A Royal Wedding, and The General's Funeral

They gave us two kisses, did William Windsor of Wales and Catherine Middleton of Bucklebury. He, emblazoned in Irish guard red, she in embellished lace, echoes of Grace Kelly serenading us through the years. Acorns in her ears, myrtle and sweet william in her hands, an avenue of trees, 20 feet tall, English Maple and Hornbeans, hushing and hallowing the human beings she passed, the skirt of her train an unfurling flower, up the Abbey aisle.

They were appointed Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, home to the Tayabalis, where an equally hushed and hallowed ceremony took place on the day.
At a small parish church, we buried in the open earth, my Father's brother, Murtaza Ali, who had two special nicknames. The first was 'General', a reference to him being the only non-Royal allowed to attend Daly College, at a time when it was exclusively open to the sons of Indian Kings, and British Governor-Generals. Absolutely no suprises then, that he should share his last day on earth with the greatest Royal Wedding in decades. Brilliant stroke of genius! The other nickname was 'Motu', meaning 'Big One'; in complement to my Father's nickname 'Chotu', meaning 'Little One'. The names were ironic, since Uncle was the littlest of the tall Tayabali brothers, but the names stuck and Motu and Chotu they remained from childhood. They were a year apart, and as different as brothers could be. Father, studious, spiritual, poetic, and true to one love. Uncle never married. He was always escaping marriage as fast as his legs could carry him. Into the comfortable arms of the next amour. What they shared was a thirst for knowledge and the inimitable comradeship of being brothers. Uncle's library was extraordinarily eclectic, but his great passion was for all things Roman. We tucked a book into the nook of his body, 'Daily Life in Ancient Rome'. A stunning hardback from the Folio Society. I wrote a little note inside, from himself to Life.

'I Take With Me

Love of Knowledge

And the Springs of Rome'

Uncle was a strong presence in my life, always. Our passion for literature and the subtle nuance of language meant conversation was always a playful joy. He was proud of me, that I do know. I am glad he lived to know I was on the radio, to know Irfan had a son named Rafael Zain, that Rizwan had found someone special to share his life with. I recited our favourite surahs for him at the grave, the ones we used to recite solemnly for him, when we were little. It was all light and air and green and birdsong as we walked him to his resting place. It was wide open sky and spring fields beyond. He was entirely surrounded by love, funny memories, a Robert Burns poem, prayers. I patted the earth encouragingly. It will be alright Uncle. You will be alright.