It has been almost ten years of praying at night; staring up at the ceiling; yawning through the protocol. Ten years of repeating the same set of prayers everyday till they lose their very essence. Ten years of repeating, ‘please’ numerous times before getting to the point. Ten years of accidentally saying, ‘Allah yaar’ and then apologizing for being a blasphemous servant. Tens of thousands of demands and just a few memorised stanzas of praise that I do not know the meaning of.
This secret connection started of as a precautionary measure against nightmares, but over the years it became a lifeline.
Seven year old Noor’s way to make up for our religion’s lack of Santa.
Ten year old Noor’s bargains with God; asking for problems at school instead of problems at home. I asked Him to command the waves of time to have some mercy on the weak sand castle that was my life. But ofcourse, in that moment, I was anything but poetic.
I was desperate; He knows.
I remember how the prerequisite of this daily prayer was complete silence. Not even as a kid did I underestimate God’s power to hear me when even I couldn’t, but the silence was necessary.
It still is.
It will always be.
This was my audience with God.Not a God far away in the heavens with an army of angels, but a God who was closer to me than I was to myself.
The God who could hear me praying for the set of walky talkys I couldn’t get my eyes off at the toy store. The God who could hear my muffled whispers from under the layers of blankets in December.The God who knew what I was going to pray for before I could fathom my thoughts into words. The God who was a friend, a confidant, who would always be there to listen to my prayers and to my silence.
I understand that God is above all visualization, but despite being too godly and glorious to be contained in a figment of my imagination, I can feel him.
This feeling of raw emotions welling up inside of me takes its toll every time I isolate myself from the world. If all of mankind; your writers,intellectuals,philosophers and all your fancy named chaps teamed up to pen down that feeling; they would inevitably fail.
That is the beauty of this connection.
This storm of emotions always comes out as an innocent, “Allah yaar.” It may not be as sacred as meditation; as breath takingly beautiful as the Sema of the whirling dervishes; or as holy as Moses’ (AS) conversation with the Him. But it is all that comes to my fallible mind when I think of Love. Allah mian, I love you yaar.
Can you think of a blasphemy as sweet as this?