Meeting Du'a

As I usually do, I talked to the cabbie on my ride home from the airport. He was Muslim and it was the holy month of Ramzan. I asked him if he was fasting and if it was tiring to drive all day when you keep roza. I don’t remember what he said. But I remember him telling me about his family and that his youngest daughter was at University of New Mexico where I was pursuing my doctoral degree.

The next day I met her. It was July, the month that saw the desert receiving rains for few days. I usually celebrate the rains but that day I took shelter under a shade in my University campus. She did too. And we got talking. She was Du’a. Intonating it softly and repeatedly, she said—I am Du’a. Du’a means prayer.

There was something about her that drew me immediately. Maybe her very curious innocent face. Maybe her non-stop chatter. Maybe because she was small and looked so fragile. Or maybe because she looked like a spark about to go off. I walked with her that day and sat with her for many days afterwards, always happy to see her.

She was always clad in her abaya and hijab. A simple plain black robe with no embroidery or sequins even on her cuffs. Yet, how her face shone and eyes glinted with joy through her clothes. Yes, she was keeping roza too. No, she wasn’t tired. She was used to it now. She was worried about her education; she wasn’t sure which stream to take up. She liked many subjects.

I cuss often. Not major cuss words. But use “shit,” “bullshit”, “cowshit,” “goatpoop” often. She noticed. One day Du’a said, “You keep asking me about roza and if I am tired and you want to pity me because I am fasting. But you don’t know what Ramzan really is. It is not only food fasting. It is fasting from all hurtful words, evil thoughts, and unkind acts. It is fasting from revenge and anger. And that kind of fasting is tougher than the food fasting. But I work on it. My family works on it. This is Du’a.”

“Oh, like Lent?” I dismissed casually. She gently pushed, “And has the knowledge helped?”

Years later I taught a middle-aged Afghan wrestler. Was a champion of his times before inter-family rivalry became violent and he was paralyzed beyond waist. I asked him what happened to those who attacked him. His parents forgave them. “They never faced prison term?” No. They were forgiven. “Are you angry with them?” No, one forgives and moves on.

He had become a wheelchair basketball star. I remembered Du’a. I remembered how much I need to pray.