N P. Mohamed


Moymmadali Ikkakka had been like all of us once. He used to go regularly to the mosque to pray and to Alassan Mollakka's religious school, carrying the slate he used for learning the Arabic script. I had seen the slate hanging on a nail m the house. The prayer hall was next door to us. You could hear the roar of the children's voices as they sat with their legs stretched out and recited. But you could not quite make out what they chanted. 'No dot for aliph, dot below for bakku, dot above for takku,' was how they recited the alphabet in a sing-song fashion. Ikkakka liked to dig in the compound when he came back from his lessons. He loved the rainy season.



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