A Gathering

A Gathering

There are two persons from the past I would give anything to meet, the Prophet Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him, and my grandfather. We can meet at a point in nature where there is a vast carpet of soft grass for us to sit and walk around just beside a small creek. That way, if we fell silent during our conversation which I can surely imagine along the way because the two gentlemen are known for conciseness, we can just listen to the melody of the water and thank the Almighty for it. Of course, I do not expect them to talk. In fact, I expect ninety-eight percent of the conversation will be my monologue.

Greetings are must; May Peace and Mercy of Allah be upon You. I am a child who loves you two. Surely, I will need a minute to keep myself from hyperventilating, and if I am still functional by then, perhaps I will tell the Prophet (PBUH) how I have heard so much about him from the daughter of the man beside him. I cannot miss the chance to ask about the paradise and what’s the easiest way to get there, so I will, with complete understanding if I receive no answer.

Then I will look at my grandfather and ask him to try to guess who I am or who do I look like, expecting I look more like his daughter than his son-in-law.

At this point, I will tell them about a strange woman I have known since I was a child. As far as I know, and I did my research on this, she is not terminally ill, but she talks about her death almost every day and how my siblings and I should be prepared for it. This woman wants us not to be scared, but it is hard not to be when she practically had me accompany her to the top of the mountain one gloomy afternoon, showed me a plot of land she fenced herself and told me that it is where she will be buried. Beside grandfather, nodding at him as I say this.

If you visit her house, there is a room that smells and feels like one of those novelty stores in Saudi Arabia where you find dried dates, scale model of Kaaba, and different containers of perfumes that all smell alike. It is a prayer room. There will be prayer dresses, mats, beads, different designs of the Qur’an book, and then a box jotted with her initials using a Pentel Pen. Inside that box is a small bottle of perfume, a big towel, yards of white linen and a bar soap. At first, it will seem like an incomplete box of camping essentials, until you find out that it is actually a complete set of things you will need in enshrouding the dead body of a Muslim, and you will never look at that box the same way again. It was reserved for her (that’s why she had her initials on it), but every year, she ends up giving it to someone who died on that year and was not prepared for the occasion. She then buys another set for herself, responsibly putting a new box marked with her initials under that same shelf.

When I was a child, every six o’clock in the evening right after we finish our Maghrib prayer, she gathers us in that room to talk about death, and the reason why we should always be aware and be prepared for it. I could remember one particular gathering when she was holding my hand with our fingers intertwined, looking at me and my brother as though she already missed us even though we were together all day.

 Death is a destiny that all humans share, she said. You can be the most powerful politician or the richest man in this life, but you will still share this soil with every other human just the same, buried six feet to the ground without your wealth and your power, decomposing equally. Do not be arrogant. The only wealth you will carry with you in the end is the white cloth that will be used to enshroud your corpse and the only power you need is God’s mercy. Do not be arrogant.

It feels like one of those memories that was intentionally preserved vividly by your mind, waiting to be retrieved at a time in the future when you finally have the ability to see the true value of that moment.  Like now.

I still do not expect the respectful gentlemen to reply, so I shall go on,

When I was in fourth grade and my brother was in first, she brought us to the town market not to buy groceries, but to allow experience to teach us without words. Inside the car, she handed both of us a bunch of cellophanes. “You see those children?” She said, pointing to the kids walking around the fish market holding plastic bags in their arms. She said we were to sell the plastic like them. It was a clear instruction, but even after we went out of the car, it was all perplexing and confusing to me. Since my younger brother as a child, was the more obedient one, he immediately started approaching people and asked them politely to buy his cellophanes just like what he was told to do so. I merely followed.

I remember the road was slippery with the fish blood and I could inhale the insides of the hanging meat, fish, and decaying vegetables everywhere I breathe. Just when I thought it was insufferable, there were two children around our age looking at us curiously. I knew they were siblings too because the small one called the other Kaka. I don’t remember how I reacted exactly, but I know I stopped complaining mentally and stuck close to my brother. He was also close to vomiting, but he went on. Then it started raining.

 In the end, I sold none while my brother sold around five pieces, then we went back to the car dirty with market mud and with a new stray cat in my brother’s arms. I don’t remember the exact exchange, but there was an argument between my mother and grandmother over the phone when they found out what she made us do. Later that night, around the usual time after Maghrib Prayer, we talked about life and how we should be thankful for it, then we talked about death and how we are all the same in the end. Even though she was watching us all the time from the car, she asked us to narrate what happened, and I find it weird how we did not ask why we were instructed to sell cellophanes in the market all of a sudden. Perhaps, we have always known. I am not sure. I know we were taught about reality, survival, and empathy, but there is something more—something impossible to articulate. Perhaps I will only realize it when I get older and realize more when I have children of my own, but the whole point is, every time I look back to this memory, the lesson I learn evolves.

When you are not scared of death itself, you are hardly scared by anything anymore. In this world where people think Hijaab is oppressive, she is a Niqaabi, our Peace Ninja, who fights for justice every day in the court. I may be bias on this, but she is the most humane lawyer I have ever known. She immerses herself in her clients’ situation, visiting their homes and researching about their lifestyle before writing anything down. I know this because I like coming along with her. After a good court hearing, you will see her in the market, dragging a sack of charcoal and a whole trunk of banana home like she didn’t just win a lawsuit. Every time I watch her do her job, parent, give back to people all at the same time, I see bravery and compassion. I see faith and inspiration. She is not the best representation, but she is the closest I got of how the Prophet (PBUH) must be like. Every time this strange woman tells me she loves me; I am left thinking how I cannot believe she is my mother.

I am not confident to picture the reaction of the Prophet (PBUH) at this point in my imagination, but I expect my grandfather to smile and say something.  Perhaps we will do a prayer, then we will listen to the water and be thankful for life and death, to Him whom we all belong and shall return.