The Corrupted Daughter

What makes us corrupt? I sometimes wonder whether it is related to the awareness of having nothing or all. In the following case, the girl had everything, from shelter to love. Or did she have everything?

She was searching for someone within herself, someone who was there, yet missing or hiding. She hardly spoke to mother about her personal concerns especially when society and tradition troubled her. That night, mother and daughter went for a walk in the park. That night, the stars radiated energy at full and she could not resist to break the silence that was devouring her.

Daughter: “Ma, have you ever wondered that trees wave their hands to make wind?”

Mother: “Who says that?”

Daughter: “It was an answer to a question by a curious child in classroom.....and a brilliant one I think. He certainly gave imagination a new direction....”

Mother: “But it is written in the Quran that Allah (God) makes the wind, what are you implying?”

Daughter: “I don’t disagree with the Quran maa, my point is, such curiosity or having radical ideas of your own is termed ’kufr’ amongst Muslims. I think this is the reason most of us are lost. We are tied to tradition that defies logic. We involve faith too much.”

Mother goes silent. The daughter is eager to hear mother’s response but chooses to join her silence allowing her time to think. Home has come, still no words are spoken. The girl is getting worried now, ‘Why isn’t she talking?’ Her thought is suddenly met with a violent slam of the door by the mother as they enter the house. The girl realizes mother did not like what she said but is resolute to talk about it. But, was she prepared for the following words?

“What the hell are you talking about? Who told you this nonsense? Whatever it is, keep it to yourself, don’t ever say a word against God or I will slaughter you!”

Daughter: “Ma, that’s not what I had meant!”

Mother interrupts: “Just shut up! You kaafir! How dare you?!”

She then marches to the bedroom and disappears.

The light in the eyes of daughter finally dies. Things that had been fed to her in childhood rush to take control of her thoughts. She resigns to her room, to isolation, cries and thinks to herself, ’Have I said anything wrong? Kaafir?’....

But she thinks; she wants to think. She makes a deliberate attempt to look up her copy of the Quran that she rarely read. She finds a surah on Kaafirs (for those who reject faith) and to her relief senses an interpretation different than what she was taught:

‘Faith is a matter of personal conviction, and does not depend on worldly motives. Worship should depend on pure and sincere faith, but often does not: for motives of worldly gains, ancestral custom, social conventions or imitative instincts, or a lethargic instinct to shrink from enquiring into the real significance of solemn acts and the motives behind them, reduce a great deal of the world’s worship to sin, selfishness, or futility’.

Sobbing, she re-assures herself, ‘I did not say anything to deny the truth! O mother! Why did you call me a kaafir?’

Mustering determination, she heads for the door to talk to mother. She finds her in the living room crying. She had never seen her mother look so tired and exhausted, her eyes exuding the helplessness of an Alzheimer’s patient. The sight was enough to mellow the adrenalin rush. Their eyes finally meet. They talk, using words that were seen, not heard;

Mother: “I fear for you.”

Daughter: “No fear mother, look at me, do I look like a non-believer to you?”

Mother: “No, I fear people will take advantage of you. You are so naïve.”

Daughter (controlling her anger): “I am the king of my will maa; let me be, let me cure my ignorance, my way.”

Mother: “But you are.”

Daughter resists the urge to argue and breaks the silence on an uncertain pitch, looking for harmony:

“Kaafir? Thanks a lot ma. That was all I needed to hear from you.”

Mother finally gets up and as response to mutual feeling; the daughter reaches to embrace her. They cry; the embrace invigorates both. Mother is still silent and struggles to smile. The daughter offers a cup of tea and she gives an eager nod.

Sitting at the couch, they sip tea, watch TV and exchange sober glances. The daughter recognizes the same look on her face, the one that said, ‘I fear for you’. This time, the daughter is determined to say, ‘Don’t fear for me, fear God, there’s nothing wrong with me.’ But she thinks to herself, ‘I was too direct ma, I will cure my ignorance my way but will never bring harm to your fragile mind….again’.

And so, there was no turning back for the corrupted daughter:

Doesn’t mean much, it doesn’t mean anything at all,
The life I’ve left behind me is a cold room.
I’ve crossed the last line,
From where I can return
Where every step I took in faith betrayed me;
And led me from my home.
Sweet surrender is all that I have to give*