Why they say I am not a Muslim...

It was an irony heaped upon an irony in the span of a couple of hours. I was on a long-distance call and this friend was telling me about how he heard a respected academician tell him that I could have become a 'serious intellectual'. I laughed a short laugh; prolonging it would be melodramatic.

I needn't have bothered. I was on test.

While S was quite thrilled with what he saw as a compliment, he said, "You know, I have been aware of this for years. You are the example of a real Indian Muslim woman. And I know you will not let us down."

This man is an agnostic. He knows I am worse. Yet, it was getting to be a strange problem.

Later that evening, the tables turned. I was told, "You don't pray. You don't fast. You don't feel any affiliation towards your religion. You have drifted away - how can you be a Muslim?"

Technically, this was the right analysis. I had done nothing. But I felt it necessary to say those few words that might sound so hollow; I said, "I live by the spirit of my conscience. I know the difference between right and wrong. I try to be honest to myself and to others. And I know that in so many ways I am blessed. If I were a really bad person, then should not I be forsaken?"

He, who has done terrible things in life -- lied, cheated, caused untold harm to people around him -- told me this was not Islam, this was just me.

So Islam could not even encompass me -- little me with my small ideas, my tiny demands, my tinier dreams?

"Will you go on Haj? he asked.

“No,” I stated blandly. “Not now. Not until some major thing changes within me and I genuinely want to.”

"Ok, you are at least frank. But, why do you not pray?"

I said I would when I felt like it, when the consuming feeling came over me. My religion could not be a robot that could be switched on and off. I do not interfere in how others practise their beliefs. I need to be overwhelmed; I need to feel that fine madness of being 'taken', that power over me and for me. There are times when the human can do so...

If people can sweep you off your feet, or enter your heart and mind gently, or make you believe that you can trust them with your life, then that is a faith. I guess fairytales work best as religion for me.

There are times when I would want to go down on my knees and kiss the soil for having let me stand and walk on it.

Would I dare to say that my god can lie beneath my feet?

Colour me

There is a monochromatic painting just above where I sit to type. A man and woman supposedly staring into each other's eyes. Hazy figures. I like black; I like white...to show that I am not so completely rigid, I like grey too.

But I play around with colours. It is interesting that what we did when we were young is still so appealing: giving the first thought that comes to mind when you think of a particular shade.

Black: power; white (white- you cannot see it!): pages; grey: moods; red: blood; blue: bruises; pink: floyd; green: branches; brown: soil; purple: prose; orange: sunset; yellow: egg yolk.

I cannot go on. I have not run out of colours. But I feel black and blue. I shall return to white. A fresh page.

Grainy beginning...

I am just a speck of dust…and you probably have some idea about what that little speck can do. Have you felt the grit in your eye? Can you feel those particles on wet skin as they graze you? Or as they stick to your clothes and you want to dust them away, but so entrenched are they that what you pull out is lint? A grain of sand in an hour-glass is more than just a grain…it is a harbinger of time.

Despite these not-so-modest thoughts I am told, “I don’t think you truly love yourself.”

The insinuation is that I am self-destructive; I invite disasters.In my humble opinion, you’ve got to love yourself to death to court it.

This does not seem like a good start. What is a good start, anyway? Does a good start ensure a progression to something of value, to something that will last forever?

What is forever? For me it is tomorrow. It is also yesterday. Today is the link.

So, today let me tell you why I am here.

I realised I needed a registered blog because I was sent a link that mentioned my home page (I have none) that took me straight to some porn pictures. Now, there are times when I do get excited about myself, but this was not a good enough reason.

I hate it when people call themselves exhibitionists. It is an insult to those who try and connect with you, for would they not be deemed to be voyeurs then?

If one tries to say things without pausing, there is nothing planned about it, as exhibitionism indeed is. At worst it could be seen as a costume malfunction!

Some people think it is not wise to write about one’s life. I just seem to know myself better than I know a lot of other things. I admit this is an open arena, but I write here as I would on paper. I can’t do without paper...sometimes I eat it, after a while it feels like chewing gum. I hate throwing paper. So I preserve them, reams and reams, they gather dust...I can’t eat dust.

One day I will have to...