Busy-ness at Busboys

Lunchtime at a cafe in suburban America – just barely outside DC-city limits.

A group of office colleagues are seated to my right, wearing variations of a white collared shirts – white with pale green stripes, white with barely-there lavender stripes – discussing politics in the workspace. On the left are two African-American elderly women, classically dressed, pearls in the earrings of one. They lean across the table, share their meals and exchanging comments in French, eating with their forks in their left hand, and knives in their right. An Asian man sits diagonally across from me, his back to the window, his hat facing the window. He’s absorbed with what is on his black Apple’s screen, his fingers occasionally moving over his keyboard.

The cafe is bustling, with light instrumental music broadcast over the speakers – the oudh? – adding to the noise. Rain – once heavy – has now almost entirely stopped, leaving not a clearing of skies, but an overcast presence of clouds. The cafe, initially a refuge away from the heavy rain, is now thinning as customers wrap up to return to work.

It is just a typical day in a typical week in typical suburbia.

***

My mind flits to  ’Say You’re One of Them,’ a compilation of stories as told through the eyes of children. The first few pages of the one told through the eyes of a child living in Shanty-town, Kenya, led to a visceral reaction: I felt nauseous this morning reading about his simple life, begging to make ends meet while his sister prostitutes herself at the age of thirteen. Even as I remind myself that the Nigerian author Uwem Akpan has put together a work of fiction, images cross my mind of children I have seen on the streets in various countries, in various cities, who I have vaguely processed but then ignored. Children for whom this life is reality.

From the corner of my eye, as I type this, the waiter takes away a plate of food belonging to the lady with the pearl earrings. The plate hovers half-a-foot away from me  - the sprouts, the chips, half a burger, the plate, literally, half-full, would be luxury to the children in the novel.

The rain droplets draping the wire chairs on the patio outside symbolize freshness, a beginning of new life – but for others, in other parts of the world, rain symbolizes disaster and hardship.

Waves

It comes in waves. The waves start small, and slowly, start increasing in size. Your sense of self, your sense of being is slowly picked at, eating away at the scab that had been helping with the healing. The final wave then comes, out of nowhere: it throws you about, playing with all your emotions and thoughts indiscriminately, and after enveloping you in complete, utter, total darkness . . . subsides – leaving you bereft. Sad. Powerless. Helpless. Numb. Empty.

That last wave: it has sucked life out of you. Squeezed it from your body, which is, by now, all bones; you did not realize there was still something there to be pulled out. You feel your heart collapsing, a fragile organ not able to compete with the disastrous impact of the most recent wave. What starts as silent tears rolling down your cheek escalates into a full-on release of a flood: you taste the salt from the tears on your lips as your body starts racking with sobs. You weep through the darkness, through the numbness, through the emptiness, through shards of pain that make their way through as the emotions start settling down after the whirlwind they have gone through.

You weep, holding on, desperately holding on. “Ya Allah! Please help me! Please! Remove me from this state!”

You fervently start repeating different prayers, calling upon the different names of God that you are slowly coming to internalize, repeating them in desperation through your tears, through your uncontrolled, uneven, raggedy breath.

“Ya Muhaiman!” O Protector, please protect me!

“Ya Razzaq!” O Provider, grant me any and every form of sustenance!

And repeated, again and again

“Ya Rahman!” O Most Merciful, Shower your Mercy and Blessings Upon me. Any iota of mercy will suffice.

The prayer of forgiveness is not far behind, intertwined constantly with the prayer of Prophet Yunus (as) – etched in your mind is the image of him being swallowed by the whale, within three layers of darkness, in the depths of the ocean, as he calls out: “There is no God save Thee. Be Thou glorified! Lo! I have been a wrong-doer.”

You take a deep breath – more than one in fact. You wait for the tear ducts to dry, for the du’aas, the prayers to take root. A wave is building up again – but this time, it is coming from within. This time, it is a wave of peace, of sukoon, that washes all over you, that envelops you. For He answers the prayer of the suppliant when he calleth unto Him. Alhamdulillah.

Congratulations. You have just gone through – and survived – an intense episode of depression.

EST

The cafe’s name is Starwich. A cute play on words, and the embodiment of a typical corner cafe in New York on the Upper-ish East Side. Two middle-aged women friends sit together at the table in front of me, one telling the other about her wedding ring with a sapphire and two diamonds – not that she wears it; she lost it for three years before discovering it in a trinket box in her apartment somewhere on her birthday. At the table diagonally across from me, a man surfs the internet on his Apple laptop – toggling back and forth between his facebook account, yahoo account, and singles adverts on Craigslist. Three mothers sit speaking in Spanish to each other in another corner of the cafe, a child in its stroller and half-covered by a plastic sheet.

It is a terrible day outside – dreary, misty and raining. My pants are wet almost to my knees, and thankfully I was not splashed when walking on the streets. What a horrible last memory of New York as I embark on my travels, I think to myself – but then I stop. The rain, it’s a blessing from Allah (swt). I repeat softly to myself Ya Rahman! Shower Your Blessings upon me, as you shower us with these rain drops! Ya Razzaq! Provide me with what is best for me!

I am surrounded by people as I leave the cafe, hot chocolate with whipped cream in my hand, and walk the streets, an umbrella in the hands of every person walking by me in a fast pace, but it is only the remembrance of Allah (swt) that prevents me from feeling incredibly lonely.  

The Asma ul Husna, my favorite nasheed these days, is oddly comforting as I write this entry: the sombrous tone is a reflection of the weather outside, His Names reminding me of His wonder, even as I now look outside and all I see are high-rise buildings – over fifty rooftops – for miles in front of me, from the 29th floor, and wonder at the capabilities of human beings to build such buildings.

For verily, it is in the remembrance of God that hearts find rest . . .

in that moment

it was in that moment

the moment of noticing

his broad shoulders

the drape of her scarf

his way with words

her energy

the passion with which he spoke

the hayaa with which she smiled

his recitation of the qu’ran

the mystery of her looks

that the heart beat faster

the moment that one realized

the true meaning and miracle of

and He has put love and mercy between your (hearts)*

 

*(Al-Qu’ran, 30:21)

 

Written: Tuesday, March 2006

Emulation

She is glowing, and not just because the sun is shining down on her through the window by which we sit. Contentment and calmness exhude from her, and I, eager for words of wisdom, lean in closer over the table, over the fruit and jam crepe, from which oozes red and purple.

We have not seen each other in six years – the first, and only, meeting we ever had, and were meeting today for the second time in our lives. It was as if I had just seen her a month ago.

When reflecting on the friends in our lives, a question we should ask ourselves is Does this person bring me closer to Allah (swt) in my interaction with her? Anyone can dole out advice – we all like to project we have everything figured out – but a friend that reminds us of God, that gently pushes us to look at the Big Picture, that reminds us of His Power and how He loves us more than our mothers love us: that is what a true friend is.

Beauty

Despite it being the day after, the snow was still white and pure against the path where we went running, glistening against the rays of the sun – and still intact on the branches of the trees beckoning to us. Footsteps marred some parts of the pristine blanket on the ground – at one point, they met to form a heart. Further along the way, couples roamed, hand-in-hand, enjoying the beautiful air, while other runners passed us speedily by. A man stood on the embankment, paintbrush in hand, hunched over his easel, meticulously trying to capture the scene – and colors – in front of him. We paused over the bridge to observe the flow of the river, glazed in some parts, but reflecting life underneath: the beauty of the water as against picturesque buildings made us stare in utter awe. Nature is over-whelming and over-powering, and at points, too much to take in all at once. Subhan’Allah.

My companion heaved a great sigh – and expressed regret. Regret at perhaps only having some months before returning to her city that had no such beauty. A feeling of oppression at not being able to walk on the street without a niqab to cover her face – and that too, in scalding heat. Helplessness at not being able to drive to even reach the pavements that existed in spurts.

I – I wondered at returning to my most recent home-city and even having the luxury to want beauty to reflect on. Of the desire, instead, to just want a breeze in the home after hours of no electricity. Not even having pavements to walk on; desirous instead to be covered even more than normal when walking on the street, to avoid the stares of men. Fearful when driving, and always on the alert that a mugging at gunpoint could happen at any time.

Khalaas. We breathed in the air, grateful. Grateful to be in this city here and now, to have what we have and to be able to enjoy what has been blessed upon us. Alhamdulillah.

Pain of the Heart

My heart hurts. I had forgotten that it can even do that – that as it pumps blood, in and out, in and out, it has the amazing ability to serve as something else in our body, beyond just an instrumental purpose. That thoughts rushing through my mind, strands of matter floating through my brain, somehow influence my heart. It is not that my blood pressure is affected, or that I am physically experiencing symptoms that a doctor would say is indicative of the body going through anxiety. No, it is a calm pain – a steady one which makes me touch my heart with my hand, hoping to suppress it, to make the pain go away with just the touch of my hand. Voila! 

It is not as simple as that. 

An alternative plan, then. Images that would lessen my pain, as I think of others. 

Eyes that are big and beautiful, but that cannot see. Belonging to a small body, an 18 year old with an intelligent mind – living life with a rare disorder. Death taking her away last month, and her parents accepting it with intense sadness but immense gratefulness for having had her in their life.  

A hand, barely visible under the umbrella. Shivering because of the pouring rain today, attached to a hunched body leaning against the wall of the entrance to the Green Line train station. A can in the hand – a cry for help, for some financial help at the least, if not more. 

Two legs, in an awkward position on the ground now because of how she slipped. The snow, falling in large, beautiful flakes, turning the middle of the intersection into a road that is no longer, but a winter wonderland instead. Groceries splattered everywhere and helplessness of the elderly woman with no gloves, returning home in the middle of the snow-storm to an empty apartment save a cat.  

No use. The images mesh into one another, a kaleidoscope that one looks at as an outsider, removed from the situation. Yes, the heart is perhaps not as dull – but. Each human being is tested with one’s own burden, one’s own test. 

What works, what works through my own sorrow and own fears is a simple action. I engage in it, in the wee hours of the night: my head touches the ground, my lips fervently repeat words and tears stream down my face as I face the One. 

And the pain, slowly but surely, subsides. 

Khaana Baithna

In the days leading up to Ramadan, one of the bigger points of discussion amongst family members was – how should we handle food this year? Let’s not have any samosas or jalebis this year, my mom suggested – in line with her recent cravings for only healthy food. Magar that’s the whole point of Ramzan – to be able to eat all the mazay ke foods we don’t normally have! protested an uncle. Let’s have a one-dish offered another aunt.

While the discussions about food continued, the question my grandmother – who in the last few years has come to relish the role of planning the iftari especially for the days when all her children come open the fast at her house – had on her mind: what should the seating arrangement be? In contrast to the past Ramadans where a lower table (a takht) was brought out from the store room, sprawling from one end of the living room to the other end to accommodate for more than two dozen people, and where cushions substituted for seats and chairs, a son had suggested that two dining tables be combined, and we eat like we normally do outside of Ramadan – Western-style. Even that was protested – but to sit on the floor is sunnah! Another (a grandchild this time) added: it’s tradition! We have to keep up with tradition!

And traditionally is how the first iftar at my grandparents’ home began this Ramadan: with my grandparents, six children, their spouses, and twelve grandchildren (including some of their spouses), all eating together. With the lower table, all spread out (with the token chair for the older people who couldn’t lower themselves to the ground – a compromise had been struck!) with cushions to rest on. With cholay, chicken patties, dates, dahi barhay filling the table entirely – and yes, samosas and jalebis too.

For Ramadan in my maternal family is not just about the fast: it is about continuing – and maintaining – the tradition of the entire family getting together, helping each other in the preparation of all the food (hence the suggestion of the one-dish, to ease on the burden on one person), and then waiting – together – for the maghrib adhaan to sound in all its sweetness.

Mubarak

Ramadan, this year, was ushered in quite uniquely in the part of Karachi where I live: in complete darkness. As we arrived at taraweeh prayers, the senses could initially only register one thing: the loud whirring of the generator at the gate entrance, there to make sure that atleast the mic and speakers placed in different parts of the garden could be used. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted from the lights of the several hundred cars outside to the darkness in the garden, the different forms of women, in different sizes and with different head-coverings could barely be made out. We waited for the call to ishaa prayer to end - the cacophany of the adhaans from different masajid could be heard in the hushed silence – and mulled upon the significance of the first of Ramadan. In the quiet reflection, a vibe was felt in the air: the excitement of Ramadan is here, excitement generated further by being together this evening with several hundred persons, for the same purpose, generated further by the plethora of text messages received – from work colleagues, from close friends, from virtual strangers one met only once but one exchanged cell numbers with: may Allah (swt) accept your prayers and your fasts, may Allah bless you and your family.

And so I wish you the same: Ramadan Mubarak, wherever you are. May this Ramadan be a wonderful one for you, may Allah (swt) forgive you and accept from you, and answer all your prayers.

Associations

Through the front door, it sounded like the playing of a tape recorder. It was only when we walked into the apartment that I realized that it was her husband, reciting straight from the Qu’ran, in a clear, melodious tune. And at that moment, as I heard the recitation clearly, I was transported back – and a rush of memories and emotions entered my mind and my heart.

It was the last third of the night in the middle of winter. We were in a cabin, a cabin I’d read about in the books I literally devoured, metaphorically speaking, as a child, a cabin where kids would go to spend their summer camps at. We’d gotten up and through a hazy, sleep-deprived frame of mind, mechanically performed wu’du with ice-cold water. Sometime during the few hours we had been sleeping, it had started drizzling, then raining - hard. And as it rained harder and harder, he got up to lead the Qiyam for that night – in a booming voice, that not only drove our sleep away, but forced us to start reflecting on the words we were hearing, words that were being recited with emotion. Words that were soothing and calm, yet, oh so awe-ing.