THE GHOST... Death becomes him - Saiful Bahri (1964-2013) Part 2

Poone... in Jordan, May 2011. In the company of his friends.

The Ghost

I keep feeling him,

There he goes, on my door, knocking,

Asking for a lighter, or a fiver,

I keep feeling him,

There he is, lazing on the sofa,

From dawn till dusk,

Though he never liked Edward or Bella,

I keep feeling him,

Sitting quietly outside my bedroom,

Fiddling about on the internet,

Making pointed comments,

Needling the bigots,

I keep seeing him,

Right in front of me,

Or sitting there, by the piano,

Smiling, and happy.

I keep feeling him,

In the books that I read,

In the music that I cherish,

In the ripening of an ancient flame,

In the passion of the dervish

And the Golden Chain...

He always had a story to share,

This brother of mine,

But rarely of himself,

So let me share with you

A thing or two

About Saiful,

a.k.a. Poone...

....................................

The dotting uncle. Keeping an eye on
his beloved nephews.

Hi there, sunshine. It's been more than two weeks since my brother, Poone (a.k.a. Saiful), passed away suddenly. Since then I have written but only one posting, and I cannot reason out why. I can only hazard a guess that unlike the passing of my mother, which was preceded by an agonising 6 to 9 months of debilitating cancer and chemo treatments, the death of my brother was surprising and unexpected.

A contented soul (dammit!). As the prose suggests, I need only to pause to recall my brother. It is the easiest thing in the world for me to imagine him playing his guitar in his room. Reading a book outside on the landings, and just you know... shuffling about the house. Utterly lacking in worldly ambitions, he was an alien creature to me, though perhaps I know him as well as any other person. But he was contented, dammit, much to my own discontent and bemusement. 

How ironic. He he he. He would like this sort of conclusion. For he had always agreed with me about wit - 

Sarcasm is from the Devil, Irony is from God.

A brotherly kiss. Many, many years ago, I remember falling asleep in the sofa downstairs in my old house. Those were in fact the early days of my brother's rites of passage into a Sufi order. Anyways, I was awoken by my brother gently pressing a kiss on my forehead. He did not notice that I was awake. I didn't say anything and merely looked on as he walked away. "Now that was unexpected. What was that all about?" I pondered wearily before falling back to sleep. Alas, now I wished I had asked him. 

When Poone passed away, my immediate impression was that my brother has become a ghost. A memory that will haunt me forever. A furtive omnipresence in the corner of my eye. But an old prose posed an alternative view... 

2. Layla’s ghost

I thought I was tangible,

I thought I had meaning,

I thought I was a lover,

Ruling with the heart of a king.

I now know

I am none of the above,

I am but a ghost,

A vagrant amongst the living.

..........................

The Real Ghosts. Thus I am reminded of the truth. That the ghost in this sad and beautiful story is us. Continuing to persist in this physical world that is so darn convincingly real and permanent, when the truth is that this life is transient and its reality a mere reflection of the absolute reality of the afterlife. For our cherished departed friend and kin, theirs is the privilege of the true existence in the divine presence. In the cobbled stone path, the grassy knoll of the cemetery and the silence of the graves is the long-awaited union between the Creator and the created. 

Mika was at my mother's grave last year. Who would have guessed that
my brother would soon join her near her final resting place.
The return of the prodigal son...

The First One. It is strange, this death. Even as I write this I am torn between what to say and what to keep silent. He had such an impact in my life that I cannot begin to count them. I did not realise this earlier, but after these thousands of prose and poems, our conversations and arguments, now I understand that Poone was my first Shaykh (master) before I even knew about the existence of Shaykhs and the Sufis. I never knew this because he never acted like a master. He acted like a brother... a kindly and forgiving one. 

Poone was not one to dress up, always in his old tattered shirts
and ancient khaki pants. "Dammit..." I ventured to anyone who would care to listen,
"...Don't you think he looks better than when he was alive?
Death becomes him..."

Our siblings are not perfect. But who is? Do not be like me, sunshine. Be contented with them, regardless, for they are who they are, and a large part of us comes from them too. 

Permit me to end with a prose recorded almost 10 years ago, and one which was mined from a conversation I had with my brother, whom I call Abang Chik, the one you call Poone.

27. Arms-Length (With Poone)

Never get too close to a problem,

Because even a grain of sand can eclipse the sun,

If it is lodged in your eyes. 

May we never be blinded, may Allah (swt) always light our understanding,
in the perfection of humanity and servanthood that is Muhammad (saws). 

Have a lovely day, sunshine. al fatiha.

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam

Love will show the Way

Tears and Fears - this time, I will be ready

Tears & Fears

My life is filled with tears

But I am not sad,   

I have no right

To be.

My life is filled with fears

But I am not done in, 

I have no right  

To be. 

For I know my Lord

Has allotted a certain 

Number of tears 

For me to shed, 

Not one teardrop more, 

Not one teardrop less,

And my Lord has allotted

A certain number of fears

For me to overcome,

Not one ghost more,

Not one ghoul less, 

Such thoughts comfort me

As I sleep in my bed.

And as I wake up each morning

With the Sun rising above the sea,

The same tearful and fearful thoughts

Drift away to the West,

Though I know that

With the setting Sun,

The same cloud of tears

And fears will be there

Waiting for me.

But this time,

I will be ready.

......................

There are many things we cry over, and there are many things that sends a chill into our heart. Death and illnesses, poverty and bankruptcies - these are the stuffs that will turn our day grey, as we sigh "Oh dear me..."

In our conversation last night, Heche said that "Well, you gotta learn how to swing the bat every time God throws you a curve ball."

"Well, I don't want to play baseball with God. He plays mean!" I protested.

But of course, we have no choice in the matter. We have all the choices in the world, but not this one. And of course, God doesn't play mean. He lets me off so many times that I cannot even count.

In fact God has rigged the game for us to win. But to win, we must win over something - Which is to conquer our tears and our fears, and be that person God knows we can be, if only we would persevere.

So persevere, sunshine. Have hope always.

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam

Love will show the Way

Ghosts, mini Gollums, Vampires and Ponti-babies!

That is not Gollum. That is a Toyol. Entrepreneurial Malays often employ such supernatural creatures
to burgle houses. They are not actually scary but more of a nuisance. If found out however, the
enterprising owner is often chased out of the village. 

Ghosts! In Malay tradition, the role of the supernatural creatures is often cast in a woman with long black hair called a pontianak. I do not know if she would actually drink blood, but she can do some psychological damage, and sometimes even physical damage. The types that do actually drink blood are what is known as toyol, which is kinda like a mini-me version of gollum. The toyol is normally a kept creature, and the owner would often use him for theft and mischief. If the toyol does not get its fill, the owner would have to give his own blood for his little employee. Why, even a Toyol deserves minimum wage. I think they are unionised. 

Maya Karin, acting her role as a Pontianak. The Pontianak is often  said to have died
in a violent death or often enough during labor. There she is carrying her dead child
and looking mightily pissed off. 

Pontianak! Many eons ago when dinasours roamed the Earth, my brother used to hang out at his friends' house where they listened to music, played guitar and smoked the occasional weed. On one particular night, most of the guys were downstairs watching TV when suddenly they heard a friend, whom I shall discreetly call Mr. Pink shouting from the 2nd floor, "Ponti-baby! Ponti-baby! Ponti-baby!" They rushed up and found Mr. Pink in a state of mild surprise, cheerfully sharing that while he was sitting by the window, an apparition of a Pontianak appeared floating outside. (anak is child or baby in Malay). He wasn't actually terrified, in fact Mr. Pink appear amused by the incident.

From the Japanese movie 'RINGU' later adapted by Hollywood into 'The Ring'.
She looks like a pontianak too. I think it's an Asian thing...

Clawed from behind! The house where they liked to party was on a hill with jungle all around it, and neighbouring houses pretty distant from one another. They were old government quarters from the time of the British empire. One of my brother's friend's house is actually in the area and one night he chose to go back alone. The guys were standing by the door watching him, Mr. Blue walking away into the dark night, along the stretch of road barely lit and pressed on both sides by the jungle. As they looked on suddenly they noticed that directly above Mr. Blue, was a figure in white with long black tresses sitting or standing on the branches of the jungle canopy that stretched across the road. They looked on in stunned silence as Mr. Blue, blissfully ignorant, walked beneath the Pontianak. But after a couple of yards further the ghostly figure floated down from the trees behind him and moved with great speed towards Mr. Blue's retreating back, "Hey! Hey! Hey! Watch out...!!!" The boys shouted but to no avail. The next thing they witnessed was Mr. Blue sprawled on the ground. The Pontianak was gone. They ran as fast as they could to him and found him groaning with some pain, "Oh...oh.. what the hell happened?" sputtered Mr. Blue. My brother found the back of Mr. Blue's shirt torn and on his back were red welts and scars akin to someone clawing their talons into his back.

Mother? Which is Mother? On one bright afternoon in the same house, the mother wanted to go out and asked her son to drive. Mr. Green was a bit tired, but being the dutiful son that he is, grumbled, "Okay... okay, I am coming." He trudged downstairs and looked out to the front yard and found his mother, obviously in a hurry, already waiting in the car. Raising an eyebrow in surprise, he found the keys on the side table and hurried to the car. "Where are we going anyway?" He mumbled as he got into the driver seat next to his mom. He turned the ignition and the old car faithfully started to roar into life. Suddenly the front door of the house opened and his mother was shouting at him, "Where do you think you are going, son?! I am still getting ready!" ... Uh Oh. If that is his mother there, then who the heck is he sitting next to? Mr. Blue quietly turned off the engine, got out of the car and went into the kitchen for a calming glass of water.

Hehehe. I actually wanted to write a short review of two horror books I read recently. I somehow got diverted I guess, reminiscing on the few ghost stories my brother once shared with me. I will do the books next time. Hope you enjoyed this brief diversion.

Have a beautiful day, sunshine.

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam

Love will find a Way

A World of Happy Ghosts - Veneration of Muhammad

3. If you see me crying

If you see me crying,

In the midst of

A crowded restaurant,

Don’t worry.

If you see me in tears

While driving,

Don’t worry.

If you see me walking

While tears run down

My cheek,

Fret not.

For I am only in

The midst of remembrance,

In the clutches of a

Jealous love that

Won’t let me go,

But a love yet to be

Consummated in the

Presence of my beloved.

For I am here,

And he is there,

But when he is

Somewhere else,

The truth is

Though I am here,

I am really nowhere.

I have written songs,

I have grafted poems

Upon the lifeless limbs

Of my aching body,

When loneliness

And nothingness which

Drowns me, apart from him,

Leaves me disconsolate

And miserable.

In a breath, he seems

So near, but he isn’t!

But if you see me smiling,

Alone all by myself,

In the crowd of unknowing humanity,

Know that I feel he is near,

And that what is the reality

Which you perceive is yours,

And not mine,

For in my reality,

In the drawing of a smile

From a secret pleasure,

Abu Bakar is with me,

Omar is with me,

Usman is with me,

Ali is with me,

Salman al-Farsi, Jaafar as-Sadiq

And dear Abu Yazid al-Bistami

Are all with me,

With my Masters, with the saints,

With angels whirling upon the leaves

Of trees, while little birds of green feathers

Dash and fly about me.

How happy and ashamed am I then,

To be in the company of such ghosts…

In the course of a conversation earlier this morning, Heche mentioned the word 'Prophet', and I instantaneously felt teary. Because you see, in the context of daily life, it is not often that someone refers to Prophet Muhammad in a kindly and as-a-matter-of-fact manner. No, his ideal and personality crept into the conversation as part of our every day chitter-chatter, not confined to the confines of a Mosque nor spoken in the theological bent of religion. She spoke as if he was real and human, and not a caricature of a historical figure.

True veneration of the Prophet (according to this sinner) is not in the evangelical tone of earnestness, but in the gentle sigh and in the far-away-eyes of his lovers. For they keep looking to see him, somehow and somewhere. So much so that sometimes they seem to live their lives thinking that it is they who are dead and it is the Prophet who is actually very much alive. And in the metaphysical, I guess they are right.

Something to think about, sunshine. While we dwell in this world of happy ghosts.

wa min Allah at-taufiq.

All Proof is in Their Creation

All Proof
I was once a pupil,

But in class
I was neither here nor there.

Teacher asked me
What I wanted to be,
And I said that I didn’t care.


I was once a student
Sent to a foreign land
And there I tried hard
To miss as many classes
As I can.


Then I arrived in a big city
Already dead inside,
But I faked my life
Walking with the living
Under the bright living lights.

I used to walk the quiet cemeteries
Making friends with the dead,
Saying hello to the tombstones
And the beautiful that sleep
Beneath their silent runestones.


Many years later, I was home
When one of the dead who
Was passing my house
Said, “Follow me”
And I followed him to
An association of Love,
And to me it felt like home,
A little paradise that fell
From the heaven above.


“You have only one life to live”, he said

“And you only have one name to live for.”
He held my hand, continuing
“Forget the past and what you were once before,
Live now for a life compensating
For the beautiful death
That is the fate of us all.

Live, for one day you will write all this,
For the stars and the moons,
For the men and women
Who will read and wonder
Whether you write the truth
Or are you a charlatan,
Asking for proof from you
When all proof
Is in their
Creation."

What more proof do we need when we read about love, faith, kindness, compassion, trust and gratitude? Have our fathers and mothers, have our brothers and sisters not shown us enough? Have our friends or teachers failed to give us their undivided support - To steel our souls and hold our hand in the face of life's many trails and trials?

In this dying planet we have one last chance, to make one more magnificent show of humanity and its divine promise. And that last chance is your life, pet. Before we die, as we all will inevitably, before we release our grip of life at the exhortation of Azrail the Angel of Death, let us live life well - to challenge the hedious powers of our ego, our hate, our fears, our envy, our arrogance and hubris. With Love on our side, how can we do otherwise? I feel Love in the gentle caress of a morning breeze, in the warm company of my family and friends. And I know you do too.

Pax Taufiqa.

Me a Ghost!? ....NEVER!

208. Shakespeare
The world is at best a stage
For ghosts, shadows and imagination.
A path that may take you far inland,
Or return you home to the Ocean.

2. Layla’s ghost
I thought I was tangible,
I thought I had meaning,
I thought I was a lover,
Ruling with the heart of a king.

I now know
I am none of the above,
I am but a ghost,
A vagrant amongst the living.

..............................................................

From the chapters entitled 'The Dam.SunSun.Ana' and 'These Words', and posted here in response to my dear friend, Feisal Bajrai's question (via Facebook) to an earlier posting. So you see, Feisal, my conscience is quite prepared to be a ghost to God's True Reality. But my ego doesn't want to be some silly intangible ghost! My ego is NOT prepared to play a minor role... It wants to be the Real Thing!

Stupid stubborn ego.

Help!