Slow Dancing for Beginners - An Open Letter of Gratitude

Assalamu Alaikum (May peace be upon you)

11:45am

Dear you,

This is an open letter. The letter I dreamed into being, and the letter I never did dream of. This is a letter I had never quite thought of writing and the letter I had written and tucked away a long time ago. 

Yesterday, at the 63rd State Literary Awards, I was nominated for the Best Publication in ( Juvenile ) Literature (read: Best Youth Literature, if I may directly translate the Sinhala title) for my debut work, 'Slow Dancing with The Stars' - a silly little novella about grief and family and the words stuck in my throat. The nomination in itself is a marvelous achievement- to me, that meant someone had read through every page of my little book and thought that it deserved a bit of recognition, a quiet reassurance that someone out there had seen something in my writing that they believed needed to be read and understood. To me, that was enough. I walked into the auditorium and heard whispers of names I'd only ever heard my mum mention in her moments of absolute fascination, saw faces I'd only ever seen on the blurbs of books in our local bookstores. To me, it felt monumental. 

The nomination letter came in last Sunday, when I was helping a dear friend with her wedding preparations. A phone call from the department of Cultural affairs (and for the briefest, Najaha-est moment, I believed I'd offended someone or was being sentenced for treason. Please don't ask me why, my brain has a morbid fascination with all things negative.) Haj, my beloved friend, is clapping like a seal when I tell her it's for a nomination - she's about to begin one of her 'I told you so' lectures and I'm already zoning out. I return home that evening to a beaming mother with a white envelope in hand. She holds my face and tells me she's happy. To me, that was enough. I tiptoe my way into my parents' room and Dada is seated at his desk with a faraway smile. He looks over his shoulder at me and beams. In that moment, I feel safe. He says something about telling others and I tell him I need some time to absorb the information. A part of me believes this is all a dream in a dream. I should stop reading so much Edgar Allan Poe. 

Over the course of the next four days, we tell close family, a handful of friends (accidentally, first), a couple of my teachers. I'm still heavily in denial. Sajla (Anees, author of Refuge, companion to my soul & fellow nominee) and I spend a good amount of time convincing each other that this is more than we could have ever dreamed or prayed into being. To me, that was enough. 

Come Friday morning, I'm whizzed away by time into an Exam prep class where my recitations are flatter than naan and as bland as cardboard (we blame the nerves), a couple of invigilation sessions (where my lovely students quietly coloured out of the lines of their 'cute fairy houses' - ah, Art exams.), and when I have the time to breathe, the power goes off and my phone is minutes away from dying. Cue panic (because I schedule my day on my phone and have an unhealthy habit of relying on it a little too much), that's okay though because Malli plugged it into the van and the day was saved (almost). Friday is a sacred day for Muslims; sacred in a very loose sense of speaking. Holy? I'm not too sure. English fails me when I need it the most. So I spend the little time between work and getting ready in a spiral of prayers: for goodness in this world and mostly in the hereafter, for forgiveness and mercy, for my parents and my family, for my friends and loved ones, for the people I lost to get where I am and for the people I will meet in becoming who I will be. 

You might wonder why I chose to write all of this here, these details that I could easily dismiss and write away with an Instagram caption. You see, I believe in the ideology that every moment has meaning and adds up to create something significant and sacredly unique. That the answer behind most of our victories and anxieties can be found in the way our life plays out. 

The night before, I reminisce about the moments that had to happen, to lead up to the nomination. I think about the first poem I ever wrote - the memory is still crystal clear: 10, seated in the third row in the middle column of 5S, a poem about a friend (Naadhira, I wonder if you remember: it's okay if you don't, because I do and that is enough for me). Something so simple and sweet, brimming with rhymes and speaking volumes about how I was only a child. Then I think about the first fully fleshed story I wrote - 14, seated in the second row in the third column of 9C3, about a boy named Noah and his life built on lies (Saudah, you were the first to read it. Ramlah Amra, you were the first to hear the plot in its entirety. Zimla, you hold the only printed copy of it - please give it back so I can burn it). Then, I think about the first time I read one of my poems out-loud to a room full of strangers - 15, standing in the Lotus room at the American Center, trembling as I read from a page torn off a diary from 1983 (the poem was titled 'Caged'). I think about the little things in between - about Salma Minhar and how her love for writing seeped into me (Salma, you have - and will always - be an inspiration to me), about Madam Hafeeza Ghori and her tin of biscuits (Madam, I still remember how you shook my hand and said, "I hope you don't stop what you've started"), about the collateral damage of turning 16, then 17, then 18, about the books no one saw and the stories no one read, about the poem titled "burning daughter and the debris in her closet", about Ameena Hussein who told me "poetry is thrilling and meaningful, quiet but so loud when written right" (Ameena, your gentle words live in my mind to this day), about a senior who told me I could rival Shakespeare one day and said "you need to believe that you can, you know? you'll only know if you try" when I told her that was a stretch (Amina, you are one of the reasons why I tried and will continue to try).

But when the nominees were read, in the coldness of the BMICH auditorium, when my name rang unfamiliar in the large space and I was declared the winner, I thought of Mrs. Agnes Navarathnam and I thought about Naasih Nauf. My feet carried me to the stage (the fast paced walking is courtesy to Ilma's meticulous Awards' Day rehearsals) and I returned to my seat with nothing but pure static ringing in my ears. When I sat down, when Sajla held my hand with eyes full of joy, when I took a second to take it all in, I felt my heart shatter and it took the rest of the evening for me to piece it back together, one syllable at a time. 

You see, I remember people and moments far more than one would think. Every reprimand and insult lives in the back of my head like lava under a dormant volcano, yet every compliment and encouraging word lives in the barricades and I revisit them often enough for them to be permanent standees on the shrine in my head labelled "reasons to stay". Repetition creates certainty - which is also why revision cements memory. 

By nature, I'm a grateful person. I hold on to the things people have done for me, or said to me, that has helped me become a better person. And my teachers deserve the spot light today. 

Particularly: Ms. Azmiya, who told my mother she looks forward to seeing me every day. Late Mrs. Ashraff, who made me rewrite every word I misspelled. Ms. Shazna, who praised my memory work. Ms. Zainab, who recommended me a new book to read every other day. Ms. Naaziya, who taught me the difference between American and British English. Madam Amina, who believed in me from afar, who taught me how to pronounce 'competition' by making me repeat it in front of a mirror (your attention for detail has become the norm for me and I see a bit of you in me when I teach). Ms. Shamila, who would play scrabble with me on the rare occasion of a no-work day. Ms. Shahna, who was my first literature teacher, who didn't mind when I read Harry Potter in class. Mrs. Minsharf, whose staffroom I frequented for little chats about life and the arts. Ms. Hafsa, who would leave witty comments after every one of my essays (ex: 'how is he narrating this if he's dead?' - found at the bottom of a incredibly detailed essay about a dying soldier, which was written entirely in first person - present tense. One of those Najaha-est moments I cringe at, to this day). Ms. Maryam, who told me I need to figure out how to say things simply (I'm afraid I'm still terrible at that, miss. Many Apologies). 

Then there's Late Mrs. Navarathnam, who ripped the first letter I wrote during my O/L years because it was 'too descriptive', who stood beside me while I wrote my withdrawals and later returned it with full marks and a comment that reads (now in faded red), "you made me tear up. beautifully written.", who also told me I have terrible English and should 'stop writing before you give me an eyesore' in the same week, who called me up when I was on leave during a hard time and said "whatever you need, call my personal number. I will send you the work everyday, send me the answers so I know you're not missing out", who gave me a hug on the day of our results and said "I wanted you to get an A*, see this is what happens when you get absent all the time."  - the point is Mrs. Navarathnam (who we affectionately dubbed Ms. Nava) dealt her cards in a very confusing manner and I was never in her good books - she rarely ever recalled my name ( it was either "Nauf" or "Naja-girl"), but she left her mark and pushed me towards becoming who I am a little more than the others did. 

After that, there was Ms. Nandhini, who was technically my biology teacher but she was always delighted to know what I was up to and sat by me when I would cry unprecedented ( I cry when I'm exhausted and my last two years in school were beyond exhausting). Ms. Zumra, the librarian and my Islam teacher, who smiled every time I walked into the library with another title she'd not heard of and we'd spend a good few minutes conversing about new arrivals and magazines she wanted me to read (You made the library a safe haven for me and it was your recommendation - The Psychology of the Child by Jean Piaget that drove me to pursue Psychology for my higher studies). Ms. Nasika, who would allow me to type 2 am poems and speeches for recitals, and smile every time I walked in with an apologetic look and a class pass (You might not recall miss, but there was a day when you asked me if I ever considered accounting and I told you I was terrible at math. You said "then that explains the poetry" and I use it as an excuse every time I make terrible calculation errors). Ms. Farhana, who went through one of my journals and told me "you have a very bright future ahead of you", who asked me if I'd ever considered learning Tafseer ( I have, miss, and I'm taking an initiative to focus on it, and you'll always be one of the reasons why). Ms. Amana, who took me in for A/L English and kept me on my toes, who helped me during one of the most difficult times of my life and taught me an entire syllabus in the span of three months, who said "Najaha, you amaze me" and meant every word. 

There's two very special teachers who are still a very prominent part of my life: Ms. Fahema, (or Aunty Fahema, if I may), who listens with open eyes and ears every time I narrate some ridiculous Najaha-est moment to her, who reminds me that everything we set our minds on is possible if we believe in ourselves, who read my book within a day and said "there's life in this book, in the spine", who just texted me asking if I was up for a class (sorry aunty, I'm currently emotionally unavailable). Ms. Nazliya, who brought back my love for Psychology and constantly reminded me that I have potential and I shouldn't let it go to waste - who said "the book deserved the recognition" when I told her of the nomination and then "now you have to write more! no excuse!" when I won, because she knows, more than most people, just how much of a toll this book took on me. 

There's so many more people I'm indebted to, for the kind manner in which they dealt with my childish heart and dreams. 

My parents, who I cannot find the words to express my gratitude for. All I have is a prayer that Almighty Allah grants them with the highest, most prestigious ranks in Jannah, that He forgives them for their transgressions and rewards them for their patience, that He makes me a mean by which they can attain blessings in this world and the Hereafter. My maternal aunts, who are more like my own sisters, who have watched me grow from a chatty little bundle of curiosity to a witty lamppost with opinions and still stood by me with the same adoration and love they've harboured for years. May Allah bless them in abundance. Aameen. 

My external family for all their support. The cousin who gave me his copy of Village by the Sea, unaware just how much insight I'd gain from it over the years. The Square and The Mementos and The Pentagram and The Broughs (don't be alarmed, these are just the group chats my friends and I are in). The friends whose art I found comfort in. The friends who I could send passages at random, who'd send me back their honest thoughts. The friends who stood by and with me for longer than I can truly comprehend. The childhood friends who still support me from a distance. The acquaintances who walked into my life and decided to stay. The people who I've never met but have continued to support me like they've known me all my life.

I could go on, to be honest. My gratitude is boundless, my love for all of you runs deep. Above all, I'm thankful to Allah, the Almighty, who penned my life long before I was born, who breathed life into me and has given me so much to be grateful for. He is the reason I stand here, surrounded by love and support and to Him is all praise and honour. 

And now, a snippet from Slow Dancing with The Stars that I think I relate to the most, right now: 

"Is it destiny that I’m writing to you when there’s so many people I could be writing to? Maybe.  Maybe is a funny word, I’m told. A word that means neither good nor bad. A grey area to stay safely in, cocooned by your beliefs and the safety they provide.  I believe the world runs on a predestined course. That everything is happening as it must. That I am here because I was always meant to be here."

I'd also like to thank everyone who has supported my book in any way possible, be it by purchasing it, speaking about it or even sharing a post on it: it means more to me than I could ever phrase, because all I really want is for my writing to be read and understood. Your reviews and thoughts matter more than you'd think, and I hold them very dearly - there have been moments when I've cried over the gentle compliments and candid reviews because all of it feels so blissfully real when I hear from you. 

I'm not a full-time writer. In fact, I made a joke about being a quarter-time writer just yesterday- given the fact that I work part-time as a teacher, and the rest of my time is invested in studies. But the monetary support that comes from every book purchased is an incentive for me to keep writing: most of what I've earned has been donated, because my intention with this book was not to earn, but to give back. Some of the proceeds go towards the funding for my next projects. If you know my previous unpublished work, you would know how different it is to my usual style of writing. So the work that follows this will be different, but it will still be mine and I look forward to your support even then. 

Thank you, for you. For the brightness you've brought into my life, for being here as I work towards becoming a writer who is able to tell the stories of people who have lived lives larger than themselves. 

All my love, 

Najaha x

P.S. Please find herewith the links to my Goodreads Slow Dancing with The Stars on Goodreads and the Ebook on Amazon Slow Dancing with The Stars (E-Book). It would mean the world to me if you could drop a rating and a review under my Goodreads if you have read the book, if you haven't, you can either purchase the book through Amazon, The Jam Fruit Tree Bookshop or by contacting me on my socials. Thank you for supporting a local author :) 

end - 8:18pm