Supposed Journal of a Great Grandmother

Dedicated to Amina Yakoob Laher (10 May 1911 – 20 Jan 2005), her son Ismail Laher (10 Sep 1949 – ) and his wife Salma Patel (20 Jan 1959 – 3 Jul 2021) and all those suffering the ignominy of old age.

Night

Oongh nee awe. I lie awake. It’s the middle of the night. A bitterly cold winter’s night. Sleep is but an illusion. A curse dangled to those of us who have grown old. My grandson says I’m ninety, how would I know. Mane nee khabar. It’s been fifteen years since he died, fifteen long years that I have waited to die. Oh, how I miss him. Why do old people sleep so few hours? Why do we feel so much colder? Why is there so much pain? Why do we want to die while others are taken so young? I’ve lost my daughter, her husband and their daughter in a head on car accident. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. All in the prime of their lives.

Day

The weekend has arrived. I am looking forward to seeing my other daughter, her children and theirs too. What else can I look forward to? I hope they stay longer. It’s so nice to hear the children’s laughter. Reminds me of when I was young. Their visit is always too short.

I am afraid to eat or drink. Nee mhen thai. It is not just that food is not tasty. I am much too slow to get out of bed to relieve myself. Allah, all praise be to him, got this part of our constitution wrong. Why does he embarrass me so?

The sun has risen. I have read my morning prayers. I cannot prostrate anymore. I perform my prayers sitting on my chair. Allah, the most merciful, does understand. I first get out of bed, touch the stone to cleanse myself and sit on my chair facing north to read my prayers. This is much too difficult during winter. Mane bho thandi lage.

Yesterday

It seemed liked yesterday. I fell trying to sit. It added another pain. Its advantage being its ability to downgrade all other pains. I keep these to myself, no need to worry my children.

Another day

Another night

Some day

Another day

In the last few days, several moving dots floated across my vision. Am I that old? Oh, God forbid, my eyesight is failing. Milik-ul-Maut. This is disastrous. Being old and full of pain is one thing but having no eyesight is like living in a grave. God, all praise be to you, please take me away. Why do I suffer so?

That night

I could not keep this from my children who arranged for me to see an optician tomorrow.

Tomorrow

I wake up early. Getting ready for the visit to the optician takes a very long time. I get out of bed. Call out to my daughter-in-law who has for so long cared for me. Beechari bho kaam khare. Allah reward her. I hate bathing, maybe I will get away with a facecloth wipe. No chance. She and her helper armed to the teeth ready me for the bath. They put me in the wheelchair. I shout and curse. They wheel me to the bathroom. I swear. They take off my clothes. I shout obscenities. I am doomed. Why do I have to bath? Why are they so cruel? They pick me up – oh so humiliating and place me like a baby in the bath. The water is so nice and warm. I swear and hurl abuse. It really is warm. They lather their hands and start washing me. I pinch them. They laugh. The warm water and their gentle hands are so soothing. They wash my hair, my face, my hands, my whole body. I like the bath. I succumb. They rinse my body. They lift me out and dry my body. I obey. They lift my arm, I don’t resist. Dry my armpits. I don’t complain. They rub cream on my face, hands and body. They put on my clothes. I obey. They wheel me back to my room. They comb my hair and place my shawl on my shoulders. I smell like a baby. I am starving. Mane bho bhukh lage che.

My breakfast arrives – a nice steaming cup of tea and some buttered toast. I am too nervous to eat but hungry after the bath. I eat. Silently. I am ready. I am wheeled outside into the warmth of the early morning sun. I feel fresh. I wait. My grand-daughter arrives. Shakes my hand and kisses my cheek. I am wheeled to the front left seat. I struggle to get off the chair. Painfully. Carefully. I struggle. I lift myself with many arms supporting me. I shuffle towards the car. I lean on the door. Sitting down is more difficult than getting up. The last few seconds before I sit is the most painful. I grimace. Oh, so much pressure on my legs.

We drive. They talking but I’m not listening. We arrive. The optician is a kind man. He explains that I have a growth on my eye. He needs to operate. God, praise unto him, has placed another test. Who will pay for this? I really need to see.

I need to see especially as my hearing is slowly failing me.

A week later

I am afraid. I am too old for an operation. Too old. Is this my last day? So be it. I must see or die. They wheel me to my ward. Transfer me to a bed. They change my clothes. Why? My back is naked. I curse and complain. Rules and more rules. I lie on the bed and wait. The wait is too long. I have not eaten the whole morning. I wait. They wheel me to the theatre. They say something to each other. I don’t understand. They place a mask on my face. Why? It has nothing to do with my eye.

Hours later

I wake up. I’m groggy. Where am I? I feel like throwing up. My eyes hurt. I can’t see. Nurse. Nurse. Nurse. They try to calm me. Stop me from touching my eyes. They tell me the operation was very successful. So why can’t I see I ask. To heal they say. I need to keep a patch on my eye for a few weeks. I will not stay overnight. I am very firm. They help me change. We drive back home. I am so tired. Exhausted. Silently hopeful. I want to sleep. My eye is itchy. I resist the temptation to scratch. I need to see.

 A Month Later

I can see. Mashallah. The operation was a success. I can see my great grand-children, read the Quran, see the cat and the birds. See the rising sun and the end of day break. Mane haare thi handu dhukhai.

Another day

It’s Eid. Today I get to see the whole family. I’m excited. I wake up early and with the help of my daughter-in-law, I ready myself. I can’t wait. Maro dhikro merra vaaste mithai laawyo. I silently smile when I see the bhurfi, laarwo, magagh and especially sutterfeni. Dohi na bhal is what my parents called sutterfeni. It is white, fluffy and soft just like old ladies hair. The grand children relish it. We used to laboriously toil for hours to make it. I showed my daughters how to make it. The joy was always in the children’s eyes when they ate it. These days no one in the family makes it. Soon they will buy everything from the shops. Ghee, chevro, masala, papar, papri …

One day

I have now resigned myself to die. I have no will to live. My arthritic body numbs with all the pain. Bho agroo che. Yesterday I was short of breath. My dikro arranged for an ambulance who fitted an oxygen mask until the doctor arrived. They gave me an injection and some medicines. I feel better. This is another test. I wonder why. God has a plan for everyone. Maybe He forgot about me.

Morning

I watch the early morning sun rise as it brings light to my dark room. Another day. Maybe another test. It is warmer. I can see. I can breathe. I can hobble a bit. I am living. I hear a knock on the door. I keep quiet. Everyone is gone to work. Another knock. Why do people disturb me. “Go your own house, nobody here”, I shout. The day passes. I hear the cars speed down the street. The blaring of hooters. Children shouting. Playing games. My room slowly darkens as I hear people entering the house. The day is over and my son and daughter in law have returned from work. Familiar sounds. We eat. We talk. No test today. I sleep better. I dream. I wait for another day.

Amina Yakoob Laher (10 May 1911 – 20 Jan 2005)

Ismail Laher (10 Sep 1049 – )

Salma Patel (20 Jan 1959 – 3 Jul 2021)