Danish’s ears perked up to hear the mosque announcement, and
he stopped reading. I usually ignore
mosque announcements because, in a basti of close to 10,000 people, they more
often than not have nothing to do with my own circle. But I stopped and listened because Danish
wasn’t going to continue his reading until he had heard the announcement.
“Salman the tailor….lives near the recycling area….prayers will be in Daliganj…..Salman the tailor….lives near the recycling area…prayers will be in Daliganj.”
Salman? Salman is one of my best friends in the basti! I started to freak out internally and asked Danish what he had just heard.
“Salman, the tailor who lives near the recycling area…”
“Yes, yes, I know Salman, he’s my friend.”
“He died.”
I pick up the books and tell Danish that the lesson is over. I rush across the basti. In the five minutes it takes for me to get from one side to the other, I pray over and over, “Let me be confused….let it be some other Salman….let there be some confusion about the message.” I think of his wife, his three sons, about the various difficulties they’ve been having. Could it have been a car accident? Could he have done something to himself? I am freaking out as I rush across.
When I got in view of Salman’s home, I saw the red chairs sitting outside, the sure sign of a death in the home. (There is someone who holds onto a few dozen red chairs to set outside the home for the visiting crowds of guests that precede any funeral.) But only seconds later, I caught sight of Salman sitting on his steps. He did not look good, but he was alive. My heart moved back down out of my throat and I prayed a cautious prayer of thanks that my worst fear hadn’t been realized. I asked him what was going on.
“My father…you know his health was not good.”
I can see the body lying inside. Salman, who had just lost his beloved aunt who lives next door to him a month ago, had now lost his father as well.
“Salman the tailor….lives near the recycling area….prayers will be in Daliganj…..Salman the tailor….lives near the recycling area…prayers will be in Daliganj.”
Salman? Salman is one of my best friends in the basti! I started to freak out internally and asked Danish what he had just heard.
“Salman, the tailor who lives near the recycling area…”
“Yes, yes, I know Salman, he’s my friend.”
“He died.”
I pick up the books and tell Danish that the lesson is over. I rush across the basti. In the five minutes it takes for me to get from one side to the other, I pray over and over, “Let me be confused….let it be some other Salman….let there be some confusion about the message.” I think of his wife, his three sons, about the various difficulties they’ve been having. Could it have been a car accident? Could he have done something to himself? I am freaking out as I rush across.
When I got in view of Salman’s home, I saw the red chairs sitting outside, the sure sign of a death in the home. (There is someone who holds onto a few dozen red chairs to set outside the home for the visiting crowds of guests that precede any funeral.) But only seconds later, I caught sight of Salman sitting on his steps. He did not look good, but he was alive. My heart moved back down out of my throat and I prayed a cautious prayer of thanks that my worst fear hadn’t been realized. I asked him what was going on.
“My father…you know his health was not good.”
I can see the body lying inside. Salman, who had just lost his beloved aunt who lives next door to him a month ago, had now lost his father as well.
There’s a conversation that has been stuck in my head a long
time, from when a friend of mine who also lived in a slum expressed the
vulnerable realization that all of her friends were widows. Though this friend had a few years on me, she
was not yet 50, and many of her friends were even younger. Yet the various trials and difficulties that
befall one here had taken their husbands one at a time. It is a very difficult thing to be a widow in
India, and to be a poor widow is especially difficult. These women in my friends’ life had a very
tough time of things.
With Salman’s father’s death, I realize that the mothers of all my friends are in the same boat. Saeed, my language helper, lost his father when he was 10 years old and became the man of the house at that point. Shahmim, my closest friend in the basti and now the primary teacher who works under me, lost his father at the age of 20 while we were living with him. Haleem, my best friend among my neighbors in the room we’ve now been living in for 2.5 years, lost his father when he was about 13. Salman, the first friend I made in the basti, is actually much older than all of them were, only a couple years younger than me. That does not make it an easy thing for him, either. Now all four of my closest friends in the basti have experienced the loss of their father.
Salman, at least, had time to grow into being his own man by the time his father passed. What kind of effect does it have when you lose a father when you’re still half-grown? Many of the boys had already seen their fathers go through years of illness or inability to be fully present in their lives even before they died. And what difference does it make in a community when it’s not only you who is without a father, but many of your friends and neighbors as well?
I don’t really know the answers to those questions. In what feels like many lives ago, my master’s thesis was on the life experiences of students, primarily boys, who appeared to be achieving far below their academic potential. It wasn’t a very good paper, and I hesitate to draw anything from it at all. But in spending time in the lives of these boys, the one thing that stuck out the most was that every single one of them had either lost their father or had him absent for significant portions of their childhood. And that absence appeared to have had a profound and negative effect upon their lives.
I don’t know for sure exactly how all the early deaths of fathers are affecting my community. But all my friends’ moms are widows.
With Salman’s father’s death, I realize that the mothers of all my friends are in the same boat. Saeed, my language helper, lost his father when he was 10 years old and became the man of the house at that point. Shahmim, my closest friend in the basti and now the primary teacher who works under me, lost his father at the age of 20 while we were living with him. Haleem, my best friend among my neighbors in the room we’ve now been living in for 2.5 years, lost his father when he was about 13. Salman, the first friend I made in the basti, is actually much older than all of them were, only a couple years younger than me. That does not make it an easy thing for him, either. Now all four of my closest friends in the basti have experienced the loss of their father.
Salman, at least, had time to grow into being his own man by the time his father passed. What kind of effect does it have when you lose a father when you’re still half-grown? Many of the boys had already seen their fathers go through years of illness or inability to be fully present in their lives even before they died. And what difference does it make in a community when it’s not only you who is without a father, but many of your friends and neighbors as well?
I don’t really know the answers to those questions. In what feels like many lives ago, my master’s thesis was on the life experiences of students, primarily boys, who appeared to be achieving far below their academic potential. It wasn’t a very good paper, and I hesitate to draw anything from it at all. But in spending time in the lives of these boys, the one thing that stuck out the most was that every single one of them had either lost their father or had him absent for significant portions of their childhood. And that absence appeared to have had a profound and negative effect upon their lives.
I don’t know for sure exactly how all the early deaths of fathers are affecting my community. But all my friends’ moms are widows.
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