Mother, Am I A Good Son? – Diary Of A Desi Teenager

I’m unhappy, for I am lost. And every day I succumb to the same question, how can I identify with this unhappiness so much so that it absorbs me and I lose myself?

From this comfortably numb room, I observe my surroundings as my mother points out the fact as to how lucky I have been to have been born in a providing house and family. How lucky I am to exist where so many of my needs are fulfilled. It’s intended to fill me with gratitude but it only manages to anger me. What should I be grateful for? That I’m better off than someone who I could easily have been because some persona in the sky decided to place me where I am now? How can the same embodiment in the sky be so cruel and call it a test of faith.

My adoration for God is constantly wavering, and for a brown Muslim boy living in a fairly religious household, that’s a big no. So I pray, not for God, but for my mother. Does this make me a hypocrite or a good son? It certainly won’t help me enter Jannah. It’s not my fault. And it’s not my parent’s fault either. When my mother scolds me, she scolds me out of love for me. When I question all the beliefs that I have been subjected to, I do so out of love.  How could so much love cause so much unhappiness? Is it worth it? You occupy such a small space in the grand scheme of things, a limited amount of time in this vast universe, and here you are, tangled in loving unhappiness. 

My whole life I have seen unquestioning minds rise to the occasion of preaching the answers that were fed to them and refused to look any further than that. And I realize that throughout the course of this universe, there will only be one of me. An ensemble of the exact proportions of cells and neurons to make me who I am, and I am supposed to fall in line? What makes you say that there is a line when none of us could ever be the same? How does this line progress, how do I move forward when all these  people ever do is find themselves in a stand still. Like a ceasefire. Because so many questions being fired off like bullets is bad for everybody, and what works and has worked is to be quiet. 

It’s no lie that my environment tends to be a little more conservative, prone to extremism and radicalism. It’s a country where anyone can be called blasphemous and given the death penalty for the mere act of questioning. But it is our nature of questioning that helps us evolve. Am I any less if my beliefs don’t align with yours? Do I not breathe the same air if I question the creator of said air? I revel in questioning for it is the very tool that I find essential to navigate the world around me.

However, this world owes me nothing as it has proved to stand by this statement in countless experiences I encountered. I on the other hand owe this world a lot. Every day, I witness disarray, pain and hatred. To diminish such atrocities from the world I believe I have the potential to do something, but how can I even begin to do so when the unhappiness that engulfs me does not seem to let me be me. Therefore, I wander quietly in a world of your design, looking for answers that are lost in your narrative.

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