Pilgrimage.

I haven't been on Pilgrimage.

But I have heard from those who have that you hardly get time for God.

Amidst countless and continuous actions, requirements and precautions, you somehow somewhere seem to be more occupied with ensuring that you perform the act right.

It is how somewhere somehow you just feel you just couldn't have enough. Not yet. The yearning remains, rather so often, it intensifies.

I haven't been on the pilgrimage but I have heard so from different people.

I think I know what they mean.

Life then just seems like an extended version, rather a zoomed out version of the same pilgrimage. Wherein, often a times, you expect and yearn for the Meeting, which doesn't just quite happen fully. Doesn't just quite happen absolutely. If it does, it lasts barely a second or more.

It seems just when you step up, pleading a meeting, He sends your way, another action. Here, perform this first. Here, love humans first. Here, express gratitude to this blessing first. Here, bear patiently this suffering first. Here, love for My Love first.

Amidst what seems so material and mere performance of duties, obligations and expectations, you seem to be constantly experiencing and living each in the Hope of Final Meeting. In the hope of quenching that Yearning in you.

Through His world, He makes you feel the vacuum. The void. The Yearning. The incomplete in the complete. The slight pain in that Absolute Peace. The Missing.

Impatiently, succumbing to your ego, to your self, you run away from the Yearning.

In that each second of Missing Him, lies Him. In thaf each moment of killing the Yearning to be with His world, lies Surrendering to Him.

In the Pilgrimage, you find Him by being your best at your actions within the physical sphere of this Life.

In the Pilgrimage of Life it seems, you find Him by being your best at your actions within the Worldly sphere of this Life.

You find Him not in the satisfaction of all day worship on a prayer mat.
You find Him in the pain and joy of living the daily life.
You find Him in waiting.
You find Him in combating your self and doing what your conscience says you should against the comfortable palaces of ego, pride and arrogance.

You find Him in sacrificing what you love the most in ways unimaginable each moment.
He doesn't give for you to own, He gives for you to Love Him through what He gives you.

He lies in smiling for each joy and suffering of worldly life.

I haven't been on the pilgrimage, but I have heard so.

Fireman

It was a fine Sunday morning of Autumn.
Crispy leaves and crunchy trees.
I was walking along a pretty path when I saw a fire.
A tree nearby was on fire.
I looked around and wondered.
I thought maybe somebody had left something burning.
I shrugged my shoulders and continued to walk.

Days passed.

It was a beautiful winter evening.
Cold breeze and jackets everywhere.
I was walking along the frozen lake when I saw a fire.
A car nearby was on fire.
I looked around and wondered.
Hurrying like the rest, I went to see if the car was empty.
I debated with the rest of who could have caused the fire.
I pointed to the man most suspicious in the crowd.
It was getting late.
Shrugging my shoulders, I continued to walk.

Days passed.

It was a pleasant fresh lovely morning.
Birds chirping and spring flowing
I was walking along the road when I saw a school building on fire.
Sad and dismal at the sight, I ran to try and save the people I could.
I was angry at who could have caused the fire.
I hurried to fill a bucket as my mind raced to find the culprit.
My eyes scanned the crowd as I joined the rest in blaming the school guard for negligence
Bucket of water and bucket of words was all I could to extinguish the fire.

Who did it.
Why did they do it.
How could they do it.
Why would they do it.
Why was it happening.
How could it happen.

I wondered in my utter frustration as I reached the house I called my home.
My eyes saw as my mind froze.
My house was on fire and I didn't know who had set it.

I delved into gathering buckets of water and sights of people as my mind ran to find the culprit.

Wood by wood, pillar by pillar, I saw it all turning into an ash of Nothing as I stood there wondering.

Had I known on that one fine morning of Autumn, that I had to fetch a fireman rather than stand and wonder at the tree.

Had I known on that winter evening that the car needed an extinguisher more than catching the culprit.

Had I known on that fresh lovely morning of Spring that I could save it all if only I knew the fireman.

Using my brain to call the fireman at the right time could have saved me my house.

Knowing that a fireman exists doesn't stop fires around the city. But it helps in Surrendering to the One who knows How to Extinguish the Pain.

Remembering Him is an act of mind.
Calling Him is Presence of mind.
He works through us indeed, but for that, He needs to be called. to be felt. For that, we need to surrender to the fact that He knows His ways more than us.

What was that person doing, what was that person not doing, what was that person wearing, what was that person not wearing. Why did they do this to me. Why did they do that to me. Why did they do that to them and why did they not do that to them.

In these whys and hows of finding the culprit of the fires, we forget that the Fire is an indication of calling the Fireman.

Amidst fires and nonfires of Life, we forget to use our brain to call out the Fireman.

To Him

To Him, we are perfect.

In all our imperfections and ugliness.
Amid the bumps and wrinkles of growing age.
Amid the sufferings of moods and laughters and sorrows.
To Him, we are perfect.

In all our worldly weaknesses and shortcomings.
In all our declining looks and passerby glances.
In all our worldly compliments and our sense of self
To Him, we are perfect.

To how we see ourselves in the mirror to how the mirror is to who the mirror is.
To all the words of wisdom and thoughts of comfort.
He is the only One are perfect to.

Perhaps because He created us.
Perbaps because He is the Guardian of our secrets.
Perhaps because He witnesses our sufferings like our Sole Companion.
Perhaps because He sees us evolve from a wrinkle to another.
Perhaps because He hears the depth of unsaid to the confines of unheard.
Perhaps because He sees us struggle for his people because He said so.
Perhaps because He is the only One Perfect.

Perhaps then, He is the Only one we are perfect to. He is the Only One.

Mourning is.

Mourning is never just crying on martyrs.

As I mourn today, as countless across sects, communities and faiths and no-faiths join the mourning, mourning feels such a joy.

Mourning is never about crying that Hussain died.

Mourning is crying why Hussain died.
Mourning is not the events of the battle.
Mourning is the events that led to the battle.
Mourning is not the events of processions today.
Mourning is lack of understanding the cause.
Mourning is not the pain of a dying body.
Mourning is the pain of the dying soul.
Mourning is silence and lack of empathy.
Mourning is not lack of knowledge.
Mourning is the pain of lack of curiosity to know. To question.
Mourning is the pain of witnessing marginalisation of Hussain and philosophy to a sect, to a faith.

This mourning today liberates me of my bodily being, narrates to me the Possibility of Standing for the Right. for Truth. It indicates to me how Truth and Justice stand alone. Universally. Across Time.

As my city sinks into silence, security takes charge, people mourn to combat the rising extremism. As this armed rangers guy bows down and smiles making way for these ladies and children to enter a risk zone, I see how mourning helps combat the fear of Injustice and Oppression.

Mourning was never crying over Hussain.
Mourning was and is why he was alone.

Mourning is never crying over Zainab.
Mourning is the pain of why she saw 'Nothing but beauty'.

Mourning has taught me to combat myself within.
Mourning has taught me to decide whether I combat with words for God or for my ego.

In this world of blurred reality and skewed representation of Truth, Mourning is helplessly not knowing where I would have been in the battle.

Perhaps then, Mourning is also the only way of expressing the wish of Knowing the Truth, combating the Injustices and silences, growing beyond a faith and a sect.

Perhaps then, Mourning today is the way of attaining the Knowledge from the Kingdom of the One who created us. Pleading Him for wisdom as I continue trying to understand Hussain's message.

As I mourn today, I witness countless gathered under a single cause and bowing down to the Single God on this concrete urban road. I witness people mourning Hussain in Siraiki, Pushto, Sindhi, Dari, Urdu and English within a mete stretch of 2kms.

Mourning today is an act. An expression. An attempt. To combat the self within in order to understand. In order to realise the peace within of The Universality of this Mourning.

As injustice continues penetrating with ideological weapons and threats, countless stand and combat with nothing but presence of Mourning. Presence that cuts through the fear of absence and combats Injustice like no other.

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.