The Year of Detox

My favourite month of the year is running away so fast! It's already the 25th of July and I still haven't updated my birthday special post. Hmpfh. I've been busy.
I'm perpetually busy and perpetually exhausted. Interning, you see, is not an easy business. If you do your job badly, you get yelled at. If you do your job well, you will still get yelled at. Why? Because you're an intern. The lowest rung of medical hierarchy, the bottom of the food chain.
It's an hierarchy of screwed people screwing other people. The HOD screws the Associate Professor who screws the Senior Resident who screws the Junior Resident who in turn screws the Intern. It's the Game of Screws!

But amidst all the screws and pricks lies the one driving force for any intern: Satisfaction.
The satisfaction of action
The satisfaction of a correct diagnosis
The satisfaction of initiating the right treatment, unsupervised
The satisfaction of a successful wide-bore cannulation
The thrill of your first IV injection!
Delivering a baby!
Receiving a baby!
Administering CPR!
Interning is a marvellous series of "firsts," and nothing like the "firsts" American television tells you about. Being an intern is a glorious feeling. I LOVE IT.

Hey, but that's not all I'm busy with! Interns, by definition, are multi-taskers.
We work, we study, we party, the brave ones venture into marriage and the rest of us get busy dressing up and hogging on wedding food, we pick fights and dress wounds, we make time to actively hate and actively love Residents, we organise birthday parties, brainstorm over gifting options, we work over a patient's surgery while worrying over another one's prognosis, we plan our futures, we sacrifice precious weekends for attainment of said future...we WORK 36 HOUR SHIFTS! We work 36 hour shifts and report for duty, right on time, the very next day.

Interns are most under-appreciated superheroes of any hospital.

But enough of this medical jargon, Grey's Anatomy has got that covered.
This month began with me turning very old :/
And this year I did not find a lot of time to ponder and retrospeculate. If you're wondering why, you've probably skipped reading the first 2 paragraphs. I suggest you go back and start over.

In spite of the lack of retrospective analysis, I do know one thing for sure. This has been my Year of Detox. Let's just put it this way:

When life gives you snakes...

Collect the venom...

Create an anti-venom...

Obtain a patent...

GROW RICH!

Say "buahahahaha you evil snake," in your head.

BE HAPPY!

This advice is the product of living with snakes for a fair bit of time. It will come in handy. Thank me later!

And if you find this advice Riddikulus...that's the whole point! *youuu seee whaat I diiiiid theeere!*
Wisdom and philosophy can only get you so far. It is laughter and gaiety that will take you through the rest. Isn't that how we ward away Dementors and Boggarts alike?
Laugh it all away and better things will come.

So that's it for my 22nd year wrap up! I wish you and I wish myself all the many giggles life has to offer. Always remember to do no harm but to take no shit either.
And above all, be unapologetically silly!

Until next time, byeeeee!

What a Good Day Looks Like

Writing this post today fills me with embarrassment because this is a task I should have finished about 4 months ago. I will however excuse myself because the last few months have driven me bonkers, just by the sheer load of things that had to be accomplished. Updating my blog was no emergency.

A lot needs to be said about the year that was and a lot of "events" need documenting. I will however begin with something that is easiest and requires early attention. Easy because I simply have to type off a piece of paper and the urgency because that piece of paper is in tatters. No points for guessing, it is yet another debate speech from yet another college fest :D

Although I do not know who suggested the topic for this year's debate, I'm guessing it was the same person who drew the flag of Japan, or the guy who scrawled Nike's logo. Lazy and outright boring.
"Social Media does more harm than good."
*sigh*
How do you even make something like that sound unique and interesting?
My partner (Sana Nayeemunissa aka Nemo) and I (aka Nido) tried our best, even managed to include poetry in the 2 minutes of speaking time!
I'm guessing we weren't altogether boring, because we took home the silver baby! (Why it wasn't gold is a whole different, super annoying story, so I'm going to skip it altogether.)

I spoke for the topic. Here goes:

_________________________________________________________________

The first word my nephew learnt to speak was "mummy."
His second word was "daddy."
His third word however, was "Yuttu."
"Yuttu" was a magical word that made my nephew finish his food without a tantrum and go to bed without a fuss. Needless to say, his parents loved "Yuttu."

"Yuttu" was my one year old nephew's way of saying- Youtube.
(true story)

Our generation is constantly blamed for being too engrossed in out gadgets, but I also see parents who cannot be bothered to spend time with their child, or even talk to him. They simply shove a gaming tab in their hands and get busy with their own mobiles.
It's true, social media does a greater job of raising the children of today.

Also, back in the day, a child bullied at school would at least be safe at home. But today this bullying follows him home in the form of text messages and insulting tweets. Think about it for a while. Does a school-going child really need a phone? Sirs, you and I grew up without one and I think we turned out pretty fine. These are distractions at best and tools of aggression and hostility at worst...because a child who knows how to watch his favourite cartoon online today, will learn how to access pornography tomorrow. No wonder "cyber crime" is such a buzz-word these days.

In fact, children exposed to social media early on in life are found to have much less patience and understanding of the world around them. This transition from "human-beings" to "cyber-zombies" is happening much too fast.

If I had to define the word social media, I'd call it "an adult's glorified toy."
Because let's face it, it makes sounds, it makes you laugh and you feel better when you're online. It is now simply a tool to stroke your own ego.
I have sent out my tweet. Now whether this birdie flies or poops on your head, I don't have a care to spare.

We have the entirety or knowledge known to mankind since the dawn of time at our fingertips, but we use it to talk about pens, apples and pineapples.
The world is changing as you change your display pictures and much of this change is happening OUTSIDE of social media, because let me remind you: Gandhiji's Dandi March was not an event he created on Facebook.

So this is my plea, for my generation and the generations that will follow:

When I was a child, I'd never be home,
I'd be out with my friends, on our bikes we'd roam.
I'd wear holes in my trainer and graze up knees,
or build club-houses high up in the trees.
But now the park is so quiet, it gives me a chill,
No children playing outside, the swings hang still!
There's no skipping, no hopscotch, no church and no steeple,
It's true, we're a generation of idiots- smart phones and dumb people.
So don't give into a life that simply follows the hype,
give people your love, don't give them your "like."
______________________________________________________________

Our team was highly praised by doctors, seniors and juniors alike. The wave of applause and appreciation that followed made up for any chunk of yellow metal we rightfully deserved but didn't get. No complains there!

Just before the debate, I made an impromptu decision to participate in the extempore as well. The topic I got was "Should human beings eat to live or live to eat?"
I know, I know. I spent the entire one minute of my "prep-time" in thinking about what a supernaturally boring topic it was. At the end of the minute when I finally found myself at the podium, I realised I hadn't thought of a single thing to say!
I took a deep breath and decided to go with the flow. I think I ended up with something along these lines:

The very first thing I remember about learning History in elementary school was the story of our ancestors: the cave men. We learnt that men in the ancient past had to hunt to sustain themselves. In order to procure food for his family, man would step out with spears and daggers each day. Yes, back in the day, man fought a battle between life and death in order to find food.

But we evolved over the years. We no longer go hunting to find food, the food comes to our doorstep. Food is no longer considered a basic necessity. It is now looked upon as an art, which is evident from the fact that we have something like the "MasterChef" and "DoctorChef" competitions today.
In conclusion, the idea that man must eat in order to live is passe, primordial even.
Most certainly, the human beings of today, you and I, live to eat, rather than eat to live.

To be honest, I was quite surprised by myself. I hadn't seen that coming until it came. It got me a medal too, yay!

That was a good day, one of my most cherished ones. The prizes and the praise were completely overshadowed by what came next. My classmates, in an unnatural burst of unity, decided to try out the rides that were put up in the college grounds! The giant wheel was fun but the break dance was mental! I don't think I will find people shrieking with fear and laughing with joy at the same time ever again.

I went home that day with a huuuuge smile. ;)

Et tu, yet again Brute?

On the ides of March, when the dagger pierced through Caesar's back in a fatal blow, the words that escaped from the mouth of the dying man were so powerful that they betrayed his own body as it fell limp and powerless.
Et tu, Brute? Then fall Caesar!
Is it you my beloved Brutus? Then surely, Caesar will meet his end, without resistance.
Surely, Caesar will find his solace in the (bloodied) arms of his best friend.
Surely, Caesar will give Brutus what Brutus desires.

Beautiful, isn't it? I have forever been in love with the words spoken by a man on the cusp of death, slain by the one he most loved. If it is you on the striking end Brute, Caesar will fall with grace.
To me, those words epitomise friendship. They form the foundation- albeit subconsciously- of most of my relationships. Unflinching, unwavering trust and respect. What else can otherwise prompt a man to say I'm sure there is good reason behind this action, so I'm going to respect it.
But let's just consider this for a moment: what if Caesar hadn't died then? Let's say Caesar survived; betrayed, wounded- but alive. What do you think would happen, now that reality had became clear? Now that Caesar could completely absorb the horrors of his friend's crime, what action would he take? Would Brutus be punished, exiled, tortured...or killed?
NOPE.
The Caesar that I have come to understand was a man of integrity. A man who protected his friendship when dying, would surely not allow it to fray, now that he was alive. Brutus would hence continue to enjoy his status as a Minister, an adviser and a friend- much to the disbelief of his fellow Romans. Caesar's "second life" was to proceed as though no damage had occurred to the former, and Brutus was to proceed as though his soul was free from sin.

Ofcourse in writing the above paragraphs, I have completely discounted "Fitrah" from the equation. What I have written is a Utopian tale, where Caesar and Brutus are seen riding unicorns and painting rainbows. An ending where Caesar is wiser and Brutus is loyal and nobody is hurt.
But Fitrah is not a thing to be easily ignored. It is the final sting in the tale that can veer my story completely off-course.

So what would we see, if we were to add Fitrah into the equation? We'd see honourable Brutus striking once again. It could be a dagger, a sword, poison or maybe just a string of words spat out with venom. Because it is in Brutus' Fitrah to strike, especially now that he knew his friend's foolish virtues. He could do anything, say anything and this emotional fool of a Caesar would take it all! Better yet, he could now do it without batting an eyelid- he was getting better and better at it after all. He could now let Caesar bleed out in front of his eyes, and if Caesar were to express his agony, Brutus could simply say "You're Caesar, you fight battles, you're pro at bleeding out."
One can almost hear him say:

As Caesar loved me, I weep for him;  

as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it;

as he was valiant, I honour him:

but, as he was ambitious, I slew him.

And in this manner,  mighty Caesar would face defeat, yet again, by the man he most loved.

Well...not quite.

We seem to have forgotten one other factor in narrating the above tale: Endurance.
Caesar, a man who had lived through a life that was sometimes worse than a nightmare, was fast getting tired. Brutus' seemed to have lost his sense of moral direction and Caesar's patience and endurance had been stretched to the maximum, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The provocation came in bucketfuls.
"You're Caesar, you fight battles, you're pro at bleeding out."
AS IF IT WAS A SHOW!
Wounds on the battle-field are inflicted by the enemy and are always easy to fix. Caesar's wounds were far worse, in both cause and effect.
To put it in a modern way, Caesar was "done."
The mighty Caesar who was to lay at the foot of Pompey's statue once again, had decided he wouldn't. Not one more time and definitely not by the same person.

You can imagine what a shock it might have been for poor old Brutus! Caesar had suddenly found a voice! ( but of course, he was pro at addressing large audiences, wasn't he?) Not only had Caesar "found his voice," he seemed to have grown in courage too. Because for the first time in his two lives, he chose HIMSELF.

And that is how, Caesar lives onto this day. His story begins in death and ends with life and teaches me a lesson I needed to learn myself:

It's a Wrap!

I still cannot believe it's done. DONE!

I have never had as much coffee, as much stress and as much panic all my life combined as I've had in the last one month. The January of 2017 was the most unnerving and aneurysm-popping month to have lived through. And although I do not have a lot to brag about, because the sheet of paper that holds my future in it still hasn't been printed, I do get a moment to vent. Maybe I do not deserve a celebration yet, maybe I wont even get to celebrate...but I do deserve a rant into space. Because the universe saw me. Me in my moments of despair. Me in my moments of choking tears. Me in my moments of utter helplessness. Me reduced to rags and ashes. The universe saw me live through that and now it must hear me scream and shout.

The final exams of the Final Year of Medicine are straight out of a child's nightmare. A nightmare that shows no signs of coming to an end. One after the other after the other, you just cannot stop to catch a breather. So yes, I've been running a rat-race since the 20th of January, which only just ended on the 14th of this month. Boy am I exhausted.

Pick up any day from the passing month and I can tell you that it was packed with anxiety, tremors, tears, pep-talk, despair, prayers and caffeine. Notice that I make no mention of sleep. Because sleep is for the weak. Slogging is victory. And what do I mean by slogging? Take a look:

And this is even before exams began!
The truth is, even after a month long exam preparation, you're going to run out of time. You are going to come to a point where the balance just doesn't tip in your favour. And this is the all-deciding moment: what to study and what to sacrifice.
Rheumatology or Endocrinology?
Bladder or Rectum?
Humerus or Femur?
Normal labour or Abnormal labour?
This vaccine or that disease?
This 10 marker or that 4 marker?
You have to ration, negotiate, analyse, decide and then valiantly stick to your decision, which has EVERY chance of being a bad one.
You chose to skip the vaccine? Very well, that's the one you're going to have to write about.
You chose Femur over Humerus? Tut tut, let's see you write an essay about the neck of Radius.

I make no exaggeration when I say this has been the toughest, most hectic month of my entire study. Time is not your friend and neither is guy setting your exam papers. With both factors against you, all you really have is a tug-of-war between despair and hope. Admittedly, there have been times when despair has won. Taking a nap with alarms scheduled to go off in 7 minutes, shaking all over as you try to have breakfast, eating and then puking it all out, crying for no reason at all and thinking if you're the only one this is happening to...is a pretty regular routine for people on my side of life.

And the experience of meeting friends on the morning of the exam. Those are moments of such restrained but palpable frenzy that one cannot fathom off hand. I call this an experience because NO ONE knows what it is like unless you're standing outside the exam hall 10 minutes before you go in and trying to cram in one last etiology, one last pathogenesis, one last treatment protocol that might decide success or failure. Those last few seconds of snatching snippets from here and there, being aware of every conversation around you as you assemble your stationery for the exam...as you finally slam your book shut and throw it into your bag...as you sit down to drink water to calm your hyperactive nerves....as you are checked for chits and devices of malpractice...every second of these moments may prove crucial in some form or the other over the next couple of hours.
But of course, the universal dictum of Medical Education: If you've studied it, it will not be asked. But you cram in anyway. You absorb as much information as is passively possible. Because at least you will know you've done your very best till the last glorious second. Those are the moments when you are truly united with each other. United by fear. United by hope.

I have not done well on these exams. I admit so quite honestly. My nerves have not kept up with me and my days have been pretty bad. So I am not proud of myself. If there ever was a practical example of "the calm before the storm," this must be it. I am making a conscious effort to let the monotony of life take over me this month. I cook, clean, eat, read, paint, play, talk, sleep and give myself just enough work to do in order to keep my mind occupied, but not encumbered. I have gone over the possible consequences in the future and I have decided to deal with them when they strike. Atleast this time, failure will not come as a surprise. If I couldn't be prepared enough to take an exam, I might as well be prepared to face the aftermath. This is not a survival story worth preserving like it's counterpart 4 years ago. The only sequel this story gets is that of sleep, rest and rejuvenation.

Because like Franz Kafka said: "If you wake the future early, you get a groggy present."

We party with Pizza instead ;)
                                       

Dangerous

Isn't it dangerous? The amount of hurt that can hide inside a person. The magnitude of devastation it can cause, if unleashed. The number of people it can fool, just by smiling.

Isn't it dangerous? How people can walk the tight rope between happy and sad, knowing that no one is watching. No one to cheer if you walk, no one to catch if you fall.

Isn't it dangerous? The acute exacerbation of a chronic pain. Pain that was never really relieved, just forgotten. A wound that never really healed, just patched up.

Isn't it dangerous, how all this can happen and no one will know?

No one will ever know the tempest of thoughts in your head.
No will will ever know the anguish inside your chest.
No one will ever know how silently you endure.
No one will know because you will never show.

No one will ever know the aggression of your struggle.
No one will ever see the mist in your eyes.
No one will ever know of your Jihad against self.
No one will know because you will never show.

No one will ever love you the way you have loved.
No one will ever have your back.
No one will ever know the damage they have caused.
No one will know because you will never show.

No one will ever want you.
No one will ever need you.
You were always an option, never a choice.

Isn't it dangerous?
The amount of pain invisible to the eye. The monsters we fight in secret. The facades we create in public. The hearts we break with our actions. The illusions we create with our speech. The friend that fails you in time of need. The love that goes unnoticed. The care that goes unacknowledged.
The grief caused in the name of love. The betrayal caused in the name of friendship.

Isn't it dangerous?
The search of relief by ranting to a computer screen?

This Was Long Due

Hola amigos! Once again, I realize how ridiculously long it has been since I last visited this beloved space of mine. But I come bearing gold. Quite literally!

November blew past my face in a frenzy of activity. My favourite activities for that matter ;)
As my college celebrated it's annual fest, I celebrated the things I love doing most. To be honest, it was long due. And when on the 10th of November I walked up the dias, faced a room full of people and spoke into a mic, I realized it had been a long time since I had felt alive.
The thrill of public speaking is amazing, but when the crowd breaks into applause right in the middle of your monologue...it's an other-worldly feeling.

The topic of this year's debate was "Is abortion murder?" With me speaking in the affirmative.
(Yes, even our literary events are medical :P)
And before I manage to lose the piece of paper that bears my speech, I'm going to type it out here.

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I was a miracle. I beautiful miracle. I lay peacefully, reclining on exquisite, velvety cushions, so wonderfully warm and protective. Food came floating to me and all I had to do was absorb. Cosy and comfortable, I began to grow. Cell by cell, inch by inch, I grew.
Until the day I was pinched, grabbed, cut and crushed. I was sucked out of a home originally built to protect me, I struggled. I fought. My blood pressure began to rise and my pulse began to race.

Until the noxious chemicals trickled in...and then it was all over.

I am a Medical Professional, being trained to protect and preserve life. And today I talk on behalf of those who stand at the very beginning of life, especially those little pre-born humans, who today reside in the wombs of their mothers and will be soon delivered...or MURDERED.

Abortion IS murder which snuffs out an innocent life. And even if we were to distance ourselves and call it a "zygote" a "parasite" or even a "chunk of tissue," give it 266 days and see what emerges from the mother's wombs. It will be a human being. Only machines like clocks and cars come into existence part by part. Living beings come to exist from the very moment of conception, fulfilling all 4 criteria of "Biological Life."
A zygote possesses inherent metabolism. It grows. It responds to stimuli and it divides.
And unless this little human begins to endanger the life of it's protector, it's termination IS tantamount to murder.

But what of little humans arising out of disgraceful events- let's say rape?
Remember that this little human is not responsible for his own creation. NO human being is! The guilt lies with the man and it cannot be imputed to the child.
Rape per se is not an indication for abortion. The woman needs support- mental, physical and financial. NOT an abortion. You do not nullify a tragedy by committing another. two wrongs don't make a right.

Contraception can fail and the best of planning can fall apart. Responsible people have to make tough choices sometimes. Ending a life is not a choice, it's an escape route!
Financial constraints and social evils ARE intimidating, but all life is precious- ask a childless couple.

Furthermore, abortion arising out of any reason is traumatic. It violates the woman's body that has been physiologically prepared to nurture a growing life. And that is why, an abortion brings with it feelings of self-destruction, guilt and isolation, Much like the feelings of a murderer in the aftermath of his crime.

Nothing can erase what an abortion does. It takes- it kills- an innocent life and that is irreparably wrong. An unborn child is not a potential person, he/she is a person with much potential.

I wonder if you have ever noticed the ease with which people talk about appendicectomies, knee replacements and even cosmetic surgery. But NO ONE ever freely talks about an abortion. Because no one can talk freely about murder.

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 This was followed by an equally powerful speech by my partner, Sana Nayeemunisa. Our team, Spartans-2012 was unanimously declared the winning team. :D

Despite the praise and adulation that followed, the two and half minutes I spent on the podium were minutes of true, unadulterated joy for me. Something that even the medal and the trophy cannot overshadow.



                                         


Buuuuut isn't it cool when you are simply doing something that you love to and someone hands you a prize for it? ;)

21 years of Alhumdulillah

Today I start to retrospect again, with a write-up that has become an almost ritualistic part of my blog. I have been blessed enough to greet yet another July, making this my 21st. Yes, senility has struck and the metaphyseal plates have closed. The time to grow has passed, time to evolve has begun.

For long I have wondered what this article should be about, what events of importance must it include, what feelings it must convey and what it must conclude with. I scanned a trained eye over everything that was, on the lookout for anything that could add significance to this article. What I found was overwhelming. Overwhelmingly simple.

I found twenty one years of Alhumdulillah.

This has been the most splendidly master-minded life. A life where Blessings far outnumber any complain my human-self could make. A life that has overcompensated for any deprivation, any failure, any loss I ever took. My life with all it's "flaws," has been nothing short of perfect. Alhumdulillah.

But to you, dear reader, I have something else to say. Maybe you have followed this blog since it's inception or maybe this is your first ever visit here. It doesn't matter. If you are reading this, here is what I want to tell you:


DON'T EVER DESPAIR.
Hang in there with a smile and I promise you it'll be fine. Pray. Pray the pain away. Let the Heavens know you're hurting, not people. Cry not on a shoulder, but in seclusion, with Angels for company. If you hit dark times, look for light within. If you find yourself alone, tell yourself that's stupid; the people of Alhumdulillah are NEVER alone.
If you are physically wounded, give it time. For a broken spirit, apply some Faith.
When knocked down by Life, cushion the fall with Patience. Be patient, and God will be with you. Learn to labour and to wait.

FORGIVE.
Yourself first, then everyone else. We are imperfect beings in a perfect world who ride on infinite Mercy to get by each day. Pass on this favour, for this is no small feat. Spread among people that which rains upon you from the Heavens.
Revenge is immature. Revenge is fickle. Those who seek it seek only to harm themselves.
Look around you in those "this is so unfair!" moments. Look around you. Are you a small child? At the bottom of a well? On a dark, starless night? Thrown in there by the people you most loved?
Ofcourse not.
No matter what your situation is and no matter who put you in there, remind yourself that you have not been thrown into a well while the world presumed you dead. And if little Yusuf Alaiyhissalam could find it in him to forgive, then so can you.

SAY ALHUMDULILLAH.
This is the perhaps the simplest trick of the lot and my most sincere request to you, dear reader. Appreciate the little gears that click impeccably to get your life going. If you think you're in a bad place, say Alhumdulillah. Because in these bad places and the by these wrong choices is how you learn the best of lessons. Say Alhumdulillah when you're in pain, for pain purges you of impurities like fire purges metal. Say Alhumdulillah when loneliness creeps in, because God wants one-on-one time with you.
Have a complain? Tell Him. Unprepared for exams? Tell Him.  Feeling sick? Tell Him. Want your Haemoglobin to rise? Tell Him (< true story :P) Sad? Tell Him. Happy? Tell Him!
Tell Him because He wants to hear from you.
Do you know your heart stops beating for a split second when you sneeze? And that is why you say Alhumdulillah after. Seriously, imagine having to use a defibrillator to revive sinus rhythm each time you sneezed!
My point here? It's only a matter of perspective. You could either complain about the cold, or claim brownie points each time you sneezed. ;)


So that sums up a lifetime of lessons. After finding my way through wide lanes, wrong turns, shady alleyways and confusing road maps, I am here now. I am exactly where I was supposed to be and headed exactly where I am supposed to go. And so are you!
Never despair, always forgive and give thanks. This is a journey worth taking.

Alhumdulillah.

Shed the Old

For five months I have stayed away from the part of my life that has a way of putting all other parts into focus. The place where I shed the old in preparation for the new, much like the theme that adorns this screen. My sabbatical has not been for lack of trying. I have tried to write on several occasions and on various themes. The harder I tried, the more difficult it became to find words, and more accurately, words that could do justice to the feelings they encompass. I saw my writing change from a free flow that is characteristic of me, to that of forced expression. I could not allow that to happen.

So I am writing today, sitting in this huge hallway that is my Community Medicine Lab, pulled here by the desperate need to write, for I should've been in the Dept. Of Orthopaedics, examining and fixing painful joints.

There are so many articles left unfinished, so many stories introduced but not since concluded and so many thoughts in search of liberation...

That I have not written, does not mean I have not thought. For I have done nothing but think all this while. I have thought about the beginning and the end, the "if's" the "but's," the "why's and how's and when's." The middle and the roundabout. And when it got too overwhelming, (the way it always does) I gave it to God and went to bed.

While I was at it, new developments came my way. The only event of note was my 2nd MBBS Examinations, which commenced on the 20th of January, 2015. Praise the Lord that I passed these exams, (or more appropriately, squeezed my way out) which means I'm halfway through with my Undergraduate study!

Which also means I'm half a doctor. And by the looks of things, a pretty bad one. For I saw on the 15th of this month a girl who lacked dedication, determination and well, anything else that is needed. I passed exams in top division but failed myself in so many ways. Grateful as I am for everything, I am also aware of what could have been, should have been.

What I started 18 months ago in euphoria, I ended in humiliation. Will I ever forgive myself? Yes. But only after I redeem myself.

I start 3rd MBBS in search of myself and on the lookout for answers.

What's lacking?
Am I good enough?
Will I ever be good enough?

-I will know by next year iA, and so will you! ;)

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.

                                           

Deeds and Destruction

That car in my parking is a dream that came true. A beautiful dream I dreamt as a teen- one day I would be a proud owner of that fancy car- Volkswagon Jetta. I struggled for it, I sweated it out. Worked two shifts at the hospital, ran a private clinic and never let my efficiency meter fall below a 100%. I love automobiles (just about anything on wheels for that matter) and when I lay eyes on that German beauty, I knew I wanted it. After 20 years of back-breaking dedication, it stands in my parking- a gleaming token of achievement.

Being a doctor, it is extremely important to maintain a social life, one that is mercifully devoid of lab-coats and needles. It was in one such social gathering that I met her, the person who was going to be my best friend from that very instant. The food was beyond excellent and the gathering was august. It started over a dinner-table debate, I vividly recall us having starkly opposite views on Stem Cell Research. We threw statistics and data in each others face all night, neither one showing signs of withdrawal. Every argument invited a counter-argument, every pro had a con. But as Fate was to have it, we were a match on that weird and unexplainable level.

That was a decade ago. Today, our hair is white and our teeth are perching precariously. But we're still the crazy doctors, still quarrelling over latest medical procedures and developments.

She punctured her car tyres today, drove them over shards of broken glass. She knocked on my door with that sheepish grin that always warned me of trouble. Well of course, she wanted my car!

I handed the keys over, literally placing the the love of my life in her surgical hands. I trusted her with it no doubt, but that car was very insignia of my life.

I walked out with her as she reversed my car and eased it out into the salty Californian air. It was one of those uplifting end-of-winter days; the sun bright and warm, the wind just about perfect and the last sheets of snow melting away. I couldn't help but smile wide and breathe deep. My house was on a cliff which provided me with the most breathtaking view of the Pacific Coast. I got lost in the ebb and flow, the foamy lather of the water as it lapped up the shore, the happy kids in bright swim-wear, the surfers and the divers...I had forgotten all about my friend and my car.

That's when I heard it. The sickening sound of tyres skidding over snow. Then a scream, a sound definitely that of my friend. The car had gone off-balance! It happened in a mili-second, my car ran right through the barricade and plummeted straight downhill. I watched it hurtling through space, my car and my best friend going down. And what lay at the foot? The Pacific.

Simple math. Chances of survival: Nil.

I could not take it. I knew I had to scream, but dear superior laryngeal nerve refused to depolarize my laryngeal muscles. I watched in slow motion as 20 years of my success and 10 years of my love fell into the shackles of destruction and death.

I shut my eyes in denial.

What I saw when I opened my eyes changed my life forever.

My car landed on flat ground with not more than some disfiguring indentation and shattered mirrors. My friend was knocked out cold and bruised, but alive.

It was a miracle, I knew in my heart it was a cheat-code from death itself. What else could have possibly pulled them out from the very clutches of destruction?

A wave of relief flooded me, almost in sync with the Pacific waters. I had never felt an emotion as strong as this. I was breathing faster and I was beyond myself with joy. I was only a second away from having it all taken away from me...and one second later, I knew it was all fine, the storm had passed. A dent here and a bruise there could be fixed...but no permanent damage had been done.

I had witnessed a miracle.

Now here's a little exercise:

Take that story and apply it to your life. The Jetta would be a good deed you have nurtured over a very long period of time.

That friend was a situation that compelled you to give up on that very deed.

The fall was God's fury in you.

But what made the car stop? If it was a punishment, why didn't it go through and through? What cushioned the blow?

Istighfaar.

In life, you mess up, you mess up real bad. Your car falls into a valley and all logic tells you its the last you will ever see of that beauty. A deed you were watering everyday begins to wither with time and you resign into hopelessness.

But then that 'fitrah' (conscience) in you that still holds good its covenant with God will scream in your head.

Acknowledge that you have been wrong, accept that you have royally screwed up and sinned, and THEN beg to be forgiven. Istighfaar.

In the moment you grasp the gravity of your sin and grovel for mercy in helplessness, God will look upon you with the highest level of affection: Rahem.

You are just an Istighfaar away from boundless Mercy. Do it now, save that car.