BMI on Notes

Ghafileen Paradise

Sat, 20 Jun 2026 14:40:03 +0500

In 2005 when I went to Rywind, the Markaz (headquarters) was still on the old construction, call it nostalgic but I liked that old version better than the new one. Last I went there was in 2015, may be the layout might have changed now.

You ask, what that has to do with the blog title, I was with a fellow who knew few of the colloquial of that place. So, at the back of the masjid, there was a basement, with few people sleeping there, at 11am I think, and my fellow called the place “Ghafileen Paradise”.Because you can sleep there without anyone bugging you to join any of the sermons or deeds.

Of course that was for chuckles, the literal meaning of Ghalfil will be neglectful, and Ghafileen will be plural of Ghafil. Fast forward to 2026 and I still use constructions like these to laugh at current divisions within our religion.

e.g. At office we have two jamats (congregational prayers) so we call the one who pray at 1.15pm “ahlay sawa aik” and the one who offer prayer at 1.45pm “ahlay ponay du”. The simple translation will be people of 1.15pm and so on. That now I have justified the title.

I feel that I am in a Ghafil’s Paradise of my own, not doing enough for hereafter or my fellow Muslims or even this life. But, I can only reflect and find shortcomings within me which I also find in the uma at large and that is of Hubb uz-Zahoor, our “the love of appearance”. It describes the ego’s craving for fame, social status, or public approval.

You can easily jump to conclusion, listing all the social media craze for fame and people going to lengths for views, which is obvious. But a large portion of this I see in our offline life, people going to lengths for their peers approval. Chasing after gadgets which make one even more Ghafil.

That brings me to the part of my obesity, I am constantly told to start exercise, eat in moderation, which I conclude is the greatest of my neglect. Better do something about it, my BMI is off the charts.

Note: Human written.

Tempting but I will refrain

Sun, 14 Jun 2026 17:25:18 +0500

To start with, it’s very tempting to put my half baked thoughts through Claude (the free model) and it gives a fully formed post. But as some people suggest, I will restrain, so this is only with Google Docs autocorrect (2nd pass with harper-ls).

First, I do not go to extremes. Case in point: though I am a practicing Muslim, I do not force my sect’s view on others. The most important decision was my marriage, and I never ask which sect my wife subscribes to. It turned out to be a complex mix, with my father-in-law being a practicing Barelvi. A few posts ago I wrote that I also went to Hajj with them. Of course when I say I do not force my worldview on them, it does not mean I am open to concepts that contradict my beliefs. My silence is not acceptance of your acts; it’s just your way, and I am on mine.

Second, I often write that hindsight is a dangerous thing, it is not that I never think of scenarios where things were different (double negative I know), but I refrain and say it is God’s will. Why am I noting things here, remember the audience of one. It is for me to not look back or lament, but to stay firm on concepts which sustain peace in my life.

Third, I am teaching my wife how to drive. Yesterday she got her learner’s license and today she took the car to the market. We took some trips before this one, but now she can legally drive, though we do not have an L marked on the car. She was driving good today until a guy talking on the phone decided to cross the road without looking, she braked abruptly and a bike wala hit the car. I convinced her that repairs will cost 5k which she said she will pay, but I couldn’t contain my laugh.

The bumpers are already repaired a couple of times until a major repair is due; these things just add up. The other day I hit a stray dog, and the front bumper cracked a little. The dog was fine and it just ran away, again the bumper was already weak.

Reflecting on the last post I rambled that Urdu text does not add context, but there was a contradiction that I have not read much in Urdu, well I have not read much in English either. But at that time the English text was giving me context much faster than the Urdu one, so don’t take my words literally.

Also, on following Ihya Ulum al-Din the core philosophical concepts did not start in the audiobook, so it was easy to follow. I know when the core concepts will come I will need lots of AI searches to get to the core, and on religion you need a teacher more than AI. So here is the 3rd refrain. I don’t know how much I can contain myself from writing about religion. But, as this is a blog, and it is normally meant for me to reflect and grow. I will keep airing my rambling. It makes me cautious in real life, when you put things in public it is as if you add a stencil to a projector, things lit up and you see through your shortcomings.

Last, I saw a post on Instagram (I know taking directions on matters of deen from the internet is dangerous but this one just melts the heart). “Was not Muhammad Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam tested more than you? Did he not bury his beloved wife? Did he not lose his noble uncle?” and it lists all the hardships in Arabic. It really humbles the heart. Surely, it reminds of the hadith where Muhammad Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam mentions that he was tested more than any prophet. I recall, in a bayan someone told if you feel heavy from life, remember what our Prophet Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam went through and how he prevailed. People also say reading Sura Yousuf brings heart to its place.

That’s it for this week, it is still so tempting to put this to AI, but I will refrain.

Who Am I?

Mon, 08 Jun 2026 23:42:46 +0500

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.

Audience of One

Sun, 07 Jun 2026 20:13:18 +0500

A long time ago, I used to read an internet magazine called Spider. That’s where I first encountered the idea of writing blog entries. Back then, as now, the advice was the same: leave comments on other blogs, build a community, cross-link, network. All sensible counsel.

But try as I might, I can never find it in me to do anything beyond the writing itself.

After sitting with that for a while, I’ve made peace with it. I occasionally scroll back through old entries and think to myself — that wasn’t half bad. Which brings me to the title: for all practical purposes, this blog has an audience of one. His name is Hamdan.

But if you happen to be considering starting a blog and you need advice on keeping your expectations from the internet at their absolute minimum — here it is. Cut yourself some slack. Guarantee yourself exactly one visitor, and that visitor is you. When you come back, you’ll find you actually want to add more. You reflect, you sigh, you count your blessings, and you move on.

Of course, every time I come here to reflect, I get ideas. Old domain names I liked and bought resurface. Projects that still need their own space. And as AI becomes a little more practical every day, I know that when I find the time, some of those projects will finally get built.

For now, though — one reader. And that’s enough.

And then there is God — the one witness who knew what would be written before there was anything to write. The all-knowing. But even with that thought, I sometimes catch myself wondering: what would it be like if we were shown what is to come? Someone once told me that would be a curse. The novelty of life — the not-knowing — is precisely how we were made to live it.

Gumnaam Dil

Wed, 03 Jun 2026 22:37:56 +0500

You wander with me song to song, spark to spark, no horizon in sight.
You crave every unfinished sky, every bright and fleeting thing.
Yet some mornings you can barely drag me across the room.
I know you push the blood through my veins. That alone is miracle enough.
Still, in the dark you whisper: how will you earn tomorrow?
after I spent you last night on laughter.
You pull me toward music and fire, then punish me with consequence.
You ache for roads we never took, bleed in perfect silence, never beg for light.
Yet flinch at every small alarm, day and night.
You leap at the slightest kindness, flinch like a struck match at a cold tone.
You feel before I think, pull me back from every edge I lean toward.
And still your truest name stays unspoken.
So before we chase the next bright ruin,
before we lose ourselves in another song,
tell me your name.
So I can learn to carry you better, or at least stop calling you by the wrong one.

The Dua

Mon, 01 Jun 2026 22:35:23 +0500

One day, I sat there thinking, He has the entire universe in His hands, every star, every ocean, every soul ever born — what will our little patience mean to Him? But then I thought maybe that’s exactly why it matters, because in all that vastness, He still sees us standing here, holding something fragile and real, asking Him not to let it slip away.

Of course His plan is grand and vast — perhaps what He wants is for whatever grows between us to outlast the infatuation of this day. Not like a toy a child begs for, cherishes for a moment, then lets it collect dust the day a new one comes along — but like a dua a mother makes for her child, one he doesn’t fully understand yet, but grows into, and one day looks back on with gratitude and tears.

Someone once told me that Ibrahim (AS) spent his best days in the fire — such was his intimacy with the Divine. But I fear that we, being human, never quite return from those blessed states.

Sometimes I wonder why He doesn’t just grant us our desired end — whatever it is He has planned. But then again, perhaps we wouldn’t understand the worth of what we have if it came too easily. The husn-e-zun we develop through this waiting, that quiet beautiful trust — maybe that is the goal itself.

But I will be here, waiting still, somewhere between longing and surrender, for my Dua to complete, in this life or after.

Hajj 2011

Tue, 26 May 2026 17:07:39 +0500

I never quite had it in me to write about my Hajj experience, but lately, I’ve felt the need to place it in context—particularly around my religious life and the anxieties of that period. This reflection was prompted by an argument I heard recently: that the current ulema have created a myth that Hajj is for everyone, when it is, in reality, only for the elite.

My answer to that is simple. My father-in-law was a car electrician. I was a software engineer. Both of us had limited means, but we had enough to cover the trip, and neither of us had many dependents at home. Hajj, for us, was not a luxury; it was a spiritual experience rooted in sacred texts, an obligation that is mandatory when one can afford it, regardless of social standing.

Looking back at that journey in 2011, a few distinct realities stand out.

The first is the weather. I feel a deep sympathy for those performing Hajj in the intense heat of recent years. Ours was in November and far more manageable. The camps in Mina still had a little open space back then, which became my sanctuary. It allowed for a bit of isolation—an introvert’s essential need to decompress, reflect, and remember.

The second is the absence of digital noise. There were no smartphones, and therefore, no photographs. Though I’ve picked up the habit of capturing moments in recent years thanks to phone cameras, I had no such inclination back then. Over the entire 42-day trip, I think I called home only three or four times.

The third is the emotional weight. My wife and I had left our one-year-old son with relatives, a decision that weighed heavily on her. I vividly remember how, in the final days of Hajj, she would cry from missing him. But we managed, and so did he.

The fourth was the social friction. The group we traveled with belonged to the Barelvi school of thought, environment I wasn’t entirely comfortable with at the time. I navigated the journey quietly without any major episode, though I did skip several of their organized side trips. They attributed this to my “Wahabi self,” but in truth, it had far more to do with my introverted nature.

The fifth was an underlying spiritual unease. In those days, a recurring dream was deeply troubling me. I later shared it with an elder Sufi, who advised me that some dreams are from the Devil, and that one should stop dwelling on them and instead seek Allah’s protection. At the time, I wasn’t close to my own Sheikh either. Shortly after I returned from Hajj, he passed away, leaving a void. My cousin later introduced me to his own Sheikh, and I took bait (allegiance) from him. Over the years, however, I drifted away from the prescribed dhikr he recommended.

Later I join Tanzeem-e-Islami, which also utilizes a bait system, though one detached from traditional Sufi silsilas. Like most things within the organization, their commitment comes in two distinct tiers: Mubtadi (Beginner) and Multazim (Committed). Those who follow my blog know that I drifted away from their gatherings around 2017. Yet, just last week, I found myself renewing my Mubtadi bait—only to promptly miss this week’s Usra (circle meeting).

The Usra Amir messaged me afterward, graciously noting that he had forgotten to send a reminder and would catch me next week. To be honest, I had spent the previous day shopping for a sacrificial animal and simply could not find it in me to wake up for the dawn prayer when the Usra was scheduled.

2011 was complicated, difficult days spiritually. Looking back at the young man who made that pilgrimage fifteen years ago, the advice I would give my younger self is simple: slow down. Live in the moment, and trust that as life matures, things become manageable. Life, religion, work, and family each eventually find their required space.

How Old Are You?

Tue, 26 May 2026 17:02:00 +0500

A long time ago, on a writing forum, they started a story submission contest. I submitted a story about a young graduate whose parents decided to leave him on his own while they traveled the world. I’m not much of a writer, and the story was very raw, but someone on the forum said it read like it was written by a child. It was an honest review, but for an adult who was just trying to find their footing, it landed hard. Somehow it never occurred to them that the person writing it might have the heart of a child — and might not have been ready to hear that.

On the same forum where I started posting personal things, I was told that kind of content belonged on a blog. So I started one — but eventually deleted it when things became too much to handle. I’m older now and have developed a thick skin, though it does sting a little that no one seems interested in what I write unless I personally ask them to read and review it.

Keeping these experiences in mind, I tried writing more complex things, but they ended up coming across as cryptic. As someone on the forum once pointed out, it shows through your writing when you haven’t read widely — and they weren’t wrong. But I think I still have the heart of a child, one who simply wants to see his writing, no matter how primitive, find its little space on the internet.

So the obvious question now is — Hamdan, why aren’t you writing anything? And the honest answer is that I have simply run out of energy, the zest for it. But one good thing is that AI corrects the grammar and structure and makes it more readable. Of course, to the purists, using AI is, for lack of a better word, a crime.

To continue from the last post — I alluded to the idea that two strange babies raised together will act like siblings and won’t fight unless they are provoked. But immediately after posting it, the story of Cain and Abel came to mind. No one taught them any differently, yet one killed the other and later lamented it. So my argument is moot.

One more thing from the last post — what I didn’t mention was that the friend I was with also explained to me what the dark and profane meaning actually was. I did end up using the phrase in a six-word story on the same writing forum, purely to get attention. I later lamented it, deleted it, and left the forum for good.

Had I not had these experiences, I would not have had the chance to grow. What happens between friends can stay contained, but airing things on the internet is a different matter entirely.

Of course, the obvious question is — why bring it up again if you already lamented it? To that I would say, hush, I have a blog’s belly to fill. But in all honesty, I needed to get it out of my system and find my peace with it.

WAR

Wed, 01 Apr 2026 21:44:36 +0500

People die. A select few make billions. And the world calls it geopolitics.

I can’t write about that. Not because I don’t have opinions — and not because I can pretend to be neutral, I live in Pakistan, I am not outside this — but because the moment you name a country or a conflict you become a camp. And I’ve written before about the ease of not belonging to a camp.

What I can write about is something smaller and somehow more dangerous.

Take two babies. Raise them together. They will behave as siblings unless someone trains them otherwise. The conflict is never original. It is always inherited.

What gets inherited is not just belief but the shape of meaning. How a word lands. What a phrase implies. The gap between what is said and what is received.

A long time ago I was walking back to university with a friend. His major had nothing to do with language or literature but he read voraciously and wrote anonymously. To test him — or maybe to test myself — I gave him a phrase.

In love, god, girls and myself.

He laughed first. Called it profane. Then paused and said something I haven’t forgotten — that sex is also profane, but marriage is not, even if the papers are unsigned.

What I meant was simple. Almost innocent. At that point in life things arranged themselves in this order — the love of God, the mystery of girls, the slow and unfinished business of understanding myself.

But meaning doesn’t travel the way you send it.

Take that same phrase and hand it to someone carrying years of a different inheritance and the output is unrecognizable. Not wrong exactly. Just entirely their own.

That is what this is about. Not the wars on maps. But the war inside language. The nuance of meaning that divides everyone — quietly, completely, and sometimes beyond repair.

Note: AI helped me find the right words and structure.

The Underachievers Manifesto

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 22:32:40 +0500

Normally, I don’t write much about books. Mostly because, honestly, I don’t read much. But The Underachiever’s Manifesto by Ray Bennett is a different story.

What makes it interesting is the source: the author is a medical specialist in Seattle and a recovering overachiever. It’s refreshing to see the advantages of “doing enough” from someone who has actually been on the high-success side of the fence and decided it wasn’t worth the cost.

I know what you’re thinking: “Hamdan, are you such a loser that you need a book to tell you how to live an ordinary life?” I hear you. But don’t form your opinion just yet. As Bennett puts it: “Underachievement is, surprisingly, not as easy as it should be.” I’ve actually read over my own draft of this post multiple times before publishing—partly to make sure it’s good, but mostly to internalize the message I’m trying to preach to myself.

The Problem with Excellence

I won’t judge you if you’re a natural winner. There is a strange joy in being at the top of a list. But if your desire to be at the top is killing you, please stop. There is another way out.

If you are happy and acing life, keep going. But if you’re hitting every target and your life is miserable, then maybe “your commitment to excellence is the source of your trouble.” Consider these insights from the book:

The Perspective: “Your successes and failures really don’t matter to nearly everybody alive.”

The Law of Diminishing Returns

The book also touches on a concept that changed how I look at things: Diminishing Returns. Think about it—a $1,000 phone is not 10 times better than a $100 phone. It doesn’t give you 10 times the value. The author argues that “More is not always better, and good enough is good enough.” Perfection is a curse that prevents us from enjoying what we already have.

Even when looking at the “big” things in life, like investing or even religion, Bennett points out that overachievers tend to ruin the experience:

“The underachiever reasons (correctly) that if highly skilled, even brilliant, fund managers can’t beat the market, then it’s pretty unlikely that he will, either.”

Strategic Underachievement vs. Just Giving Up

Here’s where I want to add something important: there’s a meaningful difference between strategic underachievement and simply coasting through life. Bennett isn’t advocating that we become lazy or apathetic. Instead, he’s pointing us toward something more thoughtful—intentional prioritization.

The real skill isn’t blanket underachievement across all areas of life. It’s discernment—knowing which mountains are worth climbing and which ones you can walk around. Some things genuinely matter and deserve your best effort. Most things don’t.

The question Bennett’s book forces us to ask isn’t “How can I do less?” but rather “Where should I actually be trying?” Maybe the solution isn’t lowering the bar everywhere, but getting more selective about where we place our bars in the first place.

When Bennett says that mediocrity is the key, I think he means: most things in life function perfectly well at “good enough,” and by accepting this, we free up energy for the few things that truly warrant excellence. It’s not about abandoning standards—it’s about choosing them wisely.

Final Thoughts

One of the book’s ten principles sums it up best: “Great expectations lead to great misery.” If we lower the bar strategically—not everywhere, but in the places where perfectionism is draining us—we might actually find the space to breathe.

The challenge now is figuring out which parts of our lives deserve our best, and which parts just need to be done. That discernment might be the real achievement worth pursuing.

A Note on the Process: If you’ve noticed a sudden consistency in my posting, it’s because I have chosen to let AI assist me in formulating and polishing my wording.