The Sky Disease, by Qurratul Ain Contractor, Mumbai

Born and raised in Buraidah, Saudi Arabia, and currently residing in Mumbai, India and the Netherlands, Qurratul is a 29-year-old architect and poet currently pursuing her passion for water studies.

“I’m sure we’ll find it on YouTube,” I tell my mother as she struggles with the endless yarns of white cloth that arrived home at first light. 

It’s 5:30 a.m. My mum and I are bending over a phone screen to watch a video titled, “Shrouding the Deceased Woman”. We identify the three pieces of the kafan stitched by my mother’s friend at short notice: one for the bust, one for below the waist, and a head cover. The set included three cloth ties to be used at strategic points. Together, we begin preparing my mother’s aunt, whom we called Phuppi, for her last rites. 

Phuppi passed away early this morning, after a long night of laborious gulping for air like a fish out of water. Mamma held her hand firmly, a guide through the invisible passage opening before her. Between sips of water, closely watching Mamma’s lips, Phuppi repeated after her the prayer of surrender to the Divine. 

Phuppi was a pro at lip-reading. This was how she filled the gaps left by the hearing disability she was born with. All her life, she fought to overcome the speech impediment it caused. Despite the pressing silence on her ears, almost nothing escaped her otherwise sharp senses that could read not only lips, but sense even stories untold. 

Every day, Phuppi prayed that the lockdown would end. 

“How will people eat?” she asked a world more deaf than her. 

Answers to her questions seemed masked in apathy. This was why she had made it clear to us as soon as her test result arrived; she did not want to go to a hospital. With everyone in a mask, she would not be able to understand them. 

Luckily we did not need to wear masks around her, since my parents and I were also infected with the aasmaan beemari, as Phuppi called it– the “sky disease” that had spread everywhere. For thirteen days, her room had been converted into a makeshift ICU, equipped with everything short of a ventilator. My 70-year-old parents and I split nursing responsibilities between us, even as we recovered our own health. As a team we fought against fear and isolation to go about the daunting task of making peace with Death, a guest in our home. All night, we sat praying quietly around Phuppi, in awe of its presence. Afterward, a calm had come over the house. 

With our hearts and minds clear, Mamma and I begin cleaning Phuppi’s hands, then her face, followed by the rest of her body till her feet, doing our best to complete a task that would normally involve up to eight women. My father stands at the entrance to the room, behind the curtain, replacing our tubs of water at regular intervals. 

Family and friends could not be physically present, yet help and support had arrived at every stage. Like the very sky connected us, even as it connected us to the collective grief of all those who had lost loved ones to the aasmaan beemari and all that it brought. 

As Phuppi left home for the last time, her room was filled with the fragrance of Jannat-ul-Firdaus, the highest heaven. What is life, if not a preparation for the moment of death? What is death, if not a sign of the continuation of eternity?   

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(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held October 16, 2020.)

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