#21. My Nanu, The First Man.

In loving memory of my maternal grandmother.

This post was originally written on a London bound train on the 26th of June 2019. It was the day I lost my beloved Nanu (maternal grandmother). Every summer, I share her story, in hopes of keeping her legacy alive…

26th June 2019. It started off as a hard morning. I was physically spent and mentally slow from a packed weekend and zero recovery time. My son had kept me up from 4:30 – 6:00 am. I was not in any shape or form fit to travel for work. But I had no choice.

I dragged my feet through the morning routine. Made it to Southampton Central in an Uber. Dashed about for some coffee and toast on the go. Messaged my husband as I waited for my train to London: I feel like turning around and going home.

I dialled into my 9 am telecon. Rehearsed some quick responses in my head. The meeting was yet to start so I sipped on my coffee and waited for the others to join in. When my sister’s Dhaka number flashed across the phone screen, I swiftly swiped up. Few seconds later, another number followed - it was my other sister from down under. I swiped upwards once again. I almost missed the message that flashed across the top of my phone. Sam…Nanu…

And I knew. I just knew.

I immediately left the work call and dialled my mother. I could hardly see through the eyeliner streaming into my eyes. The bit of toast stuck in my throat felt like sandpaper. As the line whisked me off to Bangladesh Standard Time, I could hear my Khala wailing in the background. Or was it my Mami? I couldn’t tell. There was too much confusion. Ammu wasn’t making sense or talking to me but I stayed there, a disembodied voice. Maa, amar charge nay. Ki ey bidesh jibon, charge shesh toh connection shesh.

My London train pulled up on the platform. Perhaps I should have turned around and headed back home. But I got up and alighted the train to Heathrow. My mind was completely blank, my limbs following pre-programmed instructions. I made it to the control tower and worked throughout the day like a machine. My autopilot mode had kicked into gear as it usually did during moments of crisis. I was an immigrant, the luxury to grieve was not mine to indulge in till the work day was over. I stared at the planes taking off all around me. My mind lingered on the passport that I had packed in my bag to get past staff security. For a wild minute, I considered getting the next flight out to Dhaka. The burn in my breasts reminded me that I couldn’t.

I have always feared death. I suppose we all do. But it wasn’t my own mortality that scared me. It was the thought of losing someone I dearly loved. In all of my 30 years on this weird and wonderful Earth, barring the death of my father which I had no memory of, I have not lost anyone close. Maybe that was why I struggled to accept the finality of death. I have always had trouble believing someone could travel that far. So far that they become unreachable. Forever. I could not make sense of that. To me, dead people just stepped behind the curtains. Invisible, out of reach, but not gone. I mean, where do they go, anyway?

Heaven. That’s where a lot of us hope to end up. But as I sat there, thinking about my Nanu, I questioned that thought. Did we really know if heaven existed? The concept of afterlife was a spiritual consolation, not a factual certainty. I stayed with that idea for a while, let the discomfort wash over me, before banishing them as blasphemous thoughts. I believe in Islam, in Allah and the Day of Resurrection. There was no doubt in my mind about Heaven and Hell. But death rattles you, as it had rattled me, my faith, and the very core of my existence. There is no escaping the uncertainty of ‘the other side’ and the uncomfortable emotions it evokes.

Death. It makes you think of funny things. I thought of my Nanu’s eccentric one liners. Bilay par kor. Bela kayet hoye gese. The curl of her lips when she cracked a joke. Her crinkled eyes. Her soft, weathered face, hardened by years of trials. She did not have an easy life. I revisited all the fond memories that were still fresh in my mind, some more vivid than others. And I wondered, rather selfishly, how would people remember me when it was my time to go?

Messages of condolence poured in through my phone. She is in a better place. I really hoped that was true. I hope she is reunited with Nana after 35 long years of separation. Even though he passed away before I was born, he had lived on through the women who loved him. They told me stories of a gentleman, a doting father, and an exemplary husband. Nanu loved him till her dying breath.

Being a widow at 32 with 5 children was never going to be easy. My Nanu fought as a one woman army, got a job, built a house, and worked up to old age. I would proudly tell my friends that my Nanu was a working woman. It was almost unheard of in my peer group.

My Nanu wasn’t your average grandma. She would come home from office and head straight to the kaacha bajaar to bag the freshest produce. She was always telling my mother off for hoarding frozen food. She was a seasoned cook, yet every time we sat down at her dinner table, decked out with her vintage crockeries, she would lean forward and earnestly enquire: gorur mangsho ta golse toh? (Is the beef tender enough)? She always took care of the littlest details.

My Nanu would have been 67 in July - I turned 30 in April. Despite spanning three generations, our age gap was pretty narrow. When my father passed away, my Nanu was the pillar that sheltered Ammu and her children. She saw us through every challenge – be it financial, mental or emotional – with unwavering support. Enduring the loss of the two most senior male figures in a patriarchal society could have destroyed our family. It hurt us all in ways that many of us have still not recovered from. If it wasn’t for my Nanu’s strength – and God knows where she got it from – none of us would have made it this far. She saved every penny to secure her future, and ours too. She hated wastefulness and always said, ‘kapor kine gadha, shona holo adha, maati holo khaati’. (Fools buy clothes, gold loses it’s value, only land is a true asset).

Watching her deteriorate over the last few years was painful. It started happening as soon as she retired. Her mobility faltered, tying her once agile body to the bed. Strength left her limbs and her eyes starting losing its lively sheen. Despite all this, she remained the head of our family, the wise old বটগাছ that we huddled around for shelter. My Nanu bore 5 children, who in turn bore 11 grandchildren and 5 great grandchildren. She was Mother Nature personified.

I wanted to avoid the rush hour crowds so I got an upgrade on my way home. I sat in a First Class train compartment, sipping tasteless tea for free. I stared at the green English lands whizzing past, the June sun shining brightly on my tear soaked face. It couldn’t penetrate me. There was no warmth in its touch. My Nanu was headed for the grave. That disturbing thought turned my hands ice cold despite the heat wave.

I sat and typed. Typed and sipped. I had a headache, and my face was bloated from the tears that I wiped away on my own. I had finally paid the heaviest price for deciding to leave my motherland. I deserved this loneliness. Had I not chosen it for myself? I watched my Aunt cry out in agony across the pond in America, unable to touch her mother for one last time. I watched my sister break down as my Nanu was lowered into her final resting place. I stayed with them through the phone. I cried with them. Till someone’s charge ran out. Ki ey bidesh jibon, charge shesh toh connection shesh. (What is this immigrant life? The battery dies, so does the connection).

Last year, June had brought a new person into my life – my son. This year, it was exacting the price by taking my Nanu away. My Nanu, The First Man. My beginning, my root, my lifeline. If my life is a series of people and their demise the end of it, I have just taken my first step towards the finish line. She is, and always will be, the First Man in my universe.

At home, I finally let go. The last bit of myself that I had held back. I stroked my baby’s hair, fresh tears rolling down my eyes and into his soft cheeks. Life and death are closer than a mother and son. I thought of my Nanu, the softness of her hands, the blue of her veins, the grey of her hair. I am because she was. My First Man.

May Allah grant you the Highest place in Jannatul Firdous. You deserve nothing less than the best for your patience and perseverance. Your sacrifices shall never be forgotten. You shall live on through us, our children, and their children, In Sha Allah.