Mazhab 101

I am not a practicing Muslim. I do not pray or fast. I have no inclination to visit Makkah. I would rather donate to a hospital or a school than support a religious cause. I find mosques to be a waste of space and resources. I am just not fascinated by the idea of Islam as an overrated religion.

In fact, I find religion to be overrated in general. The way I live my life has little to do with religion. I have my own morality, my own right and wrong and it works just fine for me - until the 'self-righteous' make it a point to talk to me about religion.

A) My life is none of your business
B) There is a life beyond religion - Get over it!
C) If you make the mistake of taking me up on religion, be prepared. I will prove you wrong on your own flawed logic.

Seriously, what is wrong with people? What is wrong with supposed self righteous Muslims. Of course, they need to get a life but beyond that they need to find a God: a God that can be God and yet tolerate the prevalent notion of religion.

I grew up in a Muslim household. I have prayed, fasted, read the Quran and even taught Quran. Only that I never felt content with babbling Arabic without knowing what it means and I could not make peace with practicing religion without understanding it.

I make no claims to understand religion. I am not proposing I know God. But I know your God does not exist. I know the God you preach cannot be God. And it frustrates me. It irritates me when you go around praying five times a day without knowing what the verses mean. I do not pray but I can translate the verses you recite during prayer for you. I know the meaning of the prayers I do not say. You do not know what Quranic verses mean in your language when you read them. I really do not see whatever gave you the idea you can come talk to me about religion.

Seriously people, stop telling me about what your Imam, Aalim or Molvi Sahib said. I am sick and tired of the Mullah. You would rather believe a Mullah for what he thinks religion to be. I would rather be content with my own interpretation. At least, I know what I know for myself. I am not drowning on the behest of any self proclaimed Jesus.

the object of my affection

The object of my affection

Years ago I acquainted a stranger
I sought a reflection of myself in another being
I hoped to discover my own self in another

I breathed life in it with all my fears and hopes
I nurtured it with warmth and affection
I adorned it with all my dreams
I cleansed it often with my tears

Soon the idol and its human face found separate ways
I saw them depart yet I refused to accept the dichotomy

I worshipped my idol night and day
I dreamt of it coming to life one day

The idol stood cold and heavy on my heart
Years passed by and it never moved

There came a time I became disillusioned with my ideal
I mourned it for endless times
I stood by it through my anguish
I never set my eyes off it

I had immense faith in my creation
I was reluctant to embrace its reality

It took me forever to accept the true color of my deception
I took too long to realize I am not god

I lost faith in my god
I turned away from my idol
I shut out the stranger inside my mind

I ran so far away that the stranger and the idol both disappeared
I lived in denial for countless months

Self deception took me far but not far enough
I returned to check on the well being of my idol time and again

Every time I left it the idol weighed heavier on my heart
Every time I returned despair caught me by a greater force than before

There came a time I lost faith in me
I lost faith in all I used to be
It was at that time that I decided to redeem myself
That was when I reckoned change of heart essential

I took all my courage and decided never to walk away again
I must not leave the land on which my idol had stood for all these years
I must reclaim all the life I had imbued in to my idol

I took one last look at my cherished obsession
I stood still in admiration
I was fascinated by my own creation more than anything

And with all my strength I blew it apart
I struck my ideal down
I broke my idol with the same hands that had built it

My heart bled for what seemed like a lifetime
I suffered the grievance of freedom from emotion

Now I stand firm on my feet
My heart is warm again with dreams of a better day
My soul seeks strangers no more
I worship gods and idols no more


(December 11, 2005)

Too many thoughts and too much chaos
Words buzzing in my head
Feelings and emotions
Dreams and hopes
Tears and fears

A noise playing all by itself
A darkness hiding nothing but itself

There was a time I could cry
There was a time I could talk
There was a time I could write

Today am bereft of all these escapes

Catharsis is a remote possibility
May be no expression can heal these wounds

The scars always remain
I scratch them just to feel alive again

I bleed occasionally
I scratch deeper
I feel scattered pain
I cannot trace its origin

It hurts to have so many stitched pieces for a soul
It hurts to know I hurt no more

another long idle sunday

this old friend dropped in...crazy cooking...lots of talking...catharsis...idiocy...weird theories...strange ideas about life love and so much more...love you babes...it's a joy to know that we can still sit and celebrate nothing but temporary insanity

apart from that...still in love with ghalib...still reading singh bit by bit...ghalib's delhi has so much to it especially when singh writes about it

A 'blasphemous' cartoon and so much talk.

I am none to talk for I am not a believer. Yes, you are right. I cannot empathize with Muslims. I was born a forced outsider. Overtime I have given up on trying to be a part of you all.

So here goes what the outsider sees. I see a cartoon. I do not find it funny. I do not find it offensive too. It's just a cartoon. Even children know not to take one seriously. Then why fret over it so much.

I was out with friends last evening when parents called in one after another, each one panic stricken.

'They killed two people on the Mall road'
'They put the assembly on fire'
'They are looting a bank and torching the remains'

They? Who are they? How about a moment of honesty here? How about taking responsibility for once?

WE killed two people.
WE put the assembly on fire.
WE looted a bank.

Yes, WE, the blessed followers of the dearest prophet of God. WE, the believers.

I learned an important lesson yesterday. A lesson that defines me for who I am. A lesson that draws the lines of discrimination that no similarties can erase.

WE, hold religion dearer than ourselves - dearer than the two men we killed - dearer than the assembly that mocks representation - dearer than the national bank.

I felt afraid yesterday. I felt betrayal and disbelief.

These roads are paved by my tax money. These green belts adorn memories of my journey. These trees have given me shade on hot summer days. These traffic lights have blinked for me time and again.

This is my city. This is home. Why must I feel afraid in my own city. Why must I feel afraid in my Lahore.

On a less sentimental note I fail to see how it all adds up. We killed our own to defend a face maligned by our own deeds. We played right in to the trap. What better way to prove the prophet as a messenger of peace than killing your own people and torching your own buildings.

On account of being a heretic once again, if I happened to be the prophet, I would value human life above my name. Since your prophet must have been more chaste and righteous thn me, how can you ever explain this carnage in his name?

P.S. Two days back I asked my students how many of them felt strongly about this whole cartoon business. Half of them raised their hands high and stiff. I asked next as to how many have seen the cartoon. All hands dropped within a second. I remember witnessing the same when an instructor at college asked how many people want salman rushdie stonned to death.

Random

I know can stir affection with a little effort but affection comes without trying doesn't it?

this sunday was a rare one...after ages i finally sat down with a book...not to take on anything else till done with the first one...i realized that work and all the other trivialities of a mundane routine have pretty much managed to deprive me of the pure simple joy of reading a good book at length..i am not the sort who can sit in one spot all day and do nothing but read a book..regardless of how captivating or interesting it is...the more i like a book...the more i want to savour it..i need to take pauses between paragraphs, pages and chapters to create my own parallel stories...to chisel my own characters and to complement every climax with an antithesis or vice versa..i need to sit back and contemplate cause and effect...possible or imposed consequence...existent or imagined symbolism.

the book i finally got down to reading this sunday was kartography (by kamila shamsie) . . lately i have been obsessed with hesse, kafka and camus . . i picked up shamsie to change the literary mood . . or may be find refuge from existentialist despair . . it sure gives you a power rush when you start out . . but at times all that's left behind is too few choices and too much uncertainty.

back to shamsie. . .it's a must read. .i hate book descriptions for they ruin the suspense and beauty of a story unravelling all by itself.

there are tiny bits that have stuck to my mind

'the thin line between remembering and reawakening old love '

'when thoughts are left on their own they mutate'

'your moods are contagious, i smile when you smile, i cry when you cry'

and many more that i can vaguely recall but refuse to butcher for i won't be able to do justice . . my memory is selective and moody.

picked this from m&m's blog

http://www.gapingvoid.com/Moveable_Type/archives/001881.html