Mahdi Ahmed

Scripting waves of imagination from the sunny side of the Maldives.

Posts tagged ‘05 August 2022’

THREE YEARS WITHOUT YOU

It’s been three years, Bappa.

Three years since that early morning of August 5th, 2022, when the world seemed to hold its breath… and never let it out again.

I was there beside you in that cold, sterile ER. The hum of machines. The smell of antiseptic. When your vitals began to fade, they wheeled you into the resuscitation room—right in front of me. The door was left slightly open, as if it didn’t dare close.

I could see your feet on the bed. Every time they pressed the paddles to your chest, your body fought back in violent jolts, your feet lifting from the bed with each surge of electricity. I wanted to run in. I wanted to scream. But I stood there, trapped inside my own skin, my hands trembling, my heart begging the clock to turn back.

Forty-five minutes. That’s how long they tried to bring you back. Forty-five minutes of hope and horror, braided so tightly I couldn’t breathe. And then at 07:33 AM—it stopped. One moment they were fighting for you, the next… silence. An ending so abrupt it felt like a blade.

Three years. People say time heals. But it doesn’t. Not really. Time only teaches you how to walk with the wound. The emptiness doesn’t shrink—it just learns to hide in the folds of your days. Until a smell, a sound, a memory slices you open again. Some memories of you sit quietly in corners, like the cane you left behind. Like the flip-flops you wore the last time we rushed you to the ER. And through it all, what remains untouched—what never fades—is a love that stays forever, quietly holding everything you left behind.

Your dreams still live here. The big ones, the stubborn ones, the ones you never got to chase. Some fulfilled. Others, sadly, taking far longer to fulfill than we first dreamed.

I wish you had laughed more. I wish you had seen more. I wish I had said the words I thought I had time to say.

Three years, Bappa.

And I still miss you in ways words cannot carry.

I love you, Bappa.

May Allah grant you the highest place in Jannat al-Firdaus, where there is no pain, only peace and light. May Allah bless your soul for the love, prayers, and dreams you carried.

Amen.

EMBRACING SILENT SORROW

In the quiet hours of August 5th, 2022, as dawn crept upon me, I stood in the sterile, unforgiving cold of the ER. I watched helplessly as the very essence of your life, once so robust and commanding, dwindled rapidly before my eyes. When they whisked you away to the defib room, I stood by, the door ajar, catching glimpses of your feet jolting with each shock—a sight that shattered me. Forty-five excruciating minutes passed, each one a lifetime, until the doctor emerged at 07:33 AM with words that shattered my world: you were gone. At that moment, I was frozen, every part of me screaming in disbelief as I lost all sense of reality.

Holding your hand inside the  confines of the ambulance, a grim procession to the morgue felt like an eternity of torture. Your face, etched with an unnatural stillness, mocked my fervent pleas for you to wake. The minutes stretched into an endless, bleak desert, each grain of sand a fresh pang of sorrow. And then, the earth closed over you, burying a part of my soul with you.

Two years have passed, yet the wound remains as fresh as ever, the memories as raw as the day they were born. Your stories, Dad, reverberate in my mind as if you were here, narrating them once more. Tales of your youth, your pride in being the 40th to join the police force, your firsthand accounts of the pivotal moments in our nation’s history—from the unruly onslaught of Amin Didi to British negotiations for independence to the uprisings in the South. These tales, so vibrant and compelling, are etched into the core of my being. My greatest regret is not recording your experiences as grim and golden chapters of Maldivian history.

I can still vividly hear my siblings’ and neighbors’ laughter echoing through the yard as we played, all while you dutifully served in the police force. The unmistakable roar of your motorcycle would send us into a frenzy, causing us to scatter in all directions.

Even in your twilight years, hobbling with a cane, whenever the doctor gave you a clean bill of health, your face would light up with a proud blush. You’d break into a grin, showcasing your vigor with an impromptu display of bending and stretching, as if you were about to compete in the Olympics. Watching you attempt those athletic moves was both heartwarming and amusing—a bittersweet reminder of your relentless spirit, blending the vigor of your youth with the tender fragility of your age.

Your absence is an abyss that words can scarcely bridge. I ache for your presence, your wisdom, and the indomitable strength you embodied. On the previous day at the hospital, as the second septic shock struck in the X-ray room, I was there, holding you, placing you on the stretcher with trembling hands and a heart gripped by fear for your precious life. Yet, you never relinquished your faith in living. That night, in the ER, as the third shock took hold while I stood beside you, you clung to life with a tenacity that seemed both sacred and sorrowful. My very essence drained away as your courage stood as a poignant proof of the incredible spirit you possessed, even as destiny slowly pulled you away from us.

Dad, as I pour my heart out, it aches with longing and sorrow. Your memory, a heartrending reminder of the deep imprint you left on my life, is always with me. Although I failed to archive your stories, they reside within me, a silent homage to the extraordinary man you were.

With every ounce of my love and a heart filled with longing, I will persist in embracing silent sorrow.