Rainy Day at Masjid Jamek

The sandals. They squelched as I walked precariously over the narrow kerb. Cars sped beside me, perhaps evading the rain. Drenched in rain, I desired their shelter, their air conditioned comfort. Though the weather invited melancholy ponderings, the awareness of the outside was effaced by their self-indulgent dreams behind steering wheels. Carried by the sway of dreams, these cars raced through puddles, abruptly bathing me with the unloved tears from the sky, fit for drains. Like other gifts, they are funnelled out, hidden and laid waste. From gifts they turn to scraps while for others; they crave for it.

Daggers of water were aimed by heaven's army from the skies while onward and backward the armies of man trudged with blank faces like those who encounter their reflections through drops of water. Amidst these, they were oblivious to miracles dropping from the celestial trove...

What shall we render to thee O miraculous drop?

I leave with a heavy heart,
from the womb of sorrows and delight.

Yet, who summoned thee?
A word, a prayer uttered, or mere chance?

A drop is not yours to ask for,
much less the many tears bequeathed to you.

Then what I ask, what calls thee,
why waste it here and withold it there?

How dare I ask myself?
Mortal, is it meet to make account of a gift?
Waste or scarcity is no heavenly fault,
Save for man who names them such.

What wisdom is there?
Necessity is absent so excess it becomes,
but to my brother in need,
what have you in store?

Amen, amen, not I, not I!
gifts have no aim,
only bow and arrow,
and those who receive, profit.

My gain is no profit,
when gift is in excess,
burden it becomes,
with no remorse from the heavens.

Lo, what belligerency!
why make tumultous argument,
when yours is to divide,
yours to reckon the fate of gifts.

Yours the fate to decide,
yours the praise of the heavens,
yours to make beauty out of tears,
yours to win the graces.

For one drop's fate,
is reckoned as gift,
and falls with no relent,
to grace your company.

I am but dew to the parched land,
the lens of dreams,
the sacrament for the weary,
and blessing to the ears.

So I ask thee then,
if justice is what you seek
what have you done to me?
when I leave aplenty you gather little.

And in your stories,
you behold my might,
yet eschew your wisdom,
not to glorify the fragile, the forgotten.

So who is it?
Who is the stranger who glides through gullies,
slides through your roof valleys,
fills your gutters, overflowing?

Who is it?
Who ushers the cool spirits that dance around you,
that paints your window pane,
and taps on the roof over your head?

Who is it?
Who makes life anew,
and turns skies into curtains,
which fall from your eaves?

Who is it,
who immerses the wind with sweetness,
who brings the message of fragrance,
whose whisper makes all memories resound?