fortunate are those who find themselves in their place and whose life flows gently around them like a calm stream around a submerged rock
everything comes and goes
people come and go
and we, we stay just where we are
~
fortunate are those firmly rooted whose life piles on like more topsoil so that even a bitter wind changes nothing
~
when all is said and done what matters may be how much we mattered or else, how certain those remaining, could feel that we have not truly left
~
the ties that come to bind us together are Given and made
i get it, i finally get it but maybe i got it too late
~
there’s nothing quite so wonderful as being alone until alone is all that’s left
and we are left wondering how to catch that train, that would have taken us on a known track with known ones and on which the only stops would have been tenderness, love and a little grief for a few short miles, before the end
think, if someone were to be given
a softer heart,
one that was able to feel the soul
in everything
~
we came when called just enough times
that the abode before us consented to transform our lives
a place where love literally throbs,
the heart and soul of the structure that is the centre of our lives
all of us have become so much more and less than we were, here.
~
the centre has become my centre
and has captured the centre at the centre of me
it spills over its edges into the rest of my life and
makes the rest of my life part of itself too
i am pulled here unyieldingly
as though in the arms of a vortex spinning so fast i can’t even tell
where it begins and where i end
there is nothing i feel that doesn’t get resolved
once i’ve come back to my centre;
not a single worry that isn’t smoothed, a fear that isn’t untangled
once i’ve been here at my core
~
the people here are like the sound inside a seashell,
telling stories of separate drops flowing together to their ultimate end,
each one making an impression on my heart
~
this place makes me face those things about myself that i would rather ignore, such as my obvious unworthiness
but of course, that is exactly why i’ve come
~
brother, you might do it better than me
and you might know something i don’t
but i won’t hold it against you since you are here to show me what i could be, not what i am not
and thank God, thank you, for giving us this place
to come to.
This poem, written shortly after the fifth anniversary of the opening of the Ismaili Centre Toronto, is meant to capture the deep meaning that spaces of community and worship can bring to our lives over time, as well as the newfound meaning we can obtain from the seemingly familiar by engaging on many different levels. This piece is a followup to the original “the centre (2014)”, available to read here.
I can’t say that I want to grab life by the horns.
I think I would rather watch it come together
with time like the soft creases of a baby’s smile.
I would rather lay life out like a sheet,
smoothing the wrinkles with my palms
and tugging here and there to make it fit.
I don’t care to iron first.
~
I want to watch a plastic beach ball rise and fall in the waves,
being carried here and there, appearing not to move
until some hours later when only a speck is visible in the distance.
I just want to see what will happen if I let go of the reins.
Do I believe that life’s horse will find its way home?
Thank you for giving me the chance
to be the kind of person that I would like to think I am.
~
For some time we’ve known that our path would be unlike some others.
At times, we would look outwardly un-alive,
while our counterparts pledged to make the most of their precious time,
far away, on other continents.
There is a difference, between patience and complacence;
between passivity, and compassion.
If the difference is not apparent, an explanation will not help you.
We are, here and now, living for a day we cannot see
but we know is there.
We too, have a destiny,
and ours is one we trust was chosen for us, long ago.
If our days are spent moving even a grain of uncertainty off the pile
then over time, surely we will find what is buried underneath.
If our days are spent walking a single step at a time,
then we trust the destination will meet us halfway.
It is inevitable that we will go somewhere from here
and that we will know where we have been, when we leave.
Said the lover to the beloved, who was consumed by fear of stagnating, of not fulfilling her potential, of wasting her precious time in life:
Look around you!
The apple could not have been picked sooner. The cocoon could not have opened earlier. But neither is sitting still, doing nothing. Both need time to grow.
You are the apple of my eye
and the butterfly of my heart.
I cannot wait until you feel for yourself the wings you are going to grow,
and see how beautiful you are.
~
At times, we may come to feel trapped within the paths we once chose, or that were chosen for us. We may come to feel that we are idly allowing the mystery, beauty and potential life offers, to pass us by.
This piece takes some words of wisdom that we have all been fortunate to receive at some point in our lives, and adapts them into a brief story.
Some news begins to settle,
quietly,
in the places where disbelief has left its footprint
~
you’ve gone, but in leaving you’ve taken me
one, maybe two steps further along in this life
i think i understand why they say, shukhar,
thanks
~
i knew you, once upon a time,
or at least,
i thought i knew you a little bit
and now,
but now,
i understand there is little that was what it seemed
~
it’s like a single thread unravelling from a sweater;
one minute, it’s fine, and the next, there’s a gaping hole
except that the hole i feel isn’t in me,
it’s in the fabric of life itself
and life is coursing through,
pulling me upwards in its path
one thing comes over and again to mind:
koi aapse agar kuch maange, to usse dedo, aakhir, yehi to hai zindagi
if someone asks you for something,
then give it,
after all, this. is. life.
this is life,
this is life,
the one time we can love, and breathe, and aspire
the one time we can rise above our human selves
to fulfil the hopes and desires of another being
the one time we can ourselves be
compassionate; merciful
~
what did i give you,
you, who suffered
unknown to me?
what did i shower on you then,
that i now deserve to pick like fruit
the truth of your hard-lived example?
~
someone suffered, deeply, quietly,
but we did not know his mind
someone struggled, beautifully,
and we are uplifted with admiration
that we thought we knew him, even for a day.
* * *
A childhood friend has passed away. This piece is a reflection on life, death, and everything in between. Shukhar (among other things) is often said upon a person’s death, by those who follow the Shia Imami Nizari Ismaili tariqa (interpretation) of Islam (and by others Muslims well).
the night sets in deeper as we trudge across these white plains
crisscrossed with patterns of tire tracks
i whisper a desperate prayer: keep my love safe, and warm
it is one thing in theory to imagine being without you;
quite another to make this trek on my own
a few flecks of snow cling to the tear streams on my cheeks
i clasp my hands together, keeping close the hope of seeing you again.
~
We may be only a few miles from our beloved, and our white plains may be only parking lots, but: the great love stories are happening here, with us, today. Never was there a better time to feel, to love, to miss; to be.
that she never wanted to stagnate,
but she tried not to control things too much
when inspiration came, she flowed with it,
and allowed it to flow into her
and when it didn’t appear,
she didn’t worry about chasing it
she tried her best to have faith in the little things,
and the big,
and to remember that her life,
was not the end.
~
How often do we think about how we want to be remembered once we are gone? What kind of people do we aspire to be, and who are we, when all is said and done? This is an unedited response to a “create your eulogy” exercise that I was fortunate enough to participate in, presented by a colleague and friend.
These pieces were written while and after visiting the Aga Khan Museum in Toronto, Canada. The first, Museum, is a reflection on history, civilizations, art and interpretation. The second piece, courtyard, unedited, was penned while sitting in the Museum’s inner courtyard, and has intentionally been left unedited in order to maintain for the reader, the flow of inspiration as originally felt. It contains English as well as another Hindi-Urdu mixed language that sometimes spills onto the page. Please excuse my rough transliteration attempt as neither of these is my first language.
View of the courtyard, looking up from the main floor. Copyright Asif Virani, 2014.
View of the courtyard from the second floor. Copyright Asif Virani, 2014.
Up-close view of one of the metal screens/jaali on the second floor. Copyright Asif Virani, 2014.
Museum
What will the people from days to come decide to make of us,
what will they preserve in their halls?
Those gone by have become to us what remains of them,
after all tribulation and epiphany fell away into dust.
They have become what we can still understand of them.
~
There is too much left to know about knowing; not enough left to see.
We fear we are penning lines already penned by those greater than us,
a people that truly saw the truth unfold.
Nothing can be said now that has not been said before;
our efforts, mere echoes of a greater, grander voice.
What inspired these carvers, and what were they trying to say –
can we be certain that we have preserved ourselves against misunderstanding?
Did they create these shapes because those are what they saw,
or were they too, seeking to lose themselves in detailed but repetitive abstraction?
Do these patterns transcend a name?
~ ~ ~
courtyard, unedited
is jahaan mein hum upna sub kuch kho sakte hain, sub kuch seekh bhi saktehain
aisa husn ko bananekiliye, aisi roshni, is roshni, ki zaroorat hai
this light is something like the light of the heavens and the earth; this light has an unnameable quality to it,
a way for all to see all
bathed in it my hand resting on the table becomes something from another world,
translucent, light diffusing outward in the place of rosy flesh
your eyes are from another time here, where patterns repeat themselves to liberate beyond eye’s capacity, where voices rise to a crescendo and we take in,
light,
light,
light, light light,
upon our hands, our face, and every
one is so beautiful here today
yahaan aake kuch bhi likhdijiye, sub kuch shahiri banjayegi
yahaan aake kuch khaaneki zaroorat nahin mehsoos hoti, in hawaaon, saa(n)son, is jahaan ka rooh hi kaafi hai
yahaan rehekar kuch chaate hai hum, kuch khona bhi chaate hain
kuch cheez samaj na chaate hain hum, kuch cheez humko yaad aatihai
kuch cheez hamaari thi, hamaari hai, hamaare dil me se nikalke, humhi ke aage jhoom uthi
keherahihai:
agar aapke dil mein koi baat phool ki tarha khilrahihain, to usse khilne do; mat sochiye
agar aapke ander koi baat hai, to aap dil ki zubaan se usse pehsh karo, chaahe koi samje ya na samje
agar koi lafz kaafi nahin lagte, to khudh ke lafaazon banaalo
khudh ki zubaan banaalo,
koi samje, ya na samje
~
A rough translation of courtyard, unedited:
in this place/world we can lose/forget everything of/about ourselves;
we can also learn everything
to make this kind of beauty, this type of light, this light, is needed
…
come here and write anything at all,
it will become poetry / anything written here becomes poetry
here, there is no need felt for eating,
these winds, breaths, the soul of this place/world is enough
staying/being here, we desire something;
also, something we wish to lose
some things we understand,
and some things, we remember
some things were ours, are ours;
some things come out from our own hearts
and have come alive/to dance in front of us
they say:
if something blossoms like a flower in your heart,
then allow it to blossom,
think not
if there is something in you that wants to be said, then use the language of your heart to convey it,
whether anyone understands or not
if no words seem enough,
then make up your own words
This piece was inspired after attending a musical performance.
~
taking in small sips all the time
most days we trudge along, faces sunken,
the light behind our eyes, unlit
and then what comes along on the wings of a sweet melody
but the calling of something with which to cure our extinguishment
we strap ourselves in for the ride
what a thing it is to simply sit and be taken
to a place that exists only once in a while
~
fully saturated however,
we take up where we left off,
heavy and hardened, in pain
we were so close to becoming beautiful
but we surpassed ourselves in our glut
~
there can be a such thing as too much
heaven, too much light;
the flame rapidly fuelled is quick to die away
to stay free we must bend and turn,
dust off our delicate soul-wings,
and sleep;
eat only a little of the light,
and drink what has been given,
taking in small sips all the time.
The process by which we have
come to resolve ourselves,
is truth. There was nothing quite
so peculiar about the manner
in which we came to be.
It would seem only natural
that where one horizon ends,
another should appear.
Now, whether our realities
are stitched together with
seams, or whether they
are made of the same fabric,
we cannot say.
What matters, is what
we have chosen to give effect to,
out of all of the unseen.
What we have believed in,
has come back to seek us out.
What we want to be true,
never had two ways about it.
If we can influence the
making of the world with
our choices, then our choices
are the stuff of the world,
and ourselves, something
apart from it.
~
This piece was written shortly after watching Interstellar, a 2014 film directed by Christopher Nolan.
For those who know the language, Tere Ishq Mein, recorded on Season II of Nescafe Basement, is to my mind another way, of many ways, of accessing similar ideas.
the crispness of this season
asks to know both who we were
and who we are
~
the maple, the oak, watch over themselves with silent grace
as the leaves they laboured to produce,
and that kept them alive,
dry out and fall steadily away
what remains of our victories and defeats,
of our convictions and our epiphanies?
we have been able to keep nothing
material from our endeavours
who can say whether we leave the past
or if it leaves us;
whether we ourselves walked paths
or if they grew up beneath our feet?
saara 