the forgotten duaa

I think it started with the smaller prayers, the ones I used to recite without thinking, like the duaa for entering the mosque or the one for breaking fast. I'd known them by heart since I was a kid, but now I find myself struggling to recall the words. It's not just the Arabic that's the problem, it's the fact that I've forgotten the rhythm, the way the words used to flow from my tongue like a song. I remember my father teaching me these prayers, his patient voice guiding me through the pronunciation, the way he'd smile when I finally got it right. But now, when I try to pray, I feel like I'm starting from scratch, like a child learning to read for the first time. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, about how we lose the things that were once so familiar to us. It's not just the prayers, it's the language, the culture, the traditions. I grew up in Hyderabad, but I've spent most of my adult life in other cities, trying to make sense of what it means to be a Muslim, an Indian, a Hyderabadi. And in the process, I've lost touch with the things that once defined me. I think about my father's silences, the way he'd sit in the mosque, lost in thought, and I wonder what he was praying for. Was it for me, for my siblings, for our family? Or was it for something more abstract, something like forgiveness or peace? I don't know how to get back what I've lost, but I know I need to try. I've started attending the mosque again, listening to the imam's sermons, trying to recite the prayers along with the congregation. It's hard, but it feels necessary, like I'm reclaiming a part of myself that I thought was gone forever. And when I do manage to recall a prayer, a phrase, a word, it's like a door opens up, and I'm transported back to my childhood, to the eidgah near my house, to the smell of haleem and kebabs, to the sound of the azan calling out to me.