I heard those words for the first time as an 8 year old when my father said them as my parents got the news of my grandmother's death. The next few times I heard them, the words always came from my father when he heard the news of someone's passing away. I knew it was a prayer, but I didn't know its meaning. Nor did I ever want to.
20 nights ago, I ran into my parents' bedroom as my mother screamed for me. She said he wasn't moving. I looked upon the same face I'd seen just a couple of hours ago -- only it was cold, his lips blue, his nose thin, his neck to one side. I checked his wrist, his neck, his heart...there had to be a pulse somewhere. I yelled for him to respond to me with a breath, a movement, anything. Then I glanced at his fingers-- blue. And in that very moment, I said a dua in my heart "Allah please don't do this to my family." I watched the paramedics as they dragged my father's body onto the floor of my parents bedroom. They pumped and pushed and hooked him up to machines as I watched that flat line on the monitor -- praying for a beat to appear. I stood in the middle of the street tip-toeing so I could see what they were doing in the ambulance to him...was he ok? "Is there a pulse?!?" I asked as I banged on the door of the ambulance. I prayed that I was in a nightmare, and Allah would wake me up and I could thank Him for sparing my family.
Inna Lillahi Wa Inna Illahi Raji'oon. "Indeed we belong to Allah, and to Allah we return." I knew it was time to hear those words, but daddy wasn't there to say them. My own lips, recalling the way a sadness would overcome my father's face, whispered them as my mother coaxed me to. But I wanted him to just return to us. Return from whatever lost heaven's gate he was in front of and miraculously gasp one breath and make his way back into this world. It wasn't his time. This wasn't happening. Not to my family. Not to the man who always recalled how his father and his father before him lived to be past 100 years old and how he would do the same. Not like this, in the cold hospital, on a single white bed, a room dark and blue - matching almost with the hue of my father's lips. Lips that were pink just hours ago.
"Indeed we belong to Allah, and to Allah we return." - the meaning of these words which the lump in my throat and the overflowing pressure on the left side of my chest isn't ready to accept. But I have no choice. I submitted myself to Allah and although the only thing I want to do these days is fight with someone, anyone, and make them bring him back - I can't. I stood over the stove at 5pm cooking daddy custard because he wouldn't eat anything solid after being in the hospital for so long. At 5pm 48 hours later, I dug 18 holes in the dirt around his grave and planted white flowers as my tears watered the ground. I lit incense and read Fatiha for him. It didn't seem real. Being the eldest, the tower of responsibilities that now encompass my shoulders seems unbearable. 20 minutes after he died, everyone asked me "What time would you like to do the tadfeen? Asr or Maghrib?" "We'll need to get a kaffan." "The namaz-e-jannazah is at Asr, we'll let everyone know."
The namaz-e-what? But he was just here. Until you're touched with the death of your own parent at an age where you're old enough to understand...it doesn't resonate. I read Surah Yaseen for 4 months praying that his heart would get stronger. Now I read Surah Mulk for his spirit. My own heart feels like it weighs more than my entire body. I replace the frames in our house with individual shots of daddy smiling. Crying from happiness at my graduations. Proud of his daughter that he introduced to everyone as his oldest son. I think back to last October, driving home from 4 hours away in the middle of the night when I got the call that he'd had a heart attack. I went to see him before his first surgery and took one look at him, not being able to hold back the waterworks -- which I verily have always reserved -- I asked my father "Ye kya kiya aapne?" I remember him saying "You can't cry. Ap tho humesha bahadur hothe ho. Nahin rothe.." as he couldn't hold back his own tears, flowing down his once full of life cheeks.
My duas, my efforts, everyone I put on the backburner just so I could do whatever it took to save his life - didn't work. The hard persona I pride myself on now flows without warning. I must look like a fool crying in front of carrot cake at Publix because I remember how he would always bring it home for me. I walk into his closet of freshly dry-cleaned shirts, the mixed smells of Dolce & Gabbana and Burberry still lingering boldly -- colognes I introduced him to so he'd stop killing us with the age old "Safari." An unopened box of Just for Men 5 min. hair dye still lays on the vanity counter for him. His comb, his razor, his cell phone...all missing their owner. Days away from his birthday, I sort through the mail and pick out early birthday cards from doctors and car dealerships. He hated chocolate icing, but would always make sure there was some when I came home because I loved it so much. Now I visit his kabar, one of the many words I used to only hear the elders say. Islam says those who die wait peacefully in their graves until the day of Judgement. So when I water the flowers I planted, I wonder if he's there just waiting? And if he's just waiting, why couldn't he just wait with us? Doesn't he feel lost without his family? How could he have found peace in a realm where he is separated from us? I don't know where he is or what its like, but I know we're all not together. And I, Inna Lillahi, am at unrest.
