So Muamar Ghadaffy bites the dust, pulled out of a sewer casing like a rabid rat, dragged through the streets of his hometown, beaten up like a criminal, shot through the head, body unceremoniously dumped into an animal meat chiller and his people sneer and jeer in the backdrop. Surely he did, at one point or another in his life as a Muslim, read the Quraan and learn about the endgames of tyrants in pat history? Did he, even as recently as ninety days ago, even imagine this disgusting finale to his life? Allah (S) has a definite plan for such people; He is, after all, the best Planner, no? So there you are, glorified soul of Moosa Sadr, the evil spilling of your innocent blood avenged! Khalifa, Saleh, Saud, Assad…take keen note.
Isn’t it interesting how Allah, in His infinite wisdom made two very opposite commodities so alluring to humans? Gold, shiny and beautiful, you can hold in your hands, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. And oil, ugly, yucky, smelly and slimy to feel, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. Both these commodities making the world go aaahhhh, aaahhh, both these commodities responsible for so much bloodshed and death, the powers to be using both these commodities to make the world go ghoool, ghoool…
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The Florida heat and humidity is history for the year and fall cool and comfortable days are here. Sweaters and coats are out and the nippy morning weather makes for a labored awakening for salaat and run.
Fauja Singh, bless him, became the oldest man ever to have run a marathon, at age one hundred. What a wonderful inspirer! I go running on the shores of Lake Monroe yesterday, in crisp fifty degrees Sanford weather. My doctor in India has advised me to cut down on my running; I am getting older, he says. What backwaas! I usually run about eight miles four times a week but with Fauja Singh’s feat at the back of my mind, I did ten yesterday; I am still nursing the inevitable aches and pains. I hope I can do a quarter of what Fuaja Singh did even ten years from now, IF I am around.
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Finally, after five months living in Sanford, I cave in and attend the famous baraaza at La Fontana restaurant. My host Hassanain Aloo fails to show up, but the rest of the crowd more than make up for the hospitality with food, chatter and the matoosi. OMA, these matoosi’s would make even a seasoned sailor cringe in embarrassment. The word Kh…yo is so liberally used, it makes me dizzy. I realize they mean no harm, really; the word is so frequently and cleverly applied to East African Khoja conversation, however, it can loosely mean Son of a gun!
It can however have rather startling consequences. A long time ago, in Mumbai India, a prominent head of a local charitable organization overheard this word from a visiting respected East African Khoja and he picked it up. He then repeated the word several times at a meeting with another East African Khoja philanthropist. Needless to say, his organization did not get much funding from this particular donor.
The food is served at La Fontana is East African Khoja nostalgic; fried kebabs and fried mohoogo flow freely. This particular Sanford group love their food and have large appetites, mashaa’Allah; they eat and eat some more. I am advised meat pulao and samosas are in the cards for breakfast after fajr salaat tomorrow. Breakfast is served at the Sanford Center every Sunday and exotic dishes like khichroo, paya and even biryani is given due respect.
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I lost my dear paternal aunt in Toronto, Cana yesterday, the only sister of my father and last remaining sibling; she lived to be over ninety, mashaa’Allah. Soora e fateha, please?
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Well, I am off to Afghanistan, India and Kenya / Somalia / Tanzania tomorrow insha’Allah. Will blog after I return in three weeks insha’Allah. If the Talibaans and Shabaabs have not had me for kachoomber first, that is.