dust. blood. death.

Lost homes, a dry darkness filled with dust,

It’s zero calories and the staple diet here,

Swirling and puffing with every sad sigh,

Floating gently when there is quiet in the sky.

~

Don’t ask for clean water, it’s gold-dust,

Blood is free for the taking and flows aplenty here,

Gushing and pouring with every flesh-tear,

Dripping slowly from dirty wounds as they dry.

~

Stinking bodies piled up, rot in dust,

There are no green spaces left, all flesh is grass here,

Flies buzzing, zipping around every cold corpse,

Feeding avidly, breeding life upon death.

Why?

Because:

creativity has its own merit. 

there’s always a story to tell.

sometimes words just flow; come to the mind or heart, or appear on the page or screen.

between feelings and thoughts there is something that’s just beyond reach, just beyond articulation, that we have to try to verbalize.

there’s beauty in it. in the words, in the sound, what they evoke, what they allude to and what they don’t; in what’s written and unwritten.

reading it back can sometimes be sweet pleasure; or a sweetly painful pleasure.

it helps make sense of things; the world outside, or within and their triumphs and tragedies; the experience of others, or oneself.

exploring possibilies or possible realities can give new insight or spark new thought.

it inspires the desire to read and learn.

it forces one to read and learn; better oneself.

its lasting and leaves some mark; on the writer, the reader, the world.

it feels good and brings joy.

there’s always a new way to say things, even if they’ve been said before.

its productive, its giving.

its the mark of mankind, of human intelligence and awareness.

it connects us with our past and future.

Muslims Moralizing

A few days ago I chanced upon a discussion between a number of Muslim women who were all deploring and expressing disgust at the conduct of other Muslim women on social networking sites. Social networking sites provide plenty of fodder for grandiloquent rants; Muslim girls trying to look as sexy as possible in their pouty-posed profile pics, hijabi girls putting up pictures without hijab on, girls putting up private and inappropriate things in their updates, girls being overly friendly and flirtatious with the guys on their friends list, and what are all those guys doing on their friends lists anyway?

Where is the indignant Muslim moralist to begin?

As an outsider to the discussion, my guy feeling was one of exasperation at the self-righteous tone and I wanted to defend the subjects of their disapproval. “Maybe their privacy settings are secure enough to overcome any potential question over the halalness of their social networking activities?”

Almost as soon as I thought this I remembered that actually I had myself commented on the dubiousness of what they were talking about to some friends of mine a few days prior, and at the time no such excuses had sprung to my mind and I didn’t feel judgemental in the observation I made.

Whoops, I thought, I’m as guilty as they are aren’t I? Why did I not feel as though I was being “holier-than-thou” when I remarked on the matter to my friends, but now upon hearing these people doing pretty much the same thing (albeit in more critical language: “Disgusting!” “Subhan Allah, no haya!”) why do I suddenly find it sanctimonious?

Maybe it’s being removed from something that adds that perspective. You see hijaabis posting hijaabless photographs on Facebook and you think “tut tut”, you hear someone else tut at others and you think it ugly self-righteousness. Or is it the rooting-for-the-underdog instinct kicking in that makes hearing someone be lambasted by a larger group seem so unpleasant?

We all constantly make judgements over the morality of actions, this is completely normal, a sign of humanity and necessary if we’re going to act in a moral way. However, that can make it difficult to switch off, and give other people the benefit of the doubt rather than make a judgement, or to separate the sin from the sinner as they say.

We like to sit back analyse and share our verdicts on things, but we want freedom from being analysed and judged ourselves. For example,  I want to be able to write about sexual encounters if it’s relevant to the story I’m telling without having to justify it or answer for it to other Muslims, but I may raise an eyebrow at some other type of artistic expression I don’t find “suitable for a Muslim”. Hmmm?

There are many people who feel they simply must put everyone else right, question them, correct them, lambast them or put a stop to them. In the name of enjoining the good and forbidding the evil, of course. And there is no shortage of would-be judges or rulers of their own personal imagined Islamic State of which everyone is a subject of whether they like it or not.

The Internet is especially rife with Muslim mini-dictators, usually men, who will pontificate on the evils of anything and everything, especially in regards to women: women driving, women working outside the home, women on Facebook, women on the radio or TV, women working as doctors, women not wearing hijab properly, women talking to men. Some Muslims wonder at why Allah subhanahu wa ta ala has allowed the ummah to become so powerless and impotent, but just imagine if any of these men had even the slightest bit of power over anybody but themselves and their own families. Just the thought of it is horrific enough.

Anyway, I digress slightly… Where can we draw the line when it comes to talking about the moral correctness of things. We should be able to discuss these things, but there is a fine line between philosophizing and preaching & ranting. And we never feel like we’re the one that’s ranting, we’re just sharing our sincere thoughts, it’s never us, but others often come across as pharisaic. It’s no surprise that so many discussions on forums or blogs online turn into one side branding the other “The Haraam Police” and the other firing back with accusations of unscrupulousness. We can’t help ourselves.

Spent Flame

A red flame spent too quick.

Some fires leave no embers,

Nothing burns quietly -

In the traces of this camp.

~

The ash is carried far with wind,

And blackness mars the ground,

A circle of stones,

Like a humbly marked grave.

Mirrors and Prisms

He looks into a prism,

I look into a mirror,

She looks into the eyes of so many sinners.

~

I see things in black,

You sees things in white,

In the electric light our patience wears thinner.

~

They’re turning to bones, don’t you know?

They’re being left alone, don’t you know?

They have hunger pangs, don’t you understand?

We come and we go but they stay and get thinner.

~

We can walk away but where can they go,

They hurt each day and only we know,

Silence pervades all of our homes,

We all save our backs but no one’s a winner.

~

They while away days in fecal stench,

We stand by and watch guilt-wrenched,

We scream at and shake her concrete walls,

She barricades her soul behind her eyes even more.

~

So shatter mirrors and prisms,

Push shards into pupils,

Cut tongues into halves,

Be blind and dumb if not witnessing nor testifying.

Love Potion

A young girl and an old woman sit on opposite sides of a table.

The young girl hides her face in her hands.

The old woman sits back and breathes heavily.

-

“I need your help,” the young girl whispers.

“What is the problem?” the old woman asks.

-

“My heart leapt into a disarming mans hands.

His eyes were the deepest pools of water,

Their endless depth an endless fuel,

My heart became a burning flame.

-

The old woman shook her head and mumbled to herself.

The young girl looked up and had urgency in her eyes.

She wore an expression of helpless insanity:

A screaming mother pulling her hair outside a blazing house -

Her child still trapped inside.

-

“His breath on my skin and I metamorphosize into a butterfly,

He frowns at me and turns my wings to ash in a moment,

An embrace and I was silk slipping through his hands,

And oh, oh a kiss, and my lips were caramelized.

-

The old lady smiles and says “And then he walks away.”

The young girl says nothing.

-

“My heart swells and my head hurts,

My tears run dry now when I cry,

My stomach stings but I can’t eat,

I’ve walked so far on blistered feet.

-

“I call his name but he’s turned away,

I still see his face and smell his scent,

He crushes my core with indifference,

Still in his love I’m so enchained.

-

“Oh, I’ve prayed and pleaded with God,

Sat with psychologists and physicians,

No amount of pills allays this pain.

A moment passes and it’s raw again.

-

“I just want the love to go away.

-

“Give me a love potion,

One to make it disappear,

Cast a spell stronger than his,

And make him disappear,

Or poison my heart,

With a toxin more potent,

Than the sound of him saying my name.

-

The old woman ponders peacefully,

The struck lover agitatedly awaits.

Five Prayers

Sakina Khan [05/01/1986- 19/11/2009]

[extracts taken from Sakina's diaries; reproduced here with minor typographical edits]

Fajr

14th February 1993:

Yesterday I finished learning my namaaz at mosque. Khala Rifat said “Shabaash meri thi!” after I read my sabak to her. The fat old cow. If she thinks I forgot how hard she hit me with the sauti last week she’s lost it. Tomorrow me and Farzana are gonna hide her sauti again, it’s gonna be sooo funny and we’re gonna hide it in a better place than last time. Last week we read the most dhane but she still battered us, we didn’t even talk that loud.. meri thi my ass!

Anyways it’s roze enit, so this morning mum woke us up for sehri after making us parateh with the daal. I ate one and a half! We listened to naats on the radio, and we tried to make Rizwan walk, he nearly did as well. He stood there for about two seconds before falling on his arse. It was sooo funny, we couldn’t stop laughing.

Then Abu jee went to the masjid and I read the morning namaaz for the first time ever with mum and Hina. I really wanted to just go back to bed rather than do vuzu, I hate doing vuzu, it’s so flipping cold and I was just so tired. But once I did it, it didn’t matter and then it was nice to read namaaz with mum and Hina, and I felt happy that I know it all now.

Mum gave me a kiss on the forehead and said “Shahbash meri thi” and that made me feel really good (unlike when the fat cow Khala Rifat said it). Then her and Hina read Quran…

…and yeh I read namaaz -safe – but no way am I staying up. I legged it back to bed!

Dhuhr

10th December 1999:

Today was Dada abu’s janaza. I still can’t believe he’s gone. All I can think about is his face; the way it was completely drained of colour.  Rasheed had been standing next to me when we saw him for the last time, Aunty Shab was sobbing into his chest and he just stood there tall and quiet. When I looked toward them he pushed up his glasses like he always does, then put his hand on the glass pane on the coffin through which we could see Dada abu’s face and he said “porcelain and lifeless… finally put out of his misery.” and one tear made its way down his face. I don’t know why but that line stuck in my head. Hina was on the other side of me and heard it too, I saw her give Rasheed a look of contempt. Later, she hissed into my ear, “How dare he! Put out of his misery? Anyone would think he was talking about dog that’s been put down rather than a human being, and that his own Nana! I feel like punching his face in. Porcelain? He’s such an arrogant stuck up sickening snob! Even facing death he can’t stop himself from being so obnoxious”. I told her to calm down and shut up, Dada abu is having the miti shovelled back into his grave and Hina is boiling with hatred at Rasheed over how he expressed his grief. She’s the one that can’t stop being obnoxious in the face of death!

Dada abu. Thoughts of all the petty family politics that simmer away when everyone comes together fade from my mind every time I think of him… of his face. His eyes were closed, his face was symmetrical, balanced, I thought I could see a slight smile, and his lips were restfully closed. He didn’t look strained, his face didn’t look twisted or in pain like it did after the stroke. I was so glad inside, that he looked peaceful at last. When I first saw him after he passed, where they lay him at rest for family to come and “view the body”, he had looked completely different, so contorted, so swollen. I hate that, I hate how in a single moment, so quickly, straight away everyone stopped referring to him by the names they would call him.. did he suddenly stop being “Uncle”, “Abu”, “Paijaan”, “Khaan saab” or Mr. Khan? Suddenly everyone began calling him “the body”. I felt like screaming at them all, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t stop crying when I saw him that first time. I didn’t want him to go looking that way. I didn’t want anyone else to see him that way, I knew they all would at the janaza. I don’t know what miracle made him change from that to how he looked today, but I kept thanking Allah again and again. I kept looking at Dada abu’s face, walking with his coffin, with Abu and Aunty Shab and Rasheed and Hina and Dadi amma, poor poor Dadi amma.. I kept looking at his face until the men finally took his coffin and placed it into the hearse and drove away. I just wanted to keep that image in my mind, of him being so serene, so normal, slightly smiling, as though seeing a nice dream.

We’d all prayed Zohr together. Dadi amma was next to me on one side, and Mum on the other. Dadi amma made whimpering sounds throughout the prayer, I could see her body shaking in her chair from the corner of my eye. I tried to focus on the spot where my forehead would touch the ground, but instead my eyes moved from one spot to another trying to figure out where I should be looking. I can’t remember if I thought about worshipping Allah, I tried to, but I thought more about Dada abu and how he would soon be questioned in his grave, that between that interrogation and now was only his janaza and the drive to the cemetary.

I wanted to pray the janaza, Rasheed had told me that women and girls can and should and explained how it was meant to be done. It’s not like a normal prayer, you don’t to sajda. But after Zohr all the women did their sunnata and sat down, none of them did the janaza prayer, so neither did I. I felt angry inside. I asked Mum what the hell the point was of them sitting around talking rubbish and socializing in the masjid, falling over one another to see Dada abu’s face when half of them didn’t even know him or bother to come and visit him when he was ill. What was the point of them making a big show of crying and wailing and coming and sitting for hours… when the important thing was reading the janaza? Why did none of them do that? How could I do it on my own, I wanted to read it but no one else was. Mum told me to be quiet and said the women just didn’t do it where we’re from. I just cried and burned inside, and ignored all the stupid fake cow’s who saw me crying and tried to console me.

Afterwards I told Rasheed what happened and he said I shouldn’t feel bad, that Allah knew my intention and so did Dada abu and that my duas would help Dada abu and that now I should just keep praying that his questioning in the grave is easy and that Allah make his grave like a fragrant, spacious, beautiful garden of Paradise.

Asr

25th June 2003:

Last exam was today! No more college stress until September. Now just a long summer of loitering about town with the girls.

After our Chemistry exam Nafeesah and me went to the toilets to do our hair and make-up. I was putting on my mascara and she just stops what she’s doing and starts staring at me. So I stopped and said “What?”

She went dead serious and said she has to be tell me something… apparently she is thinking about starting to wear hijab. After the summer hols, she’s planning on making her big entrance to college as hijabi.

“You’re joining the Holy Moly brigade?” …If the look on my face wasn’t enough of a clue to say I wasn’t majorly impressed, I thought I’d make it obvious.

She got all defensive… told me she’s not like that… as if I don’t know! But people change I reminded her. Look at Rehana! Scarf goes on and suddenly we’re not good enough for her. Putting a hijab on doesn’t suddenly give you the right to self-righteously judge everyone without one as beneath you and no longer worthy of your friendship. She can shove her hijab up her ass as far as I’m concerned, we don’t need friends like that. I don’t think Allah would love these arrogant “religious” pricks more than us bare-headed or clean-shaven “munafiqs“.

“Look, it’s not about all them. I’m not interested in the ISoC or the cliques in college or whatever else. And if you think I’m going to be different with you because of them… that would really hurt Sak. You know me better than that don’t you? I’m not a “Holy Moly” or about to turn into one. I won’t do what Rehana did. For me it’s not a social thing… it’s not about college… it’s nothing to do with all of that.”

Then she started telling me again about the things her brother had been saying, and more about that course she went to with him up North and about that Sheikh that taught them and about the people she met and how they were nothing like the stuck up kids at college… and how everyday she felt more and more like she needed to get closer to Allah, and that her brother had said she should start with praying all her namaaz and then start wearing hijab in September… and so she was thinking about it.

Fair enough I said… she’s my best friend, of course I’m going to support her in anything she does. But I just wonder how this is going to effect us, and what we do. Today, after the exam, after lunch, after wandering around town for a few hours we were gonna go watch a movie at Odeon… all the other gals were going to meet us there and then Nafeesah says she can’t. I asked why and she said she’d miss Asr. I was pissed. Why cancel at the last minute?! I asked why she couldn’t just leave to pray Asr when the time came and then come back in. She agreed eventually and did leave part way.. when she came back to her seat I asked where she prayed, “by an emergency exit!” she said.

I dunno… but I just get the feeling that things are going to change.. that next year isn’t gonna be the same at college.

Maghrib

5th Sept 2006:

Nafeesah and I got rooms in the same block.. Maryam, Farah and Sabina are here too! Rizwan and Rasheed came afterall, I am sooo glad! I know they’ll find it amazing… and Saleem can find a way to introduce himself. I feel sick and euphoric all at once.

The atmosphere here… well I just don’t know how to describe it, but I’ll never ever forget it, so there’s no need really to put this in words.

Saleem spoke to Sheikh during the brother’s meetings and asked for his dua for our marriage, and Sheikh made dua there and then that Allah make things easy and facilitate our marriage and put blessings in it. Saleem said he nearly threw up though, sitting there and asking for that because after the dua Sheikh made looked at Saleem with his penetrating gaze and told him to fear Allah, to respect Allah’s sanctuary which is the things He has made unlawful and to not trespass there. Sheikh said that how can you expect your duas for something to be answered when you don’t rely on Allah at all, and instead try to take with your own hands what doesn’t belong to you. If you rely on Allah, then you have to truly leave the matter with Him and not do anything to disobey Him. Instead be humble, obedient and beg Him late at night with moist eyes. Saleem said he couldn’t look at the Sheikh, he couldn’t speak or move, his heart was pounding so loud in his own ears. The Sheikh told him to come forward and took his hand, and made more dua for him, and told him with a kind loving voice to make tauba with a particular dua every morning and evening and then asked if he had any other questions. Saleem barely managed to shake his head and thank the Sheikh, give salams and leave the room.

He text me all this, and reiterated again that we can’t call each other anymore, not until we’re engaged… and I know this, but my heart breaks and aches every time I think of it. But then I think of Sheikh, and our parents, and of Allah.. and then of Saleem meeting Rasheed and Rizwan.. and then it flies with all my highest hopes and soars at the thought of the duas Sheikh has made for us. The dua of a real Wali, those blessed lips, that light-filled heart so close to Allah, and our names uttered in that powerful prayer…

Allah IS the Most Merciful and everything is possible for Him and His Bounty is Infinite… and from that infinity, we ask for something that would be so easy, so small, so insignificant for Him to grant… we just ask for each other. But for us that would be the greatest bounty He could give… greater than all the beauty of treasure of this universe combined.

We spent from Zohr until Isha learning with Sheikh, having breaks only for food or time to make wudhu to pray. Every prayer was like standing outside this dunya. The adhan made by the African Sheikh is the most beautiful, haunting, soul-stirring thing I’ve ever heard. At Maghrib, I stood next to two sisters I didn’t know. As Sheikh read the Fatiha, every word he uttered seemed to reverberate through my chest, it was like I could feel my heart vibrating, buzzing. My eyes filled with tears that splashed down onto the prayer mat, my nose was running and my head was hurting. I could feel the sister to my left to me shaking with sobs and saw the tears of the one to my right fall just the same as my own did. I didn’t want to notice these things, because I felt I shouldn’t be aware of anything apart from the effect the prayer was having on me… but how could I be oblivious to it? Isn’t that the most amazing thing afterall? That it wasn’t just me?

Everyone in the jamaat was experiencing the same thing. You didn’t need to see tears or feel shaking next to you to know that… I know that everyone just knew, everyone could feel the heavenly atmosphere. Everyone felt the baraka of the gathering.

How can I write it? I just can’t.

But I know I’ve never ever felt so close to Allah in prayer as I did today. Never have I felt so moved. Never have I felt so spiritually high, so hopeful, so ecstatic, so emotional.
SubhanAllah.

Isha

19th November 2009:

I just can’t do it. My back hurts so much. I need the toilet every two fucking seconds. Saleem tries to be helpful, tries to be nice, but everything he says or does makes me want to explode with anger.

I shouldn’t feel like that. I keep bursting out crying. It hurts to sit down. It hurts to lie down. Standing up gives slight relief until my feet hurt.

The kicks I used to find wondrous and heartwarming, that made me beam and excitedly grab Saleem’s hand to feel, now just annoy me. I just wish she would hurry up and come out.

I’ve been swearing this whole past week. At times I’m overcome with guilt about her hearing it… or it having some kind of spiritual effect on her. Then I think about all the prayers I just haven’t had the himma to perform. I can’t tell Saleem, I’m too embarrassed to admit it, even though I know he would be nothing less than reassuring and loving.

The truth is I feel like I’m already on the path to failure as a mother.

I missed Isha.

Saleem had wudhu and said he would wait for me to do mine. I told him to just pray and go up to bed, that I would follow, I just had a few things to do first and there was no point him waiting. He prayed and went up.

I needed another piss… it’s so bloody cold in the bathroom, and the water is too cold, or then goes too hot and scorches you. I just get so angry I can’t be dealing with it. I went to the loo, then came back into the lounge and waited fifteen minutes by which time I needed to loo again and then went up to bed. I came down twice again and have just stayed up this time.

I know I can’t carry on like this. I know it’s no excuse. I need to pray.

In my head I was going to be such an amazing example for her, I was going to be reciting Quran to her everyday of the pregnancy, and everyday after she’s born… but what have I done so far? I can’t even do all my prayers… and why? Frustration, discomfort, laziness… this vast spiritual gulf between me and Allah… I hardly ever think about Sheikh even. I can’t keep ignoring it and pushing it to the back of my mind like I have for so long. I need to fix it.

I need to get out of this rut… as soon as Saleem wakes up I’m going to speak to him, we were always meant to work towards things together, but I’ve just fallen so behind him lately and not even wanted to put in the effort to move forward that I’ve hidden so much from him thinking that I could just sort it out within myself. I’m such a stubborn fool.

There’s not long to go though, and I don’t want to let her down, or let Saleem down… I want to be better than this.

———————————————————————-

[Sakina died later that day due to blood loss caused by multiple stab wounds injuries. She returned from a visit to her mother's house to walk in on armed intruders. Saleem discovered her body upon arriving home from work.]

Aiming for the wrong thing

The young man came out of his own thoughts. His eyes searched for the old man, who had reached quite a distance, and he rushed after him once more.

“It seems you are making a habit of following me!” said the old man, just as the young man came close to him and was about to speak. The old man did not turn around but continued on walking and so the young man caught up and walked at his side.

“So far you have told me to stop looking and to stop waiting.” said the young man.

“God is not lost nor found, and a moment does not make a man, and especially not a “man of God”.” said the old man.

“Can I be honest with you?” asked the young man.

“You should always be honest. But your tone is asking “Can I confess something to you?”, and you can, but you should know that confession is not absolution.” replied the old man.

“I suppose looking and waiting was a way for me to absolve myself from the kind of struggle you indicate is necessary.” admitted the young man, and the old man simply nodded. “I wish I could be that disciplined; be a saint! But I don’t think I am capable of constancy.”

“Everyone is capable of constancy!” said the old man.

“Couldn’t everyone be a saint then?” asked the young man.

The old man shook his head, “Why worry about saintliness when basic virtues are yet unmastered?! And no, my son, constancy is not necessarily love or devotion. One could be constant in sin, or constant in virtue.”

“Maybe I didn’t use the right word…” began the young man, but the old man raised his hand to stop him.

“Constancy out of habit is easier to achieve than constancy out of devotion. If you can’t make a persistent commitment, you can at least pick up a habit. Once you have done that, you can begin worrying about love and devotion, or begin worrying about becoming a revered, honoured saint!” said the old man with a smile. The young man avoided his gaze and said nothing.

Hoping for the wrong thing

The young man caught up with the old man and said pointedly: “Sir, I read a similar reproval not long ago, but it did not help me much.”

“Ah, well son, we were born too late in the history of man to encounter original thought. All the wisdom we need already exists, in dusty old books we ignore or withered old people we scorn!” smiled the old man. The young man blinked.

“Let’s say it is true, and my steps are misguided. What shall I actually do? What am I doing wrong?” asked the young man.

“What I first told you is important, whether you have heard it before and dismissed it as fanciful or not. You must realise what you are not and lower your head for it, realise what others are and raise your hands for it, and know God and give thanks and glorify Him.”

The young man said nothing; a look of cynicism and disappointment clouded his face.

“It seems to me,” said the old man pensively, “that you are awaiting a grand, transformative moment.”

“Yes!” replied the young man quickly.

“Well there is much wisdom to be gained from books and from people, and you will indeed hear them echo one another, in depth as well as in shallowness. There is much you can learn by watching the right things, sitting with the right people, travelling to the right places.”

“Yes, I should travel!” interjected the young man.

“But the most important lesson I ever learnt, my son, was that there is no transformative moment.”

Now the young man was silent.

“Nothing you hear, do or see will be a magic potion that permanently uplifts your spirit. No mere moment will transform you, nor fill the void in your heart. Rather, like a weedy sea dragon you must exert a constant effort to not  be swept away in the surging sea. There is no magical moment in which you “find” God and suddenly your soul is ecstatic and you are at perfect peace forevermore. No! There is the difficult, daily battle for your soul’s survival. Survival is to at least try to remember and please God everyday.”

There was silence between them both for a while; the old man seemed sad and began to walk away. The young man felt dismayed and simply said “Hmm.”

Looking for the wrong thing

A young man waited, but he didn’t know what for. He wandered around aimlessly; he was lonely and forlorn. He felt like there was a big black hole that consumed his happiness and peace of mind.

Knowledge came but it couldn’t fill the hole and instead seemed to disappear into it. Wealth came and covered the hole for a while but then the hole grew bigger than it. A beautiful lady dazzled the young man’s eyes and made his heart swell; he forgot about the hole for quite some time but eventually the hole reminded him it was still there.

There was feeling of waiting for something to change, of waiting for something to arrive; of something being missing or lost.

He wandered one day if it was God he was waiting for, and as more time went by he became more convinced of it.

Tired of waiting, he decided to go out and search for God.

He looked in the pages of many books; some were heavy and old. Dust swirled in the air around him after he slammed them shut having found nothing but what seemed like riddles. Other books were slim, glossy and new, he traced his fingers across the pages and was mesmerised for a moment. Then the words scrambled on the page and became monstrous; he found the shine was only hiding ugliness and flung them away.

He looked in the many houses God seemed to have. There he found wide spaces dotted with solitary figures, and approached to ask them of God. They stared at him curiously not saying much. But soon enough their gaze warmed and they invited him to share complaints and cups of tea, yet they did not tell him where God was.

One day an old man who heard of his quest to find God came and slapped him on the shoulder.

“My son, you fool, you won’t find God!”

“Why will I not?” asked the indignant young man.

“My son, you self-important fool! God was never lost, so why claim you are trying to “find” Him? You lost your own soul,” he said with a poke to the young man’s chest, “your own direction,” another poke, “and your own purpose.” a harder poke, “You lost sight of the truth and what is real. You don’t see God, my son, because you see only His creation and you barely see even that for your ego! Mainly, you see yourself, but you don’t really see yourself. Who do you think you are?”

The old man walked off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

The young man stood bewildered and bruised for some moments and contemplated these words, then he rushed after the old man calling out “Wait! Wait!”