. . . . .
Tuesday 27 November 2012 @ 13:47
She stared at the slanted angle of the reed pen on her hand. It was a perfect 50 degrees with fading black Chinese ink stain on it. Grunting about the many ugly Arabic letters she had inscribed, she took a deep breath. ‘I don't think I can do this. The detailed number of dots of the lengths of the letter kaf, the precise angles of the letter nun when it meets wau, and the correct slanting of every heads of the letter fa, ain and sa, t'was too demanding,’she sighed. Then, she lifted the glossy paper full of scattered letters. Slowly, a black ink flowed from a not yet dry ‘alif'. 'goddamnit,' she let go off the paper. The black ink that stained her forefinger slowly bringing her back to a cold comment from a decent-looking man,
"This one is... almost correct. Please do it again."
Almost. Hours and hours repeating alif, and still had not got the right angle and measurement for it. How could I stay patient for this? And that 'almost' was indeed cold.
"But Ustaz, this is just alif," her breaking voice echoed through the room.
"JUST?" he looked displeased but then his lips slowly curved a kind smile. They looked just like the long letter sodh. Softly, he asked her to,
"Do it again, please."
The serious business of drawing-writing alif was getting profoundly absurd every day. It was just an alif! She picked up the reed pen and began to make a straight line. After that, she marked five diamond-shaped dots beside the letter. It was precisely five dots but she shrugged because the letter she wrote was an odd curve. She had to repeat a new one.
"The most basic word in the Arabic alphabet is 'alif'. It marks the first, beginning, the opening, the most important," Ustaz's voice from her first day of calligraphy class reverberated in her head. Her slumber then disturbed by the loud ringtone from her phone. It was a text message.
dude. goin to lib. ya joinin?
She replied, nope.
Then her text message was replaced with a call.
"Ya still workin’ on that alif, eh? pfft."
"Finals are around the corner. He's gonna give me a verse from the Quran, and let me rewrite it. I don't want to fail this subject."
"I don't understand you. Ya gone into bushes to look for a stick you called 'pen' and continuously stained by that irremovable black ink on ya fingers, for what? Ya know what, fuck it. I don’t even get it why you took this subject anyway."
"I don't know either. Look, I'm not going. Thanks for asking."
"Suit yourself. Other subjects have final exams too ya know. ciou."
"K."
- - -
She slammed the door behind her and had all eyes on her. She scanned the whole room for an empty seat. The studio that day seemed full. As usual everyone was decently well-dressed. Long sleeved shirts, big cloth covering their heads and bosom, socks, bare faces; totally opposite to what she wore that day. Definitely indecent or displeasing to look at, if compared to the rest of the room but Ustaz just smiled at her as she walked to her seat."My dear sister, are you ready for your exam today?" He asked her nicely.
"I’m not you sis… Yes," she slumped into a chair at the very end of the room. It was the most isolated places she had ever sit in the studio. Alas! She had often felt isolated before. Nobody seemed to want to befriend a Christian.
“I’m going to write the verse on the board. As usual, you are required to copy them as neatly as possible. And the verse, I think you know which this one is from,” Ustaz began to write on the whiteboard. Even he wears socks today and Baju Melayu with long loose slacks. Her eyes traced onto his back up to his sturdy arms that went up and down as if waves of the ocean. Her eyes moved onto his calm face. His lips were bright pink with no sign of smoking. I bet he never curse. His nose was small just like the letter ‘dal’. His eyes were staring sharply making sure every curve of the letters was of precise measurement. And that headgear. Why does he have to wear that headgear?
- - - - -
“How do you find this class, sister? It’s not every day we have a not yet Muslim taking khat, you know,” he used to asked this to her before. It was quite disturbing when he mentioned ‘not yet Muslim’. Well, at least he was the nicest among the rest. He noticed her.“OK I guess. Can I go, now?”
“Yes, please.” Of course he notices me. He was after all, my teacher. It’s his job.
“Salam.” Wait. Did I just said, Salam?
“Wa’alaikum.” He responded with a slight bow and a brief smile.
- - - - - -
اهْدِنَا الصِّرَاطَ الْمُسْتَقِيمَ
صِرَاطَ الَّذِينَ أَنْعَمْتَ عَلَيْهِمْ غَيْرِ الْمَغْضُوبِ عَلَيْهِمْ وَلَا الضَّالِّينَ
Everyone started to write. The words seemed familiar and as odd as it might sound, she felt like she knew the words despite not knowing the meaning of them. She lifted her right arm onto the air,
“Ustaz, read them to me please.”
He started to recite an introductory prayer, then a full basmalah and began to recite the verse carefully. It was melodious, each of them, like he was singing but sounded more wonderful. Every single word played in her head as if someone used to read this repetitively to her ears. It was a male voice as she remembered. Years of studying in an Islamic university, no doubt she had heard this verse before. It was recited every five times a day from the mosque speakers. Secretly, she loved it. She loved the voice that had been reciting the verses of al- Fatihah every morning, noon, evening, dusk, and night. Indeed, it was Ustaz’s voice. He was one of what the Muslims called ‘Imam’ at the mosque and it had something to do with guidance in prayers.
“This is from al-Fatihah. It is the first chapter in the Quran. It marks the beginning, the opening of a new chapter. The words speak guidance; guide us to the straight path, The path of those upon whom You have bestowed favor, not of those who have evoke Your anger or of those who are astray.”
After that, he asked her to begin writing because she only had an hour to copy the long verse. She took her best reed pen that she has sharpened last night and dipped the edge onto the black liquid. Before blotting the paper with ink, she recited,
“Bismillah.”
Ustaz always started his writings with basmalah. Since then, she had recited it herself. It was very short and she had found it to be a healing to her nerves. She then wrote it carefully just like how she had practiced.
- - - - -
The room began to empty as one by one began to leave. She was still struggling with her calligraphy. And then, there were only her and Ustaz left. He looked uncomfortable so, he left his chair. As he walked to exit the room, he said,
“I will be waiting for you, don’t worry. I’ll be outside.”
She nodded and watched him carefully twisted the doorknob. Everything about this man; his every movement, the every word coming out of his mouth are like silk. Her heart felt stung for a bit. He seemed too perfect for a human being. She brushed her thoughts away and finished her writings quickly.
- - - - -
“I’m done. They are still a bit damp. So, careful there. I don’t want to get a B,” she handed him her paper.“I will.”
There was a brief moment of silent between them. This was her final day of Khat class. An end, a goodbye, a farewell.
“I have to say, Khat is really troublesome,” she said suddenly.
Her conclusion on Khat made Ustaz laughed. To her, he always looked very serene when he laughed. It was not the normal male laughter, the one with loud hoarse voice like monsters trying to invade New York City as seen in movies. His sounded sincere and pleasing to her ears.
“And you are a terrible, terrible teacher,” she continued, wishing he would say something to get the conversation going. He smiled and finally he said,
“It’s going to be 'Asr soon.”
“What? But it’s in 45 minutes,” odd that she knew the time of five daily prayers.
“I don’t want to be late, now, do I?”
“Of course.”
“Funny how I wish I can be your imam one day.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” he then bid his farewell but he didn’t seem to want to leave. His eyes were caught staring at the cross tattoo on her neck. She covered the tattoo with her palm and Ustaz began to say the thing that he had wanted to tell her,
“You remind me a lot about my past. A Khat student, a Christian among the Muslims, I knew exactly how you felt, like you were deserted. I was different but my teacher saw passed through all that. He gave me a verse for me to practice, al-Fatihah just like the one I gave all of you earlier. The verse meant a lot to me. It was like a prayer, it guides me. For some odd reason, I feel like there’s a meaning as to why I became your Khat teacher.”
“You betcha I was feeling deserted but did I drop the subject? No. I stand tall till the end.”
“You should make friends with the other students but I guess there’s no use of saying this now, eh?
“I see what you mean. I should not give up my solitude for my ego. I should make friends with Muslims.”
“I’m saying that you should not give up on searching for the Truth," slowly, he rolled up his right sleeve. A dark cross tattoo on his arm shocked her.
" Dude, that's one hella tattoo. Don't the Muslims hate ya for havin' that?"
"Some understand. After all, we are not the ones who decide which door we'll enter once we die. I had it when I was about your age."
"Dude, you don't look that old."
He laughed. Now he was very late so he bid farewell and said,
"All I’m saying is you are a very good student. You have great potential and this one is beautifully done,” both of them then went separate ways. Ustaz to the mosque and she was still in front of the studio thinking about what he said to her just now.
I wish I can be your imam one day… I will be waiting for you, don’t worry.
A prayer call burst through the mosque speakers and she listened to every word of it waiting for the one she recognised the most. Then, Ustaz’s voice reciting al-Fatihah echoed from the speakers. The words, his voice, reciting, ‘seek guidance’ began to fill her vacant heart.
She walked to the mosque.
Labels: calligraphy, fiction, interfaith