I was 11 years old, and at the time, we were living in Pakistan. My Maternal Great-Grandmother had come from the United States to visit her children and grandchildren. Her name was Bibi Mazari. From what I’d heard, her mother was from Kashmir and her father from Afghanistan. It was the first time I had ever seen her in my life.
During the ten days she stayed with us, we grew very close. She was a very kind, warm, loving woman with a gentle spirit that left a lasting impression on everyone. One day, she prepared a special Kashmiri shorba—a dish very different from the traditional Afghan one we were used to. She put so much care and effort into making it, and we all appreciated it deeply.
The day before she was to leave back to the U.S., I cried in a way I’ve never cried before—or since.
That cry was the deepest, most soul-wrenching cry of my entire life.
I sobbed until my hiccups came and my eyes swelled shut. It was as if something inside me already knew I would never see her again. Everyone around me tried to comfort me, saying, “Don’t worry, Bibi Jan will come again.” But nothing could stop the flood of emotion I felt that day.
Years later, I spent some time in the United States myself, but she was living in another city. Due to my crisis and difficulties, I wasn’t able to travel; to see her. I only spoke to her once on the phone—by then, her memory had already begun to fade.
Eventually, I returned to Kabul. Some time later, we received the heartbreaking news that she passed away. It had been twenty years since our one and only meeting. We never saw each other again.
Now, whenever I think back to that moment, I wonder if that deep, aching cry came from a quiet truth inside me—an unspoken knowing that that visit would be our last.
That one embrace, that one goodbye, was all we had.
May her soul rest in peace. May paradise be her eternal home.
Noorin Khwaja Eshaan 