The finger moves along the spines of books - so many of them, with loud, reprimanding titles - thick bulks. They are all written on the same subject, by religious theorists and sometimes by those, who live under the vain impression that their salvation lies in merely writing about such theological subjects, especially because it does not apply to them.

I should not be beginning this writing with such harsh generalizations, for I ought to say little about the intention of those who write, when my own intention appears dubious to me. Anyway, it is not always the best of practices to web down the reader with ones own stream of consciousness.

Lets retour the mind to the afore mentioned books - their subject.

With our strange attraction towards postcards, a friend of mine and I went through a large collection of them at a bookstore. She picked out a greeting from Afghanistan, showing a burka-clad woman, with a caged bird hanging over her. One can imagine the thoughts that might have gone through the mind of the photographer or the person whose idea it was, to project that land and its practices like this. He must have beamed over that creativity, just a caged bird in the corner can tell such tales. Such tell-tales. Such metaphorical art!- he must have admired his idea, thinking himself the most original one in his field.

In my opinion, the most witless, with the narrowest observation imaginable.

We turned the card over to see the photographer’s name - the "courtesy" of a local photographer; the printers’ name - local. Very local.

One cannot go around plucking the much flaunted misinterpretations of the West when the elementary disillusionment lies within the local people. Perhaps the correct way of setting about their remedial education would be to lay down the social benefits of Hijab- the state, not the cloth. But, that is not my field.

In my instance, there was no self-denial, no sacrifice, no warding-off-evil-elements involved. I did not have to wrap myself under such large titles. Yes, I have been involved with book-mongering, too, because to a certain extent, they play their role in making the mind question with reason, not simply out of the need to question. There was a biography on the famous Iraqi Sufi, Rabi’a Basri, in the racks but I did not see eye-to-eye with the doctor who wrote it. Still, it would do little good to become a frowning cynic when I took much more out of the book.

Please the Deity, the Deity Alone.

Yes, this was the punch line. Not for her celibacy, not for her self-denial, not for any of these saintly qualities but the Faith and the Love. Those were the entities the mind clung to. There were very few instances mentioned in the book about her worship, hardly any about the subject of this writing, but for some whimsical reason the punch line came through, simply, from the obscurities.

There is incessant talk of freedom, of liberation, in words so loud that they attain a certain nakedness. Hardly anyone picks up a banner for Inner Freedom. Well, on the lighter side, this apathy has almost helped because banners for Inner Freedom would actually kill its purpose. Inner Freedom… fancy term?

Well, alright, lets talk about the sonorous demands of freedom. To run about the streets without a stitch of thread… that is freedom? Or to drink to the pit, and dance in a manner where a limb forgets of the other limb… that is freedom? Or the smutty talk that no longer raises a brow, or lowers a glance… freedom of statement?

Yes, that is freedom? Just suckling to the world? The Greek, philosophical clowns, Epicureans, did that, for which they were admired, they were praised but in the end, they were the sufferers.

There is no dictionary I know of that will define Inner Freedom for me, for such a concept cannot be bound within limits. To me, it has everything in the world to do with being hopeful, of not bothering about the critical glances of the practical people.

It comes from being in a state of perpetual Dhi’kr. There, on those very streets where they wish to run about without a stitch of cloth, right there lies Inner Freedom in Hijab. There is Freedom in self-control, but we like to screw our faces at the contradiction, only. This may be objectionable to some but it is not for any man out there that one practices this Freedom but accepts it, as a sign of care from the Lord. At that stage, one doesn’t get webbed within the before-and-after statistics: do they bother me less on the streets now? Do they respect me or still take me for a mock-up? No, one stops bothering about these trivial issues.

The eye of filth is an embodiment of nature itself, that maintains the essential balance. That eye does not loose its significance or traits whether you remain behind shrouds and veils or walk about otherwise. And so, it is not to pervade that eye alone that one takes up the covering, it is not to gain the label of ‘purity’, and it is not to be caged (with all due disrespect to any creative photographer’s "courtesy").

"Sum’eyna Wa’ Ata’na"… We hear and we obey, our Lord…

We do not fish for reasons our Lord, we do not become creative apologists. And when the practical folk think we remain wrapped up in insecurities, we enjoy the reassurance, we enjoy our freedom, and on the lighter (sadistic!) note, we enjoy their vain criticism - because they don’t know what they are missing!

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