Hajj on Notes

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.

The Sufi Way and the Echo Chamber

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 22:26:13 +0500

Normally, when I return to this blog, it is an act of reflection. There is a specific rhythm to it: I read my words multiple times before posting, allowing the thoughts to iterate in my head until they settle. Today, however, I find myself holding two seemingly contradictory concepts at once. I want to “regurgitate” them here to see how they might fit together.

The First Concept: The Sufi Way

To me, the “Sufi Way” represents the perpetual struggle to be truly content with the present. It is the belief that whatever situation you find yourself in is a result of a Divine decree.

In this framework, life is distilled into two fundamental responses: Sabar (Patience) and Shukar (Gratitude). These core values were deeply instilled in me during my time with the Tablighi Jamaat. It is a beautiful philosophy—the idea that you are exactly where you are meant to be. It teaches that your Rizq (provision) is already written. This doesn’t imply an invitation to passivity; rather, it suggests that one should give their absolute best effort while leaving the ultimate result to God. In this view, Rizq is a vast concept, encompassing not just wealth, but housing, health, and all worldly gains.

The Second Concept: The Echo Chamber

While the Jamaat taught me contentment, they also emphasized the necessity of staying “connected to the work.” The tension began when I enrolled in a one-year course with Tanzeem-e-Islami.

I wasn’t committing a transgression or doing anything “wrong,” but my shift in perspective was not well-received by my original circle. This is where the echo chamber reveals itself: when a community is built around a singular methodology of preaching or thinking, any deviation—even if it is toward further learning—is often met with discontent.

It was a striking irony: the very people who taught me to be content with God’s plan seemed deeply discontented with my choice to explore another scholarly path. It made me realize that, sometimes, the “work” of a group can become more important to its members than the spiritual principles the group was founded upon.

A Complex Intertwining

It would be easy to paint Tanzeem-e-Islami as the “intellectuals” and the Tablighi Jamaat as “rigid,” but reality is far more nuanced. At the time, I was working with the Jamaat, yet my local masjid was run by the Tanzeem. We weren’t allowed to conduct our work in that masjid, just as Tanzeem members would likely be restricted in a Jamaat space.

Yet, the threads are intertwined. The boundaries are porous in unexpected ways. For example, the son of the Mudeer (Principal) of the Tanzeem school spent a one-year tashkeel (deployment) with the Tablighi Jamaat.

The “ecosystem” of each masjid or even the elders within set groups is different. I recall hearing the late Haji Abdul Wahab Sahab remark that students in the madrasah at the Raiwind Markaz were “wasting their time” with studies when they could be giving Dawat (inviting others to the faith). To him, the work was so paramount that all other paths were secondary. Conversely, I heard from late Bhai Wasif Manzoor that while Dawat is Bil Wasta Ibadat (indirect worship) and Zikar, Ilm, Namaz, and Quran are Barai Rast Ibadat (direct worship), because Dawat is the act Prophet Muhammad ʿalayhi as-salām used to do to bring people to direct Ibadat. These elders held opposing views on the hierarchy of practice, yet they held each other in the highest regard.

Finding the Quiet Center

My mind wanders in these directions because I have a tendency to “jell” with whatever group I spend time with. Had I spent my youth with socialist rebels, I suspect I would be defending their cause today. Perhaps it was better, then, that I spent mine in the world of preaching—a path that seeks to benefit the believer and does no harm.

As the Jamaat predicted, I eventually left the structured work of both groups. My journey has taken a turn toward the secular and the simple. I shifted my focus toward my career; I spent time on physical health and exercise, and later left that behind too. Now, I find myself in a phase of revisiting simple concepts in my leisure time.

Is this a loss of fervor, or is it a different form of the Sufi Way?

I am learning to find the same Sabar and Shukar in my job and my technical studies that I once sought in organized religious work. I’ve moved from the loud, communal echo chambers to a quieter, more personal space. The journey continues—not in the tired feet of a traveling preacher, but in the mind of someone trying to find God in the simple, mundane rhythms of daily life.

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

Unheard Words

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 22:14:07 +0500

We speak because we must. Not because words guarantee understanding, but because silence threatens to erase us. Every sentence is an attempt to bridge the distance between minds between one consciousness and another. Words defend, accuse, clarify, persuade. Sometimes they change lives. More often, they vanish.

Speech is powerful only on one condition: that it is received. Remove the listener, and language collapses. Isolate a human being long enough, and even their screams dissolve into nothing—sound without consequence, pain without witness.

This is the quiet terror beneath human existence. We are creatures obsessed with meaning, yet trapped in separation. We write. We speak. We plead. And the universe offers no promise that anyone will answer.

Unless there is God.

Not God as comfort, but God as witness. Judgment implies attention. Omniscience implies that nothing is overlooked—not the grand confession, not the half-formed thought, not the cry that never reaches the mouth. Faith does not eliminate suffering, but it denies absolute isolation. It asserts that there is a listener who cannot turn away.

In that framework, no word is wasted. No prayer is unheard. Even silence is known. The believer is never speaking into a void; the void is an illusion sustained only if the universe is indifferent.

This is not an argument that faith is easy. It is an argument that faith answers the most brutal question: What if no one is listening? Religion responds by refusing the premise. It insists that every moment is already observed, every struggle already accounted for—without the need for performance, explanation, or proof.

But what of those who cannot accept this answer? What of words that seek only human understanding, human acknowledgment? Perhaps that is why we persist—writing, speaking, recording traces of ourselves. We are not merely expressing thought; we are searching for witnesses.

To be heard is to be affirmed as real. Faith claims that this affirmation is permanent. Without it, we hope—desperately—that somewhere, somehow, our words will still find their way to someone who sees.

A Note on the Process: I have chosen to let AI assist me in formulating and polishing my wording.

Tsundoku

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 21:57:08 +0500

Back in university, I bought books recommended by my courses or by people in general, which eventually led to a cupboard overflowing with volumes. One day, long after university and tired of the realization that I might never read them, I gave them all away to whoever wanted them; the rest went to the raddi wala to be recycled.

A few years after doing that, I remembered that one of those books was a book which i needed. I searched for it locally and then on the internet, finally finding it online. I asked a friend to fetch it for me, a process that took approximately a year. Now, I have read the initial part of that book and it sits on my shelf, but it is one of only a few technical books remaining there. Most of my technical collection is now digital, stored on Google Drive or in my HumbleBundle library. My physical shelf now hosts Islamic books which I plan to read one day.

And so, the cycle of Tsundoku continues.

Polished with AI.

The Year of the Blog

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 21:48:32 +0500

For years, my biggest obstacle as a writer wasn’t a lack of ideas—it was my refusal to let anything be seen before it felt finished. I treated drafts like private property, revising them endlessly and publishing almost nothing. The result was predictable: long silences, a stagnant blog, and money spent maintaining a site that rarely spoke.

Over the past four months, I kept the blog technically alive by leaning on AI to help complete posts. It worked in the narrowest sense—the site wasn’t empty—but it also made it easier to avoid the harder task of writing and committing to my own words. I don’t even know how those posts performed; I never bothered to measure.

Today isn’t a relaunch or a fresh start. It’s an admission. I renewed the domain, published every unfinished draft, with the hope i will have fresh things to publish tomorrow.

Polished with AI.

The Ease of Just Being

Fri, 26 Dec 2025 23:45:40 +0500

In a world that demands we pick a camp, a party, or a masalaq (sect), I have found a strange kind of liberation in being “none of the above.”

People often ask why I am apolitical or why I refuse to anchor myself to a specific religious school of thought. The answer is simple: Peace. When you join a camp, you become an accidental spokesperson. You find yourself defending policies you didn’t write, leaders you don’t control, and complex theological arguments you may not have the authority to settle.

I’ve decided to trade the burden of “being right” for the ease of just being.

Perspective

Recently, a small moment during prayer reminded me why this path works. I was invited to lead the prayer, but I declined. I knew that among the group was someone who, because of my perceived “wrong faith” or lack of sectarian alignment, would not feel comfortable praying behind me.

When a colleague asked why I stepped back: my answer: “In his world, his prayer is not accepted if I lead it. But in my world, I can pray behind him. By stepping back, everyone wins.”

It is remarkably easy to live when you stop trying to force others into your “world” and instead learn to navigate theirs with grace. I used to obsess over whether my own prayers were “worthy” enough. Now, I find peace in knowing I am simply giving the best I can with the heart I have.

Masjid at the Dargah

Last weekend, a minor car accident led me to a repair shop near a dargah (shrine). While waiting, I offered three prayers in the masjid alongside the dargah. This was an area I used to pass through as a child on my way to school, and standing there finally answered a childhood query: What is that dome for?

I would have chosen the other masjid somewhere behind the shop, but my father-in-law was there too, and he held the dargah in high respect.

The “Deobandi” version of my younger self would have had a thousand objections to the rituals happening around me, especially the prayers offered near a grave. But the version of me that exists today simply smiled. I offered my prayer, thanked God for the moment of reflection, and moved on. I didn’t need to “fix” them, and they didn’t need to change for me.

After the prayer, my father-in-law asked me to read the writings on the wall—one was by a Sufi and the other a hadith. He interpreted both with the meaning: never say anything against the Awliya.

The Tea Cup

This journey toward seeing the human before the label started with my father. I remember when we moved houses as a child. Our Hindu neighbors from the first locality came to see our new home and share a final cup of tea.

After they left, I asked my father: “How will we clean these cups? They are of the wrong belief.”

My father didn’t lecture me. He simply picked up a cup that still had a little tea left in it, drank from it, and said, “They are just human like us.”

Perhaps his travels gave him a perspective that my younger self hadn’t yet developed. It took me years to realize that the “purity” we often seek in our camps and sects is nothing compared to the simple purity of recognizing another person’s humanity.

Moving Forward

Choosing to be apolitical and non-sectarian isn’t about being passive; it’s about reclaiming your energy. It’s about not letting your peace be held hostage by a party platform or a sectarian debate.

I am still learning, still traveling, and still finding answers to those childhood queries. But for now, I am content to just smile, pray where I am, and leave the heavy lifting of “judging the world” to someone else.

Disclosure: If you’ve noticed that I am posting regularly, it’s because I have chosen to let AI complete and formulate the wording. It has been five years since I started this blog, and I don’t have the will to leave these stories to “future me,” so I let AI assist me in completing them. But the stories are entirely mine. I’m sure you won’t mind.

The Night Algorithm and I Went Back in Time

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 15:56:11 +0500

I couldn’t sleep last night. Instead of fighting it, I did what everyone does: I grabbed my phone, opened YouTube, and started looking for some instrumentals just to quiet my brain down.

What happened next was pretty wild, though I guess it’s common now. YouTube did its thing and started digging. Slowly, my feed shifted from “relaxing beats” to stuff I hadn’t heard in years. One click led to another, and suddenly I was deep in a rabbit hole of my own past. It’s crazy how these algorithms don’t just track what you like—they track who you were. I ended up sitting there in the dark, rediscovering tracks I used to have on repeat, each one bringing back a specific memory I’d totally forgotten about.

Growing up, my mamu ran what I can best describe as a custom cassette recording shop. I’m not entirely sure how legal the setup was, but as a child, the perks were undeniable. Between his shop and my own trips to the market later on, I new a little music :)

These days, I pay for Spotify—well, technically it’s for my brother. Even so, music isn’t my only “go-to.” When I’m working or just winding down, I’m just as likely to put on the Quran, a naat, or a bayan. Some people might find it weird to flip-flop between a playlist and a religious lecture, but to me, it’s never felt like a contradiction. It’s just two different parts of who I am, and I’ve moved between them comfortably for as long as I can remember.

I think that’s why last night felt so significant. It wasn’t just a “good algorithm” at work. It was the way these old sounds and memories stay stored inside us, just waiting for the right moment to surface. Sometimes, all it takes is a little insomnia and a search bar to realize the machine might actually know you better than you thought.

That said, I can understand why people are protective of their YouTube feed; it’s a symbiotic relationship that keeps us constantly engaged.