The Little Red Piano: Quest for Qawali

By Shameda Saffee

When they buried my father under a cold December sun in Toronto, I stood by his open grave and heard the Imam recite traditional burial rites as they lowered his coffin into the earth. The night before, my younger brother, sister and I together, prepared simple, white, cotton sheets that would enfold his body for a final journey. But, instead of hearing Arabic prayers or the icy north wind whistling in my ears, I heard words from a Qawali that my dad sang to me, as he played my toy piano, in a place far away and long ago.

My father Sheik Mohamed Saffee, who did not speak any other language but English, bought a little red piano for his daughter, some thirty years ago, and introduced one little girl to a musical form called Qawali, and to a repertoire of songs of joy, songs of praise, songs of mourning, songs of love, that his grandparents brought across continents, from the north east to the south western part of this planet. And I remember that introduction - into worlds within words that made no sense whatsoever. It did not matter then. And it does not matter now. It was the melody that captured my attention.

I was flooded with childish amazement and delight, when my father gave me a "surprise" present. And I unwrapped a shiny, red, toy piano. Thrilled to bits, I watched him (lapping up his attention for those few moments) as he proceeded to tap out a tune on the tiny keys. Then he sang a few lines, in what then sounded to me, like nonsense - to my seven year old ears - since I was clueless as to what language I was listening to, so long ago, and far away from today.

But more fascinating to me then, and up to now, was the melodic mélange of sounds from those words that I did not understand.

And now, these same words remain nestled intimately in my mind, in a sort of embryonic embrace of another memory, next to the Arabic prayer my mother taught me. It was this memory that would be the integral link to that part of the "muslim" in me. For it was my inspiration through music that I began a quest into the roots of Qawali and the ecstasy of connecting with the Divine, nature, and endless poetry from Sufis from way back east.

Two weeks after my dad's funeral, in midst of foggy thoughts, words from that first Qawali rang in my head incessantly while I prepared breakfast for my young son, in the bathroom and driving my car. And one day, I found myself heading along Gerrard Street on the road to "Little India" in the east end of Toronto and an Indian music shop. My quest for the Qawali began - one freezing Toronto January day.

Knowing only fragments of that first Qawali, bits and bites of Urdu words from my grandparents, I swallowed hard as I tried to explain the song to two older men who stared at me impassively. No, I did not speak Urdu or Hindi or Arabic, I explained to them. They could not understand why I wanted that one specific piece, when there were thousands of Qawalis in stock? How could they understand my attachment to that Qawali - that elusive connection to something ethereal? Did they see my disconnection with my lack of proper words? Sometimes, when attending a prayer in the mosque with my mother, I ventured to ask some people at one time but only received impassive stares and negative nods of heads. Whether these were because of my uncovered head or lack of similar clothes, I did not know. I decided to stop asking and dived into my memories instead.

It was the year 1965, on the north coast of South America, in a little country rarely in the big picture, where I listened to my first Qawali. And there, I heard the first call of ancient rhymes and rhythms, in Guyana, South America. Thereafter, I never forgot the beauty of that sound, or the sight of my father sharing a precious, cultural memory for a few minutes. It did not matter to me, that I did not understand the words, since I felt as if they were musical instruments - all part of one, whole arrangement.

And I still feel that they do, as I listen to this music today.

These songs that my family re-invoked on various occasions, songs that had endured a long journey beyond the lands of their musical genesis, were recalled with love, longing and nostalgia, as the nuances of another world. This longing would later lead me in Toronto to search for that first Qawali I heard, only to find melodies that created even more memories, revived others, some giving solace, to my grieving self. I bought several tapes and cds of countless Qawalis hoping to hear that first song, that ancient call. (The word Qawali originates from the Arabic "qawl,” an axiom of sorts.)

When I first saw and heard Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan - the man with a voice from heaven, it was the year my father died, and twenty-four years after I heard the first call. At his funeral, I once again remembered that Qawali from far away and long ago. And how I quietly murmured the few lines I could recall, under my veil of grief, as I watched them bury my dad, under that frigid sun, several winters ago. My childhood hero was gone, but never forgotten. Understanding words in my ancestral language became irrelevant as I confronted death, the idea of it - and its actuality in our mortality.

In mourning my father's memory, I listened rampantly to Qawalis, Qasedas and Ghazals, with another maestro of music - Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Listening to his voice of power and love, I eventually learned to rejoice and revel in ancient calls and lyrical poetry, in the words of my ancestors, without feeling like an interloper as I wandered through endless verses and danced to their vibes.

And it was through this music that I began to enjoy the nuances of my ancestral world, without feeling ostracized from that tribe from which I am descended. I can dance without guilt, praise God without fear, and know in my heart that being Muslim is not limited to rote practice, but that which is felt from the heart and finds its' ways in my everyday practice - in my thinking, seeing, feeling, hearing and doing.

Reading about the deportation of Yusuf Islam (the former Cat Stevens) on Wednesday September 22, 2004, in the newspaper triggered a flashback to my early years in South America. And the sounds of "Oh Baby, Baby, it's a Wild World" echoed in my mind as the memory of me in a verandah, in a hammock, listening to a small transistor radio filled up my imagination. But, more intensely however, is the memory of that moment when I had my musical introduction to Qawali on a little red piano.

The Quest for Qawali, that elusive one in my memory, still goes on, as well as my wanderings through worlds within words, music, and the whispers of ancestral voices.