Black

It is not just a color.
It was not just a battle.
It was not just another conflict.
It was not just a political friction
It was not just a protest.
It was not just enmity.
It was not just matrydom.

It is not just an emotion.
It is not just a ritual.
It is not just mourning.
It is not just wearing black.
It is not a season.
It is not a habit.
It is not a month.

It is not just one of me being killed.
It is not invocation.
I am not an infidel.
I don't worship Prophet's family, I worship the God they taught me to worship.

Round the year don't raise your eyebrows and comment that one of me must have been killed for political affiliation.
Raise your concern to why I am still being killed.
Raise your queries and read history. All history. Everyone's history.

It was Muslim's Last Prophet's Grandson.
It was and is about Justice. about Oppression. about Truth.

And it was not just for me.
It was and still is for all.
It was never about saving me.
It was and has always been about saving Humanity.

His message is too grand to be confined to a community.
His message is for anyone who remembers him, anyone who reads him and anyone who understands his message.

So black is not just a color.
It is a symbol for all that happened and continues to happen.
A symbol that resides in the eyes of growing orphans of my community.
It is about vigor. Enthusiasm to stand for the Right.

The Right that transcends all borders of sect, religion, creed and color.
The Right that dissolves all and recognises Justice.
The Right that gives me the reason to combat oppression and darkness.

The Right that fought and still fights the dying glimpse of what constitutes Humanity.

It is a symbol that reminds me.
As much as it reminds me of the level of evil a human can stoop to, it reminds me of the level of Humanity a soul can reach to.

Sitting here tonight as I look around. I realise. Black. that black is not just a color.
And it was not just a battle.

He is.

It is as if when He created us, He placed in us a yearning. a need.

He plays in mysterious ways through His people. In search of Him, in search for something that quenches the thirst of the one yearning, the traveler journeys through His blessings.

He wants us to give to our blessings. Of completeness, of Peace. He wants us to give Absoluteness of everything of what we do. He wants us to receive His blessings with the depth of our Soul that knows nothing of self, knows nothing of existence and ego, knows nothing of needs. It knows well of yearning, for yearning lies in the Heart of the Soul. So when blessings walk by, the Soul gives like a generous donor inneed of meeting Him.

And while the Soul gives to the blessings, He draws nearer in pain, in yearning. He lies in Yearning. He lies in feeling helpless. He lies in the pain awakened by the frustration of a lover. He lies in the ticking of Time that doesn't seem to pass. He lies in the ache of self when the Soul cloaks the self to give Completeness to the blessings. He lies in the fatigue of the Soul when the Soul combats the thoughts within. He lies in the frustration of muted expression struggling to find words. He lies in the battle of the mind and the heart struggling to let the Soul give of Peace.

He lies in the yearning ache of Absoluteness and Completion. He lies in the trust of the Soul that accepts blessings. He lies in the intensity of loneliness that the mind tries warding off through worldly work. He lies in the Silent Combat within to nurture the Blessings outside.

All along He lies just where the Soul tries finding Him. He stays just right in that figment of that little fickle where the Yearning resides within.

Some chai and koels.

Koels converse too. Across buildings.  Beautifully. Every morning.

This uncle who smiles as he walks by. This sleepy dog who sits across the gate everyday. Empty peaceful roads. A bit of mist. The only shops open. Doodhwala and sabzi wala. Smell of toasted bread and chai. Some crisp texture of the newspaper. Home.

It seems the happiest hour, the hour that helps you write tales of the day and for the day, the hour when walk just doesn't feel like so.

The hour that gives you clarity. Literally and figuratively. The hour that makes you fall deeper in love with a cup of tea. The hour that makes you realize the wonders of mundane beauty. The hour that gives green its green, the breeze its breeze.

The hour that defines the rest of the hours. The mornings that refine the days and nights of Life. The hour that convinces the night to let you sleep early.

The most intimate hour with Nature. The hour that let's you witness its morning expression of Love to Nature. The hour that beautifully plays with the morning dews. While the world sleeps, the Nature and the Morning weave the pattern of Beautiful existence.

Existing as beautifully each day as if yesterday never happened and tomorrow will not be there.

Welcoming you each morning to the walks as just like the first day. Chai as Chai like never before. The smell of toasted bread seeming as wonderful as ever. The crispy paper, existing just as it is.

The koels conversing across buildings and trees. Just like always so.

Home. Mornings. That hour. Mocking and smirking to human's incapability of expressing the experience. As the human tries waking up the rest, desperately trying to narrate the tale of wonders; while the world sleeps to the blasting sound of illusionary comforts of artificially created rhythm of Time.

Koels converse regardless of who comes and who doesn't, singing and swaying to the joys of early mornings.

Chai awaits with the smell of freshly toasted bread. All happens in this hour, automatically. Magically. Nature rules the hour, doing justice to each that comes. The Nature that exists so beautifully insynced with Time, with Life.