The London Stories

She was the first person in my life who shared my inordinate love for animals. In her I found a companion who could share the irrational response to an animals pain or indulgences and I think, knowing that there was someone else like me instilled a sense of acceptance of who I was when I interacted with the animal world.

I always thought I would meet her in London. It was a highly romanticised rendezvous that I had imagined, where I would go spend some time in her flat and bask in her love for me. At the same time, surprising her with my presence would be my way of showing her that I do care for her. Though I had not met her for five years, this plan never weakened. My resolve strengthened when I realised I might be going to England for higher education.

She often used to ask me to come visit her. College, finances always kept that plan as a possibility for a vague future date.

When three weeks ago, I heard she was found after four days in her flat, unconscious from a stroke; I felt nauseas. It was a gut wrenching helplessness, a desperate feeling that someone should be there in London with her. None of us had valid visas. None of us were citizens. And she had no children. Her husband had died 20 years ago.

Her youngest sister, my paternal grandmother, had a similar stroke six years ago, but survived. Her other sister suffered the consequences of a stroke twice: one resulted in paralysis and the other in death.

London was a blessing and a tormentor at the same time. Since she was a citizen, her treatment and her care could carry on regardless of her next of kin being present. It was a tormentor because her next of kin needed to beg their way to an urgent visa.

For twenty years she lived in London alone. Earlier, she was a regular visitor of Pakistan. Then my grandmother took a turn for the worse, in terms of her temper and intolerance and treated her elder sister like a manic possessive girlfriend would treat her visiting boyfriend. So the subject of this writing never returned here. She would call regularly. And at times I would be present during these calls. I could feel the warmth all the way through the cold plastic. I knew she would be smiling and there would be this bright glimmer in her eyes when she would ask me how much time was left for my studies to be completed or when I would visit her.

We even shared the taste of isolated living. She was happy in London, with no family. Her neighbours were here family of choice and their children her daily Quran students. While she was in the hospital with her right side paralysed and immeasurable brain damage, it was this family that tended to her while her blood relatives struggled to rid themselves of their daily responsibilities and begged for urgent visas.

I never heard her complain about her life. It brought her immense pleasure and so she continued to live there alone. She had high blood pressure, and yet she enjoyed each moment of her life there. Cooking her meals, having her snacks while she read in bed. Another taste we both shared.

Shared. The past tense. From is to was. And from a warm, round woman with a naughty sense of humour to a body devoid of identity.

She passed away last night. Our nine thirty in the night, their five in the evening. We sat and we planned how to break the news to her sister, my grand mother. It would be a pantomime, where she would first be told that her sister had taken a turn for the worse and then we would break it to her. And within a few hours she went from being a very sick person, to a dead aunt, to a body for burial and then a problem that needed to be presented with a bow to the next person.