My Grandfather’s Death [extract from my memoir]

Me with my grandfather 5 years before he passed away.

My grandfather, who brought me up as his own child, passed away today 33 years ago. I was 14 and seeing him take his final breath had a lasting impression on me as a youngster.

Azerbaijani culture has elaborate rituals around death. Below is a short snippet from that chapter. If you’d like to read more, here’s the link to my book.

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Next morning, as I stood mesmerised by the ranks of crying women in the drawing room, I wondered if they were all truly sad that Baba had gone. Or were they grieving their own losses? Their sadness pervaded the air. I was feeling lost and empty standing in the doorway, when Great Uncle Hussein flung our front door open and strode in with a group of other men waiting behind him. As soon as the women heard him proclaim: ‘Allahuma salli ala Muhammad wa Ali Muhammad,’ they parted like a wave, allowing him the space to walk over and stand by Baba’s body.

The crying subsided while Great Uncle Hussein recited a prayer from the Koran. Only when he had finished did the rest of the men, led by my uncles, enter the room. Baba was indeed lying in an open coffin. Without taking off the sheets draped over him, the men secured the sides of the coffin, and hoisted it onto their shoulders. Then they walked proudly out, as if they were carrying a king on his throne. Everyone followed the procession into the street, where one of our large carpets lay on the dusty ground. The men lowered Baba’s body in the coffin and stood facing Uncle Hussein.

‘Allahu Akbar,’ intoned Great Uncle Hussein. All the men knelt on the carpet and pressed their foreheads to the ground. Great Uncle Hussein spoke again, and they all stood up.

‘Allahu Akbar,’ they proclaimed, then knelt again in smooth synchronisation, as if they had practiced these moves for weeks.

Great Uncle Hussein towered over them, like a puppeteer, pulling invisible strings with his lilting voice.

Huddled with some of the female mourners by the entrance gate, I held my breath in awe. Eventually, the men lifted the coffin and put it in the back of a large truck. My uncles climbed up and sat next to Baba, while other male relatives and neighbours piled into their cars. I tried to follow, but someone pulled me back.

‘Only men go to the cemetery today.’

I was shocked. How could Mama and Nana stand crying but not make any attempt to follow Baba to his final resting place? I never got to ask such questions. As soon as the dust on the road had settled, the women were ushered into a large military marquee that had been hired and erected that morning, blocking one end of our street. Normally, during a wake, men would gather in the marquee to drink tea, while women cried indoors.

Apart from a gentle buzz of conversation as we arranged ourselves along the tables therein, the atmosphere was subdued. Our guests did not stint themselves, however, as they piled their plates with the salads, cheeses and breads from platters waiting on the tables. I looked around the five long tables with the loyal relatives and close neighbours who had taken turns to mourn in the drawing room and help around tirelessly. They chewed enthusiastically and drank the cherry compote that Nana had made the previous summer. As some young men served kalapir and dolma from heavy trays, women turned towards Khatira Khala, the cook Nana hired to prepare food for 300 people a day, to show their appreciation. Nana spent a lot of money to buy the best produce available; as per custom, friends and relatives made donations to support the family.

My crowded mind made me feel tired and without any appetite. I wished I was closer to Mama or Nana who were surrounded by guests. I sat next to Amaliya Khala, who ruffled my hair and spooned dolma on my plate.

‘Don’t be sad. We will all die one day,’ she said, as if that would reassure me.