I woke up to the sound of my husband's quiet murmuring on the phone in the next room. He is speaking in Malayalam which is odd, I wonder who he’s speaking to.

I stay lying down, staring into the ceiling above, images of the past week flash in front of me. The long journeys from home to India and back. The blank walls and the spinning fans of the palliative centre we spent the last few days at. The big lump at the back of my throat and the deep weight in my chest.

But one image lingers — its the image of my grandfather in that hospital bed all hunched up. His body… so thin and so frail. His eyes glazing past us all, rolling upwards into the distance beyond. His lips dried and chapped, constantly moving in remembrance of his Lord.

I sit up, and grab my phone, trying to push those images away. ‘Oh Allah, please grant him a full recovery and ease his suffering’ I whisper.

My husband walks into the room and settles next to me, his hand rubbing my arm. I smile and lean into him. It’s been a whole week since I’d seen him. It was nice to be back.

‘Thasni’, he quietly murmurs, almost whispers.

“Mhmm’, I reply, my eyes closed, my body relaxed against him.

‘Uppa passed away.’

My body stiffens, my heart closes, I jerk away. What? No, I don’t believe it.

— 

A sudden illness

My grandfather, may Allah have mercy on him, passed away on Monday night in India. My family and I had just arrived back to England that afternoon, after spending the week in India by my grandfathers side in his hospital bed.

He’d grown ill so suddenly.

I’d gone to India for my annual trip just less than 2 months ago. I’d sat with uppa at his dinner table, on his bed just less than 2 months ago, chatting about all sorts.

It was the first time I’d seen him since his wife, my umma, had passed away a year ago. And although it hurt to see him all alone in such a big house, it was comforting to see that he was still managing strong.

But around a month ago, he got dengue — a serious illness but one that was easily recoverable. I remember my sister telling me. Although it was worrying, I was calm. My dad was there in India at the time and moreover, there was a certainty in me that uppa was strong enough to fight it. He had been so strong these past few years, regardless of his failing hearing, regardless of his wifes death. It felt obvious that he could fight this too.

But I forgot the fact that these recent years had aged uppa. And just as his body was no longer strong enough to recover, his willpower had taken a hit too. Everyday spent on that hospital bed meant more failing muscles, more painful joints. And more scarily, less willpower.

And when it became clear that uppas chances of recovering were slowly becoming slim, we knew we had to go to India immediately.

— 

An irreplaceable relationship

Growing up, uppa was the grandparent I was closest to. He was the grandad who we were excited to sleepover at, the grandad who’d settle us all into bed and narrate the most fantastical bedtime stories. He was the grandad who’d take us on his long morning walks and buy us penny sweets from the street sellers. He was the grandad who’d try learn how to play uno so he could sit with us and chill.

And most of all, he was the grandparent who wanted to know everything about us — from our grand impossible dreams to the mundane parts of our days. Nothing about us was uninteresting to him. Every achievement in our lives made him the happiest of people. Every difficulty in our lives made him struggle too.

But as he grew older, over the past few years, his hearing began to weaken. And as he struggled to hear and partake in conversation, he became more and more recluse. It was tough. I had no clue how to navigate it. I was so used to long chats with him that I didn’t know how to continue our relationship without it. It didn’t help that I lived across the globe from him, and my main way of staying connected was our phone calls.

Instead I began sharing my writings with him. Every time I wrote, I sent him my post and soon that became our way to connect. He was so proud of me writing and he would always speak to me and others about it, his face shining with pride. He would reply to my posts with the most beautiful of comments, leaving me glowing. But soon, reading got difficult tired him out too and I felt like I was grasping at straws on how to stay connected with him.

Our phone calls soon became shorter and less frequent. I shared my posts with him less and less.

It was tough those last few years.

But regardless of it all, that annual long kiss and even tighter hug I’d get from uppa every year on our trip back from India, gave me strength that his love for me had never dwindled.

That he was the same uppa we always knew.

— 

My most cherished memory in the hospital

That’s why my most cherished memory from this past week at the hospital was a moment similar. It was on Friday morning. My sister, my mum and I were standing by uppa’s bed. My mum had uppa’s hand in hers. I stood a few steps behind her watching uppa myself. I was worried, and my face showed it.

That day, he was slipping in and out of consciousness more and more. It was difficult to sense whether he could tell who we were anymore. At times he would stare blankly past us, almost as though he was seeing a world past ours.

Uppa’s eyes glazed past my mum to something beyond her, towards me. I thought he was, once again, looking at the world beyond us. So I held his gaze, hoping he’d come back to us again. But then he continued gazing at me. And so I smiled tentatively, hoping he was really looking at me more than something beyond us. His lips, cracked and dry, parted into a wide smile.

He was actually seeing me? My face split into a wide smile and before I could say anything, uppa slowly lifted his hand to his mouth, kissed it and raised it towards me. Just like he had, every time our annual trips in India would end and we’d have to walk away from him towards the car.

Between all that pain, he wanted me to know that he loved me and that he knew I was right besides him.

And that is a memory that I will hold close forever.

— 

Jazakallah khair my friend for reading through this jumble of thoughts. I appreciate it.

The one thing that gives me contentment today was this past week I spent with him in the hospital. Knowing how happy he was to see me, but also knowing his place with his Lord (inshaAllah). Although he was in constant pain, although he was constantly coming in and out of consciousness, no moment of consciousness was without his lips moving in dhikr subhanallah. 

Seeing that I know, he is in a better place today and I’m grateful to Allah for that.

Please keep my granddad in your prayers.

I ask Allah to forgive him and have mercy on him. To expand for his grave and grant him the company of the Quran that he accompanied in this life. And reunite us all in the highest ranks of paradise.

Ameen, ya Rabb.