The following piece is from the pen of my mother, who saw Maama’s every up and every down very closely from the start until the very end, and continues to do so for Kaafa. I am witness to how constantly yet firmly Mamma held Maama’s hand throughout this journey and continues to hold Kaafa’s hand the same. 

By Aminath Latheefa

Dad grips my hand tightly as I sit next to his bed on a white plastic chair. My right hand rest on railing of the steel bed to hold his left hand. Today is Eid, 8 months have gone since my mum had passed way.”Where is Mamma?” My father asks me, turning his head towards me, confused with dementia. I reply to him “mamma has passed away”. He asks “when?” I reply ,“8 months back” truthfully. He asked and I cleared it for him. “Where is she now?”, “She is laid to rest”. “Where?”, “She is laid to rest in Aasahara”. He stares straight ahead his gaze resting on the ceiling. Color has faded from his eyes as cataract filled his once bright and lively eyes. He clutched one hand to the railing of the bed while the other hand grips my hand tightly, and calls my name again followed by the same set of questions. “Yes Bappa”. I try to practice patience in answering him until he lay spent, tired as he sighs and finally says “Mamma has also gone isn’t it?” He takes a deep breath again and continues gazing silently towards the ceiling. His caretaker, who sits in a bamboo chair in the room glances at me and smiles.

While I sit holding his hand my mind went back in time, recollecting the happier times of his life. I always remember my father as an active, easy going person who doesn’t worry so much. He wakes up at dawn for the early morning prayers and he goes out wearing his jogging shoes to take a walk around Male’ before he heads home. In the recent past he used to waters my Mum’s few plants in the balcony before taking breakfast prepared by mother to whom he was married for more than 60 years. I have lived all my life with them and have seen them laugh, joke and voice their differences together. As I remiscint about them I feel a sense of pride for their strength in their life’ journey. They have travelled together, mostly through rough seas yet they have stood firm, weathered the passing storms with dignity and determination. Being hard working, truthful and sincere my mother have refused to get swayed out of focus in life’s meandering paths. As I look back, I feel that they are incomplete, far apart and becomes deficient and partial when one is no more. It is like one half can never be complete.

When Mum passed away, Dad’s life crumbled and collapsed. He broke apart, lost balance and literally was not able to go and see my Mums face for the last time. Since then Dad’s enthusiasm and liveliness for life suddenly waned with no ability to eat, walk and talk like his usual self. As I sit in the white plastic chair, gazing through wide glass door, partially covered by the floor length blue curtains, overlooking the road, I see shades of green in the foliage of the neighbor’s Moonima tree over the balcony. The leaves rustles lightly, swaying in rhythm with the breeze while bees hover around the flowers, busy in their own routine of getting the nectar from flowers. I hear some birds in the tree which has grown and spread its branches across the road. In addition to the shade to the road, the tree has given a picturesque and a pleasing view to my parents’ bedroom, such a blessing at their old age. The tree provides opportunity for my mother to perceive and observe natural changes occurring over time. She notes the caterpillars from the butterflies’ eggs eating away the leaves of the tree. She spots birds building nest in the tree. As my mind wonders on the past, the sound of the blasting of horns from the vehicles on the road brought me to the present. The traffic is busy as usual which gives the impression that life is still the same with ordinary and typical day today activities going on.

At times I made efforts to make some light conversation with my father, to bring some life into him by indulging in the pleasurable recollections of the past. I feel he is often nostalgic with the sentimental longing for the past. A wistful affection for his good old days with Mamma lingers on his small wrinkled face as we reminisce my mums character and routines. She used to stand in the balcony, almost every evening observing the surroundings and pointing out interesting anecdotes. She takes notice of the passerby’s, calls to neighbors and often makes small talk with them. She takes keen interest in the neighbor’s cat across the road and used to call us to show the cat’s behavior. She doesn’t like when the tree blocks her view of the right end of the road and even requested the neighbour to cut a little bit of it, which the neighbour gracefully obliged so that she has the full view of the road.

We always think that my mother is larger than life in character. Her love for growing plants perhaps have made me appreciate and care for her plants. Her few plants are being maintained in her small balcony, while some more have been added. Her love to display our photos in the sitting room wall are hallmarks of her love for her family and the pride she takes in us. We use to fondly refer to her photo collection she has placed on the wall as the wall of fame.

Even in her last days at home she was interested in her atmospheres and the ambience around. An ardent supporter of President Nasheed, politics is one her favorite subjects and I remember the long distance Friday phone calls, I have made to her often centers on news of political situation. She catches up on news through a small radio which she keeps next to her when she is not able to watch the news from TV. She used to update me on the political events and we feel a special bond or comradeship over our common political views.

My Mother is resilient, dedicated and composed in nature. We used to admire her calm composure and serene gait and we have agreed that we have never seen her in haste in contrast to us who are clumsy and is always rushing around, charging all over the place. Stories of her childhood, experiences of her youth and lessons from her past fascinates us and have guided and molded us as who we are, today. Her merriment and her way speaking metaphorically in expressing herself is special and signifies who she is. Stories of love, jealousy and enmity have been told and retold and are important life changing events which also denotes her tireless and persistent character.

Indulging in the past does not seems to ease my dad’s suffering and anguish. Dad has become incomplete without the dominant support of my mother. She is the backbone of my father who is often unable to deal with the everyday realities of life. We can understand her strength in the way she has brought us up often single handedly which be must be far from smooth. We are sibling of 8, out of which unfortunately the eldest 4 were stillbirths’ which itself denotes the agony and pain they would have gone through together. Bringing the rest of us, 2 years apart from each other would have been tough.

While I sit holding his hands my mind goes back in time to a poem which I studied long time back in school called The Seven Stages of Man also known as All The World is a Stage by Shakespeare. Years has passed since I memorised the famous poem but today the poem has become so significant and meaningful as I ponder over my parents’ life cycle. As the poem states the world is like a stage with exits and entrances and we are all mere players. With seven stage in life starting from infant we become infants at the end, for the second time in the life. Ultimately each of us will come to the last stage that will end the eventful history of us no matter in what stage we are in now. Such is life at the end we have nothing with us even the beautiful memories we cherish becomes fuzzy and has to be left as we depart this world for everything shall pass away and everything is made to get destroyed.