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I attended my funeral ⚱️

Kafan is an unstitched white sheet used for cacooning the dead body. Kafan doesn't sees age, class, religion, or castle. It welcomes death like a bossom friend, as they meet regularly. We all know death will envelope us one day, so we try to run away from it by being lost amidst the loud sham of this world. 
Have you ever thought of meeting death with a smile on face, and contentment in heart? 
I have met death-in the form of family members fading away due to chronic diseases, accidents, and old ages.

I faced another death this September. I received a video call from Anne Frank House, Amsterdam, It was from Zeeshan,
“Mayra, please go to the terrace with a water bottle, and sit with our favourite plant.”
The face on the other side isn't much familiar to me, I met Zeeshan in the half rainy July. 
Ignoring his words, I sat on the bundle of unarranged clothes while books were scattered nearby.
It was a busy Sunday. Sundays are the busiest as the work is much hectic than cleaning the mess of the front porch and the garage. I decided to reshuffle my library and table that Sunday. 

Amongst the pages of old diaries, books, and paper- 
The aroma of ancient memoirs of past engulfed me, it was suffocating. Survival guilt as kafan wrapped me up because it had been million minutes (how to calculate counting time in hyperbole?) where my final focus was in the past while initial focus was staring straight into my face from Anne Frank Hidden room. 

“I am sorry, Zee. The month of September is the birth of my favourite Agatha Christie who gave me Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. I was on The Orient Express. I was zoomed out...and...!”

“Would you like to come with me next time here?” He sensed the overwhelmed aroma for the first time, after witnessing the cheerful Mayra as her constant nature.
Either it was energetic personality or the person was asleep. There was no other emotion in between. The cloud of grief brought rain to the person. 

Zeeshan continued with a comforting tone,
“Abbu has given me permission. I'll  come to India soon. Your home is my first visit along with your favourite books, and leaves from this place. Breathe for a while. It will be okay. September will swoon away like the dust in the end, along with the pain seeped inside you. It will die, Trust the process of grieving and mourning.”

He wanted the pain to be enveloped in the kafan, as it had rooted deeply, clearly visible in my veins and then eyes. 
I nooded in a confusing tone and kept on understanding what he was trying to convey. Care was conveyed enough but the kafan was ready to partition our bond. My reality was blurred by the kafan of mistakes of the past. 

After disconnecting the call, I started at the screen for too long 
Things bothered me for hiding the truth of September month. I don't care if it was the month of Kiran Desai, Roald Dahl, or HG Wells birthday. 

It was the death of myself.

My favourite part died in the second week itself,
I was numb for too long.
We die with pain,
Forgetting ourselves
We murder ourselves.

I wasn't alive,
I was living in an escape route,
To recognise and reconnect.
Hiding from reality.


Putting the kafan on my blithesome self, I wrote the last mail to Zeeshan hoping it reaches after my last breath.

I am not ready for the life yet, I deserve the punishment, You're not responsible for healing. God will take care of everything. Please don't waste your time by coming to India. I need to sort of my life first, to live it. 
Live your life beautifully. 
You're in my duas, Zee. Please take care of yourself. 

-Mayra

Shutting down my laptop, I stared at the ceiling and went to the land of nod(khwaab). I didn't want to sleep, but land of sleep is the half consciousness to our afterlife reality and I wished to forget the battlefield I left in the middle of September. 

It is believed we are half dead while asleep. Sleep is indeed a demo version of death. This phenomenon is described in the Holy Qur'an in Chapter: 39 (Surah Azzumar:Verse 22). 

The dancing sound of raindrops on my rooftop felt like bullets piercing my wounded bloodbathed skin, the sinuses pain shrouded me much that I had to clutch my blanket for warmth, and the aroma of freshly prepared chai woke me up to reality. 

The reality of war on my head and countryside.
Running with a kafan to the battlefield for my warrior's body, I ran towards the horizon. I stumbled upon my desires of despair because of the stab. I looked back and realised the pain of Roman General Gaius Julius Caesar at the time of his death, “et tu, Brutus!”
Death isn't painful, neither purple bruises on skin, the stab from the known stranger suffers heart the most.

I wrapped the kafan over the eyes of heart to erase the vision of the person holding the curved dagger to end the traumatized scenery. 

I survived but at what cost?
At the cost of dragging the flesh I own.
The soul is light 
The body is bruised
The heart holds the burning and nurturing fire of both.

The body lies still with tears in the eyes still staring at the blank ceiling. 
Kafan shows the chiverary with sprinkled blood, while fragrance of flowers swaying in the surrounding shows the courage a soul holds.

Each morning and night, one attend their funerals with the pain embedded in. 
Beware of being dead before being dead! 
Nothing is scarier than that. ⚰️















 

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