Some logistical updates:
Feature presentation:
I was discussing the intricacies of urdu grammar with a random the other day and the mention of Lucknow sparked in me, a sort of positively nostalgic vibe that I really couldn't explain then. It hit me later on.
Growing up in Jeddah, our quran teacher (Qari Saab we called him) was a tall, dark man who hailed from Lucknow. There's very few people I can remember in my lifetime that I can only think of in a purely good, wholesome way. Qaari Saab was one of those individuals. Going back and thinking through my nostalgia influenced memory, I can remember him as a tall, dark man with pleasant feautures and the most relaxed, chilled stride you'd ever seen. Qaari Saab was the 'Chockidaar' (watchman) of our private compound in Jeddah. He'd be there to open the gate when the cars came in and would stop the bedouin Saudi kids from barging in. His other job was to lead the prayers in the masjid, located inside the compound, and teach all the kids in the compound Quran.
There was something about him that I can truly appreciate now. I don't ever remember him being angry. Ever. He was a marvelous teacher (or perhaps I was a wonderous student. ha!) to whom stern looks and beatings were alien. I remember a time when I decided to finish my 'Sabaq' early by skipping chunks of my assigned passages. I mean here was Qaari Saab, leaned back, eyes shut and probably asleep. Who would know I was skipping? My sister was still in 'Qaida' and I was racing through a teen numbered 'Parah' at a blistering rate. This continued for a while and I, confident in my ability to fool and anxious to finish my 2nd Quran, was gobbling up pages with abandon.
I remember that he had a wife. She was of a lighter skin shade than him with rounder features. I could tell right away that she was indian. Don't know how really. Maybe it was the fact that she said 'Hindustan' instead of 'India' (I don't know why but the indians we knew never really called India, India) or perhaps it was her flower shaped gold nose ring that to me (I was 5 at the time) was the essence of Indian womanhood. She used to come over to our house often times in the morning to talk to my mother and to pretty much chill at our house since she didn't really have anything to do at home by herself. This annoyed me because I, for some reason, felt horribly ashamed to even show my face around her. I dont think I ever even made eye contact. I just sort of floated in the back rooms to avoid the 'hindustani' woman. No hate, I just, didnt feel right prancing around in the presence of Qaari Saab's wife. Some time passed until I, in my carelessness, didnt even notice her lack of presence. I did see her once more though. I still don't know what happened but from what I could gather from her crying and mother's reassuring words, I was pretty sure she had had a miscarriage. It's funny because I used to think about that many times but was just too y0ung to understand why she would cry over such a trivial matter. I don't really remember her after that.
I still remembered Qaari Saab though. I can still recall the day when my admiration for Qaari Saab reached such a high level that I never again dared to skip even a word of the Qur'an. I was finishing up and eagerly awaiting his routine 'Choutti' that would let my sister and I run off into freedom's arms. Just as I was readying to exit, Qaari Saab grabbed me and said: 'don't skip passages, it wont be a proper khatam then'
I don't think had ever come so close to pissing in my pants without actually wetting them.
Currently Addicted To: Chevelle - Send The Pain Below, AK1200 - Drowning, Calvin Richardson - Falling Out
- I haven't gotten around to putting a link to the archives on the side like I had originally intended. I've just been too busy doing nothing.
- Another edition of Conversations with AP is in the works.
- I'm thinking of adding some more links. Although it might take away from the spiffy look, I think the sacrifice is justified.
Feature presentation:
I was discussing the intricacies of urdu grammar with a random the other day and the mention of Lucknow sparked in me, a sort of positively nostalgic vibe that I really couldn't explain then. It hit me later on.
Growing up in Jeddah, our quran teacher (Qari Saab we called him) was a tall, dark man who hailed from Lucknow. There's very few people I can remember in my lifetime that I can only think of in a purely good, wholesome way. Qaari Saab was one of those individuals. Going back and thinking through my nostalgia influenced memory, I can remember him as a tall, dark man with pleasant feautures and the most relaxed, chilled stride you'd ever seen. Qaari Saab was the 'Chockidaar' (watchman) of our private compound in Jeddah. He'd be there to open the gate when the cars came in and would stop the bedouin Saudi kids from barging in. His other job was to lead the prayers in the masjid, located inside the compound, and teach all the kids in the compound Quran.
There was something about him that I can truly appreciate now. I don't ever remember him being angry. Ever. He was a marvelous teacher (or perhaps I was a wonderous student. ha!) to whom stern looks and beatings were alien. I remember a time when I decided to finish my 'Sabaq' early by skipping chunks of my assigned passages. I mean here was Qaari Saab, leaned back, eyes shut and probably asleep. Who would know I was skipping? My sister was still in 'Qaida' and I was racing through a teen numbered 'Parah' at a blistering rate. This continued for a while and I, confident in my ability to fool and anxious to finish my 2nd Quran, was gobbling up pages with abandon.
I remember that he had a wife. She was of a lighter skin shade than him with rounder features. I could tell right away that she was indian. Don't know how really. Maybe it was the fact that she said 'Hindustan' instead of 'India' (I don't know why but the indians we knew never really called India, India) or perhaps it was her flower shaped gold nose ring that to me (I was 5 at the time) was the essence of Indian womanhood. She used to come over to our house often times in the morning to talk to my mother and to pretty much chill at our house since she didn't really have anything to do at home by herself. This annoyed me because I, for some reason, felt horribly ashamed to even show my face around her. I dont think I ever even made eye contact. I just sort of floated in the back rooms to avoid the 'hindustani' woman. No hate, I just, didnt feel right prancing around in the presence of Qaari Saab's wife. Some time passed until I, in my carelessness, didnt even notice her lack of presence. I did see her once more though. I still don't know what happened but from what I could gather from her crying and mother's reassuring words, I was pretty sure she had had a miscarriage. It's funny because I used to think about that many times but was just too y0ung to understand why she would cry over such a trivial matter. I don't really remember her after that.
I still remembered Qaari Saab though. I can still recall the day when my admiration for Qaari Saab reached such a high level that I never again dared to skip even a word of the Qur'an. I was finishing up and eagerly awaiting his routine 'Choutti' that would let my sister and I run off into freedom's arms. Just as I was readying to exit, Qaari Saab grabbed me and said: 'don't skip passages, it wont be a proper khatam then'
I don't think had ever come so close to pissing in my pants without actually wetting them.
Currently Addicted To: Chevelle - Send The Pain Below, AK1200 - Drowning, Calvin Richardson - Falling Out
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