Old Books, Old Stories

I collect used children's books. I bought my first one in Minneapolis last october as a birthday present to myself. It was a 1932 edition of the "Secret Garden". Since then I have slowly gathered small collection of used children's books from various towns/cities that I've travelled to. A couple weekends ago, my friends and I went white water rafting in Wisconsin. On our way home from the river, we stopped in a little antique store that also sold home-made fudge. I think we mostly stopped there for the fudge, but as soon as we walked in the door, I noticed the 2 shelves of used children's books in the corner. After a few minutes of browsing through every major disney publication from the 1970's, I finally found it: Andersen's Fairy Tales.

It is a collection of Hans Christian Andersen's stories. The once green cover now has a faded grey tinge to it. The binding is coming apart, the pages have faded to a yellow tea-stained shade. The red color of the letters on the cover still holds some of its original brightness.

I decided to flip through the book today, maybe read a few stories. For most part I found most of my childhood favorites except the Little Mermaid, which was not included in this collection. I also found two umexpected surprises - newspaper cuttings from the local newpaper of Amberg, WI. The first was a poem by Charles L. H. Wagner called "Mother". The second was an announcement and it read:

"Miss Jeanette Huebner has been engaged to teach in the Amber school in place of Mrs. Edward Retor who has resigned and will move to Davenport, Iowa, where her husband will take a course in the Palmer school of chiropractic."

This is part of the excitement of buying a used book - it is filled with stories other than the ones in print. I wonder if the two cut outs are related. I wonder who the owner of this book was, and how they were accquainted with Miss Jeanette or Mrs. Edward. Perhaps the child who owned this book was a student of one of those teachers, or maybe a family member? I will never know, but a part of their story now resides in my suburban home some 50 years later.

There is no printing date on this book. But after doing a little bit of research on the company that printed it, I've figured out that it is older than 1949. For now I leave you with the peom I found within it's pages:

Mother

The years are silvering her hair,
But not her soul;
Her eyes reveal the youth still there
And in control.

The years make faltering her feet,
But not her mind;
For wisdom's words she voices sweet,
With love inclined.

The years have robbed her cheeks of bloom,
But her bright smile
Still drives away the clouds and gloom
That age defile.

The years have stolen lips of red,
But oh, her voice,
Yet colorful, brings joy instead -
By far my choice.

The tyrant years have failed indeed
To steal her charms;
I'm still a child, and years recede
When in her arms.

Along the Peshtigo River

The stars were crowded in the sky, miles of flowing black velvet studded with twinkling jewels. I stared up at Cassiopeia through the car window, her imperfect jagged "w" shined brighter in this sky. When we finally found our cabin, it was almost midnight. There are no street lights in these parts, and in the shadow of a moonless sky, it was near impossible to read the small street signs.


And then I heard it. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the sound of the gushing Peshtigo, whispering secret messages to the stones in its path. It's the kind of sound that could fill anyone with wonder. It was a constant calming sound, like the rhythm of dhikr mending a broken heart.




We spent the day white water rafting on the Menominee River, some forty minutes away from our cabin. (another entry on the actual rafting experience will follow...) Upon our return, it was time to explore the area around us, so we set out hiking along the Peshtigo.


The path was uncarved, slushy and unpredictable. Some areas were dense with over grown tree roots, slippery leaves, and rocks covering most of the sleek path. Ocassionally there were clearings on the banks, with large stones that could sit on. I came across such a clearing, and stopped to spend some time sitting on the river bank. I just stared at the water, fascinated by it's movement, the way it weaved through the rocky river bed. I don't know how long I sat there, however I do know that they were some of the best moments I've had in a long time.

Friends from another world

From time to time, the Interfaith Youth Core office hosts State Department Delegations from various foreign countries. These visitors are usually mid-level diplomats who are brought to the United States to learn about life in America and about initiatives focusing on social justice work, building religious pluralism, youth empowerment etc. We hosted such a delegation today with visitors from the countries of Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bhutan.

Unfortunately, due to various scheduling conflicts, I was not part of the staff that hosted this delegation. However, they received a tour of IFYC's office space after the discussion with some of our staff.

When they entered our fourth floor office, she made instant eye contact with me. I was on the phone with my dad, figuring out the mess that is my car at the mechanic. As I saw her approaching me, I quickly got off the phone. She was beautiful, wearing a white salwar-khamees embriodered with tiny mirrors and french knots. Her dupatta (scarf) casually framed her face, giving her the distinguished Benazir Bhutto look. Her smile was radiant, recognizing, as if we were old friends reuniting after a long absence. When she shook my hand, her grip was firm, knowing, as if she knew we were connected through some unseen bond that existed between us. For a moment I hesitated, trying to remember if we had indeed met before? Perhaps we were connected in some way through friends, relatives?

We chatted for a short while. We talked about her work in Pakistan, where she was working with several non profits that focused on youth and women. We talked about our families, she asked where I was from when I had begun the conversation in Urdu, and we continued to compare family trees. About half way through our conversation, she started to search through her purse. Every other sentence out of her mouth was: Mere paas ek cheez thi... (I had something here...) I assumed she was looking for informational material that she had brought regarding her organization, as she had just handed me her card.

After a few minutes of searching, she finally pulled out a bangle. Silver with multicolored beads woven through with wires. Baas ek choti si cheez (Just a small token), she said. I protested, I tried to give it back, I failed. I realized it was fruitless to try and return her priceless gift, so I accepted. We chatted for a bit longer, before the delegation finally left.

I've been thinking about this woman for the past few hours. Thinking about the conversation we shared, the amazing work she's engaging her community in, the way she looked at me as though we had known each other forever. And I realized... perhaps I had known her in another lifetime, when our souls obediently circumbulated around the throne of Allah. Perhaps this was one soul recognizing it's friend from another place, where our beings were surrounded in His ultimate mercy. In this recognition of souls, she gifted me with more than a beaded bangle. As the poet Khalil Gibran says:

"And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth."

Dear God: Will you sign my permission slip?

As many of you already know, I've spent most of my time in the last 10 days waiting for that ever ellusive Saudi Arabian stamp on my passport that allows me, the crazy single unaccompanied American Muslim woman, to make pilgrimage to the holy cities. In these last hours of waiting, I've decided to go against my better judgement and post a bunch of intellectual vomit out of frustration.

Here the thing that get's me the most: what the hell do they think us American Muslim women are going to do in the holy cities? I mean seriously people, do we look like the kind who would throw a rave within the compounds of the Mecca? Or maybe we'll just go crazy and start hijacking cars and driving them around in circles?! Woo.

The irony of this whole situation is that hundreds of single women from India, Pakistan, Malaysia, Indonesia, Philipines, fly without male gaurdians to Saudi Arabia every year - to serve as nannies, cooks, cleaning ladies, etc. etc. So apparently, it's perfectly ok to let women travel as long as it's for underpaid labor. God forbid that a woman try to to fulfil any sort of religious obligation or aspiration without a male gaurdian. I mean, please that is just uncalled for. How dare we think that we are able to independently worship our lord without the help of mighty men, to keep our wild spirits in check... I mean astagfirullah sister.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 5

This is the fifth segment of this story. It's been updated in the last few days, and is longer than the original.

Ella

As I watched the sun slowly rise from my bedroom window, I thought of Sam finishing her morning prayers. I decided I would make pancakes for Sam, one last morning before her life transformed permanently. The sun was shinning brightly by the time I grabbed all the required ingredients and made the walk across our freshly cut lawns. I smiled when I saw Aunty Zareena sitting on her porch with her tea.

“Good morning Beta!” she smiled. “Hi Aunty! Are you ready for tonight?” A fews tears accompanied her smile this time. “As ready as I can be, Beta.” I hugged her before I went in looking for Sam.

“Helloooooo! Here comes the bride's hot friend! Here comes the bride's hot friend!” I sang as I walked into Aunty Zareena's kitchen. Sam was setting the table for the two of us. The henna on her hands had deepened, making the paisley design even more beautiful on her skin. “It's about time you made me breakfast, I am starving!”

I waved the bag of semi sweet chocolate chips in the air as an offering of peace, before throwing it at her. We chatted about unimportant details as I stirred the batter. Sam wasn't allowed to do anything today, Aunty Zareena and I had decided. As I listened to Sam go over the night's schedule for the tenth time, I realized that I was loosing her tonight. By next week she would be moved into Shehzad's parent's home in New York. She would no longer be across the lawn on Sunday mornings armed with her spatula in hand.

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Sam

Her eyes stare back at me from the mirror. She is a bride, waiting for the Imam to walk in at any moment to ask for her signature. Then it will be done. There is no turning back now, her eyes say to mine. There are no words between us, only the quick rhythmic beating of our hearts.

“Sam Beta, I'm sorry but we can't make them wait any longer.” Ammi's voice was calm. I could hear the swelling of tears in her tone. She was right, we couldn't wait any longer. Shehzad had patiently delayed the ceremony for the last hour at my request. I wanted my father to be there, I longed for him to be my wali, my gaurdian. I wanted him to take this one last responsibility of me. But he had not come. I had waited again, and he had not kept his word, again.

“Sam Beta...Summar?” Ammi's voice trailed, and I noded. Yes, it was time.

Within moments, the gentle aging Imam came in with the witnesses to ask for my consent. Ammi hugged me, weeping softly as they left with the signed papers. Ella stayed by my side, she wiped Ammi's tears, fixed her sari. When Ammi left the room to witness Shehzad's half of the ceremony, Ella stayed with me. For a few minutes it was just us again. “You are going to be fine,” she said, my face cupped in her hands. “Now I don't want to see any of those tears, we have to walk down to see your man.” She winked. We laughed, and blinked the threatening tears back.

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Ella

Even in this moment, as I watch Sam sign her consent, I am uncertain of her happiness. There is a sadness that shadows her smile, a hesitancy whose origin I do not know. Perhaps it was her father's predicted absence, but I wondered if there was more. What I did know, is that Sam has never looked more beautiful. The deep red fabric of her mughal inspired skirt floats around her with each step. Even in all her bridal grandeur her simplicity is eminent. Like the glow that clings closely to a full moon.

“Ready? Remember you can't trip today.” We smile. Sam nods, and we walk over to the over sized doors that take us into the banquet hall. Her hands we tightly wrapped around her bouquet of fall colored roses, arranged in perfect circles. When the music began, the doors were opened, and all five hundred eyes were on Sam. But she didn't flinch, she floated with each step, moving closer to meet the gaze of the man she had agreed to spend a lifetime with. From the moment she entered the room, Shehzad was standing, waiting. He had waited a long time for this, his eyes never left her, his smile never faded. And then he did something unexpected - he walked to meet her half way. I saw the shadow linger in her eyes but for a moment, and then as Shehzad lead, Sam followed each step. When his hand found hers, he grasped it tightly, their fingers interlocked, and they walked together.

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Travelling alone

I woke up at 7am on Monday morning, the 21st of May. I had a few hours to finish packing, get dressed and head to the office to tie up loose ends before I boarded my flight for the long journey down under. I was waiting for Tahseen to pick me up and drive me downtown when my cell phone rang. It was my dad. "Where are you?" I always hated that question, as he usually knew where I was. "I'm just about to leave dad" I said with a bit of annoyance in my voice. Then there was this pause, the kind of pause that always means that the next thing about to be said will undoubtly be bad news. "You can't leave yet..." his voice trailed off for a few seconds, and then returning to tell me that my great aunt, Chachipasha, had passed away that morning. She has been increasing becoming ill over the last year, but none of us expected that her time would come so soon.

At this point I had a bit of a delimma. If I took my flight at 5pm as planned, I would surely miss the Janaza (Funeral), but I wanted to do both. I decided that I wouldn't make a decision about my trip until I went to the funeral home later that morning. I waited for my mom to get home before heading to the bank to get what I needed for the trip. I must say that I felt an incredible amount of guilt getting my things in order.

Finally, we loaded my moms car with my suitcase and headed to the funeral home. I decided it was best if I did what I could before leaving for New Zealand. I spent the next 3 hours helping prepare Chachipasha's body for the burial. I'd done this once before, when my own aunt passed away about 7 years ago. My responsibility is usually to make sure that the proper rights were being followed, and that no step was over looked. It's a wierd feeling, to wash the body of a grandmother you've seen all your life. To speak of her out loud, as if she wasnt there, and yet here you are, purifying her body for her final journey.

Finally at 3:30 pm, Tahseen drove me to the airport. My parents had been very concerned about my travel to New Zealand, as it would be my first international travel with no companions. But they didn't have time to dwell on it a the moment of my departure.

And then I found myself alone. Standing in line at O'Hare waiting to check in. Standing in line at the security check in. Standing in line at the gate to board the plane. After an hour of standing in various lines, I was finally on the plane to San Francisco, where I would transfer to my flight to Auckland.

The thing I realized about travelling alone, is that eventually we all find ourselves on a solitary journey home.

Glowing Prayer Beads

They waited every night by his pillow, for the early hour when his weathered fingers would grasp them. Iridescent by day, glowing green by night. He had bought them while returning from prayer in the holy city. He was my grandfather, Nana. For as long as I can remember, he would sit in his chair placed next to the open door of our home in India. His eyes would be cast upon the main gate, his lips softly moving, his fingers gently pushing his beloved prayer beads. Their green glow helped his aging eyes find them in the early hours of dawn. His routine every morning took him several hours to complete. He would read his wirds in two different languages: Arabic and Tamil. His beads never left his side through the day. When I would wake up, he would tell me stories, mostly his originals... hours and hours of stories. The story I remember most was called “Panch Phool ki Rani” which roughly translates to “The Princess of Five Flowers”. The story gets its name from its heroine, a Princess so delicate that she was compared to five flowers. He was a gifted storyteller, and I would sit listening to him for hours as he made up small and intricate details about the princess, her adventures, her quirks, her underdog prince charming, and her magical (non-human) friends. This was no ordinary princess, she may have been called as delicate as five flowers, but she was a feisty one. Only recently, it struck me that perhaps she was suppose to be his perceptions of me as a child. Unfortunately, I will never know for sure.

We talked about everything. He would often narrate to me the names and relationships of our many relatives... and then quiz me on them. We would walk around his garden, his personal pride, and he would tell me about each flower he had planted. Every afternoon, he would call out to me when the cotton candy man would walk by our house ringing his bells announcing his arrival. When I was ten I was in India during the FIFA World Cup finals. It was Germany vs. Argentina. Nana and I stayed up all night watching the game, and eating grilled corn rubbed with lime and chillies. It was the most fun I have ever had watching a soccer game. We were both a little disappointed when Argentina lost, and Maradona went home empty handed that year. He was the only person willing to sit through me reading my cheesy poems out loud, and then tell me that I was going to be a great writer.

When my grandfather passed away, my mother brought me his wird books and his misbaha (beads). For a long time they all just sat on my book shelf. I am not very fluent in Tamil anymore, so I couldn't make much of the books in Tamil. As for the books in Arabic, the one I immediately recognized was the Burda of Imam Al-Busiri. It was the most damaged of them all. The pages were mostly torn, falling apart. I had one of my more learned friends look through some of the other Arabic books with me, and we discovered that amongst his primary readings was the wird of Imam Abdul Qadir Jilani. But my most precious inheritance from him were his beads. They sit by my Quran on the shelf in my room. Some nights, I fall asleep with them near me, only to wake up and find them tangled in my fingers.

Someday, I want to write a children's story based on the Princess of Five Flowers, only this version will have a wise grandfather king by her side.