I happened to visit the old mosque where I had gone to study as a boy before the 1990 gulf war. It did not strike me at first, the historical catch. In my mind, it was a huge mosque. But today it seemed a lot smaller. The difference of having viewed it through the eyes of an 8 year old then I guess. I remember the supermarket beside it having a long courtyard in front of its main entrance. Today, shockingly, that seemed hardly a distance of a few steps. Definitely a lot has changed around that place since we left. Still, there are some that still remain, acting as your gateway to your past.

Many things in life are like that. The mental pictures one have preserved from the past will seem a lot different when seen many years later.

The Grand Mosque in Kuwait has changed a lot over the last 10 to 11 years. Not with respect to its structural designs, but the way in which the prayers during the last 10 days are being organized. They’re slowly giving it the feeling of some sort of gala. The interiors give you the feeling of being in a studio. Camera crews moving around shooting the same thing every night – people standing and praying. I really do not understand what it is that they’re trying to capture. The meaningless can only be understood when you view their acts inside, as though they’re filming some historical event or wildlife documentary.

They make it difficult to concentrate, the very thing people’s mind should be directed at – God and prayer.

Sabra and Shatila! Fisk’s eye witness accounts of the slaughter (in Pity the Nation – Lebanon at War) carried out by the Christian militia under the watchful eyes of the Israelis moved me a lot. Not just because most of them killed were Palestinians, but they were innocent people – women, mothers, children, old people and men. How can people who believe in God and say they follow a certain teaching do something like that?

 

The media should refrain from tagging those heartless beasts with religious institutions. They were no sincere Christians. That is definitely not what Christianity preaches. Just like the Kar Sevaks who destroyed Babri Masjid were no Hindus. Hinduism does not preach that; just like the people who set ablaze the Sabarmati Express were no Muslims. Islam doesn’t preach that; Gujarat riots, Tamil-Sinhalese conflicts, Bosnian wars, etc.

 

They’re creatures that have sold their conscience for a paltry. They are blinded by hatred and ignorance; driven by corrupt and immoral beings who don the cloaks of righteousness and piety.

An elated brother I was when I heard the words coming out of Jammy’s mouth. He said holding the open dictionary in his hands – “This is the page I like the most”. What! I was thrilled! Here he was holding something which I have been asking him time and again to make use of and which he would lazily put aside. Now, he was saying that he liked something in it.

 

My jubilation was cut short and short lived – he was pointing to a page full of pictures of his favourite foods.

Religious factions tend to preach a lot to people; mostly for the good. But during many a time they tend to forget what was said a while back. Let me elaborate with an example from my community.

 

I have been attending many Ifthaar banquets/gathering/meets over the last couple of years hosted by various factions. Though I always hesitate initially, as I prefer to do that at home, once having attended those feelings fade away.

 

Ramadan is a time for introspection, cleansing and soul searching. People are advised on these things again and again. They’re advised to indulge in prayers and remembrance of God a lot more than what is usually carried out during the rest of the year. And come Ramadan, you find these very factions organizing banquets that most of the time fails to keep a watch on time due to the long speeches derailing the schedules of many; to the extent that people sometimes are not even able to observer the obligatory rituals on time. I have always despised the way in which the stage is put to mockery by giving a few minutes to all invitees (prominent members of other groups) to speak. People arrive there mostly to take part in the banquet and I feel it should be kept just at that.

 

I sure hope that people responsible for such meets will try and reduce the expenses that may well be distributed among the needy holding the spirit of Islam and the essence of Ramadan upright.

Quite often we come to hear of the term Premature Death being tossed around. I got to hear of it sometime ago and hence this entry.

 

Coming off the shelves of a majority who believe in God and fate it makes me realize how much of our faith is not intact. For an agnost, I guess the expression is meaningless.

 

The majority who believe that things happen in our lives as destined and ordained by the Almighty, I wonder why we then tend to call something premature. Isn’t that how it was meant to be?

A notice-board, a poster, a locale from your past is all that is required to punch a hole in one’s writing pouch – to let the juices flow.

 

Last evening I was at my old school for an ‘Ifthaar’ gathering hosted there. Walking around the familiar corridors and ground, my eyes sweeping around with a desire to take a peek in to the past and hoping that those moments would come to life once again, my eyes got hold of a poster.

 

It simply read – “Leaders are the ones who get extraordinary work done out of ordinary people”.

 

I was amused at its hollowness. In the past, even slave masters have got their slaves to do extraordinary work (Pyramid for example) and from ordinary people; but that does not entitle them to be good leaders. This is what our young minds are being exposed to.

 

It should have read instead, “Leaders are the ones who set themselves as examples and lead from the front, for a cause worth dying for”.

This is how I sometimes find my thoughts getting drifted:

Like how snow melts along the hot ends of a rimmed object, gently allowing it to slide deeper with every melting crystal; unable to hold it back; only to let it go.

 

It is a very strong feeling I tell you, something that can emotionally choke you; one beautiful reason being that only now you can feel the past within; the other, that at some point in time you lived through it.

 

 

Jet Lite Airways greeted me to a dual surprise – first, the departure from Mumbai was delayed by an hour and a half; yes, due to a “technical” snag. Secondly, they were serving no free food onboard. The airline’s name is so delicately balanced that they can easily vacillate between “Jet Lite” (care to be ‘lite’ on your stomach) and Jet “Late”. I’m disappointed to realize that the very same mother company, Jet Airways, received a stunning feedback from me 3 years ago when I chose their services to fly between Calicut and Delhi. It was better off then.

 

The reason why the crew repeatedly reminds you to fasten your seat belt while on board is not because they care for your safety; rather, in the eventuality of an accident the seats have got a better chance of being recovered from the wreckage with you tied to it J.

 

Another light at the end of tunnel – why do you think the crew never announces across the PA system that we’re “sure” to serve you better the next time you choose to fly with us?  It’s always, “we ‘hope’ to serve you …”. Simple. The bums know they’ve carried out a poor service.

It’s funny the way some people behave at the airport, especially in the area designated for smokers. Inside the tiny glass enclosure these people are a spectacle; puffing away as if it is their last J. I guess some just rush to it because the area is there and not because they badly want to.

 

Flight to Mumbai was painfully cramped. The way the food was served was as though you were being punished. First of all I need decent leg space that is hard to find these days. The other, I had people on either side that I’d to force air out to reduce my area so as not to hit the 2 while having food. That was a challenge.

 

The way these small flights are designed, the day is not too far away when you might just see a ball with wings!

We were soldiers almost had me into believing that this was yet another movie to glorify American wars fought in the past; to show the supremacy and technology at their disposal; to show that it was only in their army that valour and courage thrived – but I was wrong. Completely.

 

Though a great part of the movie was nothing but bullets and bombs, through the smokes and fires I saw what was actually being conveyed. For the first time in my life, I was moved to tears watching a war movie. The emotions and the loss of the families involved, the dilemma on both the sides of the enemy lines, etc. was what made this unique to me.

 

I have read and heard that Mel Gibson is a religious and a devoted family man. Probably that’s the reason why I have never seen any male actor play such roles the way he does.

Gone with the Wind was a staggering 4 hour movie! At times I wished it’d somehow end. But the performances by Clarke Gable, Vivian Leigh, etc. compensated for the painfully dragging narrative.

 

I’m sure contemporary directors would be able to make the theme seem more emotional and sensitive to the viewers.

The thought process that precede the burst of a writing spree is like the serenity that encompasses us out of the blue, when least expected. The peculiarity is such that it can be easily altered by the slightest disturbance, in this case sporadic actions and talks. After that spell, however brief it may be it is hard to get those words back how much ever one may try.

 

To an artist, certain combinations of colour appear on his/her palette with repeated strokes of the brush. When the same is tried to be transferred on to the canvas, it simply fails to materialize with the same effect.

 

Words too work in a similar fashion. Your mind is that beautiful palette where patterns and shades surface, but when transferred to pages (canvas) it simply fails to impress.

Ever since I first saw Kamala Surayya (Madhavy Kutty) and that was on TV many years ago; and long before she reverted to Islam I think, I was drawn to her personality. It was her cuteness, the way she talked; there was something about her eyes that defied her age.

 

Today morning while having breakfast, there was this old newspaper laid on the table – her obituaries. In it were pictures from her younger days and it made things all the more clear to me – she indeed had those captivating eyes and countenance back then. From the very little I have got to read about her, mostly from the dailies, she was made to look like a rebel; for reasons beyond my knowledge.

 

Now this has stirred the pool of curiosity in me to learn more about her and her works.

A time comes in one’s life when the past ceases to be past. You want to hold on to it as your present, like your living moment, as in it you have memories of your loved ones, friends, etc. The “now” no longer beckons you; treats you as a stranger. The people and things surrounding you see you as a thing of the past not fit or capable to merge in to their world.

 

Just contemplating hard on these thoughts itself is distressing. Seeing your peers and contemporaries fading out of this world like the dried leaves waiting to be swept away and yourself hanging on to that branch very well aware that it could be your turn any moment – I wonder what do people in such moments of truth hope for, with no ambitions or reason to hold on to.

Back to 57, my room at KBA. This time, yet again, it was on the dream tram.

 

The room was strangely lit like the kind of lighting you’d get if you were to let the light of the setting sun in when it was almost below the horizon; reddish, dark, but not yet fully dark. I was able to see Naveen, Nahal, Muchu & Anup. Strangely, I was unable to spot my 4^th roommate – Emad. Sure enough, I could feel his presence – with all the littered clothes, odd stuffs, etc. I was returning after some gap as the room was in a mess and as soon as I got in, I got to tidying things up – at least on my side for a start.

 

Muchu was hustling around stacking his clothes in to my cup-board and the rest were lazing around. Nahal, typical of him, was on his bed, half asleep.

 

There was a stray mention made of Shakir who had run-off with some cousin of his to get married :-).

 

Strange dreams with real life characters do pop-up between 04:30 and 07:30 in the morning. Sure was good to meet the guys though :-).

On a Friday like today, well… or may be not. Nevertheless, on a Friday, 28 years ago I was born. Yup, I have disclosed my age and committed that carnal sin. But let me tell you, I don’t really see the damage caused by one disclosing one’s age. It’s not that you tend to grow old much faster having said that out loud.

 

Likewise, it doesn’t burn a hole in your bank balance or your wallet by numbering out your pay figures. Or does it? Society has so programmed us into believing certain things that we’re even scared to question it.

 

And on a special day like this, here I am sitting at my office desk and typing away. Duty-calls-on-a-weekend on a week-that-never-ends.

 

Coming to think of it, why do we get to celebrate our birthdays? Aren’t our moms who went through it all? Shouldn’t she be the one to get it all? In fact, all what we did was just punch our way through, drop out and throw tantrums at all tom-dick-and-harry around the moment the light and air hit our puny systems. Right?