Wake Up

It’s funny how we never seem to notice the beauty of things to be found right in front of our faces …

Cleaned the windows -the same windows we have had for the past 24 years. And even though they are cleaned often, it was the first time I noticed the precious window frame on the outside of the house, which is has an intrinsic beautiful wood snuggling up to the glass, being that pillar of support. It really does enhance the look of the frame. I was taken aback by its beauty. I always thought it was a man-made material, but that is because I did not look close enough. Had I done, I would have known that it  actually is very natural and very breathtaking.

It’s worth not taking anything for granted … it could be there the whole time and you search everywhere for that one precious thing. Open your eyes. See with your heart. Appreciate with your soul – before it is too late.

Have you ever … ?

“Have you ever looked up at the starlit sky one night and wondered about the order of the Universe?

Perhaps you are a biologist and are struck by the remarkable complexity of even the smallest microbe.

Perhaps you are a farmer and are impressed by the harmony in nature.

Perhaps then, you might have wondered that given the amazing complexity of the structure of the Universe, it’s Laws and all that is within, there surely must be an Intelligence who has put this Master Plan into effect.

Perhaps then, you might have realised that all the components of this vast Universe are in submission to these Laws, and that there is a purpose to this Universe.

Perhaps then, you might also be in submission to His Laws.

Perhaps then, you might be a Muslim.”

(subhan’Allah. How beautiful. Whoever wrote the above, echoes the essence of what s/he wrote … )

Leave Gordon Brown alone!

The nation seems to think they have a right to know about the man’s private life re: use of anti-depressants. Why? Because he is running the country so naturally, it is their duty to know. Andrew Marr, has opened Pandora’s Box with a most unnecessary question causing debate and opinion everywhere. Are people not allowed private lives anymore or does being Prime Minister mean that he is no longer human and that his life is your life and your business??

Hasn’t the Prime Minister got enough on his plate and mind without having to now deal with gossip which most likely has and if not, shall become the nucleus of his political suicide.

The justification that ‘the public has the right to know’ is plain silly – how will the taking (or not) of anti-depressants affect the way he runs the country? AS IF the man at the top actually runs a country: its those around him that do. Let’s look across the very large pond – AS IF George Bush was running Amreeka… It was the Neo-Cons around and behind him that were!

Honestly, there are more important issues to give attention to like … Alistair Darling’s eyebrows, for example.

(*Just a thought*: Hope Andrew Marr and those who insist it is their right to know, have never taken St. John’s Wort or such to that effect, in their life)

Scaffolding

Saw something interesting earlier – a very grande, well built, well to do house with scaffolding all over the front of the building itself. How could it be that such a strong looking building, made of concrete and bricks complete with all the inner wall block linings and other trimmings (you can tell I am not a builder can’t you?!?!); a symbol of resilience, of a fortress against the world, against the outside, how could such a protector, shelter from the cold, source of security, need the help of a few tubes of steel?

We all need scaffolding from time to time, I guess.

The Pakistani Truck: A Sacred Institution

Ah! What can I say about the piece of machinery that is the Pakistani Truck – is it the deafening sound of the horn as it zooms by? Or the myriad of colour bursting from every nut and bolt? Or could it be the studded patterns on the sides of the truck? Memories from a time gone by … the Pakistani Truck is without a doubt a unique creature; a national treasure, a lover’s display of emotion, crying out in the words of poetry etched all over it …

Yes, the reason why the Pakistani Truck is so dear to me, is the powerful poetry it carries and with it, distributing the hope, joy, love, pain, sadness, everywhere it goes. Uniting hearts, reviving memories long buried.

My sister who was in Pakistan recently, jotted down the profoundly beautiful poems, or ‘Shayr’ as we call them.

Like falling rocks on my heart, she recited them to me. ‘Stop,’ I plead. ‘Please, no more…’

I wish she had stopped, for I did not wish them to become imprinted on my little heart which they now are:

Jeeveh shabnam,

banney mohti,

koi zaalim aa kar toarh gaya

abh oos bewafa seh kya milna,

joh dil lagga keh choar gaya

***

dil mein aas nahin,

aakhohn mein pyaas nahin,

chand yaadohn keh sivvah,

kuch bhi merey paas nahin

***

Aankhon seh jhook gaya hai,

taqdeer ka savayra,

joh bhi aansoo nikalta hai,

lehta hai naam tera

***

(… oh be still my heart … )

Butterfly Love

Love. A most wondrous thing, truly it is. Comes to us in many forms and guises. Not always packaged in the shape we perhaps want it, but no less in it’s value.

A friend, on the verge of a relationship, asked me the other day what I thought about the man in question. He is a good man I know; the way he cares for her, his values, how he feels and his beliefs speak for themselves.

‘Yes but I don’t get buttterflies everytime I look at him. I want to feel that. It is important that I feel that,’ she protested.

‘Really?’ I asked, ‘Have you ever watched a butterfly as it flutters around the garden? Have you ever noticed how it will embrace a flower and kiss it for only a few seconds before flying off onto the next one. Have you noticed the way, it repeats this pattern until eventually flying off to pastures new because it was bored? Think back to the last time you did have that butterfly feeling with a man – how long did it last and where is he now?’

And then we just carried on walking, in silence, but deep thought at these beautiful creatures who leave a trail of broken hearted flowers.

New Beginnings

Dear God,

Walking through the suburbs, I notice the beautiful houses that surround me. One after another, each one as welcoming as the one before it and the one after it. The plants, shrubs, greenery that can be found in the driveways is a pleasure to appreciate. People really take care of their homes; it is such a delight to see as you pass by.

And then I come to one house in particular. There are no colourful flowers adorning it; just a small magnolia bush (I know it is magnolia, my brother-in-law loves that and they have what is now a great tree in their garden), with some evergreen plants here and there. I carry on walking but am pulled back by the tree stump which is guarded now with boulders around it. You can tell that it was grand tree once; the base is still strong and defiant. I wonder how it was reduced to what it is now – Maybe with the winds it broke and the owners cut it for safety or that it would grow better? Maybe it was diseased so to save the rest of it, the only option was to cut it and let it start anew? Or maybe there is another maybe or so many other maybes.

All I know is that once grew here a mighty tree and I know also that that mighty tree will grow and flourish here once again. It is only a matter of time. For time heals all wounds (and so they say).

With hope for the future and for trees everywhere, please have mercy ya Rabbil Alamin.

Nasreen

The beauty of Henna (mehndi)

Many of us are celebrating Eid over the coming days. As is cultural tradition, the women love to decorate their hands with henna patterns. For the first time in a very long time, I am also one of these women. I have never had the urge to have mehndi done on my hands before, but this year, this Eid, I wanted to. I wanted to know what it would feel like to have mehndi on my hands. Maybe I will never get to put mehndi on my hands as a bride, but as a woman celebrating Eid, it is the least I can do. Perhaps in some strange way, it will compensate for it..

I sit here looking at the beauty that is mehndi. It makes me think that life’s events (be they good or bad) adorn us, like henna. When the henna has dried, it will peel away, leaving behind rich colour. When something great happens to us, whilst we rejoice in it’s euphoria, like the henna it looks beautiful. When it passes, it leaves behind it’s mark, but gradually, the memory will fade, as does the henna after however many days before the colour wears off completely. So too with the not-so-great things: once again, whilst we go through it, we don’t realise, appreciate or understand the beauty of the trial that has befallen us, for it is nothing more than something positive packaged in a different way, and when it too passes (for everything must run it’s course), it leaves behind it’s mark like the colour of the henna which then goes on to fade away with time.

The beauty of henna cannot be praised enough. A beautiful Creator’s beautiful creation. Alhumdulillahi Rabbil Alamin.

Deep Cuts

There is a young man training to become a butcher at my local grocery shop. I saw him observing for a while and then the other day, he was there, ready for his new job, wearing the white coat, looking terribly smart, complete with knife in his hand.

I exchange pleasantries with the butcher, while this not-Sir-Alan-Cheeni’s apprentice quietly manages the task at hand. Suddenly, there is a loud yell – I am startled. The butcher just raises his eyebrows, he knows what has happened and tells him to run his finger under the tap nearby. It is then that I realise that the young man has cut his finger.

There  is blood everywhere. It is becoming camouflaged with the colour of the meat on the wooden block beneath it (so glad that is not my order he is working on!). The young man’s tears fill up, but he retains his machoism; yes, men don’t cry, they are alien beings, they are to remain unaffected by pain.

But this is not what concerns me (although if I am completely honest, then perhaps it should); as I stand there I cannot help but think that in that moment, this young man has demonstrated life in action: it cuts us and then we bleed. No matter who we are, how strong we may be, how in control of a situation we think we are (like this man thinking that as a trainee butcher, he would have control over the cutting), we never are immune to life’s power.

It also makes me wonder, whether we are guilty of holding the knives that cut us? . . .

I wish I were a child . . .

My friend and I were shopping for her children’s clothes for Eid, yesterday evening. Whilst we were busy trying to match colours and look for the correct sizes, the kids decided to ‘help themselves’ to some toys in the shop. They, brother and sister, each had picked out a toy that they had decided that their mother would pay for along with their clothes.

Their mother reminded them of how naughty they had been earlier – Hamza for not sharing with his sister Maryam, the chocolate cornflake thingy he had made at school; and Maryam for disobeying her mother when she was asked to sit at the back of the car, in her car seat.

“You are not getting these toys; consider this your punishment,” reminded their mother.

The children started to wail, but they were forced out of the shop, sobbing and crying as if life were about to end, right there, right then. The kids carried on crying for about half a mile, with their mother apologizing to me the entire time (I don’t know why she did that; she is a mother, she has the right to be firm with her children, how else will they learn?).

Hamza remembered his half eaten chocolate cornflake thingy that he had made and reached for it, eating it with pleasure. All of a sudden, he cried out,

“Look Maryam, look at that house, its so funny!”

Maryam looked outside the window to the block of flats, and she started to laugh; they both started to laugh, the laughter which came to kiss away the tears that had been streaming down their soft cheeks, previously.

“See how quickly they forget?”asked my friend.

I wish I were a child . . . how easy life would be, to be able to just in an instant forget the pain of memories which once were so beautiful, bringing so much joy?

Date With Destiny

BRITEAST MAGAZINE ISSUE 2 – SEPTEMBER 2009

Date With Destiny: The Soulmate Seeker’s Endless Longing

Blessings are around us all. They are everywhere. Sometimes we acknowledge them; other times we remain ignorant or just too lazy to give thanks. Nonetheless, they are there.

Some of us have a specific day set aside for Thanksgiving; some give thanks before a meal; some, after the meal and then there are those, like me, who have the opportunity of a whole month dedicated to reflection, restraint and the rejoicing of blessings.

Last week, as I headed to Regent’s Park, running a little late, I was stopped by a young man carrying a large bag full of dates.
‘Sister, have you opened your fast?’ he asked.

I nodded that I had yet he carried on opening his bag. How could I deny this young man of reaping the rewards during this Blessed Month? And so, I held out my hands, cupped together ready to receive my due from the bag. He shook it vigorously and even though the bag was full, out fell just the two dates, straight into my eagerly awaiting hands.

I received them with gratitude, firstly to the Divine for providing for me so that I could supplement the few drops of water with which I had opened my fast, and secondly to the kindness of this stranger bound to me via the beauty of faith.

‘May He give you up to whatever is in your heart. Ameen,’ I replied and off I went for my meeting with my Creator.

As I went along my way, devouring the sweetness of these special dates, I reflected on the reminder that had just been sent to me: ‘We have created everything in pairs…’

This life, albeit transient, is beautiful at the same time and contains a plethora of riches. One of them is a partner; a mate who will accompany you on this journey. I know too well the anguish of seeking a hand to hold (after all, I wrote a whole book about it!) and for all singletons out there, my messsage to you is this: when your date with destiny arrives, the bag of fate will open itself to you and tip into your hands your dues.  Just remember to give thanks for it, for it is one of the greatest blessings with which you can be honoured. Ever. ■

The journey of life

As I walk through the shopping centre, I see a couple out with their children. Their young daughter (must have been about 5 years old), trips over and falls. There wasn’t anything in her path, she just fell, perhaps careless footing, perhaps slippery surface, but whatever it was, it was invisible to the human eye.

She stumbles, it hurts her, she cries, she starts to wail. Her father with his gentle and loving hands, eases her up wiping away her tears and comforting her, holding her hand, encouraging her to walk again. He easily could have picked her up and carried her, but instead chose to support her. A good thing I thought – after all, in life when walk through life’s passage, unsuspecting of what lies immediately before us, oftentimes we trip over, by some obstacle, visible or not and we fall. It hurts, we cry, but eventually we have to get up.

If we are lucky, we may have loved ones around us to help wipe away the tears, they may even be kind to lift us up from the mess and soothe the pain, but the certainty is that only we ourselves can get back on that path of life and carry on our journey.

Learning to get up when wounded is probably one of the most difficult things that any human being ever has to do. It is however, most necessary for life is such that you have to keep moving despite how much you may want to lick your wounds.
Besides, the best way to heal the wound is to not give it too much attention. For if you brush it off and keep going, it will hurt less to the point, that you barely notice it.