Advice

In order to move forward we must not forget our past but learn from it. However, if we continue to devour into the emotions that went along with these experiences we will amount to nothing, only a person haunted by dreams and desires left unaccomplished. A zombie, a failure. The reality is, although we may not control much in our lives, we do have the ability to trust. So trust in things worthy of our time. Not people, but ourselves and the belief of the Oneness of everything.

 

No matter the route we take, each journey ultimately leads to the One destination. This is how we can celebrate in our shared dream, a shared destination. So rejoice and relax, basque in the merriment of contentment encircling our hearts, because we trust what we know is the only Reality. Do not pay lip service to that which we know is Divine, obey our shared Covenant and see how miracles somersault in the day-to-day routines of our lives.

 

Love with no boundaries, with no expectations. Let’s expand the capacity in our hearts, so when we finally reach the extent of our fulfilment of humanly desire, we reach the next stage of our ability to Love. Like Bibi Zulieikha (RA), no longer in love with a creation but in complete love with her’s and our Creator.

 

So thank you God Most High, for sadness, pain, trust, miracles, and love. In You we trust, and to You is our journey of return.

Inhale, Exhale

In spite of her better judgement,

She inhaled things that were no good for her.

But how much redundant smoke could she truly inhale?

Sooner

Or later she would need to do its antonym -

Reluctant

Hesitations

Clouded her thoughts,

They mERry-gO-roUndED

Delaying the inevitable.

So why pro-----------------------long what was meant not to be?

She would have to do

What Time had advised her to do,

Reliance on none but Him was what she had ephiphanised-

actualised

Everything else, emotional, physical was transitory...

And so she decided to exhale.

In human relationships one can only find a temporary comfort, it is fleeting, because ultimately we are individuals, and we will have to answer for our own mistakes, individually.

Jeddah ( Incomplete DRAFT)

by Maimona Khan on Thursday, April 21, 2011 at 2:56pm

In order to understand a people, one must live among them, work with them, eat with them, socialise with them and try one’s utmost not to become like them?

Living in the West, I grew up as a confused child being of Indian origins, with British surroundings, and Islam apparently, as the final cherry on top. I skipped along brainwashed with Bollywood movies, Soft-Rock music, Disney cartoons, American television, Indian food and British education. This was all to go nicely with the side dish of regularly practising prayers that my parents (alhumdullilah) instilled in me. All in all I felt confused, like a cocktail of different ingredients; the Islamic commodity being the most diluted part of the drink.

It was at 17 that I first fully actualised a long-standing identity crisis, it had been there the whole time but as a monotonous hum in the background. Then the age long question of “who am I?" came to surface and I realised the worth of my religion in giving me the answers I was looking for. And from this point onwards I adopted Islam as the core of my existence picking and choosing from it the Wisdom it bestowed upon me in settling the conflicts within my own self.

Being Indian and British were still pieces of my identity, but I chose to identify the core of my being to be Islam, and I got along with life with no real crises in identity since. Although judgement does continue to flicker about my delayed adoption of wearing hijaab. But that is a matter, I am comfortable to say, is between me and my Creator.

It was originally when I travelled to historical Egypt and artificial Dubai, that I had noticed relapse in defining my identity. There was, in these nations’ people an obsession with my ethnicity although I decided to humour them and retort with origins that were in no way my own. Yet still, never in my life have I felt so Indian as to when I decided to move to Jeddah, and live in a Kingdom of Saudi Arabians.

Feeling like an outsider when moving to a different country is hardly an epiphany to come by, especially since the borders of this land are outlined on a different continent altogether. The language was something I wanted to learn, and the religion I wanted to practise with more certitude. Although the latter objective was achieved, amazing what one can achieve in the solitude of one’s own apartment, I hardly think this was because of the land I was in. Albeit the close proximity of the azaan prayer did melodiously call out to my heart, reminding it to acknowledge and witness the existence of God.

So there I was, with my red and pink rucksack, my new Miss Sixty black jacket, enclosed within an abayaa. As I entered the school to which I had come to teach I was greeted with the deliciousness of the oud burning in the atmosphere around me. I had arrived in an Islamic nation, alhumdullilah. As I sat in the Principal’s office I could not help but ponder over the reality of my situation. Needless to say, as a young lady who had not travelled far outside the vicinity of my hometown, before being yo-yoed back to it, a definite long term move was not something I could have imagined being in the cards for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I had not lived a sheltered life, I had come on Umrah just the year before (alhumdullilah), but living outside the geography of the United Kingdom was not something I could have ever imagined. After all, a common saying of mine was and still is Lesta is the besta!

In coming, her trepidations upon entering the room was hardly noticeable, this lady, my new boss, did not walk, but glided, as though she had paid off gravity to allow her this treatment. She was travel size, complete with high platformed space shoes, which no doubt cost more then my whole ensemble put together, groomed to look the part of a very well taken older lady (masha’Allah). We spoke, and our repertoire was really of no great interest, needless to say as I got up to leave for home, she glared at me with her piercing eyes and remarked “So elegant.” Of course at this point in time, exhaustion was my only friend, skyping family until the early hours of the morning meant I was hardly one to enquire about such a random comment.

Achilles Heel

Indeed,

It appears to me,

That we all have our achilles heel,

For some there can be countless,

For others not so many sparkle,

But one shines for all –

unparamounted with others.

They were princesses by birth,

She was a teacher,

He was boi emerging on to adulthood,

They were NRAs, abroad to study,

They were sisters, constrained to certain prerequisites of being part of an upbringing.

All culturally diverse,

Ethnically cocktail-ed up,

Blended with western-ness,

Cherry-ed on top with their individual culture,

Yet they all moved,

Step by

Step

With the same hang UP.

It’s the age all concern,

Nature Versus nurture…

Some can rise above these,

And unlearn the lessons given to them,

By right of birth –

The princesses didn’t know any better,

As they stared to their right,

And then to their left,

They were maturing under conditions befitting to their

Current culture,

And in this ignorance,

Their achilles heel was left,

Un confronted,

Preoccupied by the material satisfaction

And nafs’ alike glistened with the acquisition

Of superficial satisfaction.

Meanwhile…

The teacher decided to displace herself from familiarity,

And on occasional visits home,

Treaded on eggshells among those whom she herself

Had raised, in solace

She shone carefree,

In familial company she was restricted,

But she ensured this was temporary,

And then off she went,

Leaving those she nurtured,

Un-nurtured by what she had felt befitted the occasion.

Then…

There was the boi,

Confused,

Dossing,

Bored,

Perplexed by the trepidations that had led him to this point in his life,

Confuzzled by the lack of prosperity encircling,

In spite of his familial material wealth,

Uninspired by his skills,

Searching for shortcuts,

Then taking rest,

And then not bothering to compete with the name,

That his father had made for himself,

He had a complex which he could not shake off,

He had been raised here, and there,

And in these environments, he somehow learnt lessons

That needed to be unlearnt,

And no matter the good company,

He pulled away,

Clinging to his nurturing as an excuse,

For his current numbed existence.

And then…

There were the NRAs,

Matured in a certain context,

And then driven by familial expectations,

Departed their homes,

Into the hub of what until then,

They had envisioned in transitory holidays,

And of course in streaming movies online.

They had arrived,

In the West,

And out went what their nurturing had nurtured.

Whilst mixing merriment with more

Merriment,

They indulge in indulgences,

And find themselves confuzzled,

When they return home,

To their hub,

Some find religious clarity,

Others continue to live a double life,

With nicknames,

And double fbook profiles,

Nurture being able to access one profile,

And their newby nurture able to access another.

And finally…

There were the sisters,

Driven to succeed in an avenue that they had never felt would be where they would head,

Unmarried, they left familial snares unconfronted,

Cultural cries of the aging maiden circumumbulated their familial home,

Yet in spite of failed attempts of satisfying this concern,

They struggled,

They scattered to different locations, worldwide,

And then reflected,

And then together unlearnt lessons that need not have been learnt,

Religion was the key,

Education was their saviour,

And so they clasped each other’s hands,

And took from their culture only that which helped them,

The rest was left to spirituality,

They found in he who was known in the eleventh century

As the Proof of Islam.

In this way,

Each story shows how we are all haunted by the same,

A shared achilles heel,

And the challenges we face,

Ridding ourselves of things we need not learn,

And taking caution in shaping ourselves,

Fashioning us to reflect the goodness befitting us as creations of the One and Only.

The Street Fighter Effect

The phone rang

It was him.

Urging her to define what to him did not need defining, a month earlier.

Pause II

It was April 9th,

It had been just like her dream had foretold.

She came home,

And he was not there.

Sure he reassured her that his holiday was completely unrelated,

But there in itself was a banner,

Clearly stating, what so many had concluded.

As she boarded the aeroplane,

A realisation dawned on her,

Her heart yearned in agony,

Begging the question:

Could she love him?

FWD >

He had showed his kindness

To those who she held dear,

Could this mean he was right for her?

But hang on --------------------------------

There had been an absence in news from him,

Clearly he did not feel the same.

She conceded defeat on this matter,

And in only quite moments alone, she contemplated contemplations

 about him.

PLAY >

May 9th –

The desperation in his voice reassured her,

Endeared him to her once again,

So many confidants had told her to ignore these nightly calls,

But she couldn’t,

She was happy to be there for him –

And therefore gave him what he wanted.

They were together again.

FFWD >>

June 13th –

He appeared with flowers,

Reassuring his affection,

Cementing hers.

But then,

The most amazing thing transpired,

Or didn’t,

His affections became fainter,

And fainter,

As she scurried to find comfort in instances of kindness and –

Care,

She couldn’t.

Her gigantic eyes swelled up,

She would have to let go,

But she muted these obvious concerns,

And resided to being there.

FWD >>

He continued in his “woe to me attitude”,

Paying little regard to her,

Only wanting to preoccupy his bored existence,

Spitting unkindness,

Judgements,

And so she finally ended Round 2,

She being the one,

Knocking him out!

FWD >>

Ten days of aching,

Knowing that she had been the one,

For all this heartache,

She did what was inclined to her gender,

She bended,

And re-established contact.

It lasted 3 weeks,

When the phone rang once again,

“I really really like you…”

I should bloody well hope so –

“But there’s no future.”

Huh?!

“I could be wrong.”

@$*!

And there it was,

Round 3,

She was KO-ed.

There were no more rounds left.

These two players,

Had nothing left to fight for,

And so they didn’t.

Boi-Girl Entanglement

by Maimona Khan on Sunday, April 24, 2011 at 6:32pm

Did I ever tell you about this boi-girl entanglement?

She was un-attached,
He insisted that she was the one for him.

She was in the midst of patching her heart together,

He was in the midst of trying to be the man, he knew he could be.

She mistrusted everything, wanting to remove the magical-moronic mentality that had mired her perspective.

He wanted to feel the wonderment of worth from those whom he believed with the utmost certitude he needed to prove himself to.

They both had other plans,
and Somehow they became entangled.

She wanted friendship,
he wanted more,
he won –                                          

Catalysing the slow patchwork across her existence…

He was persistent,
showering her with complete devotion.

She was unsure,
panicking, debating–

He was genuine in his pursuit,
proving his care…

And so, she finally accepted the entanglement.

------------------------

But having her was not enough,
he shut down.

She was no longer the only thing he wanted,
but rather the approval of past bystanders.

Ghosts haunted his existence; whispering reminders of unfulfilled desires,

He became preoccupied in this dance (half-heartedly continuing the entanglement).

She was KO-ed with guilt,

he felt nothing,

then felt something,

then nothing,

then something again,

and for the next few pages he continued this sporadic ritual.

She didn’t love him yet,
but she did care.

With him inspiration befriended her,
something she had long since misplaced.

He couldn’t love her,
he didn’t love himself.                                            

He cared for her,
but not more than himself.

And so one Sunday afternoon,
he was busy conversing with his ghosts when she came online…

She had long been feeling let down by his retirement into solitary confinement,
 and so decided to pry...

He was haste and moronic.

She was impatient and vulnerable.

And with this they bid adieu…

and the manifestation of the entanglement revealed itself –

like magic,

Abrakadabra - dis-entangled.

Amena

by Maimona Khan on Friday, May 13, 2011 at 4:04pm

Once upon a twenty first century, a teenager struggled to define herself. With her pink streaked hair, she continued her education in a British institution, developing her skills and knowledge –

Yet what being British could not help resolve was this conflict that she felt within herself. She looked to her Indian heritage as maybe offering some consolation, however, this too merely offered nothing but more confusion. And so the final definitive feature she looked to was her religion – Islam. Struggling at first to comprehend the creed inherited from her family, she attempted to make sense of it with the help of being British and Indian.

Still this did not actualise any uniformity in who she was, and so she continued trudging along in her journey to self actualise an identity. She changed her hair colour, and now with purple coloured hair she journeyed on a TeachFirt program away from familiarity.

It was here, in the company of solace she found the answer to her melancholic confusion. Spirituality called out to her, and with the help of the life of the most beautiful beacon of light in Islam – the Prophet Muhammad peace be upon him, she found a consolidation in her identity.

They say there are many paths to God, and for her this was it.

Now, twenty-three, she found a home in Islamic spirituality and the rest fell into place, a domino effect. This is not to say she no longer struggled, struggles are a commonplace in life… however, the peace within herself about who she was enabled the most amazing occurrences to happen.

One day she married.

Another day, on her way to an Islamic convention, she decided to cover her hair. Since then, this piece of cloth was contently adopted as part of who she was.