“So oft have I invoked thee for my muse,

And found such fair assistance in my verse.”

Dearest Ms Rabia,

We weep, because to weep is to make less the depth of grief. We grieve, only because you would want us to heal. I counted on your last message to me, “I’m better, Idwa.” I was as hopeful as you were after all your radiology scans. Alas!

You left this world with a smile etched on your face, with an expression that still spoke to us, forever defeating the adversity that only did us the harm of taking you away from us. The hideousness of life and disease could not penetrate beyond your skin, your face, forever reflecting light, courage and love.

You were the heart and soul of English Department at Kinnaird College, Lahore, for the past decade at least. You believed in your work ethic. You invested so deeply in all your students: none left gaining nothing.

Your aesthetics, your passion for creativity... were seen behind and before the curtains of Hladia Hall, and in our classrooms at NB Block, Arts Block and sometimes on the steps of the department entrance, where we rejoiced in your reading of Toni Morrison’s Beloved, and American poetry. Only you could make research methodology so engaging.

You were our mentor, our friend, and our constant source of comfort. A bag full of notes, arms cradling the excitement and the gust of knowledge you would carry with your youthfulness as you walked in the rooms of Art Block is my forever memory of you.

You turned dust to gold when you shared your input towards the end of our presentations.

We were lucky to have you as our instructor for intermediate as well as undergrad. You detested gossip but always had the time to hear our rants and to even give us a shoulder to cry on. How much you enjoyed unwinding with a cup of chai in hand, and still gave us all your time during the study breaks.

How excited were you when you started your PhD and when you successfully defended it. Your joy was infectious. When you were made the head of department, so many of us rejoiced, for we all knew you were destined for the best.

This tribute is only half complete: for so many of us, you were a mentor, a teacher and a colleague. But you were also a daughter, a sister and a friend to your loved ones back home. You are everyone’s personal loss. Your life at Kinnaird (and beyond) and your funeral were a true reflection of it. Students, colleagues and relatives of students who couldn’t reach in time, bid you their final goodbyes.

I dare say this on behalf of everyone: you were a star in our lives. We continue to be inspired by you as you reside in the galaxies above us; our muse immortalised.

It can never be the same when we attend OAKS Dayat Kinnaird in spring each year now. It will never be the same when we visit our staffroom again.

I tremble when I say this, but I wish time and place had allowed me to be with you before you went in coma and before you left for your heavenly abode.

Prayers alone are not sufficient. In one way or the other, Ms Rabia, we need you back. But our heart is divided. When you told me, “Yeh imtehan khatm hi nahi ho raha,” maybe your departure was in your best interests.

Our Creator loved you so much, so He called you back sooner.

So we weep, and we submit.

Till we meet again.

So long, dear mentor.

Idwa

The writer is a graduate of demographic studies from Australian National University, Canberra. She tweets at @IdwaAhsan