They say that when an aalim (a learned person) dies, an aalam (an era) ends. My Amma, Dr. Zakia Sultana (she liked that honorific), was an aalim in both deen and dunya, the spiritual and the material realm. She was a Professor of Geography, a beloved teacher and a committed scholar. When my brother joined a Ph.D. program in the US, she dusted off her half-completed dissertation that had been abandoned to make time for raising us, and fulfilled a vow she made by beating him to a doctorate degree by a few months. As the pre-eminent zakira of Hyderabad, her powerful discourses were filled with knowledge, wisdom, ethics, progressive values, and messages of social justice. She preached for seven decades and generations of Shia women in Hyderabad have been moved by her eloquence and mesmerized by her powerful performances. She served a crucial role as an elder, both in the community and the family. She helped resolve disputes, offered sage advice, and brought people together in her beautiful, old home that charmed every visitor with its old fashioned layout around a courtyard, its antique furniture and cobbled-together chandeliers, its eccentric bric-a-brac, and its extravagant hospitality. Our house in Hyderabad's old city neighborhood of Purani Haveli, which she inherited from her parents, was like none other. It had been designed to maximize the main living area to facilitate large gatherings, and it was used extensively for hosting majlises, jashans, wedding ceremonies, family get-togethers, and parties. People in the community felt free to borrow it to host their own events, knowing full well that Amma would never say no to anyone who asked for anything. Her home was a place of celebration and of refuge. People came to seek her blessings and to share their troubles. Everyone left with a lighter heart and a fuller stomach. Some guests stayed for days, some for months, and some for years; not once did anyone feel that they had overstayed their welcome, even those who had come uninvited. My mother raised me to be independent, to think for myself, to stand up against injustice, to remain optimistic in the face of adversity, to demand equal rights as a woman, and to explore the world on my own terms. Woe betide anyone who dared raise an eyebrow of criticism towards me. She taught me to be curious about the world, to read prolifically, and to take myself seriously as a professional. She gave me lessons in kindness and generosity that I try to abide by. She nourished me, protected me, loved me, and in return allowed me to protect her, love her, and pamper her. Thank you, Amma. I promise to keep your legacy alive by keeping the doors of our home open for all. Events will be held, guests will be welcome, and as we used to joke, even trespassers will be fed. My Amma was a star. She was the center of attention wherever she went. Her hosts felt honored by her presence. They always received her at the door of her car and walked her back to it, having spent the time in between lavishing her with love and admiration. She was the glue that kept the family together. She was the safety net everyone counted on. She was the fulcrum around which many worlds, not just mine, revolved. The grief of her loss right now is unrelenting, and the pain unbearable. I take comfort from the fact that she departed peacefully, at home, in her own bed, in the presence of loved ones and her beloved cats, and at a time when she was still looking forward to life. The night before she passed, she had a great dinner, talked to all of her children, planned her breakfast, and concluded an essay she was planning to read out to us on our family video call the next day. She went out while she was at the top of her game, with her faculties intact, with her zest for life undiminished, and her sacred independence unscathed. We should all be so lucky. Her grand life had a grand end, an end she prayed for all her life, an end she deserved. Well done Amma. I am proud of you. They say that time heals, that memories eventually begin to evoke smiles instead of tears. My mother always took care of me in my worst moments, and I know she will see me through this period of intense pain as well. In the meantime, I will grieve you fully Amma, just as you would have wanted me to. An aalam has truly ended. What an aalam it was. -- Syeda Fatima