Eighteen years

Eighteen years I knew a girl
Who talked of silver linings.
Fearless, she took on the world
Her face radiant, ever smiling.


Passion coursed within her veins
To be better and better still.
She was free, devoid of chains
She raced ahead, uphill.


Life played out page by page
Each scene was well planned.
The world you see, was her stage
Spacious and grand.


Voice booming, spine upright
Massive crowds she could face.
Behind the mic, under the light
She had found her place.


In tune with the music of thought
Her pen danced with grace.
With spirit her words were wrought
Behind lines of ink was escape.


Strokes of yellows, reds and blues
On her canvas made whole.
Hundred shades and million hues
The kaleidoscope of her soul.


She moved swiftly along her way
To initiate, innovate and create.
No luxury to stop or to sway
The driving force was innate.


But a string of words she heard one day
Was the sentence we all fear
The world had just one thing to say:
You're a bad person my dear.


You are selfish, terribly conceited
They smiled as they declared.
You have no heart, your soul is wretched
With confidence they proclaimed.


Gone were her silver linings
Only clouds remained, dark and grey.
The face that once was ever smiling
Now showed signs of decay.


Of passion she had use no more
What good was left anyway?
For being such a bitch and whore
She had a moral price to pay.


So in seclusion she beat retreat
With no virtue, only vice.
And in the graveyard called Defeat
Her broken spirit lies.

I see this girl in my mirror
The girl I knew for eighteen years.
As her eyes stare back in terror
I know my end is near

Silent Submission

"Submit." It was asked of him.
"I have submitted," he replied

The manner of his submission is a lifetime's worth of learning. Impeccable, immaculate, unquestionable submission. In honour of this man, thousands of people journey for days only to fulfil a legacy that he began. In memory of this man, millions of people the world over are celebrating with their families. As I gorge on sumptuous Biryani today, this man's story makes my skin tingle. As I deliberately sit down to drink my glass of water in three breaths, I think of how this man's prayer has been answered. The deal was simple. Submit to Me and I will take care of everything else. 
How difficult could that be?

Let's answer that straight from the beginning.

He was born in Babylon and belonged to a respectable family. His father held an esteemed postion in society, belonging to a trade that was considered noble in the days. Idol carving. His father sculpted animal figures from stone and wood, much to his delight. He played with them, rode on their backs and even kicked them around. Those toys were his play-school buddies. But things were soon starting to get messy. Imagine the little boy's shock when men from his community began bowing and prostrating before his toys! They're Gods, his father would tell him. But I kick them around! He'd think in repulsion. His repulsion continued to grow and along with it grew curiousity. One day, he set out to find answers for himself. He was thirteen.

He looked at a star and wondered if it was God. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and he wondered if that was God. But the night passed away and took the stars and the moon away with it. A thirteen year old boy thought to himself- I do not like that which sets. Surely, this is not my God.
Dawn arrived in all it's beauty and the sun embraced the horizon. Could this be God? The sun set and  dusk arrived with the answer. My God is permanent. My Lord is the Creator of the heavens and the earth and everything in between. He has the power to make the stars rise and set.
That instant, this boy came to be known as Khaleelullah. He had just become brand ambassador of what was to be known as Deen e Hanifa. Because in that very instant, God spoke to him.
Submit.
I have submitted.

The reason I'm talking so emphatically about submission is my plate of Biryani.

This thirteen year old boy now attained a glorious age of 86. Needless to say, life had not been all that easy. But nothing compared to that which was yet to come. He had no heir. No son to pass on this beautiful experience that is Deen e Hanifa. His beard grew luxuriantly but his eyes longed to see a child. His bones were growing weaker but his lips mouthed prayers asking for a miracle. After 86 long and tiring years of prayer, he received his little miracle. The tiny coughs and coos were to make his heart burst in uncontainable joy and gratitude.

On the 9th day of the month of ZilHajj, he was asked to sacrifice his boy.
HE SUBMITTED.


My story ends here. I'm not touching upon what follows next only because proceeding from here without extracting everything there is to be had would be a glaring injustice. It would be an injustice to my own self and, more importantly, to the man who taught me the meaning of submission. Because from now on, it's about living up to his directives. Of being a Muslim (the one who submits) the way he had been.
He was not born into a believing family. The call to prayer was not sounded in his ears when he was born. His first words were not the name of God. HE  found his way to his Lord. And that is what mesmerizes me about this man. He never played the "That's not fair! Nobody ever told me!" card. He never tried to simply "fit in" with the idolators of his time only to save himself. He never worshipped "stars" (go ahead, give them names: Proxima Centauri, Michael Jackson, Kobe Bryant, Eminem, Miley Cyrus and a whole galaxy more) only to appear "cool." He was thirteen. Societal pressure was immense. Top that off with crazy stars-and-moon-worshipping peer pressure!
Yet, he did not buckle.
And that is why he inspires me even today.

And that is why, celebrating this Festival of Sacrifice, I think of the 86 year old man who agreed to sacrifice his miracle baby as the loftiest expression of whole-hearted submission.
The man was Ibrahim Alayhissalam.


إِذْ قَالَ لَهُ رَبُّهُ أَسْلِمْ   [When his Lord asked to him, "Submit"]
 قَالَ أَسْلَمْتُ لِرَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ  [He said "I have submitted [in Islam] to the Lord of the worlds."]
[2:131]

I Want.

I do not want to be me anymore.
I want to become my own alter-ego.
Permanently.

All the things I stand for, all the things that I have always clung on to and every "ideal" I have tried to live by seems more and more meaningless as time time progresses. Being myself has not gotten me very far, neither has it made me any happier.
Now I want to be a bitch. A snob. I want to sedate my soul and lose all sense of accountability. I want a smile that can make me get away with murder, and a conscience that will allow it. I want a pretty face that can articulate the ugliest of words with radiant mockery. I want to feel pride. I want to manipulate, make low-lying. non-deserving humans scamper at my feet. Why shouldn't they? The universe revolves around me after all.

I want to walk on 4 inch heels. I want fancy bags and phones. And I want those crawling below  me to steal guilty glaces in awe and trepidation. I want a life where my biggest concern is a broken nail. I want a life that I can fix by a manicure. I want my haircut, my clothes and my make-up to define me. I want to learn to find contentment in materialism. I want to be the focus of envy, to enjoy it even. I want to be fake, and believe it's real. I want to throw tantrums. I want to demand attention. I want to nag, oppress and suffocate. I want to want things. I want to be my top priority. I want the entire world to service my happiness and ensure my satisfaction.

I want all this because all other "acceptable" routes to happiness I have traversed in futility. What I believe as happiness doesn't measure for anything in the world as I see today. Today, I see laughter in a face that holds all the strings of a puppet. I see exultation in domination. I have discovered that contentment lies hidden within pride. I have observed that peace is achieved not by humility or honesty or sincerity but by demanding and dictating and destroying.

This is my final attempt in the pursuit of happiness. Masochism has failed me, maybe narcissism won't.

In Memoriam

I'm sure all of us have one specific drawer or maybe even a huge carton stacked up somewhere containing fragments of memories worth preserving. Old books, letters, cards, scraps of doodled paper...it's an endless list of things we never wish to depart with. I have one such box right under my bed. My paintings, old textbooks, cards from long forgotten friends, records, an autograph book and well, a few more paintings. But buried somewhere deep in the corner, is a folder that I cherish the most. Answer sheets from school examinations. Except for the obvious lack of Math papers, (conveniently burnt or tossed in the trash) I have preserved all my favourite answer sheets starting from 9th grade. 

I opened that box today. And if nostalgia hadn't gotten to me already, it did when an answer sheet dated 11th December, 2009 caught my attention. Second Terminal Exam, English Paper 1.

"How would you like to perpetrate your memory after death? What legacy do you wish to leave behind? Write an essay in not more than 500 words."

Here is sixteen year old naivete speaking from her world of rainbows and silver linings:                                           ________________________________________________________________

                                   
                              In Memoriam...

I never gave much thought to how I would die. However, a peculiar idea did occur to me while I was hammering my fast depleting grey cells in a futile attempt to learn when and how Hitler committed suicide after the Second World War.

People crave greatness, a few  achieve it and fewer still make it into academic curriculum. And that is when they ruin it- leaving behind a trail of encumbered children, cursing and pelting abuse. I am one among those kids. On the eve of my History examination, I frankly do not care if Gandhiji walked the stretch of a coastline to secure us freedom (for I will not feel fully liberated until I can escape the dread of reproducing seemingly useless facts on paper.) I would also take a minute to point out my profound disappointment in Mr. Hitler. Contribute THREE WHOLE chapters to the world, and commit suicide on the last page?! Maybe a more dramatic planned assassination would have been a fitting and an acceptable end.

So that very instant, my brain took a solemn oath. Duty to mankind, especially students, is my idea of service. Which is why- despite all of my mother’s dreams of placing a Nobel statuette on my mantelpiece- I have decided not to do anything so significant that would etch my name in the pages of History. I know only too well what happens to such people.

Well, about the question of how I would like my memory to be perpetrated after my death, I have humble aspirations. I want my friends, my family and my teachers to remember me as the hyperactive, ever enthusiastic girl who on one hand can be astonishingly silly, but on the other hand can shoulder responsibility with great diligence. Grant me that and my soul would be the happiest thing in the Heavens.

I do want my share of success. Who doesn’t? I wish to be a journalist, a choice that gets consolidated each day looking at the dire state of news channels in the country today. Our news is more commercial than realistic, more biased than truthful. I intend to reverse it. And that is my second wish: to be remembered as the person who stood up for what is right, without hesitation.

I am passing out of school this year. God alone knows where what will lead me. One thing that I do know is that I DO NOT want to be the same person I am today. I want to be bigger. I want to be better. I want to be stronger. I intend to touch the lives of everyone around me, be a part of their lives and be of value.  I want to ensure that no person feels like he/she has wasted a part of their lives over me.

No gold, no riches, no lengthy legacies. I am to be remembered as the girl who brought sunshine in every one’s life she touched. I hope what I say is not forgotten, my stupid jokes do not get stale and that my essays remain etched in your memory forever.

“Beep beep” goes my phone. It’s a message from my best friend. “Hey! How many chapters are you planning to skip in History?”

“If possible, ALL.”

With a curse, a groan and unspeakable agony, I get back to Hitler’s disgraceful suicide. My resolution strengthens with every page I read.

             _______________________________________________

I chuckle. So much has changed. I am definitely not the person I was back then, but I am not too sure if I have become bigger or better or stronger. The change has been radical, whether for the better or for the worse, I do not know. I still wish to be remembered as the girl who brought in sunshine, if only I had some within myself. I still hope my silly jokes do not stale with time, if only I could laugh over them myself. I still wish my essays would last in your memories, if only my presence could do the same.

I still wish I had the optimism of a sixteen year old, if only reality hadn't aged my spirit beyond years.

I was always told every cloud has a silver lining. I've come to realize now that the converse is also true and much closer to reality.

The Ugly Little Liar

Once upon a time there was a whore. She authored a blog. Here is what she had to say:
  _______________________________________________________________________

I'm tired of living a lie. Of trying to make myself believe it's not a lie. They say seeing is believing, but what if everything that you see only pushes you further into disbelief? And amidst all the doubt, I have to shrug, smile and play along like it's the most genuine thing in the world. I have to live a double fraud. I have to get defrauded and I have to continue to perpetrate that fraud without acknowledging it as one.

I do not know how much longer I can pull this stunt- I'm tired. Justifiably so because it has not been easy. It's never easy to keep one's side of the bargain with so much diligence only to watch it being flagrantly violated by the other faction. Today I'm at a stage that I think is the detritus of the human soul. Im a decay product of a person who inherently believed in good and lived by it, only to face a tragic death at the hands of sheer deceit. I remember I was a person when I started out but inevitably ended up as a whore. I ended up with not an iota of dignity or self respect within me. Worse because of my acceptance to live so. I'm no longer the person who cares about anything any longer. I work in my capacity as a whore and I get paid accordingly. I've learnt to shut my eyes and ears and carry on with my double-fraud whore-job every day. With no modesty left to guard, I'm free like the wind. Yayyyy.

At this juncture, a passage from Julius Caeser comes to mind; one that gives words to my battle- the battle between the person I once was and the third grade being I have now transformed into.

[BRUTUS]
Be not deceiv'd: if I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours;
But let not therfore my good friends be griev'd-
Nor construe any further my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.


But let not therfore my good friends be griev'd.
For I am the bitch that will always find my way back to my master. I will continue to wag my tail at my master's sight and and salivate at the sight of a juicy bone my master will throw at me. I will do my bit and accept payment in the form of words, smiles and promises. I am after all, an ugly little liar.

  _______________________________________________________________________
She wasn't a slut. She wasn't a rape victim. She just lived in a world of promises constructed by liars. She was a trust victim.

The Alchemy of Loss

I made it through. I made it out of a place where I had once lain devastated. I made it out of days that threatened to storm over the house of cards that I had been. I made it through a time when no way out had seemed possible. In three hundred and sixty five days, I have converted every loss into a lesson of much, much greater value. I DID IT. Alhumdulillah.

But like everything in the universe, the alchemy that converts losses into lessons comes at a price. And today I stand tall, not because I believe I have won, but because I have been able to find the courage to pay any price that was demanded of me, without negotiation. Every second that I resisted falling apart, every temptation I turned my face away from stemmed from the courage emanating from one single word: HasbiAllah. Allah is enough for me. Should there ever have been any doubt?

As I compose this post, I realize that it is not the conclusions I’m concerned about. In harmony with the very title of my blog, I want this post to take me back. Back in those days- not because I want to feel afresh all that pain, but because I want laugh right in it’s face. Laugh, because those losses hurt no more. Laugh, because it couldn’t stop me. Laugh, because this is a celebration.

I have taken some terrible beatings, I’ve inflicted some of them myself. On the bright side, I do not regret any part of it. All the wretchedness that stayed with me in year 19, all that bubbling fire of disgust and loathing directed towards myself was justified. It only didn’t arise earlier in life because of the blinds of ignorance drawn over my eyes. Ripping them off was a white-hot stab of realization, quenched yet again by one belief: HasbiAllah. And gluing my tattered spirit with that belief, I decided it was time for some radical change. Those changes came, bit by puny bit, and consolidated into reforms. They were changes that demanded me to let go when required and to embrace when needed. Changes that were to be made not to please the world, but to seek the pleasure of the One who is the fountainhead of all strength within me. I needed Him by my side; He who is the source of all Mercy.

Closure. That is the one thing I reached out for and snatched from life this year. No re-considerations, no second thoughts, only the knowledge that the further I would drag, the more bruises I would end up with. Any chick-flick will tell you that "letting go" is the hardest part of Life. You'd be surprised just how easy it really is. All it takes is ONE conscious decision: I'm done.
Everything else plays out automatically...HasbiAllah of course! I've chased closure for over a year now. Chased it because I believed it was the analgesic I needed. I chased it because I needed protection from the faces that I could no longer recognize. I begged for closure because the faces were there to stay, leaving me no choice but to strengthen my resolve and harden my spirit.
Telling yourself that "it doesn't hurt" is as unexplainable and as miraculous as hitting the side of the computer to make it work. You don't see the logic behind it, you only see that it works. It restores functionality. The easiest way to let pain win is to acknowledge its presence. Deny it that honour and it retreats for good.
But hold up! Slapping the side of the computer ain't no permanent solution. Some day you will have to unscrew it, disassemble it and fix the glitch within. That day closure will walk right into you. To me, it came under the garb of a text message, recognizable only by the fact that it had no effect on me. None whatsoever.  No spite, no malice and no unrest. I faced it as calmly as I face the monotony of daily life. It was a chapter I was meant to close. With that, I fixed the glitch. I turned over the last page of a story that spanned four beautiful years.

Clutching tightly onto this secret victory, I walked ahead, this time with extreme precaution. I trained my mind to sense danger, extra sensitive to that which endangered my Faith. I did not need any fiascoes tarnishing my life anymore. It was the path that had always existed, the only one I was meant to take but couldn't see. Now with all my distractions kicked to the curb and the unnecessities of Life dismissed, it was clear as daylight. There is the image of a person I want to be, the person I want to die as. I am not what I have been called, I'm not what I have been rejected for. I'm better than my flaws and I seek to prove it. Last year was merely the placing of a foundation stone, this year imma build upon it, Allah willing.

I had barely climbed out of my place of hiding, preparing myself to a renewed way of life when it happened. The catastrophe that saw the collapse of all my belief in humanity, in virtue and in trust. Regret never really leaves you. If it did, it would serve no purpose. It has a way of making the person fragile, susceptible to harm. And when harm does strike in collaboration with regret, a sceptic is born. I was born  (or should I say re-born?) like that.  In all fairness, I had seen it coming. Even in the worst of days, my intuition never left my side. My instinct had always been my guide, my basis for distinguishing right from wrong…until I decided to muffle it and take what is erroneously called a ‘Leap of Faith.’ I took the leap and fell, and watched my faith go down with it too. THIS is the best lesson I carry with me from here on. Discard expectations from humans, especially those humans who make a claim for you to invest your trust in them. An honest person does not claim your trust- he gains it and up keeps it. And if you are willing to place your trust in a person, shed all expectations simultaneously. Trust and expectations can not co-exist in the sort of world we live in today. Once you put the two things in one place, you’ve made yourself liable to heavy losses. And what loss is heavier than the loss of faith? On that foundation, I intend to place the further milestones of my life. Expectation is the basis of disappointment. A broken promise hurts because of the ‘expectation’ to see it fulfilled. Words hurt because of the ‘expectation’ for them to be true. Developments you see around you hurt because they do not conform to your ‘expectations.’ In a time where promises are games and words are pawns, expectation is your check-mate. HasbiAllah: because from Him never comes disappointment.
On extrapolation, I taught myself one final lesson. Everybody has subjective standards. I measure virtue on a scale different from my neighbour's, my friend's or that of my family's. And I'm no believer in mediocrity. When I speak of honesty, I speak of it in the hightest terms. When I speak of loyalty, I impose the most stringent code for myself. When I speak of trust, I make even a hairline breach unforgivable. Problem?
Does. Not. Work. In. This. World.
And that takes me back to my vicious circle of expectations and disappointments. Of tawaqqo and of gila.

People will get away with anything, it only takes the right (pseudo)words. Everything they say is a lie, unless proven otherwise. It's useless to fret. The key is to keep moving from one misfortune to next, taking everything in it's way with a pinch of salt. It is unfair, certainly, but not worth compromising the most exalted ideas to the vilest form of treachery.

I know I have traveled a long road to be where I am today. But the pain that had accompanied me throughout seems to have gone. Now it’s just an enveloping numbness, deviod of any feeling, except the absence of pain. It took me 365 days to turn my life over by 360 degrees. Grief, despair, depression, denial, fury and finally…calm. The calm that settles over a tribe after battle, that which is the sum of joy and exhaustion. I choose to mark this day with the most satirical lines that come to my mind:

Kuch na tha toh Khuda tha, kuch na hota toh Khuda hota.
Duboya mujhko honi ne, na hota mein toh kya hota? ;)


“My last teen will not be a fantasy. It'll be the way life is meant to be. I will lose, I may win and year 20 will come along in the blink of an eyelid.”

Que sera sera: HasbiAllah. Hola year twenty!

Masks

I look around and a feeling of despair takes over. A feeling compounded furthermore by my inability to alter my surroundings and instead having to simply sit back and watch the drama unfold. When I look around at my surroundings...I don't actually see my surroundings. I see masks. Facades. And then comes into focus  the ethereal billboard hovering in the air that says "Welcome to the masquerade."

It's a dress rehearsal everyday and everybody is playing a role. Dumb is the one refuses to jump into the band-fake-wagon. It's depressing; watching the human reduced to an entity that seeks refuge under layers of make-up, pretentions and sanctimony. We're so desperate to please the world.  So desperate to be accepted. So desperate to be "cool." Everything that we're doing to 'stand out' is only a step towards trying to 'fit in.'

Virtues of integrity and merit have been kissed goodbye. Who cares, when you can wrap up your deficiencies under fancy wrappers and some very sweet talk?

Never try to cover up what you lack by making an exaggerated show of what you have. This has been an unspoken dictum in my life for a very long time. I will speak about it today. I find it despicable, the idea of having to fake one's identity (and to lose it in the process.) What level of Munafiqat is that?! The idea of faking perfection…ridiculous! Excuse me for throwing the clichè in your face, but nobody's perfect. You'd mock and jeer, but clichès are clichès for just one reason: they work. In a world that is SO obsessed with perfection, do we not realize that it is only our imperfections that set us apart? Ignore that, and we're just an aggregate of some (perfect) flesh on some (perfect) bones- (perfectly) fit for the grave.

Hypocrisy scares me. The slow poison. The shrewd deviousness of it, the way it weaves into our lives; slowly, silently, gradually tightening it's grasp and choking our originality to death.

Am I the only one freaked out by this possibility? The possibility of not knowing who I am, of what I can do, of what I can be...

I steal another glance around me. Plastic smiles and steely laughter. Bright faces and dark souls. Solid words and shaky principles. Lots of style and little substance. Welcome to the masquerade.

“The only thing worse than a conformist is a fashionable conformist,” as Ayn Rand quite correctly pointed out. It’s okay to be weird. It’s okay to be awkward. It’s okay to be real. The only thing that’s definitely NOT okay is to stop being yourself. Whose favour do we seek to gain that way? No good comes out of moulding one’s self into society’s idea of perfect; the society is, after all, a bunch of real people trying extremely hard to be unreal.

I do not know if the rantings of a disappointed girl ever made any difference to the world, but necessity sometimes prevails over logic. The girl writing this feels trapped, and this is her SOS call:

Take the curtain-call, let the curtain fall. Let’s go behind the scenes, and embrace who we’ve always been.

Men of Truth

And mention in the Book [the story of Ibrahim] Indeed, he was a man of truth and a Prophet.

And mention in the Book, Ismaeel. Indeed, he was true to his promise, and he was a Messenger and a Prophet.

And mention in the Book, Idrees. Indeed, he was a man of truth and a Prophet.

[19; 41,54,56]

Ibrahim AS, Ismaeel AS, Idrees AS. The purest of people to have ever walked this Earth. So pure, that their stories were protected word for word and passed down for centuries for us to finally be able to inherit, read, understand and apply them. Their qualities, their trials and their tribulations have been documented and preserved untouched. These were the men whose examples were quoted to Mohammed SAWS in his periods of intense depression by his only mentor: Allah SWT. The experiences of these men was to act like balm for every wound Mohammed SAWS would have to endure, for the atrocities that would torment him, for every trial his ummat would face centuries later...

Ting-ding. Ummat, yes. You and I.

You and I inherited unimaginable (and untapped, as yet)  treasures. Take Ibrahim AS's story, for instance. A small boy, roughly 13, standing up to his father (an idol carver) and condemning idolatory itself!

"Yaa abati laa taAbudisshaitan!"

Such eloquence, such humility. Where did it come from? A grey-beard aged eighty? Nah. A little boy of thirteen.

From there he walked out. And from there began the most amazing quest of his life. The search for his Rabb. Born into a community of idolators, the idea of One Supreme Creator and Sustainer was a wholly new and sternly criticized concept. Yet, his Fitrah pulled him to it. The same soul that had responded with QAALU BALA SHAHIDNA some 50,000 years before man came into being, the soul that was his compass, the soul that had identified it's Rabb long before the mind could.

THAT was the man we know as Ibrahim Alayhissalam.

Disowned by family, exiled, catapulted into an inferno stoked for three days. Flag bearer of Deen e Hanifa. Recognized by Allah SWT as his best friend: Khaleelullah.

And yet, how did Allah SWT describe this man?

"And mention in the Book [the story of Ibrahim] Indeed, he was a man of truth and a Prophet."

Man of Truth. Siddiqan Nabiya.

Reformer. Activist. Pioneer. Prophet.

And yet, what character did Allah SWT choose to highlight about this man above everything else? Truthfulness. Trustworthiness.

Here's the lesson. For you and for me. Especially in a time where attributes of honesty and word-keeping are deemed passè. In a time where a lie here and a cover-up there is acceptable...is okay...is "light." Sad reality.

Allah SWT elevated Ibrahim AS's truthfulness beyond everything else. Beyond the integrity of his faith, beyond his humility, beyond his courage! THAT is the the stature of an honest human in the eyes of the All Seeing.

Upkeeping a person's trust, honesty in the time of adversity: little qualities most loved by Allah SWT. Little qualities most overlooked by you and me.

And this, is the sad story of this ummat. Of you and of me.

A Voice Amidst the Noise

It was dark, Her life. She liked it that way. She didn't choose it for Herself- no. She only accepted the hand she was dealt. The light was blinding now.
And in the darkness she heard sounds...voices. Low and heavy. Ominous and mind-numbing.
She prayed that they should stop, that She should find a few moments of peace within Herself. The sounds drove Her to paranoia. She would scream in silent agony and no one would listen.

One day She heard something odd. It wasn't the chilling voice of regret and lamination. It was a different timbre altogether, a low clear note that seemed to mask every other sound in Her head. It was a sound that demanded to be heard, a sound so sure of it's purpose that She could not overlook it.
So She heard.

"I swear, by the first ray of morning light..."

It made Her gasp. To think of the brilliant golden streak of sun shine piercing the ghastly blanket of darkness. Sitting in her room with all lights out, She gasped to think of the sheer power of one single ray of light to drive out a lifetime of living in the shadows. She gasped, wanting to hear more.

"And by the night when it covers with darkness..."

She knew the Voice was addressing to her, directly now. It was about Her life, and someone was swearing by it! She knew, deep within, what the Voice meant. And when the Voice swore upon the darkest portion of night, She couldn't wait to hear more.

"I have not abandoned you, neither have I detested you..."

It was just the thing She needed to hear: that She had not been forgotten, abandoned. But now She was thinking furiously. What WAS that Voice? How did it know exactly what to say? Could other people hear it too? With heightened anticipation, She craved to hear more.

"That which is in store for you in the Future, is better than your Present..."

New life was being poured into Her now. She was being purged of all Her self-loathing, of all the aching.
The Voice possessed the power of absolute surety. It was a Voice that could not shake, for every word it spoke was the Truth. The absolute Truth. The Voice showed Her promise of better times. Despite being Herself, She smiled

"I shall give you, and you will be satisfied..."

A floodgate of hope opened deep within Her. She was going to receive something, something that would elevate Her to the very summit of satisfaction, beyond which there was no scope for more. Was it something that She prayed for every single day? Was it something She could not even fathom? Was it something beyond Her meager imagination? The Voice seemed to affirm all Her questions.

Then something amazing happened. The Voice that was until now only speaking 'at' Her began speaking 'to' Her.

'Did I not find you lonely and give you refuge?"

Now she was perturbed. The Voice knew of Her loneliness? How much more did it know? And what did it mean by refuge? She knew now that this was serious business. Somebody had knowledge of every itsy-bitsy detail of Her life and also knew how exactly to tread upon precarious territory!

"I found you lost and guided you..."

Ye...yesss. She nodded.

"I found you in need and made you self-sufficient..."

She nodded harder. Visions clogged her mind. All Her achievements, all those awards and rewards, all those instances when people had looked at Her with eyes brimming with tears of pride. Yes...She had been needful, and She had found sustenance. With profound gratitude, She accepted that the Voice had given Her everything.

Once again, the Voice changed form. The low pitched Voice assumed a greater clarity and octave...the voice of someone giving out an order.

"So as for the orphan, do not suppress him..."

It all made sense now. The raging questions in Her mind were silenced. Once again, She only nodded.

"And as for the needy, do not repel him..."

Ofcourse! It made perfect sense! She was needy when the Voice sustained Her and imparted Her strength to walk ahead. Wasn't it only logical that She pass on the favour that was bestowed upon Her? She nodded.

"And as for My favours, report it."

The Voice died out with that final word. Report. As She snapped out of Her trance, the last piece in the jigsaw fell into perfect place with a click. A prayer song from Her school days came to Her mind. 'Count your blessings, name them one by one, and it will surprise you what the Lord has done.'

It was her Lord talking to her all along.
Click.

Her Creator had spoken to her that day, through a Book she had read all her life but never in the right perspective. Her Creator had soothed her, like a mother pacifies her crying baby. Her Creator then highlighted His countless Blessings upon her. Then her Creator showed her the way out of the dark. Report my Favours. Acknowledge the Blessings and give thanks.

She learnt a valuable lesson that day. Her Lord was not displeased with her, despite her flaws. Her Lord was the Most Merciful. For this, she gave thanks. She knew she was grappling with hard times, but the promise of a better future gave her courage beyond measure. For this, she gave thanks.
She thought of the times she had been awarded with high worldly honours, she thought of the times her mother had praised her whole-heartedly. Smiling, she gave thanks.
She looked at her hands. People had told her she had pretty ones. People had told her those hands possessed great talent. For that, she gave thanks. There was SO MUCH to be thankful for!

Her mind was quietened now. Serenity enveloped her. The ominous noises made their quick getaway.
An alarm for the morning prayer went off, in sync with the call to prayer.

The first ray of light streaked across the pitch darkness of the sky. She rose to pray.





PS: This was my little interaction with Surah 93, Ad-Dhuha,  from the Quran.
The narrative of the 'Voice' is the meaning I have extracted from each verse of the Surah, and I regret any modifications/deviations from the original text and translation.

Silent Letters

And it hurts again. All over again. With renewed vigour, with feverish intensity- it hurts again.

Selflessness is a virtue that rests on the demolition of one's existence. Of course, four years back as I was typing my first blog article, I had no idea I would be writing about this someday.
Ta-daaaa. Four years later, that day is here.

Time. Now this guy is tricky. He is sly, shrewd and crooked. It flies when you are having fun. Soon enough, in slow motion, those very 'fun moments' end up as holes inside of you somewhere down the line. It took me four years to realize this: happy memories of the present only make for nasty scars of the future.
So it hurts. The constantly shadowing realization of all the time that was invested...and wasted. All the effort, the feelings, the prayers and the good will- all invested and wasted.

I'm a self critic, and on analyzing the girl who had sat down to type her first blog article, I see naivete. I see immaturity. Above all, I see the girl who lived by the ideals of selflessness. I laugh.
I chide myself for being who I am. The world ain't got no place for that.

I get attached. My Achilles' tendon lies right there, and if you were to target an arrow at it, I'd fall face-flat. I'm wired like that. To give and give and continue to give. Why? Because I get attached.
But not everybody is engineered that way. As a kid, I remember playing this super fun game called Lock and Key. Turns out, Use and Throw happens to be a more 'advanced' version of it. So how does that work?
Use when needed. Throw when not.
Attached when needed. Detached when not.

I do not make high and mighty claims of virtue, that is all bullshit. I just wish I got a milli from the millions I had put in. Is that too much to ask for? Is it too much to ask for a little understanding, and a little comfort that says, "I'll be there for you?"
Is it too much to wish for a little value in return, for all those sleepless nights spent adding value to someone else's life?
Then again, I know the answers to all of that. It was all a game of Use and Throw. It was a game whose winning mantra rested on my Achilles' Heel. If you got that, the trophy was yours.

The knowledge of 'being replaced' is perhaps the most devastating. The feeling of not being needed, of not being important enough to be needed- that shit hurts. It does not hurt like a stab wound, it is a pain of the dull, throbbing variety. It is the pain that makes your eyes flood in those moments of utter loneliness. It is the pain that makes you choke, pain that makes you want to spontaneously combust. That shit hurts.
Kuch is tarah nazar andaaz hogaye Faraaz,
Jaise izaafi hurf the hum teri zindagi ki kitaab mein
(Nazar andaaz= Ignored; Izaafi hurf=Silent letters)

Loneliness is a silent killer. And Time is an accomplice.
While Loneliness is doing it's job of ripping you apart, all that Time that was unflinchingly devoted rubs on you like salt.
Even memories fade, thank God for that. But nothing fills those gaps- gaps which are a screaming testimony to the weakling you have been.
You will beg for Loneliness to kill you, and it will only grin and say "What's the hurry?"
It kills you fibre for fibre, cell for cell, breath for breath.

Which brings me back to my point: selflessness rests on the demolition of one's existence. Because to give and receive is how the trade runs, it is how the human lives; any deviation from that is a step towards inhumanity. So after 4 years of being a tissue that was trampled over, I know now when to pack my bags and leave. The mere gust of wind that brings news of being taken for granted will see me make my courteous exit. I have embraced for long enough. Now I only wish to escape.

In hope, that maybe now, it won't hurt so much.