Iqbal Day Quotes

You remember what Goethe said in the moment of his death [...] 'More light.' Death opens up the way to more light, and carries us to those regions where we stand face to face with eternal Beauty and Truth. I remember the time when I read Goethe's poems with you, and I hope you also remember those happy days when we were so near to each other spiritually speaking. Iqbals Briefwechsel mit Emma Wegenast (S. 45, Iqbal and Goethe, Christina Oesterheld)

Every morning I clean my windows Every day they get blurred again I toil quietly to begin again every morning Fresh with a new song The world is but a reflection of our perceptions Mostly skewed! If we generously polish our windows The world would appear… Infinitely beautiful.

The Muslims in this day and age are enduring nadir and are being earmarked far and wide in the orb. In order to get the better of this predicament, we are in a moral obligation to foster and precipitate genius scientists, doctors, physists, chemists, intellectuals philosophers and politicians. But, I have a fancy for scientists like Hazen, doctors viz Avicenna, physists like Al-Kindus, chemists viz Jabir, the literati like Rumi and Iqbal; Philosophers viz Ghazzali and leaders like Omar (Radihallahuanhu) by virtue of whose, we would au fond be effectual in getting out of these angst stalemates.

Life is passing all the ignorant are believing; but it is passing, to again be newly arriving. Time, a chain of days, nights... nothing else: name for breathing in and out, nothing else! And, what is this wave of breath? A sword! What is Self? The sharp edge of the sword! What is the Self? Life’s innermost mystery! It is the whole of creation waking up, to see! Self’s drunk upon others but enjoys solitude, it is the ocean that a drop all it does include.

I thought all day about racists who refuse to smile and I realized that Iqbal has made an important discovery. The racist’s problem is not with others but with himself. I would go further: he doesn’t smile at his fellow-man because he doesn’t know how to smile at himself. The Arab proverb that says “He who has nothing gives nothing” is very true.

You that performs all day When will you remove that mask.

Mujhy Asia Shaoor Dy Day Ya Rub K, Main Samjh Sakun Jazbat Ko...!

A sardarji comes up to the Pakistan border on his bike. He's got two large bags over his shoulders. The guard Iqbal stops him and says, 'What's in the bags?' 'Sand,' answered the Sardarji. Iqbal says, 'We'll just see about that. Get off the bike.' Iqbal's guard takes the bags and rips them apart, he empties them out and finds nothing in them but sand. He detains the sardarji all night and has the sand analyzed, only to discover that there is nothing but pure sand in the bags. Iqbal releases the sardaji, puts the sand into new bags, hefts them onto the sardarji's shoulders, and lets him cross the border. A week later, the same thing happens. Iqbal asks, 'What have you got?' 'Sand,' says the Sardarji. Iqbal does his thorough examination and discovers that the bags contain nothing but sand. He gives the sand back to the Sardar, and crosses the border on his bike. This sequence of events is repeated every day for three years. Finally, the Sardarji doesn't show up one day and the guard, Iqbal, meets him in a 'Dhaba' in Islamabad. 'Hey, Buddy,' says Iqbal, 'I know you are smuggling something. It's driving me crazy. It's all I think about...I can't sleep. Just between you and me, what are you smuggling?' The Sardaji, sips his Lassi and says, 'Bikes

Although rare, even to this day such are found in this community. Who do their wudu using the tears they shed during their predawn supplications.

I spend these days in confusion, trying my best to fathom the significance of that shade.... Trying to fathom the suitable answers to my ambiguities, if they can be called as such." - Basil

So shut it. Go on. Try it. Silence. Ah.’ She reached into the air as if trying to touch the quiet she had created. ‘Isn’t that something? Did you know this is how other families are? They’re quiet. Ask one of these people sitting here. They’ll tell you. They’ve got families. This is how some families are all the time. And some people like to call these families repressed, or emotionally stunted or whatever, but do you know what I say?’ The Iqbals and the Joneses, astonished into silence along with the rest of the bus (even the loud-mouthed Ragga girls on their way to a Brixton dance hall New Year ting), had no answer. ‘I say, lucky fuckers. Lucky, lucky fuckers.’ ‘Irie Jones!’ cried Clara. ‘Watch your mouth!’ But Irie couldn’t be stopped. ‘What a peaceful existence. What a joy their lives must be. They open a door and all they’ve got behind it is a bathroom or a lounge. Just neutral spaces. And not this endless maze of present rooms and past rooms and the things said in them years ago and everybody’s old historical shit all over the place. They’re not constantly making the same old mistakes. They’re not always hearing the same old shit. They don’t do public performances of angst on public transport. Really, these people exist. I’m telling you. The biggest traumas of their lives are things like recarpeting. Bill-paying. Gate-fixing. They don’t mind what their kids do in life as long as they’re reasonably, you know, healthy. Happy. And every single fucking day is not this huge battle between who they are and who they should be, what they were and what they will be. Go on, ask them. And they’ll tell you. No mosque. Maybe a little church. Hardly any sin. Plenty of forgiveness. No attics. No shit in attics. No skeletons in cupboards. No great-grandfathers. I will put twenty quid down now that Samad is the only person in here who knows the inside bloody leg measurement of his great-grandfather. And you know why they don’t know? Because it doesn’t fucking matter. As far as they’re concerned, it’s the past. This is what it’s like in other families. They’re not self-indulgent. They don’t run around, relishing, relishing the fact that they are utterly dysfunctional. They don’t spend their time trying to find ways to make their lives more complex. They just get on with it. Lucky bastards. Lucky motherfuckers.