Fall upon my knees

“And I have chosen you,
so listen to that which is inspired to you.
Verily, I am Allah!
There is none worthy of worship but I,
so worship Me
and offer prayer perfectly for My remembrance.”
[Taha 13-14]

Two evenings ago, I had my bi-annual meltdown.

It was the same old, same old. Feelings of inadequacy and utter stupidity, compounded by an impossible thumping pain around the circumference of my skull. The people and places and things gone wrong spun me into a little whirlwind and when a loved one asked me if I was alright, that was when I cracked. She offered a hug I couldn’t take, because it wouldn’t do to cry in the middle of a street.

I made my way, past the kindness of friends and strangers, into the prayer room. It was thankfully empty, and I clutched my head in my hands and started praying hard. My heart reached for its limits and cried for its Maker, and I began to sob.

Making my way home, hands in my pockets and stiff from the cold, I took my time and breathed in the fading autumn. The winter breeze had come, but the autumn leaves were still stubbornly holding onto their branches, and it gave an odd air to the city streets. Cars were milling up at the traffic lights, making their way home; joggers in ridiculously tiny shorts were striding past me, chasing after the last of the daylight. I walked, chasing nothing in particular, except for maybe peace of mind.

I passed by an Orthodox Church halfway down Royal Parade, and as usual, glanced inside. Sometimes they had mass on Friday evenings; sometimes there would be a funeral service, and I’d catch a glimpse of the congregation, all grey and wrinkles, staring straight into their future.

But that day, as with most days, the church was empty. The lights were dimmed. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows and into the cavernous space.

And as usual, I wondered what it would be like, to be in a church. All alone.

When I was a child, in a moment of defiance, I was determined to enter the neighbourhood church, just down the street where I lived. We children grew an aura of mystique over the church – childhood folklore had it that staring at a cross long enough could make you Christian by default, and no longer Muslim. Even though its huge, lusciously green grounds were open to everyone, the church and steeple seemed like a forbidden space; as if stepping into one were the equivalent of apostasy. As with so many childhood myths, we kept these stories to ourselves, believing them to be absolute truth.

I was nine, and I asked my father about how a church looked like so many times that he walked into the compound with me and made me look for myself.

I lasted up to the donations box and the notice boards, before I took one look past the wooden doors and down the aisle, and ran for home as fast as I could, so I could confess to my mother.

Thinking this, two afternoons ago, I mulled the memory over a background of Cat Stevens and his melancholic guitar. I may have grown older, but I wasn’t any wiser. Each blatant glance into the church still gave me a little pang of fear – of what, I wasn’t quite certain. My mother made apostasy sound so bad that I feared it most as a child. Maybe there were still remnants of that illogical fear, that stepping into a Christian space made you one by default.

And still, childhood wonderment aside, I could imagine walking into a warm, dimly-lit room; all wooden walls and a stage at the end of the aisle; the pulpits set so low that you have to look upwards to see the preacher – it gives the image of speaking to a higher power.

And with all the internal conflict an hour before, I could easily understand how walking down the aisle and kneeling at its end, face turned heavenwards, could feel like a solution to one’s burdens.

‘It always comes down to one thing, honey

Still I kneel upon the floor.’

-Cat Stevens, How Can I Tell You

But while kneeling on one’s knees, as seems to be the popular Christian stereotype, may seem to some as a humble gesture enough, I know of one that is more natural to me than any other:

Prostration.

Knees touch the ground, aligned with the toes; palms pressing against the ground and leaning against its warmth; forehead on the floor, subjugating everything else in a moment. There is nothing like it. It feels like coming home to One who knows you better; who knows you best. And if you’re blessed enough, tears pour down like rain, the mercy of the heavens.

And in Islam, the world is my prayer space. Sometimes, I prefer praying in the park without a mat – letting the grass and earth and moss touch my forehead is a reminder that I am still alive and able to change. My prayer is not limited to four mere walls, and each move, and each word is a gesture of grace and humility and gratitude eternal.

I have a friend who searched for God and peace during Fajr in a park; praying in solitude and amidst the trees and sleepy possums and stirring birds. She says that she found what she was looking for.

And so I understand the idea of the church – of being awe-inspired and humbled into feeling that God is All-Aware. I can only compare it to a mosque, and I must say, churches seem to scare one into submission, while a mosque is just there to facilitate and inspire.

But give me the fields and sand and earth and snow anytime. The remembrance of God should and does exist beyond four walls.

‘…The earth has been made for me (and for my followers) a place for
praying and a thing to perform Tayammum, therefore anyone of my
followers can pray wherever the time of a prayer is due…’

- Narrated by Jabir bin ‘Abdullah, [Volume 1, Book 7, Number 331]

BananaToffeeCake and Me

Yesterday, while looking over the CBD skyline at sunset, I poured my heart out to Banoffee.

It was a summarized version. Three minutes, tops. But I felt so much better afterwards. When she placed her tiny hand on my back, I felt that yes, she actually understands.

Today, I gave her a longer version of the tale. And believe it or not, she actually managed to stare down at me. I was impressed, and also distressed. I suppose it showed. I was afraid that she might begin to worry for me, and she had a class to go to, and so I trudged over to the computer lab alone.

Which brings me here, thinking about all I have and all I have yet to do. This week will be impossibly busy, much like the ones before. Homesickness has yet to knock on my bedroom door, although nausea most certainly has. At times, stopping to breathe calmly is so foreign now, that I even think that I am about to have a heart attack.

How’s that for zikratul maut.

This computer lab is swelteringly hot, and I feel like I am about to pitam soon. But before I make my escape, I would like to share a hadith which has been on my mind for quite some time now:

“How amazing is the case of the believer; there is good for him in everything, and this characteristic is exclusively for him alone. If he experiences something pleasant, he is thankful, and that is good for him; and if he comes across some diversity, he is patient, and that is good for him.” [Muslim]

Don’t worry, Banoffee. Tawakkal tu ‘al Allah. I will be fine.

Saturday afternoon.

Have you ever felt like your life is centered around a whirl, and that you can barely stop to catch your breath?

Have you ever felt like each day has gone by so fast, and yet you feel like last Thursday happened a month back?

Have you ever gone a period where every single person who says hi to you follows it up with, “You look tired. Are you alright?”, and yet you don’t notice that you are?

And then you take a break. You take a day off. Away from it all, but only figuratively, because the spinning never stops. You just step away from it.

And the day starts out with meticulous planning and timing, and attempts at fixing broken words.

And then you slow down, and you feel as if you cannot be bothered anymore.

And then your head hurts, because everything has become too much, and you feel left behind. You almost just can’t be stuffed.

Then,
You step into an empty room.
And you breathe.

And you wash your face and feel the worry lines rinse away.
Your shoulders can be eased; the burden has been lifted.

And then you fall into rhythm and motion.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.

And then you lift up your hands and just pray.
Sometimes, when it is quiet, and you’re sure that no one else is there, you can feel your heart speak to you. Or hear it say something greater than you ever imagined.

And you can just cry.

But the rest of life awaits you on the other side of the door.

This time, though, when you step out, you will take your time.
And breathe.

Of stories hidden deep inside.

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 Egypt, and of how beautiful the masajid in Malaysia were. He proved me wrong when he named Masjid Jamek to be one of them – as it turns out, he marvelled in its function, rather than its form. For a second, I was embarrassed at my shallow suggestion of the infamous masjid in Putrajaya.

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)

New Favourite Hindi Song

Moving into Baitul Avenue has exposed me to many, many Hindi songs.

However, I must say, this is my favourite of them all: