Kun Faya Kun. Be and it is.
Contrary to popular belief, this is not just the title of one of A.R. Rahman’s most amazing songs (debate me on it, but later!), it is a divine phrase that belongs to a verse considered the heart of Quran, the Surah Yasin.
He allows. And it happens. Across multiverses, across planes of time.
From ashes to ashes and dust to dust, till Kingdom come, as believers, we exist because we were granted permission by the most merciful, benevolent. Within it, a permission to have free will along with the ability to make decisions.
Yet, as humans, we spin around in loops, like mad dervishes in our own made-up power dynamics, sitting in its seesaw and oscillating between withholding and relinquishing various permissions and allowances, mistaking the grace in the ultimate permission for entitlement.
Most of my adult life has been a tennis match of seeking and granting permissions to various employers, to Google, Apple, Meta, Netflix, Substack (ha!) and others; to landlords, the government, for disproportionately important and unimportant things that I ping ponged between giving very little thought to, to giving way too much of my headspace for.
On a balmy July day in 2016, with my hands steady as a rock, as my voice quivered with emotions brimming over, I gave permission to the Qazi for my Nikah to be carried out with the love of my life, signing my Nikah-naama in presence of witnesses, friends and family. The first big permission to self, that of choosing my own partner. What a privilege!
On a cool October morning in 2019, I sat numb, signing a bunch of scary papers giving doctors permission to perform extraordinary measures on my husband, if the need arose during his emergency cholecystectomy. A decision I felt deeply responsible for, while being deeply resentful of the ‘others’. Those who caused not-required panic in the name of a supposed emergency: the medical professionals and sundry. The ones that made me feel bullied and robbed of my agency and that of our sacred marital unit. Numerous therapy sessions would help me process this over the next few years as my life unraveled further!
On an unusually warm October morning of 2023, I signed another set of papers, this time with shaky hands, consenting to part legally from my husband (I don’t know who gave who the permission here). Thereby allowing myself to make space for new beginnings and new definitions of forever more. Yet another privilege to exercise a choice, painful as it may have been. In April of 2024, I recognise this, without a doubt.
As my personal life went through its doldrums, the world shook and continues to shake dangerously. A pandemic, a genocide, a world cracked right in the middle, polarised beyond repair in its politics.
Today, as I sit in introspection, as elections begin in our ‘secular, democratic’ country, as a genocide still rages on, as more disturbing news about quashing dissent comes in from within the nation and outside, my idea of permission and agency being challenged beyond comprehension, I realise, permissions, and lack thereof, both to self and others can be so manipulative and oppressive.
However, permissions can also be acts of kindness and liberating. I draw solace in Kun Faya Kun. Through its blessing, I grant myself the permission to be eternally hopeful. To hold my privilege with a lightness of being and continue to do what’s possible within my means. Firmly and gently. To keep on keeping on. For the self and the world at large.
I will be. And it will be better.
This was an essay written in the Ochre Skies writing circle facilitated by the magnificent
& , a safe space where one learns the courage to first, write the uncomfortable. Nurtured by its gentleness, the words become brave enough to share themselves with the world!
I loved this essay, Sana! So many threads around 'permission' are interwoven so deftly. Thank you for your brave writing. Inspiring work!
Beautiful Sana! From within and outside, may we all grant ourselves permission to never lose hope.