... Historical Matchmaker...

... If Time had no value... no dimension...

I would put the puzzle of the two most good-looking people in history together.

Good-looking and brilliant writers...

Their looks grow on you, like their letters...



~Frank Kafka~



And




~Virginia Woolf~

"I feel certain that I am going mad again: I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness... I can't fight it any longer, I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work..."

(Suicide note: The Letters of Virginia Woolf, vol. VI, p. 481).

... Is Love an Emotion? ...

On Sara's request:

(No debate, please)...

While reading one of Dr. Iqbal’s letters about one of his teachers, the neo-Hegelian, McTaggart, I hit upon something interesting, which only fell into context with the present topic after some deep thinking. After all the spirituality, there were two or three places where Iqbal did not sound like the Iqbal we had been taught about in our Pakistan Studies classes. He wrote, “McTaggart’s philosophy was not in his intellect but in his emotions.”

In a consuming state of mind, I could never imagine any philosopher rooting his reasoned doctrines in emotions, rather than intellect. To further this, he wrote in a succeeding passage that “the solution of all problems is found only in love… Love is no passivity. It is active and creative… it is the only force which circumvents death: for when death carries away one generation, love creates another.”

It is interesting how Hajwairi defines love. He points out several etymologies of “Muhabbat”, but an intriguing one follows thus, “derived from hibbat: seeds falling into the earth of the desert”.

Now recall Iqbal’s line, “it is the only force which circumvents death: for when death carries away one generation, love creates another.” Yes, just like those seeds that turn the barren desert into greener lands…? (Think hard, you will put two and two together!)

As a student of psychology, I often see love as nothing but the squirting of a few chemicals at emotional instances. As a being vulnerable to this age’s media, I see love as something between your family and yourself, or the Hollywood-pomp. The rest is just charity. We don’t love the little boy we feed, that’s just charity. But then, of course, as a student of some human beings of Sense, and with blind informality, students of Hajwairi, Rumi, Bullay Shah and Ghazali, I know Love is only something you feel for God.

I may be wrong, but Love is not an emotion. The deeper I think into this, the more convinced I become that emotions are meant to fluctuate, they are literally defined in psychology as the “rising or falling of feeling”. If it falls, even temporarily, it cannot be Love. Another etymology Hajwari referred to is Muhabbat derived from hubb: “a jar full of stagnant waters”. If it is stagnant, it cannot be an emotion.

Ghazali very eloquently describes the role and nature of Qalb, the home ground of Love. The Qalb “catches the knowledge of God and the spiritual world”. Knowledge of God, right, but what is the role of Love here? Again, yet another one of Hajwairi’s interpretations, Muhabbat comes from the word habab: “bubbles of water and the effervescence thereof in a heavy rainfall.”

Meaning, the human body subsists through the spirit and the heart subsists through Love. Love is the current of the heart; heart is the receptive substance for the knowledge of God, and hence, Love is the energy for the knowledge of God? Or is it the energy of God?

What we call love, in our contemporary dictum, is the love of our own Nafs or Id (courtesy: personal experience). Because when God talks about Love, He says, "None will have the sweetness (delight) of Faith till he loves a person and loves him only for God's sake.” No Romeo dies for Juliet, no Juliet dies for Romeo; that is what the misinterpretation of arts and theatre taught us about love. Romeo dies for Romeo’s Nafs, Juliet dies for Juliet’s Nafs.

Maternal love, I believe, is still an epitome of God’s energy, since it is the yardstick God uses to show us how much He Loves us. And yet, every child born in this age can cite the story of Romeo and Juliet, none can cite the story of… well, just look at that! I can’t even think of an example of a mother who killed herself for her child, although we all know there must be a million such cases.

Between men and women, there can only be understanding, the rest is just the soliciting of the Nafs. There was understanding between the Prophet (Peace be upon his soul) and his first wife. Our Islamiat teachers get scandalized when we ask them, ‘Was it love at first sight?’; our Maulvi Sahibs frown when we ask them, ‘They were in love, right?’. That is probably because they are as confused about this phenomenon as we are, susceptible to same media that conditions you and myself.

God said that if you Love Him enough, you will become His Hands. Meaning, God’s energy will be translated through you to the rest of the creation. And so, our charity is not charity if there is no love in it. Without it, charity is just a mechanical process.

A smile is an act of charity, said the Prophet. Again, God’s energy translated through one who Loves God, to another person. This all connects back to what Iqbal said, Love is “the only force which circumvents death: for when death carries away one generation, love creates another.”

To conclude, Love is not an emotion, it is God’s energy, and the perpetual channel for our relationships with fellow beings.

... Epitaph...

We were born on the same date, him and I.
Only ninety-two years apart.



His epitaph reads,

"In my beginning is my end..."




I hope mine will say,

"In my end is my beginning..."

He is T.S.Eliot and he said “immature poets imitate; mature poets steal…”

I have yet to decide where I fall in that scale.

... Mama, mine ...

So, God claims He loves me seventy times more than Mama.

It’s God’s claim, I wouldn’t dare disagree.
.
.
.

I will only ask a further question:

Does He face the same social amphitheatre that Mama faces for me? The same jingles of approach-avoidance conflicts? The same human rushing and human deflation? Human anger, human revulsion, human worry, human fear… and human love?


Or has He only reserved “love” to feel for me?
Seventy times, or seventy thousand times… pure Love...only?
In the absence of all that is so excruciatingly human?

.
.
.
.

God is God, but Mama has a thorny task.
I don’t remember her making any claims of might, though.

... Poetic Liberal...

Sir, what is your opinion on women who pursue higher education?

Hmm, a woman who pursues her career and education is admirable – like an art work, a classy painting.

And, as a wife?

[A snooty, patronizing chuckle] You can’t hang your “classy paintings” in the kitchen, now can you? And that’s where a wife is supposed to be.

[Thinking silence] Ah, well, thank you, sir. I was having trouble defining an ass-hole lately, you just helped me out there. [Smiles] .



Courtesy for this (ouch!) humor:

Dana Tidikis,
December 9, 2005
8:34 P.M.,
My bedroom,
Lahore, Pakistan

...Bright Blue World...

It had to be Bee-Jaan.

No one else had the time, patience or discerning memory to narrate such tales to Chotoo. It had to be Chotoo, too. No one else had the big eyes and dreamy imagination to hear it and more marvelously, even believe it. The rest of them had grown up, regrettably.

It had to be every third night of that winter season.

An every-third-night-ritual of the same story.

“Bee-Jaan, tell me the story about Bilal again!”

“I am going to sleep, now, Chotoo…”

“Just once, just the part when he didn’t give the Aza’an!”

And the story was told and re-told, sometimes even thrice on the same night.

The dark-skinned friend of Prophet was restricted from giving the morning call for prayer by other fellow-faithfuls, and the morning refused to come.

“It just didn’t come, Bee-Jaan? There was just darkness?” Chotoo asked, for the umpteenth time.

“Yes, just darkness.” Bee-Jaan answered as a conditioned response.

“And if he hadn’t given the Aza’an, there would be darkness even today?”

“I don’t know about that, Chotoo. Now go to sleep.”

“Okay, just tell me, there would be darkness even today if he hadn’t given the Aza’an?”

Voices are unfaithful in small quarters and Qaari Yaqoob’s sleep was disturbed by his son’s incessant questions.

“I’ll break your legs if I hear another word from you,” boomed the father’s voice. “Go to sleep!”

May be there would be darkness even today, Chotoo told himself, if Bilal hadn’t given the Aza’an.

Chotoo was the last born of Qaari Yaqoob’s four children. Other than that, he was the little dog, little servant, little brunt-bearer, little errand-runner, little nuisance, little useless-mouth-to-feed, little everything else that human language can succumb to.

Human language, only.
Human actions have a larger scale to drown into.

In a little quarter by the mosque, four children lived with the fifty-five-year old Qaari Yaqoob and his mother, Bee-Jaan. Qaari Yaqoob’s wife was never there, but Chotoo was not sure whether she was dead or had gone to live somewhere else.

No one had the time, patience or discerning memory to narrate such tales to Chotoo.
For this, even Bee-Jaan did not seem to have the time.

Chotoo had his imagination – a bright blue world, where there were answers for everything. His was a magical world of heavens where white-robbed, saintly men and women reside, who knocked at God’s door when they did not hear Bilal’s Aza’an-call one morning; a dark-smiling man who clambered onto the pulpit to give a victorious Aza’an. That world buzzed in Chotoo’s little mind, little large mind, all night… until the sleep world of other colors would take over.

And then, there would be the morning.

Chotoo believed it was his father’s call to prayer that brought the morning, neo-Bilal’s voice. There were other prayer-callers but Chotoo knew it was his father whose voice did the trick. Qaari Yaqoob did not communicate much with his children but it was the morning call for prayer when Chotoo’s bright blue world was full of his father, saintly, heavenly folks rejoicing and white-winged angels bringing out the bluer skies.

But daylight is different in a world yet unknown to Chotoo…

A new Nazim had won local-body elections and he was a man of action. New roads were to be constructed, electricity had to be restored to some centers, water-supply had to be gauged, and sewerage had to be fixed. Since most of his votes had come from the religious faction, something had to be done about a religious center too, the mosque.

There were recommendations for new fans and new carpets but the Nazim was had other plans with such funds. Something else had to be thought of where the mosque was concerned.

“Do away with that old man, first,” the Nazim said irritably to his subordinates. “He squeaks like a dying hen in the morning. Destroys my sleep, get someone new, try one of the Afghanis, they have a good pronunciation and don’t scream as if they’re breathing their last.”

One of the buttering subordinates imitated the morning prayer of the old Qaari Yaqoob and there was a roaring laughter, amid half-hearted pleas for forgiveness.
Beyond that, human language fails.

---

“This is my mosque!” Qaari Yaqoob defended himself against the President of the mosque’s affairs. “I was amongst the builders! I laid the bricks of this mosque and I am strong enough to build it again! You want me to leave it? Shah Sahib, do you even know what you are saying? Where will I go? My children are still in the madrassah and my-”

But he lost the fort.

No one told Chotoo about the events directly but somehow, the news got to him. His father would no longer be the caller for prayer. There was a young, fair-skinned Afghani who was going to move into their quarters soon and would be the five-timer meter for the mosque. Qaari Yaqoob’s family was given a week to pack up and leave, no questions asked. Thank you very much for your thirty-year-long service.

It was the third night of winter but Bee-Jaan had no intention to perform the ritual.

Chotoo did not ask for it either.

This was their last night in that quarter and the morning-prayer was to be given by the Afghani. This was Chotoo’s war with the world, not Qaari Yaqoob’s, not the Nazim’s, not the imitators. It was Chotoo’s bright blue world against the dark world.

Minutes of darkness ticked on as Chotoo heard the unfamiliar voice booming from the loud-speakers. He heard Qaari Yaqoob mumble something and sluggishly get up from the bed.

The morning-prayer was over.

It was all up to those white-robbed men and women in the heavens and the white-winged angels. They were Chotoo’s soldiers, guardians of his bright blue world. The first pink ray entered the quarter and Chotoo felt the first tear drop down his eyes. It was not over yet, Chotoo went deeper into his imagination. Doors of heaven opened and he ran frantically inside and when he could not find any of his soldiers there, he banged at the Lord’s door himself. He kept banging and banging...

There was silence.

May be there is darkness even today, Chotoo told himself, because his father hadn’t given the Aza’an.

This was Chotoo’s victory against the dark world.
Or, if you have the sick humor for it, Chotoo’s delusion?

...Worn-outs...

I understand it now.

People just get tired.







The bell-boy complains he has too many people to attend to, students complain they don’t get enough days to prepare for the finals, boss complains she has too many responsibilities, lab assistant complains he is overqualified for this job, librarian complains (and for a while there, I was afraid he’d start crying) there are too-many-books-too-little-space.

...

Me, I am a terminal complainer.

An entire Monday morning of tire.
One of my closest friends said, once,

“Life is scandalizing”.

That, it is.

...D. B. M...

Alright, Sara says Makki says I am beginning to sound like the Prophet of Doom and should invite more people to an infamous, underground society called DBM.

Here is what the invitation to DBM looks like:

Invitation to Divorced Before Marriage, DBM

Dear Mr. X and Miss Y,

We, the members and founders of DBM, feel honored to cordially invite you to join our convent.

Our senior most founder, Miss MadNas, was kind enough to share your DBM experience with us, via internet e-mail. We were delighted to see the foreign element in your case, since that’s a unique instance. Hopefully, as we spread our DBM empire, we will get to meet more members like yourself. And we hope to increase exponentially, owing to the relative ease with which relationships are falling apart in these times.

Each member of the convent thoroughly enjoyed your misery and The Great Fall. Please understand our motto: we are positive people and absolutely enjoy tragedies and moments of human weaknesses. Therefore, every time you wined with a sentence like, "Why did you tell me?", the members of DBM felt the need to hug and congratulate you, for finally qualifying for our criteria of membership offer.

As a member you get to enjoy the following benefits:

• Free access to the online journal, Lets bitch about Fate,
• Booze parties at Gymkhana, with qawali or Mursia of your choice (available only at Delhi, Karachi and Lahore at the moment),
• Virtual torture rooms, where you enjoy inflicting creative tortures on individuals of your choice,
• Free anti-depressants and psychological therapy,
• Access to the blogs, chats and emails of all other DBM members,
• Guns, knives, revolvers, nuclear bombs (currently available in India in Pakistan), and swords (currently available in Afghanistan and some Middle Eastern countries).
• Ability to sponsor another member into the convent, provided they qualify for membership,
• One million dollars, in cash, annually, but you have to devise and execute the robbery yourself,
• Heavy metal and other forms of dark, satanic music. If you wish, owing to your religious orientation, you may instead request manuals on "Patience", although we don’t particularly encourage that,
• Group therapies with other members of DBM, to share your experiences. Some members have had multiple experiences, making these group sessions a treat to listen to.

We wish to make it clear that we are not a feminist society, but are willing to accept individuals of all races, sexual orientations, creeds, nationalities and religions.

Take your time in considering this offer as we place no pressure on potential members.

However, in case you choose to reject the membership, we offer you two forms of death penalties:

1) we can disclose the content of your conversation to your family, or

2) hang you by the rope until your neck breaks.

Looking forward for a quick, positive response.


Yours truly,
Membership Committee
Divorced Before Marriage
DBM

We are registered in No-Man’s Land as a charity organization.

And here is one example of how invitations are accepted (life-sized example):

...

Dear Founding Fathers, or Mothers....

With a shattered heart, and bottle of vodka, i accept ur invitation to join, I shall do my utmost to uphold the values and rules of DBM. In keeping with the great majnu's of the subcontinent, I shall strive to grow a long beard and hair, and sing toote songs. Since we Indian jilted lovers are non-violent and resigned to our fates, I humbly wish to renounce all forms of violence, and politely refuse ur invitiation to weapons, I am already stacking up a collection of tradegy movies and songs, which i can distribute freely to other potential members to entice them into our fold. I shall do my best to enhance the Indian Chapter of DBM. Hope u consider my invitation.

Your Foreign Element

Mr. X.

:)