“Is Mika here?
Can I borrow some money?”
The familiar head would suddenly appear,
And I would reply, gruffly,
Yay or Nay, to the speaker,
Abang Chik, my brother.
Now as I sit in my room,
Sifting through his notebooks
And scribblings that I have saved,
My eyes sometimes drift to the door,
Half expecting him
To poke his head in,
And ask, for the thousandth time…
“Is Mika here? Are you done with the book?
Have you seen my car keys?
Do you have the time?”
Not a day passes, that I am not thankful for this life, this world, and for you, sunshine. And not a day passes that I am not thankful that this world shall not last but one day end, and that we, you and I, shall take leave of this reality and return to the possessors of our memories, our dearly departed kin and friends. And to meet, Godwilling, in a congregation blessed to be in the Divine Presence.
My brother is not here. The odour of his presence, made astoundingly apparent by his Indonesian clove cigarettes is absent. But his writings and drawings, his artistic, musical and literary tastes, his quiet devotion to Shaykh Nazim Adil al-Haqqani (qs), are present in my life and animate my thoughts. And he is doing it all over again – bothering me, popping his head into my loneliness, asking for the millionth time… “Is Mikhail here? So what do you think of the movie? Doesn’t the minister drive you crazy?”
Hate has no place in Islam
Love will show the Way