To Be Loved by You Was Part of Growing Up – In loving memory of Masarrat Kobatte.

Heard about the quote, “The ground beneath her feet slipped away,” and truly never understood what it meant until a random day in October, at 2:48 p.m.

Time stopped for a while.

Denial was my first reaction. I read the text again and again, looking at her husband’s name, her son’s name, trying to convince myself that there must be someone else with the same name as hers, whose son had the same name, whose husband had the same name too. Surely, it couldn’t be her.

But it was.

And suddenly the tears started flowing without me even realising, so many memories came floating back, one after another, as though my mind was desperately trying to hold on to every little thing it could remember about her.

Her smile, always so welcoming and lively. Her setting the table. Her feeding me my lunch. Her applying Nivea to my lips on a cold, dry school morning. Her sitting at her sewing machine, stitching our clothes. Her preparing a special menu for me because I wouldn’t eat anything non-veg. Her reading her monthly digest while I tried to sneak a peek at what she was reading. The different flavours of milk she made me try, even when I was so picky. Holding her hand while crossing the busy streets of Dubai.

And so many more memories that I could go on and on about, memories that seemed so ordinary back then but feel like little treasures now.

All my earliest memories are with her, in her home, with her family. Their home was a part of our everyday lives for years. It was one of those places you didn’t need a reason to visit; you just went, because it was a part of your life. A place that held so much of my childhood that I don’t think I even realised how attached I was to it.

Last year, when I visited their new home, I told her, “This doesn’t feel like I’ve come to your place.”

I don’t think I understood my own words back then. It wasn’t the house I had grown attached to. It was everything that had happened within those walls. It was the familiar faces, the little routines, the memories I had made there, and, of course, her.

So many of my earliest memories are of her taking care of us. Being kind and caring came so naturally to her. Perhaps being the eldest daughter of the house had taught her to be both soft-hearted and strong-headed. She was compassionate, warm, selfless, and lively. She had this way of making you feel welcome without having to do anything extraordinary. And even when we met after years, the warmth and familiarity were still exactly the same.

I’m so glad she was the person with whom I got to make all these memories. The things she did for us are far too many to put into words. And even if I somehow managed to write them all down, I don’t think I could ever make someone else feel what those little things meant to me. Some things can be remembered, described, and written about, but never quite felt by someone who wasn’t there.

I never really knew how close you were to us, or how much I loved you. Perhaps because it was never something I had to think about. Your presence was simply a part of my life, so natural that I never stopped to measure its importance. You were there in my childhood, in our everyday lives, in all those little moments that I never knew I’d someday wish I could return to.

Yours is the family I find myself talking about in my everyday life, even when I haven’t texted or called you all in a while. People around me know you without having met you even once. They know your family through my stories, through the way I speak about you all, through all the little things I have carried with me without even realising.

And now, I find myself thinking that I might have to grieve you for more years than the years I got to spend with you.

Perhaps that’s the cruelest thing about losing someone. We don’t always realise the size of their presence while they’re still here. We think there will be more time, another visit, another conversation, another ordinary day that we don’t know we’ll someday wish we could have back. We get so used to people being a part of our lives that we forget to tell them what that really means to us. We assume they’ll know, that there will be another chance to say it, that we can always put it into words some other day.

And then, one day, we’re left with all these words and nowhere to send them.

I’ll miss you.

Thank you for making my childhood so bright, for making me feel so special even before I was old enough to understand what being special meant. Thank you for all the little things you probably never imagined I’d remember, for every act of kindness that stayed with me long after the moment had passed, and for being such a beautiful part of the years I will always look back on.

I wish i had I’d known to tell you all this while you were still here to hear it.

I love you. Always.

And I pray that Allah forgives every shortcoming of yours, accept every good deed, and reward you for every kindness you showed us, including the ones you probably never thought were anything special.

May Allah make your qabr spacious and fill it with noor. May He make it a garden from the gardens of Jannah, surround you with His mercy, and grant you the peace and comfort you so freely gave to the people around you.

May your grave be filled with the love you gave to everyone around you, and may Allah’s mercy be infinitely greater than all the love we could ever send your way.

Ameen, ya Rabb.