Makkah
Life — what is a meaningful life? I always sought meaning in everything I did. And if I didn’t find meaning, I would find myself drowning in the sea of disappointment. I was curious about life since I blew out the candles on my eleventh birthday. Why do we cut cakes and blow out candles on birthdays? I was interested to know “why” I had to celebrate my life in this particular manner. The answer I got was that the Ancient Greeks baked round cakes on their special days to pay tribute to Artemis, the Moon Goddess.
The round cakes symbolised the moon, and the candles represented the reflected moonlight. These people avered that the smoke of the blown-out candles would carry their wishes to the Gods and Goddesses who lived in the skies. But, I didn’t believe in these celestial Gods and Goddesses, so I stopped cutting cakes and blowing out candles from my twelfth birthday onwards. I couldn’t accept life as it is. There had to be more than being born, enduring through the ups and downs, and then dying one final day. And sitting in Makkah Cafe, sipping sulaimani tea, made me think a lot more about life.
I was waiting for Syed to join me for a Saturday evening rendezvous at the old-world tea house. It was six o’clock and windy. The atmosphere inside Makkah was bustling from all the tea people were having. Seldom did anyone stop at one glass of tea at Makkah. My average on any given day was around three to four glasses — split between regular tea and lemon tea. I found a seat at the back — my preferred spot to see people entering and exiting the tea shop. I was about to signal Babu bhai for a glass of sulaimani chai but raised two fingers instead when I saw Syed parking his bike right opposite the entrance to the archaic adda in Johnson Market.
Syed spotted me and walked through the narrow aisle to join me at the back. “What’s the scene?” he said, after taking a seat. “No scene, just the usual,” I said, yawning after seeing his droopy eyes through his thick-framed glasses. “Blues like?” he said, noticing my listless demeanour. “Severe,” I said. “That intense, huh?” he asked, his voice expressing concern. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad; I feel like there’s no hope — the existential kind of blues, where you question meaning and purpose, “ I said, sensing my heartbeat rise after telling Syed how I felt. “No work blues?” Syed probed. “Um, work blues are a major contributing factor to how I feel,” I said, confirming that the existential crisis was stemming from job dissatisfaction.
“So, it’s not the “why-was-I-born” trip?” Syed asked, intending to explore my thoughts a bit further. “No, no, not that trip. It’s more like, now that I’m here, what would make me happy,” I explained, making sure he was on the same page. “Oh, the “what-now” trip?” Syed recognised my exact issue. “Yes!” I cried out and continued. “These thoughts hit me hard on Saturdays. It almost feels like my mind wants me to figure out something I’d enjoy doing before Sunday ends so that I can put my papers down on Monday,” I said, giving him more insight into my conundrum. “We’re discussing life here; you’ve got to be more patient. Your current job is a journey that you will have to undertake to find your ‘what’,” Syed said, rationalising that one Saturday wasn’t enough to figure my life out.
Babu bhai placed our teas on the table and disappeared into a cloud of thick smoke. Syed lit his cigarette first and then stretched his arm out to light mine. Our conversation got more intense after we took a few sips of tea. “It’s been two long, tedious years at Madman. How much longer do I have to wait?” I said, reflecting on Syed’s nonchalant suggestion of being patient. “Two years is a joke. People have spent several years meditating to find out answers about life,” Syed said, blowing smoke on my face, expressing his resentment to my impatient attitude. “Breakthroughs take time, and only the patient will succeed,” Syed lectured.
Syed did make sense, but I was not too fond of picking myself up daily and fighting my mind. I was not the fighting kind; I’d give up and let my mind win on most occasions. “What are your blues like?’ I asked. “I don’t have career blues; I’m content with my bag of dense books, although some parts are challenging to absorb, and rightly so, otherwise everyone would study to become a doctor,” Syed said, placing an arm over his bag like he was embracing a friend. “But, I do get into blues about the fact that I’ll become a doctor only in my thirties.” “How do you deal with these blues then?” “I go back to why I chose medicine in the first place, and that helps me make peace with the fact that I will have to wash down my twenties with books instead of beer,” Syed explained.
“You don’t drink anyway,” I said. “I know, but I could be present in those parties where people are drinking,” he said. “That’s true,” I agreed. “What’s your take on alcohol anyway?” I asked, changing the topic from career to theology. Babu bhai came right in time with two more cups of sulaimani tea before we could begin a whole new discussion. Syed, this time lit my cigarette first and then lit his after shaking the lighter a few times. “Alco — ” The maghrib adhan blared from the mosque nearby and interrupted Syed’s view on alcohol, which was deemed haram in Islam. Makkah slowly became empty as many people left the tea shop to offer their evening prayer. Syed and I didn’t move. We smoked and drank tea, waiting patiently to continue from where we had left off.
The adhan ended, and I re-initiated the topic. “So, reckonings on the kuddics?” I asked. “Tough call — ” He paused to take a big drag and continued, “One of my biggest battles is finding a balance between the world and its pleasures and the hereafter. My brain is under severe conflict when choosing between haram and halal.” “I have the same problem. The world is so inviting, and my amygdala wants to experience everything,” I said, accusing the almond-shaped mass of grey matter in my brain. “Haha, that’s so fucking true,” Syed said, laughing before he could take another big drag from his cigarette. “Ciggies and chai are a good trip, though,” Syed said, digging the subtle kick the nicotine-tea combination was giving him.
“I’ve heard that beer and cigarette make a great pair, too,” I said. “You’ve tried, huh?” “No dude, I’ve only heard,” I stressed. “Even I’ve heard that ghee rice and kebabs settle well after a couple of sociables,” Syed said, referring to eating greasy, oily food after an evening of drinking. “Need to find the balance bro,” Syed said, trying to adjust his quota between tea sips and cigarette drags. “HOW?” I asked, knowing how difficult it was. “Go for the party and have Red Bull or ditch the party and go for the post-kuddics dinner,” Syed said candidly, knowing very well how all it took was one close friend to say, “Eh, one drink won't make any difference.”
“We both know that’s not easy. What if our amygdala gives haath, and we end up going with the flow. And my amygdala is a big-time ditcher. It can’t process appropriately in impulsive moments — like when it has to fight, it will fly, and when it has to fly, it will fight,” I said, presenting my point of view regarding his two-pronged approach. “That’s fair,” Syed said. “How about we reserve kuddics for three days of the year, giving the brain an optional emergency release in must-have scenarios,” Syed suggested. “Hmm, that’s a decent approach, but it’ll be hard to stick by this strict rule,” I said, considering the addictive properties of alcohol. “You’re right; I don’t think you can balance alcohol,” Syed conceded. “You either go all out or nothing at all,” he said, swigging the last few sips of tea left in the glass.
“We’ve got to get our release somewhere,” I said. “Speaking of release, what’s your verdict on the wank-a-doodle?” Syed asked, ashing his cigarette on the marble flooring. “Oh, that release is critical to stay sane — it’s the cheapest form of therapy,” I said, offering my point of view on the subject of self-gratification. “That’s a bizarre way of looking at,” Syed said, raising his eyebrows at the idea of healing oneself through self-abuse. “No, I’m actually quite serious. I think that’s it for us. We doodle do to make it through,” I concluded. “Cock-a-doodle-do!” Syed crowed. “But they are varying thoughts on masturbation. Some scholars say it is haram and some say it is undesirable but allowed under certain circumstances,” Syed said, pitching the Islamic point of view to me.
“It is undesirable and should be avoided. But what do you do on days when you’re super aroused, and you can’t concentrate on anything else. You might as well blow off some steam yourself rather than suffering from blues balls due to unrelieved sexual arousal. That’s what I think one of the circumstances could be,” I justified. “Hmm… could be, could be,” Syed said, reflecting on my conjecture. “Career blues, blues balls — what other blues do we have to deal with?” Syed asked, peering at my midnight blue sweatshirt like it was an evil omen of things to come. “ Is masturbation good for you, medically speaking?” I asked in an attempt to divert his eyesight from my pullover. “It’s considered a normal and healthy sexual activity unless you’re doing it many times a day,” Syed said. “Then, if we add the fact that it is allowed under certain circumstances and it is a healthy practice from a medical standpoint, then I guess we can do it here and there,” I said, pushing forward a mathematical equation to prove my stance.
“Perhaps,” Syed said, stubbing his cigarette on the ground, bringing another invigorating conversation to an end. “I better get going,” he said, looking at the time on his watch. “What’s the plan now?” “Going home to rut — got an exam on Tuesday,” he said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulders. “What about you?” he asked. “Going to meet the boys at Shalimar,” I said, checking my phone to see the time. “Be patient with your blues and start exploring what you’re good at — ask yourself the right questions,” Syed advised before he said goodbye. I thought strongly about what Syed said. I had no interest in becoming a hotshot in investment banking operations. If I wanted to find meaning in my life, I really had to dig deep into who I am.
