BaKhabar, Vol 5, Issue 5, May 2012
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OUR JOURNEY TO THE DAY OF RESURRECTION, PART-XI
- By Gheyas S Mahfoz Hashmi, Jeddah (hgheyas@albatool.com.sa

… Continued from previous issue.


In the previous issue, I have concluded the Shafa’at Kubra (Grand Intercession). Here is the next stage “Distribution of Record Book (Statement of Accounts)”.

Below are links to all the previous parts for the convenience of readers and those who are seeking Jannah.


Previous: Part-1 || Part-2 || Part-3 || Part-4 || Part-5 || Part-6
Part-7 || Part-8 || Part-9 || Part-10   ..... contd.

qiyamat

It will be given either in right hand or in the left hand. He who gets it in his right hand will be happy and will show it to his relatives and friends to read. Allah Almighty says:

Then, as for him who is given his record in his right hand, he will say: Take, read my book! Surely I knew that I should have to meet my reckoning. Then, he will be in blissful state, in a high Garden whereof the clusters are in easy reach. (And it will be said to those therein): Eat and drink at ease for that which you sent on before you in past days. (Al-Haaqqah 19-24).

He who is getting it in his left hand will be regretful to himself, but regret will not save him. Allah Almighty says:

But as for him who is given his record in his left hand, he will say: Oh, would that I had not been given my book, and knew not what my reckoning is! Oh, would that it had been death! My wealth has not availed me. My power has gone from me. (It will be said): Take him and fetter him, and then expose him to hell-fire. And then insert him in a chain whereof the length is seventy cubits. Lo! He used not to believe in Allah the Tremendous, and urged not on the feeding of the wretched. Therefore, has he no lover here this day, nor any food save filth, which none but sinners eat. (Al-Haaqqah 21-37).                 
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First the book of Allah (Quran) was given in this world to the mankind to read and pass his life accordingly. In this connection, the first five verses of the Quran was descended by Allah saying:

Read: In the name of your Lord Who created. Created man from a clot.
Read: And your Lord is the Most Bountiful, Who taught by the pen,
taught man that which he knew not. (Al-Alaq 1-5)                                    

Japanese Psunami

And NOW (on the Day of Resurrection), he will be asked to read his own book of records he made. See if his record is at par with the Book of Allah (Quran). So, Qurans says:-

(And it will be said to him) Read your Book. Your soul is sufficient as reckoner against you this day. (Al-Isra 14)

He who will have his book in his right hand will be lightly dealt (See Al-Inshiqaqq 7-8). He will not be asked why he did not do so-and-so deeds (non-obligatory). Best deeds will be taken and bad deeds will be written-off. (See Al-Ahqaab 16).
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grave+of+muslim

..... to be continued, insha-Allah

Progenitor [Poem]
- Tanveer  Fatma (fatma0503@gmail.com)

progenitors
The hands which taught me to walk,
That voice persuaded me to run and talk.
He earned me the whims and desire,
He is the one whom I admire.
The pillar I hold , when I fall is he,
He never made me feel that I am she.
He is my father, my mentor,
Under the scorching sun he is my shelter.
With him I look ahead of the future,
The most precious gift given by Nature.
Proud to be known by his name, even in Heaven,
I heartily thank him, for whatever he has given.
The comfort level with him is inexplicable,
You left no stone unturned to make me quite capable.
A friend, a mentor, an advisor, in my life,
I’ll need you in goodness as well as in strife.
-------------
A word to the Axis
- A poem by Asif (Manzurul Haque) (manhaq@yahoo.com)  

You have the power to create,
As shall not let you hesitate,
To crucify the bombed–dead,
‘Cause the dead has nothing to state.

His voice has no sound,
His pen lacks steam to frown,
Your color is white, his is brown,
And your writ runs across the town.

Your immense pride in your superior might,
Shall not let you a moment's insight,
How deeply unjust were you in your victorious fight,
When you scripted the narrative of my death,
And executed the script on my neck,
You then gave it a name – suicide!!

Long after my death though,
My eyes can see through the rubble -
You, sunk deep in the puddle of my blood,
Your stolen victory, meeting with history's mud!!                  
----------------------------                                     

The Park Bench 
- Hari Nair <hari.nair@sonagroup.com>                            
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, for the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day, A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down and said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with it's petals all worn, not enough rain, or to little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away. But instead of retreating he sat next to my side and placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it; here it's for you."      
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park-bench
The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need." But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, he held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time that weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun as I thanked him for picking the very best one. You're welcome, he smiled, and then ran off to play, unaware of the impact he'd had on my day. I sat there and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see the problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that's mine. And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose. And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand about to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.       

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