Imam Abdul Bari’s wife had been at Three Sisters just last week, looking weak but luminescent in her green dress, smiling at her husband’s jokes. She couldn’t be dead.
Mom stood in front of me in her cotton nightgown, face pale. “Nalla—” she started, but I shook my head.
She collapsed onto the couch beside me, breathing hard. “She was my age.” Mom’s voice was unsteady. “Even younger.Inna Lillahi wainna ilayhi raji’un,” she recited.Surely to Allah we belong, and to Him we return, the Quranic verse Muslims utter when hearing of a death, as reflexive as an observant Catholic genuflecting. I echoed her words.
She stood up. “I’m going to the restaurant. They will need food, for after,” she said.
She meant afterjanazah, the funeral prayer that’s part of the Islamic ritual of burial. Muslims are encouraged to perform funeral services as soon as possible. Nalla had been sick for a long time; we had all known this day would come.
I dressed quickly and headed to the restaurant with her. Mom was right. They would need food to feed the people who came to pay their respects to the Imam at the reception, which would likely be held in the mosque gymnasium.
Mom, Fahim, and I worked quickly. Mom’s hands flew as she chopped mint and coriander, mixed a marinade for curry, diced vegetables for the grill. I assembled the biryani, doling out a huge tray of half-cooked basmati rice, then layering the yogurt-and-spice marinated chicken, covering that with another layer of rice. I topped the dish with saffron, ghee, fresh coriander, and browned onions before carefully manoeuvring the covered tray into the restaurant’s oven, where the rice and chicken would cook, casserole style. By midmorning the food was assembled.
We drove to the mosque, where the parking lot was already full. News of death spread quickly in the community as people texted and shared the information over social media. Everyone knew that if they wanted to attend thejanazahprayers, previous plans would have to be rescheduled.
The main prayer hall overflowed with people, spilling into the hallway. Mom, Fahim, and I carried the trays of food past the crowd, movingswiftly downstairs to the cafeteria. I passed the tray to Sister Fatima, a friend of the Imam’s. Her face was sombre and her lips trembled as she hugged me and Mom. “She helped so many people, Abdul Bari most of all. I don’t know what he will do without her,” Fatima said.
We walked back upstairs to the main hallway, where the Imam was greeting people. Dressed in a crisp white robe that reached his ankles, hair neatly brushed, he was smiling, but tears dripped steadily down his face, drenching his grey beard. He hugged Fahim, then clasped his hands together and inclined his head to me and Mom.
“Imam,” I said, my eyes filling. “I will miss her so much.”
Abdul Bari nodded, mouth trembling. “Her heart is at peace at last. She was in so much pain.”
Aydin stepped forward from behind me and clasped the Imam in a long embrace. I hadn’t noticed him standing there. The adhan, the call to prayer, began and the crowd moved into the hall. Aydin kept a firm hand on the older man’s shoulder as they walked in together.
After zuhr,the crowd waited while the plain pine coffin was wheeled to the front, where the Imam stood. It was covered with an embroidered green velvet cloth, the only flash of adornment in the simple Islamic burial rites. Abdul Bari reached out a hand and gently placed it on Nalla’s coffin. He rested it there, eyes closed, the tears streaming freely, while his congregation watched. All around me men and women cried openly, weeping into tissues.
“My mother chose Nalla to be my wife,” Abdul Bari said, his voice reed-thin through the microphone. “We were strangers to each other, but Allah placed love in our hearts, and we nourished it for over twenty-eight years with affection, laughter, and respect. We were never blessed with children, our fondest wish, but our faith helped us. My dearest Nalla, my love, I will miss you every day I have left onthis Earth. Wait for me at the bridge to the afterlife, so that we may enjoy one another’s company again, dearest one. So that we may live with the children who went before you, the ones who are keeping you company now.”
My nose stuffy from crying, I closed my eyes as the Imam began thejanazah. As one, we raised our hands to our shoulders and the brief prayer began.
It was over too soon. There were too many people. It was hard to breathe. When the Imam had recited the lastAssalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah, I edged my way out of the prayer hall and quickly walked through the seldom-used ornate glass front doors, hurrying down the main stairs, which faced a busy intersection. I collapsed on the bottom step, head in my hands.
Someone sank down next to me. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Aydin. He must have spotted me leaving. “I couldn’t stay inside either,” he said.
“I can’t imagine losing someone you love that much,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Abdul Bari will never forget what that felt like, watching his wife die.”
Aydin’s hands were tangled in his lap. “I don’t remember my mother’s funeral. Dad says I was there, but I don’t remember it at all. I must have wiped it from my mind. Maybe the Imam will forget too, after some time.”
My eyes were fixed on the traffic in front of the mosque—cars speeding towards various destinations, pedestrians on sidewalks, everyone immersed in their own world, ignorant of the quiet, everyday heartbreak unravelling inside the mosque.
“I wonder if I will ever love someone the way Abdul Bari loved Nalla,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was asking Aydin or myself.
He reached over and gently clasped my hand, his touch warm. His hand was large, and more callused than I would have expected. It felt right, holding his hand, and I saw it now: we fit together somehow. Despite the grief that lay behind us and the murky future ahead, we just fit.
THE HEARSE WAS OUTSIDE, ANDNalla’s plain pine coffin was loaded into the back by the Imam and a few other men. Burial was traditionally done as soon as possible, preferably within twenty-four hours of a death.
I made my way to the mosque’s kitchen, where Mom and some other women were putting away the food for the funeral reception that night. I picked up a tray of salad and placed it in the fridge.
“Aren’t you heading back to Three Sisters?” I asked. “Lunch crowd.”
Mom shook her head, wiping her forehead. “We closed for the funeral. I’m needed here.”
I couldn’t remember any other time Mom had shut the restaurant. Our family vacations had consisted of quick two-hour trips to the mall.
“Let’s go to the cemetery. They have this covered.”
Mom didn’t want to, but I insisted. Nalla had been our friend.
