I have to leave.

The one thing that tied me to home was Maama. I had always felt a sense of obligation to go back home wherever I was. I felt that Maama needed me. It’s not that Maama was not self-sufficient and independant. Not at all. It lies more in the way she always asked me ‘kon irakun dhen annaanee?’ and ‘las nuve avahah annahchey?’ every time I left the house. Perhaps it gave her a  sense of relief knowing that I was home. Every time there was a murder in town, a political protest or the likes of such a thing she would urge me to stay home and not to go out. She was perpetually worried for my well being. Perhaps, this is the reason why I started feeling a sense of vulnerability immediately after her passing; because my protector was no more.

On day 3 of her admission, I got a call letting me know that my placement was assured. This meant that I had to leave home and Maama for 1 year. I remember going through the course of events in my head and thinking why things happen the way they do. There she was lying on her hospital bed in the ward struggling to breathe … and now this? The dilemma was cruel even. Not just to me, but for Maama too. Recalling the choices I’ve made before, I made up my mind not to leave until Maama left the hospital. That was early November of 2015.

Come December and Maama was in a coma for 30 days on-end. She stopped opening her eyes, stopped trying to pull out the endotracheal tube and stopped grasping my hand even. No one was sure of what was happening and even the doctors were left with ‘leaving it to God’. ‘Perhaps she would bounce back, perhaps not’, they said. Time was definitely not on my side. In my inability to decide whether I should stay or leave, I thought of what Maama would tell me to do. And so I told her.

On the 17th of December 2015, I told Maama that I was faced with a dilemma and that I needed to leave but that I wanted to stay with her. I asked her to help me decide on what to do. I told her how I thought I’d apply for visa that Sunday (20th December 2015) not knowing whether that was the right thing to do. I asked her to decide for me because she always knew what to do. Although she wasn’t able to respond to me, I was somehow confidant that she could hear me. And Maama being Maama, she always helped me get through even the most trying of times.

And she decided for me. Just like that.

The morning of day I was supposed to apply for my visa, she left. After weeks and days of not budging to even the best treatment and then being on palliation she decided to leave. Just like that. After I got a chance to regain my composure and gather my thoughts to some extent, I realised how, even in death, Maama was the wisest person I’ve ever known. She knew how intently I loved her, and perhaps she also knew that if I had to leave while she was still in the hospital, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something were to happen to her.

And so she untied me from that guilt. I was no longer bound by an obligation to be home.

19th December 2015. I had just come for my shift at the hospital. I can very clearly recall the sense of relief I was feeling, knowing that Maama was now stable according to the briefing with the doctor I had the day before. Unlike other days, I wasn’t too restless or anxious. The doctor had said that we could consider Maama to be stable now and that she wasn’t critical as such anymore even thought she wasn’t responding to any sort of stimuli. The plan had been to continue on Palliation until … Maama decides to leave. I was alright with it. As long as Maama was not in pain.

I remember walking into Maama’s cubicle at around 11.30 am and commencing my usual routine. For the past 28 days of her admission I had always had a specific drill that I undertook before I say a word or even touch Maama, and this time was no different. I looked at the Ventilator for any changes to it’s settings,  then I looked at her urine bag for her urine output and finally, I checked the monitor for her vitals … and I froze. ‘This is not good. This is not good!’, I thought aloud. Maama’s pulse, blood pressure and Oxygen saturation had all dropped significantly. ‘Maama?’, I called out to her and patted her shoulder by force of habit, hoping that this would help. And nothing. I sped out of her cubicle and called a nurse and enquired. ‘No. She’s been like that the whole day today. We’re not sure what’s happening either’, he said. ‘Are you going to give her something to pick up the blood pressure and change her ventilator settings?’, I asked. The nurse replied that he’d ask the doctor and left.

I felt weak in my legs and could barely hold my self up. I knew I needed to be with her for as long as I could. I remember lifting up her blanket to get access to her hand and saw that her left hand was not just swollen but had now turned black. The lump in my throat came back, but I knew what I had to do and so started speaking to Maama and reciting the Shahada and Surat al Fatihah. I remember anxiously  and repeatedly glancing at her monitor to see if any of her vitals picked up but all I saw was ‘VT Run’ and the amber light flashing indicating that she was not okay.

Forty minutes or so later I remember the nurse coming into the cubicle and gently asking me to leave since the visiting hours were over. I asked her for one more minute with Maama because I needed to tell her something important. I walked over to Maama and whispered in her ear with my hand on her forehead.

‘Maama annahchey kokko kairiah? Love you ingey?’

‘Maama. You’ll come back to me, no? I love you’

What an absolutely childish thing to do. Almost forty days in the ICU and I was still not ready to let her go.

As per ICU rules, visitors are only allowed inside except during 2 hours allocated as visiting hours. I sat outside the ICU waiting impatiently. Part of me knew that I’d done everything I could do and that it was now up to a higher power, but the other part of me wanted to barge into the ICU .. and just stay with her and hold her hand.

‘ICU Bed number 1, Thithi Kamana’s relative please come to the ICU’

I jolted at the sound of the PA system and ran into the ICU. The nurse looked at me and asked, ‘Are you Thithi Kamana’s relative? I’m sorry but is there an adult around?’. This was the second time I was asked this question. ‘I am an adult. I am her granddaughter and I’m here now. I’m also a Doctor so I can comprehend whatever you tell me’. I was a little upset as this back-and-forth thing between the nurse and I was just hindrance in getting the information I needed. After my response I was asked to come into the ICU, where Maama’s consultant was waiting for me. ‘She’s not doing well. Her BP, pulse and Oxygen Saturation are all low. We’ve changed her Ventilator setting and we’ve started her on an Inotrope drip. We’ll change it to something else if it doesn’t work. We’re trying whatever we can’. He looked troubled and confused, similar to his expression the day he told us she is to be put on Palliative care only. ‘You’ll let me know if she .. if anything changes right?’, I asked him. He nodded.

I remember walking out of the ICU and to the balcony and taking a moment to breathe. ‘Can I do this by myself? Do I want someone here with me?’, I thought to myself questioning my ability to handle what was now inevitable. Subsequently I called Mamma and asked her to come. I couldn’t and didn’t want to be alone when something happens. Now, it was not a matter of if something were to happen anymore. It was a matter of when. I knew Maama didn’t even have a day left to live.

I was right. 21 hours later, she left us.

Maama and I frequently called each other funny names, and anyone who had even momentarily been in our presence knew that Maama and I had this quirk about us. Sometimes I’d call her ‘Maama Gandu’ and she’ll respond with ‘Hidhaya Kolhu’ and proceed to tell me that I was the silliest girl she’s ever met. In her words, I was a Moyagandu. To be exact I was ‘Migey Moyagandu’.  Sometimes, just to make her laugh while going out, I’d stand at the doorway of the apartment and yell, ‘Dhanee Maama. Dhanee ingey? Dhanee Maama Gandaa!’ over and over again until she laughed loudly and exclaimed ‘Thi dhaathaakah dheveyne baa?’. We would often made funny faces and silly hand gestures at each other too. These exchanges were often made while she stood on the 2nd floor balcony and I downstairs. I think our neighbours, at one point, eventually got used to the idea that this was merely our thing, and we were absolutely shameless about it.

For the past few years, our routine had been to refer to each other with names of vegetables.

‘Maama Kattala!’, I’d say.

‘Hidhaya Tholhi!’, she’d respond, right on cue.

Oftentimes, whenever she’d see me rummaging around the house she’d call out to me as such and we’d fire away at each other, ending up with both of us in a laughing fit. To reflect on it, I’d say Maama absolutely loved this and it cheered her up every time. I remember vividly how her eyes lit up when she grinned.

During Maama’s hospital stay, I usually stayed with her from the morning until the afternoon, and I remember very clearly how her condition progressively deteriorated because I was able compare how well she was able to speak on a day to day basis. Initially, I was able to make conversation with her but the last two days before she was shifted to the ICU, she was incomprehensible and only able to say ‘Aan’ in a struggle to exhale. Sometimes her Oxygen Saturation would drop because she falls asleep and in a sorry attempt to keep her awake I’d try to make conversation, prop her bed up and switch on the TV and set to a Bollywood Drama channel. Of course, during those few days she was too unwell and my attempts were in vain.

What I missed most during those last few days was how we called each other silly names and how she laughed with her eyes. My heart ached. I knew Maama was slowly being taken away from me.

The day before she was shifted to the ICU, I was just finishing my shift with her and got up to leave. That day Maama was too weak to even utter a word to me and I remember having spent 6 hours next to her unable to make her say a word. While leaving I whispered to my husband how Maama wasn’t able to speak to me and he prompted me to make one more attempt.

I caressed her forehead, kissed her face and prompted, ‘Thee Kokkoge Maama Kattala tha?’.

‘Aan! Thee Hidhaya Tholhi’, she lifted her eyebrows, opened her eyes and responded.

Unknowingly, I clutched my chest. I stood frozen for a second or two and felt a sense of warmth in my heart. I glanced at my husband and saw him smile.

Little did I know, at that time, that that was the last thing she’d ever say to me.

A day later, Maama was in the High Priority Ward being shifted to the ICU. I remember the additional efforts I made that day too to keep her awake and to make her say something … anything. A minute or two before the doors to the ICU closed behind Maama I prompted her one more time.

‘Maama Kattala?’, I asked.

‘Aan!’, she exhaled.

I am unsure of whether she said this in a struggle to breathe or whether I was even comprehensible to her. But recalling how she responded to me the day before,  I was sure of one thing. That even in the state that she was in, she was able to recall our silly and happy memories and put an insumountable amount of effort to respond to me to make me smile.

How could I not be content knowing that?

‘When in doubt, ask Maama’ has been my mantra in life. Whether it was an indecisiveness about how much sugar to put into the Bajiya mix, the need to recall a historical moment or what home remedy to go for when you feel nauseous, I always ran to Maama.

I remember 2 months or so ago when I came across a conundrum. I had bought a pound or two of beef and I wanted to prepare Beef Rendang with a packet of readymade sauce that I bought. Easy enough, I had thought. But I had no idea how to tenderise beef. I often saw Maama busy as a bee, cutting the beef and mixing in some sort of concoction followed by the house being aromatised with the flavourful smell of cooked beef. But I had absolutely no clue of how she did. I remember standing near the doorway  of her room and telling her that I had come across a strife and that I needed her help. Her signature chuckle was followed by a set of instructions on how to cut, marinate and cook beef. ‘How much beef did you buy?’, she chuckled. I told her that it must have been half a kilo or so. She chuckled again and proceeded to instruct me.

‘Gerimahun rangalhah sarubee filuvan vaane. Varah undhagu vaane sarubee filuvan ekamaku varah rangalhah filuvanvaane. Dhen beynun varakah valhin gerimas thah kudhi kuraanee. Dhen nimuneema reethikoh dhonnaathi hurihaa mas buri thakeh. Rangalhah ley filuvan vaane ingey? Dhen lunboa falhiakaa, chis koffa huri lonumedhaa inguraa, kuda lonu kolhakaa 2 kuda samsaluge baking soda alhaigen ekkolaanee. Dhen ekkaireega bahattaafa migeyga inna bodu math jehi theli hoadhaa. Dhen madu gineega eyah laigen kakkaalaa. Fen alhaakah nujeheyne. Eyge thereyga hunna fenthah nukumegen amillayah kekeyne. Samsalakun ekkohlan vaane ingey. Ehennoonee fuluga hifaane. Fen hindhuneema eheree maduvefa. Maa undhaguleh noonennu?’

‘Make sure you take the beef and remove all the fat. It’s a laborious task but it’s very important that you remove the fat very carefully. You can do this while you cut the beef pieces to a size that you prefer.  After you’re done cutting the beef, wash it thoroughly and clean all the blood. Then, you take some lime, some crushed garlic and ginger, some salt to taste and two teaspoons of baking soda. Mix it well and leave aside for a little while. Take the large pot with the lid and put everything into it and set to low heat and cook. You wouldn’t need to add water because all the moisture inside the beef will come out and cook itself. But make sure you mix it it with a spoon once in a while, okay? Once all the water dries up, your beef has tenderised. Not too difficult no?’

Half an hour later I had a pot of tenderised, aromatic and flavourful beef. And I remember telling her that she was spot-on and that the smell of the cooked beef induced much nostalgia of her making us her signature beef curry. She chuckled and went on to say that tenderising beef was never such a difficult task and that I just needed a little patience. As always, Maama was my go-to person for every such thing. And perhaps in saying that she taught me her last lesson about life. That nothing was too difficult, and that you just needed a little patience to sort things out.

I was text-messaging a friend today and pondered upon a similar and familiar uncertainty that I needed her to clarify urgently. I needed Maama to confirm the background of a mutual friend and I knew she’d chuckle and say, ‘Aan. Eiee Eydhafushee kujjennu‘ or something. ‘When in doubt, ask Maama’. So I instinctively got up from my seat and headed out from my room. I even visualised Maama on her bed, wiggling her toes and blowing up a balloon through a straw to exercise her lungs. Maama always knew everything and she had magical powers of recall.

And it hit me. Mercilessly and where it hurt the most. I froze in my footsteps.

Maama passed away. She’s gone. She’d dead.

My go-to person for answers about life, the universe and everything is no more. 

Maama had being admitted numerous times in the past, and some of those times were near misses.

2010 was, likewise, a near miss. After being very ill she fell into a coma and was unresponsive for a week or so. The family was urged to brace for the worst. At that time, I was in Malaysia in the midst of my 3rd year of medical school and I remember getting a call from my uncle. He simply said that Maama was very ill, in a coma and that he thought I should come home immediately. I called Mamma right after I spoke to my uncle, and I saw right through her high-pitched account of how Maama was. Mamma was definitely, 100% worried and she would instinctively try any and all acrobatics to keep me from getting worried. I knew Mamma so well and absolutely love her to bits for it. However, I was only re-assured of what I needed to do.

The next day, I submitted a letter to the university requesting for leave of 1 week from school to see Maama. A few hours later, I was seated in the dean’s office after being summoned regarding my letter. The dean was an authoritarian man of no-nonsense. In the presence of two other faculty members he attempted to shun me for requesting for leave and proceeded to give me an ultimatum of ‘either continuing to go to school and become a doctor or take the leave and fear being expelled’. He said I needed to ‘get my priorities straight’ and that my primary focus should be my education and not whiling away my time by taking a leave. He said I needed to choose between my future or my family.

Did he think this was a hard decision to make?

‘Sir. If you think this is a hard decision for me to make then you must be very very mistaken. My grandmother is irreplaceable and the love I have for her is immeasurable. And you’re very wrong to even assume that I wouldn’t choose family over my education. I would never forgive myself if I don’t make it in time’, I remember retorting. Slightly embarrassed with the tears rolling down my cheeks, I insisted on him offering me and option other than the ultimatum. At that point, I was ready to pack up, leave and never come back if it came to that. I don’t identify myself as a confident person but I didn’t have an inkling of doubt about leaving. I was raging inside.

I left his office with his verbal acceptance of my leave application and I was provided with the option of deferring the classes I was going to miss to when I got back. I did it. I honestly didn’t know what came over me, and I think even the dean was taken aback at how upfront I was. I definitely was.

The next day, I was on a plane heading home. I remember getting home, dumping my luggage and heading to the hospital. There wasn’t a moment I wanted to lose. When I got to the hospital Maama was in a bad state. There were tubes attached to her and she looked weak and withered. Before I went into see her, my mom warned of the state that Maama was in, and yet I wasn’t prepared enough. I remember calling out to Maama and she slowly opening her eyes and lifting her eyebrows similar to how she did during the few days before she passed away. I remember that terrible feeling in my gut and bawling my eyes out in the corridor. Was she going to make it? Was she going to die? I was young, weak and feeble and unprepared.

I am grateful that when Maama got sick this time I was able to be around her and make the shots regarding her care. I am thankful that I was able to be with her through it all; before she got sick, in the ambulance when she was being taken to the hospital, with her in the emergency room, in the ward, room and high priority ward always right next to her and with her in the ICU even when I knew it was only inevitable that she would pass away in a day or two.

I am grateful that I was given time. During that time I was somewhat able to accept that I had tried my best to bring Maama back and that when it came to letting her go, I was able to let her go. I am grateful that during that time, I was able to get some kind of closure.

‘Kokko ah ingeytha? Uduga innaane varah bodu singaa tharieh. Ethariakee varah reethi ali gadha tharieh. Fathis gadeega ethari ereema mulhi than alivaane. Ekahala dhevana tharieh neennaane. Ethari fennaanee hama ekani fathihu heylaa kudhinnah’.

‘Kokko. Do you know about a very big star in the sky? It’s beautiful and bright, and lights up the whole place! There is no other star like it! It’s only witnessed by people who wake up before sunrise‘.

I must have been 5 or 6 years old at that time, and I remember being extremely intrigued. How was such a thing possible? It sounded mythical and almost magical from how she described it! It almost seemed implausible; a star so big and bright that the other stars were regarded negligible compared to it? I wanted to know more and inquisitively started throwing questions.

‘How big is it? Does this star come up any other time? What colour is it? Why does it come up? Why is it so big? Is it magic?’.

Maama laughed away my inquiries and prompted me to quickly finish my lunch. I had just gotten back from school and she was yet to give me a bath and get me ready for my Quran lesson before I was allowed to watch TV at 5 pm. 5 pm was cartoon time and I always expectantly looked forward to 5pm on the dot. But on this day, something else intrigued and interested me more. I wanted to know more about this magical star!

‘Ehenvejjeyaa maadhamaa fathihu 4 jahaa iru Kokko jeheyne Maama goveema heylan. Heyleema ethari fennaane. Heylaigen buh thashi boegen Fathis namaadhu ves kuranvaane’.

‘If you want to see the star,  you need to wake up when I call you at 4 am tomorrow morning. I’ll show you the star and then you can have your glass of milk and do the early morning prayer with me. Okay?’.

Friday morning at 4 am and Maama didn’t have to call me twice to wake me up. I was thrilled and a little bit nervous at the same time. I remember Maama holding my hand and guiding me through the Gifili and out near the freshwater well. I remember the absence of noise, except the distant sound of a boat leaving the harbour, and the chill in the air. It was so serene and so tranquil and everything stood transfixed. Almost like it was just the both of us in a big world. I had never been up so early in my life .. and I’ve never before had a reason to.

‘Kokko. Mathi balaala bala’

‘Kokko. Look up’

I looked up and there it was, in all its glory. The biggest, most beautiful and brightest star I had ever seen. The other stars were merely just speckles compared to how magnificent and phenomenal it was. It lit up the entire place in an almost magical manner and I was astonished.

‘Fajuru Thari’

‘Venus’, she said.

I looked at Maama, and 23 years later I am realising that Venus wasn’t the biggest, most beautiful and brightest star that I’ve ever seen.

It was Maama. She was the one who lit up the place with her radiating unconditional love. And even the brightest star in the sky is negligible compared to her radiance.