Tag Archives: Mikhail

“Is Mika here?” He would ask

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“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?”

Abang Chikwa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam
Love will show the Way

The Play

800px-r-staines-malvolio-shakespeare-twelfth-nightThe Play
What is reality
But a reflection
In His pool,

What is life
But a sigh,
A moment when
He gives the sign
And says, “I love thee.”

What is death
But the end of a play,
And the unmasking
Of an actor
Temporarily animating
A vessel of clay and water.

I asked my son, Mikhail, how was his exam today. To which he replied glumly, “Okay.

Okay?” I responded.

Almost in a whisper he confirmed this, “Yess… Okay, okay.

Oh you mean, OkaaaaAAAY…!!” I said, teasing him.

No, no, Papa.” Mika clarified, carefully losing the exuberance in the word. “Just… okay.“, Then he continued, “I don’t want to raise hopes, Papa.

I smiled at his wariness, then I explained, “I am afraid that is impossible, Mika. The moment you were born, you raised our hopes.

Mika and Me 1Thus you see, it doesn’t really matter how fleeting our life here may be. Nor how illusory is the reality we inhabit in our costume of water and clay. As a father or a mother, as a son or a daughter, we are all inexorably linked to Hope – upon the assurance of the Loving Lord God. So until next time, sunshine, may we play our roles as best we can, remember our lines and don’t bump into the furniture.

Oh, my child!
My hope was dead,
Then it was rekindled
When the Lord raised you
From my grave,

Yet I have nothing to give you, my child…

But the Lord?

Without end
He gives and gives and gives!

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam
Love will show the Way