Wednesday, November 27, 2013

From the arms of Azazil

Alif Laam Meem,

I cannot assemble my grief properly, and so it has not become a coherent person, and thus I cannot address it. I want to love it, speak to it, grieve with it.

But I do not have a person to grieve for or about or with. I have a multi-million fractured pieces.

But for Your sake—for Your sake and for Your Love's, and Your Name's and Your Honor's—I will again let my tears flow, and then I will wipe my eyes.

You have always loved, upheld me, loved me, curtained me, fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, sustained me. I am in terrible need of doing something for You; to lend my existence credibility.

I wonder if there is something terribly wrong with this: if I have chosen the station of being Your helper, rather than Your beloved guest, and as if my chosen station is a terribly lower thing. I cannot say for now, for to speak beyond my current comprehension is a terribly wasteful thing.

I cannot love me and I cannot help me.

I have never heard of another person who has suffered such terrible devastation and compression and destruction and humiliation such as I. How and why does it happen? The reasons are complex and beyond me.

But I have seen You devastate me, and I have experienced a glimpse of Your Awful Triumph, Your capacity to destruct and devastate, Your ability to utterly swipe me, and yet somehow uphold me.

And I know and believe that You can stitch. That You can render anew the fabric of space and time—if only for this sinner, this forgetfulness-full beast, this bestial me. That You are rendering me anew even as we speak.

I will leave this discourse here. I love You, and You love me; and I have hurt You, and You have pained me. We abandoned I abandoned You each other completely brute awful terribly love is love is lovely, I cannot speak out the matrix of ourmyapart searing and tearing beating terribly and goes it there to... something like it like it or not to comprehensive truly out now complete fractured mirror utterly fabulous and comprehensively comprehensible being  do you understand this?

These are my murdered fractures alive still somewhere comprehensively beating alive in the heart and they are speaking! And they are speaking! 

They are speaking. Darling. They are.

Rescue me from this despair, from this falling, from these arms of Azazil, as only You can. Dear Lord, I have no capacity. If it were possible for me, I would like to leave this existence, this fishbowl-entrapment of the soul and senses, and have come to Your Presence such that You'd have slapped me. And then loved me. Taken me within the folds of Your curtains, and, in a flash, disappeared.

But this is not how the Lord acts—this is the doing of an angel. Allah does not flee.

You know I'm foolish. I know You're Kind. And the bones that I have broken in my skull and spine, and the chest that I have here seared with pain and grief, and this old age that has suddenly descended upon my head, and this twisting of the spine and eyes, and this corruption—this acidification—of memory... this is nothing but a speck for You to repair, reprieve, heal. Yes, I do not deserve it, but whenever did I?

I only believed that I was someone especially in love with You, and thus I felt dearly loved and held by and cared for by You. I believed You were Precious to me, a God Who needed my help and company, and thus I tried to make myself worthy of giving You that company, that servitude, that representation-on-Earth that I could through my being. I tried to be Your friend, Your obedient listener, Your companion in a manner that even transcends my own comprehension.

I reckon I wanted to let You be, through me.

Is this blasphemy?

I am deconstructed beyond imagination at this point. 

Let me return to this. Aameen.

Or let us proceed. As You wish.


Wednesday, May 02, 2012

I should have called them to Love!

Not that I can do much about (lost) time now, but here is the thing:

Around 2008, I thought I had finally tired of the world. I'd packed my (virtual) bags. I was ready to depart, to leave. 
Where to? 
The home is where the heart is, and the path is the path of the heart, too. 

And then, violence occurred. 2008. Murder, mayhem, chaos. I knew nothing would be saved -- nothing! -- and yet I had this sad urge to put down my bags and call people to reason one more time.

I think I did wrong. 
I  should not have called them to reason. What is there to be reasonable about, to be patient about, in the midst of such hate and murder?

I should have called them to Love. 
And the first one to answer the call should have been I.

But I tried to be reasonable. I tried to teach, to gather, to console. I tried to 'organize'. 

Nothing worked, really. I mean some lives changed. Perhaps, most fundamentally, my own. I realized all over again that I realize nothing at all. 
But the concern for love and money and reputation held me down. 
What was to be the security in changing?
In moving away?
In living a new life... and being a light to others who'd dare do the same?

I left the path of this apparent insanity, and tried to be sane. 2009, 2010. I attempted to help the unhelpable, teach the unteachable. 
Nothing has changed. 
They still keep on murdering. They still keep on fighting. They still keep on seeking significance in the insignificant, security in the crumbling. And I am here, still here, torn between the call of my heart and a self-created call of 'duty' -- which has now turned into proper inertia and fright. 

I will try another time.
I will try love, the path of heart, and flight. 

I have nothing sensible to say, teach, share anymore. 
I have no invitations to make to sense and sensibility -- there are none. 

I read this diary, and I realize, with much amazement, that that which I consider lunatic and insane actually makes perfect sense. 
And all the sensible persons and things are now bewildered.

I was answering the wild call of the heart -- and I was right! 
There was magic to it!
There was flow to it!
There was love to it!

No PowerPoint presentations can be made on that, alas. 
No TEDTalks. 
No mashable stories. 
No Twitter lead tags.
No Facebook pages may entertain such insanity.
But I like this insanity.
I prefer this over a thousand folds of sanity!

And this is it. This is it! 

02 May 2012
03:47 pm
(Still sitting) at the writer's desk

Sunday, January 08, 2012

Bold as Rumi [a poem]


If I were bold enough as Rumi
I would throw this pile
-- this burden! --
of books from my head;

I would tear the gown of familiarity 
and retreat into the forest
-- the ever-perplexing, awe-stirring forest --
of my being.

But I am no Rumi.
I am grounded finer than stardust
and blown into a thousand constellations
a hundred galaxies.

I am not one thing.
I am not even nebulous.

I am a powder grounded 
too fine, too fine, 
and blown with the cosmic wind
in ten directions.

I take time to gather my being.

They say there is no time.
Have they been me?
Have they found, upon awakening, that their being
was not their being?

But rather through necessity or compulsion
she was a soul crushed and grounded as gold powder
mixed with the meat of a million 
earthly beings?

How does she gather herself

I know not. 
Rumi, at least, left me one legacy: 
he said, "Sell your cleverness, and buy bewilderment!"
I lie bewildered, though gathering.

Gathering, gathering, gathering.
A mercurial being
gathering into a mercurial ball
rolling away from the touch of lecherous beings.

I am gathering.

As boldly, clearly, ecstatically
as a quiet, lost, hidden Lover 
is capable of



January 8, 2012
12:11 am

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


The most significant lesson of 2010 for me was death.

On the 3rd day of the year, I collapsed twice. Apparently, I was blood-less, weary, fatigued -- and had no one to talk to. That was the doctor's assessment, and it was only partially true. I had someone to talk to, but I was away from that someone in a cold, wintry town with power and heat outages. On that day, as my heart collapsed twice, I could not reach the only person who listens to me. 

In the initial hours of my collapse, I did not quite fathom what was happening. I was only very sure of one thing: I was dying. 

I had never, ever imagined death to be a feeling so friendless, so cold, so completely an annihilator of all attachment. 

I was in the town attending a wedding, and yet I had a feeling that I had parted from the world. My chest felt a certain coldness, a darkness. At night, unable to sleep for fear of falling through, I felt myself departing and returning, departing and returning. It was all in the region of the heart. My heart felt a terrible despair, a sadness, a reversal of time. Perhaps more macabre than the feeling was my utter sadness at the lack of preparation for the moment. 

When I was younger, I found life an explosion of color and energy... and yet I felt a marvelous firmness, a stillness, a base underneath it all. It was a power, a friend, a magic that I faced. Intuitively, I knew, that I would one day explode into it. I will become dust, and I will be a whole, full part of it again when I die. And only when I die. And this peculiar knowledge made me willing to die. More so, it made me embrace life with a fervor!

And yet here I was, physically obliterating, and I felt weighed down. 

You know, as I am writing these words down, the whole imagery of becoming a part of 'it' again through death has made absolute sense to me. Just now. I came from that magic, after all, that I am looking at. A woman somewhere here has carried me for 9 months until I came to be a separate body. An animal here is related to another animal that I consumed at one point, and part of it still resides as my muscle. I ate plants from this Magic. I breathed out into it (I exhaled), and it breathed into me (I inhaled). I excreted into it, too. When I die, my body is going to disintegrate into this Magic again. This Magic is where I came from. This Magic is where I am going to go into. 


This I only realized now. Just now, as I am sitting by a spectacularly well-lit white window, watching the dazzling, warm afternoon sun rays strike upon the luminous green flesh of the plants in my garden. It is a brilliant scene, bursting with life and color. 

I struggled a few days after my collapse with an immense feeling of darkness, of gray, of weight, of old age, of time. I felt as if I were 70 or 89, and I was about to part the world having tasted little of its fruits. I felt angered, sad, terrible. 

My goal immediately become to lighten the burden that I was carrying. I returned home as soon as I could, took medicine that worked at -- I later realized -- at a very deadly bout of flu that had attacked me in early 2004. I had managed to fight and resist it, while still managing extremely hard work. But it had managed to harm me. 

I had one of my most intimate prayers in a long time when I returned home. Standing on my prayer rug I felt, after years, that I was face to face with Allah. I spoke with Hu. I shared that I was taken by such utter sad surprise that I was not ready to die. What a shame it was! If I had any grace, I would leave even if I had a burden on my shoulder. But here I was, still left to live, feeling that my sole task now was to chuck this weight off.

It is fantastic that I have still put on more weight since that close brush with death. I went on to do more, and yet my pledge was that I would do less. In other words, it took me a while yet longer to slow down, to slow down, to sow down my rapid progress on the wrong path. 

I finally started turning around on 01 October 2010. That is when I started a Sabbatical. What is this Sabbatical about? Heck, I don't know and I don't want to know until what I am to know becomes apparent. What it is certainly about is me sitting with myself, listening to myself. I feel relieved now. 

What do I want at the end of this Sabbatical? I want to be the person who is willing to die immediately the moment death comes. This is the only state in which you will ever taste your life fully. This is only state in which you know what it means to be alive.