In memory of Rabia Nasir Durrani, 1932-2020

July 29, 2020.

Mother died early this morning.

I write this as I climb that treacherous wall between the before and after she was alive. Anyone who ever left their place of birth to start a new life far away dreads that terrifying midnight phone call telling you your mother is gone. You prepare your whole life, but you are never ready for it. Never ready for the rush of desolation, the storm that ravages the tent of shelter that was your mother or father.

You weren’t with them when they asked for you. You mourn remotely in your cave of sorrow thousands of miles away as friends and relatives call. The funeral happens in your imagination. You know the places, the people, the roads, the cemetery intimately, but you cannot see that miraculous face, or touch those holy hands one last time. It’s a sacrifice immigrants make when they leave home.

But I am not mourning the death of an ordinary woman. I’m celebrating the life of a spectacular human being: self-made, selfless, and sacrificing. An exemplary daughter, devoted wife, and mother, and a dream grandmother to my daughter, Laila, filling her childhood with wonder, and rabbits, fish, birds, a kingdom of love and delight.

Amu hand-built a life for herself and her family in a time in India when women weren’t “allowed” to be anything but dutiful housewives. She was a beacon of humanity, kindness, compassion, and generosity- the antidote to the viciousness, rancor, and selfishness tearing up the world. She had the gift of always being the right person at the right place and time to help anyone in need. She was an icon, not just for me but for thousands who crossed her path. Amu wasn’t only my mother but also the nurturing tree, the sheltering sky to anyone who needed her, especially the poor and forsaken.

I am fortunate that in the past few years, I spent a lot of time with her as she faded slowly into Alzheimer’s. Despite the sad poetry of her vanishing, we shared joy, beauty, and deep love. I will always be grateful for that.

My father died twenty years ago, but his goodness and wisdom remain within me. So too, will my mother’s unconditional love, courage, and compassion. I am blessed to have been born to them. This slow-motion swirl of a new life without my mother or father’s physical presence anchoring me is frightening, but my parents are now fully inside me, guiding my way forward.

Since 2017, I have been posting anecdotes about Amu. I share some of them here as an homage to her.

Hold your parents close while you can. One day you have to let them go.

READ HALLUCINATING THE FUTURE, ONCE THESE HANDS FOUGHT TERROR, MOTHER’S RESTLESS HANDS, and THE LONG SLOW GOODBYE IN THE JOURNAL