rah-e- talab mein kaun kisi ka?

apne bhi begaaney hain,

chand se mukhrey, rashk-e-ghizalan,
sab jaane pehchaaney hain.

tanhai si tanhai hai, kaise kahein, kaisey samjhayein,

chashm-o-lab-o-rukhsar ki teh mein,

roohon ke veeraney hain,

uff, yeh talashey husn-o-haqeeqat,

kis jah theherein, jayein kahan?

sehan-e-chaman mein phool khilein hain,

sehra mein deewaney hain...

aur

hum ko sahaarey kya raas ayein,

apna sahara hain hum aap,

khud hi sehra, khud hi deewaney,

sham-e-nafas, parwaney hain,

bil-aakhir thak haar ke yaaro, hum ne bhi tasleem kiya,

apni zaat se ishq hai sacha, baaqi sab afsaaney hain...

- Ibn-Safi


English translation:
(on the path of desire,
even the dearest become distant,
and pretty faces, admirers of beauty,
all remain familiar.
who to tell, to speak of,- this loneliness?
beneath the layers of all eyes, all cheeks,
lie shadows of haunting souls.
oh! this desire for truth and beauty...
where do we go and where do we stop?
flowers blossom in gardens and terraces-
yet in deserts they wander madly, in vain...
and
for me, no support has worked,
except myself,
myself- the desert, myself- the crazy wanderer,
myself- the lamp, myself- the moth,
alas! my friends, I admit,
With oneself only, love is true-
the rest are but tales and fables...)

The Egg

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

********************************************************************

BY: ANDY WEIR 

Original Post: www.galactanet.com/oneoff/theegg.html

(please drop a line of appreciation to the author if you like this story as much as I did)

The love of God

a special poem by Dante Alighieri

The love of God, unutterable and perfect,
     flows into a pure soul the way that light
     rushes into a transparent object.
The more love that it finds, the more it gives
     itself; so that, as we grow clear and open,
     the more complete the joy of heaven is.
And the more souls who resonate together,
     the greater the intensity of their love,
     and, mirror-like, each soul reflects the other.


Happy Christmas to all!

Washed Away - a short-story*

Rahmat watched the torrential rains fill up his small yard, and by evening, the water seeped inside his mud house. The river got higher and higher, and flowed right over his crop and his land. He tried to tie and lead his two cows to safety, but one of the cows slipped and was washed away, the other refused to move against the water's flow. He had no choice but to leave it where it was. His wife and his children packed up what they could, some dry bread and fruits and what little money they had, hauled it over their 'charpai' (a poor man's bed) and waded through the raging muddy water. When they reached the higher ground, they were drenched to their skin, as were the others who had camped there for safety. Rahmat haggled with a few local men to get a piece of canvas, and tried to make a small tent with it, with what little skill and help he had with his son. His wife and the kids placed the charpai and their two packs of belongings underneath, and sat helpless...staring as their entire village sank into the river. 

At night, they only had a bite of bread with some fruit, and they starved the next morning. The kids were cold and wet, and had no change of clothes. The mother tried her best to keep them warm inside the tent. Some other tent neighbours had managed to get a gas-lamp for some heat and cooking. She looked imploringly at Rahmat, but he had no means to get a gas-lamp for them. Some helicopters flew overhead, and dropped food packs from time to time. Meanwhile, some local men were busy hacking and hammering away the 'bunds' (or the breaks lining the river which was gushing towards the big palace "Haveli" of the local Feudal Lord "wadera") in their effort to try and divert the flow towards what was left of the drowning village. The local men were getting paid by the Wadera, and by evening they could afford to pay for a gas-lamp and some more bread. But their own village had completely disappeared, while the towering Haveli was intact. The Wadera Sahib decided to leave the village, as his purpose here was accomplished - his Haveli was safe, while his poor farmers were homeless.

He arrived in the big city, and was interviewed by a local channel. He explained the extent of damage in his area, the whole village has disappeared, he said. And the people have no food no water, nothing. We need help. His plea was repeated by other Waderas (who had just finished saving their palaces by drowning the locals), and was magnified 10 times over to reach the ears of the remaining country-men. People in cities, feeling sad and distressed for their fellow citizens, poured their money out into the 'relief camps'. Some people, fearing Allah in the month of Ramadan, and how He knows that their latest income comes from corrupt means, decided to placate Allah by donating a fraction of the 'haraam' income into the 'relief'.

Usman Khan was busy lecturing on the politics of the country in USA, when he heard the sad news about his hometown being submerged in the flood. His secretary assured him that all the 'bunds' forcing the water towards his Haveli were broken, so that the water could flow easily into the poor farmer's land, and his Haveli was safe. Usman Khan immediately thanked his secretary, and embarked upon a humanitarian quest to acquire as much aid as he could, while he was still outside his country. He pleaded on TV, and his many admirers and fans, pledged money in foreign currency to his account, and felt that they had atleast done their little part to help those poor people. He made sure that a chunk of that money was immediately used to buy food and clothes and medicines for the flood affectees, while the rest of that money was conveniently left in the bank to gain some interest. Ofcourse, interest (sood) is Haraam, of course, yes it is. That is why I have an account with the Islamic banks, he explained. They only give some 'profit' on the money, that isn't interest.

Gonglo Nawab also decided to make several appearances on tv, condemning the present government for their mismanagement, and went to visit several people injured in the floods and shook hands with them. Later, he washed his hands carefully off the matter, and used a ready hand-sanitizer. His brother and himself were invited to a big Iftaar party soon after, and he should have his hands clean for some digging-in to the samosas and aloo-chat.

The Army were required to pull out people from their rooftops, and throw packs of food to those that could not be helped immediately. The Army was also getting a beating from the government for not mobilizing all the helicopters and all the boats and hovercrafts. But, we don't know how to use those helicopters yet, and the guy who knows how to work those hovercrafts is on vacations to the UK right now, sir, - said the Army. The world must help us with Helicopters and boats!

The Army was also getting stretched in the opposite direction, trying to fight the terrorists, and yet save their brothers from the flood. It is indeed like walking on a tight-rope.

The government was trying not to look too much like beggars, and yet, that was what their 'duty' was at the moment. The aid was coming in slowly, and the beggars had to explain to all and sundry that: no, we will make sure every cent goes to the poor, we promise not to take even a little bit for ourselves. You can come and check my pockets, sir, said the government. Just ignore my bank account in Switzerland, and some property in France and UK, and other places. Now that is my hard-earned rip-off. 

People sitting far away in their drawing-rooms clucked with pity at the scenes shown on TV. Some showed off their wealth and 'humanity'/'religiosity' by telling all who would listen how much they had donated to such and such charity. Some people wrote amazing articles on blogs, newspapers and other places on the internet. A handful of genuine charities tried their hardest to reach the worst hit areas, but couldn't get any further. The rains lashed on, and the flooding rivers did not subside. Half the country was drowning, and yet the terrorists sat together in their caves, and planned to blow up more mosques, more Shias, more Kaafirs disguised as women and children in busy bazaars shopping for Eid, or disguised as Red Cross/UN aid workers. Allah will grant them Paradise for recognizing the Kaafir and the Shaitaan, and blowing themselves up to kill it. 

More foreign celebrities displayed their perfect acting skills, and pleaded for money. More self-righteous people loosened their change. More angry people slammed the relief efforts. Why should we save those people? They're brothers with the terrorists!!! Better nuke them all.

All this time, Rahmat sat under his make-shift home, trying to avoid the helpless eyes of his wife, and the shivering kids. They had had two packets of food from the helicopters (the first he had ever seen in his life), and they had soon been interviewed by a professional looking man who spoke flawless urdu, and told them he was coming on Television. Rahmat didn't know what to say, when the man asked him how he felt. Some people, wearing badges of a political party also came to shake hands and take pictures with Rahmat and his neighbours, and they handed them tokens for 'food rations' at their camp some miles away. Rahmat went to get the food in the evening, and they had a hot meal. At night, more thunder and rains caused the Television man and the Political party people to flee the area. Rahmat had two tokens left but nowhere to get the food. 

When the rivers finally quieten down, he and his neighbours will try and re-build what was lost. He will need to ask for a loan from the big Haveli-owner, the Wadera "feudal lord", so that he could buy bricks and one cow. He will spend his whole life trying to repay that loan. His children will not go to school. No more helicopters will fly over-head. No relief camps would come back, to help build his little mud house. No foreign aid-worker will shake hands with him and pose for the camera. He won't be interviewed for the local TV. The terrorists will come down from the mountains, shaking their AK-47s and Rahmat would pull in his children, and lock his door for fear. They will shower bullets over their town, and shriek and scream. His wife's eyes will fill with tears at the gun-shots, and Rahmat would sit alert and frightened, as the terrorists finally leave the village. The Wadera will invite the terrorists for a "talk" inside his big Haveli, and broker a deal with the terrorists and the government, or Usman Khan, or Gonglo Nawab, or any body else, willing to deal. 

Deals that are of no concern to Rahmat. And comments on the Internet, that do not concern him. And the donated money sitting in Islamic Banks gathering 'profits', that are not his concern. And the world will forget Rahmat one day. 

*entirely a work of fiction.

Lost souls on the Subway trains

Subway trains in Toronto are a unique experience, especially for someone who has never seen one in their life before (me). They dip in and out of the ground, they screech when travelling past dark bends, and you can never feel how fast they are moving (until they abruptly stop and you get the inertia jerk). Subway trains are also a very interesting place to observe society. As any sociologist will tell you, each cabin on the train carries people from all walks of life (well, not All...almost all), and in a diverse city like Toronto, it also means people from all around the world. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in such a small place, bumping into each other at the slightest brake at rush hour, holding the same steel bars as a person from a totally different continent, and hearing all types of languages, it is indeed a rich treasure of sociological knowledge.

Although I could keep writing an essay about how amazing it is to travel in one of these, and discuss all the cultures, sub-cultures and fashion cliches I've encountered and so on, so forth...I want to share the story of two very interesting characters I met on the subway.

First I must explain this: As part of being acclimatized to the normal urban Canadian life, I have learned to adhere to the following acceptable codes of behaviour when traveling by public transport:

1- Limit interaction with any fellow passengers, no friendly smiles, no greetings, no friendly everyday talk (what's the time? it's getting late...bad weather, etc.).

WARNING: At all costs, avoid acknowledging the existence of anybody who looks even slightly unusual (homeless people, too-much-tattoo people, yo-man type of people, gangsta people, loud people, and people of different races/ethnicities, and add-your-favourite-weirdos etc.).

2- Best to keep your eyes safely focused on the floor/stupid Pantene shampoo ad/ceiling/book, or pretend to sleep. Better still - wear dark glasses (bonus: you can stare at that old lady trying to fix her lipstick on a bumpy ride, without any trouble).

3- Putting in earphones with a blast of music is a great idea to accompany point No.2 (be careful though, you might miss your station).

4- Avoid getting up and offering your seat to another, more deserving passenger (look here and there to assure yourself that others are equally guilty - best way to learn how to put your conscience to sleep).

5- Do nothing to help anyone on your own initiative, even if they look like they really need it. Unless they look at you directly and ask. (kind of hard for them to do as you pretend to sleep while nodding your head to deafening drums).

Hmm, so I'm glad I cleared the above points... they are critical for understanding how I met the characters I want to talk about.

One day, while going home after a particularly tiring day at school, I was aboard a subway train that was repeatedly getting delayed. Finally, at one station notorious for providing the most shady-looking passengers (haha!) an old man boarded our cabin. He was short and stout, with white hair and gray eyes, wore a shabby jacket with a cap, and probably hadn't washed in days. What set him apart from most other shady homeless men, was his genuine friendly smile and a huge armload of LCBO plastic bags. He had maybe around a dozen or so bags on each arm, and they looked almost empty, but they were full of thin sheets of paper. His friendly smile and the way he walked to the seat on my side, immediately gave me the red alert. As I had learned, I quickly moved myself to the other edge of the seat (as far as I could go without bumping into the person beside me), and ignored him. In fact, I tried to pretend to sleep.

I was busy pretending to sleep when I heard a rustle of paper, and I looked up to see the old man holding up a folded piece of paper and snipping away at it with a small paper scissor in various angles and directions. I knew what he was doing, I loved to do it often too... making cut-out paper mats! I was amazed by his skill and talent, so much so that I forgot to avert my eyes and pretend to sleep again.

The man acknowledged my curiosity, and opened the folded paper flat for me to admire the design on the mat. None of us spoke, but I was completely in awe. He quickly pulled out another sheet of paper, folded it in various ways, and began snipping way...another design. Very carefully, he would put the folded and cut paper back into his LCBO plastic bag, without even bothering to open it and check how it turned out to be. I guessed he already knew what his designs looked like. My station was now fast approaching, when another lady leaned over and told him, "they are beautiful!". She was the only other human, in that cabin-full of people, who had seen and admired this. The rest were busy following the socially "acceptable" behaviour as outlined above.

The man smiled and thanked the lady, who asked why he was making so many of them. He replied he made them all to give to the sick children at the hospital. Finally, his station arrived. He held out his last snipped paper mat towards me, and I took it with a thank you smile. He also gave one to the lady, and walked out. I still have that paper-mat somewhere in my desk drawers. It made me very sad that day, that I had initially behaved like the ordinary "robots" I like to call the other passengers, I felt I had lost 'myself' trying to adhere to the acceptable laws. But I did not, and it makes a world of a difference.

Another morning, I was going to school, in the usual busy rush hours, when I met a second character. This person looked ill, (and a bit mentally deranged - so I tried to put the most distance between him and me) and he carried a big journal in his hands. He would occasionally flip it open with a smile, but then quickly close it. Finally, he took out a pen and started writing on a fresh page in the journal. Unable to overcome my curiosity (and nosiness) I side glanced to see what he was upto. He was writing a letter?

I remember it went something like "Dear XYZ, It has been long since I wrote to you, tomorrow I am going to the doctor .....". He kept on writing, until he turned the page over and I saw he had switched from writing prose to poetry: he wrote down a couple of verses, reaching around half the page, before he wrote something like " I really miss you, I wrote this poem for you, and I wish you could read it." and he ended his letter. When he was finished, a girl sitting on the other side asked him something (I couldn't hear), and he started to read aloud that poem. I don't recall the words, but it was mostly about spring, and I was deeply touched by the beauty of his words, they were very simple, but had deep meaning. I admired his poetry, and he was very visibly happy to have us both as his audience.

He told us further that he wrote these letters to his sister who had died some years ago, and she had been the only caretaker for him. He flipped his journal open to the first page, and pointing to the date he said his sister was severely ill then but she had encouraged him to start writing to her when she was still alive. He said something about I'm a bit sick in the head you know, it gets hard sometimes. He spoke so simply, so matter-of-factly, and most probably he didn't notice the effect this interaction had had on both of us. My station came so I rose to leave, and I remember saying something like Keep it up, I loved your poem. And I walked out, ofcourse...onto a busy platform where emotion-less people rush to conquer another day in this materialistic world, and where people like the poet I'd met are lost in this mad crowd.

I don't know why I remembered these two incidents so vividly among others. Maybe because they are proof that humanity isn't lost - not yet. And when I complain about how this place is a sad robotic utopia of sorts, I remember such lost souls, and I have hope that it isn't so. Perhaps, one day I'll meet another 'human' among the crowd of robots, and this time I'll be more welcoming.

Broken Frames

Didn't feel like writing anything yesterday. Don't feel like writing anything today, either. But I'd give it a go anyways! I was searching for something in my old file, and that's where I came across all the things I have stuffed in my drawer. Old receipts, letters, empty envelopes with the addresses on them, pens that don't work, safety pins, my old poems, some unfinished stories...

I wonder what makes me want to keep these things. It is this idea of the future, that maybe...some time later I will need these things, or maybe that they are important. Or sometimes, it's just a hasty action to clear up my desk when I believe some one is coming over to visit us and my room looks like a dump.

These items which have no use... (or do they?) remind me of many days of life. Days that are not lived, but just stuffed into these hypothetical drawers for some other time. Days that are spent doing absolutely nothing, as if sometime later I could revisit and do things I always wanted to do. It is indeed a slightly sad feeling that I get from looking at these forgotten items in my desk drawer. I think, for people who (at the end of their lives) turn back and open those hypothetical drawers of life, and see many such use-less and hastily spent days, also have that deep pang of regret. Can these two feelings be compared?

I wrote a poem in April, 2007, which seems be-fitting to this idea:

Broken Frames

Like an old torn page

stuffed into the back of a drawer,

or an Unused box saved

and thrown atop a shelf,

I have stacked some memories

and let myself forget them.

One day when I open that drawer,

my hand shall find that page;

that box may fall in my sight,

my touch will lift the dust of age

and I shall see the cracks and yellow

line those many names...

like lost and faded faces,

that smile through broken Frames.