"I'm an iconoclast, tee hee hee..."

Oh MPAC UK.

An exercise in dirty minimalism, a la Raymond Carver.

Shahida arrives at home from one of her daily walks. She walks through the back door. It leads into the garden and through the back entrance of the house. People rarely enter the house through the front. The door is unlocked and clicks open.

The house is empty. Shahida walks through the living room, ignoring the television or the choice to sit down on one of the soft sofas. She notices Hussnain, her youngest child, sleeping as babies should be. She allows herself a quiet sigh of relief as she observes her son.

The kitchen smells of various spices and other foods but Shahida mainly smells spices. Their fragrances drift towards her as they are carried by the outside breeze. Today’s dinner will go well, she thought.

The staircase, long and narrow, lacked character or any visual charm. Right-angled twists and turns are common here; she tuts at ink scribbles on the once pure crème wall. Shahida never did like walking up this house, thinking of older times, of a smaller, livelier home, the pattering of tiny feet and laughter. She thinks there will never be an era like the nineties again.

She is now on the highest floor. The layout is simple with two parallel paths – a door here, a door there and the bathroom. She is distracted by the pieces of clothing on the carpeted floor. It was probably left by one of the children, so she folds the various shirts and tracksuit bottoms, placing them neatly on the staircase railing in a manner that befits the air of motherly femininity.

She turns right; opens the door. She has avoided this room for many days. But now is the time for cleaning, so Shahida allows relevant memories to emerge as she enters. She surveys the room for dirt, strewn clothing and so on.

She opens the blinds to let the light in and opens the windows for the breeze. Walking to the end of the room, Shahida opens the wardrobe to what is expected – a lack of clothes. She already knows the table is scarce of books and that the bed is devoid of occupancy. There was once livelihood here. Not anymore, she thought, as she notes small dust particles floating about in the room.

She sees something new on the bed. It is a package, small and blue, like the sheets of the bed. Shahida hurries to the other end of the room, to the bed. The blue box is gift wrapped and she notices a small label on one of the ribbon ends.

‘To Mum.’

The handwriting is recognisable and it is addressed to her. She opens the package to find a small notebook. Turning the cover, she finds there are no words written. Each page contains a photograph.

A newborn baby with masses of hair, enveloped in a white cloth.

A younger Shahida with the same boy, a couple of years later, potty-training.

The boy’s first primary school photo.

5th birthday party.

The notebook continues in this fashion until Shahida reaches the last page. She reads the note in familiar handwriting aloud.

‘Thank you for everything. I hope I’m making you proud. Love, your son, Saqib.’

The breeze outside has died down. In this silence, she closes the notebook and basks in reflection. 

14 days till university...

Well... so much to write, but not now.

Just a thought. I think I concentrate much better when I'm sitting in a chair in front of a table. Much better than putting this netbook on my lap and typing. Productivity seems to increase as well. Is this just a weird factor or what?

Anyway, I didn't make it to the Muslim Writers Awards. Khayr! My friend Zakariyya King has been shortlisted for two categories, so I'm very happy for him, masha'Allaah.

In two weeks, I return to university. I don't have accommodation though, so I'll be bunking up with a friend from Hackney! I know, quite a trek to where I actually study, but the extra travelling time will be spent on reading insha'Allaah.

On Monday, I begin my work experience at my old local secondary school. Nothing big, just observing the KS3 English classes. It'll help with the PGCE application, and GTTR's Apply page opens up in October. So yeah, exciting stuff.

I've also been to a meeting in town about an upcoming theatrical play project for next year, something to do with this town's people and how they've grown/developed as a community from the past half-century. It's based on the research of a Uni of Sussex geography lecturer. He's been interviewing people in this city with their life-stories, and a scriptwriter is basically adapting a script from the content explored. There's also a stage director, and youth will get to design the script and stage with their own design.

Because I'll be in my last year of my undergraduate studies, I think my role will be minimal, but I'm going to enjoy writing short sidestory scripts and making characters set in this town. I don't think we've seen anything like this in terms of community projects, so it'll be good.

In other news, I helped my mum make samosas. She made a grand total of 118 of them - and I did the humble job of filling the pastries with keema + mixed veggies. Woo.

I should really update this blog more, huh? The lack of motivation is really why it's scarely updated. But I'd like to thank Zaufishan (look her up) for linking this blog on her Facebook page (and the Muslimness one too). There's people checking my work out (or I hope they are) from Indonesia and Jordan! May Allaah bless her for this favour.

Saqib, out.

Answers (Sestina)

I am here, pondering my own so-called innocence

through the purity of having endured hatred,

exhumed from the fury of those who bleed guilt.

Those people did not seek logic, a fair judgement

towards those who would rather bury their reality.

But under the executioner’s helm, we question sentence.

Are we so naive to dismiss the sentence;

do we prefer on shrouding those who perceive innocence?

Such apparent paradox blurs distance between fantasy and reality -

- the weaker ones are enflamed, driven by hatred.

They defy, dare to question those who pass judgement -

- it appears conformity is quickly associated with guilt.

As for those whose aura is tainted with guilt,

Yet roam the empty streets - nomads wavering their sentence.

Empty vessels, scattered across the lands, this poor judgement

of judgements; fools we have become, we feign our innocence

in vain, in hope, fear; pretend that the planet’s living do not emanate hatred,

choking and corroding it – yet its endless cycle – a sign of reality.

Verily, men of knowledge who reflect know this reality.

Besmirched knowledge, the knowing is a weight of guilt,

only outweighed by the ignorance of blind hatred.

Then there are those in between, still awaiting sentence

from those who control, censor, quantify, condition this ‘innocence’,

only veiling impending burdens of truth – what judgement!

But what is the use of such divine judgement

when only a select, enlightened few will absorb its reality,

bearing fruit to the pallid orchards of innocence?

Perhaps the process is gradual, in subsistence, the guilt

of those who measure guilt by farcical sentence.

Defeat, such a familiar source of hatred.

Without doubt, it does not allow for defeat, this hatred

That seeks to burn out the planet without judgement

Yet the planet, conforming to divine system, anticipates sentence

Even if it is not, in a sense, living, it bears marks of reality

For those who dwell – so what is real guilt

Nay, not only guilt, but what is true innocence?

I witness their sustenance, true hatred. Years of reflection offers this reality.

They fear judgement, for it may cleanse them of their guilt. But

despite sentence, foreign is the destruction of true, pure innocence.

[Saqib Ali Rashid, first written 24/02/2010, current draft 01/04/2010]

So...

I have just submitted the below three poems (Delirium's second draft, Interim and Renewal) for the Muslim Writers Award's Unpublished Poetry section.

If you're reading this, do make du'a that I attain success for it.
And what have I been up to?

Summer holidays. Searching for a place for next year in uni. Gearing up for a JFAC event for Ramadhan in the home town. Trying and failing to get a job here - been pretty difficult for a lot of us.

And I still have to start my preliminary reading for my dissertation... I'm sure a bare bones methodology and research aims/questions/etc shouldn't take that long to do. The reading is the main issue.

That's what's been going on.

Renewal

It begins faintly.
Almost touches reality,
as insecure and uncertain as
tomorrow’s emergence.
None can measure its dormancy.
It just... comes to pass,
intent suspended in greater hierarchy.

Breathing. It struggles alone
so it asserts existence by clinging onto existence,
an entity of crude function
going beyond the bounds.

It’s the genesis for everything to come – fuses.
Locked, and engaged.
Sleep. It lies in wait till subsequence calls.

And then an awakening.
A terrible
unplanned skirmish so hollow
that drones in waves,
hatred its most valuable blindfold.

Back and forth, back and forth it strafes
Thriving on conflict without a speck of
mediation. Is it an investment of emotion?
No, all else = mere collateral damage.

Continuation, it drags on until definition in itself is erased
 with ultraviolet scorch marks, lashed, hypothermic.
They burn into the surface.
And this dizzying warfare that screeches until one fades out -
- before everything, EVERYTHING is submerged in anonymity.

With logic deported, it is fluid in execution,
execution, oh the excruciation of deciphering a formless vessel
until atom by atom it all solidifies and becomes a
concrete image of despair,
crystallising
into
a sphere of glass that shatters; tearing into the
atmosphere’s flesh.

All this
before it
too
is lost in the darkness.
A return to nothingness.
The cycle revolves.

Interim

Winter
brings a fleeting cold that bites
and makes eyes weep tears.
A trail of salty, warm rivers brings
a subterranean freeze down
sullen, lifeless cheeks.

The dark commands a scope,
a retained permanence.

Architecture and engines
of no fixed abode rest, scattered, shielded under frost.
Streets lie flat, as if they await liberty from intermission.
They wait. Even the silence waits.

Sleeping, sleeping...

This town is in hiatus,
its inhabitants in espousal of darkness,
letting it flood through
their bloodstreams before
the submersion – cocoons them into slumber.

Elsewhere, I oversee amongst the horizon

dominions that have taken refuge from the rest.
Like an envoy of lanterns they illuminate

the strongest of light, contained in their fortresses.

Light, so bright!

Swathes of it flush; radiates desolate neighbours.

But those who consume it

know little the greatness of what they possess.

They too are asleep,

satisfied in their lofty sanctuaries within,

that the light is only spent on themselves.
 

Fearful of becoming their intimate other, it is locked,

and wasted on the evasive.
Come! Force the repercussions of
opposites

embracing
that they compel a defiant balance.
Until then, both worlds stay separated.

All is separated, united

by the universe
that holds its design together.
The design that hosts this paused surface,
a shell of recognition laced with neglect.

Afraid of becoming alternate,
keep assumptions of blinding

and exhortation when
all it desires
is a light’s delicate glow,
or darkness’ cooling shade.

Delirium (second draft, your thoughts?)

These four walls.
They are still - dormant; no exit.
Tranquillity smothers and traps me,
confining home truths unravelling.

The living room, now outlived.
They’re remnants of before.
Generations we’d rather forget,

short out that connection; discarded baggage.

Stench disperses
into a faint cloud.
It burns my vision.
Salty tears aren’t mine.

...Transcendence.

When I came to, it was now a matured home.

These walls again.
Stained with the
era of tribes before us.

Moss-camouflaged furniture is untouched, host to
a congregation of pans, pots, spoons...
all cutleries chipped and rusted.
Tools, all to keep a sinking ship afloat.

How long have I been here?

So much dirt. This used to be life.

Glass strewn across the table,
midair fragments motionless.
Like diamonds at the touch
or that’s what my fingers tell me.

Amidst the grime,
a hilt in the corner.
Its shine mumbles about change.

Relic of hidden sagas, when the past tense waged war
with the future, a conflict pumping ammunition with metaphors
and proverbs not quite palatable to these tongues just yet.

We were still ripening.

When I draw the sword,
heightened voices enclose me.
Their mourning descending into screams.

The dull blade in my hand ripens; wilts
as the wound in the wall ceases to wail.

Everything is a marred synthesis.
The house veers into a cardiac arrest,
crumbling, returning to adulteration.
Whence they came, these four walls... 

This used to be sanctuary.
Now it’s my scented grave.

Delirium

I’m in a house.
It is still - sleeping; no exit.
Tranquillity’s bosom
has trapped me.

The living room, now outlived.
They’re remnants of the past.
It’s empty, now devoid of verve.
Relics now manifest.

Stench disperses
into a faint cloud.
It burns my vision.

...Transcendence.

When I came to, it was now a matured home.

The walls, stained with the
time of tribes before us.

There’s furniture untouched, camouflaged with moss,
a congregation of various cutleries, chipped, rusted.

How long have I been here?
So much dirt. This used to be life.

Glass is strewn across the table,
midair fragments motionless.

Amidst the grime,
I see a hilt in the corner.
Its shine mumbles about change.
Hidden sagas.

When I pull it out,
heightened voices
enclose me. They
descend into screams, crying.

The dull blade in my hand ripens; wilts
as the hole in the wall ceases to wail.

Everything is a marred synthesis.

The house crumbles, reverts to adulteration.
Whence it came, whence it came...

This used to be sanctuary.
Now it’s my scented grave.

Defect

A portfolio piece for university in a module entitled 'Narrative, Character and Voice in Prose Writing.'

8^th February 2011, Cairo

At almost midnight, I stand in the temporary Masri Law Enforcement headquarters in the Mugamma. Plain-clothes officers buzz about, hovering in and out of the building. We leave from the back exits, a conspicuous detour that will take us into the streets. I look out at the window and survey the foreground. You can smell plumes of smoke floating into the oddly brightened sky. Fire flickering into buildings, poised to quiver and crumble.

A mass of people gather outside the once-glorious Tahrir Square. They are faceless, an obstacle in the path of survival. And I survive alone. My colleagues ask about my wife and child, who have joined the congregation of the enemy. What of it? I survive alone, and we do not act like this by choice. I wish to survive, by any means necessary. If those people who opposed us understood our civil plight, the sharpness that cuts our flesh and souls foregoing our conviction, then they would do the same as us. Throw them into the throngs of our lives, and they will do the same.

Still they persist outside. From my view, the collective mass of people pulsates and fluctuates. The ground is a bubbling canvas of people clad in different shades of clothing. At the epicentre of the assembly, tents and slogans are prevalent. An ambience fit for ‘revolution’. Revolution indeed. The words of a certain philosopher ring true. The natural state of man is that of war.

We receive the order to infiltrate. We begin to come out of the building one-by-one in casual clothing. Cloaked by the night sky, I see my colleagues join the crowd, nonchalant and camouflaged in the gathering. The enemy is far too immersed in talks of change to notice our presence from a few metres away. The press reports that about a million people have come to the Square. It could look like a football ground from here but the people are covering the roads, covering all corners of the area from the roundabout. We have all heard stories of older times when this Square was filled with uprising’s roar, but never in my time did I believe it would happen again.

Our operation begins, as abrupt as it was delivered to us by our commanders and leaders. It is a simple assignment with no theatrics. All we need to do is disrupt the crowds anywhere and everywhere. The more we persist, the more likely we can deter the rest. A chaotic formula to a chaotic situation. And our efforts are realised early on, as I hear screaming and see the fluctuated crowd ripple like a wound-stricken deer, immobile and barely breathing. We are armed with small batons, ready to charge at the nearest dissident with stealth.

I sift through the crowd, grappling with people, shoving them out of the way. My colleagues are lost into the sea of people, so I focus on my own immediate territory and charge at the most rambunctious. A quick swipe downs a youth. As he falls, people scatter apart in horror. I have since pressed on a few metres to subdue the next person. The sounds around begin to intensify and adrenaline begins to take precedence; a whooshing sensation in my ears as I decimate and startle the dissidents with baton charges.

By now the protesters have realised our existence and are seeking us out. We stand at ease, scattered but blending in like chameleons. Besides, their attention soon drifts from us as I see horses galloping. I am not sure who the riders are. Plain-clothes, or perhaps genuine right-hand men of this soon-to-crumble kingdom. The crowd gets the message too, as the shrieking mass open up various paths to avoid getting trampled. I march onwards, insistent on finishing the mission.

This whole spectacle leaves me unguarded for a moment when I am knocked back by a force that sends me flying to the ground. I cough into sand, my breath soaking the ground with a ruby patch. It glimmers in the dark. I land with my palms kneaded on the ground, and I drag them up to face a startled youth with his fists raised. His knuckles are glazed with blood. My blood. My face begins to ache and I advance towards him, baton unsheathed. But my cover has been blown and I am circled by more angry men. One of them snatches the baton from me and sends a kick my way. I arc back and crumple towards the ground, the rusty taste of blood fresh in my mouth. A few from behind restrain me and produce my ID card, throwing it into a pile of other ID cards. A dog tag collection.

I am hauled up to my feet by two of them and slammed towards the nearest wall. One of them approaches, our eyes delving and inquiring into each other – mine the lifeless pair, his, exhumed with fury. The adrenaline within me dies down, the weight of pain now unadulterated. And by Allah, that is the moment I begin to truly hear everything around me. The sounds of screaming and chants of revolution, topped off with the light beating of the daff.

I am not listening to the roars of the man in front of me, but I push away from him, light enough to indicate my forfeit. I stand back from the small crowd amongst the whirlpool of people tonight and uncover a glint of steel from my pocket. A 9mm Beretta M1951. They bristle and jitter like rabbits knowing their predator and I pull the trigger towards the ground. With a click, I discard the magazine and throw the handgun to the side and ask for my wife and child.

Tonight, we make history. I want no part of being the unfavoured. 

Trains

Snowflakes twirl downwards, blind.
I draw butterflies on the carriage’s window,
leaving a temporary mark on glass. An engraving,
made of my cold fingerprints.

They’re my vantage points
as the other windows obscure the outside.
Sunset peeks in, the horizon undeterred
by the snow that has bedridden Britain.

Another train floats past. I hear
its drone, the locomotive just visible
with lights. Commuters huddle inside;
they look like an oil painting.

I hiss hot mist on my window.
Winter lives on as my breath melts;
undoes the wings
of a butterfly
that fingers once drew.

Most of the time, it's really difficult to avoid being wordy in my work, so this was a test in simple language, borne out of one of my regular journeys towards Waterloo on the South West Trains carriage...

Lunchtime

A scorching village in the desert
wishes for a cloud in the sky.
Sunrays shine on dry land
and hammer its inhabitants into submission.

Travellers come from afar,
fatigued, painted with
a matte glossing
of sun-beaten sweat.

They draw closer to
their shack of relief,
here to quench their
thirst slash hunger.

It’s opening time.
We’re expecting droves
of hungry pilgrims.
It’s a greasy blur.

When their voices bray out orders,
we retreat to the backroom to
work our magic. Chopping, marinating; mixing.
Cooking! The AC whirs as
we lick melting kulfis.

This is food even
momma would be proud of.
Served are the steaks and pies
and the last single cranberry in stock.

Families struggle to control their flock
and oily platters crash. The mother
must cry over spilt milk.

Work’s never unusual.

Some of my random haikus

Haikus are so cool.
I like that they make no sense.
Refrigerator.

Must bump this thread.
Brothers need to haiku more.
Yes, we do. Pen; paper.

Praying Sunnah once.
5p on neighbour's mat
He worships Queen?

Birdie on window
Sing my song to wake me up
Time for Fajr.

What the heck was I ingesting? 

Dreams

A little something I wrote in class in first year. 

I had a dream last night...

... where it was pitch black and as cold as a dream could imagine. There is nothing to hear. After a few minutes of aimless wandering, I hear something like the clicking of a lighter, fire emanating from the thin, silver instrument. The light is not a great deal, a weak, small flame, but it is worth walking towards.

The closer I get to the lighter, suspended in thin air, the brighter it feels. I hear a pulsating whooshing sound and everything goes white. It burns my eyes, the pain becoming almost unbearable. I wonder why I’m not hastening to cover my eyes from the visual smoulder.

As soon as I cover my eyes I hear what could be glass breaking, except the sound of its shattering is magnified, shards of white light scattering like a slow hailstorm around me. The shattering sound still echoes in the atmosphere, its ghostlike wail ringing in my ears.

The shards scattered around me still glow like luminous crystals. Everything has returned to black apart from the blinks of light dotted on the floor; so again, I wander without direction, crushing the strewn debris with my feet, the ‘crunch crunch crunch’ following thereafter. The time taken for the sound to reach my ears is peculiar, as if there was lag between sound and light, the resonant ‘crunch’ sound of the remaining shards still echoing without origin. My feet bleed as I walk on the debris. I want to whimper with pain, but I’m not capable of speech.

I pick up one of the remaining specks and examine it closely. It could be a crystal of light, maybe it has all the answers I need. I have little time to ponder as the shard stops glowing and as if in a sonata of silence, so do the rest of them. Again, I do not know why I am dreaming this, nor do I recognise its importance. Maybe it is worth contemplating over once I am awake.

I walk again. I feel faint; it’s possible the loss of blood from my feet has made me lethargic. I guess I’ve made a lot of bloody footprints with this endless trekking. Such a tiresome dream. When will this end?

I stare down at the darkness, willing for some change in the atmosphere. I then hear the sound of slow droning. It reminds me of rusted gunmetal. This puts me at unease, as repetitive chimes abruptly illuminate the room. Where is the source of light coming from? I recognise the faded red trails on the smooth floor as my own. Again, the incessant change begins, only this time it is the floor which begins to crumble. Nothing will help me, so I submit myself to the unknown and close my eyes.

The sound of shattering echoes and I fall. As if I am descending into the core of my subconscious, I open my eyes and spread my body downwards and then close them, succumbing to the darkness. I see any no form of civilisation here, and I realise I am not falling, but flying. It feels windy but my ears do not get the rushing, soaring roar or the howling of the wind.

The air seems to be more controlled now, with my body soaring down the darkness... well, not complete darkness, as I see a blip of white in the horizon. I assume this is where my destination is, as my body feels more at peace, and the ‘wind’ has died down. I fly through the emergent spot of light and arrive within seconds. The light causes me to fade out for a while, until I recuperate my senses.

Darkness. This time, I decide not to walk, for aimless wandering leads to unfulfilling conclusions. I stay at this very spot, arms folded, not moving. Minutes pass like this, or was it hours? Maybe seasons? I’m not sure. The atmosphere dislikes, nay, hates this notion, and I feel its anger towards me. I fear its torment, and it smells my fear. Within seconds, the darkness is replaced with a sweltering red neon aura. I am circled by symmetrical flames, they surround me and dance feverishly. Everything spins until I pass out...

...and then my dream ended. What just happened?

"So what's the title and URL about?"

Funny you (or I, since this is a rhetorical question...) ask!
The URL is a direct Qur'anic reference to Surah Tariq (86), verse 3.
The title of this blog is the verse itself.

Has that been answered? Yes? OK, now go away.

Humoured quips

Saqib doesn't like girls...
Because I don't constantly go on about them in public? Riiiiight...

Quote of the day as of five minutes ago...

Me, having stepped on something sticky in my socks: Aah! I just stepped on something!
Flatmate who's brewing some tea: The floor?