Nilofer (Neelum) Anwer, née Hashmi, passed away on the 21st of April 2023 and the 30th of Ramazan 1444, in Karachi, Pakistan. She was 72. She was buried in in Sakhi Hasan Cemetery a few paces from her husband's final resting place.

She was born in Karachi, Pakistan, in 1950, the youngest of 6 siblings. Her father, Syed Yamin Hashmi, was a Professor of Farsi, and her mother, Badr-un-Nissa, was a house-wife. Both passed away while she was young, and so she spent a part of her childhood and young adulthood with her extended family, where she and her siblings received much love and affection. As a child, she was a noted neighbourhood champion in various street games, including hopscotch, marbles, and pittu. She studied Biology at University and was noted for her academic excellence and practical application (her younger cousins recall being disgusted by her dissection homework). She was known as Nilofer (or Nilo) to her school friends and Neelum (or Neelo) to everyone else. She married Anwer Jabbar Khan in September 1973. They had a long and happy marriage, until his untimely departure in November 2003. They were blessed with five children, born between 1974 and 1991.

She was known for her unfailing kindness, politeness, loving nature, and beautiful voice. She was witty, with a ready smile and an infectious laugh.

She is survived by her children: Javeria (Faisal), Ehtisham (Sehrish), Munazza (Rashid), Bilal (Salwa), and Maaz (Areeba); her nephew/adopted-son Ishaq, by 15 grandchildren, as well as by her brother Akhtar (Birjees), her brother in law Tanveer (Nusrat), sister-in-laws Zareen, Yasmeen, and Nasreen, and countless other close family and friends.

In her last days, she was attended to and served with devotion by many close relatives and caregivers: Zareen, Madiha, Hamna, Hisham, Saad, Heba, Nazia, Waqas, her chaheeta Usman, and her attendants Shakeela, Naseem, Razia, Khaleda, Shareefa, and many others.

My Ammi

That was an obituary, huh. Now let me tell you about my mom.

My mom was just Ammi to me. She didn't like being called Amma, or Ammi Jaan. Just Ammi (She liked my behnoi's Momy, though). She was funny, and kind, and loving. Like many moms she was an excellent emotional blackmailer. She was also an incredibly gifted people person: Everyone loved her. (I did hear there were some friends of my father who weren't her biggest fans, but well, can't win em all. For all practical purposes: everyone thought she was the bees knees). I'm not kidding, everyone I ever knew loved her. I think she was just a pleasant, loving, nice person, and that everyone loved her. That's rare, I feel. But everyone thinks their mom is special, right? I certainly do.

I don't know how she did it, but every one of her kids thought they were her favourite. I am pretty sure I was her favourite: I was the youngest, her 'khilona tohfa inaam' (toy and present and reward), and the one who she called first in her morning and the one who she giggled and laughed the most with. But I also saw how she conspired and giggled with her eldest daughter, how she relied on her eldest son and his rock solid nature and how comfrortable she was with him, how proud she was of her middle daughter and her accomplishments academically and spiritually and personally, and how much she always favoured her middle son and how he resembled her nature and personality and how she appreciated his devotion to both her and my dad. So, I'll say everyone had a good shout to be her favourite. But it may well be that she actually loved us all to equal bits.

I asked her once. I asked her I'm your favourite, right? Right?? She'd told me a story. She told me, when she was young, she figured there's no way her mom really loved her, since she already had 5 older kids, who were already so beautiful and accomplished and loved. She thought there's no way her mom could have space in her heart to love all these children equally.And then she had nieces and nephews, and she said she couldn't imagine loving anyone more. But then, Ammi said, she had her first child. And her heart grew to encompass love she had thought impossible. And then she had another, her son. And her heart grew again. Then she had another daughter, and a son, and then me. Each time, her heart grew, grew grew grew, to become our personal bottomless well of love and tenderness and inspiration and warmth and protection and asylum. That said, she continued, you're the first person I call when I wake up.

That was Ammi, the consummate diplomat-cum-matriarch.

She loved loved loved detective stories and mysteries. She smelled like raat ki raani (night blooming jasmine). She adored long drives at a sedate pace. She was constantly praying for her loved ones. She had beautiful handwriting which she called just ok. She managed all her own medicines until the day came she physically couldn't. She got her way without it appearing she got her way. She would pose for photos and refuse to look into the camera. She was generous to a fault. She had the patience of a saint. Well, I think she was a saint. No matter how bad it got (and it got pretty bad, with multiple comorbidities, as the doctors charmingly call it), you ask her how she was, and unfaililingly, she'd say Alhamdulillah.

My mom was my best friend. Well, I had some secrets from her, sure. But mostly, we were TIGHT. And we became even closer as I grew older and as I could understand my mom better. And as she could share (some) family gossip with me. But honestly, mostly, we just talked and laughed and chilled. I don't have a great memory. But I remember laughing till my sides hurt with her all the time. And I remember, after my brother moved away, it was just me, my mom, and my middle brother at home. And so we just slept in the same room. Mom got the bed, of course, and my bro and I would alternate between the bed, the sofa, or the carpet. And we'd all talk and chat and chill until we would fall asleep. And then Ammi would wake us up in the morning and lie to us that it was 7 am when in fact it was 630 am. My life so far, alhamdulillah, is a sequence of (mostly) great memories, with Ammi either in them or the person I told them about asap.

Life without Ammi

(Most of) our mothers give up so much for us, all with a smile and a kiss. They love us with a purity unmatched save by God. They want the best for us with a desperation we can barely understand.

So, life without them, does tend to suck.

Honestly, Ammi had been sick for so long, I thought I was mentally prepared for her to be at peace. But, I wasn't. I'm not ready. We aren't ready, really, to let go of the unconditional source of love, the cool shelter, the bottomless patience, that most of us find in our mothers. And even though in the last days she was in pain, and I prayed daily for her ease, I stil wanted selfishly for her to hold on. For a miracle to occur and for her to be back to full health, and for us laugh again, to go on road trips again.

I'm happy for her. Really, I am. She went on such a blessed day, she had a long life full of love, she's probably (inshallah!) chilling up high, with my father and so many of our family. But I'm still sad, for me. And I know many people get less than the 31 years I got with my mom. I thank God for giving me such a wonderful ammi. Others get less than stellar moms. But, still, I'm devastated.

It's been a few weeks now. I've mostly stopped crying at night, or waking up to dreams of her. I do still catch myself praying for her health, though. And wondering why she hasn't called yet. I don't know if that'll ever stop. I pray for her every day, with her favourite short surah (Surah Shams) and the last few ayat of Surah Fajr. I tell my son stories about her (he is 9 months old so, well, you know, it's more for me). I call (one of) my siblings every day (or so). In Ammi's last few months and years our talks would be dominated by talk of Ammi - what she said, what she needed, her medical issues, new medicines, her health, her physio, and of course, we'd often just have group calls with Ammi too. Now, we don't talk about all that. But we talk about other things. And about Ammi. She would have liked that.

Duas

May Allah bless my mother. May Allah forgive her sins, large and small. May Allah increase her rewards. May Allah make her among the Prophets, the Auliya, and the Shuhada. May we be sources of Sadqa e jariya for her. May she be reunited with all those who she loved in Jannat.

May Allah bless our mothers, those with us and those with him. May Allah elevate their ranks. May Allah make their graves fragrant and spacious and comfortable and like Jannat. Ameen.