“Your father will not be alone,” Shamshu Bhai says, shaking his head. “We will be with him, you see. We are the guardians of the body.”

He knows the Ghusal Committee is here to help, but it feels as if they’re vultures circling his father’s body. “May I at least accompany you?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“No, son. I’m so sorry, but you can’t,” Shamshu Bhai replies.

“It’s our job to ready him for his journey back home into the hands of Allah,” Naushad says. “And that’s a highly private and sacred ceremony.” He then goes on to explain that the body will be cleansed at the funeral home according to Ismaili rites and rituals. After, holy water will be poured over his body, like a baptism, before he’s shrouded in a simple white cloth so that he can be returned to the Almighty in the same state he arrived in. Dust to dust.

“I just want to see him,” Ashif says desperately, opening and closing his fist, as if he’s trying to grasp the light. “One last time. Please.”

“You will have a chance to see him, I promise you. Twice, actually,” Shamshu Bhai says, trying to reassure him.

“There will a private chanta–holy water ceremony before the funeral and again, during the chele anjali, the last viewing, at the funeral.” He goes on to explain that the private chanta ceremony will be led by Mukhi Sahib and is only for immediate family. Each member, if they choose, will be able to perform the chanta ceremony. They will kneel over the coffin and ask Allah for forgiveness on behalf of the deceased. Mukhi Sahib will then spray the family member’s face with holy water, a surrogate repentant. After the private ceremony, the funeral will be open to the public for the last viewing before the body is finally taken to the Ismaili graveyard.

Ashif feels numb. He won’t be able recognize his father with his body cocooned in a white cloth like a pupa. He will only get to see part of his face. Nothing else. He looks up at the circular fluorescent lights mounted on the ceiling and tries to remember what his father looks like. But no images come to mind, as if the light has erased his father from memory. As if he’d never even existed.

At last, Ashif stands up, his legs still shaky under him. The hospital walls are closing in on him. His breath quickens, his heart races faster. He needs to get outside. He can’t breathe.

“I have to go, Mummy,” he tells Layla.

“Go where?” Layla asks, puzzled. She wraps her hands over her knees.

The seniors continue to rock back and forth in unison, praying silently.

“I don’t know. I just need some fresh air,” he says, struggling to explain.

“Turn on the fan,” an old lady says to her husband, pointing at the ceiling. “The boy needs air.”

“No, it’s okay, Uncle,” Ashif interjects. “I just need to be outside for a while.”