Tag _sufidiaries
On impulse she wrote: Pay respects to Haji Ali. It was not written in a diary meant for posterity, nor announced with the drama such intentions usually deserve. It was scribbled between two mundane tasks, the way one writes buy milk or call the electrician. Bombay has a way of placing the sacred and the ridiculous on the same …... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
I arrived in Iceland with the usual modern arrogance—armed with a passport, a credit card, and the assumption that I understood the world well enough. Iceland, however, has a way of humbling you without being rude about it. It does not shout. It does not argue. It simply stands there—vast, indifferent, and achingly beautiful—until your … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In the Najd, where the land does not forgive hesitation, there lived a man named Salim ibn Rayyan. Not a mystic. Not a scholar. Just a trader of dates and salt, whose days were counted by caravans and whose nights were ruled by the wind. Saudi Arabia is not gentle with illusions. The sand strips … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
“Mitr pyare nu, haal muridaan da kehna…” She said it softly, not singing, not quite speaking either—more like remembering a line her breath already knew. The old Sikh lady sat cross-legged on the cool marble of the gurdwara, her dupatta loosely pinned, silver hair escaping without apology. She had come early, before the sangat thickened, … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
On most mornings, the city woke up like a badly behaved child — honking, coughing, stretching, and complaining. But inside Gurudwara Sahib, Sector 47, the world was always washed and ironed by 4:45 a.m. The only human who looked as crisp as the marble floors was Raagi Kartar Singh, a man who claimed no great … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
If God ever wants entertainment, He doesn’t watch Netflix. He simply attends a Punjabi wedding. Take the wedding of Baljit Singh’s daughter, Navya — a grand affair in Defence Colony. Baljit was the sort of man who measured respect by the number of dishes in the buffet. His wife Harpreet believed God’s blessings increased in … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A Modern Peshawar Chronicle Peshawar today is a city where ancient poetry meets impatient traffic. Bazaars still smell of cardamom and history, but now neon signboards compete with the stars, and every chai stall has at least one philosopher holding a smartphone. In one such neighborhood lived Gul Bano, a young woman with a brain … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
People think a nation survives on democracy.That’s nonsense.A nation survives on men like me —men you never hear about,men who make sure the news you read isn’t written in blood. Yes, that’s me.Or was me.I’ve spent my life ensuring nobody sleeps with one eye open.The joke is — I haven’t slept properly in decades. I joined … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The first time someone told her she had royal blood, Meher almost laughed. They were sitting in the inner courtyard of the old kothi in Lahore, the lemon tree shedding pale yellow on cracked brick, the afternoon a strange, sleepy gold. Her grandmother, Amma Jaan, had just oiled her hair and was combing it out, long dark … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
He was only sixteen when he began speaking to God as if God were a friend who always picked up the call on the first ring.His name was Aarav, but when he prayed, he whispered another name: Allah, the One who somehow understood him when everyone else was too busy scrolling. He wasn’t escaping the world. … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
I. Before the Borders In the year 1938, Karachi was a port city without the word Partition attached to its future like a wound. It was British India, certainly, with its signs in English and its clerks in dull khaki files, but for the children playing in the narrow lanes of Kharadar, it was just home. Sakina, twelve … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Some nights are quieter than others. This one was still enough to hear the ceiling fan complain about its life, and the old man found himself staring at it with unnecessary interest. His son slept in the next room — that lanky fellow who had once fitted into the crook of his elbow, smelling of … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
There lived a man named Iqbal Singh, who collected regrets the way some people collect postage stamps. In every cupboard of his mind, there were old quarrels wrapped in newspaper, mistakes preserved like pickle jars, and a few embarrassing memories stitched neatly into cushions — so he could sit on them daily. One day, while he … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The old man sat on his usual bench outside Jama Masjid every evening as if the sun was waiting for his permission to set. People thought he was a retired professor or a forgotten poet — because only such men can afford slow lives. But the truth was simpler. He was once a clerk who … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
At seventeen, Tara Mehra had already mastered three things most adults still struggled with:1️⃣ Spotting hypocrisy2️⃣ Naming her emotions3️⃣ Pretending to care about school assemblies Her parents often stared at her as if she were a philosophical Kindle they never ordered. While other teenagers worried about pimples before prom, Tara worried about ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By late October, Delhi had turned into glass. Not just the towers, which had long ago risen with their tinted façades and sleek, mirrored lobbies, but the city itself: every surface reflecting some fragment of another life. Billboards mirrored Instagram posts, Instagram posts mirrored billboard poses, and car windows held faces half-remembered from... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
I have lived long enough to know that the heart does not respect borders — neither those drawn by emperors nor the ones etched by priests to separate “ours” from “theirs.” The heart is like the Satluj: it flows where it must. This story begins in a dusty corner of what was once our Punjab … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
On the outskirts of Old Delhi, not far from the sluggish bend of the Yamuna, lies a modest neighbourhood called Gulmohar Lane. It is a place without grandeur, but also without pretense. The houses bear their peeling paint with nonchalance. The lanes twist in ways that suggest neither intention nor apology. And the shops, family-run … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
It began, as most shifts in a life do, without announcement. On a Wednesday morning that carried no omen, Aria Sen turned into the narrow side lane behind the mobility-tech tower where she worked, intending only to cut a few seconds from her walk. She had been late again — not to work, but to … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
“Let it be said at the start: this is fiction, not history—just a tale with a Sufi breeze passing through it.” Cities can wound you in ways that leave no mark. They are too large to love you, too hurried to remember you. Yet they make a home in your bones before you realise you … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
1. The Lab Where Nothing Was Supposed to Happen On a grey Tuesday at Eastbridge University—that self-respecting Ivy that believes it’s above caring where it ranks—I found myself in a seminar room with a title slide that read: “Silence as a Competitive Asset in Late Capitalism.” Underneath was the tagline in smaller font, as if … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By the time I met the Marwari Seth, the dargah had almost emptied out. It was a winter afternoon in Delhi—the sort the meteorological department calls “moderate pollution” and everyone else calls “normal.” The big crowds had already drifted away, leaving behind a scattering of supplicants, a few stubborn pigeons, and the smell of incense … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Stillness is what I ask, he whispered, though his lips did not move. The words rose and fell inside him like breath: not in any language he could name, but in that quiet, shapeless tongue which had been with him since childhood. Around him, the city glittered — a polished, glassy thing, all reflection and … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By the time the call ended, the rice had stuck to the bottom of the steel pan. Rehana turned off the gas and lifted the pan anyway, setting it down on the counter with a careful clink. The voice on the phone—her mother’s, measured and fatigued—still floated in the quiet of the kitchen. “Bas itna … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By the time I found the khānqāh, the city had already begun to blur at the edges. Delhi’s noise thinned into a muffled hum as the lanes narrowed and twisted, as if someone were slowly turning the volume down on the world. Scooters still whined past, shopkeepers still shouted the day’s prices for guavas and … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The first thing you heard was the thud of his walking stick. Not that he needed it. Armaan Mirza liked the sound it made on the studio floor. A dull, uncompromising knock that announced him before his words did. He was in his usual uniform for a tech rehearsal: white kurta, black waistcoat, dark glasses indoors, and … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By the time the winter smog settled over Delhi like a scratchy grey shawl, everyone knew that Kabir Anand was going to be Chief Minister. It was in the way the cameras followed him at rallies—how the boom mics tilted as if they too wanted to be closer. In the way party workers straightened their … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By the time the sun rose over Rajdharpur Palace, the pigeons on the jharokhas were already gossiping. They had watched this family longer than any court chronicler, and if they could write, they would have produced at least six volumes on the follies of the House of Rajdharpur. Fortunately for the family’s reputation, pigeons could … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
If he had been a little less proud, Gurmeet Singh might have called it a mid-life crisis. But he was a retired government engineer from Chandigarh, a practical man who wore a patka, counted his sugar intake, and believed crises were for people who had too much time and not enough bills. Still, there was … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
He died like decent men should—after finishing his night prayer, rinsing his mouth, folding his shawl, and switching off the light. No drama. The kind of death that doesn’t trouble neighbours. In the morning his niece found him sitting against the pillow as if he had dozed off while counting his beads. She cried the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
It was a Friday evening in Mumbai, the kind of evening that felt like a sigh after too much trying. Anaya sat at the corner table of a dimly lit bar in Kala Ghoda, nursing her second glass of red wine. The bartender, a quiet man with kind eyes, was polishing glasses that didn’t need … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Old Kareem was known in Nizamuddin not for his shop, but for his silences. He ran a small store that sold incense, paper, and tea — the kind of place where people came more for conversation than commerce. He was a widower, thin as a reed, with a white beard that looked like it had … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The first talaq came like thunder, sudden and foolish — an anger that wanted to make itself known.The second was quieter, almost trembling, as if even the word itself had begun to regret being spoken.The third — the one that was meant to end everything — fell into silence before it could reach her. Aafreen did not … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The year was one of those when the world outside America was burning, but inside Princeton, the trees still turned gold on schedule. The lawns were perfectly trimmed, the coffee strong, and the clocks on Nassau Street still ran five minutes fast. It was in this small empire of punctuality that Dr. Saira Khayyam arrived … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
n every city café, there is one quiet soul who reminds us that hurry is not the same as purpose. In ours, it was the man who sat by the window. He came each morning as if time had chosen him to teach it humility. His tea cooled beside him; his gaze lingered on sunlight … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Delhi is a city that never whispers. It hums, argues, and flirts with chaos. By seven-thirty every morning, it smells of ambition — mixed with exhaust, incense, and last night’s regret. Among its restless millions lived Rafiq, an urban planner with the face of a poet and the posture of a man used to waiting. … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The winter sun had barely rolled over the mustard fields of Majitha when Biji began her campaign. “Wake up, Kaka! Guru Purab hai aaj!” she declared, shaking her youngest grandson with the determination of a general. The boy groaned, dragged the quilt tighter, and mumbled something about waking up for langar later. But there was … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
It was the third morning since the rains had stopped. The house smelt faintly of wet earth and hibiscus. Asha sat by the open window, watching a single drop slide down a banana leaf, tremble, and fall. Her mother’s voice drifted in from the courtyard, calling her to breakfast. “There’s tea,” she said. “And toast. … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
There are streets in every great city which the map forgets but memory remembers. This lane—humble, honest—had no celebrated name. In the afternoons its dust rose like an old kirtan refrain, and by evening the hawkers called each other as brothers do: with scolding that is only a different spelling of love. To this lane … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
They had come with one trunk of clothes and another of fear. The landlord on Hardev Gali had said the room was “airy.” Airy meant one window that jammed in the rains and opened reluctantly in winter. Still, Savitri had lined the sill with neem leaves and a brass bowl of water. She said it … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Nachdem mir ja Microsoft kein Win11 mehr geben will, verlieren sie halt einen Kunden ^^ 
