I named this blog “Bula key jana may kon” — and then, almost immediately, made the mistake of searching for Rabbi Shergill’s version. That’s enough to lodge a song in your head for the better part of a week. Not that I give much time to music. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I will admit: I am guilty of listening to Jhol — the acoustic version — on repeat. It’s off now. Even the echoes have settled. So why am I writing about this?
Because it brings my internal maulana crashing down to earth. According to fiqh, music is a sin. But rather than hunting for justifications, I’d rather accept it and ask for forgiveness. And here’s the logic I’ve made my peace with: suppose it isn’t a sin — then my asking for forgiveness cost me nothing. Allah, being all-knowing, knows I might do it again, and His forgiveness is greater than His reckoning . But if music is haram, at least I asked. I’m covered either way.
I know this isn’t Sufi teaching. I’m not a Sufi. Though I hold in the deepest regard those who truly are.
I hadn’t planned where this would go after the music question led me to who am I? — but this is the shape it took, so I’ll roll with it.
I am not a philosopher. I am not in search of Truth. Over years of wrestling with my faith, I’ve gathered enough experience to know I’ll stay my course. Have I exhausted every other path before choosing this one? No. But I know, practically, that the path I’m on creates the least friction — with my own mind, with my family, with the people I work alongside. Does that make me a pragmatist? Maybe. I’m putting these thoughts out publicly because knowing someone might read this makes me think more carefully. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the possibility that someone important might come across it — and I don’t want to present anything careless or offensive.
Enough existential detours.
These days I’ve been reading about Sufism. One thing I’ve noticed: English texts on the subject go into far more detail than the Urdu literature does. At first this seemed strange, but then it made sense — English writers are often writing for non-Muslims, so they contextualize everything, explain the surrounding world. Urdu writers assume you already live inside it.
Which brings me to a problem I’ve hinted at in earlier entries: my Urdu reading has fallen into tatters. You might say: so do something about it, don’t just note it. Fair. But my mind craves concepts at the speed I can absorb them in English. Does that mean my English is strong? Not necessarily. Khair — enough about my shortcomings. I’m doing fine.
One more thing.
While reading the Sufi book, I came across the Hadith of Jibreel — Iman, Islam, Ihsan. It clicked something loose from a distant room in my memory: lessons from the masjid, the words of Iman-e-Mujmal and Iman-e-Mufassal, phrases that were once just there, lodged somewhere in my head without effort. Trying to memorize them again felt hard. That humbled me. I’ve been wandering around in the abstract while the foundation has quietly crumbled.
I’ve also been listening to Ihya Ulum al-Din — but in the first fifty minutes, the recording was still introducing Imam Ghazali: his stature, various dreams about him. By the second file I’d already decided it was above my level. Not that I don’t understand it — I simply don’t have the patience to sit through it right now. Perhaps someday.
Who am I? A person who listens to acoustic Jhol on repeat, forgets his kalimas, reads Sufi books in English because his Urdu has gone rusty, and makes Pascal’s Wager with his playlist. I’m doing fine.