I saw a very beautiful woman walking elegantly towards me.
Long robe and black veil with pretty beadings.
Red lipstick.
I saw her walking towards the ubiquitous red telephone box.
Littered with Subway wrappings and waste cans.
She dropped her sling purse to the ground and sat down.
By the telephone box. And pulled out what seem like a piece of white cardboard.
She was shredding small pieces from it.
I almost stopped by to tell her that she can just pray at LSE’s prayer room rather than praying by the sidewalk.
I stood by a corner, contemplating. Waiting. Watching. And walked back towards her.
She was begging.
Her red lipstick was gone, and in her hand, a tattered Starbuck’s cup, jagged and torn by the rim.
What made a lady such as herself go to the extreme measure of taking on the street for money?
I asked.
Her voice was unlike the voice of others. She was not asking for sympathy.
Her nose had a trail of dried blood.
With pride, in a dignified tone, she answered. Her voice deep, her eyes sharp, piercing up to mine. They were clear olive.
She is so beautiful.
I am from Kosovo. I have three children to feed. And rent to pay.
With perfect English accent.
I was ultimately humbled. Desperate situation calls for desperate measure.
She was clearly desperate. It shone through her eyes. You can see her jaw tightening at being in a situation like this. Her face tout with dignity.
It just makes me numb to the core by how fragile we all are. It could easily been me or you, wearing our nice clothes but swallowing our pride to beg by the street to salvage a bit of money to go on.
I shudder at the thought. And at the fact that it is so easy for God to take it all away. Nothing in this life is ours, except for the things we do, good or bad. I felt overwhelmed by a rush of sadness. Which always makes me feel void.
I pray that with her destitution, she will be more favorable in Akhirah. Allah will ask us 5 questions when we face Him. Two of them is regarding our rezeki.
1) Your life and how you spent it.
2) Your youth and how you spent it.
3) What you do with the knowledge you acquire.
4) Your money and where you got it.
5) Your money and how you spent it.
People who had difficult lives, living on money just enough to cover basic necessities would not have a tough time answering the final two questions. It is the people with money who would face long trial, justifying every cent of his or her money.
A rich person would have either a really bad time if he could hardly find any good thing to sing praise with his money; or would be ultimately glorious when he is rewarded for all the wonderful things he had done with the money in his life.
I was just thinking if I could ever justify the little things I like but don’t need and things like expensive lingerie, magazines and a whole load of other unnecessary stuff (but totally necessary now!)! I do pray that God will not be angry with the clothes, shoes and bags I buy since I do use them, and try to reduce waste by selling them off or donate them to charity when they become unloved. I am just thinking how embarrassed I will be in front of Him, trying to justify why I need to buy them. I hardly think ‘Oh, I didn’t really need them, but it was on sale..’ would be a dignified excuse to give.
I guess in the end, it is all about moderation. And everyone has their own level of moderation. So someone’s level of moderation may be another person’s lavishness and vice versa, but as long as you don’t waste and give some to charity and sadaqah with what you can, then hopefully, it will be a plus point in our later life.
It will be so amazing when there are some of the money, when we come to answer for them later, was used for good. ‘Yeay, yes, this one I give to the man who was hungry outside the tube station’. Or for people collecting money for charities. Or for your mum at home. Or helping a poor vendor. Anything.
The money we use is never a loss if we can make them useful either now or later by spending it on necessary items in life, or for sadaqah where InsyaAllah, it will be returned with reward in Akhirat.
Wallahualam.
in the velvet dark of a night, a fox made her path around us, as far as she could, mistrust in her eyes, padding her paws softly and lightly on thick snow. we held our breath and stare at the beautiful creature, a gracious wonder that makes my impulse quicken at this magic encounter. the fast beat of my heart remained long after she was gone.
a suspended bird in its flight, in a static pace, right above your head, is a split second wonder that pulls the time space to only the vertical movement of the beating wings.
The stab of guilt everytime I see Monica selling Big Issue by the station makes my stomach clench.
I am so unequipped in this country.
I cannot bear being nice to her again, making promise I cannot keep, only to realize it will not work out.
She sensed it. She sensed my distance and aloofness when she tried to hug me in public.
I hugged her back half-heartedly, unlike the protective hug we used to share.
I asked her of her baby, she is pregnant again.
She said the baby is bleeding, watering. I could not really understand her.
I told her I will come with clothes. I went home, I cannot find the winter coat I kept for her. Instead, I took a plastic bag full of clothes I was about to give away. They were not as nice as the clothes I wanted to give her but had misplaced it in the store.
I feel guilty again. I didn’t want to give her these clothes, I have got nicer ones for her. But I cannot find it, and I have promised to see her.
I saw her sitting on a small plastic stool outside the great British library. Heavily pregnant, clearly holding in pain while selling her magazines.
I asked her how she is. She answered her baby is bleeding, watering. She might go to hospital but don’t know when because she can’t afford to waste time in it.
I kept quiet. I could not even offer any word of condolences. I felt like shooting myself point blank. I nodded.
She didn’t try to hug me, she sensed my hostility.
I put the plastic bag of clothes next to her. She looked at me, and nodded thank you.
I walked away, saying I will see you again, I hope.
I went inside the red bus, tapping my paid-for travel card, listening to my I pod, clutching my notebook laptop, ready for a class at the world-class university in the heart of London, with Starbucks coffee on my mind.
My heart beats to sickening pulse. Exuding poison into my bloodstream. My chest a dull ache. I have been so busy, so lost in my own thoughts, life and shit that I forget people who are in need. I forgot Monica. Worse, I want to get away from her. I felt like puking and crying at the same time.
I will try talk to Jessica, my Amnesty president, if she knows of anything that could be of help to someone like Monica.
” D’ya know Sally from Seven Sister?”
“Uhuh”
“She aa, got raped”
*gasp*
“Yeeaa..by a 55-year-old man”
*oh no..”
“She’s washin’ ‘erself now”
a shocking conversation on the bus I heard, 8.30am in the morning.
I saw two young girls begging.
By Taksim Square, under the lamp post near the Metro.
The elder of the two is two.
The younger one could only crawl.
She was smiling, laughing and cooing.
With dirt all over her face and twinkle in her eyes.
Her elder sister hold on to a plastic container.
She just curiously look around her.
As if seeking out for someone whom had put her there.
Occasionally she would smile and try to keep her baby sister out of people’s way.
A woman talked to them.
I saw them smile and shrug shoulders.
They look as happy as larks, singing high up on the trees,
amidst shocked pity looks, they smile back.
I heard rowdy voices outside my window, and chesty laughters, so I went to the window and stood behind the curtain and peeked.
Two middle-age drunkards staggered by, supporting each other, hardly able to walk, wearing only polo t-shirts in this wee early in the morning. They leaned against my neighbour’s fence, where one of the panel of wood is broken at the top.
One of the drunkard, thumped loudly on the fence while his friend broke the panel further an pull off a plank of wood from the fence.
He started stabbing a bush with the plank while his friend laughed and hugged him, while trying to drag him away at the same time.
“That’s it, you’re done. We should go home”
“That’s it. I’m done. Let’s go home”
Drunks. They never make sense!
the mexican man with long black dreadlocks was smiling and smirking like a fat cat with cream when i saw him in the queue at natwest. he had on a crisp dark gray suit, with polished black patent shoes and bowler hat perched on top of the dreadlocks that reached his knee. his moustache was clipped and smart, and his eyes twinkled.
he looked like one of those character in the mafia movie who just got a jackpot deal.
when it was his turn at the counter, he walked most proudly, with a really huge grin, carrying his battered looking duffle bag. i was already so curious, and he was talking loudly, naturally i couldn’t help but to listen.
‘ how can i help you today, sir?’ asked the man behind the counter professionally.
the man opened up his bag, and started scooping and piling up money on the counter! with the notes still tied with rubber by the bundle and stashed in clear plastic bags! oodles and oodles of 20 pound-notes, coins and other papers and such!
‘Oh my Lord! How’d you get this ,man? WOW!’ said the man behind the counter obviously couldn’t help to be professional anymore and chuckled at the amount of moolahs he would have to count for the smirking man.
The dreadlocked man chuckled along, swishing his hair, showing glint of the rings and chains on his fingers and wrists. all blings and gold and silver adorning him.
‘Got lucky for a bit mate’
i continued to stare and gaped with jaw wide open, as im sure everyone else dis as well,, until the man left the bank and i could have sworn his dreadlocks, as if with a life of its own, were wagging happily behind him, mocking everyone else whose notes seem to have shrunk with low self esteem.
i saw a man prostrate like i do in my prayer,
on the sidewalk, with his face fully covered,
his head on a cardboard.
it says :
I HAVE NO HOPE. I AM DEPRESSED. I AM HOMELESS AND HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP.
his only words are : GOD BLESS.
two guys sat in front of me.
‘ so you’re going to your girlfriend’s place now?’
‘she’s not my girlfriend, man. she’s a chic. yeah, thats how imma label her. she’ just a chic, you know?’
‘ thought she’s yours’
‘no, who would wanna have a girl like that? she’s fat! but i dont mind her, ya know? get the free lunch, free dinner, and even the games! like, the concert tickets the other day, she got an extra one, so that’s why i gave you’
‘yeah, that was awesome!’
‘ i know! but who would line up for 6 hours for it? she’s stupid. and she buy these bags. the same thing, but one in white and another in black. like wth, man?’
i.was.horrified.
for a record, the guy was not even close to good looking.
a day in Cardiff.
walked around the city centre.
a guy was playing violin, bringing to life tunes of scotland folklore, while balancing one foot. on a tightrope.
a crowd watching a kenny roger look alike strumming his beat-up guitar.
a trio of fire charmers. a guy juggling three kerosin-burned batons. a man with glasses and dreadlock with a pole of two fire ends. twirling it in his hand, over his shoulder, behind his ncck, flame hissing frustratingly, missing the clutch of his hair. a young girl, long luscious locks on one side of her side and soft grizzle hair on almost bald head on the other, swinging two chains of fire, looping it over her head making fantastic gypsy dance.
she wore a plastic headband. knocked over it when she twirled her chains. it fell over her eyes. she dance a slow twirl with her chains, hoping to halt her rhytm.
she was blinded, the fire knew. it licked her hair, lighting up flame at the back of her eyes.