So, it’s Friday. I’m all cleaned up and in a state of spiritual calm heading into our local mosque. I stow away my soon-to-be-stolen sandals into the shoe-box nearest to where I will sit for my prayers.
This is to facilitate the third eye in the back of my head from unsuccessfully stopping the inevitable happening.
I see an old man stashing away his pair of sandals, dividing each sandal into two separate and distant boxes.
The logic behind this being one sandal without its pair will not be stolen. Many apparently use this technique.
Well played, old seer! Wisdom is an age-acquired talent, I say to myself, when, in that very moment, the little voices in my head pitch in with a depressing thought: “Or maybe you are just really slow.” Anyway, I digress.
I settle into the back of the mosque, a popular location with the young and the posh who attend it.
Being neither, my MO for choosing this location almost always is a pre-emptive strike against the exiting traffic at the end of prayers; that almost always ends up in a traffic jam at the mosque gates, lasting a good half an hour. Don’t judge me. I suffer enough commuting on our clogged up roads to allow the same fate to affect my weekly spiritual bliss.
So, the supplementary prayers begin, and all goes without a hitch. It’s important for many others and people like me to be able to concentrate on our prayers, because Allah knows, the universe’s stream of bull always beams into your head when you try to pray, so you try extra hard to be mindful, in an empty spiritual state, so to speak.
Well, guess what? There are enemies to that too. Imagine, 20 reminders plastered everywhere for people to put their mobile phones on silent; yet there are at least five imbeciles, per prayer, anywhere I go to, who will have their “Nantu Ghotok” and “Munni Badnaam” ringtones grace us with their presence.
I have learned to ignore the odd sounds but, to concentrate, I find it’s always better to keep your eyes open while praying. This too has resulted in grief for me.
I stand up from prostration often to be greeted with the unfortunate sight of exposed buttocks directly in front of me. I know I am not the only one who encounters this.
The frequency of said sightings is on the increase. Spirituality and public exposure of the inter-gluteal clefts are seldom happy partners. Going commando, however, is trending with members of the youth, and their dislike for belts and longer forms of clothing lead to an assault on our piety, weekly.
So, I humbly ask you, oh, youth, where on God’s Earth is your underwear? What you do behind closed doors, on Tinder or Snapchat, is your domain; do us a favour and cover your mounds of destiny this one day, for God’s sake!