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Dear Reader,
Music is part of the magic of my writing, so I was intrigued to read today's guest column written by Ausma Zehanat Khan. A British-born Canadian, she now lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband. Her debut novel, The Unquiet Dead introduces Inspector Esa Khattak and Sergeant Rachel Getty. Enjoy her musings today about singing.
Welcome to the book club, author Ausma Zehanat Khan...
I've been an untrained, unqualified singer since I was five years old and insisted to my mother that I should have won first prize at a competition instead of coming in second for mispronouncing the words, 'Winter Ade.' I love to sing. I will sing whether anyone wants me to or not, and I retain in my head the ability to memorize the lyrics of hundreds of popular songs (many in the Urdu language, one in French, and five or six that savage Shakira's Spanish).
This unexpected ability does not make me popular, although it does let me regroup when I can't go any further with a particular passage of writing. I've performed in concerts, school musicals, at Canada Day events, at musical evenings at home, at the wedding of every friend I've ever had, and to my siblings' often articulated dismay, continuously at the top of the stairs of the family home where the acoustics are best.
I will sing along in the car no matter what type of music you put on. I know, for example, the words to every song on the Bon Jovi album 'New Jersey.' I can caterwaul along with Lara Fabian when she belts out 'Adagio.' And despite having only played the role of Sancho Panza's donkey in the musical Man of La Mancha, I know the entire libretto by heart.
One summer that I spent in Pakistan, the Canadian recording to the Phantom of the Opera came out. I had a Walkman and a cassette tape, and my kid brother and I shared a pair of headphones, lay on our charpoys under the hot sun, and belted out each and every one of Phantom's gorgeously tricky songs, until the family dog started to howl and the guavas began to droop on my grandfather's trees in the courtyard. My brother would sing the Phantom's part, and I would do all the rest, even the coloratura. Imagine the response as two kids from Toronto lit up Gujranwala's dusty streets with their wailing! In recent years, I've had some trouble with my vocal chords, so now I hardly sing at all. But on one of my last trips home to Toronto, I stood at the top of the stairs to find the sweet spot, and tried, 'Don't Cry for Me Argentina.' My father suffers from dementia, so he doesn't remember things as well anymore. But when I'd finished singing, he looked up at me and said, "I've really missed that sound."
--Ausma Zehanat Khan
Please say hello at: www.facebook.com/ausmazehanatkhan
Thanks for reading with me. It' so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]
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