Heartquakes: the Tremors of Life

the_lost_heart_by_michael_rayne_deviantart

If there is anything that encapsulates and signifies the presence of life, it is a heartquake.

A heartquake is the tremor you feel in your heart when something touches your soul, and stirs the very core of your being. When something penetrates so deep beyond your physical existence into the vast expanse of your soul, that it causes a shift in your innermost being and sends an echo of life rippling through the epicenter of your heart, making you physically tremble. It knocks the breath out of you, and leaves you unable to speak.

Heartquakes originate from the most intense human experiences: overwhelming grief, real love, peaking passion, profound truth, sincere faith, enlightenment, insurmountable loss, crippling fear, terrifying horror, breathtaking beauty, extreme inhumanity.

When was the last time you felt one? 

When was the last time your heart trembled in awe of your Creator, marveling at His power and majesty?

“The true believers are those who, when Allah´s name is mentioned, their hearts tremble in awe, and when His verses are recited to them their faith grows, and who put their trust in their Lord.” [Qur’an: 8:2]

When was the last time you felt an embrace of real love that made you tremble with belonging?
When was the last time a truth so profound struck you that you had to look for words to say?
When did you last see something so beautiful that you were overcome with delight, unable to breathe?
When did you last feel your heart burst with the agony of loss?
When did you last see oppression in the eyes, till your heart was rattling with fear?
When did you last reach a level of astounding awareness that shook you awake?
When did your heart wrench last, at the sight of a bleeding child?
When did your heart scream last as it witnessed utter barbarity?

When was the last time you were alive?

Final Year Reflections: You’ll Only Find What You’re Looking For

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It was what you’d call a truly pleasant day. The semester had just begun, old friends exchanged delightful salaams and warm embraces as they met in classes or hostels, thousands of tokens were being printed at the banks, new students rushed around nervously doing registration or asking for directions as they got lost, lunch was being served in all the cafeterias and dozens of fresh-juice orders were being made in HS to beat the heat, graduating students were waiting for their clearance at Admissions and Records, and in all this activity, I sat with relief on the stairs leading to the library and took in the lush green mountains before my eyes, having successfully registered for my very first semester in university. As I sat there admiring the gleaming white clouds as they floated in a brilliant blue sky, a soft breeze surrounding me; a most magnificent voice electrified the afternoon air:

“Bismillah Ar Rahman Ar Raheem. Praise be to Allah who has sent to His servant the Book, and has allowed therein no crookedness. He has made it straight and clear in order that He may warn the godless of a terrible punishment from Him, and that He may give glad tidings to the Believers who work righteous deeds, that they shall have a goodly Reward, wherein they shall remain forever.”

It was as if time froze. I found myself captured by the beauty of this surreal moment. As these verses of Surah Kahf resonated majestically throughout campus from the main mosque, I confessed to myself what has remained true for all these three years: this is exactly where I wanted to be.

On that beautiful Friday afternoon, I experienced what I never did before and what I never would in any other educational institute: I saw Muslims of every kind and color, I heard animated conversations in languages of the East and the West, I saw thobes and jeans;baju melayus and sarongs; abayas and flowing coats, songkoks and shimaaghs, brothers made cool wudus in the hot courtyards of the mosque, meals and classes had ended, the library and offices had closed and whiffs of Arabian perfume filled the air as people headed forJumuah prayer; the adhaan beckoning the students, the rector, lecturers, staff, cleaners and the guards alike as it proclaimed: “… come to connection with Allah, come to success, come to success, Allah is the greatest, there is no god but Allah.” I watched the scene below me from the women’s balcony of the mosque, every row was filled till the doors, the khateeb began his sermon and the angels sat to listen with us, having just marked thousands of us as ‘present’ on the Scrolls of Attendance. 

Yes I was in a garden, just as the slogan stated. There was shade to rest under, a stream to sit and think by, lawns to relax on and new species of exotic birds and flowers to discover everyday. Yes it was a garden of knowledge; I have witnessed lecturers whose every word is like a pearl of wisdom, truth and empowerment that they give to their students with passion and humility. Yes it was a garden of virtue, it was here that I had the chance to experience I’tikaf in Ramadan, it was here that I had iftaars with Africans, Asians and Europeans together, it was here that I could give charity by donating blood, it was here that you could sponsor an orphan in Gaza straightaway, it was here that I learnt the greatness of the Shariah, it was here that I never had to compromise my prayer for classes, it was here that I learnt to be proud of my hijab, it was here that I met the potential leaders of my ummah, it was here that I found people with dreams like my own and it was here that I learnt that you will only find what you are looking for.

It was here that I learnt that even if you are caught in a storm of people’s opinions, judgments and pessimism; if you only look once for a place’s garden, the knowledge and virtue it has to offer – you will find it.

Written in 2010 about the International Islamic University, Malaysia.

In the Heart of a Homemaker

In the Heart of a Homemaker
In the Heart of a Homemaker

I watch my fingers as they struggle to type, words lingering at their tips, unable to arrange themselves in an interesting sentence because they just don’t flow as easily as they used to. I begin to reflect on the evolution of my hands and the things they contained, touched, created and dealt with over the past few years. From books, poetry and coffee; to writing messages of love, caressing, preparing meticulous meals, carefully applying makeup, adjusting my earrings. To writing down my confused, depressed thoughts, to cupping them on my face as tears flowed in them and I prayed for direction. To drafting legal contracts  and typing out legal advice. To writing and editing articles and chopping onions for curry. To taking pills for various illnesses and having IV needles inserted into them. To taking off my rings as my fingers swelled. To holding my baby for the first time. To mixing bottles of milk and checking to make sure the temperature is right. To washing dishes, cracking eggs for breakfast, laying plates, peeling apples and boiling oats for baby lunch. To hurriedly getting dressed and fixing my hair before the bell rings. To flipping through Youtube aimlessly on a boring weekend. To making a cup of tea that fixes everything. To doing the bed and rocking my baby to sleep. To applying ointment to an aching neck or foot. To switching off the bed light, hoping for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Under the layers of responsibility, of duties, of diapers, dishes, dressing up, doctor’s visits, expectations and arguments, underneath it all; in the heart and mind of a mother, of a wife, of a home-maker – is a young girl with unfinished dreams of her youth: studying in her dream university, cycling in the sun, laughing in the rain and getting drenched in the sea, pursuing the career everyone had always told her she would excel in, hearing words of deep love and affection, travelling the world, being surprised to tears, having a timeless conversation, taking in a breathtaking view, catching her loved one lost looking at her.

In millions of homes around the world at this very moment, there is a woman who’s probably setting the table for dinner or feeding her baby or packing a lunchbox; who, with the end of every day, buries the young girl she was in her heart. The young girl she was who watches her everyday as she gives, sacrifices, puts up, puts aside, settles, gives up and gives in. Gives every single second of her time and every single ounce of her health. Sacrifices her ambitions, interests and brilliance to routine. Puts up with what she never expected and never thought she had the strength to. Puts aside everything that happened, wipes her tears and forgets. Settles for whatever life’s brought her way. Gives up hope of seeing any change. And eventually, gives in to a life very different from the one she’d dreamed of.

Not all of this is my story. This is a collective story of the daily and eventual life of almost every single woman who is putting her husband and child(ren) first. A collection of the fragments of pain and longing that I come across in the eyes of and conversations I’ve had with so many women who are about to break, or have broken and become numb. Or are relentlessly struggling to make it work, and make it beautiful. This is the story of your mother, my mother, your sister, my sister, your close friend, my neighbor, you, me. You know it is.

Those who’ve passed it say it is a phase and that it will end. But isn’t the ending almost always the same: a woman with a battered body or/and soul, who doesn’t even remember what she was like before?

We’re happy, of course we are, and we love our families. But that does not mean we are not sad. That we do not tear up thinking of what we could have been doing or would have become by now… if we had put ourselves first.

NOTE: Your maturity will reflect in your understanding of this article and its message. Please do not flood me with comments of how to be grateful and look at the good times because if you think this is complaining, you are still too immature to understand.

Praying While Pregnant

Isn’t it beautiful that when a pregnant woman prays, she and her child are already worshipping Allah together? She begins to practically teach her child the Truth even before explaining a single word of it to him. She has already begun to bring up a new human being on the Right Path. SubhanAllah. Only Allah knows the reward He has prepared for such a woman. ❤

Duaa, Soulmates and the Absolute Exhilaration in Surrender

It was a very very long time ago when I discovered the most intriguing thing about my creation: that I was created with another part. A part that I have never seen, a part that was not made in me, but for me. A part that only time would bring, and I had to look out for. The part that would finally make me complete.

I was left with only a few clues about it: It was somewhere on earth. It was made of the same stuff that I was. It changed for the better if I did, and it deteriorated if I did. And most importantly, it was looking for me too.
Since the realization of this truth, I could say life was anything but easy. The first challenge after this realization was being aware of my incompleteness, recognizing that there is a void. A void that my society threatened to treat as a pitiful handicap if it existed ‘too long’. But themost excruciating of all was ignoring that void till it was to be filled with what fit just right. And I say excruciating because of the constant psychological pressure to fill that void, either making me break my head over tricky duplicates or with what society forced me to consider for its various stupid reasons, and when every time that void refused to be filled except by what belongs there, it painfully taunted me of its existence. Till there were numerous times I was so frustrated and/or disillusioned by the importance given to it that I vowed to desensitize myself and leave it empty, gaping at me for the rest of my life.
Thank God I decided something better: to desensitize myself to the pressure itself and not the void. In fact, I even stopped seeing it as a void. I saw it as it should be seen: a precious place to be taken, if and when Allah thinks best. And by whom Allah thinks best.
So as I prayed for goodness in all those other aspects of my life that are only in Allah’s knowledge, I continued to pray for goodness and delight when I am to finally see this place taken.
When a family friend once expressed that he liked me, I told him I was already in love. With someone I’ve never seen, but I know is out there. I was in love and I was preparing myself for him, and waiting. Waiting for the day time would finally reveal him to me. There would be endless discussions with friends about what, when and how it could happen, and we would either end up contemplating our dilemmas in silence, or laugh our lives out at our helpless speculations. Often times it would be solitary wondering, either while drinking coffee alone after a long tiring day or for a moment or two just before turning in for the night, or while staring at the solitary moon, or in those moments of quiet prayer in itikaaf.
Sometimes the wait got long and tiring. Many times I’d just think of giving up and giving in to whatever comes along, then I would remember the aayah from Surah Rahman: “Is not the reward for good only good?” So I’d wait a little more and try to preserve the goodness a little more. Then one day, my close friend mentioned to me that if I really wanted something from Allah, no classes, no routine, no sleep would keep me from waking up in the middle of the night and praying tahajjud to Him. So I finally decided to give it a try because the pressure on me to get married was increasing and I knew I would have to make a decision very soon. And to my own surprise, I found myself waking up at tahajjud without an alarm, without any reminders. After two weeks of earnest appeal in tahajjud, of testing my own hope and trust in Allah, I realised this unrevealed part of my life had given me alot more than I asked for: the most beautiful of all, was that it taught me how to ask from Allah. It taught me how to ask as His servant, His slave, His own personal creation– I confessed and complained and I asked and begged and pleaded, and I surrendered.felt like an empty-handed helpless slave, and nothing ever felt so good. SubhanAllah. It taught me the insignificance of myself, my abilities, my name and my irrelevant little attributes and the true value of His grace and forebearance and mercy throughout my life, but above all, the ultimate outcome of my pleading to Him was literally living proof of the power of proper duaa: the proof of His greatness to do all things, the proof of His definite answer to those who call on Him, the proof of His perfect discharge of trust for those who rely only on Him, and one of the most delightful forms of His mercy in my life. The answer to my duaa to Allah that I waited so, so long for… was much more than I expected, much much more than I deserved and better than I could ever imagine, Ma sha Allah. Alhamdulillah.
Originally written on 15th July 2010, the morning of my wedding.

We Had a Life

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I was part of the generation of kids that pointed at planes and went “LOOOOK! It’s a plane!” and waved like mad at them.

We cycled in the summers and ate ice pops and spent our whole day outside, we had picnics on the terrace, swam in plastic pools in the balcony, told ghost stories to each other when the electricity got cut, we bought sugarcane from push carts for half a rupee, we flew kites and plastic balloons (not fake metallic ones) and our grand treats were icecreams in mango-shaped containers. We drew with toothpaste on anyone who slept during sleep-overs, we hijacked our neighborhoods with toy guns, we set up adventure camps on terraces and we wrote on neighbors’ catus plants and smelled their beautiful white roses. We watched Home Alone 20 times and laughed harder every time, we went to waterfalls and beaches and hill stations as large families, and ate home-cooked food out of 5-stack hot cases. We painted on pots and made leaves and flowers out of plaster of paris, we created puppets and held puppet shows in cardboard boxes, we attended karate classes, we watched different colors of paint as they swirled down in water. We baked cakes and made omlettes on weekends, we played hide and seek and hop scotch and “kitchen-kitchen” for hours and we made garlands out of yellow flowers growing on trees in our lanes. We climbed trees, ate their fruits, planted seeds, cooked in tiny earthen pots for all the neighborhood’s kids. We played dark room and spun under the sun till we fell down laughing. We would try to burn paper by focusing the sun through a magnifying glass on it, we would be thrilled out of our senses if our uncles took us for rides on their motorbikes.

We soaked in the sun, we HEARD the waves for real, we FELT trees and sand, we SMELLED flowers and plants, we PLAYED, with HUMAN BEINGS, we got hurt in reality, we baked and cooked and swam and ran and won and lost and got scared for real and we laughed out loud FOR REAL.

We had a LIFE. And we had the time of our lives!

 

Under a Crimson Veil

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Under a crimson veil, a sanctuary since birth is left for an unpredictable world.

Under a crimson veil, a woman painfully, reluctantly leaves the girl in her behind.

Under a crimson veil; an irreplacable happiness dies, as a fragile one is just conceived.

Under a crimson veil, the tears of a stabbing sorrow are shed; quietly, ruefully, uncontrollably.