After a long struggle, Osman Yousefzada’s beloved mother died. A year after her death, the artist and writer looks back on her zest for life, the comfort of community rituals – and why he can’t bring himself to cancel her phone contract
I was holding the belt and we were lowering her down. Mum was in her coffin. There were two pairs of hands holding on to each of the four grey straps. We were her pall bearers: me, my elder brother, her nephews through marriage, and her cousin – her maternal uncle’s son. We slid the straps through the faux-metal handles on the oak coffin. I can’t remember if it was veneer or solid, but we began moving the wooden slats the casket had been sitting on. Mum was suspended now.
I was worried. I had recently hurt my shoulder, but had been doing exercises routinely, so when the time came my grip would be steady. She came to rest on a mixture of wet clay and pebbled stones. The sides of the chamber had been poured with concrete. There are two types of graves on offer in England. An earthen dug grave we describe as a katchi kabar, and the other, a solid lined grave described as pakhi. Our preferred choice was the pakhi, a Hindustani/Urdu word that crept into colonial speak.
