A few days back, my maternal grandmother left this temporary halting space to meet her God in heaven. She was 96. Born and brought up in Soibugh under the mystic influence of the famous saint Azizullah Shah Haqqani, my grandmother Ayesha was the only child of her parents. She was married in the neighbourhood, in a small hamlet called Harran. Her in-laws were a well off family with huge possession of land and fortune. But, that is not what I wish to talk about. Worldly fortune and well-being do not make a person great; deeds do. I wish to recall her as a simple pious soul with no material avarice. I wish to write about the bond that I had with her.
I had an inseparable bond of love with her. She was special to me. I do not have much memory of my paternal grandparents. They had passed away during my early childhood. But, unlike other grandsons from the daughter’s side, owing to the circumstances, I had the privilege of living with my maternal grandmother and sleeping next to her for nearly a decade. Consequently, I have fond memories of her. I believe these memories would act as a guiding force for decades to come.
During my school days, due to some unavoidable occurrences, and partway because I was enrolled in a school in the neighbourhood of my maternal side, I stayed with my grandmother. It was an old house with majuscule wooden blocks and conventional Kashmiri architecture. The house was built on a slightly raised platform on one corner of a large garden. This house and the garden were called “Baag” by everyone in the tribe and the townlet. This was the beginning of a priceless period I got to stay with my grandmother. We called her “Boaba”. She was regarded by everyone. She out-paled all other ladies in the family and neighbourhood. An inner source of bright white light illuminated her face. Her speech was soft. Her gaze was chaste. Her aura was charismatic. Her prayers were meaningful and heartfelt.
During this time of the early 2000s, she developed ailments in her left knee and left eye. The doctors urged her to take rest and not to offer Salah. But, she would never oblige. She would now keep a cushion on her left side in such a way that the pillow sustained her weight while in the stance of Salah. In my entire life, I have never seen her miss a Namaz or not recite the verses of The Holy Qur’an. There is an engrossing experience here that I want to share. During her last years, she would often ask me to write the verses of The Holy Qur’an, the Kalima and some other Islamic verses in a notebook in very large font size. It wasn’t because she couldn’t read small font due to her shaky eye-sight. She had this habit of looking at the script while reciting. The fact was that she had memorised the whole of the Qur’an and non-Quranic passages. It was only an illustration of the tale & the truth of human life. You are a fledgeling and need aid; then you spend your life and in the old age you become a kid again.
During the days of her sickness, I was instructed by the family to not let her wake up before the Fajr time. She would never commit to this. Cleverly, we used to set alarm at a suitable time without letting her know. To my astonishment, she used to wake up exactly at the same time and asked me to tell her the time. I used to misinform her. But, she said, “look at the position of those stars; this is the time I have to get up.” She had the stars to watch out for the time of the night.
On April 06, 2020, she took her last breath. My mother explains how she wore a smile of repose on her face. She didn’t let anybody at all know of her transition from this world to that. By the time the attendants’ fears grew, she had bid her goodbye to this world. Due to the ongoing pandemic, a small gathering offered the ‘Namaz-i-janazah’ in the courtyard only. I used to joke with her when I used to meet her. While greeting her I used to shake hands with her. A few days before her demise, when I approached her for a handshake, she denied saying, “Az chinn daess anaan.” [No handshakes these days.]
Her life was exemplary. She left no worldly properties except a few things: a radio (on which she listened to every programme on the erstwhile Radio Kashmir Srinagar), a torch, an alarm clock and some clothes. However, she carried assets with her and left some for us too: her deeds, the respect she reaped and her memories. However, all those memories are a nostalgia now. She is gone. A huge vacuum has developed. This void is forever. But, this is the story of life.
“Zindagi kya hai, chagnd anasir mein zahoor-e-tarteeb
Mout kya hai, inhi ajza ka pareeshan hona…”
May Allah gift her devotion with the best place in the hereafter