Saturday, March 20, 2004
A Most Colorful Character
Selected by a Sufi
I met L. at the end of January near Central Market. Sitting in a restaurant, I noticed him out of the corner of my eye because of his dreads, unable to place where he was from. Later, I saw him ahead of me on some stairs. At the top, he turned, asked where I was from, saying he thought I was from Finland, where he had just returned from (he’s traveled throughout Europe, painting and singing as a street performer). Within minutes he was telling me about being orphaned at the age of five when his parents were killed in ethnic fighting in India, being brought to Penang by his grandmother, who died when he was 7 or 8, and having to climb coconut trees as a job at that age—he has the scars on his legs to prove it. He showed me a book of photographs of paintings he’d done—I was very, very impressive. Mostly they were portraits, but some were landscapes.
His face in small and angular, like the rest of his body. He’s skinnier and shorter than me, with very dark skin. Add dreads—he could be Jamaican. The pupils of his eyes are not that different in color from the irises and he has good, clean, straight teeth. Locals don’t realize he’s also local and he overhears them saying that his hair is a like a mop. He wears gauzy shirts and rainbow-striped socks. One shoestring is missing in his navy blue high top Converse ripoffs.
That first day, he gave me his card and said he didn’t want to keep me and went on his merry way. I was pleased (and surprised) that he hadn’t asked me for my number or been pushy, like so many others. I didn’t realize then that we’d become friends.
I ran into him a few days later (and a hundred times since) and we talked for several hours. You see, this time he told me that I was a chosen one. He is a Sufi and has done studies with a master in India. He must spread the message to 28 people before he can return to continue his studies—I’m number 8. It’s been four years. (See, so not just ANYBODY gets picked!) Amongst the others: a Mexican thief who stole his wallet one night and whom he then encountered by daylight, a Buddhist monk, a Muslim imam, and a Ghanaian man.
The more I learned about him, the more intrigued I became. He uses the identity of someone who is dead because of his otherwise illegal status here in Malaysia (no passport or birth certificate of his own). He has a son with a British woman. Part of his studies involved living in a hole for 6 months, only coming out at night to sit under a tree. Not everyone could handle this—it made some people go crazy. I’m still withholding judgment as to whether L. was one of those that survived in tact or not…
To be told you’re a chosen one is exciting. Even though my mind told me that it could be a line he always tried on Western women, I was compelled to meet with him again and hear what there was to hear. It seemed that he had an interesting spin on things and would give me something to think about…and he’d be a good character to tell you all about, right? (This, my dear readers, is often my motivation.)
Towards the end of this second, lengthy conversation, L. tells me that he will tell me the true name of God the next time we meet, but that I have already said it 26 times, now 27, suddenly 30. I’m excelling at this without even knowing it—of the 7 others, only one had said ‘the word’ more times than me!
I racked my brain, thinking about what it could be…yes? Love? I thought both were ultra-cheesy and doubted I’d said either that much. I think that I’m technically not supposed to be sharing this Sufi secret, but…we’re all friends here, right?
Say these names aloud: Messiah, Buddha, Jah, Allah. Notice anything in common? Ah. All ah. This is the word that I said over and over again (a habit I think that I picked up in Egypt. It’s definitely a sound I make a lot, in agreement, to show understanding, etc.). If you listen hard, L. said, you can hear it everywhere: the sound of the car engine, the breeze through the trees, the child playing in that fountain. Later, I remembered that Andi had ah tattooed on her arm—it’s the abbreviation for a common Buddhist chant that is for wisdom and compassion (did I get that right, Andi? I deleted the email and can’t quite remember! Leave a comment here to clarify, please!).
When L. talks, it comes out like a flood. One thing leads to another to another. You’re not sure where you’re going or where you’ve been, how one topic has linked up to another. It’d be easy to drown listening to him. Both Bridget and Erika met him—and I heard him retell several of the stories he told me. But they were not chosen.
Among the other things he stressed: the mind always focuses on the past (which is no more) and the future (which is not yet). We’re tormented by thoughts of maybe, if, and but. The mind goes on and on like this, in circles. We should instead live in the right here, right now, with the eyes. I have to admit that all too often I don’t live in the moment—always thinking about all the things I need to do tomorrow or daydreaming about what comes after Malaysia. But there must be some degree of forward looking in order to plan, set goals, etc. I suppose that it is often taken to an extreme though. And it’s not that you can’t think about the past, I realized more recently—if you’re thinking of good memories that bring you happiness, that’s allowed.
L. (suffering from diarrhea of the mouth generally) told stories, a lot of stories. [I can’t recall them all right now in their entirety, but here’s a reminder for myself: a thief who jumps through a window while the writer is at the desk…a Sufi woman on her way to her master is attacked…Also, other things frequently repeated by L.: realize, release, relax; conversation is only words; life is scripted, so a thief must act like a thief.]
What I’m still trying to figure out is how a lot of what L. claims to be Sufism fits into the mystical Muslim Sufi tradition (which I admit I’m not very familiar with, more on this later). And what do Rastas believe? L. certainly loves to sing Bob Marley, talking about one love.
I recently learned he’s 33, though I find that hard to believe. At the end of the month, he’s on his way to Sweden for a few years. I’ll miss bumping into him on the street, but am happy to have become friends with his friends. They’re not as colorful or talkative as him, but include two other Sufis: a Malay orphan with dreads and a long-haired bassist with a heart of gold. More to follow.
Selected by a Sufi
I met L. at the end of January near Central Market. Sitting in a restaurant, I noticed him out of the corner of my eye because of his dreads, unable to place where he was from. Later, I saw him ahead of me on some stairs. At the top, he turned, asked where I was from, saying he thought I was from Finland, where he had just returned from (he’s traveled throughout Europe, painting and singing as a street performer). Within minutes he was telling me about being orphaned at the age of five when his parents were killed in ethnic fighting in India, being brought to Penang by his grandmother, who died when he was 7 or 8, and having to climb coconut trees as a job at that age—he has the scars on his legs to prove it. He showed me a book of photographs of paintings he’d done—I was very, very impressive. Mostly they were portraits, but some were landscapes.
His face in small and angular, like the rest of his body. He’s skinnier and shorter than me, with very dark skin. Add dreads—he could be Jamaican. The pupils of his eyes are not that different in color from the irises and he has good, clean, straight teeth. Locals don’t realize he’s also local and he overhears them saying that his hair is a like a mop. He wears gauzy shirts and rainbow-striped socks. One shoestring is missing in his navy blue high top Converse ripoffs.
That first day, he gave me his card and said he didn’t want to keep me and went on his merry way. I was pleased (and surprised) that he hadn’t asked me for my number or been pushy, like so many others. I didn’t realize then that we’d become friends.
I ran into him a few days later (and a hundred times since) and we talked for several hours. You see, this time he told me that I was a chosen one. He is a Sufi and has done studies with a master in India. He must spread the message to 28 people before he can return to continue his studies—I’m number 8. It’s been four years. (See, so not just ANYBODY gets picked!) Amongst the others: a Mexican thief who stole his wallet one night and whom he then encountered by daylight, a Buddhist monk, a Muslim imam, and a Ghanaian man.
The more I learned about him, the more intrigued I became. He uses the identity of someone who is dead because of his otherwise illegal status here in Malaysia (no passport or birth certificate of his own). He has a son with a British woman. Part of his studies involved living in a hole for 6 months, only coming out at night to sit under a tree. Not everyone could handle this—it made some people go crazy. I’m still withholding judgment as to whether L. was one of those that survived in tact or not…
To be told you’re a chosen one is exciting. Even though my mind told me that it could be a line he always tried on Western women, I was compelled to meet with him again and hear what there was to hear. It seemed that he had an interesting spin on things and would give me something to think about…and he’d be a good character to tell you all about, right? (This, my dear readers, is often my motivation.)
Towards the end of this second, lengthy conversation, L. tells me that he will tell me the true name of God the next time we meet, but that I have already said it 26 times, now 27, suddenly 30. I’m excelling at this without even knowing it—of the 7 others, only one had said ‘the word’ more times than me!
I racked my brain, thinking about what it could be…yes? Love? I thought both were ultra-cheesy and doubted I’d said either that much. I think that I’m technically not supposed to be sharing this Sufi secret, but…we’re all friends here, right?
Say these names aloud: Messiah, Buddha, Jah, Allah. Notice anything in common? Ah. All ah. This is the word that I said over and over again (a habit I think that I picked up in Egypt. It’s definitely a sound I make a lot, in agreement, to show understanding, etc.). If you listen hard, L. said, you can hear it everywhere: the sound of the car engine, the breeze through the trees, the child playing in that fountain. Later, I remembered that Andi had ah tattooed on her arm—it’s the abbreviation for a common Buddhist chant that is for wisdom and compassion (did I get that right, Andi? I deleted the email and can’t quite remember! Leave a comment here to clarify, please!).
When L. talks, it comes out like a flood. One thing leads to another to another. You’re not sure where you’re going or where you’ve been, how one topic has linked up to another. It’d be easy to drown listening to him. Both Bridget and Erika met him—and I heard him retell several of the stories he told me. But they were not chosen.
Among the other things he stressed: the mind always focuses on the past (which is no more) and the future (which is not yet). We’re tormented by thoughts of maybe, if, and but. The mind goes on and on like this, in circles. We should instead live in the right here, right now, with the eyes. I have to admit that all too often I don’t live in the moment—always thinking about all the things I need to do tomorrow or daydreaming about what comes after Malaysia. But there must be some degree of forward looking in order to plan, set goals, etc. I suppose that it is often taken to an extreme though. And it’s not that you can’t think about the past, I realized more recently—if you’re thinking of good memories that bring you happiness, that’s allowed.
L. (suffering from diarrhea of the mouth generally) told stories, a lot of stories. [I can’t recall them all right now in their entirety, but here’s a reminder for myself: a thief who jumps through a window while the writer is at the desk…a Sufi woman on her way to her master is attacked…Also, other things frequently repeated by L.: realize, release, relax; conversation is only words; life is scripted, so a thief must act like a thief.]
What I’m still trying to figure out is how a lot of what L. claims to be Sufism fits into the mystical Muslim Sufi tradition (which I admit I’m not very familiar with, more on this later). And what do Rastas believe? L. certainly loves to sing Bob Marley, talking about one love.
I recently learned he’s 33, though I find that hard to believe. At the end of the month, he’s on his way to Sweden for a few years. I’ll miss bumping into him on the street, but am happy to have become friends with his friends. They’re not as colorful or talkative as him, but include two other Sufis: a Malay orphan with dreads and a long-haired bassist with a heart of gold. More to follow.
