Holding on to the pieces

Today somebody I knew died. He was about a hundred years old. Like most people who die old, he also had to live to see his loved ones leave him one by one. I remember one of his sons saying once that its a curse to have a life that long. But now that he's gone it has made me think again about the reality of life and death. My father married his daughter 40 some years ago. That woman died many decades ago, in her youth. My dad remarried, outlived his second wife and then died as an old man a few weeks ago. After my father's death I feel like I'm incharge of playing his role. I want to step in so that nobody can say that my family has become dormant or has faded away after him. Isn't it silly? I'm his only son. In an attempt to hold whatever remains of the family together, I called the only surviving male member of my dad's generation, who is supposed to be the head of my paternal family. He's a cousin of my father and is an elderly man himself. I told him about my step grand dad's death. He was vacationing in the hills, trying to escpae from the extreme summer of the Punjab. He got very upset because he won't be able to reach in time for the funeral.
After I hung up, I started wondering why and when I had become so old fashioned. I had previously taken pride in being a non practicing Muslim and in discarding the traditions of the society. But when my dad died I found myself sitting in a corner of the masjid, reading the Quran for his soul. I even arranged his Chaliswan, in which a hundred or so people gathered 40 days after his death to read the Quran. Why does death revive tradition? Why do people like me also revert to tradition. I guess we're all looking for closures for our loved ones lives. We want the memories to be well tucked in before we move forward.