Outside, Allah-u-Akhbar piercesNizamuddin’s dank dawn air. It is still dark. Inside, electric light powersstrength to my feverish body. The mosque’s minarets radiate prayer calls allaround-—coded signals emanating from old radio transmitter-towers— relayingthe dangers of heat in this stale air.
A bare body sleeps peacefully beside me—her face’s innocence and thegenerous curve of her eyelashes try to sweep away my skin’s excess heat, onethat is fast making my bones pale and brittle.
A brief lull lingers outside. I cannot hear the heavy lyrics, their rhymestrying to invoke peace and respect, their wafting baritone instilling faith.Such things are luxuries for me now.
I lie, trying to piece together the eccentric song of my own inadequatebreathing. It is a struggle. It is also a mystery. Mystery of a body’sarchitecture, its vulnerability, and its efficient circulation—they areperfect models I remember from school’s early lessons. They are only howthings ought to be, not how they are.
Only now, I realise the intent of prayer’s persuasion and its seductiveexpression. I also value the presence and grace of the body that willingly liesnext to me, as her breath tries to realign my will’s magnetic imprint, and myheart’s irregular beat. My hearing is trapped within the diaphragm’scircuitous drone—in Arabic’s passion that etches its parabolic script, sungloud that no slant or serif can be erased, altered or misunderstood.
Religion’s veil and chiffon—its sheer black and translucence, its own desireto give and want, its ambition to control and preserve. Such songs mean nothingif one’s own peace and privacy remain unprotected, or are not at ease. I wantthe chant’s passion, its heat to settle my restlessness. I want the song tosoothe my nerve-ends so that the pain subsides, and faith’s will enables torise. I also want the beauty of this faith to raise its heat—not body-heat butthe heat of healing.
But for now, the diaphanous lull is a big boon. Here, I can calculate the exactpath of my body’s blood-flow, its unpredictable rise and fall of heat, and theway it infects my imagination.
I step out of the room’s warm safety. I see the morning light struggling toremove night’s cataract.
Again, the mosques threaten to peel their well-intentioned sounds —to appeaseus all. But I see only darkness, and admire it—I also admire the dignity andgravity of heavy water and its blood—its peculiar viscous fragility, its ownstruggle to flow, sculpt and resuscitate.
In quiet’s privacy, I find cold warmth in my skin’s permanent sweat, in itsacrid edge, and in my own god’s
prayer-call.
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This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, March15, 2006
