Dil Se...

According to ancient Arabic literature, love is classified into seven different shades (or stages, I would say).

1. HUB - Attraction

2. UNS - Infatuation

3. ISHQ - Love

4. AQUIDAT - Reverence

5. IBAADAT - Worship

6. JUNOON - Obsession

7. FANAA ~ Annihilation, Atonement

As we move from tangible to intangible, from prosaic to poetic, and from worldly to spiritual, translation becomes impossibly challenging and the meaning of an expression relies increasingly on the attitude (frame of mind and mood) of the listener, given his/her intellectual and emotional aptitude.

Every mrityu is not 'Nirvana' and similarly 'Fanaa' is not just maut, even if Gulzar (aptly) chooses to say mujhe maut ki god mein sone de to describe this stage of love. What a beauty - lap of death! Gham-e-hasti ka asad kis se ho juj-marg ilaaj... Yes I do realize that I am beginning to deviate here. But while wandering I found a connection here. Ghalib talks (only) about release from a negativity, from existential angst (gham-e-hasti). But here the lover doesn't just want to run away from scorching sun to the shadow of death. But he, being a lover, is positively in love with it. He finds a rest, a solace, and a ceaseless joy, Nirvana, in its lap. So fanaa is maut only if and as long as it has a lap and it offers you an unperturbable sleep in its lap.

Philosophical musing - Did Sufis thought about, and do they believe in the cycle of life and death? And does Nirvana emphasize on the bliss of the state of nothingness, or is it just an escape from sufferings of life and its cycle?

Mea Culpa

I wanted to talk to someone about it. I wanted to get it off my chest. I took my phone out of my pocket and went through the entire friend’s list, twice, but couldn't find a single one to talk to. It was entirely my burden, my cross, I realized, and it couldn't be shared with anyone. It could only be multiplied, in my consciousness. Such a thing is shame.

Living a life like I do, we men sometimes tend to forget that there exists a creature in world called woman. And in the world of men, woman is only an abstract idea who is used to flaunt our manhood, often, I admit, in a perverse manner. Yes, I do talk to girls of my age but that is different. They are friends and they don't mind, if they are not positively amused by, our occasional indiscipline in speech. But women are different, especially when they are around in flesh and blood.

Today I was talking with my friend on office messenger, about someone else. And just then my team lead pinged me. And I wrote the following, by mistake, in her window –

“I hate that fat hag. I would have paraded naked in house if I could muster enough shamelessness, in order to scare her away.”

Even now I can't help but shudder as I write these lines. I felt a hard blow in my head when I realized my blunder. Tortured with confusion and frenzy, I ran to my friend to tell him about the disaster. Till now it was only a blunder. The worse was still to follow. Soon the deeper layers hidden in this episode presented themselves to me as I sat together in interview with my smart crime.

I was not scared of any consequence. In fact, I wrote a mail seeking apology with full awareness of the fact that it was a written confession, which could be produced in my appraisal or before that as well, depending on her sensitivity. But it was not about her, but me alone, and perhaps about the smile which she always flashed when she saw me. There are times when the person who could be most ruthless with you is none other than you yourself. There are times when you walk miles and seek punishment. And impulsive as I am, I have done such things and felt such moments earlier in my life as well. Knowing her nature, I was sure she would forgive me and forget this issue after a day or two. And I know that I have to pretend the same forgetfulness to let the awkwardness go. Oh how desperately do we sometimes need forgiving people around us! However, I do forgive but hardly forget things. And I take a few things very seriously. It is a morbid compulsion with me.

Anyways, practically I was safe. But what about the higher judge?

Guilty and shameful in my heart, I recalled my school days when I was considered an epitome of decency. And I was so, though it is hard for me to believe that now, and harder to write here. I looked at him who was I, but found him too away. I remembered the incident when a girl (who was his classmate, a close friend, and one of the most desirable girls of his batch) tried to get cozy with him in her bedroom and then playfully ‘warned’ him that she'd shout if he did anything naughty with her. And he said calmly with a proud smile, ‘Do it if you want. But no one will believe you.’ And the girl knew that he was right. Idealistic and upright, he used to say, ‘In moments of crisis, a man should not speak a word in his defense. His character alone should be able enough to defend him.’

A few years later, I remember, he used to shut his door and sit close to the TV to watch ‘tip-tip barsa paani’ keeping lowest possible volume so as not to wake his parents sleeping at the other floor. Poor guy! I remember how badly his whole being used to shake, in apprehension as well as in lusty excitement, raising each other to maddening heights. What would he do to hide that excitement if someone came? No, it couldn’t be hidden, nor could be rationalized. Like a thief, he used to hear the footsteps that were never there.

Still I cannot recall those nights without feeling something tingling beneath my skin. Was it wrong to wake late in nights in a breathless wait to see ‘something’ in those ‘18’ movies shown then in star TV? Perhaps not. But then imagine, God it’s scary, to get caught by your mother while doing that what you know is not wrong if not seen by your mother. And what about sex? Legal. Is that also wrong? Oh they behave unreasonably, you might say. Well, it’s a bit complicated. Perhaps we are at the wrong track; it’s not an issue of right and wrong. It’s not wrong but just embarrassing.

So everything that is embarrassing is not wrong. What if I had typed the same stuff in the right window? Everything would have been right, isn’t? So it was not immoral to write that about a woman, but only a blunder to write that in a woman’s window. All my guilt and shame were misplaced!

But somehow I am not convinced.