stare at the dead at a funeral. She was slightly hunched; perhaps the weight of grief was too heavy not just for the heart but for her back as well.
The night’s darkness was overshadowed by her longing and what she had left behind as she silently wiped her already-moist, dull eyes, trying hard to collect herself and pretend to be all okay, as the world always expects us to be.
Five years later, on another moonless night, she passed away. Despite my best efforts to be her caregiver, I still could not lighten the burdens of her past, but I remain grateful for whatever I could do in my capacity.
Her sudden demise left me in a state of shock, but at times it also brought solace to the thought that perhaps she had already died that very night she returned.
On a warm, sultry summer afternoon, I searched for jasmine but could only find red roses.
Carrying the heaps of flowers in a huge bag, I walked slowly toward her grave, ensuring I didn’t step over other graves.
The grave opened to the blue sky, the white marble shining in the broad sunlight. As soon as I spread them over her, they filled the space with rose fragrance; they were not fresh, but not withered either.
As I spread the flowers, the adjacent graves looked on silently. I went around and placed flowers on almost all the graves around her, and when I fell short, I went and bought more to ensure no grave was left out.
About to leave, I wasn’t sure when I would return. I turned one last time to catch a glimpse of her; I saw the stones brimming with life, enveloped in a rose fragrance.
Ammana has arrived.
Warmly,
Mehnaz Amjad