Sakina had been taking a Quran class at the local mosque. The previous week, the professor had taught a lesson about increasing levels of faith. One of the students said it reminded them of the Rumi poem about Moses and the Shepherd in which that prophet is admonished by God because he reprimands a shepherd for not speaking to God in an appropriate manner. The shepherd tells Moses that is just the poor man's way of expressing his devotion and it is not for him to question it.
Sakina was fascinated to learn that the story was from a poem by Rumi. For years her husband played Urdu devotional songs in their home and one of them had this very story in it. It was worth noting that in the poem the shepherd end up progessing from his literalist stage to a more abstract intellectual one but that is not mentioned in the song. Excitedly, Sakina shared what she had learned with her husband one Sunday morning while she was preparing breakfast. Sakina's aunty Shameem was staying with them for a few days.
"Oh NOW you're interested in the qawwali, coz you learned it in your class " said her spouse, searching through his extensive CD collection. I know it's here somewhere," he said and then triumphantly found the case.
"Well that reminds me, " said Aunty Shameem spreading lemon pickle over a pancake. "Let me tell you a story about your dear father."
Sakina put down the spatula.
"Him being the baby of the family, he was very close to our mother. Well Ammi would have all these questions about various books she was studying.
" I knew that she knew Farsi and Arabic. " said Sakina, her face becoming rather warm with excitement.
"Oh yes, " she was a reader all right. " Well one day she announced that she wanted to meet the poet Amjad. He lived in Hyderabad you know. He's the one who wrote the lyrics to the qawwali your husband is holding in his hand. Oh and tons of others."
Sakina switched off the stove, took off her apron and sat down. " Go on" she said, tucking some hair into a makeshift weekend bun.
"So your dad was just a child then. He found out where the poet lived and rode his bike all the way there and asked Amjad to come to our house. I'll never forget how excited we all were . Yadullahi, the chef, made this amazing biriani and nargisi kofthey. And I remember sitting next to my mother behind this big purdah we had and she asked question after question about rhymes and hidden meanings and God knows what else. I think I fell asleep on the taqt next to her after a while.
Sakina tried to picture her grandmother. She had only seen tiny black and white photos of her always in a plain sari with a huge dupatta on her head. How hard had it been to step out of the role of permanent housewife and mother. Those were the early 1900s. How much had changed? " she wondered.
Sakina's two sons had walked in and were asking if the pancakes were ready. She handed one of them a box of eggs and the other one a wooden spoon. " Go make some memories, " she said. " I have a story to write."
"Well that reminds me, " said Aunty Shameem spreading lemon pickle over a pancake. "Let me tell you a story about your dear father."
Sakina put down the spatula.
"Him being the baby of the family, he was very close to our mother. Well Ammi would have all these questions about various books she was studying.
" I knew that she knew Farsi and Arabic. " said Sakina, her face becoming rather warm with excitement.
"Oh yes, " she was a reader all right. " Well one day she announced that she wanted to meet the poet Amjad. He lived in Hyderabad you know. He's the one who wrote the lyrics to the qawwali your husband is holding in his hand. Oh and tons of others."
Sakina switched off the stove, took off her apron and sat down. " Go on" she said, tucking some hair into a makeshift weekend bun.
"So your dad was just a child then. He found out where the poet lived and rode his bike all the way there and asked Amjad to come to our house. I'll never forget how excited we all were . Yadullahi, the chef, made this amazing biriani and nargisi kofthey. And I remember sitting next to my mother behind this big purdah we had and she asked question after question about rhymes and hidden meanings and God knows what else. I think I fell asleep on the taqt next to her after a while.
Sakina tried to picture her grandmother. She had only seen tiny black and white photos of her always in a plain sari with a huge dupatta on her head. How hard had it been to step out of the role of permanent housewife and mother. Those were the early 1900s. How much had changed? " she wondered.
Sakina's two sons had walked in and were asking if the pancakes were ready. She handed one of them a box of eggs and the other one a wooden spoon. " Go make some memories, " she said. " I have a story to write."
1 comment:
And a beautiful story it is. These old family stories help us see the beauty of traditions, and how we can build on them. Like it's ok for sons to cook when their mother's muse is calling.
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