Beyond Akhirah

I stand in the corner, watching you. Looking at you all. Seeing you enter the mosque, as you suspiciously pull the scarf over your hair; tucking away the stray strands as you clutch your ready-set tissue. Your clothes as sombre as you can bear to wear for someone you barely knew. Whispering voices say salaam to one another. Hushed tones prevail over the proceedings. The imam’s voice drones on about Death, the Hereafter, the Hellfire we should all seek to avoid in this life. The youngsters don’t understand as he rambles on in our parents’ language.

But...

Some sad eyes fill with tears, perturbed and shocked by what’s occurred, what they are here for. Hawkish eyes remain lowered scanning the crowd. I can see your eyes; darting and flitting around the room. Your ears prick up; you sit up a little straighter wanting to hear anything, any little snippet of how it happened. Why I did it.

Why would I do it?

What would possess me?

So, why did I jump?

I see you Aunty Gossips-A-Lot. You’ve come just to find out how it happened so you can pass it down your network of co-conspirators...You’re desperate to know what my face looks like? Your eyes lower again. You whisper to your niece Zarina: “How can he have a funeral when he killed himself? It’s not right.” She quietly voices the thoughts of most of the mourners as they sit wondering how I can be buried Islamically when I did such an unIslamic act.

No-one dares say it aloud.

Zarina glares at you, ignoring your remark, her silent stare reminding you that this is not the time or the place. It’s too soon to discuss this. Wouldn’t now be the best time to discuss this?

Returning to a state of prayer and your prayer beads, you reach out to God and think... how lucky you are.

How...

Fortunate you feel.

How...

Happy you are to know your child would never do such a thing.

How...

Unfortunate for the mother. It can only be her fault that this happened.

This isn’t happening to you. It would never happen to you because you always know where your son is and what he’s doing. Everyone knows when they stop and meet you in town that your son is studying to be a doctor at a top university in London. “As soon as he’s finished his studies he’ll be getting married to this beautiful, well-educated, upper-class girl from Lahore. He’s always at the library studying hard. He’s such a good boy, he always tells me what he’s doing,” Aunty Gossips-A-Lot tells anyone that will listen.

Does he really?

You think Zeeshan’s at the library. Nah love. He’s sitting behind the building smoking a joint. I know cos I used to do it with him. Yeah, you say we’re like the white kids, we’re not Asian enough, Muslim enough. Don’t you get it? You’ve been trying to make us sit on one side, and they want us to sit on the other side. How about I sit in the freakin’ middle? Is that good enough? Would that make you happy? Or you’d prefer we weren’t here to shame you...?

I didn’t think so.

It’s not that easy to blame the mother, is it?

You have no idea of what’s in our heads. No clue. It’s time you opened your eyes and realised the world we live in. You came here 30 years ago and didn’t change your ways. You thought things would be the same. You thought we’d do the same things you’ve done – marry a nice little virgin from the village. Do you get the two worlds we live in? One day we’re eating rice and curry at home after going to Urdu School, the next we’re out having pizza and a pint down the local pub after footie. There’s only so long you can stop those two worlds colliding, only so far you can keep that dam from bursting before you’re forced to choose. Can you see the choices we have to make every day? We’re pushed and pulled by everyone.

I didn’t think you would.

This was the first choice I made in my life without guilt. It wasn’t down to my mother. It was mine and mine alone. You’re an idiot if you’re trying to blame her for my actions. She didn’t make me do it. I did it myself. How can it be their fault when they didn’t know it was going to fucking happen! They’re suffering. They’re in pain and all you can think is that they brought it on themselves.

Go. Offer some support. Some comfort. Understand her pain – my whole family’s pain. Hold my mum’s limp body and mean it. Tell her it’ll be alright, even though everyone knows it won’t. Even though inside she’s screaming it won’t. Tell her Allah will make everything alright, that I'm in a better place, even though you don’t believe it for one second.

Grieve. If not for her, or me, then for yourselves. This time the Angel of Death has passed you by. You think I’ll be the last one who does this?

Ha.

The men in my family bring in my body to the women’s section for the last sight of me. In a few weeks there will be nothing but rotting flesh and bones left in this wooden box. I left this Earth a long time ago, I'm not in there. My old body’s wrapped in a white shroud; it covers my dead, crushed bones. You can’t see that my feet were smashed when I fell to the ground causing my knees to buckle as my thigh bones snapped and popped out of the skin, crushing my hips – these are the details Aunty Gossips-A-Lot wants to really hear. The women crowd around the body, some crying real tears, others pretending now getting that final look of my face.

My face... what have they done to my face? It looks as if they’ve put foundation on it – what the fuck! I’m not Russell Brand’s younger brother. My fingers trace the outline of this done- up face...the curved nose...my light brown beard... No traces of the fall show on my face. My body was washed, finally making it pure for my final journey.

Mum comes to my coffin with my sister Asiya.

“Why did he do this? Why did my Adi do this to me?” Mum wails.

Her body heaves, the sobs rise from deep inside her to form a high-pitched scream. A chilling sound comes from her mouth. It comes from the place where only a mother whose child has gone before her feels the depth of her pain: it’s a dark chasm. The pain will never end. Her voice is hoarse, but eventually that screech will become a silent alarm that will always ring inside her. It’ll never go. She’ll carry it forever, even when people have stopped asking her how she’s coping.

She sways leaning on Asiya for support. They both nearly tumble to the floor; women on either side hold them up. Their bloodshot eyes can barely open from the consuming tears. They’ve sat in this mosque for the past three days offering prayers for my soul. Now they’re faced with my body.

Mum leans on the coffin. She strokes my face as she says prayers. She pleads for forgiveness for me furiously. I can see visions passing through her mind – the day I was born, the first time I tried running away from home, my marriage and children that’ll never happen – they come in crashing waves and then the tears on top of them.

I’m standing next to her, in between her and my baby sister – the one who could irritate the hell out of me, but the same cute little girl I could never see with tears in her eyes – and here they both are, eyes dimmed, bodies weak and strangers staring at their grief.

My darling mother looks older than I remember...which was only three days ago...her hair is greyer than I remember. Her face has lines that I don’t recall. I stroke her hair, just by the temple. She would never have left the house without dying it. Mum would never have let the world see her like that. She’s been dying her hair forever, since even before she needed to. I think she just enjoyed paying her hair that attention. The first time I saw Mum dying her hair was when I was about 11 and I was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. I thought she looked crazy painting her head with some black oil in a bottle, deep in concentration while trying to hum some Bollywood tune. Then she noticed me when she looked in the mirror.

“Adil. Go away. You’re putting me off”, she shouted at me. As she barked a little bit of black dye fell on the white bathroom mat, she swore – at me and herself, I think.

I carry on stroking my mum’s hair. I try to tell her I’m fine now. Her favourite baby boy is fine. That lying in her arms that last night for a little while, even though I was in my twenties was peaceful for that moment. I know I’ll never do it again, but you eased my spirit for a while. But Mum it was never enough. I was just restless. Nothing was enough. Everything was too much. The world could cope with me. I couldn’t cope with the world. There was too much pressure. Too many thoughts in my head. It’s like I could journey to the centre of the Earth, figure out in-depth scientific puzzles, but in the morning I couldn’t remember if I’d brushed my teeth or not. I saw too many things that moved amongst us, that others couldn’t. It terrified me. I couldn’t figure out what was real and what wasn’t. Maybe where I sat in front of the TV everyday wasn’t real. Time isn’t real. Maybe where I am now is the reality. Yes I failed life’s test on Earth in some people’s eyes, but in mine I won. I got my peace of mind. I won Mum.

I know you loved me the most though. That’s why I know you won’t ever get over this. The night I left I was restless and I crawled into Mum’s bed because Dad was at work. She stirred and asked me what was wrong. I told her I couldn’t sleep. She told me to say my prayers and I would eventually fall asleep. Mum stroked my hair thinking it’d put me to sleep like when I was a child. She drifted off to sleep again.

It didn’t. I went back to me room.

Nothing eased my mind anymore: not drugs, not sex and not talking to Allah. The restlessness was like ants crawling up your feet, it was just this constant irritation below the surface of the skin; so close it felt like an itch, too far when I scratched it. I wanted to let out this deep scream and punch walls and shit, but I knew that wouldn’t change anything. I would still feel the same in the morning: a failure. I failed at everything: I couldn’t get a job, I couldn’t work out what I wanted to be, and I couldn’t even be a good son to you. I was such a bastard! I said some nasty things to you. I couldn’t even just be me. I could never be honest and say that I liked doing things you would thought were sinful.

Dear Allah, I'm sorry for the pain I've caused them, all this torment and wondering why I did it and where they went wrong in their hearts and minds. Please give them strength and comfort.

“Don’t take my brother’s body away. I’ll never see him again if you do,” Asiya screams as they roll the coffin to the men’s portion of the mosque to perform the funeral rites.

Asiya, jaan. Don’t do this. I wish I could put my arms around her and comfort her. Tell her it’ll be alright. I won’t be able to tease her when she’s having her make-up done on her wedding day, tell her she looks like that woman from 101 Dalmatians, that her husband will hate her moustache and her big fat arse. I’ll never be able to pretend to be happy and hide the tears as she leaves the wedding hall and gets into the limo to be a part of his family now. I won’t be able to tell her that she was the best, most annoying baby sister ever. I know I was supposed to be your rock, your older brother and be there for you when Mum and Dad didn’t understand. I just couldn’t sis. I couldn’t do it anymore.

I’m sorry.

Please understand.

And don’t you dare shout at Mum when you have your first fight that’ll you do what Adil did. If you do that I’ll haunt you. I’ll pinch you and bug you like I did when you were trying to read your Sweet Valley High books.

I watch my dad’s face as people come up to him and my brother offering their condolences. Dad lowers his gaze and says that it’s the will of Allah. Imran, my best mate – the dude who was my twin from another mother – goes up to him: “I'm sorry I wasn’t there for Adil. I’ll never forgive myself for not picking up his call that night.”

Dad takes a deep breath in.

Exhales.

The tears held back. A nervous smile on his face because he wants to get away from this day – the worst day of his life. “What’s happened has happened,” I hear the strain in Dad’s voice. He’s trying to give an answer to a situation he never ever imagined himself in. I mean, what do you say when someone says: “I’m sorry for the loss of your son”? They can’t be sorry, only I can. And I am, for the pain I caused them but not for what I did.

I was always harsh on Dad. I didn’t get how much he cared for me, for all of us. I just thought of him as this embarrassing man who always wore V-neck sweaters with a blazer – he always stood out in a crowd. He was always banging on about some political issue or wanting to get into discussions about what he read in The Times. I always felt like a failure whenever I was around him. Dad was born and raised here – the first wave of the immigrants – the coloured ones. He lived in a time when the choices you made weren’t your choices and it was easier. You were told what you were going to study, you were told who you were going to marry and then your wife told you what you would eat. Maybe he did struggle with things but he always fell back to doing his duty to his family.

From as far back as I can remember Dad used to always be angry at me. He wouldn’t shout – he was too refined and refrained to act like that, he would just be curt and it was like he was calling me stupid without actually saying it. I always think I used to annoy him. The first time I realised this was when we went to Brighton when I was about 8 or 9 – on one of those community mosque trips. The aunties all made sandwiches, kebabs, samosas, biryani – the usual. The oldies all plonked themselves on the pebbly beach eating their Paki-picnic. The other kids all dashed straight to the sea. Even though it was typically cold English weather I stood there mesmerised by the brownish-green tinge of the water. And the way the waves crashed against the pier with the big, fat seagulls swooping in trying to steal a piece of Aunty Ruksana’s homemade chicken samosa. We only spent a couple of hours there, enough time for the mums to dip their toes in the freezing water, the dads to discuss all the political events back home and for us to get brain-freeze from the ice-lollies we convinced our parents to buy. I had so much fun that day, it was the first time I’d seen the sea. I wanted to stay there forever, on that pebble-beach. Life was still, beautiful. There were no pressures, no one pushing or pulling me.

Dad called us to get our stuff and get on the coach. Everyone got on, I ignored him. I pretended I couldn’t hear him and started walking into the water. I thought – stupidly – that the deeper I went in the less chance he’d reach me. Dad, being a champion swimmer jumped into the water – I was knee-deep which to him was like ankle-deep – and grabbed me by the back of my neck, “You silly boy. Why did you ignore me? Were you deliberately trying to kill yourself?” I tried to fight back but he quietly reminded me that everyone was watching me and I didn’t really want to embarrass myself in front of everybody now, did I? Sulkily I gave in. I ran onto the bus and into my mother’s arms. She playfully chided me for doing something so foolish. Dad was quiet all the way back home. From then on things were always like that with Dad, I don’t know what he saw in me – was I too rebellious even then?

Dad tries desperately to walk towards Mum and Asiya. At that moment I see him how others saw him – a refined Pakistani man who spent his life trying to teach us the importance of education. He always spoke gently to us, though Mum knew how to get him angry. She was the shouter, he was the explainer. I remember playing them off each other. Everyone thought he was a weak man because he had such a loud wife, but he wasn’t. He’s the strength. The backbone of this family.

Dad looks at the floor; he lets out a huge breath of air, releasing what would have been tears. Someone speaks to him, his eyes well up, and he looks away before he cracks. He can’t break. His family’s already broken, if he does too then who will put them back together.

I’ve seen him do the same thing since I was a child. Like when his dad and mum died, he did the same thing. I knew he wanted to cry, but he couldn’t, or he thought his family would crumble. He could’ve cried and we would’ve understood. We wouldn’t have thought less of him. I always felt like I’d let him down a little cos I didn’t become a lawyer like him. I did try. I tried for a year-and-a-half after uni to get a job. It just didn’t happen. I could see disappointment in his eyes, like I hadn’t done enough for it. Those things don’t really matter now I suppose.

In the men’s section, rows of young and old men stand in shalwar kameez or jeans. Some I recognise from school, college or hanging out at Twilight nightclub. They’re all here. I’m surprised. Half of them hadn’t even spoken to me in years. Most of them rest their hands just below their naval, heads bowed, skullcaps dusted off and in place. Some have their hands in their jacket pockets. No one dares break a tear. Most of them don’t want to be here on a Tuesday afternoon. Death reminds them too much of what they should be doing:

Coming to the mosques on Friday.

Fasting.

Praying five times a day.

No drinking.

Or smoking.

And definitely no fucking.

Oh sure, they’ll abandon the sins for a while, some may even go a week without them. When they look at my face they see their own mortality and remember what I did – the choices in front of them.

But... there’s always a big one.

Their girlfriend/fuck buddy calls them, tells them that they want them to come over for hug cos they’re going through bad shit right now and really need him. The image of my rotting, dead face starts to fade and resistance towards their urges becomes more futile. You know how the rest goes...

These people standing here, praying for me and remembering me will forget. My big brother Hasan won’t forget. None of my family will. I’ve changed them forever. To the others I’ll become a faded memory. They might remember when they see my parents in town. Or when they casually enquire “how are Hasan, Adil, Asiya?” and then they’ll remember...there’s no Adil he killed himself.

Dad stands at the head of my old body, head bowed, hands raised whispering a prayer only audible to me and to Allah: “The Ever-Merciful, the Ever-Compassionate, the All-Knowing, please forgive my beautiful son for his transgressions and his actions. Please grant him a safe passage into the Hereafter. Sweet Lord please forgive me for not taking care of the gift you gave me in the guise of my son, for not keeping him safe from the demons that exist in this world, for failing my duty as a parent. We were the same... I should’ve understood, gone easier on him... been there. I failed. I completely failed. Any sin of my son’s give them to me, I shall bear them on the Day of Judgement. It’s because of my past, my bad actions this happened to him. O Allah, you pardon and love pardoning. So, pardon him. Give me strength, guidance and faith to get through this time and help keep my family together.” He closes his eyes to stop tears from escaping.

I kiss the top of my dad’s head, just below where his hat sits. I never did that when I was there but now it just feels right.

Hasan puts his arm around my cousin Walid’s shoulder. Deep down they’d both thought there might come a time where I might do something like kill myself, but they can’t believe I did it. Hasan is secretly relieved that it’s over. He always found me – what’s the most politically correct way to say it now I'm dead... too much to handle. I loved him, never admitted it enough, even to myself, but we just never gelled. He was a rocker; I liked my R&B.

When I was about 14 and Has was about 16, I remember us falling out because I said I liked Liverpool and he was a massive Chelsea supporter. We didn’t talk for two months. Mum was the middleman. We still walked to school together and the silence could only be broken in dire circumstances: you’re about to walk in front of a car; if you’re going to a family event and it’ll embarrass your parents if you’re seen not talking; and if it was a special occasion like Eid or a birthday and our parents forced us to.

The service is over. All these people here have said all the prayers they can say for my body. The rest happens in my grave.

I didn’t plan to die. I didn’t get up and walk to my death. That’s not what I was doing. I left Mum’s room and was lying on my bed looking around my bedroom for something to do, something to stop my discomfort, the frustrating rage inside me. I tried calling some mates to talk but no one answered. The curtain was open and the full moon looked beautiful. It lit up the trees outside our home. The room looked so small, claustrophobic. I got up from my bed. I washed and said fajr prayers to do something. The walls were closing in on me, bearing down on me. I could feel the pressure in my ears like when you’re on a plane and they just won’t pop. I felt stifled. It was all too much, my footie, my prayer mat, my messed-up life.

I thought, you know, I’ve never walked outside at this time of night, even though I’ve always wanted to. I remembered my psychiatrist saying that if things got too much to go for a walk. So I did.

I headed towards the town centre. The street lights were still on. Only the night-workers, early birds and dog walkers were around. The cool breeze you only get at that time of the morning was clearing my head, easing my restlessness. I didn’t think of anything. I walked without aim; without purpose, with no real thoughts.

The wind had started to pick up. I reached for my packet of fags. I tried to light it but my hands were cold. I lit it and took that first drag. The smoke hit my lungs and carried its relief through my bloodstream. My face tingled. It reminded me of my first fag I had with Zee in year nine. He’d nicked one of his dad’s bennies. We left school at lunchtime and went to the nearby play area. We coughed our way through that first fag, I remember the roughness of it hitting the back of my throat. I didn’t have another cig until I was at college and sleeping with this girl, she offered me one and it felt like the right thing to do.

A taxi driver went past as I was walking along. He slowed down to see who I was in the rear-view mirror. There are times when you can just read the minds of others even though you can’t see their face. Luckily I was wearing a hoodie and it covered most of my face.

I kept walking. The wind had started to pick up. It was early though none of the shops were open and I didn’t know what to do. I saw the car park and thought if I go in there I can at least walk around and be out of the wind and cold.

I didn’t even think of where I was walking. I just kept walking up the ramps and ended up at the top of the car park – five storeys up. Somehow I’d got past the security guard – maybe he was asleep – I don’t remember how.

The moon sat above me. It was luminescent. How easy it is for you moon. You don’t have to answer to anyone. You don’t have to worry about free will, or what’s written for you. You just carry on reflecting the light of the sun onto the Earth.

You are just you.

Me? I couldn’t be either. No one could know I smoked, done drugs, got completely hammered, slept with more girls than you got fingers. I wanted to tell my mum that my girlfriend in uni had to have an abortion cos of the “shame” it would bring the family. If only I could’ve spoken to Mum, maybe it would’ve been okay. She always said I never talked about what was going on in my head and that she was scared to ask me anything. She said she wanted to listen. Maybe all those things I’ve done would’ve been okay. Nah, who am I kidding? I had to pretend to be who I was. I never knew which one I was going to be: Adil or Ads.

I got stuck.

Maybe this was the way it was written for me.

Mum and Dad wanted me to become more religious. That Islam would solve all my problems. I read more. I studied the texts. I spoke to different scholars – very few of them in English, most times in halting Punjabi. They never understood my lifestyle. They just said that if I got married it would all be okay. I knew it wouldn’t. They never helped cos they didn’t understand. No one did. No one got that I loved my religion and I loved the way I lived my life. All the burdens weighed heavy on my shoulders.

Instead both sides made me feel guilty. Islam said all those things I did were wrong. The other side said that I should fuck what my parents say cos I’m a grown man. I became sick. I was sick. I am sick of it all. Those moments where I couldn’t be me. If I couldn’t do that, there was no point to me anymore.

I smoked another fag. The stars were still shining. I sat on the ledge dangling my feet. Tell me something: is that world worth it? The choices you make – to work, to eat, to sleep – it’s all pointless right? We have been sucked into all this crap. We go to school, we learn shit. We work like bitches to afford things we never get a chance to enjoy. We have children that we end up worrying about. We get old and can’t enjoy anything cos we’re past it. Society tells us what we should do, what moral code we should live by. Do many of us end up happy? I wasn’t.

These thoughts battled inside me. I pleaded with Allah to answer me in some way. To speak to me. Tell me the truth so that I would know once and for all.

All I remember is standing up on the wall. I was holding onto the pillar. The cold air hit me full-on, I nearly stumbled backwards. The night sky was starting to change to day – the blackness of the sky was changing to grey as the rain started to fall. The Imam told me once that when it rains the heavens are open and Allah answers your prayers; rain is a blessing from Him. I decided if I walked off it would be God’s sign.

So I stepped.

I stood midair for a split second. Like I was standing on a tightrope a hair’s width. Then I floated forward, heading down fast to the concrete to the akhirah.