How Does She Know?

“They were here to pray a prayer to a God most of them didn't even believe in.”

When Moosa died, I couldn’t make it back home to Pakistan in time for the funeral. Two days later, in the midst of a snow storm, my dorm room was full of people trying to arrange themselves in lines for a Janaza–an Islamic prayer for the deceased. They were here to pray a prayer to a God most of them didn't even believe in. 

In my sophomore year of college, I learned that my cousin, Moosa, had passed away in a car accident. It was March 4, 2018. I had woken up from a nap and found out through a friend’s Snapchat post. I was in shock—and initially thought this might have been a prank. When I finally got through to my mother, she confirmed the news. She didn’t even need to say the words; I could hear it in the trembling of her voice. I wailed in agony. I had lost a brother–the center of my most precious childhood memories. My best friend Mohini held me down and let me grieve as loudly as I could. 

In my first year of grief, Mohini was the one to organize Moosa's funeral in my dorm room in suburban Pennsylvania. She identifies as Hindu, isn't the most religious, but she cried in prayer with me. How could she feel my pain for a boy she never met? The others, too. Among them were girls I had only shared one conversation with, close friends, co-workers from my student jobs and strangers. I could count the number of men on one hand. 

Mohini was only the first. So many women after her have carried me through my grief. Since the spring of 2018, I have tried to understand grief–what it is and how to deal with it. It is an impossible task but it is not one I have had to take on alone; my journey has been accompanied by the love, compassion and ability of women— friends, aunts, mothers and mentors. 

In my second year of grief, I had developed a psycho-semantic shooting pain that ran down my left arm. The smallest bout of anxiety, a difficult conversation, or a feeling of uncertainty would set it off. After consulting many doctors and therapists, I knew the only way to manage the pain was to manage my anxiety. My life had gone on the best that it could: going back to doing things people in their mid-college careers do–working student jobs, searching for internships, and trying to stay on top of homework. 

Veka was a student worker with me at the tour guide office; we had a lot of overlapping shifts. Many times, mid-conversation, she would start massaging my shoulder and arm. I’m not sure how she knew; maybe she saw me doing it once and thought I needed it. A few months ago, I was with her in Utah on Moosa’s birthday. During the trip, I mentioned how both my mind and my arm hurt at the same time. That was the first time she asked me if she could massage my arm to help alleviate the pain. 

“Both of them have fed me by hand like I had forgotten how to use my own.”

In my third year of grief, the pandemic hit, and I went back to Pakistan for a few months. Over the years, grief had diminished my appetite. My friends Hania and Hyaa started almost all of our conversations with, “did you eat today?” Hania is probably my least sensitive and touchy-feely friend. Hyaa is my most. Both of them have fed me by hand like I had forgotten how to use my own. Hania has barely ever cooked herself a meal but made me little pancakes, decorated the plate with flowers, and lit candles around the tray. Hyaa has driven her car in circles around Karachi trying to find the perfect ‘chaat’ to entice me into taking a bite.

In my fourth year of grief, I had moved to San Francisco. I thought some sun would do me good. Everyone in the city was a stranger to me; all my friends were in New York. When March came around, Ines knew where she would book her next trip. She never said why she was coming, she just came. Her first day, she cleaned the entire kitchen. The second day, she folded my laundry. The third day, she sat with me in silence at Mission Dolores park. 

“I’m not sure what you need, but if you tell me what it is, I’ll deliver it.”  

I met Oph in San Francisco weeks after I moved. She was a new friend and new friends don't know how you’ve grieved in the years past. But they don’t need to. On the day of Moosa's death anniversary, Oph left a massive care package on my bed, with a note that said something like, ”I’m not sure what you need, but if you tell me what it is, I’ll deliver it.”  

In my most recent year of grief—the fifth and current year— I am now able to write about what this journey has looked like. Yet, I sit in confusion of how it continues to unfurl. I have not cried or missed Moosa the way I usually do. Instead, I find myself feeling more sensitive and zoning out in the middle of conversations. In the past years, I have found a way to keep my appetite, anxiety, pain, and sadness in check. I have built friendships and a life that feels meaningful—filled with hobbies that bring me joy, like writing and cooking. But this year, I am guilty that I am not crying for him and doing what I can to keep his memory alive in my mind.

Some things don't feel real until I have told mama. This year, in all my confusion, talking to my mom has been the only thing that brings me clarity. Without describing my state of mind, she managed to decode how my grief had manifested. 

“If I had to list all the women who have carried me through the years, I would run out of words.”

If I had to list all the women who have carried me through the years, I would run out of words. Women sat with me in office hours while my professors mapped out how I would catch up on homework a few weeks after Moosa's death. Women held my hand to soothe me as I fell asleep. Women all acted in ways that felt as though this wasn’t their first time holding together someone who had lost a brother. They knew what to say, yet they never pretended to know how I felt. How does one give care so perfectly in a situation that is completely foreign to them? I will always be in awe of how they shared my grief: predicting my needs before I was aware of them and allowing me to grieve in the loudest and quietest of ways.