I was passing by a crowded street today afternoon. I have been out of my house for over 9 months now. Traveling across the country working on various projects and trying to keep the hearth burning. I have also been away from my little lamp and miss lighting it everyday morning. I miss the smell of incense sticks, and I miss the cleaning up.
When you travel a lot, you feel homeless, as if you have been abandoned in the high seas with no ore and no rudder. Even the sails, it seems, have failed me.
It is in this frame of mind that I saw a grand mosque by a Bangalore roadside. I had a strange pull from inside. I wanted to stop right there, walk in, and after washing my face hand and leg, offer Namaz in my own Hindu wallah fashion. I could feel that someone waits for me in there. It is the same force that I carry deep within, it is the one that waits for me at home and guides me through this homeless wandering phase of my life. I could hear HIM speaking to me. I have heard this voice before. Rumi sang about him, Bollywood sings about him. Allah the merciful is no stranger to me. For those who believe they know HIM personally, you can ask HIM about me. My name is not Khan but I am still HIS child. Just as he answers to you, he answers to me. In HIS abode, my name does not matter.
I did not enter the mosque. I am distrustful of my cousins, there is too much enmity and it had been there for too long. Each day I hear that they have killed some more of my family and some from my family have killed theirs. The river that flows between us two families have been bloodied for too long. This is the truth that we failed to read in the Mahabharata. Sons of same forefathers killing each other.