Personal Essays
The dying of the light
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas
When I think of my grandmother, I see a series of images. The red chillies that she loved, fresh or drying in the sun; a ball of wool being knitted into a jumper; her prayer rug, regularly used every day five times a day; her slim figure digging in the garden in the cool of the evening; the delicious and imaginative food she unfailingly magicked every day from humble ingredients; the finely worked lacy muslin headscarves that she invariably wore.
I remember her kindness, her complete lack of malice and her generosity. I remember the special Ramadan breakfasts she made and the way she would wake me up before sunrise so I could share these little feasts with her. Our early morning feasts were strictly secret as my mother strongly disapproved of anything that disrupted my sleep. My grandmother would occasionally take me shopping in the covered market and buy me small treats from the snack carts: mahallebi (a kind of milk pudding), ice cream or a skewer of shish kebab. She once took me to a bookshop and allowed me complete freedom to choose a book. As children do, I took all this generosity for granted.
And then I remember her old age. The way she gradually became increasingly vague and confused. The way these confused episodes were separated by lucid periods. The way she sometimes did not recognize me. The way she stopped eating. The way she would lie in bed wonderingly watching her hands.
I deeply regret that I was unable to atend her funeral. May she rest in peace.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas
When I think of my grandmother, I see a series of images. The red chillies that she loved, fresh or drying in the sun; a ball of wool being knitted into a jumper; her prayer rug, regularly used every day five times a day; her slim figure digging in the garden in the cool of the evening; the delicious and imaginative food she unfailingly magicked every day from humble ingredients; the finely worked lacy muslin headscarves that she invariably wore.
I remember her kindness, her complete lack of malice and her generosity. I remember the special Ramadan breakfasts she made and the way she would wake me up before sunrise so I could share these little feasts with her. Our early morning feasts were strictly secret as my mother strongly disapproved of anything that disrupted my sleep. My grandmother would occasionally take me shopping in the covered market and buy me small treats from the snack carts: mahallebi (a kind of milk pudding), ice cream or a skewer of shish kebab. She once took me to a bookshop and allowed me complete freedom to choose a book. As children do, I took all this generosity for granted.
And then I remember her old age. The way she gradually became increasingly vague and confused. The way these confused episodes were separated by lucid periods. The way she sometimes did not recognize me. The way she stopped eating. The way she would lie in bed wonderingly watching her hands.
I deeply regret that I was unable to atend her funeral. May she rest in peace.