Saturday, January 23, 2010
For practising Muslims , the religion of humanity is Islam , and tolerance means maintaining peace with all faiths unless someone unjustly oppresses you.
A true Muslim , follows the verses of the Quran and the way of life of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) rather than follow his own ideas and beliefs.
Why not always follow whatever our self and intellect say ?
Some questions :
What is the purpose of human life ?
Why are we here ?
When we die ......what happens later ?
Each one of us will answer differently or similarly.
Human intellect is limited.
For someone who observes the universe and everything in it , will ultimately have to conclude that a Creator has to exist for the creation.
And each created thing has a 'purpose'.
Examples are all around us.
Ponder on the following points :
Islam is not a man-made religion.
The Quran , is a direct conversation of God ( Allah as He taught us of Himself ) to humankind.
It is the only scripture in the world whose text (Arabic) is unchanged , word-to-word , since its revelation in the 6th century and remains preserved in the hearts of Muslims who have memorised all of its 30 parts.
Allah has sent prophets from the beginning of the world's creation to teach mankind about His existence and to worship Him alone.
Allah says in the Quran :
" And I did not create the Jinn and mankind except to worship Me… "
Those who believe , do righteous deeds will be able to see Him on the Day of Judgement and be rewarded ( Heaven or Hell ) according to their 'marksheets' of the test in this temporary worldly life.
Prophet Muhammad was the last prophet sent to all mankind ; with his prophethood , Allah completed the code of life He decreed for human beings to follow until the Day of Judgement.
Now , it is every Muslim's duty , to tell people about Allah.
I shall quote some translated verses :
" Then do they not reflect upon the Quran ? (i.e. its meanings and its objective) If it had been from [any] other than Allah, they would have found within it much contradiction. "
The Quran is available for scrutiny and investigation by any person to try to find even one error or contradiction in it. In fact this test must be applied to any other scripture that claims it is the word of God.
In other words...there is every means in it to call man to use his LOGIC.
" Indeed, in the creation of the heavens and the earth and the alternation of the night and the day are signs for those of understanding - Who remember Allah while standing or sitting or [lying] on their sides and give thought to the creation of the heavens and the earth, [saying], “Our Lord, You did not create this aimlessly; exalted are You [above such a thing]; then protect us from the punishment of the Fire.”
" And whoever desires other than Islam as religion - never will it be accepted from him, and he, in the Hereafter, will be among the losers (in the Hellfire). "
Lastly , 'there is no compulsion in religion'.
Allah has left man with a free-will......to believe or disbelieve.
And He has sent plenty of proof ( logical , scientific , practical ) in the Quran , in the life and character of His last prophet ; in everything around us.
We , Muslims , are merely instructed to preach .....not force anything down anyone's throat.
For further information :
Best way to find the truth is through knowledge.
The knowledge is present in the Quran as well as the life history of the man who was an illiterate and recited such a masterpiece that stunned the Arabs of his time and continues to do so even in this day.
(3) Dr. Zakir Naik is an Indian , world famous scholar who has studied various scriptures (Hinduism included) and written books which will benefit the seeker of Truth.
An example : CONCEPT OF GOD IN MAJOR RELIGIONS
He hold lectures too ...inviting non-Muslims to voice their doubts etc.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Anywhere else , be it the supermarket or a park , being veiled gives you the liberating zest of being comfortable in your healthy , de-glamorous body while wondering why you impishly enjoy your path of anonymity as opposed to that of the non-burkha , non-veiled woman.
While in your old school , as your step into its premises , you smile : a veiled smile. You watch unfamiliar students passing by ; a few cast curious looks as you walk guardedly , comfortably aware of your direction. You love to walk its gravelly ground and under a deep blue sky , standing on the playground of your school , with the winter sun teasing your wind-chilled body , there is an overwhelming sense of peace and loneliness - when you stand at the ground which is empty , while the classes go on in classrooms where you can never sit in again , not as a student ; classes where you can never , listen to soporific lectures on the chemistry of amino acids , experience the flurry of submitting assignments under basilisk-ian deadlines , never write a biology exam with the exhilaration of knowing most of the answers...
And many such humdrum activities that to you , are forever lost in the fog of ageing.
It is in school where you still find the impulse to de-veil while inwardly conflicting with your lessons in Faith. Its so very tempting to smile hugely at your old teachers with your misplaced front tooth pushing forward with the rest being primly in line !
At the age of 13 , you sneaked to the beauty parlour for a 'facial'. The beautician's assistant - a slim 'parloured' specimen with lovely eyebrows , no teeny-weeny hairs on her pretty face , a pout on her peachy lips - suggested a removal of your facial hairs prior to the steaming ; and you , entranced with visions of a smooth , glowing face consented...
You did not subject your thick eyebrows to her threading on that fatal day ; for which you remain heavenwardly grateful at preserving their natural blatant beauty.
Years later , and perhaps as long as you look into the mirror closely , you murmur apologies to your mirror image for the extra growth of hairs on the sides of your cheeks.
Ofcourse , you could do it again , and again and yet again or even permanently have them removed. But you have learnt your lessons in Faith and Beauty. If you wish to preach , you must practise!
Without faith and knowledge , you may have succumbed to the pains of creating artificial glamour (and 'confidence in your beauty') without realising the beauty that was naturally perfect in yourself , and others with their crooked teeth , their hairy appendages , their bushy eyebrows.
You have been told to visit the dentist and there are gentle innuendos regarding your complacency with no-parlour policy...yet you are stubbornly firm on your perception of beauty.
To end this harangue , you quote yourself :
' If he cannot see you as beautiful as you 'really' are , you must become an opthalmologist....'
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
It is almost a mini-village.
A motley group of people live here. Men , women and children alike roam about the courtyard throughout the day. Mostly families come and leave in a year or two.
Since the past year it has become a baby full-house.
We have got Mannu bhai , Paki darling , Foogi , Sunny , Baby Aunt and the Bengali Bachchi.
In order of adoration :
He hails from Hyderabad. His real name is Manthan.
Introducing myself to him was no difficulty ; he loves the Courtyard as I do. Everyday he would totter through their doorstep , casting sly glances at his Mamma hanging the clothes to dry. If she worried , he would loiter close to her bucket of clothes and bask in the freedom outside the confines of home.
First came the stares. Then I smiled. He stared back wonderingly. Then shyness overtook his innocent inspection of 'who is this girl ?' and he would look away with a smile : 'pleased to see you'.
So the days went on. Staring and smiling ; then blowing kisses. When I felt we were friends enough , I went out and kissed the long pending cheeks.
Chocolates , chips , oranges , biscuits , bananas were baited to lure His Littleness , Mannu bhai smiles and kisses.
He kept the Courtyard lively and clean with his babyish charms and toddling feet. There were days in dhoti , in banyans , in lungi ; even a girl's frock.
The Bengali Bachchi (coming up later) was his favorite girlfriend when it came to pinching cheeks and throwing his little arms with the affectionate gusto springing with the trifle inattention of their respective guardians. Once such zest sent both of them tumbling to the ground ; much to his surprise and the alarm of the poor girl. However it did not dampen the baby hero from his naughty courtesies.
He would kiss his hand and imitate blowing the kiss across my window.
Now isn't that gallant?
In Konkani language , we call a balloon 'foogo'. If we want to feminise it , it would be 'foogi' , won't it ?
That's how Foogi got her name. Chubby all around. She is Fatima in real and belongs to our Keralite neighbours.
She clung to her mother with the cement of adoring liquidity. If you have managed to unclasp her from her Amma's bosom , it would be only due to a deceptive play that she cares for no longer the moment it takes her away from her beloved mother ; wails of pitiable tremors and tear-filled haggard eyes were her tools to lure her mother in leaving household chores undone to attend to baby's wish: 'schtay-with-meeee'.
His folks call him Sunny ; nickname for Sandeep.
He is very fair , and has eyes like a light grey , calm sea in winter. Very interesting shade. Its not just plain grey. His eyes give him a touch of glitter.
Chubby tubby fellow , cries almost not at all (his parents worry about it!) and weighs masha'Allah (caused some nerves near my right upper ball and socket joint side to strain badly) !
Smiles like a gentleman. Not too much , nor too less.
You can hold him in our courtyard for an hour and he would be enjoying the breeze , looking up into the tree and in general seeming a nature-lover.
The only thing he really dislikes enough to wail about on a daily two time basis : the bath tub!
Through our kitchen window , we first realised his existence. His cries , morning and evening , floated over and thus we bonded with the familiarity of knowing his voice without seeing him till many months later.
He sleeps without needing motherly pats nor songs. Three fingers go slowly into his mouth : 'I wanntu schleep pleezh' . Just lay him down on the bed and he is off to La-La-Land.
A serene baby soul.
Only he says : Please please , pretty please , don't give me a bath ! Me good sunny boy , no soap and water for me !
As her name suggests , she is a Pakistani.
Huhhh , huhhh are her favorite words.
Mother and daughter have interesting conversations involving morose crying , scolding , imitation cries , screaming , loving endearments and further wailing monotones.
Their voices are a live audio entertainment.
She was born to her parents in their autumn years. Their third daughter. Since her niece is a couple of years elder to her , it seems proper to call her 'choti aunty' .
A delicate baby with a beautiful rose hued complexion.
Once , her mother was visiting us and had gone out of her line of sight , on all fours she set the course , tiny hands and tiny feet sprang with monkey steps and found her mother a few feet away.
The youngest of a trio.
She is a quiet , don't-mess-with-me toddler.
Manthan loved to irritate her.
I would watch her and she would smile discreetly.
Three more babies were on the way , two have gone away to India , the third will be joining the ranks of this full-house in a couple of days. Cries and smiles yet unknown. Welcome to the village !
Sunday, January 25, 2009
To voice your joys , wails , dreams ;
Day to day mundane chatter ;
To answer if you are thinner or fatter.
Those who love pen and paper ,
Have found worthy company ;
One writes the ravings ;
The other feeds the cravings.
'Once upon a time....' , I can tell you a story ;
Letters I can write , which would have no replies.
One cannot please my literary longing ;
The other bestows praise instead of a hopeful reply.
I know the 'I' is supreme.
It is 'I' who can change my state of being : happy or sad.
I love you , for 'me' ;
I love 'i' - it sounds strange , ugly.
I believe , hopelessly , in 'you' and 'i' yet ;
You cannot have me ; 'I' cannot leave you.
I have been profoundly prolix ,
In showing my loquacious laurels ;
A verbose vagary , so volubly uttered -
With such giddy glibness ,
That you think me surely ,
A garrulous gnome ?
GARRULOUS : talking a lot - about nothing , annoying chatter
LOQUACIOUS : talkative
PROLIX : wordy in speaking or writing
VOLUBLE : characterized by rapid speech
GLIB : speaking or writing with ease, perhaps superficially
VERBOSE : wordy, implying dullness
I wanted to string all these words together , so thus the above was strung.
If anyone can employ these words to a better , humourous effect , let me know : I shall be pleased to read.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
the morning full of winter sunshine is devoured into an empty space , a blackhole , that is your heart...
the twitter of birds inspires no poetic delight ,
you want to stop the ticking of snail-paced clocks ,
the prayers you say , tell nothing of prayers...
you cannot cook, with a zest , for those who are the salt and spice of your life ,
you do not feel you love anyone , and doubt if anyone loves you ....
your body should have slept but is conspiring to give you an infernal wakening time ,
you cannot drown yourself in your flooded , numbed , nothingness of thoughts...
books , babies , bars of chocolaty sins seem as if they would fail in consuming your naive hunger ,
there is no one to whom you could reveal just how you feel , every single time you felt like this...
you wish , it was night ,
you wish , you could lie on your bed , draw the blanket , squeeze yourself into the comfort of foetal rest ...
you pray feeble words , hope guilty hopes , seeking Him to hear , to see , to set you free ,
into that Sleep of death ; into that Life of no such days , such hours....
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The last paper - Biology - was over. Blissfully blank minds could now indulge in elfin treks to our haunts : the sea , the Hut , the malls ; they would retain the echoes of our wandering footsteps mingled with the tinkling of girlish chortles.
The ground seemed firm , undisturbed ; alas!
The shoes went through water-laden sand. Walk with her often and be certain to carry home a momento : mud-covered , grim shoes. She would grin and trot off unconcerned and I would sigh ruefully at the mess I would have to wipe clean without a tissue paper....
Why did we not learn to keep tissues handy ? Being girls that too : for inkdrops , for drops of water after washing under the cooler (the uniform tie served the purpose often) , for food smears , for dusty desks , for tears , for the Unknown trouble (like the shoes above).Perhaps , we could do without them till life compelled us to be what our mothers scolded us to be like during our wonder years.
In the cold breeze , a few drops of rain fell on us - silently.The sky was a melancholy metal blue , overladen with grey nebulous clouds.
In the mall , we visited the perfume shop ; appreciated a couple, criticised a dozen ; remained forgetful of anyone around us and took away an effusion of scents on scraps of cardboard paper ( that had been a catalogue of some sort , taken from another shop ). Then slipping them in between the pages of our books , it remained a lingering memory.
We left the mall , and head towards the Hut.
The raindrops hastened through gusts of cold wind.
A sumptuous aroma greets you - of hot oven bread and an assortment of saucy titbits. Over an hour we sat ; nibbled on salad ; talked of sweets and sweethearts, the droll and the dreary ; munched pizza , giggled , sipped on drinks ; sighed.
The watch marched beyond the 4'O clock gong : to hurry homewards.
Now the rain fell with suppressed alacrity , in the seducing frenzy of the biting winds.
The tumult of the weather spurred us on ; teeth chattering , teasing , half-running , chuckling - we parted ways - praying to be home without being "caught" -- in the play of wind and rain.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Her anger spilled bitter words ;
He withdrew into wrathful silence.
I cannot stop the rains ; I can watch a falcon in his flight.
A pearl in an oyster , in a fathomless sea.
There is no refuge -
From the darkness of the womb , to the harsher light ;
From the confines of the grave , where will we proceed ?
I want to stay shut , in the haven , in me.