Redha

Tafsir of “jiwa yang tenang” by Imam Mujahid:

“….jiwa yang redha dengan ketentuan Allah yang tahu bahawa sesuatu yang bukan bahagiannya, pasti tidak akan menimpanya, dan sesuatu yang menjadi bahagiannya, pasti akan menimpanya”.

When I came across this tafsir it struck me that, “Yes! This is it! This is how I feel”.  This is how I am able to accept and live with everything that happened in my life without regret, rancour or ill will. I’m no angel but I have this absolute conviction that when I was up there somewhere before coming down to this blessed earth in human form, I had cut a deal with Allah. I had told Him what I wanted to experience during this “short” stint on earth, I could have, perhaps, arrogantly, decided (then) that since my sojourn on earth would be short (I mean it’s only the duration of Dhuha after all), I could heck the circumstances that later occurred in my “human” life.

Hence, my high acceptance level (that’s what people tell me). I figured that since I was the one who requested these experiences, and Allah, being the generous and loving God that He is, granted me my wishes to the letter, then why should I bitch about it! I wanted it, He granted it, so I figured I’d better accept it and live with it. PERIOD!

And with this acceptance came a calmness akin to “what will be, will be”. That’s not to say I don’t experience the normal gamut of emotions like anger, sadness, disappointment, disillusionment and the like…it’s only that these emotions don’t last very long in me. I’d just istighfar and tell myself, “Why am I bitching about getting my wishes?” – yes…I talk to myself a lot! Being a down to earth and rational person also helped me tremendously in coming to terms with my life’s issues and emotions. Also that istighfar, when I recite it often and long enough, cools me down and gets me into “grateful” mode. And I’d smile again…After a while, NOTHING is ever bad enough or too tough to handle. After all I have Allah to rely on and rooting for me – who could possibly do better than Him!

Over the years as I got older and, somewhat, wiser, I would get into “grateful” mode every time I got hit by a curveball. It got me to thanking Allah for jolting me out of my complacency or blasé state. If those curveballs didn’t hit me now and then, I guess I would have just drifted along mindlessly – doing more of the same mindless pursuits…getting nowhere significant. I can’t imagine living a life where its major milestone is dying!

Did this acceptance get me to be a good muslimah? Nope! I was still lackadaisical about solat (prayer) for instance. I would have spurts of total, soul-immersed devotion where I would stay up nights praying my heart and limbs out. Then I would get back to not praying or praying sporadically. My mum used to say this about my habit, “Hang tu musim durian pun selalu datang dari hang sembahyang” [the durian season comes a lot more often than the number of times I pray]. There was only one practice I was diligent at – zikir. For some reason this habit, which was inculcated in me since I was a little child, stayed with me throughout my life so far. Perhaps because it is so easy to do. I could do it without wudhu’, sitting down, standing up, while walking, running, reading, watching television, and even while chatting. I could do it during my senses, too. It needed no special rituals, no special garb. And I believe that this habit contributed to saving my soul.

…..to be continued.……

My “Muhammad”

Let me tell you about my father. He was a regular army fella – a stickler for discipline. You could set your clock by his timing! Never ever be late deliberately – he would just wait for ten minutes beyond the appointed time. You could be rest assured that if you found him praying, it would be within ten minutes of the azan. I guess he liked the number 10!

Bapa was a jovial man; an indulgent father to us girls, a gentleman to all women especially to mak (mother), and a man to be reckoned with to my brothers and all other men. I remember overhearing a piece of advice he gave to my cheeky brothers, “Hampa esok kalau kawin jangan dok nak buat bini hampa tu hamba pecacai hampa. Jangan dok nak memerintah itu ini. Bini hampa tu bukan orang gaji. Tolong depa buat kerja rumah. Jangan tunggu sampai depa berleteaq. Itu suma anak orang. Mak pak depa bagi kat hampa suruh jaga betui-betui bukan suruh buat hamba!” [When you marry, don’t treat your wives like slaves. Don’t order them around. They’re not your maids. Help them with the housework. Don’t wait until they nag. They’re all someone’s daughters (entrusted in your care). Their parents wed them to you for you to take good care of them, not for you to enslave them]. And he lived every word he preached. He hanged the laundry, swept the compound, did the daily marketing, fixed things around the house, minded us kids, always quick with “please” and “thank you” and a lot of other activities as well except cooking. Bapa was a terrible cook! He couldn’t tell the difference between sugar and salt!

So I grew up seeing my brothers cook, clean and do myriad house chores – quite cheerfully and without whining. Most of them still do till today. And most of them are more adept at cooking and housekeeping than their wives. Much as they teased us girls, they were always protective, loving, caring, courteous and gentlemanly toward us.

Bapa was “warak” (pious). Right into my late teens, I used to think that all adults pray, read kitab and recite the Quran all the time. I used to think that they didn’t need much sleep because I saw bapa doing this in the early hours of the morning till daybreak. I had this habit of waking up in the wee hours of the morning to read my story books. When we had guests, he would shorten his prayer sessions. He always reminded us that visitors to our home are blessings Allah sent to us and we were to treat them as VIP. He would apologise to us when he did something unreasonable to any of us. I could always air my opinions freely and he would listen attentively. He never made any of us feel stupid or small. Even when he scolded us (“us” usually being my older brothers), he was never harsh – but definitely stern.

Bapa taught us values through his actions. He was a man of his word – an honourable man. Through him I learnt a fair bit about religion – stuff beyond my tender years. He was a master storyteller, great at simplifying things so a kid could understand. He forgave readily, was always quick to help, had a great sense of humour and made every trip out of the home seem like a great adventure. But he also had a temper (he was a Leo!) – unleashed when strongly provoked. However, he was also quick to apologise.

It was his routine to perform maghrib and isyak prayers at our village surau. On the way he would pass a group of youngsters strumming their guitars on the street corner (those days people walked). He would greet them with a salam and a smile and, at times, would stop to listen to them play or just chat about music. Then he would excuse himself and head on to the surau. By and by, the crowd at the street corner lessened until there was none there close to maghrib prayer. When bapa passed on, a couple of these guys told me that they were embarrassed at being seen loitering on the street corner when bapa walked by. He never once preached to them yet he touched their conscience by his conduct. Many of these “tough” guys wept shamelessly at his funeral and clamoured with each other to be pallbearers.

The kampong had never seen such a massive turnout for a funeral as on the day bapa died. Cars were parked all the way to the zoo (which was about a mile from our kampong). The kampong folks willingly ferried these mourners on their motorcycles. People overflowed to the street for the “jenazah” (janaza) prayer. The cemetery was filled with mourners – bapa was the second person to be buried there. And for the next two years we had a constant stream of mourners at our doorstep – those who were apprised of his death late. I somehow became the designated guide to bapa’s resting place whenever I was around.

My father wasn’t a VIP or anyone remotely famous. Yet he was loved and respected by many. I have never seen so many grown men cry as I did at his funeral. Even the imam broke down when he read the “talkin”. There were also quite a number of non-Muslims present. It was obvious that some mourners came immediately upon hearing of his demise – some were in shorts and slippers! I later found out that they were at the wet market when they got the news.

Bapa will always be my hero. I still miss him terribly. When I envisage my “Muhammad”, bapa always comes to mind….I guess it’s true when they say that a girl is always in love with her father…..