… Of those Little Messiahs…

It’s one thing to teach approach-approach conflict.

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To roam from one side of the room to another, moving your hands, making collective eye contact with 14-16 pairs of eyes looking at you. One thing to give an example, a sober example and read the looks in their eyes. One thing to follow up on that example with a novel, perhaps even comical example… and watch the ice of seriousness crack down from the first row to the last one… as these individuals come to life. One thing to teach them how to give critical respect to Sigmund Freud, one thing to keep the Freud joke from becoming un-academic.

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Yes, all of it is still… one thing.

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It’s another thing to deal with the approach-approach conflict.

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Faith makes it all so simple, doesn’t it? Just put your trust in Him and move on. Say farewell to those 14-16 pairs of eyes, and twice that many. To feel so little and silly yourself but to speak words of farewell in a tone of some highbrow, wise orator. And cut yourself short, and tell your insides, ‘Don’t do that…’. But such are human roles and expectations. But these 14-16 pairs of eyes, and twice that many, they were Messiahs. They expected something, yes, but gave much more in return.

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I know their histories.

Like friends, sisters, brothers, children.
Even children. Even if it sounds pompous. Even if my insides tell me again, ‘Don’t say that…’.

I wonder how teachers take their work for granted, how the world doesn’t understand the plasticity of a human being when you stand as an instructor in front of 14-16 pairs of eyes, and that twice that many…

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Two years of plasticity.

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Of laughing their laugh, listening and listening and little more. And talking. And a little more. God, I know even this is pompous… whoever put standards on these things!

My little Messiahs, my buffers, my ‘vitals’… my hope in the world when it really seemed like the world was going to dogs.

“Okay, we are going to talk about…” And 90 minutes of that talk.
Twice a week, thrice a week.

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And the tug from the Other Side.

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The Tug-ger… beyond human language in the first place, and my case is saved as the tug-ger would never want me to scribble a word about the Tug here. Wild impulse one feels when fingers drum on this keyboard… but I will honor your privacy, Tug-ger.

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I will, inshAllah...

... Cauterized?...

Even if I stand in my flowery garden...


... the world far and around still burns.

... Iqbal, on appreciation of art...

“History has preserved some of the criticisms of our Prophet on contemporary Arabian poetry. But those of these criticisms are most profitable to Indian Muslims whose literature has been chiefly the work of the period of their national decadence, and who are now in search of a new literary ideal. One of these criticisms indicates to us what should not be and the other what it should be:

1. Of the Poet Imra-ul-Qais who flourished about 40 years before Islam, our Prophet is reported to have said:

“He is the most poetic of all poets,
And their leader to Hell.”

Now what do we find in the poetry of Imra-ul-Qais?

Sparkling wine, enervating sentiments and situations of love, heart-rending moans over the ruins of habitations long swept away by stormy winds, superb pictures of inspiring scenery of silent deserts - and all this is the choicest expressions of old Arabia. Imra-ul-Qais appeals more to imagination than to will, and on the whole acts as a narcotic on the mind of the reader. The Prophet’s criticism reveals this most important art-principle - that the good in art is not necessarily identical with the good in life; it is possible for a poet to write fine poetry, and yet lead his society to Hell.

The poet is essentially a seducer; woe to his people, if instead of making the trials of life look beautiful and attractive he embellishes decadence with all the glories of health and power, and seduces his people to extinction. Out of the richness of his nature he ought to lavish on others something of the super-abundance of life and power in him, and not steal away, thief-like, the little they already, happen to posses.

2. Again, the following verse of Antra of the tribe of Abs was read to our Prophet:

“Verily, I pass through whole nights of toil to merit a livelihood worth of an honourable man.”

The Prophet whose mission was to glorify life and to beautify all its trials was immensely pleased, and said to his companions:

“The praise of an Arabian has never kindled in me a desire to see him, but I tell you, I do wish to meet the author of this verse.”

Imagine the man, a single look at whose face was a source of infinite bliss to the looker desiring to meet an infidel Arab for his verse! What is the secret of this unusual honour which the Prophet wished to give to the poet? It is because the verse is so healthful and vitalizing, it is because the poet idealizes the pain of honourable labour. The Prophet’s appreciation of this verse indicates to us another art-principle of great value- that art is subordinate to life, not superior to it. The ultimate end of all human activity is Life -- glorious, powerful, exuberant. All human art must be subordinated to this final purpose and the value of everything must be determined in reference to its life-yielding capacity. The highest art is that which awakens our dormant will-force, and nerves us to face the trials of life manfully. All that brings drowsiness and makes us shut our eyes to reality around - on the mastery of which alone life depends - is a message of decay and death. There should be no opium-eating in Art. The dogma of Art for the sake of Art is a clever invention of decadence to cheat us out of life and power.

Thus, the Prophet’s appreciation of Antra’s verse gives us the ultimate principle for the proper evaluation of all arts.”

... Rumi, after a while...

…Cogito Ergo Sum…

I think, therefore I am.
But are either of these worthwhile, what I think, whether I am?

My fundamental reality is dust.
Just that.

And the reality of my thoughts, are the ashes we call words. The paradox is there, thence; words cannot acquire dust-form, for meaning cannot turn to dust. Why one feels disillusioned by a mission, is perhaps disillusionment with life itself, in a macrocosmic view. And this can only be because there is that senseless sprint after purpose…

“Our Lord, You have not created this (world) without a purpose…” Divine words, from a marked Chapter…but carry that spike… that pricks the mind… with thoughts… thoughts… wanting definitions… all laid out. And limited.


Purpose… purpose… purpose…?


Dreams of monotonous rain appear more purposeful than the waking up at six o’clock in the morning routine. The purpose of Sleep, a necessary waste of time, is more defined… more worthwhile, apparently.


Whether Purpose, Meaning and Feeling are divergent or converge somewhere down the path… I don’t know. There are meaningless feelings, and purposeless meanings. There are events, of Feelings… but only the Meaning is carried across, down to the memory lane… and even there, the Purpose maintains its clandestine aura.


The poet with his Feeling, scribbles in fervor, but only the Meaning remains. Sometimes, not even that. And then, all this is not created without a purpose?

Just momentary venting of Feeling?



What is the point of all this prattle? Absolute junk… just hedonistic games with the pen, a necessary waste of time… to sprinkle big words down on the screen, generously, and watch them take form… and feel disgust and love all at once.


Just a luxury of big minds.


There is one thing I cannot bring myself up to agreeing with. There are no incredible minds, except the prophetic souls. The rest must lead a life of dynamic struggle to achieve incredibility. The Bedouin, with his simple-hearted mind, no education, no complex cognitive processes, took the Kalma better than any of us could. He did not ask Mohammed SAW whether he was making a political statement with his monotheistic doctrines. He was tortured and killed for a simple truth.

And he died for no high-brow, artsy philosophy, only love.

And I feel, at times, the rest of us pompous talkers, will just swing between sincerity and insincerity towards faith… as it says in 'The Grande Chartreuse'...

“Wandering between two worlds,

one dead,

The other powerless to be born.”

--Matthew Arnold

SOS, God.
Please.