Power

When I was a kid, before I became an atheist, one of the elders around me told me that a particular verse from the Quran would protect me from dogs and other beings. I was terrified of dogs, so I started reciting that verse and over time it became second nature. I would find myself saying it subconsciously whenever I felt scared. Not just of dogs.

I feel many of us do not actually know what the purpose of our prayers is.

Recently, an Arab friend told me what this verse actually means, and I felt powerless.

It was as though a defence mechanism I had relied on all my life was suddenly stripped away. I still recite it out of habit, but the feeling is gone.

Looking back, the sense of security it gave me didn’t come from the verse itself but from the faith I had in the person who told me about it.

It reminds me of the story of ‘Viddi Kushmandam’ from the Aithihyamala.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to believe in it the way I once did. Powerless now.

Coffee

Many moons from now, while rocking my chair to the brazen chords of a hot summer shower, I would watch my fat kitten knock a coffee mug off the window sill. Unflinchingly, I will stare as my leftover coffee buries your unopened letters; my name calmly disappearing under the murky mess. A lot would have happened through the years; things that are meant to change. Laughter and failure. Life will erase the brief snatches of sorrow and pain and take us to a place where the past means so little. Till then I shall hold onto you like you shield me from death. Till then my memories will weigh more than the leftover coffee.

Faith

When I was younger, I used to love sleeping next to my grandmother. She knew exactly two stories and would narrate them with a lot of passion. Over the years, the stories underwent subtle changes according to her creativity but the central themes remained unaltered. Although I loved listening to her stories, they put me right to sleep; no matter how interesting they were. On sleepless nights, she asked me to chant duas (prayers). I don’t know if it was because of God or the devil, but the prayers always worked.

Now, years down the line, my childhood is a vivid yet distant memory. I seldom visit my grandmother. The memory of her stories have faded into an emptiness and more of my nights are endless. At times, when I lie awake staring at the stars, her old trick comes to my mind; like many things in life, it betrays me. I still cannot understand whose prank it is or if my lost faith is the culprit. In what did I lose trust? The stories or God? The devil, maybe.

Featured

Detour.

Why can’t the time
take me back to that flooded night
when the moon was only a tiny dot
and the wind carried the moorhens’ cries
while I was awake gaping at the dark
like i could see the picture on the wall
smiling at me
inviting me to a
journey to an unknown dell
to float over the damp trees,
catching fish at my doorstep,
watch the baby goats snuggle up for a good night’s sleep
and to follow the purling rivers
on their way to eternity!