I have often been told that I am a simple man.
I do what I'm told, I don't get in anyone's way, and I tend to spend my time keeping myself busy on my own. Everyone has their own concept of simplicity. If my habits make me a simple man, perhaps I am.
In my humble opinion though, no one's simple. A human that can pump six liters of blood in a minute, have six thousand thoughts in a day, and produce a replica of their own that goes on to produce a replica of themselves one day, cannot be simple.
But that's just my opinion, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge that I can be wrong.
I am a simple man, but there are times when I wish I wasn't.
"How was the flight?" I asked, regretting it instantly.
How could the flight have been? What sort of question is that?
"Smooth, alhumdulillah," Mamoo answered from my left. "The layover was short, and most of the passengers slept through the first leg of the journey."
My eyes flickered to the rearview mirror unintentionally, catching a glimpse of Rida, leaning her head against the window. Momani sat next to her, holding her hand.
How had her flight been? Had she sat like that through the entire twenty-two hours?
"How have things been at home?" Mamoo asked, drawing my attention.
In the five weeks that Mamoo and Momani had been gone, caring for the girls had been my responsibility.
'Kainat was dropped at the bus stop on time every day, Ifra's chart papers and poster boards were immediately bought when needed. Ami was given adequate reassurances of your well-being and soon return.'
"Stable." I nodded, meeting his eyes for a moment before returning them to the road.
Mamoo didn't say anything, and we left it at that.
It was tahajjud time when we reached home. The girls had stayed awake to receive their parents and sister. They hoped their presence could be a source of warmth in such unprecedented circumstances.
I left the luggage in the living room of Mamoo's flat before finding my way up to the roof. I wasn't sure how long my mother would stay with Rida, and I didn't want to linger in there nor be alone in my room. So I went to the place I always found comfort; the roof.
Light ribbons of the sun were slowly coloring the dark sky. I rolled out my prayer mat and prayed fajr, prolonging my sujoods and reciting all the duas I could remember. Things had been turbulent for a few weeks now, and I was simply grateful for everyone's safe return.
My lips moved wordlessly as I made dhikr, staring ahead at the sky.
Rida's dull eyes played in my mind.
I closed my eyes, sighing deeply.
bruise after bruise, beating upon beating
My eyes traced the outlines of the emerging clouds. Ya Rabb, you give to take. Kindly allow us to be patient in your decree.
The door to the roof cracked open, bringing out Abdul Basit, one of the neighbor's son.
"Salaam Khaled bhai, Ammi's asking if you can drop me to school? I got late for the van."
My eyes flickered to my phone, noticing how it was already past seven. I had been talking to the Almighty all this while.
"I'll start the bike," I assured him.
When I stopped at the flat to grab my keys and wallet, I found Ammi sobbing in the kitchen, across the stove.
I took her in my arms, no words needed to wonder why she was so shattered.
Ever since the phone had rang that Sunday morning, Ammi had been all over the place. She had lost her appetite, her words, and her health. If there had been some remnants of her strong self, they only emerged when she was around the girls, giving them strength.
Rida's situation hit close to Mama's own past, making phantom pains arise in scars that had externally healed.
Mama too, had been widowed early on. She too, had been shunned by her husband's family.
My jaw tightened in frustration and my heart ached in disappointment with Aqib's family's attitude. They had made a huge scene at the airport when Mamoo and Momani had booked the next available flight to reach Rida.
Albeit they were seized with grief, their words were thunderous. Names and labels that burned were hurled at someone who had suffered a great loss.
It was deeply unfortunate, though now we were comforted with the fact that Rida was finally home. We couldn't stop people from talking, but we could shelter someone we held dear.
"Be strong for her, Mama," I whispered, squeezing her.
Mama nodded, stifling her tears and gathering herself. "Do you think you could get some khoya on the way back? I want to make Rida some sawayaan, she hasn't been eating too well."
"Sure."
Mama wasn't at home when I came back, which made me go look for her in Mamoo's flat.
"Ifra?" I called out, gently knocking at the front door. The girls had taken a day off from school.
Gentle rustling ensued before the metal chain was lifted and I was welcomed in.
"Kainat? Are you okay?" I asked the teenager, her eyes were swollen with excessive crying and her scarf was lazily thrown over her head.
"I'm okay, Khaled bhai," she said, dismissing my worries like she had in the past few weeks.
It astounded me how different sisters could be. Where Rida didn't cry and made a big fuss when she did, Kainat cried a lot but never asked for reassurances.
"Ammi, Baba, are sleeping, Phopo is with Api." She nodded towards the bedroom the girls shared. "Do you want me to bring you chai?"
"Nai, nai." I shook my head, contemplating between staying or leaving. Deciding on the former, I plopped down on the couch, and hoped that my mother would come out any minute now.
I didn't want to refrigerate the khoya because it would get hard, but I also didn't want to leave it out too long because it could ferment.
"How's Rida?" I asked after a few silent minutes of us waiting.
"She isn't speaking at all."
Pain pulsed through my chest.
There was so much the heart silently grieved over; lost opportunity, bad outcomes, unexpected trials, heart wrenching returns. Yet there was nothing to be done but to accept what was, and what to aspire to.
Alhamdulillah ala kulli haal.
"Amazing is the affair of the believer, verily all of his affair is good and this is not for no one except the believer. If something of good/happiness befalls him he is grateful and that is good for him. If something of harm befalls him he is patient and that is good for him" (Saheeh Muslim #2999)
"Tell Mama I brought the khoya," I announced, getting up to leave.
There was nothing I could do but to pray for my family.
With Mamoo's return, there was an influx of relatives and family friends coming to pay their respects.
"Allah takes back who He wills," Mamoo would say as we sat in the drawing room. Plates of steaming samosas and fragrant tea rested between us, while the ladies would be in the kitchen or inside Rida's room.
"Bus Allah ki marzi."
"Bhai jaan app aur layn," Mamoo would say, gesturing towards the half dozen dishes Momani would have prepared all afternoon.
Unease and disappointment churned in my stomach each time this occurred. Numerous faces, several voices, varying degrees of education and family background, and yet such visits of paying respect were nothing but tea parties for whoever visited.
What frustrated me more was how Mamoo, the man I considered the epitome of dignity, would accept it all wordlessly.
"To hua kia asal main?" some curious visitors would ask, tsking their tongues and expressing Rida's misfortune.
How long would Mamoo answer such nonsense questions? How long would he allow others to call his daughter unfortunate?
Grief really did weaken the strongest. There was no doubt about that.
Ya Rabb, create ease for my loved ones. I cannot bear to see them broken. I prayed in the late evening. My gaze centered on the translucent moon, my palms fisted in my lap.
I could sit like this all day long, staring at the sky, talking to my Rabb. It was the only way I seeked comfort, He was the only one I could talk to without fear of being looked down upon. Where I stood in life, what foundations I rested on, there wasn't much I could do, there wasn't much I could say. He was the only one who listened, who cared, and that was why I returned to Him again and again.
Ya Haqq, give my people guidance. Allow us to follow your commandments and the sunnah of your prophet without distorting them with our traditions. Forgive us, and guide us.
Two decades ago, when my father had passed away, things hadn't been much different either. There were tuts and tsks of my mother and my misfortunes, trays upon trays full of confectionaries delivered to drawing rooms in such condolences visits, invasive questions and repetitions of how and kaisay? And empty offers of let us know if you want any help, which more often than not resulted in excuses and ignored calls when help was needed.
Those incidents were seared into my memories, and the person who had stood erect and taken us in, was now bowing in a way I hadn't expected.
I wish I could be his support. I wish I could help him stand tall.
Gripping the edge of the guarding surrounding the roof floor, I promised myself that I would. I would become my Mamoo's support one day.
I could only hope that day would come soon.