Okay so this song, the one I posted, it's a lovely one. Listen to it, you may not understand what it says because it's in Bengali (unless you know the language and then you'll be okay) but trust me it's lovely. It speaks of watching the rain and thinking of a love lost. The song didn't prompt me to write this blog but the story behind it did...or rather the memory of someone made me want to share it.
My mother is 1 of 8. 4 brothers, 4 sisters. Rather, my mother was 1 of 8. Several years ago, one by one, her oldest brother (Haroon Mama (the word "Mama" means uncle)), second brother (Selim Mama), third brother (Roton Mama) and oldest sister (Baby Khala) all passed away in the span of 2 years. There is no other word but 'tragic' that could be associated with that string of events and it still shocks me to think that they are all gone. My poor mother has never quite recovered either.
Yesterday was my Roton Mama's death anniversary. Generally we will read the Quran, pray and count rosary beads for the departed soul. I had thought that I would go to Baltimore to be with Ammu but work had me occupied, staying up till the wee hours of Friday morning (actually 4am on technically Saturday morning) by 10am I was dead on my feet and still had a pile of stuff to tackle. I told mom on the phone that maybe I wouldn't be able to come but it took one sob caught in her throat that had me resolving to make the 45 minute drive back home no matter what or the consequences. Never mind that I couldn't focus due to staring at a computer screen for hours and hours, that I felt like throwing up from exhaustion or that my head hurt like the blazes, when a mother cries, the child flies. Simple.
I arrived home at about 6pm. Mom was busy in the kitchen and didn't hear me open the front door. As usual I called out "Ammu" in a soft sing-song voice that I was sure sounded tired even though I tried hard to inject some pep. I shuffled down the hall and wasn't surprised to find her in the kitchen, a scarf around her hair, wearing a long full sleeved black and printed abaya. She turned when she heard me and within an instant I could see the sadness that had probably been on her face, lessen just a bit as a smile of happiness flashed across her lips. I knew it was because I was there, therefore I also felt exhaustion slip away (sort of). Okay not really but seeing her relieved face made me feel as if the decision of coming to her was the right one, no matter how badly I wanted to catch a few hours of sleep. Small sacrifices, right? They were well worth the dua (blessings).
It was pleasant to sit with her, have a late lunch with my Bro, and then it was Magrib (the prayer one performs exactly at sundown). We observed it together, which was peaceful. Unlike my mothers prayers though, mine are shorter. She goes on for hours while I try to get the basic done but of course that day I needed a bit more time as well. I sat on the floor beside her, my back resting against the bed, rosary beads in hand. "lā ʾilāha ʾillā l-Lāh, Muḥammadur rasūlu l-Lāh" (meaning "There is no god but God, Muhammad (pbuh) is the messenger of God")
I repeated this over and over again but after a few hundred of them and like most things that are this repetitious, I found my mind flooded with other thoughts...in this instance, memories. I saw a man, a dear beloved figure as I remembered him clearly of medium height and medium build, fair with a mustache and pearly whites...a very handsome man to be totally truthful and completely unbiased. His smile brightened any room and his laughter was infectious. I swear I can still hear it ringing in my ears to this day. I have far too many wonderful (and a few not so wonderful) memories of him...my Roton Mama, but let me tell you about the one that holds closest to my heart, the one that is directly connected to the song above and which is one of the most crystal memories I have of him.
My cousin T was getting married back in 2005 (or was it 06?) and I decided that I hadn't been back home (in this case Bangladesh) in so long that I almost felt obligated. Two birds with one stone was how I looked at it because I could not only attend the wedding but also hang out with the in-laws. After about a week in the main city of Dhaka with the husbands fam (sans him), I hopped a plane to Chittagong (the port city)...here check it out in case you've never looked at the geographical location of Bdesh:
This is where my mom's family lived, back when there were more there than in the United States. Since then, with the deaths, we have (sadly enough) more family members in the States than in Bdesh. Never thought something like that would happen *sigh*. The very night I arrived, there was a major power grid explosion leaving us in 100 degree (even at night) weather with no electricity for over 12+ hours. This didn't surprise me, load shedding wasn't/isn't an unfamiliar phenomenon in 3rd world countries, which Bangladesh most certainly is and because mentally I was prepared for the heat and humidity, I took it in stride while everyone else around me freaked out. Mostly, they were worried about me which I told them was unnecessary but they weren't listening.
Anyhow, those following days in Chittagong were busy in preparation for my Cuz's wedding. All sorts of ceremonies were being planned, all sorts of traditions were being observed. My mom though had decided that she wanted to throw a Bridal Shower for T and was determined to cook all the dishes herself (what was she thinking I didn't know since there were cooks in the house who could take care of it). No matter that my mother and heat didn't like each other, she had insisted and since we were staying in Roton Mama and Lizi Mami's home, they readily agreed to co-host the event as well as leave my mother to sweltering in the kitchen. Actually Lizi Mami hovered close by asking about a million times whether she could be of help but Ammu had shoo-ed her away repeatedly.
That day I recall the heat had been particularly ugly and whereas normally it didn't really bother me much, my body was rebelling and I was having odd stomach pains. Nausea had stayed at bay for most of the day while mild cramping accompanied this and by early evening, I was paying homage to the toilet gods. No, it wasn't 'that time of the month'...I just didn't feel well. My Aunt and Mom had pushed me out into the veranda where I sat listening to the sounds of the night which included the bell ringing of the rickshaws, the honking of the occasional cars and buzzing of bikes. There was music playing in the distance and murmured conversation and laughter that wafted up to the 7th floor apartment. Above that, another layer actually, was the sounds of the wind and the smells of Bangladesh in general.
At some point, Mama came home from work finding me huddled in a corner with my head tipped against the grill barrier. He felt my forehead to see if I was running a temperature (his hand was surprisingly cool), asked me if I had eaten anything (which I had but also had lost), then went off to change with a promise that he'd be back. Within that time one of his friends, Afsar Mama, showed up as well; a man who was almost like a brother to Roton Mama. He pulled up a chair next to me and we chatted about nothing in particular. Since I was feeling not so great, Afsar Mama started to share stories about his youthful antics in an effort to get me to laugh, which I appreciated. My Mama came back, looking refreshed and comfy, hair wet from a quick wash. He too pulled up a chair and I sat listening to the two friends reminisce about childhood, telling me hilarious tales about the women they had woo'ed, the troubles they had courted and the fun they had experienced, all while they sipped milky sweet tea.
Now, the other big thing about my Roton Mama, which was of sorts his claim to fame, was that he had a sublime voice. He performed extensively and was always heard on the radio. In fact, he sounded just like the singer in the video above. Every time I hear this guys voice, I think of my Mama and yes, admittedly, I cry. The similarity is rather eerie to be honest but unfortunately I don't have a recording of Mama to post and share therefore you'll have to trust me.
At one point, I don't know how this happened, we got to the topic of music and I had asked, rather begged, Mama to please sing (the song above) for me. I recalled having liked it before although wasn't terribly familiar with it. He refused, saying that others paid to listen to him, I wouldn't be getting a private concert for free, I failed to see the small smile on his lips that were particularly hidden by his stach and the shadows of the night. A tiny bit hurt, I sulked while Afsar Mama tried to cheer me. After a moment, Roton Mama disappeared returning in a few seconds with his harmonium and there, in the darkness of the veranda he sang this song to me.
I will never ever EVER forget that moment. I will never forget him, no matter that I don't speak much of him, it's painful to be frank. I will never forget that moment of utter silence as he sang just for me, how his voice rose in perfect harmony, how lithely and expertly his hands flew over the keys of the harmonium, how he emoted the very meaning of the song through his singing. I will never forget the softness of that night, the depth of the darkness, the perfection of that moment. And beyond that one night, I will never forget how he used to lay his hand over my hair and stroke it or how he would smuggle me choc bars (ice cream) or how he would burst into singing at any given moment, or harass me when I wanted to be left alone. I will never forget our mutual admiration for anything and everything that was musical or his fierce adoration for his family. I will never forget his laughter, his anger also and I will never forget to my dying day, how much he loved me.
I so miss you Mama.
No comments:
Post a Comment