I confess, I am not a library person. I like OWNING books and reading them over and over again.

My father encouraged my siblings and I to read … and we read voraciously. When our hobby became an extremely expensive one, he didn’t turn to the library to feed our appetite for reading. (Maybe there weren’t that many good ones in my time? I don’t know…) He took us to a quaint second-hand bookstore in a quiet housing estate in Singapore called Serangoon. It was a small outfit with wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling book shelves. The owner set up his well-worn desk outside where several baskets filled with even more used books and magazines were placed. I loved trips to that store.

I have vivid memories of that store and when I found an old picture of it online (see above), I was transported!

When my daughter was born, I used to get completely stressed out, worrying about how to entertain her. Motherhood did not come naturally to me – I had to grow into it and I confess, it took a while before I felt comfortable with being a mother. There were days when I was at a complete loss – Itsy Bitsy Spider had been done to death so what was there to do for the remaining 8 hours till her dad came home? I was (am?) a bookworm who didn’t like dealing with people, what more babies, so… I did what I did best.

I read.

Ms Marz must have been about a month and a half when I read to her “No David!” by David Shannon. It just about blew me away when she paid attention so I kept reading. I joined book clubs and when we left the USA for Singapore, I kept the supply up. I had worried that living in Pakistan would mean fewer books for Marz – she was used to getting some 15 to 20 new books a month.

But, alhamdulillah, I was delighted to find second-hand bookstores galore. I’ve been able to get a wide variety of books for Marz, from fiction to science to geography at a fraction of their normal prices.

My daughter is an avid reader, ma shaa Allah, and trips to the bookstores have been frequent so these days, I can’t help but think about my late father. I remember how he would look on indulgently as we rummaged for our favourite reads.

I remember how it was he who planted and nurtured my passion for books.

I am glad I am passing it on.

It was the eve of `Eid and the flat was still messy and dusty. I had just half an hour before Marz’s bed time and I knew that I would nod off with her, so I was desperate to make sure that the apartment was halfway decent before that. Inwardly reproaching myself for having left things at the last minute, I wiped, swept and mopped feverishly.

My two-year-old followed me around, rag and sponge in hand trying to be of some help. Our last stop was the kitchen. She liked it there and now that she was over the “Ummi, what is this?” phase, she often launched into the “Who bought this, Ummi?” mode. This time, though, the chat turned out to be a little different.

“Ummi, who bought this bin?” Maryam asked pointing to the white trash can next to the sink.

I turned briefly and told her, “Your Baba did… He bought it at Walmart in Wisconsin.” I smiled briefly, remembering that Maryam was born there. But there really was no time for walking down memory lane… I continued scouring the sink like there was no tomorrow.

“Ummi, who bought those bottles?” she piped up again, pointing at her milk bottles.

“I did… I bought them for you at Kiddy Palace, remember?” I said, thinking that I really was not in the mood for this conversation.

“Ummi, who bought that oven?” she said pointing to the large oven in the corner.

“Oh, I don’t know Maryam. That belongs to the flat owner. We are just renting here, you know.” I really had too much to do.

“Ummi, who bought that small oven?” she asked unrelentingly, pointing to the small grill oven my mother had bought.

“Jiddah bought it for us because that big oven does not work…”

“Ummi…” I bit my tongue and stopped myself from telling her to hush. “Ummi, who bought that microwave oven?”

I stopped wiping and any annoyance I felt at her incessant questions faded away right then and there. My father had bought us the microwave oven when we set up house here in Singapore. It was going to be my second `Eid without him … he had died a couple of weeks short of the previous `Eid.

“Jidd bought it, Marz.” Strangely enough, the little live wire fell silent too.

When she did speak, she said earnestly, “I love Jidd, Ummi.”

“I love him too.”

“I want to hug Jidd.”

“Well, make du`aa, OK? inshaa Allah we can all see and hug Jidd in Jannah.”

“Ummi?”

“Yes, Marz?”

“Where is Jannah?”

I dropped the rag and picked her up… the house could wait.

It will be Ramadhan soon inshaa Allah. This blessed month means a great deal to me and to every other Muslim – it is a month unlike any other. It is a time that is solely for `ibadah and for good deeds.

Ramadhan is also the month in which my father passed away. I still remember every detail of his final days and I remember spending my first `Eid without him.

You never forget the important people in your life… and you never stop loving them. My father was a devoted father and husband, always putting the family first. I used to tell him that he fussed too much, worried too much about us. I felt he needed to let go and not fret because we could take care of ourselves, but I suppose he was just that kind of man.

When I was growing up, he pushed my siblings and I to work hard at school, sparing no expense and effort. He would take us wherever we had to be – tuition, extra-curricular activities – no matter how busy or tired he was. When I started working, he would always drive me to the office. I often felt bad about this, but my father would not have it any other way.

The only time I was completely on my own was when I moved to the US after being married in 2000. It was tough because my dad had been diagnosed with cancer just before the wedding. I stayed there a year and gave birth to my daughter in September 2001 in Wisconsin. My father was beside himself – when my husband called him to tell him the good news, he could hardly contain his delight. It took three months before my husband was able to get a job transfer and we were able to return to Singapore.

I still remember the day we arrived – it was about 1 a.m. that January day when we reached my parents’ house. I saw as we pulled up the drive way that the porch and living room lights were on. The front door was open and my father was standing there, leaning on his cane. I rushed out of the car and took baby Marz to him.

He just smiled and truly, I had never seen my father so happy. He just stared at his first grand-daughter and positively beamed, eyes crinkled up with so much joy. He could hardly speak. He later told me that he was so overwhelmed with gratitude, for Allah had answered his prayers – for he had beseeched Him countless times to bring us back home. It wasn’t easy returning to Singapore, but seeing my father’s boundless joy, I knew it was more than worth it.

My father died less than a year later … to this day I thank Allah for giving us the means to return before it was too late. To this day, I thank Allah for giving me Marz because I think she was my one and only real gift to my father.

During that time, we would visit my parents often – he loved Marz’s company. Marz and I would spend afternoons at their place and my husband would drop by after work. We would have dinner and then go back to our place just after Isha prayers. He always insisted on driving us home – he would do this even when his body ached from the effects of the chemotherapy. He would drop us off at our block and we would wave at him as he pulled out of the parking lot before we made our way to our apartment.

My father had to go back and forth to the hospital over the year, but always returned home looking well on the road to recovery. Some of his friends used to jokingly remark, “Are you really sick? This is not the face of a sick man!” He always managed to look well … my aunt told me Marz had given him a new lease of life, a reason to fight.

Our routine and hospital visits went on for several months until my father took a turn for the worse in October 2002. This time, Allah decreed that his admission to the hospital would be his last. He had had a third cycle of chemotherapy and a second bone marrow transplant, but every effort the doctors made led to more complications. His kidneys began to fail and then his heart weakened so badly that he could hardly breathe without his body heaving painfully. His body could no longer take the beating of the illness and the drugs.

Word got round and friends and relatives rushed to see him. They had all just seen him a month earlier and were shocked and shaken to see how his condition had deteriorated. Many – grown men even – burst into tears upon seeing him. One said, “He was FINE last month! What have they done to him?”

One Friday in Ramadhan, the doctors told us that my father’s heart was just not doing its job. He was not getting enough oxygen and he needed to be put on a life support machine. They tried to be as kind as they could, but we were really grasping at straws. Without the machine, he would surely die and with it, he had but a five percent chance of survival. We did what we thought he would have wanted – we went with the machine. Five percent was better than nothing.

We were all given a few minutes with him before they sedated him. Deep down inside, we must all have known that this was going to be the last time we would see him conscious. We asked the doctors to allow us to bring Marz in to see him – children below 10 are not allowed into the Intensive Care Unit and she was barely over a year old.

We all stood around my father giving him words of comfort and encouragement, telling him not to be afraid… telling him all would be well. We brought Marz in to see him and they held hands for the last time.

Then we had to go.

Saturday came and he showed no signs of improvement. After iftar, at my mother’s house, my husband, brother and sister went back to the hospital. I had to go home to the flat to put Marz to bed.

I had just finished giving her her bath when I received a call. My cousin told me that I had to be by my father… he was slipping. I dropped my daughter off at my mother’s house where my mum’s helper would watch her and, dry-eyed and feeling completely numb, made my way to the ICU.

I entered his room and saw a crowd of family and friends. When I went into my father’s room, I saw my sister, eyes red, sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to read from the Qur’an. My mother, calm and composed told me to read and to say shahadah in my father’s ear.

The minutes passed and I saw from the machine that my father’s heartbeat was decreasing, slowly but surely. I stepped back and looked at the people in the room – aunts, uncles, cousins and a few close friends, faces taut with grief.

Then I caught sight of a brother, Muhammad, whom my father cared about a great deal. When his first child was born, his wife had experienced complications and it was my mum adn dad who cared for little Aishah in her early days. It seemed as though Muhammad wanted to go to my father, but could not as my aunts were close by. I gestured briefly at him and he nodded. I told my aunts to make way and then he took his place by my father.

He bent down and said the shahadah several times and then raised his voice, reciting Ayat ul Kursi. I remember thinking at that moment, “It sounds so melodic. It is as if he is lulling Abah to sleep.” Brother Muhammad repeated the shahadah and then stepped back. It felt strangely calm.

I looked at the machine and I saw my father’s heartbeat falling, this time drastically… 48, 34, 28, 20…

I felt everyone stiffening. The air was thick with tension. I heard my sister catching her breath.

Then the line went flat. My father had passed away.

It took a while for it to sink in.

I remember thanking Muhammad.

I remember my mother briskly tell the my husband and brother to take over the arrangements with the hospital… she had to get home as her iddah had begun.

I remember her telling all the ladies to make their way back to our house to prepare for the funeral the next morning.

I remember asking her who would stay by Abah.

I remember her saying that Abah was gone and that his body was not him. It was just his body, a shell.

I remember not shedding any tears.

Later that night, I gave up trying to spend the night at my mum’s. Marz could not sleep – she wanted only her crib so I had to go back to my flat. My uncle took my dad’s car and drove us home. It was a quiet journey… what was there to say at a time like this?

Then we arrived at my block and said salaam. I got out of the car and stood by the car park, just as I used to when my father drove us home. As my uncle pulled away, he turned to us.

I waved at him and he waved back.

My heart went cold as the hurt came rushing in. It was then that it really hit me.

My father was never coming back.