The Rain In Medina Baye

An almighty, streaming, surging downpour enveloped Medina Baye, flowing onto the streets and roads, washing away the memories of past days. It showered through homes, upon the elderly, upon mothers and fathers, upon children, drenching them in a water that they could not see, and clearing the air, and refreshing the hearts…

Idris Wuld, with the troubles of the world resting on his shoulders, rushed by Medina Baye, on his way to meet an official of the municipality. A singular old man stood in his way, raising his hands in the air and rubbing his face, as if catching the rain. Idris halted.

“What is wrong with you, old man?” He asked unkindly, regarding the clear sky and shifting his shirt in the spring heat.

“Oh! the rain! The rain! It’s everywhere!” Cried the old man, once again, staring at the empty sky, and welcoming the air into his arms. Idris sighed with irritation and moved briskly ahead, “Crazy fool…” He muttered.

Two hours later, Wuld passed by Medina Baye again, a wide smile on his face; his eyes confident and contented. The meeting went splendidly, and his financial troubles had been taken of. And once again, the strange old man came into his path, shifting from side to side, raising his hands in the empty, stifling air, rubbing his palms on his eyes and cheeks, while the awesome, majestic minarets of Medina Baye, stood behind him, like tower giants watching them. Wuld stopped in his tracks.

“So, what is it with you and this rain old man? Have you gone mad?” He joked.

The old man lowered his hands and looked deeply and intensely into Wuld’s eyes. “You will understand the rain I allude to if you do this one thing…”

“And what is that?” Wuld smirked. “Go to Sayyida and say what needs to be said…” And he walked off.

Wuld stood frozen, as the minaret giants looked on. The old man had spoken the name of his wife, and of the thing which was hidden cancer in his soul: his pride. He understood immediately and rushed off.

At home, whilst the children played outside, and his wife was engaged in the labours of her life, suddenly, she dropped her work, for her husband, Idris stood before her; his eyes in a way she had never seen before for a long time. He spoke: “Sayyida, my wife, and the mother of my children…” She leaned against the washing machine, her fears growing- had he found another woman? Another woe upon the woe this man had given her. “What I mean to say, my wife, and I mean this, I have been a cold man to you, for a while, and you have been a good woman to me. Forgive me. Let me make amends. I will take you to see your mother and kin on the weekend…” His eyes were remorseful and true- she could see it… She could see the shame and discomfort in every trace of red in his eyes. Finally, he saw her, the way he used to see her before. And she collapsed in his arms, the tears not stopping, the pain leaking out into his frame, being replaced by warmth, and love, and cheer.

Later, Wuld, having lost track of time and place, since his revelation to his wife, wandered over to Medina Baye, and suddenly, without warning, water fell from the sky, enveloping the whole expanse, covering his head, and washing away the pride. He looked up, feeling the rain flow over his head and face. The old man appeared next to him. “I told you it was raining,” he said, as people walked by, regarding them whimsically, on this, the driest day of March so far….

The Eternal Marifah

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

When the lights they reveal what you really are

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

When the secrets are near but you’re searching far

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

His Eternal Marifah!

.

Jon was a don and a superstar

Who was rich and revered and so popular,

But the worldly success it had left the scars

From the chars of the Mardi gras

.

So, he sought for a cure in the lands afar

For the emptiness from the caviar

But he ended up in a boulevard

On the coasts of Zanzibar

.

Serving on a stall, in the street bazaar

Stood a dervish youth from the isle Pemba

Jon was drawn to him with his heart’s radar

And he told him of his scars:

.

“I need some reprieve for my ailing heart

It is subsiding like a collapsar

All my luxuries they are avatars

Save me from my deep gula!”

.

The dervish arose like a rising shah

With a gleam in his mien like a shining star

And he spoke with a voice like a rare nectar

With his eyes, piercing pulsars:  

.              

“The cravings of life are an abattoir

Which slaughter the souls in a pink boudoir!

Only One can repair, with His Marifah!

Closer than your jugular!

.

“Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

When you bow to the One, it will soothe your scars

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

When you’re close to the One who knows who you are

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

His Eternal Marifah!”

.

“Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

When the lights they reveal what you really are

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

When the secrets are near but you’re searching far

Hayy! Hayy! The Marifah!

His Eternal Marifah!”

Notes:

Hayy! Hayy!- Arabic- alive- a reference to the divine name: Al Hayy- The Living One- some recite the name to draw closer to Allah Most High

Marifah- Arabic- knowledge (of God- mystical closeness to the Divine Reality)

Gula- Latin- gluttony, greed- one of the seven deadly sins

The Mirror and the Dust

A wayward speck of dust settled on my mirror

A trifle, so it seemed, I left it untouched

Then some flecks piled on this particle

Engrossed in otherness, I left them to reside

But when I next regarded the reflection

I found it laden, littered, sullied and soiled

And whilst I strained to scrub it all aside

A glut of sludge plastered my looking glass

My mirror now became a breeding ground

For parasites casting a turbid mound

Then I wept a deluge of regret

It washed away the grunge and stinking mess

And light shone through the glass, which made me smile

But then a speck settled, after a while…

Natural Mystic

There’s a natural mystic blowing through the air. Bob Marley

There’s a natural mystic glow in the unseen

And to feel it quaff the goblet of tawheed

You can feel it in Malcolm

In his mesmerising smile

In the trials that he suffered

In his righteousness and style

I don’t tell no lie

There’s a natural mystic deep reality

And to taste it, love the Only Deity

Feel the warmth of Ali’s fire

Grasp the rain of his words

In the ring, the unsurpassable

In the hearts, he turns alive

I don’t tell no lie

There’s a natural mystic shimmering finesse

If you purge the self, you’ll feel its dear caress

Like the gracious Mother Khadijah

The pearl of New York

In the beauty of her service

In the deepness of her eyes

Can’t keep them down

There’s natural mystic, blowing through the air

Notes:

Personalities referred to in the poem:

Malcolm X

Muhammad Ali

Mother Khadijah

Bob Marley

May Allah illuminate their secrets and teach us beneficial lessons through their lives, ameen

I found out about Mother Khadijah from the link below:https://sapelosquare.com/…/profile-mother-khadijah-faisal/

An Ode to the Rasul, Allah bless him and grant him peace in the style of Hazrat Ahmed Yessevi (ra)

I rest in the soft nest of the kindness of Muhammad

I flee, an escapee, to the mercy of Muhammad

I’m blessed by the largesse and the finesse of Muhammad

I’m lost like a poor moth in the pure cloth of Muhammad

I’m stirred like a wild bird by the true words of Muhammad

I’m bright by the sheer sight of the deep light of Muhammad

I sigh as I float high in the night skies of Muhammad

I’m free, a devotee, in the great seas of Muhammad

I run and then I plunge in the ocean of Muhammad

I’m fine as I incline to the sunshine of Muhammad

I fear and I shed tears at the night prayers of Muhammad

I’m dyed and purified by the dark eyes of Muhammad

My choice is to rejoice at the clear voice of Muhammad

I’m buoyed and overjoyed by the envoys of Muhammad

The plea of Yessevi is my copy for Muhammad

My pen finds redemption by the mention of Muhammad

Allah bless him and grant him peace and his family and companions and sanctify the secret of Hazrat Ahmed Yessevi,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39dSK70Cekc

The Walls- Short Story

Adam and Hira had just turned twenty, when they realised, they were in prison. Now they could see four monumental walls topped with barbed wire to the north, south, east and west. Now they could make out the prison officer uniforms on men and women they had not noticed before. Now they could see other prisoners around them, looking and behaving much like themselves. Fear and anguish grew chains around their hands and ankles; the couple struggled to move as the realisation took hold of them; their breaths quickened and sweat trickled on their heads. How on earth did they not realise this before? Why were they prisoners? What had they done wrong? As far as they knew, they had lived an average life in an average town, following the law of the land, most of the time, and keeping out of trouble. Yet now they found themselves languishing behind towering walls and barbed wire.

Continue reading

Simorgh At Islamabad Arrivals

In Islamabad arrivals, a great hullabaloo arose, like a volcano erupting. Hundreds of tired and disgruntled travellers crowded the luggage belts, struggling to catch sight of their possessions, like a flock of herons, frantically searching the water for fish. Faces scowled; babies wailed; ladies sat back, fanning themselves with their scarves. It had been two hours; their luggage had failed to arrive and, to make matters worse, the luggage of the next arrivals was beginning to appear instead.

“What the hell is this!” yelled a large, moustachioed fellow, in a rich, white salwar qameez. The officials, in blue uniforms, continued to play dumb, expressing platitudes: “we have some technical difficulties… One of the computers has malfunctioned, but it will be fixed, and your luggage will be here soon.”

Continue reading