Labels: muhasabah, qalb, self-reflections
The coffee is warm and burns my taste buds
Your laughter is happy and fills me with gladness
For despite the uncertainty
The flowing waves between now and eternity
The both of you stand here before me
Offering me strength
Filling me with hope
Of better things
Yet to come.
We sit and talk about the future
That foreign, alien, odd, ridiculous entity
Which threatens you and me
Only maybe at different times
You share my worry
You feel my fear
(Insert joke here)
And I feel fine.
We walk in a row
You, me and her
And we laugh and scramble our sentences together
As if between you, me and her
There is only youmeandher.
People look at us and smile with amusement
At this melding of souls
Simultaneous and overflowing
As our words mingle together in the smokey breeze
Rarely a serious tone in check
Various nicknames abounding
What have I ever done to deserve this
To be
Youmeandher?
*To be read with this ditty played in the background:Labels: music, self-reflections
Labels: qalb, remembrance, self-reflections, ukhuwah
Labels: qalb, remembrance, self-reflections
Labels: self-reflections, supplication
Labels: qalb, self-reflections
“There’s no excuse, you have to follow me,” Basirah insisted. Her twin brother, Basil gave her a wary look. He was a patient man by nature, but he was finding it hard to keep his cool right at this moment. He did a continuous istighfar, and absently wondered whether God had created his sister alongside him as a big trial on this earth, for him.
“Irah, can’t it wait? We promised to meet up with Mama and Abah at the deli in ten minutes. You know Ma and her punctuality. You may be up to a twenty-minute lecture on time management and/or keeping appointments, but I sure am not.” He took back his arm from her and made for the meeting place.
“But Basil, I have to meet this friend of mine, and if I leave you, I might get lost. I dislike this shopping mall,” she said with a scrunch of her nose. “So you have to come with. Please?” She shot him what he knew she hoped was her best pleading look. It made him cringe.
“Excuse me, but losing you on the way might turn out to be a good thing. I’m leaving for Dave’s. Good luck to you.” He turned his body around completely, hoping despite what he knew, that this would bring an end to it.
“You really like Ma’s half-hour lectures on responsibility, don’t you, akhi?” she called from somewhere behind him, sounding as though she had read his mind. He berated himself, finding the thought very cliché.
“Oh, fine,” he said, facing her again slowly. “Where are you headed to on your date?”
His twin gave him a satisfied glare. “She wanted to meet up at the bookstore. Just for a sec; she just wanted to pass something by me.” Much to his displeasure, she had taken to grabbing his forearm again, keeping it by her side in a half-dragging motion. Basirah gave a deep sigh. “She’s such a sweet, nice girl. Very thoughtful and quiet.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Somewhat like you. With her pensiveness and your need for silence, the two of you would make a fine headache. For me, that is.”
At this, Basil wanted to stop in his tracks, but she had a vice grip on him which he could barely pull away from. “Basirah,” he said in a dangerously low tone, “am I right in feeling that you‘re trying to… promote her to me?”
Another long sigh. “You definitely aren’t my twin for nothing, dear Basil.”
“Irah!” he exclaimed in dismay, when all other words failed him. His twin, in turn, gave him an innocent look. He could detect slightly batting eyelashes and he rolled his eyes in return.
“You’re impossible,” he declared, trying to extract his arm from her hands. Basirah held on tight.
“That’s not true. I am possible.” Surely she didn’t believe that the upturned nose and measured pout were still cute and working. Basil smirked in the other direction before composing himself for further action.
“Well, I’m telling you, you’re impossible. I don’t have the needs or the means to follow up falling in love. We’re still studying in university, and I don’t need marriage. Not yet, Irah. Have patience, young one.” Feeling a surge of optimism, he gave another tug of the arm. No such luck. He sighed and tried not to think of the pain.
“But when will you have the time to look around if not now, akhi?” Basirah’s grip on him tightened. He winced, knowing full and well where she was headed. “You’re available and on holiday, she’s available and on holiday -- it’s like it was just meant to be, Basil. I mean, getting married young is a good thing; be rids one of temptation, and gives sufficient venue for the venting of romantic notions. What?” she protested when he simply goggled at her. “I’ve been talking to our cousins, okay? It’s the general consensus! Come on, Basil, think about it. It’s a great idea. You’re a great guy. (“Oh, so now I’m great.“) Why can’t you for once see things my way?”
“I could ask the same question,” he said under his breath. He stopped, grinding his feet to the floor and forcing his sister to a halt. “Basically, I’m not cut up for the job yet. When I am ready, I’ll make it known to the world, okay? But not now, and most definitely not before dinner.” He gave a gentle tug on her hijab, trying to soften her obvious disappointment, sagging shoulders and all. His twin was always the dreamer, while he had always been more pragmatic and sceptical. He liked to look at the yin-yang pendants they owned; his silver, hers in gold. They were birthday presents from a Chinese relative of theirs, who told their parents that Chinese tradition held it in belief that it was lucky to have one child of each sex, more so at the same time. Basil liked to think that placing two opposites into the world simultaneously was Allah’s way of keeping balance in the universe.
“But I am still tracing the way back for you, ya habeeb,” he softly reminded her with a nudge at her elbow, his heart slowly melting at her emotional transparency, so immature for her, and yet so familiar. “I’m hungry, and you’re on a mission, remember? So lead the way.”
Basirah perked up a little at the new power vested in her. She stood on tiptoes and peered around her, hands still on her brother. “The thing is, akhi, I’m not sure just where we are right now. Iman told me to meet her by the 2nd fountain to my left, right after the escalator up the third floor, but --”
“Basirah?” they heard a voice call out tentatively from behind them. They turned back in unison. There stood Basirah‘s friend, her face lighting up from polite intrepidity to sheer delight. Basil felt a sudden surge in his chest, but he told himself it was the shock from his sister’s sudden leap forward, his arm following suit until he remembered to pull it back in time.
“Salaam, Iman!” Basil stood where he was, rubbing his throbbing forearm, as his sister rushed forth to hug her friend enthusiastically. He tried to concentrate on his sister’s bubbling narrative, but he couldn’t help his eyes, which kept getting drawn back to the young woman next to her. There was something about her, he was afraid, which beckoned him for a look which was longer than either of them would be comfortable with. Trying to fight the temptation to stare, he looked down at the monochromatic marble tiling instead.
After a few seconds of focusing on the tiles beneath his feet, he realized that he was holding his breath. Tightly grasping one hand with the other, Basil began pacing in a small square. When that didn‘t work, he placed one hand upon where he reckoned his heart would be, and he started pressing hard. His head was spinning, his chest was pounding, his body tingling with the effort to try and keep up. He felt so alive.
Basil decided that given the right situation, he could live with this sort of feeling.
Muttering the istighfar to himself many times, he kept his distance, trying not to remind himself of how pleasant she had appeared to him, in her patterned hijab and her black abaya, her smile --
He shook his head and chuckled, looking back down at the tiles, reminding himself that he would try to never again openly express serious doubt at his sister’s assumptions. He had really been proven wrong today. God had really taught him a lesson.
He let himself glance at his sister and her companion, trying to make sure whether they were anywhere near done. The two of them were discussing spiritedly about something or other, with Iman gesticulating with her hands, causing his sister to cover her mouth in laughter. And although he personally thought that gesticulating was very unladylike, he found that he thought it perfectly appropriate on Iman. He tried to shake the heavy train of thoughts with a shudder, but it didn’t work. Soon enough, he found the girl peering at him curiously as she said something to Basirah, who turned to grin at him. Basil gave his sister a wan smile in return.
He felt his heartbeat double in speed when both of them started walking in his direction. “Iman,” Basirah was saying even before they properly reached him, “this is my brother, Basil. Basil, Iman.” He gave Iman a curt nod, while she acknowledged him with a quick smile which made his chest ache a little. “Assalamu’alaikum,” she greeted.
“Wa’alaikumussalam.” He lifted his hand to look at the time and come up with any valid excuse, but Basirah beat him to it.
“He’s studying at England as well,” she explained out of the blue, “leaving me all alone in Melbourne. But he’s rich, thanks to that scholarship, so he comes down under all the time.” To him, Basirah said, “Iman’s reading law at the University of Hertfordshire.” Her friend only nodded, giving him a polite smile.
“I’m studying medicine,” he offered, figuring it was the least he could do.
“Oxford,” his twin piped up voluntarily, almost gleefully. Basil saw where this was headed, and felt the need to be proactive. His hand found the hem of her blouse, and he gave a sharp tug, which made her glare. “What?” she snapped, readjusting her top. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Iman had a smile hidden behind her hand.
“Dinner. With our folks. They’re waiting,” Basil managed to say, his hands moving around to try and make his point clearer. Complete sentences were never a problem with him before. He gave up and absently scratched his head, feeling the kufi he still had on from ‘Isya prayers at the nearby mosque.
Basirah, excited as she was to meet an old friend, was about to protest this, until Iman said, “Yeah, you guys should go. They’ll be wondering, and hungry. Not a good combination in parents, generally.” She gave a sympathetic smile to appease Basirah. “I’ll be here until September. We can meet while you’re still in town, no sweat. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Thank you,” Basil said out loud before he could think. And although he was inwardly knocking his head against an imaginary brick wall, he calmly gave Iman a thankful smile, took firm hold of Basirah’s wrist, and started steering her away, as reluctant as he was, himself.
“Oh, akhi ni,” she harrumphed. “Let me say goodbye?” She took back her hand and, turning her back against him, hugged her friend farewell. “I am so sorry for my prude of a brother,” she said. Basil could feel something in him protest strongly. “Nothing comes in between him and his stomach. Except for maybe death.” He winced even more at that, covering it up when Iman caught his eye and started to laugh.
“Basirah,“ she said in a rebuking tone, causing Basirah to smile at him sheepishly. “It’s alright,” Iman insisted. “Like I said, we can gab some other time, insyaAllah. So don’t worry.”
Basirah sighed dramatically, causing Basil to roll his eyes for the umpteenth time. “I suppose,” she admitted grudgingly.
“Alright then. We should get going now. Kan? Let’s go,” he said in one breath, giving Iman a curt nod and dragging his twin by the wrist. “Assalamu’alaikum.”
“Wa’alaikumussalam.”
Basil kept his grip firm and steady on Basirah, keeping his sight on the destination and trying not to look at his sister, even though he could feel her unflinching gaze on his face.
“Basil,” she began the torture, “I was right, wasn’t I? I know that look; those adorable flushed cheeks.” His blood vessels betrayed him by dilating even more. “I was right! Hoho, was I right.” In his peripheral vision, he saw her shake her head in disbelief at her good fortune. “Trust you to be the one to tell it to me, without telling it to me straight.”
He decided playing dumb was the only way through. “What were you right about?” he let out, giving in and shooting her a questioning look, taking care not to let go of her hand.
“Basil,” she said disbelievingly, “you haven’t being paying attention, have you? I meant that I was right about you and Iman, obviously. Although you may not know it, yourself.” She tugged her wrist hopefully. No chance. Basil was already immune to her glares to care much.
“Me and Iman. Okay. So…?” he trailed off, a little scared that Basirah might attempt to complete the sentence.
“Trust you to be clueless about things like this,” she scoffed. “I mean, you guys are so perfect together, okay? Like, perfect lah. I mean, you guys even met cute. Now, what else would you want in a relationship?”
“The sanctity of marriage,” he answered flatly. She laughed at that, like he knew she would.
“Of course I meant that too,” she insisted. “I could feel the chemistry, for want of a better word for it. I mean, there was definitely something in the air, and it was chemistry, make no mistake. I’m studying chemistry, I should know,” she said with the flair of someone who did.
“You do know that makes no sense?” he wondered out loud, not really expecting a direct answer. She responded with a tut.
“Oh, fooh. Come on. I mean, you’re both grown adults. You guys should definitely have marriage on your minds right now, so --”
“Why not to each other?”
“Exactly!” Basil chuckled at his sister’s predictability. “Heck, Abah and Mama got hitched at around our age, right? So they can’t object to it. Besides, this is the good way to do it. Halaalan toyyibah. Get to know each other legitimately, and when you feel ready for it (when your heart feels right), get hitched. Easy!”
“Listen to yourself!” he declared, making a sharp right turn into a walkway. “’Get hitched’? It’s not that easy, Irah.”
“Islam did not make it hard, either,” she reiterated.
“I know, but… there are other factors to it as well, you know?” He ran a hand through his head, pulling the kufi off and replacing it on his head. “I can’t just get married without considering the aftershocks of it. I can’t afford it, for one thing. I don’t think I can handle the responsibility yet, for another. You’re a girl, sure you think it’s all fun and games.”
“Well excuse me,” she said, pulling some syllables for effect. “You think girls have it easy? Right. And who is the one who grows another being on one end of her body for nine months and nine days, and then is mostly responsible for said being’s welfare? And has to take care of you as well? Don’t think we don’t have responsibilities as well, Basil.” She gave a deep sigh and swung their arms around. “All I’m saying is, you’re going to have to eventually anyway, so why not soon? I mean, the waiting game is a hard one to play. Oh, akhi, you have no idea, do you, what we go through, because of people like you? We wait for you to give hints, but you never do. And then we wait for you to be ready, but you never are. You factualize and think it over again and again, but the fact remains that there is a whole other person on the other end of the equation, waiting to be factored in.” She gave another deep sigh and used her free hand to adjust her hijab.
Letting himself be intrigued, he peered at his sister with caution. “But how can us guys tell when a girl’s interested, unless she makes the first move?”
“Girls can never make the first move without seeming either extremely desperate, or extremely brave.” She shook her head. “Unfortunate, I know, but that’s just how it is, nowadays.”
“And that makes it easier for the guy?” Basil looked at his sister. “We come off as desperate and/or brave too, you know. It’s just a stereotype that guys have to propose. And God showed that there should be no stereotypes in marriage when Ummul Mukminin Khadijah made the first move.”
He could tell that she could find nothing else to say, when she gave a tight shrug. “I know there shouldn’t be stereotypes. But they still exist, anyway, and… maybe you don’t realize just how hard it is for girls to accept rejection, especially since we’re such emotional beings, as Allah made us to be, you know?”
“I imagine that rejection wouldn’t be easy for me to handle, either,” Basil mused, with a tinge of sarcasm.
“Maybe,” Basirah replied earnestly. “Wait a minute.” She stopped in her tracks, resisting his tugs forward to where Dave’s Deli was, just a few feet ahead of them. “You’re very good,” she conceded, a tad bemused. “But not that good. You tried to veer off subject. So,” she said, picking up speed. “You. And Iman.”
“No such thing,” he insisted, trying to slow her down and prevent the risk of their parents listening in. “Not now, anyway.”
“Aha!” She turned and flashed him a triumphant smile. “I knew it! Chemistry…” she left off teasingly.
“And other factors too,” he reminded her, sitting down opposite their parents. “Meatballs, Irah?”
Labels: PseudoFamily, summer, writing
Yesterday was memorable for several reasons.
Before yesterday, never before had I encountered an onion pungent enough to bring my tear ducts to their metaphorical knees.
And yesterday, I was told the story of someone I shall call Walid.
He had had leukaemia once. At that point, he was a Muslim by name only, but by the time he was pronounced cured, he had made one of the greatest transformations anyone had ever seen.
He had proposed to my friend, the sister of his friend, but her parents were concerned by the state of his health, and he decided to step down.
Some time later, he found out that he was in relapse, and that the leukaemia was back. Even with the bone marrow transplant he’s having soon, the doctors give him two years.
But my friend, the one who could have been his wife by now, told me that no one was really worried about that. Not because the reality of his illness was lost to them, but because they knew deep down that he would be fine. That when the time comes, he would have no difficulty of entering Jannah, because he had done good in this world.
Another sister who was listening, reminded us of the hadith qudsi, where Allah declares that should He love a person, then He will grant that person the love of the world around him.
Which was why, even through the scant beard and his pale face, nobody really worried about Walid.
I hid the stray tears behind a fake yawn.
Another moment would be at the da’wah table at during the Islamic Society’s barbie, where several sisters and I were standing, chatting with the people who came. A guy with brown curls, big eyes and a leather knapsack came up and asked about what activities we held. He told us that he was Muslim, but that he had drifted from Islam a long time ago, with a level of honesty that surprised me. As he signed up his details on the green sheet of paper, he told us when asked, of how he stopped going to the masjid when he was about thirteen. That his mother was non-Muslim, and that he could not see the point in praying anymore. When he went to get a pita-dog, I looked at his name, written in a neat cursive. Yasser.
And it was at that point that I told my friend that I needed a good souk, right then and there.
Yesterday’s brief glimpse of Yasser reminded me of this bloke who came by the UMIS booth during O-Week. His name is Brian, and whenever memory brings him back to mind, I see dark blue eyes and a huge, pleasant smile. I remember his earnest explanation of how beautiful he found Islam to be; of his nocturnal fasting month in
As it turns out, my deen can seem so different, and yet so beautiful, in someone else’s eyes.
Sometimes I feel as if I’ve taken Islam for granted. Sometimes I feel like I do not fully appreciate this understanding I’ve come to; this way of life I was born and raised with. Sometimes, I’m scared that I’m running away from it all, as if I’m trying too hard to find compromises with the world. As if I didn’t have to answer to Allah at the Mahsyar.
And yet even when my heart seems to forget, Allah showers me with reminders, so that my qalb will remember.
Parsou, the day before yesterday, brother Abdullah mentioned something during a rather heated UMIS meeting, which went something like this:
“InsyaAllah, all of us, we hold Islam dear to our hearts.”
And I thought, isn’t it wonderful, how a single line can take your breath away, and bring back spirit to your hearts?
“Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.”
(Surah ar-Rad, 13:28)
Labels: qalb, remembrance
Labels: remembrance, ukhuwah