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!