Maikada Saaz Hoon Main, Maikada Bardosh Nahin

What follows is a part of a book over Nizam ud Din Aulia - one of the greats in the mystic history & Islamic traditions.

I do not know how many of you may find it relevant, but to me it makes great sense... mainly because I'm a soul always swinging inbetween the sufi & the sharyati aspects of the religion, a lover too afraid to lose to adoration for the fear of committing disrespect ... But yun hosh bhi qaem rakhna, aur dawa-e ishq bhi karna - na faasqi ka lutf, na aashqi ka maza! :)

Coming straight to the point: 

Ps: JazakAllah dear friend HJA for sharing the book!

Rigorous Matters Of Dilbari

Dilbari neest kay dildadah'e deedar tu neest 

Yuk Khudawund nadeedam kay paristar-e tu neest!

The mirth of love games is for the seeker of love; 

How could ye behold God, if ye believe in none!

Verse: Unconfirmed poet

Inapt translation: mine

This Is It! :)

You ask me how I became a madman.

It happened thus:

One day, long before many gods were born,

I woke from a deep sleep

and found all my masks were stolen, -

the seven masks I have fashioned

and worn in seven lives, -

I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting,

” Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me

and some ran to their homes

in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place,

a youth standing on a house-top cried,

“He is a madman.”

I looked up to behold him;

the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time.

For the first time the sun kissed

my own naked face

and my soul was inflamed

with love for the sun,

and I wanted my masks no more.

And as if in a trance I cried,

“Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.”

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness;

the freedom of lonliness and the safety

from being understood,

for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety.

Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

~Kahlil Gibran

In The World Of Words

We dwell in the world of words, 

Your sound is the stroke 

painting contours of me,

Each blank space is the pause you make.

Deftly you play 

the play of light and shade,

with silence and syllable,

rendering color and grey.

Secretly I know 

I'm in the frame left alone,

When there's nothing more to say.

- leenah.

A Story Of Sight Beyond Sight

How about a li'll story time this weekend night? 

As the night turns cold, have you snuggled well into your blankets?

Well, lets start if you have! You just gotta hit the play button underneath and together we'll weave the sufi magic in a night out of the Arabian Nights ...

Post by Touching with fingers the naked body of dreams.

Harun al-Rashid [the caliph] gave the order, "Bring this Laila, so I might see why Majnun--out of love for her-- has cast such passion into the world and why from the East to the West lovers have made the story of his love their mirror." They went to great expense, employed much trickery, and succeeded in bringing Laila to the caliph. She was in a private chamber; at night the caliph would light candles, gaze at her for a while, and then reflect for a while. [But he could not see what was so special about her.] He said to himself, "If I get her to speak, perhaps her special quality will become more apparent in her face, by means of her speaking." He turned to Laila and asked, "Laila, is that you?" She replied, "Yes, I am Laila. But you are not Majnun. Those eyes that are in Majnun's head are not in yours. How can you see Laila with eyes with which you see other than her and which you have not cleansed by tears? Look at me with the vision of Majnun!" 

Those who look at the beloved with the vision of the lover are those whom, "He (God) loves..." [referring to Qur'an (5:54) "God will bring a people whom He loves and who love Him"] 'The defect [in most people] stems from the fact that they do not look at God with the vision of the lover; they look with the vision of knowledge and the vision of philosophy. 

The vision of love is something else. 

From the Discourses of Shams-i Tabrizi (Maqalat-i Shams-i Tabrizi)

Of The Gold Coloured Day

One hundred years 

from now,

it will not matter 

what kind of 

car I drove,

What kind of 

house 

I lived in,

How much I had 

in my 

bank account,

Nor what my 

clothes looked like.

But the world may be 

a little better place

because 

I was important

in the life

of a child.

~ anon.

The day was the first of the last month of the year and we were sitting in the front garden of the National Lace & Textiles, Mill. The sun beat down fiercely and for some time it was difficult to imagine it to be winters already. Apart from the few hiccups that are a part of the routine, it had been a smooth visit to the facility; perfectly drawing to a planned closure. ‘Alhamdolillah’, I thought with a sense of relief, ‘Another milestone successfully completed’. It was the moment when Col. Obaid Zia, CEO of the facility was winding up his farewell address to us: “Forgive me for taking so much of your time in narrating my journey of success. You people must not be enjoying the strong sun. But let me assure you once again, that it was a sheer pleasure to meet you, and host you.” Colonel sb. had been extremely gracious.

I looked at the mentors on my either side and glanced at the mentees in front, ‘Are we done?’ I thought. “Does anyone of you want to ask anything from Sir?” I probed the mentees, a group of almost 60, 15-years old girls visiting the Textile mill as part of an Exposure Trip of the Rahbar Cycle. To be honest, while relaying in my head the words of gratitude I meant to deliver on behalf of the visitors, I wasn’t really expecting to hear a reply to my question. Hence, it took me by surprise when I saw her rising from her seat among rest of the 9th graders. 

"Sir, you just mentioned about taking our time... I want to let you know that the ten minutes you've taken of our time are the most profitable investment we've made today. Years from now, when any of us would've exhausted completely and could be thinking of calling it quits, be it any field, these ten minutes would not let that happen. We will survive. And grow. And shine. Thank you for taking these ten minutes from our time."

She sat down. 

Colonel saheb was beaming, placing his hand over his chest he bowed his head in humbleness; while my spirit soared with pride! 

Nothing that I was about to say could have been more meaningful and more genuine than what had just been said.

As numerous hands automatically moved to clap, I did not know if there was a single thing I was clapping for. The inspiration in the form of Col. sb., the young mentee's honest (& eloquent) words, the gist of the entire excerice that had so well been recieved, the future that sounded so promising, and the realization that we are the today of such a bright tomorrow... it all combined to interweave an overwhelming sense of thankfulness.

The winter sun was blazing uncharacteristically, but what I'll remember this day for is the warmth of heart felt gratitude that filled the air and turned the afternoon a blissful gold.

PS: All conversations have been translated from Urdu with as much closeness to the actual as possible.