That got me thinking about the way each person can listen to one song so many different ways. And not just different from eachother, but different from our own selves. When you first hear a song, maybe you’re captured by the melody or lyrics. Then, the more you listen to it, you’re only hearing certain parts of the song, singing to some, dancing to others, and clapping to the parts where the beat stands out.

The more I listen to a song, the less cohesive it becomes. I start to dissect it and separate beats and lines until its unrecognizable. After completely deconstructing a song, I only see my structured visualization whenever I hear it, and that’s when I say “I’m sick of this song.” I’ve realized that the truth isn’t that I’m sick of it, it’s that I think I’ve figured it out and there’s no where else to go with it. So I move on to another song until I’ve exhausted it too. I’ve tried not to do this with songs I really enjoy, thinking I can listen to them everyday and not go through this analysis, but it always ends the same.

And so comes the exhaustive part. I sat down to physically manifest my visualization of a song I’ve deconstructed. I’ve coded it different colors and fonts based on what I’m seeing/hearing at each part. I’ve done this for two reasons. First, I wanted to see whether there was stuff I was missing out on. Second, I wanted to see whether there was another individual who could hear this song exactly as I did. If not, how would he depict this song? At this point, I’m secretly hoping that nobody hears this song like I do. Not because I want to feel unique, but because it would answer the question of why my friend was clapping to his own beat that day. He just heard the music differently. If I do find a match, then I’ve taken on a lifelong burden to teach him how to clap on the right beat.

So here it goes..Here is my “ohmygodispenttoomuchtimeonthisbutdontblamemebecauseunemploymentratesarehigh” visual depiction of

Crystalized by xx.

Intro

oooooooooooooooo

tun, tanana NANA nananana’uh tan tanana nan tana’an

tun, tanana NANA nananana’uh tan tanana nan

tanananaNARNAnananaNaNa tanananateernana nananaNaNa

tanananaNARNAnananaNaNa tanananateernana

VERSE 1

click.
click.
click.
click.
click.
click.
click.
click.
click.

BOOM BOOM

click.
click.
click.
click.
click.
click.
click.

BOOM BOOM..BAdABOOM

click.
click.
click.
click.

BOOM BOOM

click.
click.

BOOM BOOM

click.

BAdABOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

click.
click.

BOOM BOOM

click.
click.

BOOM BOOM. BAdAboom click. BOOM.

hi-yiye

ooooooooooooooOOOOOoooooOoooooooo

when you’re the one that i’ve kept closest.

hi-yiye-yiye

Chorus

one two threefour, one two four, one two four, one two four, one two four, tan tan tan tanteyrnanaNanaNana

one two threefour, one two four, one two four, one two four, one two four, tan tan tan tanteyr

VERSE 2

you don’t move slow. nananananana and taken steps in my direction.

dig. dig. digadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadigdigadig

you say I’m foolaysh, for pushing this asiiIiIyde

Nana-Nana

tanananaNARNAnananaNaNa tanananateernana

iy-iye-iy

tun            tun            tun            tun            tun

      tun            tun            tun            tun            tun

             tun            tun            tun            tun            tun

                    tun

i wish the tide would take me over.

tun            tun            tun            tun            tun

      tun            tun            tun            tun            tun

             tun            tun            tun            tun            tun

                    tun

and you just keep on getting closer.

hi-yiye-yiye

one two threefour, one two four, one two four, one two four, one two four, tan tan tan tanteyrnanaNanaNana

one two threefour, one two four, one two four, one two four, one two four, tan tan tan tanteyr

VERSE 3

boom.

boom.

boom.

boom.

i wish the tide would take me over

boomboom

boom

snap

boom.

boom.

snap

and you just keep on getting closest.

go-oo-ohoh slow.

dundundundundundundundundundundundundundundundun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun.

go-oo-uhoh slow.

go-oo-uhoh slow. oo woh-O

go-oo-uhoh slow.

KEY:

CAPITAL LETTERS: The notes that stand out.

Green: Portions I dance to..no matter what the restrictions.

Bold+Italic: Very strong. Bold: Same family, Strong. Italic: Same family, but with a lighter variation (either with regard to speed or pitch)

Blue: To be read as a cascade. Sometimes I see these “tuns” as flashes in different areas of a black backdrop, kind of like how the eye doctor flashes an image during an eye test, asking you which corner you saw the image in.

Red: My favorite part.

My Analysis

1. Hardly any reference to the bass.

2. I don’t bother with getting the lyrics right.

3. I prefer low “u” to high “a”, thus going for “tun” not “tan” as my go to sound.

4. I’m a percussion gal.

5. I’m almost always dancing to everything in my head, but the green portions are the parts where the dancing has to physically manifest itself. Pretty proud of how much of the song I’m able to hold back on.

Am I missing out on anything? Yes, the feeling that the song gave me the first few weeks I heard it. I don’t have that feeling of my heart muscle being pulled everytime the guitar went “teyrn” during the chorus. I don’t feel relaxed when I hear it. It’s just as functional to me as a mathematical equation. I could go on to talk about how this is symbolic of how I deal with any emotional item in my life, but then this entire thing would go somewhere it wasn’t meant to go. So instead, I will end with just one question:

How do you hear it?

Unfortunately, I don’t have enough resources to answer that question. All I have is Wikipedia, my knowledge of mujras through Bollywood and my mother, and some YouTube videos.

Wiki has a small entry written by who knows who on the history of mujras. Basically, the wiki entry likens the mujra movement to Japan’s geisha scene. A mujra was a dance performed by tawaiffs (courtesans) that used classical dance passed down generations as a means of professional entertainment. Tawaiffs were taught from a little age how to act, dance, speak, and arouse the mind, body, and soul of a man. Wiki suggests that mujras lost their history in the early 1900s after being abolished by the British as providing safehouses to rebellious citizens.

The disappearance of classical mujras does not explain the emergence of the modern mujra. (and I am so so so sorry for that last link.) There’s still traces of some of the mujra culture that can be seen through Reema‘s famous movie dances, although tact is missing. The closest I’ve seen to a mujra dancer emulating that of Bollywood’s depictions are dances by Megha. She employs the grace, dress, and classical moves that would have been closer to the original mujra form. The only qualm I have with the modern mujra is that it is allowed to be called a mujra, and thus any like dance can be lumped in the same category. What’s missing is the ability of the dancer to take you to where she wants you to look by making you follow her feet, arms, hands, and eyes. Any girl  can make it bounce, but a true woman can make you question your time and space by the movement of her eyes.

I end this post with more questions than answers. When was the word mujra hijacked? When did Bollywood become the only place where a mujra can be appreciated? And more importantly, when can I look up the word “mujra” on YouTube and not be bombarded with the words “hot & sexy”?

Enjoy the Queen of Mujra: Rekha:

Day 1:

Email:

Me to friend: “hey yo, do you like morrocan hair oil?”
Friend to Me: “Yup!”

Day 2

Text

Me to friend: “i bought it.”
Friend to me: “omg, ull love it!”

Day 3

G-chat

Me to friend: “how often do you use it?”
Friend to me: “everyday.”

The end.

Example 2: Me to Mom

Day 1:

Phone

Me to her: “I need skim milk when i come this weekend”
Her to Me: “okay.”

Day 2:

Phone

Me to her: “Did you buy it?”
Her to me: “Buy what?”

Day 3:

Phone

Me to her: “Okay ill be there, i’ll take u to the grocery store to get some.”
Her to me: “Some what?”

Day 4:

Email

Her to me: “FWD MUST READ: CHRISTIANS BUILD CHURCHES MADE OF MUSLIM BONES!!!”
Me to her: delete.

The end.

One of these guys is you.

In school you learn maybe three things about the Industrial Revolution: Advent of Railroads, Machines, and Cities. I don’t pretend to know much about the history of the industrial revolution. From what I remember, new machines increased agricultural productivity and farmers just did not need as many workers as they once did. Those workers moved towards an urban scene to work in man made factories and were forced into working long hours in unclean conditions. Man lost fresh air.

Where are we today? We’re still working in factories, but now we have to spend money in order to work in one of these factories. We have to get an undergraduate degree just to get our foot in the door; a masters if we plan on getting promoted. The conditions have improved, but the profit scheme is the same. When you start looking for new jobs, the postings asking for “entrepreneurial spirit” and “personal drive” are usually sale schemes that we shy away from. Not this time. This job posting is the start of a revolution. Do you remember the p90X craze..the idea that muscle confusion is the best way to keep your body alert and thus maximizing strength or weight loss? This is kind of like that, except I don’t have any data to support my conclusion.

Cities have become saturated. A place where the newest buildings are condos that no one can afford to live in and/or even build. I have an idea, an Agricultural Revolution. A mass population shift to rural areas to shock the urban job market while also increasing agricultural knowledge. While waiting for the urban job market to feel the effects of loss, there’s an added advantage for new farmers. As a whole, Americans are becoming more wasteful, more dependent on technology, and less active. While adapting to an agricultural setting, you will have to depend on using their own intellect and body to survive. Sustenance farming will teach you the dangers of being wasteful. Milking a cow or slaughtering a lamb will teach you to thank and respect animals for the continuing gift they give us. Rising with a rooster and falling with the sun will teach us just how short our living days are.

So what happens once the urban job market wants you back? Some of you may want to go back, some may not. The beauty of it is that those of you that want to go back..can. Now the jobs that are available are for those that really want to be working in the factory environment. Also, the lessons you learn on the farm can be implemented in the urban landscape, thus leading to a cleaner and less wasteful city. And those of you who don’t want to go back..wont. You will realize that farm living is what you were really destined for, and you will be great at it.

For some of us, its time to move to a simpler time. The farm is waiting.

*if you think you can’t be a farmer..please google image search hipster farmers.

Ummah. I have no idea what an ummah feels like. I know how family feels, friends, classmates and even acquaintances. But when an imam speaks of our ummah in peril and helping your brother out, I can’t distinguish who is included in my ummah. Is it all muslims? The muslims I interact with on a daily basis as my friends and family? Or is it the larger picture, the ummah the Prophet (swt) led and the prophets generations before him? At times I think it may hurt my practice of Islam by not defining an ummah. Maybe an ummah need not be defined, but is rather created by your actions as a muslim to fellow muslims. What it has come down to is the simple golden rule: do unto others as you would like done unto you.

Knight and My Hypocrisy

Simple rule, hard to implement. I went to my local library to get some books on the practices and rituals of the Prophet and perusing through the bookcase I saw a familiar title: Journey to the End of Islam by Michael Muhammad Knight. I had read The Taqwacores, and it rubbed me sometimes the right way and sometimes the wrong way, the wrong way in the way that made me feel like I was going to hell just for reading it. Even so, I found myself telling people about the book, discussing it, and even giving my copy to a friend to read. Recently, I felt wrong for promoting the book in that capacity because there were so many parts of it that I thought offended the entire notion of Islam. So did I pick up Journey to the End of Islam, a possible second Taqwacores that I would read during Ramadan and certify my entrance to hellfire? Yes. Why? I’m human, God forgive me.

So I read it. And it made me nervous. It made me nervous to read lines that manipulated the shahada. It made me nervous when Knight went days without praying and thought about how he didn’t need to pray to practice his Islam. (spoiler alert: he ends up praying.) I found myself judging him throughout the book. “So, you are going to blackmarker  parts of the Quran but then say that u have to accept the Quran in its entirety or not at all?” “So, you are going to repent for writing parts of Taqwacores, but then make it into a movie and use the proceeds to go on hajj?” Label me Hater Aunty, because this went down a lot.

As I’m reading this book during the day, and my Quran at night before bed, it finally hits me that I can’t finish Journey to the End of Islam unless I stop reading it as a critique on Knight, but a critique on myself. How many times have I read Surah Humazah, about not talking bad in front or behind a person, thereby hurting their feelings or tarnishing their reputation and yet still I’d sit and say nothing as someone pointed out a “hoejabi” walking down the street. How can I judge him for conflicting thoughts and actions when I did the same? A few months ago I heard a lecture by Nouman Ali Khan called Islam and Ego. Khan started by painting a picture of a person who becomes more religious, and at the same time, starts to build an ego based on this new religioisity. All of a sudden, his family and friends aren’t religious enough and he finds himself looking down at them. As I was listening to this, I thought of a couple people who totally fit this bill. At that moment, Khan deviated from his lecture to warn us not to think about others we could send this lecture to, because he knows we are thinking of people who act this way. But rather, to watch this lecture for ourselves and for our own betterment. I caught myself embarrassed, started the lecture over, and listened to it while figuring out my own faults. Today, whenever I read any life lesson articles or listen to lectures, I keep myself in mind knowing that I’m the only one who can change me. I thought I was doing well at implementing this until I realized more than half way through Knight’s novel, I was doing a very poor job of reading this novel with myself in mind.  Yes there were parts that bothered me, but on the flip side there were parts that I read over and over. For example, when Knight is on a flight back, silently crying about the struggles the Prophet went through for us, I found hope that one day I would have that feeling come over me. The feeling I pray for everyday, because its hard to know someone’s love for you unless they are in front of you. A feeling I need to build up that will only come with more knowledge and stories of other’s moments of understanding.

One Religion-One Ummah

So what’s this have to do with ummah? As much as I had my ups and downs with Knight’s novel, there’s one part that stuck out to me the most. When Knight is making his last rounds around the Kaaba and a brother tells him he has done a wrong hand gesture that was not sunnah, Knight responds with “Lakum deenikum wa liya deen” – “To you your religion, to me my religion”, an ayat from a surah directed towards the idol worshippers at the time of the Prophet. Goodbye ummah.

For a long time, I tried the idea that “religion is an individual experience” and the whole “to each his own”. False. Islam is a religion for people to practice invidually and as a group. Man does not exist in a vacuum, and his actions to others is a major part of Islam. After reading Knight’s response, I thought of Surat al Asr:

By (the Token of) Time (through the ages),

Verily Man is in loss,

Except such as have Faith, and do righteous deeds,

and (join together) in the mutual teaching of Truth, 
and of Patience and Constancy.

Who is saved from loss? Not just men who have faith, because you can have faith without the support of any other man. But the man who joins with the other muslim to follow truth and patience. Islam is not meant to be practiced alone, it is a brotherhood where you have to help eachother. When the Prophet learned prayer, Khadija joined him as they prayed together for the first time. There was no individuality, it was them together doing what Allah commanded. In his tafsir of this surah, Khan talks about man being unconcious and drowning. and as he’s trying to swim up he is weighed down by a brother, a cousin, an aunt. For his own survival, he has to wake that sleeping person attached to him, by showing him the truth, using his patience as this keeps happening over and over. So what does this mean? Does this mean we sit around and tell eachother that our prayers are not going to be accepted because we pray with our hands down? Or that the brother who ate a morsel with his lefthand is surely going to hell?

No, there’s a larger picture here. We are all of one religion: Islam. There is no separate religions. When a brother is telling you you are practicing something wrong, he is not from a different religion. He is trying to help you in the way he thinks you will be saved. This is the problem. Even though his intentions are correct, we easily get offended. For this purpose, we need to realize that the truth isnt in the little dogmatic actions, but rather in the entire message of Islam.

I am sad that Knight felt the need to use that ayat on the man, but Knight is my brother just like any other brother in the ummah. Parts of his book have taught me Truth and Patience, and I hope that him and others can perpetuate what Allah wants us to do for eachother. Once we get past our egos and humble ourselves to the lessons of our brothers, only then can we really be an ummah.

We need help with the Truth and Patience. Remind me when I have strayed, please have patience with me, and I will do the same for you. Inshallah.

Pre-buttal

This argument is not meant to be analyzed. It is not meant for rebuttals of “You don’t need to be religious to have morals” or “The atheists I know are kinder than most religious people I know”. This is a talking out-loud for those stuck like me in figuring out their balancing act, their inconsistencies, or for the rebuttars- Level of Fundo.

Buttal

There’s a direct link between becoming more God conscious and feeling bad about yourself. It feels overwhelming to constantly be second guessing your thoughts and actions once you realize what is favored in religion. There is not one day that goes by where I do not feel uncomfortable about something I said or the way I treated somebody. Today I realized that none of these things bothered me a few months ago when all I ever thought about was the present and my obligations to myself. If I don’t figure out how to reconcile feeling bad about myself and coming closer to religion, either the confidence in myself as a human being or confidence in religion would be sacrificed.  I’ve decided that I don’t want to sacrifice myself or my religion, and the only way to reconcile the two would be to confront this feeling. The feeling of “badness” comes up a lot in one particular instance.

The Harmless Secret

Scenario: A friend tells you in confidence or you find out from another in confidence a particular fact or story. It does not matter whether that story is harmful to the reputation, because all you are going to do is tell it to your one friend who you tell everything to. The one friend where, even though you dont have to say it, you make sure to start the conversation with “i know you wont, but dont tell anyone…” How can it be such a bad thing if there’s no intent on either side to divulge this fact to anyone else?

About six months ago, this thought would not even enter my mind. Had I known something, sharing it would not feel bad because in the end, it really was harmless. Today, I feel completely different. I have never been the type to talk about people or to divulge anything anyone has told me in confidence pre or post god consciousness. But now even the harmless secrets do not come out so easy. I second guess myself and feel bad if anything does slip out. I feel uncomfortable when someone is telling me a story about a third person who is not present in our conversation. Knowing that all of this is harmless, why does it make my stomach feel queasy?

There’s two solutions. One is to keep doing it to familiarize myself with the feeling and thus let it eventually vanish. The second solution is much simpler: Stop. If an action makes you feel uncomfortable, stop it. The fact that it is harmless has no effect on the ultimate decision because it is about how the action makes you feel. Which leads me to believe that God consciousness is not suppose to make you feel bad. It’s purpose is to build knowledge thereby forcing you to confront your feelings. For example, many vegetarians stop eating meat once they have seen the mishandling of animals. For many, looking at meat evokes the memory and makes them feel sick, eventually leading them to a life without meat. The knowledge they obtain gave them an emotional/physical reaction which they had to confront and resolve by: Stopping.

It is harder to stop when others around you do not have the same feeling. It takes strength amongst unlike thinkers to build your own base and more importantly, let them know your viewpoint. The one thing I find peace in is knowing that every step I take is towards the improvement of myself and my relationship with others. And that anything that is harmless, can’t be worth talking about anyway.

The quarter note drummer plays a longer set. He puts me to sleep and rises me out of bed. He bangs through routine, over subways, and under breath. His beat is multilingual, causes me to pause and reflect. So reliable and constant, that even my forgetfulness, He forgives and forgets.

Lately there’s been two drummers in my chest,
One plays quarter notes four, the other eight no rest.
Battling eachother for supreme, with power my heart they wrest,
Playing over one another, but for neither I attest.

The eighth note drummer likes to take over rebellious. He makes the blood pump hard, the other organs I neglect. Dancing, screaming, pounding, twirling in the throws of flesh, no time to think, just do, in a manner tumultuous. Sometimes there’s a rhythm, sometimes He smiles unscripted. Try to catch me breath, but when He takes over, there’s no fighting Him, its useless.

Lately there’s been two drummers in my chest,
One plays quarter notes four, the other eight no rest.
Battling eachother for supreme, sending me closer to cardiac arrest,
Playing over one another, but for neither I attest.

Lately there’s been two drummers pounding in her chest, but they drum side by side, near eachother, always together, abreast. The eighth may be young, rash, and spontaneous, but even He knows He could not, would not exist if not for the quarter’s resilience. Even while the eighth bangs on, the quarter moniters, using His temperance. The drummers laugh knowing those that recognize all is from One, know all is the same regardless. Two drummers, Two beats, One heart, One sense.

excerpt:

“The dust hanging in the air settles on your books, furniture and food; it gets in your eyes and ears and throat and nose.

This happens over and over again until the people have lost all hope. They are disillusioned, dejected, thirsty, and sweating. The prickly heat on the back of their necks is like emery paper. There is another lull. A hot petrified silence prevails. Then comes the shrill, strange call of a bird. Why has it left its cool bosky shade and come out in the sun? People look up wearily at the lifeless sky. Yes, there it is with its mate! They are like large black-and-white bulbuls with perky crests and long tails. They are pied-crusted cuckoos who have flown all the way from Africa ahead of the monsoon. Isn’t there a gentle breeze blowing? And hasn’t it a damp smell? And wasn’t the rumble which drowned the birds’ anguished cry the sound of thunder? The people hurry to the roofs to see. The same ebony wall is coming up from the east. A flock of herons fly across. There is a flash of lightning which outshines the daylight. The wind fils the black sails of the clouds and they billow out across the sun. A profound shadow falls on the earth. There is another clap of thunder. Big drops of rain fall and dry up in the dust: A fragrant smell rises from the earth. Another flash of lightning and another crack of thunder like the roar of a hungry tiger. It has come! Sheets of water, wave after wave. The people lift their faces to the clouds and let the abundance of water cover them. Schools and offices close. All work stops. Men, women and children run madly about the streets, waving their arms and shouting “Ho, Ho,”- hosannas to the miracles of the monsoon.

The monsoon is not like ordinary rain which comes and goes. Once it is on, it stays for two months or more. Its advent is greeted with joy. Parties set out for picnics and litter the countryside with the skins and stones of mangoes. Women and children make swings on branches of trees and spend the day in sport and song. Peacocks spread their tails and strut about with their mates; the woods echo with their shrill cries.”

Growing up, two musical genres dominated our households. If we weren’t listening to a bollywood ballad, we were listening to a qawwali. The bollywood music got me dancing at a very young age, and because I was too young to understand the significance of a qawwali, I’d mimic the harmonium, clapping, and voice twists and turns with my body. The older I get, I still cling to these two as my safe havens because they remind me of my old home. Driving back and forth from parties and sitting between my two sisters, me and my middle sister usually making up some kind of dance in the back while the music was blaring in the front.

Being the youngest of two older sisters, you have no choice but to be influenced by anything they are listening to. First was the obsession with Star, Nazia and Zohaib Hasan. Anytime “Telephone Pyar” came on, there was a ripple of giggles at how cute the boy sounded in there. This inevitably led down to our long love affair with Pakistani boy bands. It seemed like every evening someone was blaring “Aitebar” or “Diya Jalta Raha”, only to have our parents yelling “AWAAZ BAND KARO!” Two things were kind of funny about that, one being that one of the bands was actually named awaz, and two, who did they think we learned how to listen to our music loud from? This is also around the time we started getting obsessed with Pakistani dramas, and would literally sit for days straight watching tape after tape after tape. Our excitement couldn’t be held in when we found out Vital Signs had done a drama: “Dhundley Raastay”. Having found it recently online, I can still remember every single move and every single line. Pure quality.

Then came our first Pakistani concert. Junaid Jamshed, pre-mullah, and others. I don’t remember the “others” because really, it was all about JJ. We ran to the front, threw our dupattas up on the stage as he danced with them round and round..gore rang ka zamana. I couldn’t help but think if throwing my dupatta on stage was the equivalent of women throwing their bras to the Beatles. So then came all the rest of the Pakistani music, from Hadiqa, to Abrar, to Adnan Sami. We had expanded out of boyzone to solo artists, and we kept adding on various artists that my oldest sister would probably hear about on her most recent buying binge at Devon’s Al-Mansoor.

When I moved away for college, I clung more to the childhood music that comforted me. Lots of qawwalis and bollywood, because that was what reminded me of home. In my freshman year, I came home during winter break, only to hear my sister screaming “JUNOON IS COMING! WE HAVE TO GO!” I went YEAH JUNOON!, having absolutely no idea who the heck Junoon was. Apparantly, she had moved on to new artists while I was away at college. The weeks coming, all I could hear was Junoon blasting through my walls. I felt proud, I had heard some of these songs. I knew Jazba Junoon and Sayonee. Did I like them? Not really. I thought Ali Azmat’s voice was painstakingly whiney, if not a little offbeat. But I thought hey, if its good enough for my sister, it has to be good.

So then came the day of the concert. We get front row right after the opening act, Stereo Nation. I obviously was all WOO STEREO NATION balle balle (I knew them). Out came Junoon, and the screaming had begun. I did not know any of these songs, but I jumped around with the rest of them. I pointed my finger at Ali and screamed Sayoneeeeeeeeeee, because I did know that much. Then started a slow guitar riff, and my sister is in front of me, she turns around and says “Pay attention to this song. This song is all you need to know. It’s about our death.” On came “Mitti”. I stood there and listened to every single word of that song, and watched Salman as he played the repetitive melody on his guitar. I knew this song was different from the rest, and I rocked out to it. We went home, and my sister was on a high that night. I still heard the Junoon blasting through our walls until te next morning, the cd repeating over and over.

I went back to college my sophomore year, not giving Junoon much of a chance. Then in the winter of 2004, I received a phone call from my oldest sister. Something was wrong at home and I had to come home. I didn’t take my cd player with me on the plane. I didn’t want music in that moment, I wanted my thoughts. I got home to find out that my middle sister had died in a car accident. For a while, I didn’t know what to do. I tried reading Quran, and I didn’t find her there. I tried reading books on death, only to find clichéd lines on acceptance and rememberance, I couldn’t find her there. I tried talking to friends and remembering old times, I couldnt find her there. So, I stopped looking.

My junior yaer of college, business school was getting too mundane for me, so I decided to mix it up and joined a class called Music & Islam. The teacher started the class with the azaan, explaining the improvisation of the Quran by human voice, and the beat that was on every verse. We started to listen to musicians from other walks of the world, and how they incorporated that style into their music. This was the time I was introduced to Pappu Saeen, I dont know how to explaing Pappu Saeen, and words wouldnt do him justice. I just knew the second I saw him, I was addicted. Then came the poems, Bulleh Shah always making an appearance. I started to remember some of Junoons music and how they had incorporated this technique, poems by Allama Iqbal, Bulleh Shah, screaming Wahda hu la shareeka la hu.

Throughout that semester I downloaded a lot of Junoon. It was all I listened to, breaking apart song lyrics, beats, guitar solos. There was a month straight where all I listened to was Mahiwal, rewinding and replaying the moment when Ali screaches “doobh chali, mein doobh chali, iss jeenay se, mauth bhali”. Turned out that the following year, Junoon was coming to Detroit. A bunch of us went to seedy Detroit, in our shalwar kameezes, ready for Junoon. I rushed the stage with the rest of my friends, in the thick of Pakistani melas, elbowing me and pushing me over. It didn’t matter, I was pushing them back. I listened to every song, waiting for the beginning guitar on Mahiwal. But five songs in, a familiar sound resonated out of Salman’s guitar, Mitti. The tears started flowing down my face. I had found my sister.

From that day forward, it was all Junoon all the time. If it wasn’t Junoon, it was old youtube clips of Pappu Saeen. I needed to expand my Pakistani band collection, and then I started to listen to Noori. Ali Noor’s voice was the soothing calm I needed when I again had to go through a close death the next year. Meray Logh consoled me in my time of need.

Then, we went to England, I hit up every shop at Southall with “Wacha got in pakistani bands? Wacha got in Sufi music?”, to be bombarded with Qawwalis and Bulleh Shah poems. After clinging to everything I had, listening to it over and over, I found out we were going to Lahore. My excitement was only in the hopes of going to a record store and buying everything imaginable. and I did. Unfortunately, I did not get to go see Pappu Saeen perform, but at the music store I thought I’d press my luck, and I asked “Anything by pappu saeen?” and he goes “haan, we have the new Overload.” Overload? Pappu Saeen was in a BAND? It was eid and christmas mixed into one. All the way back to America I blasted Mahi with Shafqat Amanat Ali serenading me, My heart beating with Pappu Saeen’s dhol.

There’s so many more bands that came into my life after that, but too many to recall. I still sit for hours googling undergrond bands, qawallis I haven’t heard before. It may not be what gives me my bread and butter, but I am sure that I couldn’t live without this music. Junoon split up since then. Ali Azmat and Salman Ahmed going their different ways, Brian just being lost. I bought both their solo cd’s, only to be slightly disappointed. They were lacking any resemblence to Junoon, and I decided not to listen to them solo as not only their music, but their personalities, would sour my love for Junoon.

Some people ask me, how can you listen to Junoon? Ali Azmat’s voice is so annoying, he doesn’t sing that well, or there’s really no cohesion in some of their songs. I don’t explain anything to them, because how can I? It didn’t matter what the music sounded like. I will always hear it as muffled, beating against the wall in my room, on repeat.