I have been taught to remember death from a very young age – right from six or seven years when the prime worry should be whether my favourite colour was pink or blue! My Madrasa teacher thought it was better if we actually realized we would die one day. I don’t blame him though, our Holy Book is filled with verses about its reality and I was aware but slid it to the corner of my mind as I believed it was definitely something that happened to others, not me!

But when our teacher confirmed that it was inevitable for everyone… I lost my gas.

This was followed by frequently disturbing my parents at night, invading their only peaceful time and asking if I could sleep with them. My siblings and I discussed it and decided it was something to be fearful of. I agreed to be fearful about death should it happen to anyone in my family.

What started at lower primary school continued into high school and when my father told me something like, “A coward dies multiple deaths but a true, brave person dies only once”.

I listened, shrugged and sidestepped him into their room and settled down under their covers. Now as a parent I regret thinking of the frustration I caused him and pray he and my mom are getting compensated for all of it from the “Most High”.

It’s not like I didn’t understand it; I did, but I wished to be in denial.

Fast forward to adolescence…bossy teachers, rude neighbours and interfering relatives, or even dictating rulers, or when something or someone was giving me a hard time – I relished the fact that someday they would die and I and the world would be rid of them! Death was beginning to give me a sliver of hope.

Then, in college, I got caught in the hustle and bustle of life and I didn’t think about death too often.

I was of a dusky complexion and was written off by elderly aunties as one “not pretty” and I sincerely believed in them. It was only normal for me to get married to someone much similar, but Qadrullah! My parent’s prayers found a result.

My better half is certainly pretty inside and out.

Now this great gift bestowed upon me made me fearful again of death.

So much happiness, surely it seemed short-lived… was death lurking?

We were blessed with kids. Fear of death was beginning to have roots again.

The grim reality of death finally soaked me into it when first my grandmother passed away but mostly when it held my father’s hand and led him away.

How do you stay sane in a world where you know he is never going to be there in it with you? How do you stay sane when the pandemic prevents you from being able to see him one last time? But we too shall follow. In that time of utmost grief, death gave us solace.

My mindset changed forever.

This concrete life was beginning to look flimsy to me. We were barely just hanging to it.

Age, status, nothing is a matter of it. It would surely knock on our door whenever, wherever and we were due to join him too.

What I didn’t mention before was along with death our teacher had taught us about Afterlife as well. Heaven, Hell… all of it.

Someone leading a good life with all of its struggles was not like someone who stays rotten and makes life for others a living hell and never once decides to change.

I knew the kind of life my father led before he left and prayed that where he was going should be somewhere where people with all goodness go. He led the way…now we too shall follow and I pray that it too will be filled with goodness.

I had to be strong, it was not easy but as he once said – A strong man dies only once, but a coward dies multiple deaths.

Easier said than done, the only way out:

Unwavering hope in Allah and His mercy.