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Day 853

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Today’s date has been in my diary for a few weeks and I have been eagerly looking forward to this day. One of my favourite musicians is performing in town and we have tickets! His name is A R Rahman, the winner of multiple national and international music awards and millions of hearts.

Despite a cold and a cough each, we both travelled for more than an hour to get to the other end of town. It was eerily quiet. I don’t trust myself with any information any more, especially not my memory. The street lights were too dim, like me, to read the date on the tickets. Under the phone torch we found the date to be 24/03/2017.

Well, we still have something exciting to look forward to.

This is one of his Sufi songs:

Kun Faya Kun
(Be. And it is.)

Advance your blessed feet. Appear!
Making the boundaries disappear,
May you fill this void, the abode of your Beloved.
Its empty without you, come fill this void.

O Dyer. We dye in Your colour.

Be, and it is!
When there was nothing, no where,
He was there.

He is the one who is in me,
He is the one in you,
Dear Lord is the one that is a Mystery. All around.
The Sublime, the Magnificent. Reveals the truth.

Colour my heart and my mind with Your colour, the Colour Divine!
In exchange, take all that is mine.

The morning showers its blessings when I adore You,
It purifies this dark night soul of mine.
My spirit’s nourishment comes from Your sanctuary,
O Master, O Beloved…

Be, and it is!
When there was nothing, no where,
He was there.
His Messenger, the Generous Prophet reveals the truth
The blessings and peace of God be upon him.
I pray to you, please free me from the bonds of myself,
Grant me visitation to my true countenance,
Free me from myself.

Carrying vanities of my mind,
burdens of my misdeeds,
Where do I go?
I have no idea!

You live within me, and now,
where have You brought me?

I live in You,
I follow only You,
I am but Your shadow.

You created me,
I did not fit in the world,
But You embraced me,
Only You are the Truth.
Only You are Real.

Be, and it is!

 

Day 847

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My box…

“I will put in my box
A confirmation certificate
And words of praise for my bishop.
My husband’s compassion
And the heart beat of the sea.

I will put in my box
Chinese fire crackers that
Spit and spark at the devil.
Silhouettes of palm trees
And lightning during the monsoon.

I will put in my box
A teenage tomboy
Forever-happy climbing mango trees.
A far away memory of mother’s laugh
And a fisherman’s hook.

I will put in my box
Only good stuff
A glowing friendship and
A sweet cup of tea.

I will put in my box
My youth and
All the fun of the fair
With donkeys and candyfloss.

I will put in my box
The smell of my first baby
A lot of understanding
And a day in the New Forest in a church
Waiting to hear Dancing Queen playing on the organ.

I will put in my box
A guinea pig from long ago
So sensitive and soft,
Squeezing into a ball like a cat
An orange tree I climbed,
Scared of nothing and such rewards!

I will put in my box
The circus at Blackpool and dancing
Girls in swimsuits.
The smell of mango
And juice of young coconut.

My box is made of
Garden scents and music
With ribbons and buttons and all sorts
On the lid.
You can unlock it by wishing quietly.

I shall keep my box
High on a roll of thunder
And watch the dice
As they tumble down
An evening by the beach.

  • By a creative writing group of elderly patients with mental illness.

What would I put in my box?

I will put in my box
The infectious laughter of my young man
The warm embrace of my sweetheart
The healing touch of my mother’s fingertips
running through my hair
All the colours of autumn.

What would you put in your box?

Day 846

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Simba Muzira, son of Sara Muzira.
Exhibition of Art, Long Gallery, Maudsley Hospital. London.
Simba Muzira. Doing it again.

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Spray paint. Street art. Bold statements. Clear expressions. Innocent eyes. Pure soul.
Courage. Suffering. Passion.

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Pigeons telling him not to wear his shoes. Pigeons everywhere! No words!

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A mother’s tribute to her talented son who died at 32 after living with mental illness for a few years, in and out of the hospital. Her accounts of doing things in his best interest which turned out otherwise. Her heartbreak at having to live away from him when he was too ill to be at home. Her sense of an utter waste of a young life full of promise. Her guilt. Again and again. Her love. Immeasurable.

I salute you. Sara and Simba Muzira.

 

Day 844

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Maybe he has a nice little flat to himself up there, with a high ceiling, big windows and an airy verandah, properly kitted out with a fancy drum kit, a ping-pong table and a cricket pitch nearby. Maybe he hangs out with his new friends and they talk about ‘stuff’ and go to the gym together. They possibly do all kinds of accents and have a good laugh. Maybe they have fancy dress  parties too. Maybe he cooks meatball curry for them and they tell each other stories about their time on Earth.

Maybe he sometimes looks down at his house that is now like a shrine filled with flowers and candles, his Mum’s eyes now lustreless, some of his socks and t-shirts that she pretends to borrow from him, his fine black Sharpie pen in her bag along with a random Arabic worksheet of his from University, Milkshake fast asleep against his favourite rectangular blue floral cushion from Ikea. Maybe he can also hear the deep haunting silence.

Maybe he remembers what happened that day. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he visits and revisits. Maybe he is right here, right now.