Naeem's Blog

In these spiritually uplifting days of Ramadan, I was reminded of this post from several years ago about my best friend. Looking back, I felt it may have been a bit too cryptic. As you read through it, are you able to conclude that I was referring to my relationship with my sajdah (prostration)?

Anyways, I hope we all can appreciate this most powerful of blessings bestowed upon us by our Lord. The joy of humbly joining head to ground is one never felt by the vast majority of mankind.

Take advantage, especially in the remaining days of Ramadan!

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You are my best friend.

Words cannot describe how I feel when you visit.

When you and I sit together, I feel so …refreshed?…liberated? ...fulfilled? ...comforted? ...drained? ... depressed? …remorseful? I feel so…me. I don't need to pretend to be what I am not. You accept me for me.

When we talk, you give me a head rush. Really, my head goes into a spin with all my varying thoughts. Yet I never tire of our sittings.

When you visit, all my other activities are put on hold. You force me to concentrate solely on you. Normally I wouldn't accept such pretentiousness from anyone, but from you it's different.

When I'm with you, no one bothers us. No one. People see us together and they know to leave us alone. The world may think I'm crazy when they see us conversing, but those who understand your beauty, they understand.

And it's amazing how our visits last without you uttering a single word. I do all the talking. You quietly listen. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I smile. Often we both sit and stare at each other. Other times I release all my frustrations. Always you quietly listen.

I most enjoy our late night sessions. Your cold long stares empower me to confront the ugliness of my past. You sit quietly looking into my eyes, motionless, expressionless, undaunted by the heaviness of the moment. You strip me of everything, leaving me quivering in the cold of the night.

Then you grab hold of me. Your warm embraces give me hope, reminding me of the Mercy of the Merciful. Alas I do not have Jibreel (as) to come take hold of me, for that was unique to our dear Prophet (saw) when he was commanded to read. But your embraces will suffice for this meager soul.

But to be honest, for a best friend you don't visit me often enough. Yeah, I know it's my fault that I don't invite you, but sometimes I wish you would come over uninvited, like you used to. Remember those days? I would be engulfed in some tedious task or maybe just daydreaming my time away and out of nowhere you'd drop by. Those were the days! Oh how I wish to return to those days of spontaneous love!

I've tried thinking about Allah (swt) when you aren't around, but its just not the same. The sweetness of dhikr is absent without your presence.

Few are the creations of Allah (swt) that when gazed upon act as an instant reminder of the Creator. You my friend are one of those rare creations. You remind me of my Creator. He blessed me the day I met you. He blesses me everyday that I meet you. And I dread the day that He takes you away from me.

What will I ever do without you?! You are truly my best friend.

As I was repeating some of the Prophetic adkhar the other day, I began wondering why we Muslims are so obsessed with the continuous remembrance of our Creator.

Surely Allah (swt) is in no need whatsoever of our verbal recitals of His Perfection.

Nor are we attempting to repay the impossible debt owed to our Sustainer.

Good deeds, maybe? Sure, we all accrue badly needed good deeds for our day of accountability in front of our Lord. But there are so many other ways to do so – including ways that may additionally benefit others (charity, visiting the sick, helping the environment, etc.).

I think most people, who regularly recite the name of Allah in the various forms of dhikr, believe they are achieving higher states of spirituality. Actualizing a state of constant divine remembrance is undoubtedly one of our greatest aspirations - a means of realizing divine nearness (qurbah).

But I had an epiphany about another possible explanation for repeating over and over and over the praise and glorification of Allah (swt).

It’s akin to the athlete (or any type of performer for that matter) who practices for countless hours shooting the basketball or kicking the football or practicing whatever his sport/art may be. His goal is to perfect that action, not for the sake of itself, but in preparation for that one moment when it will be most required.

For that one moment, in the heat of the battle, when the game is on the line, in front of thousands of spectators, in the face of an equally determined adversary, when he will either succeed or fail.

The more sweat, blood, and tears that he has poured into his practice sessions; the more likely he will succeed. His actions in the game will become automatic and simply an extension of his being. His movements will come to him naturally. His performance will flow effortlessly. While concentrating on the goal, all distractions will melt away and his perfected form will smoothly enable him to succeed.

Similarly, we are all in an epic battle against our avowed enemy. When he comes knocking on the door of our hearts, with his minions in tow, we will come under his sustained attacks – anger, jealousy, arrogance, miserliness, hatred, sloth, indulgence. That is when our countless hours of dhikr will come to our defense. We must be prepared to call on Allah (swt) without a second thought. We must all become like Yusuf (as), when he instinctively called to Allah (“Ma’adh-Allah!”) in the face of devastating temptation.

When the pressure is on, spurred on by the whisperings of an enemy who knows our weaknesses better than we know ourselves, we have not the luxury to step back and reflect on our situation.

We must react.
We can’t call a timeout.
We can’t look to teammates for assistance.
We can’t ask the coach for guidance.
We are in the spotlight and we must respond.

And only those who have “practiced” - losing sleep, forgoing food, repeating dhikr ad infinitum, sacrificing countless delights and pleasures – only they will react with composure.

Under the immense pressure of the situation,
when a spouse unjustly reproaches them or
when an unexpected compliment threatens their ego or
when their parent undeservedly disparages them or
when their sibling purchases the same car they’ve been dreaming of,
only those who have put in the effort will intuitively call on Allah (swt) instead of succumbing to the calls of their lower selves.

It is well known that in the Islamic Spiritual Sciences destroying one’s nafs is the key to Paradise. As one sheikh stated, “Eternal bliss is achieved in two steps. First, step on your nafs, then take the next step into Jannah.”

And it was with this in mind that I read this NY Times op-ed piece, ‘It’s Not About You.’ David Brooks writes about the outgoing class of college graduates who have been misled by baby-boomer theology oozing with ill-advised individualism: “Follow your passion, chart your own course, march to the beat of your own drummer, follow your dreams and find yourself.”

He talks about a world that operates on individuals committing to something – a family, a job, a cause – but this new generation (I would argue this extends to the past few generations) is being brainwashed with talk of freedom, autonomy, “finding your passion and pursuing your dreams”.

“Most of us are egotistical and most are self-concerned most of the time, but it’s nonetheless true that life comes to a point only in those moments when the self dissolves into some task.”

While the author didn’t have this in mind, the ultimate goal for a Muslim is to dissolve his/her self (nafs) not into some task, but into pleasing Allah (swt). And by way of centuries of experience gained by the masters of the spiritual path, we have come to know that one cannot satisfy one’s self while struggling to satisfy one’s Lord. It can only be one or the other.

That’s why I love how the author wraps up his piece:

“The purpose in life is not to find yourself. It’s to lose yourself.”

Lose yourself in the struggle for the company of Allah (swt).
Lose yourself in the company of Allah (swt).
Lose yourself in Allah (swt).

After all, isn’t that the supreme aspiration defined by the one who most perfectly embodied this process of losing one’s self, the Prophet (saw), when he uttered these sublime words of Allah (swt) in a famous hadith qudsi:

“...and My slave keeps on coming closer to Me through performing Nawafil (extra deeds besides what is obligatory) till I love him. When I love him I become his hearing with which he hears, his seeing with which he sees, his hand with which he strikes, and his leg with which he walks...".

A while back I posted on the Joy of Boredom and how it's actually very productive to experience extended moments of 'nothing'.

That's why I found myself so enthralled by this speech given to the incoming class at historic West Point Military Academy. William Deresiewicz speaks about moments of solitude being critical in developing an individual's own thoughts and ideas.

I would only add that in addition to everything the speaker said, imagine the power of solitude when combined with the 'company' of Allah (swt). After all, the concepts of khalwa (solitude) and muraqabah (isolated introspection) resonate throughout the spiritual teachings of our deen.

Indeed it is a sad reflection of our times (and of ourselves, moreso) that so many of us are simply incapable of sitting alone with just our thoughts and Allah (swt). We are constantly in need of external sources of stimulation. We are constantly in search of ways to avoid being alone with ourselves. Solitude is seen as a waste of valuable time. It has been deemed 'inefficient' by the calculus of modern society. But how else can we ever travel down the path of deep reflection and introspection?

And seeing that many of us are parents, the essence of this lecture ought to be passed along to our next generation.

Here's the link:

http://www.theamericanscholar.org/solitude-and-leadership/

And here's a taste of what he says:

"You can just as easily consider this lecture to be about concentration as about solitude. Think about what the word means. It means gathering yourself together into a single point rather than letting yourself be dispersed everywhere into a cloud of electronic and social input. It seems to me that Facebook and Twitter and YouTube—and just so you don’t think this is a generational thing, TV and radio and magazines and even newspapers, too—are all ultimately just an elaborate excuse to run away from yourself. To avoid the difficult and troubling questions that being human throws in your way. Am I doing the right thing with my life? Do I believe the things I was taught as a child? What do the words I live by—words like duty, honor, and country—really mean? Am I happy?"

"Multitasking, in short, is not only not thinking, it impairs your ability to think. Thinking means concentrating on one thing long enough to develop an idea about it. Not learning other people's ideas, or memorizing a body of information, however much those may sometimes be useful. Developing your own ideas. In short, thinking for yourself. You simply cannot do that in bursts of 20 seconds at a time, constantly interrupted by Facebook messages or Twitter tweets, or fiddling with your iPod, or watching something on YouTube."

This is a repost from several years ago. Considering my current state of spiritual affairs, I felt this post to be timely. Maybe some of you may feel the same way.

Enjoy!

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Riyadh is a very dusty city; sandy would be a better word if only it didn't sound so feminine. Being situated in the middle of a desert might explain this oh-so-special trait of Riyadh. Sandstorms sweep through on a weekly, sometimes nightly basis. Makes for a funtime if you like the grit of sand between your teeth. The geographical location of this oasis city results in a very trying time for those who are allergically sensitive to dust. And I am allergically sensitive to dust.

Recently its gotten too much, especially in the early mornings. I'm waking up with a tissue in my hand, eyes watering and nose dripping. Its hard enough waking for Fajr at 3:30 in the morning, but its even harder with these allergies beckoning me back to sleep.

I can tough it out I think to myself. It'll go away. It always goes away. But never without a fight.

But man, this time its tough. My allergy attacks never lasted more than a couple days and here I am going on day four with no sign of relief. If I'm not blowing my nose, I'm sneezing.

Don't get me wrong, sneezing isn't always a bad thing. The body always benefits from this indiscriminate system reboot. After all, when Allah(swt) blew the spirit into Adam, he sneezed followed by a hearty 'Praise be to Allah'. So I like the occasional sneeze. Just not when I'm trying to snuggle into my inviting bed of dhikr wearing my cozy pajamas of taqwa waiting to savor every sip of my hot cup of Divine Love.

Go away, you unwelcome vagabond! This is supposed to me my personal quiet time. I’ve been making excuses for the past several months that I’ll get my spiritual mojo back come summer. I just need some silence and stillness I convinced myself, and I’ll be back dancing with the angels, cloud hopping in the presence of my beloved (saw), drunk with the dhikr of Allah.

Oh how I yearn for those days of intense inner tranquility when I found my soul in sync with my surroundings – all peace all the time. I want back my early morning Tahajjud prayers but these allergies are mockingly denying me, ‘Thank your Lord you’re catching Fajr.’ I want to revisit the sweet silence of sajdah (prostration), but my throbbing sinuses are screaming, ‘Get up you moron or I’m going to implode your head!’ I want my free-flowing tears back, but all my puffy eyes have to offer are annoying watery bubbles. I’ve foolishly planned all year for this moment, *my* moment, naively thinking spiritual ecstasy can be summoned like a genie from the lamp.

And here some stupid specks of sand are sullying my immature aspirations. Ah, the justice of it all.

Day four and I’m getting desperate.

I finally turn to Him. How sad that I only knock on His door when I’m desperate, when all else has failed but that’s the least of my worries right now.

"Ya Allah, please help me. Please help me for no other reason but to allow me to begin my journey back to You."

Blank. I stammer and stutter only to append some hollow prayers that I memorized in Sunday School.

Huh? Is that all I can conjure up?! Is my inside so dry, parched from the heat of my lowly passions that I can’t even muster a respectable appeal? How pathetic!

Confident that they’ve found an ideal incubator, my allergies snicker at my paltry plea with a loud sneeze.

I have got to kickstart my heart after my embarrassingly long existential hibernation just so I can *begin* to put together some coherent thoughts in the presence of my Creator. I can’t even make the simplest prayer. Fitting I suppose. Can’t waltz right into the King’s court in your jammies with crusty eyes and nasty morning breath expecting His audience.

You fool! You get what you deserve.

For too long my desires have sucked my heart dry of its vitality. I have fueled my anger, overfed my stomach, allowed free reign to my tongue, and harbored thoughts unthinkable.

Woe am I! How I wish atonement for my heedlessness could be achieved by a hundred lashes to my heart. If it were just that simple.

Ya Allah, but why complicate my endeavor with such an unnecessary impediment? At least play fair. Remove the allergies and give me a fighting chance.

But then it hits me in the midst of my blasphemous tirade. Who am I to decide when and where and how I can approach the court of His Majesty? How arrogant of me to think that I can schedule my purification!

'Silly child, My door is always open to those in search of My Mercy, but those who wish to run in and out will find Me not so welcoming of the tracks made by their muddy shoes on the carpet of My Love'

These allergies are a gentle, loving rebuke by the Most Compassionate. It is His way of letting me know that this journey is not to be taken lightly as an amusement or a sport.

'Wipe your shoes at the door and don't go back out again.'

Day five and I wake up with nothing. I barely even noticed until I went down into sajdah and realized I could breath.

With tears I refused to hold back in a sajdah I refused to arise from, I cried 'You are so beautiful to me and I am so ugly to You. You give and You give while I take and I take. What has this despicable slave ever done to deserve Your attention? When will I ever be able to give back to You? How will I ever be able to give back to You?'

This is the story of my Divine Intervention.

Must-read article by Reverend Frank Julian Gelli on the World Cup:

"Capitalism-plugged football is the new opium for the people. A counterrevolutionary tool. So David Cameron had the flag flying over Downing Street yesterday when England played the US. The bankers, financiers and public school toffs in power want to keep the opium flowing. By contrast, faith in God is about liberation. About arousing people up from their drugged slumbers. About a bright new dawn. Listen to the Apostle to the Gentiles:

‘It is full time for you to wake out of sleep. For salvation is nearer to us than when we first believed; the night is far gone, the day is at hand.’(Romans 13:11-12). Kick the habit, folks. Kick the Cup, O you new Gentiles. Time to wake up!"

Seems like the good reverend reads my blog:

"And it's this need for a diversion from 'life' that needs to be countered.

One reason for the Islamic prohibition of drugs and alcohol is the suspension of reality that is a consequence of their consumption. As mature, responsible adults, it is our duty (to ourselves, our families, and to our fellow man) to remain cognizant of our actions and our surroundings. By doing so, we are to constantly strive to become closer to the Ultimate Reality (swt).

Instead, we have become preoccupied with ways to distance ourselves from reality, thereby distancing ourselves from *the* Reality (swt)."

Back in an age when marriage lasted a lifetime and divorce was not considered a failure of the marriage, but a failure of the self, a learned sheikh was approached by one of his students.

"Oh teacher, we have noticed how your wife is so abusive of you. She has embarrassed you in public countless number of times and never loses an opportunity to insult you. How come you don't simply take your legitimate right and divorce her?"

After a brief moment of silence and deep thought, the teacher looked up at the student and gently responded.

"My son, if I were to divorce this woman, one of two things would occur. Either she would remain a single divorcee or she would get remarried. In the first case, she would become miserable and lonely and I do not wish to be the cause of her misery. In the second case, she would cause her new husband untold difficulty and I do not wish to be the cause of his misery.

And so I have decided it best to take it upon myself to bear the burden of this misery. 'Surely Allah does not waste the reward of the doers of good' (9:120)"

that although my Creator, the Lord of all that exists in the heavens and the earth, Who existed before there was anything and will remain after there is nothing, Who is in no need of my feeble self, descends all the way from the highest heaven to the lowest heaven *every single night* for the sole purpose of listening to my pleas, I refuse to descend simply from my cozy bed to the prayer mat on the ground beside it to avail His infinite mercy!

Our Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said: "The Lord descends every night to the lowest heaven when one-third of the night remains and says: Who will call upon Me that I may answer Him? Who will ask of Me, that I may give him? Who will seek My forgiveness, that I may forgive him?"

There are no coincidences in life. None whatsoever. Every single event takes place for a reason.

A few days ago, I posted about the unfortunate loss of my wife's purse, which contained, among other items, her two credit cards.

Then today, I was listening to a lecturer talking on Riba (Interest/Usury) present his argument against keeping credit cards. And I must admit, to date, his argument has been the most effective one I've heard:

When signing up for a credit card, we all agree to pay the interest fees in case the full balance is not paid off after the first month. Many Muslims (including yours truly) convince themselves that everything is halal as long as the payment is made before the end of the month.

But in essence, would we ever sign a similar contract that required us to drink a glass of beer at the end of the month if we didn't pay the credit card balance?

Worse yet, would we ever sign a contract that required us to fornicate with our neighbor's wife if we didn't pay the credit card balance?

In reality, the contract we are signing with the credit card company is much worse than the above examples. So how can any sane Muslim ever sign the dotted line on a credit card contract?

Simple, yet powerful.

And with that short lesson I am able to connect a few more dots in my life. The loss of the credit cards combined with the effect of the lecture has inspired me to be rid of these shiny plastic devils once and for all.

Life is a series of dots, each one representing an event, each one representing a special moment. Memories are made up of these dots, be they blissful, heartbreaking, or both.

Special is the one capable of connecting some of these dots. Like when a child barely capable of holding a pencil accomplishes the feat, connecting two or three dots results in pure joy.

What then of the select few who are able to make complete pictures from these dots and glean true meanings of life? Ya Allah!

Here, then, is my humble tale of connecting a few dots in my life. Maybe one day I shall be able to make something from these various connections dispersed throughout my life that resemble a picture.

But for now, I simply get giddy when I connect a few lonesome dots.

---

It all began with a harmless donation of 200riyals (~$50).

My friend from Madina was on a quick weekend trip to Riyadh and hadn’t brought sufficient pocket money. I suggested he take the 200riyals for his immediate needs and upon his return to Madina, he could donate it to his Sheikh, who looks after the needs of over 50 destitute families in Jeddah. With that condition, he happily accepted.

Fast forward a couple hours.

My wife had gone out to a local mall where unfortunately her purse was stolen. Seems like a group of young abaya-clad girls rushed into the store where my wife was shopping, causing a commotion of sorts, and rushed back out, in the process conveniently taking her purse as it hung off the back of the stroller.

Needless to say, everything was lost.

Included in the damage was my wife’s phone, which had a pre-paid balance of 1,300riyals. While we immediately cancelled the credit cards and ATM cards, we weren’t able to cancel the phone SIM chip. The SIM card wasn’t under my name, so I was told to come in-person to the local STC (Saudi Telecom Company) office. Unfortunately it was 8pm and they would only open up the next day at 4pm.

My immediate response was to write off the 1,300riyals as, I figured, any small-time pick-pocket surely knows how to transfer the balance to another phone number. Either that, or they would use the bulk of the balance to make international calls and what not.

So you can imagine my pleasant surprise when I walked into the STC office the following day and found the balance untouched. They quickly issued a new SIM chip with the 1,300riyal balance.

1,300riyals were miraculously rescued from the debris of the purse-snatching fiasco.

Or so I thought.

“Or who is there that can provide you with Sustenance if He were to withhold His provision?” (67:21)

The Prophet (saw) stated “…and the Rizq is fixed. Nothing will take place before its due time, and nothing will be deferred beyond when it is due.”

The following day, I went to my HR department to request new health insurance cards for my wife and 4 kids. 200riyals a pop they told me. Stunned, I asked why in the world is it so expensive to print some cheap plastic cards?

Fraud was the answer. Many employees report lost or stolen cards while passing them on to relatives or friends who use the cards to avail medical services they are not entitled to (most hospitals don’t ask for picture IDs – I bet they knowingly turn a blind eye, preferring the guaranteed insurance money over turning away a fraudulent patient).

So, I had to pony up 1,000riyals for the insurance cards. Oh well - you gotta do what you gotta do.

I then went to the two banks to have them re-issue the ATM cards. They told me that the charge for it would be 50riyals. A bit pricey for a small plastic card, but clearly more reasonable than the insurance card. So I didn’t argue too much.

And that’s when it struck me and a few dots seemed to connect.

With the combination of the insurance cards, ATM cards, and the donation, that 1,300riyals was simply not meant to be in my pocket. My sustenance (rizq) has been predetermined and this amount was going to leave my hands one way or another.

Just as it is said that your rizq will run after you like death (and so, the teaching goes, there is no point in running after it), it can be equally stated that it will run away from you in a similarly guaranteed fashion.

Today, I stand before you as living proof of that.

The Caretaker
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Blurred by my tears, I looked up and saw a fuzzy image of him.

As I wiped my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

He was wearing the same white undershirt but with tight blue jeans and weird cowboy boots. The jeans had a large artificial rip above the left knee.

He had broad shoulders, well-defined arms, and what looked to be an admirably flat stomach. His hair was longer, oiled back and tied into a ponytail. His face was lined with a dirty stubble.

He looked like some washed-up Bollywood actor.

At the same time, he looked really beaten up and exhausted, as if he had ran a marathon. He had that same stench that was emanating from the rusted metal lining of the object in the dirt.

But his face really took me by surprise.

He’s got my face. Just a bit darker.

“Not darker, you moron. I’m the same shade as you. I haven’t for the life of me been able to get rid of your friggin’ dark skin.”

“Wha..wha..Who are YOU?” I stammered, unable to comprehend the situation.

“Let’s start with some ground rules, mmkay? First, no stupid questions.”

“What are YOU...I mean, what am I...no, wait, you are you and I am me. What the HELL is going on here?”

“I’ve had enough of your stupid soul-searching bulls***. Time to wrap it up bro. You’ve gone far enough.”

As he stood there looking down at me, he pulled out a box of cigarettes from his folded up sleeve and then a lighter from his pocket.

He lit his cigarette, put everything back, and looked up, squinting into the sun.

“I seriously never thought you’d get this far though. I must admit I’m very impressed.” He pointed at me, wagging his cigarette, firmly fixed between his middle and index fingers. “But you know, now I gotta kill you.”

“Wait, huh? You're gonna kill me?”

“Naaah, cuz that would be like suicide...haha. I just like f***in’ with your weak mind, you insecure little sh**,” he puffed in a deep breath and popped his lips as he blew out the smoke.

“Over the years, you’d come out here every so often”, waving his arms, flailing at the surrounding desert. “Wandering aimlessly, makin’ a damn fool of yourself. We’d all get a kick out of you. Very entertaining, really,” he chuckled.

We? Who is we?

“Hello? You think I work solo out here?”

This is all like some freaky scene from Superman 3, where good Superman faced off with evil Superman.

“I prefer the final scene in the Matrix where Neo and Agent Smith go toe to toe. And whats with you and the 80’s dude? You really need to get a grip and come join the rest of the world in the 21st century.”

He slowly walked around the edge, kicking some dirt back into the pit. I turned and followed his arrogant swagger, my gaze fixed on his every movement. I nonchalantly picked up the pick, not sure what this hyper-aggressive maniac was capable of.

He stopped on the opposite side, with the blinding sun now right over his head. I shaded my eyes with my free hand, squinting so I could continue looking up at him.

He took a smug puff and continued, “But you had to f*** it up didn’t you? You had to come out here with that stupid shovel and pick. Like some god-d*** super hero. You just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

His face started to turn red, his anger visible as well as audible.

With his voice rising, “How long’s it been, huh!? Almost thirty years, right? Jesus, Naeem! Thirty f****in’ years and now you think you have some God-given right to come in here and start digging?! WHO...THE F***...ARE YOU?”

His last word ended with a loud scream, his veins visible on the side of his forehead and spit spraying from his mouth.

He took one last powerful puff, looked at his cigarette, and then flicked it at me. I looked down to see it land at my feet and when I looked up, I saw his dark silhouette lunging at me.

I immediately threw up the pick to fend him off as he simultaneously grabbed a hold of the handle. Both of us were standing face to face with our arms stretched above our heads, struggling for control of the pick.

“You naive fool! So weak, yet so persistent. When will you ever realize that you have no chance?” He pushed me back as he released the handle and flashed an evil grin with a sense of confident finality. And before I could react, he took a step and jumped into me, disappearing like some dreamy apparition.

I shook my head, blinked hard a few times to collect myself, and looked around. I was seated alone in my darkened living room, with the sounds of the arguing kids as well as my wife, who was busy trying to quiet the crying infant, piercing through the closed door.

I stood up, walked past my ringing cellphone towards the kitchen and decided to indulge myself with a serving of my wife’s deliciously decadent carrot cake – leaving that rusted, sullied container with its miserable contents and its crazy caretaker for another day, or maybe another year, or maybe never again.

Yeah, that would be so much more easier.
============

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

The Opening
=========

I awoke as soon as the morning sun hit my eyes. I sat up and looked around to orient myself. And then I noticed the footprints leading up to the pit. As I followed the trail into the pit, I noticed a bunch of bushes and rocks as well as most of the dirt was thrown back in.

Dammit! Who's the idiot sabotaging my efforts? If I find that bastard, I’ll give him a serious ass-whoopin’.

I wiped my face and with a renewed sense of commitment, I quickly removed all the rubbish and returned to the gas pipe. As soon as I opened up the hole again, the voices returned. This time, I didn’t run away, but forced myself to listen.

Is someone inside there calling for help? But the voice sounds just like mine?

Not only was the voice my own, but those exact words were mine as well! Words uttered in anger. Some with envy. Some with disdain. Others with an all-out hatred and venom that can only be described as hideous.

Broken hearts and broken promises. Principles overcome by desires. Convictions overruled by passions.

The intense, biting pain caused by the memories and the circumstances of these words caused an extreme heaviness inside me. I felt a sense of disgrace and humiliation that I had never felt before. I simultaneously felt a need to turn back and run away.

But I yearned to see what this container was and what other mysterious powers it had. With a rage curiously building up inside me, I quickly whacked at the tiny pin-sized hole to make it bigger.

All the while, the voices were getting louder and louder.

I need to get inside and see what the hell is going on. Keep pushing yourself. No time for rest.

True to my word, I didn’t stop this time around. I kept at the metal object, oblivious to the pain in my shoulder and the calluses on my hands. And then suddenly, when I burst open a hole the size of my fist, a filthy pus started uncontrollably gushing out. I jumped back and covered my face to protect myself from the splashing grime.

Once the pressure let up, I noticed that the slime was a thick yellowish pus mixed in with dirty brown blood and had an unbelievably disgusting smell. Unable to control myself, I jumped out of the pit and let out a stream of vomit next to the piles of dirt.

I turned around and as the sickening mixture continued to slowly flow out and spill into the pit, I noticed a bunch of thick index card-sized booklets floating around.

I felt so disgusted by the smell of the pus, I wanted to just bury the whole mess and pretend it never happened. But the voice inside me continued to badger me to continue my mission.

So I unbelievably jumped back in, with the pus coming past my ankles and bent down to carefully pick up one of the booklets, caring not an iota of the filthy slime getting all over my hands and clothes.

I began leafing through its wet, heavy pages. I could make out some of the illustrations in the book and what I saw caused me to drop the book and let out a childish scream.

It couldn’t be! I must be imagining.

It was full of images with no text. And to my horror, I recognized every single image.

With chills and goosebumps, I picked it up again and with an indescribable pain shooting from my stomach to my lungs, I forced myself to look at the images.

Second and third glances. Magazines. Movies. All images I wish I had never set my sight upon. Gazes of indulgence, of jealousy, of spite, of disgust – all cast by me.

Then there were the images of the eyes.

Eyes of disappointment by the father whose expectations I never lived up to.
Eyes of pain bore by the mother who should never have had to suffer such indignities.
Eyes of a broken heart by the one woman whose heart I vowed never to break.
Countless pairs of eyes, some with anger, some with hurt, many with overflowing tears.

And there were images of me, images of mockery, images of contempt, images of conceit, images of fury, images of ugly. All images I had so desperately tried to distance myself from.

How could it be? How did they get in here?

With my mind reeling, I continued to flip through the booklet and I continued to relive the brutal memories. My breathing had accelerated and I felt as though I was going to pass out.

What in the world is this deeply buried object, out in the middle of nowhere, that is uncovering my most ugliest of memories. I thought I had buried them deep into the recesses of...my heart...

Wait...it couldn’t be...oh God...

My legs began to tremble, unable to hold up my weight, until they buckled and I fell to my knees. Looking at the booklet, my hands were shaking uncontrollably, until the realization came around once more.

No! No! No! It can’t be! Nooooooo! I screamed and buried my face into my hands, sobbing hysterically...

“Uhmm, excuse me. Am I interrupting, Naeem bhai?”
==========

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

Memories
=======

Where is that stupid hole? I really can’t stand these moving sands in the desert. They make it so difficult to backtrack my steps.

Ah, here it is.

Huh!? What the hell?!

Who put all these rocks back into my pit? Definitely not the work of the winds. Been gone for 5 days, but surely no one else would come all the way out here.

That’s it, I’m staying here this time around until the job is done.

I picked up the shovel and resumed the arduous task of getting back to the metallic object in the ground. The winds had picked up and the sand was flying right into my eyes and mouth. I pulled my shirt over my head and blindly returned to the shoveling.

Oh wow, this shirt smells nice. I wonder what kind of fabric softener was used. Does that stuff really soften the fabric or just give it a nice smell? That guy in the pharmacy had some really nice smelling Oud. Best Oud shop is in Mecca right across from the Haram. I can’t understand what people see in Obama.

Focus!

I finally reached the buried, metallic object. I threw the shovel to the side and picked up the pick. With a deep breath, I drove the pick into the object. With a tiny spark, I saw a thick flake of the metal chip off the top. As soon as I picked up the chunk, with its reeking smell, this strong wistful feeling overcame me.

Thoughts that had long exited my memory banks came flooding back. I was instantly transported to a nostalgic dimension. But the thoughts that overcame me were extremely ugly and extremely painful.

I quickly threw the piece to the side.

What was that all about?! Am I going crazy out here in this isolation?

I paced around inside the hole, holding my head in my hands, wondering what I was doing. I brushed aside my apprehensions and without thinking, turned to pick up the piece again. This time I didn’t let go, letting the stream of memories flow unabated.

Promises, broken without remorse. Insults, hurled without consideration. Condescension, treachery, arrogance, insincerity. So much pain - inflicted upon others, upon myself.

They kept pouring into my conscience, one ugly memory after another.

Aaagghh! All these hideous thoughts!

I flung the metal piece onto the pile of dirt and immediately fell to my knees, more out of emotional exhaustion than physical, struggling to catch my breath.

What the hell was *THAT*? Where did all those memories come from?

After a momentary pause to recollect my thoughts, my urge to dig mysteriously returned, overcoming my urge to flee. I grabbed the pick and struck the object again and another piece came off. I continued chipping away the top metallic layer of rust, until I heard a hissing sound coming from a small hole I had managed to pierce.

Oh crap, this is some sort of gas pipe and I just busted a hole into it. But the hissing sound stopped and it was replaced by voices.

Voices? Naah, that can’t be voices. Must be imagining things again.

But it was a voice. And not just any voice, but MY voice!

Freaked out, I leapt out of the pit and jumped behind the pile of dirt. I sat still, slowly peeking at the pit, trying to control my heavy breathing.

I’ve officially gone off the deep end. I’m reliving memories and hearing voices all while digging a pit. What the hell am I thinking?

I turned around, leaned my back against the mound, legs sprawled, and stared out to the open desert, struggling to make sense of what just happened. The cool breeze of the crisp evening helped to alleviate my worries.

As I sat there, the weight of my eyelids overcame me.
============

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

THE DISCOVERY
=============

PING!

What the hell did I just hit?!

The sound was more than a shovel hitting a hard rock. In fact, it was much too high-pitched to be a rock. I tapped it with the shovel a few more times. More ringing sounds, almost like metal-on-metal.

I tried to get underneath it by poking the shovel to either side, but nothing. This sucker is big. It was too big to dig up with the shovel.

I looked around and noticed that I was about waist deep into the hole. I purposely had dug it in the shape of a square – didn’t want it rectangular, looking like a grave – that would be too morbid. I got down on my knees and started clearing away the dirt to get a better idea of its size.

It was two weeks since I last came out and I thought I had gotten over the urge to dig. I thought the voice wouldn’t return. But last night it did and here I am.

After wandering around for hours looking for the pile of dirt from my last trip out here, I had finally found the spot.

Seems like the desert wind blew some of the dirt right back into the hole. But how did some of the shrubs and bigger rocks also make it back in there? Odd.

As I lowered myself to the ground, I was immediately awestruck by the serenity of the desert.

It wasn’t this peaceful last time or maybe I’m just more in tune with my surroundings. The sun does seem more crisper and the wind is a bit more biting. Not sure what’s changed.

At first, I was a bit leery of getting down on all fours. If I lost sight of the area around me, anyone could come up from behind. My apprehension slowly faded as I used my hands to clear out the dirt away from the huge object in the ground. I was becoming more intrigued by it and less concerned about my surroundings.

It was massive. It stretched the entire width and length of the pit. The object could have been a huge pipe or some old container. I was able to chip away some sharp pieces of metal with my fingernail. The metallic rust had this odious stench unlike anything I had smelled before.

I grabbed the pick I had brought this time around and figured I could try and poke a hole into it. I stood up, cocked the pick back over my head and wailed away. A resounding TWANG followed and the pick forcefully bounced right back at me.

Aaawwgghhh! That hurt like a...

I clenched my teeth trying to regain my composure after that body-rattling smash. Once I gathered my senses, I smelled the aroma of fresh bread brought in by a sudden desert breeze and realized how hungry I was.

Man, I’m famished. I’ll come back tomorrow and finish up.
==========

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

THE BEGINNING
=============

The voice had told me to find a desolate spot far outside the city. It had to be away from the people, away from the traffic, away from the noise. I needed quiet it told me.

Stupid sedimentary life has made walking such a long distance such a pain and it’s even harder with this heavy shovel.

I'd been following the power lines for the past hour or so.

These huge towers are amazing. Like those funny looking insects, praying mantis I think they’re called, lined up through the stretching desert. But what are those red balls attached to the power lines for? Never quite figured that out. They remind me of those spongy red kickballs. Yeah, kickball was fun, especially in the 4th grade. That Patrick could really kick the ball hard and he wasn’t even that big. If I could have kicked that hard, I would have been so popular.

Focus!

Where am I going? Should I stop here? Nope, let me see if I can get even further out, away from the distractions. Is that even possible? It’s already pretty calm out here.

In fact, this silence is seriously annoying. It’s just so quiet and I really can’t stand it. Never understood what ‘deafening silence’ meant until now. I guess I’ve gotten so used to having that background noise, the kids, the cars, the TV. This silence is really driving me crazy.

I vented out a loud scream and nothing. Not a peep. The vast, open desert simply absorbed the sound.

OK, this is freaky.

I continued trudging along until I found the spot. Not sure how I knew, but it seemed to be right. I surveyed the area and noticed some scrawny bushes and a few scattered rocks. All I heard was the faint whistling of the wind blowing across my ears.

How do these tiny shrubs get enough water to survive? Must be a source of water underneath feeding these plants. That irrigation system setup on Abujee’s farm back in Pakistan sure was cool. I wonder if I could ever live on a farm.

Aaaghh! Focus!

Putting the shovel to the side, I started clearing out the shrubs and kicking aside the bigger rocks.

Haven’t really dug much in my over-urbanized life, but I know that digging is made easier when the ground is cleared away.

Damn it! Stupid bushes have some really sharp thorns. I need some gardening gloves. Great! I got a splinter stuck right between my thumb and index finger. At least it didn’t go all the way in.

Having cleared out enough space to start digging, I picked up the shovel and struck the ground. The first blow reverberated through my entire upper body.

Stupid ground isn’t soft at all. No rain has visited these solid grounds for months, maybe even years. (Deep sigh) This is gonna be a long day.

Instead of throwing aside heaps of dirt at a time, I was stuck chipping away at the ground. With the noon sun beating down on my feeble body, I kept at it for several hours, but with a slow, deliberate pace. I paused when my salty sweat trickled into the sides of my mouth.

Spit that nasty sweat out, you disgusting bum. Isn’t piss and perspiration made of the same substance? Note to self: Don’t drink your own sweat. Don’t I have more important things to do? This’ll seriously take so much time. Speaking of which, what time is it anyway? The sun’s gotten a bit dull and the heat is beginning to wane. Must be around 3 or 4pm. That’s when I normally come home from work and play with the kids. Kids can be so difficult to raise. How did my parents happen to get it so right with me? After all, I never did drugs or sex, so I must be on the right path. Right?

Focus!

Hours passed before I finally reached some soft earth. Now we’re talkin’. With sweat dripping off the tip of my nose, I finally hit a groove. I even had the proper form: ‘bend at the knees not the back,’ they always say. A respectable mound of dirt was building up by my side.

Then at one point, the dirt started to feel heavier. And I wasn’t just getting tired. It really was getting heavier. Like it was more dense. Sure, my shoulders were aching and the muscles in my arms were burning, but how could the dirt just get heavier?

Should I stop here? What exactly am I digging for? Nah, I must keep going. I need to do this. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt my fat ass to get some exercise every once in a while.

So with my shirt soaked with sweat and my gym pants starting to stick to my legs, I plugged away at the dirt.

And then all of a sudden, my extreme fatigue completely overwhelmed me. Not just physically, but also mentally. I became convinced that all this was an exercise in futility. I looked up and noticed the setting sun.

Oh well, it’s getting dark and I’m not ready to stay the night out in the middle of nowhere. I guess I’ll come back some other time to finish the dig.
==============

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

We have become estranged – from our neighbors, from our friends, from our families, and worst of all from our Creator and Sustainer (swt). All because we have become estranged from our very own selves.

As members of a scientific age, we hypothesize, analyze, and synthesize the Outer. But as humans, we remain oblivious to our Inner.

We surround ourselves with recreational noise so as to avoid the silence of our souls. We dull our senses by entering delusional states of social inebriation in order to evade this most fundamental of truths – the truth of who we are.

We plunge ourselves into the depths of the oceans searching for the most amazing creations of Allah, while failing to scratch the surface of the single most amazing creation of Allah, our hearts.

We have become masters of the known universe, while remaining slaves to our lower selves.

And that is why we have falsely convinced ourselves that happiness is found in laughing, eating, shopping, and playing, while disregarding those who abstain (from laughing, eating, shopping, and playing) as being aloof from the world. In reality, we are the ones who are aloof – aloof from our own selves.

Maybe because the journey to know oneself is not a simple one. It involves serious reflection and contemplation. It requires coming face to face with an ugliness we have subconsciously buried deep into the recesses of our hearts. It is painful and brutal to acknowledge.

But this endeavor to dig deep down and push aside years of waste and clutter and discover hidden realities and horrible truths is vital to fulfilling our purpose in life – attaining a true state of submission (‘Uboodiyah) to the One (swt).

And thus, I was very much intrigued by the classifications of the nafs as detailed by Sh.Mokhtar Moghraoui. If you have the time, please listen and internalize his words. Otherwise, I provided below a quick summary of four types of nafs that we need to ponder over.

We can take the first step in discovering the true nature of our nafs by reflecting on what brings us happiness and contentment:

First, there is the bahimi nafs, the cattle-like nafs. Like cows and chickens, this nafs finds ultimate happiness in consuming food, drink, sleep, and sex. Its life revolves around such types of activities. Parties and outings are organized with the sole purpose of indulging in these desires.

Furthermore, a society is created in which the pursuit of this type of happiness is institutionalized and all sorts of products and gadgets are invented to facilitate the consumption thereof. The rat race of life that we find ourselves in during the work week culminates in the culture of ‘the weekend’, where food, drink, sleep, and sex are pursued incessantly.

Admittedly, it is only natural that we have bahimi instincts to eat and drink. But if these desires overtake our desire to submit to Allah (swt), we have an imbalance.

Then there is the subu’ee nafs, the predatory nafs. In addition to the basal desires of food, sleep, and sex, this hyena-like nafs finds pleasure in coveting the goods of others. This nafs takes part in attacking, usurping, stealing, and killing. Self-satisfaction for this type of individual is found in accruing wealth, especially at the expense of others.

Thirdly, there is the shaytaani nafs, the devilish nafs. This type seeks to mischievously plot and scheme in creating evil and causing harm to others. This nafs desires to lord over others and become an object of worship. The greedy amassing of property has left this nafs wanting more, so it seeks to subdue and control and manipulate others – like the Shaytaan himself. Additionally, this nafs finds satisfaction in enhancing and strengthening the lower qualities and vices of the previous two types of nafs.

Finally, there is the malaaiki nafs, the angelic nafs. This nafs finds its greatest pleasure in nearness to its Creator. It aspires to become closer to Allah (swt) by detaching itself from all other forms of attachment. It is nourished by and satisfied with Divine guidance and Prophetic example.

We all have qualities of each type of nafs and to the extent we actualize and nourish each nafs, that is our true nature. We may cultivate cattle-like and predatory-like practices so much that it so thoroughly dominates our angelic inspirations that we become unrecognizable monsters.

While every individual has the capacity for predatory or devilish deeds, it is only when we have consistently acted upon and even developed and nurtured these covetous and evil inclinations, that we have forsaken our angelic potentials and created a most detestable inner image.

So the question remains, only for you to answer, only for you to know: What type of nafs have you allowed to dominate your heart and soul? And if you don't know, do you have the inner fortitude to commence this journey of discovering the truth?