eulogy

I had not known her, and one could not consider the possibility that I would be apt to. It is not as if though I am insensitive to her or the rest of my family—we are simply leagues and cultures apart. What else could be done in the face of growth and alteration in two completely different sets of conditions?

I remember quite clearly, as it was only a few days ago, the message from my brother: “she passed away so please make prayer for her.” Would said prayers lack sincerity as she was as anonymous to me as the passersby at a café? I felt little remorse, and as such a little more shame, but neither was sufficient to permit me to dwell on ill thoughts. Rather, I was awakened, especially around the company of others, of the memory of living itself. It seemed that the pulsation of an alternate universe reverberated in my own, and there was no equation fit to solve neither its causes nor its results. It was simply an observation.

The thoughts were simple and subtle: she is dead. She is no more. She will never be again. That was her end. I almost imagined the bluish lips of the corpse that would stain my memory had I seen her at the funeral, but even then, the memory of what would have been is rarely ever imprinted. I might forget this event one day. What I cannot forget is that she is one of mine, a lasting human from my generation. I am one of many cousins, twenty-seven from both parents’ sides, and as long as I have lived (for I have lived a full life even at twenty-one), she is the first, both close to me and part of me, that has passed. I have known of people from schools and distant friendships that have parted, but no family member. It is a strange thing to hold family so important when she was so distant nevertheless. (Perhaps, to accommodate all subjectivities, I should mention that I am distant to others as well.)

There are other words I must mention, words that will not leave because they are true. She was family. She was a compatriot, kin, and people. She was something not to be trusted or even something in which to believe, since she was as she was. Whether or not I spread the canon of my former country, she was a national of my first nation. Though the thread bares in this transfigured relationship, it is a thread made more apparent by its disintegration. Most obvious, though, is her absence. To know that something is no longer has the presence in the mind, in memory, and only substantiates the notion of the dimension that is time.

She was family, though, was she not? My father’s second-oldest sister’s eldest daughter, who would have soon turned twenty-eight, was no less my cousin than the few I still talk to several times a year. Genetically, she and I shared much in common. In fact, I would owe her more than I would to my closest friends by virtue of socially-driven, cultural values that dictate the family unit. The thing which has little meaning to me is still with a context I cannot simply drive out. I was born unto this society and its lexicon of terms that are more for use than meager reference. I am but another word in a dictionary driven by the same linguistic logic as any non-allegorical list of words.

***

I have thought of her family as well, and what their reaction must be. It is not of simple sympathy, and upon her birth they were borne unto a duality and a dialogue. She was ill all her life, not necessarily suffering but bearing an inability to cognate as well as others. This mental disability left her as a child, more or less, but with social reputation she was treated well (mostly)—as an adult. She was in fact seven years my senior. I will be older than her in a decade, if one’s age ends with one’s death.

Though her family was supportive and by no means treated her as if though she was a curse upon them, I do think of the most sickening of thoughts: they must feel both sorrow and relief. It is not an evil thought, and they are not evil people. This notion incurs an ugly feeling, but nevertheless one of nature—she was, in a sense, a standstill of human life. She was, if one could be so cruel as to metaphorically denominate a human, a picture of the struggle. She could not grow mentally. She was affected by poor physiology. Her life was not expected to last too long, and we would be “fortunate” if she did. But in her life, the life of the single image of a human, she had great needs. Her environment had to make an exception for her. Does ours not do so for us?

***

My memories of her are fond and empathetic. She would often sit and imaginatively wave her fingers in succession, as if though playing a glissando on five keys, small enough for her petite hands. She would smile as she did so, unaware of the few curious glances, none of which lasted long. Suddenly she would stop playing Mozart and put her hands in her lap. Much like the tears of a person in woe, her smile would subside, and a sour, stern expression would roll across her face.

I sat a few feet from her once, and she looked at me and almost angrily, she commanded me:

“Kameez neechay kar.” [Pull down your shirt.]

Yes ma’am, was all I thought—one should revere elders, even if they are cousins who never communicate. The South from the United States was the same as the North of Pakistan (perchance I will describe the similarities and differences of Dixie v. Punjabi manners).

***

I have little else to discuss, other than the things I already know. I realize now that much of knowledge is not a new thing discovered, but embedded in us. We are born into a world of logic and there is only evidence to suggest that. The world ends with us, we are sure of that. Existentially, there is of course no world without us. However, that world peculiarly has its own rules, rules we must follow. The world does not follow us. These rules of gravity and heat are arbitrary to the most honest of thinkers, but valid nonetheless, and there is something to be learned from these Laws. They are always discussing with each other how to not overstep one another. More importantly, they are always deeply concerned with keeping equilibrium. It is an issue in science, as well as metaphysics, that this world always attempts to maintain balance. It is strange and occurs for no reason, but the reason is in being itself. We might blend the two definitions of reason into one:

(to) reason: v. To deduce or explain the causes and being of a given entity

reason: n. The meaning of something, usually the logic of the existence of something

As we combine these two definitions, we are in a crux where the verb and noun are one. Something is now positive and negative at the same time. This is the ultimate state of being, not because it is better or stronger or bigger, but because it is honest. It is true. There is no definition to this state of being, because it cannot be explained away through cheap observations and equations. Verily, this state of being occurs through experience alone, though this sort of phenomenology is not an ascetic pursuit.

Gravity is an entity we have most fruitfully experienced, and yet it is easily dismissed as a dull, disassociated concept, when in fact, there are few things as true as gravity! It is without description, and its resolve has no struggle. It is a force, something that might never be explained, but something that is ubiquitously perceived. Though there may be further value in analysis, there is plenty of worth in that it is. Its adjectives are a substitute for experience and for phenomenal affection.

Perhaps these sensations are a result of all these experiences of the past few months—even the past year one could say. All the philosophy and literature and travelling have culminated in the death of the cousin I barely knew. I have found the beauty of things in their being, and that there is a worth in being itself. The material and the immaterial are not different. In fact, materiality exists first, then its essence takes upon immateriality. What else is in this world other than the material? It is all in our mind that anything is worth more than it is, and it is both grotesque and inhuman to think a number might be assigned as a value. The value might coincide with existence, but it never occurs first. In being there is peace, and that the things that exist are worth more than the things that do not. In such a view existence has the highest worth of all.

There is worth in being itself.

***

As for the notion of becoming, I might need a different set of experiences to establish any sort of clause, but with the affection of worth and being, I cannot say I am driven to discuss such things.

“I am that I am.”

As implied, I would write a Eulogy for my cousin, but I would do no justice. Verily, there is one piece so light in its narrative, it is humorous.

“You do look, my son, in a moved sort.

As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yeah, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pagent faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.—Sir, I am vexxt.

Bear with my weakness, my old brain is troubled:

Be not disturb’d with my infirity:

If you be pleased, retire into my cell,

And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,

To still my beating mind.”

In memory of Maria, my cousin.