Nehaan

Ya Ghafaar… Ya Ghafoor… 

O Lord, the most merciful and forgiving…

These words came out of my mouth spontaneously, of their own accord, when I saw my body lying in front of me, beaten to a pulp and now dead.

Hatred, what forms it takes. When we had thought it had left from our midst, it raised its ugly head again. It spoke into the ears of those whose blood was quick to boil, who, perhaps, carry memories of being harmed and hurt over generations somewhere inside them.

Who hurt them? When was it? How long ago was it?

It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that a wound exists, and that is what hate needs to thrive–

Our wounded-ness.

I look at the dead body in front of me again. So limp and motionless. Yet, perhaps only a few hours ago, my whole world was ticking as usual. And then, suddenly, it came to a standstill.

I can’t help but wonder, did my shrieks and cries for mercy not reach the ears of my assailants? But I suppose that’s how hatred works–you are so helplessly compelled by your own pain that anyone else’s pales in comparison.

Or maybe these men were just hired goons.

Needless to say, another cycle of hatred and violence will start with this.

Hatred is like paying forward in the most pathological way possible. Quite dangerous too.

In some cultures they say when you start feeling that you are getting angry, watch your breath. It will pass. How wise.

But here it feels like anger is our birthright. But think again. Is it? Is it our birthright to burn in the flames of anger and hatred? Is it our birthright to become consumed by this fire and burn our world down with it?

Oh, look at the wounds you carry. And you think by unleashing your anger on others, you can heal the pain you sense inside yourself–your inadequacies, your sense of betrayal, your hunger for power and fame and your struggles for daily existence.

The sad truth is, after you have beaten someone to death, you go back to your inadequate lives again.

But perhaps you wish to impose your version of justice on this seemingly unfair, unjust world. As long as ‘they get what they deserve’ you feel secure and comfortable that the laws of the universe agree with your limited understanding of human affairs over the centuries.

But, you see, justice is woven into the fabric of this cosmos. You don’t have to do anything for justice to come to pass. It will, on its own.

Ya Muntaqim… Ya ‘Adl… Ya ‘Afuw…

O Lord, the one who balances all things that come to pass, the one who is just and forgiving…

If only people had faith. Faith that the God or Gods that they pray to will not fail them.

Therein lies the secret of all secrets.

All you have to do is to wait for things to self-correct.

Not a single cry of pain goes unheard, not a single wound goes unhealed.

And remember this too–

All those who lack faith will find it eventually.

It all happens in due course of time.

But I can see you have many questions–how do we endure our suffering till then, how do we bear the cross we carry, how can we keep waiting?

By realising that after all, your wounds and your pain, your suffering and your misfortunes, are just things on the outside that you carry, like the clothes you wear.

Your essential nature is spotless and pristine, like the soft shimmering surface of the ocean when the first light of dawn falls upon it.

The essential you is like the lotus flower that does not become sullied in the mud that surrounds it.

Nothing can ever touch you, nothing has ever harmed you, nothing will ever hurt you.

The soul neither dies nor kills, Arjuna.

And, likewise, I am not dead, just my body is.

I will leave you now.

May God forgive you.

May you forgive yourself.

Amen.