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? . . .