سجن دے ہتھ بانہہ اَساڈی

The message read:

AOA leenah, hope you are staying safe . I have a question and you are one of the two ppl I'll ask this . Where is this all heading ? Is our time up ?

I wrote back

Wassalam      , Apki mohabbat hai.

What does it matter if we know where this all is heading?
Qabar ka question paper bhi wohi rahay ga, Akhrat ka evaluation criteria bhi. Main aur ap fikar main ghul kay wo waqt aur energy lose kar dain gay jo Connection ko behtar karnay main utilize ho sakti thi.
Humain ilm ki illusion is liay chahiay hoti hai coz it feeds our need for control.

"Sajjan de hath baanh" wala maamla hai, dil ko samjha lain.
Shah Hussain ki kaafi hai ye: سجن دے ہتھ بانہہ اَساڈی ، کیونکر آکھاں چھڈ وے اَڑیا

Jahan Maalik lay jaey, Us ki marzi. Jab Wo curtains close kar day, Us ki marzi. Hum apni taraf say best foot forward rakhain gay. Bus.
Wo janay, Uska game plan kia hai.

The return mail read:

It all comes back to total submission . I hope I learn that before the curtain closes .

I think I relate with this concern a lot. I think many of us relate with this concern strongly.

I wrote:

Have you read Mufti's Labbaik,      ?

In the book, he narrates the scenes when people are leaving Arfaat, before the Maghreb azaan, during Hajj. He felt restless for not being among the ones who left earlier, since all the religious manuals talk about heading to Muzdalifah and offering Maghrib and Isa there. He found Qudrat ullah Shahab extremely calm, despite the delay and felt even more out of place. Shahab sb said to him, "Baat point of time ki nahi hai. Period of time ki hai."

When I read this, I was still studying at the university. I was as restless, impatient individual as Mufti. I had related with him in most of his musings. For some reason, Shahab sb ki ye baat meray zehan main atak gai. No, not as a lesson learnt. But more like a puzzle. :) Like you keep wondering time and again kay iska matlab kia hai.

-------

Now lets park this here, and let me take you to my school :)(lemme know please when I tend to get overbearing)My father was posted to Pindi when I was in 9th grade. I did my matriculation from there. Among the worst things I found with this move was my new Urdu teacher. I was smarter and ahead of my class in my language skills. And the acute realization of this made me even more resentful of the Urdu teacher, an elderly wife of some retired brigadier sb. She would come to our class with a course book Guide and literally dictated us answers from the Guide. Verbatim. Outside the Guide, whatever was asked from her was always answered in the most silliest of ways. I felt very strongly that I deserved better. However, despite my shadeed strong dislike for her (and continued campaigning against her in the class - including mimickery of her), I was the most respectful student in her presence. She adored me (much to my horror), and would ALWAYS spare me when she'd punish the rest of the class.

Since she was often hooted at and boo'ed in our class (much thanks to my campaigning and influence as the Prefect), she'd often be yelling at the class: "Jis ko ghar walay adab nahi sikhatay, usko zamana sikha deta hai." We wouldn't pay heed to it, of course.

I passed Matric, scored position at board in FSc, landed at a boarding university. She was left far far faaaaar behind. I no longer remembered her. It was here when my acute realization of being a smart cookie got challenged for the first time. I barely scraped through the first semester. I felt inadequate, dumb, alone and sinking. I'd recall all the times I had felt invincible in my own right, and winced at the recollections.

In my last year at the university, I had a dream. This was right after I had performed Hajj. My quite young mother (still in her 40's) was at deathbed in Lahore. My in-laws to be were asking about the shadi dates. My FYP was in shambles. I was unsure about the person I was getting married with. And all that was keeping me going was reciting darood whole day long. I had effectively turned into a mute, with my weight dropping to its lowest in my life. (I went from wearing Generations L size to XS, WITHOUT any attempt at dieting during those 4 months).

And one night I had a dream.
In it I saw her. My Urdu teacher from 6 years ago. She walked me through a collection of tents, jaisay kisi qaaflay ka parao ho. It's night time in my dream and there are various tents and bonfires at regular intervals. She knows the place like the back of her hand and guides me through, until we reach a massive, elaborate tent. She asks me to stand and wait outside and goes in. She returns after a while and says to me, "Hazrat Muhammad (saw) nay mujhay kaha hai kay tumhain paighaam day doon, tum jo darood roaz parhti ho, wo un tak pohanchta hai." And she smiled at me.

I woke up with the memory of her face and smile so fresh that I was literally jolted to my core. The first thing I did was calling my very social friend from school, in Pindi. I asked her if she had any updates about our ex-Urdu teacher. She did not, but she said that she could let me know later. That night I called her again.

"Tumhain kuch pata tha kia?" she asked. "Unki parsoN death ho gai hai."

-------

Jo adab (intezaar, submission) khud nahi seekhta, usko ye sab sikhaya jata hai. She had been right all along. Baat point of time ki nahi hai, period of transformation ki hai. Baybasi humble hona sikhati hai. Humble insan abd banta hai. Abd ko Ma'abood qabool karta hai. Bus itna sa process hai.

Hum apni daanist main ye samajhtay hain that it is we who do things, who BECOME humble. It might be so in the case of chosen few. Most of us are too set in our ways. We don't become. We're taught. Every time you stumble across a wall, you can't will it away. The wall shall remind you of your limitation. The more the walls, the more the reminders. Little by little, all these reminders grow into a massive avalanche of realization. That avalanche takes place soundlessly. We are being tuned to a certain frequency all the while believing that a certain point in time aik magic spell humain KABOOOM change kar day ga. Kaboom nahi hota. Transformation occurs silently.

Ap dua kijiay. Dua qabool kranay Wala sunay ga. Have faith.

If this doesn't make sense to you, please forgive me. I may have been carried away. 🙏

The person wrote back very Kindly:

I am speechless leenah . Thankyou for this . Thankyou for being so patient with my questions . Allah aap ko wo de jo aap us se mangti hain .

Putting it up here as a reminder to every heart, including my own, in their dark night of faith.

We Deliver All Who Have Faith

Some weeks ago I had made the following post somewhere on the social media:

For every soul that finds itself in the dark belly of distress and needs this reminder. 

Verses referred are 21:87-88; 37:139-149.

A while later I received a message quoting this post, and it read just this one line:

I have been calling and calling from the deepest despair my dark soul is in . But then may be the plea is lacking

I wrote:

Or maybe, you expect the response to be within your realm of interpretation and time frame. And how He is responding is in another language, or by another time frame. Stay put.

The reply came:

I never thought of that ...

My job was just to share the reminder:

Keep faith. Your Lord has not forsaken you.

Putting it up here as a reminder to every heart, including my own, in their dark night of faith.

مور ناچ

جنگل میں مور ناچا کس نے دیکھا؟

تو اب مور کیا کرے؟

ناچ چھوڑ دے، اور دعوت ناموں کی اشاعت شروع کر دے۔ تماشے کے KPIs جانچے۔ حاضرین کی گنتی کرے۔ فیڈبیک اکھٹا کرے۔ پاؤں پلاسٹک کے بنوائے۔ ناچ کسٹمائز کرے۔ ریونیو ماڈل بنائے۔ سروس ماڈل ریفائن کرے۔


یا، بس مور ناچے۔ جب دل کرے۔ جتنا دل کرے۔ جب تک دل کرے۔ کسی کے دیکھنے نا دیکھنے سے بےنیاز۔ اپنی نماز شوق میں مست۔ اپنی مشق عشق میں مگن۔


جنگل میں مسئلوں کی کبھی کوئی کمی رہی ہے؟ :)


"مور کا ناچ کبھو پوائنٹ آف انٹرسٹ ہوا ہے؟ بھیا جو مرضی آئے کرے ۔۔۔ ہو کیرز۔" باقی جانوروں نے دل میں سوچا۔




کسے پڑی ہے جو جا سنائے پیارے پی کو ہماری بتیاں!

You're Not Alone

In a time of distress when death is more heard of than life; when there are panicked hearts, troubled minds, ruined routines, discontinued livelihoods; there is one reality that can serve to anchor our boat. 

هُوَ الَّذِي خَلَقَ السَّمَاوَاتِ وَالْأَرْضَ فِي سِتَّةِ أَيَّامٍ ثُمَّ اسْتَوَىٰ عَلَى الْعَرْشِ يَعْلَمُ مَا يَلِجُ فِي الْأَرْضِ وَمَا يَخْرُجُ مِنْهَا وَمَا يَنزِلُ مِنَ السَّمَاءِ وَمَا يَعْرُجُ فِيهَا وَهُوَ مَعَكُمْ أَيْنَ مَا كُنتُمْ وَاللَّهُ بِمَا تَعْمَلُونَ بَصِيرٌ 

"He it is who has created the heavens and the earth in six aeons, and is established on the throne of His almightiness. He knows all that enters the earth, and all that comes out of it, as well as all that descends from the skies, and all that ascends to them. And He is with you wherever you may be; and God sees all that you do." [57:4]

The reassurance we receive, but do not acknowledge. Perhaps, if we can manage to acknowledge the magnitude of it, if we can manage to focus at the implications of it, we won't find ourselves half as alone, as bereft, as we often do in the face of a calamity. 

What ever is destined to come our way, will come our way. The test remains to be mindful of the promise, and do the needful WITHOUT losing sight of the Companionship. 

وَهُوَ مَعَكُمْ أَيْنَ مَا كُنتُمْ

And He is with you wherever you may be;

This part of the ayah is one of my favorite bits from Quran, (so much so that even had it at my office work desk ... and yes I've always kept a sanitizer at my desk, even when it wasn't in vogue :)) 

The reason I find this to connect so strongly with me is that it responds to my fears. 

When He is with you, nothing happens to you. But on the flip side, when He is with you, you have to ensure that you don't do anything unworthy of His companionship either. Do you see the magic here? You are neither a victim whatever be the situation, and neither do you contribute to making anyone else a victim, if you stay mindful of Who your Companion is. 

So watch your step (#StayHome) and create, fix, or learn something while we still have time. 

Photograph by António Passion, Portugal, 1950

From Every Deep Ravine

There is this ayah from Surat al-Hajj of Qur'an: 

وَأَذِّن فِي النَّاسِ بِالْحَجِّ يَأْتُوكَ رِجَالًا وَعَلَىٰ كُلِّ ضَامِرٍ يَأْتِينَ مِن كُلِّ فَجٍّ عَمِيق

22:27

Muhammad Asad translates it as:

Hence, [O Muhammad,] proclaim thou unto all people the [duty of] pilgrimage: they will come unto thee on foot and on every [kind of] fast mount, coming **from every far-away point [on earth]**

Pickthall translates it as: 

And proclaim unto mankind the pilgrimage. They will come unto thee on foot and on every lean camel; they will come **from every deep ravine**

The aacompanying calligraphy is the last four words of this aya: 

"min kulli fajjin 'amiq" من كل فج عميق

Calligraphed by (Mehmed) Ali Alparslan (b. 1340 AH/1925 CE, d. 1426/January 24,2006), in the Ta'lik script in 1426 AH/ 2005-06 CE, the final year of his life. 

Signed: Composed by 'Ali, the student of Necmeddin نمقه علي تلميذ نجم الدين

From the perspective of art, a creative aspect of this calligraphy is that although the final letter of each of the four words of this calligraphy is different, Ali Alparslan enabled the final letter of each word to share it.

Do you see the significance of these four words?

We, the pilgrims, the followers of the Path, are meant to keep our journeys of soul intact ... from every far-away point, from every deep ravine, be that of an anguished heart or of a troubled mind or of the geographical coordinates, the journey goes on. The pilgrim marches on ... to submitting to a Purpose.

So if the day is dark, or the path is difficult, regress not. Call upon your Rab, Who promises to respond every single one calling unto Him, no matter how feeble the calling, how distant the voice! And He shall carve a course leading you out from every deep ravine, every far-away point.

 

This calligraphy is the marker of our coordinates of hazoori -irrespective of our spiritual, mental and physical coordinates- and from here we all assemble to mark our haazri in His court of benevolence. 

Immensely grateful to Sayyadi Professor Alan Godlas for inspiring with this fabulous calligraphic piece. 

Original image from: https://www.alifart.com/pictures/product/K1106-012xx.jpg

Connection

This morning Facebook notifications alerted me to someone liking a comment of mine from a long while back. I didn't remember much of it, so clicked on the lead. 

It was a comment left at someone's post about the anguish of a caregiver. Our culture, sadly, does not allow us much room to channel our emotions when it comes to complex areas of guilt-grief-vulnerability-exhaustion. 

"The chronic stress of care givers ages them on an average by 10years." - Gabor Maté, When the Body Says No: Understanding the Stress-Disease Connection

If I be honest, it is not easy becoming a part of anything that is assigned a 'holy' badge in our culture. Care giving being one. Under the carpet of "Sawaab milay ga", "bohat jaza hai" we brush every thing and hush the aching heart which is bursting with the pain of watching a loved one diminish every single day; the guilt of being inadequate; the burden of expectations from all the other relations one has to execute because you don't get a vacation from your other duties; the resentment of being the lone cross bearer; the anger at missing out on 'life'; the consuming fear of losing the loved one who embodies home the exhaustion of managing these emotions on top of giving your best physical and mental input ... how do we even begin talking about all this? 

So going through it now, I felt that this comment made in September 2018 (EXACTLY a month before my father left the world), could probably add something to someone who might be going through a similar ordeal. We all are linked after all, in one way or the other. 

Are we not? :) 

Much love. 


***************************************************************

My father has been in and out of hospital on a regular basis since 2013. Sometimes things seem to be hanging with a fragile thread ready to snap any moment, sometimes it's better. But the stress, the toll of the situation, it is almost always like a black hole that seems too eager to swallow one's positive outlook. 

*hugs* I hope you forgive yourself for all the times you let the hungry black hole swallow.
I was staying at the ICU with my father suffering from a renal, cardiac and stroke condition, this April. It was my 5th consecutive night, without any break, balancing myself on the ICU plastic chair, trying to fight the black hole. The ward was dimly lit and no other patient had been critical enough for the hospital staff to insist on their families to stay. I looked at my severely unwell father and I felt cheated. For him. For myself. 

So while squinting my eyes I was trying to draw strength out of the pages of "Man's search for Meaning", the 89 YO patient on a little distance woke up and sat upright on his bed. He called out to his son. The son wasn't there. He called out again.I went to him and asked if he needed something. He asked for water. I poured him some and went back to my chair by my sleeping father's bedside. 

The old gentleman called out again. Noticing the duty staff busy with some patient in a critical condition, I went ahead again. This time he mentioned some needle in his arm bothering him. I realized it was beyond me to fix it and approached the nurse. She adjusted it and went back. I returned to my seat. 

Only a minute or two would've passed when he called out again.  

This time the head duty nurse went to him. He asked in a feeble voice, "meray sath batain karo. khamoshi se dar lagta hai."

:) DM, that moment when the nurse laughed gently at it, was actually the moment of my black hole shrinking to nothingness. Putting myself in his feeble body looking at the world from his eyes, I was suddenly brimming with what the black hole had been sapping away from me ... gratitude. 

Understanding that the duty staff was short on count that night I offered to the head nurse to keep the old gentleman (gentleman through and through) company and read to him if he wanted. The nurse thanked and refused. She could manage it, she said. And there she sat listening to him from 2 till 5 am. Nodding to him, asking him questions. Smiling to him. :)

My dose of positive inspiration, at a distance of two beds. God knows I was hungry for this ... Starved to be reminded that a smile can happen anytime; that the tenderness of heart stays the ultimate glory. That we can, we are, only be the sums of our efforts.  

You are a brave person. MashaAllah.

Loving, giving, feeling vulnerable, is not for the faint of heart. 

I hope and pray to the Mighty Lord, Who keeps a track of the minutest of our niyyats, to reward you as per His scale for the strength you're exhibiting right now and bless your heart with His chosen most serenity. ameen.

May this phase of transition you are going through, only contribute to make you even better! 

Thank you for keeping your connection with us. This world is too much in need of people who have it in them to connect, to build, to bond. Otherwise this world would be meaningless desolate only.

Image photograph by Caras Ionut.

Howay Shirk Ayyaan Jay Main Howaan

Some months ago I was reading the book Essential Sufism, authored by James Fadiman and Robert Frager, and happened to post an image somewhere with the following caption: 

When we performed Hajj in 2004, my mother was 47. I was 22, too energetic and too impatient to wait to let everyone pass. Why? I'd protest. 'Because they're in a hurry.' So are we, I'd sulk.'Are we? What for?' She'd smile gently at me ... 'sabr, meri jaan, sabr!' At that stage of life, the meanings I associated with 'sabr' had all negative connotations: the dignified garment of a powerless victim. It is now, that I've learnt what degree of strength it takes for one to let the Providence be one's only focus. There exists nothing else, except the thought of being in Presence and therefore you let go of everything that distracts you from it. Imagine the energy it takes to be so singularly focussed. Every move you make is with a purpose - to enhance your Presence. I learnt this lesson from my mother, whom I didn't recognise as a book reader. :)

Someone wrote to me asking the question this caption had triggered for them.

Assalamoalikum .I have two questions regarding your post at xxxxx . Sorry I didn't feel comfortable asking in the comments . Please feel free to ignore these if it's against your principles to discuss things this way 
When you used the term providence is this a translation of Rab? And have you tried to forget everything and remain aware of only him . How does one do that ? Your post was actually at a very opportune time . I was travelling to distract myself , to think about why I am stuck , and not moving forward. I read this sentence that" desire and unhappiness are congenital twins . Then I read your post . I am so tired

I wrote back:

Wassalam xxxxxx, 
I'm glad that you connected with the words and want to internalize the connection. I'd be honored if I could become a channel. 
Yes, I used Providence to refer to Rab, the Sustainer. 
To the second question I am afraid I do not have a straight answer. What is the recipe for making a stone in a water stream, in a riverbed, rounded? 
There is no cure, no dawa, no daru that exists outside of yourself. I have looked for any ready made solution for years. I didn't find any. Siwaey submission kay. 
Rab apko kaafi ho, har haal main har muqaam par. ameen. مَا وَدَّعَكَ رَبُّكَ وَمَا قَلَى

A one liner reply popped in my mailbox:

Dar sirf ye he k pathar gol hone se pehle toot na jae

Don't we all recognize this fear :) 
I wrote:

Itemenaan rakhain, aur kisi waswasay ko dil main na aanay dain.Rab ka promise hai: لَا يُكَلِّفُ اللَّهُ نَفْسًا إِلَّا وُسْعَهَا
Bus aik baat nahi bhoolni ap nay ... even when you are not happy with yourself for trying hard enough, HE is keeping a track of all the effort you make ... even the one smaller than a dust particle. Even as small as smiling at a young one when you don't feel like it. HE knows.

Putting it up here as a reminder to every heart, including my own, in their dark night of faith.  

Image: Photography by Rudy Oei, East Java, Indonesia.

What Day Is It?

On days when the shoulders may get too burdened or the heart may feel too anxious, it might be a good idea to relive the trajectory of Musa's journey from one escape to another. 

Musa escaped Egypt twice. 

The first time he escaped as a fugitive from a crime scene, with nothing but a pair of clothes on his body. In his desolate forlorn state he offered a prayer which Quran fondly recounts as:

”So he watered [their flock] for them: and when he withdrew into the shade and prayed: “O my Sustainer! Verily, in dire need am I of any good which Thou mayest bestow upon me!” 

- 28:24

The second time he's documented to be escaping Egypt, he's a Prophet accompanied by an army of the faithful.
This time, Musa is the leader of a prosecuted nation challenging the greatest monarch and his military might. Quran proudly shares the khutba he gave to his followers:

"And [remember the time] when your Sustainer made [this promise] known: 'If you are grateful [to Me], I shall most certainly give you more and more" 

- 14:7

Life, on any given day, is an event somewhere on the line connecting these two points. A day to be grateful, or a day to be grateful!

ہم درگاہوں کے مجاور

**The writing prompt had been 'platonic love'.**


Subcontinent is a hot climate region. The geographical temperament of the region reflects in its culture, its customs, its traditions, its mood as well.

Our spices are strong. Our festivals are loud. Our stories are intense.

Hum haal khailnay walay loag hain.
ہم حال کھیلنے والے لوگ ہیں.

We dance when happy, we wail when upset.

When we like someone, we love.

Bus, that's how it works.
Oscillating between extremes. Irrespective of gender, irrespective of our mutual unawareness of each other.

We move too fast to be intimate. Touch too strong to be tender. With all that who we've evolved as, all our senses are hyped. We expect and lose hope too quick. "we've forgotten how to linger. to drift lightly— be near to things and people and to not always touch. to appreciate how a thing will open toward us, in slow phases like the moon".

And since the only way we know of acknowledging others is by loving ... loving our way, we know nothing of how to inhale and grasp the essence of the other. We know nothing about connecting and building bridges. We know nothing about how to allow a passage of exchange of ideas, about how to make room for the other... We move too fast for it.

We know Sachal Sarmast. We recognize Anarkali.

Our love converses the way we do. Over the top.

And when it comes to loving, the best we know how to love is by building a shrine. Be the person dead or living.

انت مٹی دا مٹی

Today at the graveyard, for the first time I stopped to notice the names at stones.
Grave stones from 1933 to 2019.Maakha Pehalwan.
Zahoor Illahi headmaster.
Haseena Ikram zauja Ikram Ali.
Dr. Wajid Hussain.
Major Abdus Samad.
Karam Deen khaadim daargah...

No woman had any distinction outside her relationship with a male. Men had relationships, associations, and sometimes their passions mentioned as their marks of significance.

Funny thing how we believe a stone to bear a witness to our significance, when we're no more.

Imagine how little it all matters now. The graves side by side. All mounds of dirt. All of them crumpled clay ... who knows at what station of 'Hast o Neest' now. In which state inside the earth!
Wilted flowers, faded stones. An uninterrupted quiet, punctuated by an old man reciting darood aloud walking through the grassy patches, or a sobbing young widow at a fresh grave.

Walking back from my parents graves, lying next to each other despite their wisaal 12 years apart, I kept thinking of who'd leave me in the ground. What'd my headstone read? Would my aulaad be like those dotting aulaads who have found their parents of no worthy identity than a mention of relationship with themself?
Walida of so and so. Walid of so and so...

Would I be fortunate enough to have a piece of land claim my being of clay? Would I be lucky enough to find my 'ant'?

Ant mitti da mitti...


Image my own. Of my own.

Bint e Hawwa Ka NauLakha Charkha

I was recently exposed to a communication, with over one thousand contributions (all by Pakistani women), about 'Working women can't really manage to run the house effectively. It is very difficult'.

It's been a few days, but something or the other keeps popping up that conversation. And for the first time I am aware of how many people ACTUALLY engage in such a topic. I thought I should share my POV here as well. :)

So read ahead at your own risk. #RantAlert.

To be honest, few discussions have made me this angry. I think it is quite unfair (and absolutely unnecessary) to compare the lives of stay at home women and working women. Both have their individual battles. Both have their own demons to slay.

Regardless of how one chooses to define one's "working women" demarcation, what made me utterly upset have been dozens of exhibits of, totally uncalled for, hostility towards the working mothers and I found them utterly embarrassing. I mean what good is your I-the-satti-sawittari claim if all you can do is being riled up when any other woman gets praised for her contributions to her family? Let's keep our moral judgement to ourselves. Apnay ander kay Khadim Rizvi ko qaboo kar lain hum sab tou bahir bhi Khadim Rizvi ko followers nahi milain gay.

Life IS tiresome.

Plan your week - irrespective of your working status. I've been a single parent, a working mom, and a care taker of an old parent. I've run a business, I've worked from home, and I've also done a 9-5 job. I can confirm that life IS tiresome.

The only tool is a positive mindset (WHICH MEANS: FOCUS ON YOUR STRENGTHS INSTEAD OF GLOATING OVER YOUR VICTIMHOOD).

Note down your weekly tasks. Make friends with keeping written notes.

Cut down on needless communication that adds nothing to your ilm or amal or eeman. I repeat - C u t d o w n on bekaar ki jhak jhak. (Every group at my WhatsApp, other than my work group with my offshore team, is at mute. Has been on mute for years now. If that gives you an idea!) This will free a lot of your mental space leaving you less stressed, less occupied. Believe me no one dies by missing on gossip or Why-I-hate-XYZ tales or PCNick-Shadi-Kitni-Dair-Chalay-Gi estimates.

Allot time chunks for things that matter.

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, learn self discipline.

Find real life examples who spark positivitiy in you; who inspire you to be more; to be a better version of yourself; who fill you with motivation.

Make your craft - however YOU choose to define your craft - a badge of your value, and wear it proudly.

Rab sab ki mushkilain aasaan farmaey, aur humain apnay apnay goals main surkh-roo karay. Ameen.

Image Credits: Momin And Shaista Artworks

Like An Adult

I was reading this post over givers and receivers dynamics - about the mindsets at play, and was suddenly hit by an avalanche of memories.

The year was 2005. Married for less than a fortnight, had just moved to an apartment in Karachi. The block had a total 8 apartments. Second day at the new place, a child from the neighbours living on the floor just below ours, came to deliver a tabbaruk - dates and zamzam brought from Umrah.

In the evening when the partner was back from work, I prepared for a FIRST ... :)

We went to offer our gratitude and congratulate the family. The 23yo me found it akin to a moon odyssey :). First unsupervised, independent social interaction in an ammis kinda setting, as a married adult!

It was huge.

The gentleman of the house welcomed us. The lady joined a little later and was visibly unappreciative of what she saw. Her daughter, older to me, was an MBA like my partner and our host didn't waste a moment in sharing her opinion over the academic influence on martial compatibility.

"MBA tou MBA kay saath hi acha lagta hai," she commented after learning that I was an engineer.

I learnt, to my utter surprise, that my provincial domicile could be my most significant introduction in the largest city of Pakistan. Having grown up travelling through all the four provinces, it felt strange to be linked to and identified by only one.

"Shadi parents ki marzi say kum hi karti hain wesay Punjab ki larkiaan. Lakh chuppaein jo ghar say bhaagtay hain unkay huliay say bhi pata chalta hai."

She had said looking at my plain baby pink chiffon shalwar qameez. I uneasily adjusted my multicoloured dupatta and moved my hand to draw her attention to the only gold piece I was wearing, a bracelet.

I was discarded. I could see that. :)

This was block 4. She informed me of two other Punjabans in the complex, one in block 6 and the other in 1, whom I could go and make friends with.

"Un main say bhi aik bhaag kay aee thi Lahore say hi. "

You get the idea!

I itched to tell her the count of guests at my shadi which had happened only a few days before, and show her the pictures of my mother kissing my maatha, my father bidding me farewell.

But I stayed put and listened.

Like an adult, I told myself.

Phir, as soon as I got a chance during the domicile autopsy she was mercilessly performing, I congratulated her for the Umrah.

It was only her husband who had performed it, she told. He performed it every year, she informed. And saying that her eyes welled up. "Allah jaanay mera bulawa kab ata hai Uskay ghar haazri ka," she sobbed.

I didn't know what was the right thing to say at such a time. There was pride in the husband's achievement, but there was a sense of loss for her own self and I didn't know how to take away the significance of the loss without belittling the value of the husband's achievement. So I stayed quiet. Sitting next to her, I held her hands in mine and caressed.

I could be wrong, but I felt that she probably didn't like her having put a weaker self on show in front of me

So with a change of expression she concluded that this delay in her haazri must be because she still has the responsibility of marrying off her daughter. I agreed.

We left after a little while.

I called my mother that night, ecstatic. I was on cloud number 9.

I had been a perfect adult.

I had been like her.

She listened to the story and unlike how I knew her, she grew angrier by each moment.

"How dare she!" Amman was breathing fire.

"Tum sunti rahi? At least you could've told her that you've performed hajj. Na deti koi shut up call, at least should have embarrassed her at having constantly belittled you."

Oh Amman ... I groaned. How could she not see that this was the entire point!

The lady was unhappy. She was trying to project that unhappiness on me, drawing joy out of insulting me.

I let her have that joy, without feeling the insult.

Like I had witnessed my mother doing.

Like an adult.

حاشیہ

‏زندگی تو بس یاد کی ایک چوکھٹ ہے. 

رابطے کی ایک سبیل.

آنکھوں کی نمی.

ہونٹوں کی لرزش.

طواف کا دورانیہ. 

سجدے کا طول. 

تنفس کے چاک پر نقش ہوتی کوزہ گری.

حرف و صوت سے ماورا. بیان و ابلاغ سے بےنیاز. 

اپنی ذات کے اندر کسی اور کی کھونٹی پر ٹنگے وقت کی کیفیت.

Image by Mobeen Ansari

What Is The Flavour of Death

Have you ever come across a situation in which you found yourself at the brink of nothingness, we call death, staring blankly in your face?

Do you remember feeling scared? alarmed? mortified? Or was it just an indifferent iciness?

I've, now, come across the situation twice in the last ten years. 

The first time was a good chunk of years back. It was a car accident. 
The car got hit so bad, it actually went up in the air. 
I remember aligning myself from behind the steering wheel so as to form a human shield for the pre-schooler son sitting beside me in the passenger seat. I wasn't panicked. I was thinking, reflecting very lucidly. In those few moments when the car wheels were not in touch with the ground, I had tried to estimate the impact and pushed son down towards the leg room. I remember very clearly, making a balance sheet of life in my head. A balance sheet, that since then, remained a reason of solace in my dark moments. I remember the epilogue of all those of major and minor moments that flashed through my head: "It wasn't perfect, but it was my all." There were no regrets. I recall asking myself that question categorically. 
Basically, there seemed to be a lot of time in those moments. Lots of time with hitherto not experienced sense of clarity.

Surprisingly, when the car had landed back and rammed into a tree trunk just beside the road, son and I had both remained unharmed in the completely smashed car. The vehicle insurance team, later, found it implausible that anyone could have survived the accident, let alone unscratched. 

That was my first brush with death. A glorious, calming, well aware sense of fulfillment. I loved it. It made me, in a way, look forward to it. 
Yeah, that good!

And that was the basis of my hypothesis that the final moments of life come with utmost clarity. They make you objective, and let you have a bird eye's view of all that you'd lived through. I thought that staring into the abyss of nothingness, you realize, probably for the first time, of the richness you've possessed. And the worth (or lack thereof) of all that you're leaving behind. I felt that in the final moments you have a direct connection with the Ultimate. You could see, and be dazzled, by the grandeur of what you were about to meet. 

At least this is what I thought.

Yun na tha, main nay faqat chaha tha yun ho jaey!

Some six years later, was the second time! This wasn't a car accident. 
This situation of standing at the cusp of hast and neest was triggered by unwellness. And I discovered the dark side of nothingness. 
It was a case of food poisoning due to some infectious fruit I consumed in the morning. Only it wasn't just that. Somewhere, it teamed up with an abnormal rise of blood pressure, that had somehow been brewing there all night and which I am not accustomed to experiencing. The two worked together to the point where I lost all sense of time and being. My only awareness seemed to stem from my editor's instincts (a job which I took rather too seriously, I realized), in trying to find the perfect adjectives to describe my situation. Everything was hazy. I could feel the outline of things, people floating away. There was noise, a lot of metallic noise. And amidst some smog I had a dim realization that I had to see if son had had lunch. I called out to him. I remember struggling for air, and thinking if this is the end what is it called ... Death is a cold word, I deserve a better word ... A warm, soft word. My mind was a game of chess gone bonkers. Thinking of it now, it was as suffocating as one's thought can permit. Perhaps more. I forced myself to think of the Ultimate I was about to meet ... the end of a struggle I had so passionately embraced. However, with the metallic noise in my ears, and the choking shortening of breath, I didn't know what to think. I tried to recall Ayat Kareema, my favourite wird. One I only stop reciting for teesra kalma, if ever. And it seemed like so much effort. The smoke was just too much to breathe, too much to let words take a form. The mind was a mesh of chaos and panic. And a loud speaker somewhere yelling possible scenarios of the situation the son would've to deal with afterwards. I hated it. I hated it all.

Eventually it all faded into blackness.

This was my second brush with death. Yeah, I know ... it's not as dramatic as a car ramming into something solid, nor is as thrilling. But the doctor, whom I got to see some seven hours later, thought it to be enough dramatic for me to confirm that it was indeed my second chance at surviving the obvious ordeal.  

You know what did I realize now?

My new hypothesis is that one's own mind could be the worst company to have in the final moments of departure. When the chemicals inside the body are having a world war situation, there's only chaos. Imagine the scene of a nuclear explosion ... the hysteria, the frenzied panic, the madness, all accompanied by dark blinding clouds of stifling smoke. There is nothing kind about it. No nice adjective to associate with the experience. That is how an unwell person feels when sliding down the abyss of nothingness. There was nothing glorious, nothing clear, no recollection of any worth ... This was grim.


I have come to learn that death does not have a monotone. 

I have also come to realize that the raging war of chemicals within humans is hardly ever visible. I, too, was my wholesome looking self when undergoing this intimidating encounter.
Probably there was a lesson in this entire episode. Who knows? We often demand logical explanations of behavior from people we deal with. Who knows how many of them are struggling with existence beyond the realm of reason. Who knows how they keep listening to the deafening noise in their ears day in, day out. 

Be khudi aaThoN pehar ho, ye zaroori tou nahi!


So what I really want to say is ...

Be kind when there is still life!

How to ...

All this evolution, the specialized fields of education, the enlightenment & the knowledge age, yet no one teaches you 
how to love; 
how to allow yourself to feel loved; 
how to identify abuse; 
how to not make the bond a bondage; 
how to nurse a broken heart; 
how to rise in love. 

No one teaches you 
how to bear disappointments without brewing bitterness;
how to grieve without hostility; 
how to seek help; 
how to offer help; 
how to not make guilt your home;
how to forgive;
how to take care of relations without sabotaging self; 
how to keep in a state of gratitude. 

No one teaches you 
how to read eyes & find the fractured fault lines; 
how to stand over the pyre of ego & build bridges; 
how to hold together a broken person; 
how to dress heartless rationale in kindness; 
how to bring value to the sufferers of self esteem; 
how to be without war.


No one teaches you 
how to open arms for a bullied child; 
how to be gentle to the damaged adult; 
how to caress; 
how to console a mourning person; 
how to listen to the stories of a mad man; 
how through those stories trace the path to his sanity;
how to be home to the lost souls. 

No one teaches you 
how to not be deterred by the dark; 
how to believe that the sun rises anew each day; 
how to hold your ground; 
how to know the way back home; 
how to fight when the demons get you; 
how to understand the difference between surrender and pause; 
how to start again. 

No one teaches you how we turn into monsters witnessing life diminishing around us each day, while we hail our enlightened selves.    

- written by leenah.

Image credits: The Hands by Michelangelo