What Are Your Favorite Arabic Poems, If You Have Any?

My brother never touches his cricket bat with his feet. It will anger the gods within it, he says. The goalkeeper of my football team kisses the goalpost before the beginning of a match, a silent prayer to the deity within. My sister never puts her paintbrushes on the floor and my father holds his stethoscope with unmatched devotion. You see, the gods are what you want them to be, where you want them to be. In your mother’s lap, in your best friend’s hug, in the coffee you are almost addicted to, in the equipments of the gym you love working out in or in the books you bought but will never read. The gods are wherever you want them to be. The gods are wherever you need them to be.

Divine feminine

All the artists are mentioned here ✨

hibiscus flower ৎ˚ 🌺. ᭢˚｡

The assertion that the Mughals were colonizers is a misapplication of the term, one that conflates conquest with colonialism. Colonialism, as defined, involves the systematic exploitation of a territory for the benefit of a distant metropole, often accompanied by the imposition of foreign cultural and political structures while maintaining a clear separation between the colonizer and the colonized. The Mughals, however, do not fit this mold. They were not extractive outsiders but rather rulers who embedded themselves into the fabric of India, becoming part of its history rather than remaining external exploiters.

Let’s begin with intent. The Mughals did not arrive in India with the goal of extracting wealth to enrich a distant homeland. Unlike the British, who treated India as a resource colony to fuel their industrial revolution, the Mughals made India their home. Babur, the founder of the dynasty, may have been a conqueror, but his descendants—Akbar, Jahangir, Shah Jahan, and even Aurangzeb—saw themselves as Indian rulers. They built their capital cities in India, patronized Indian arts, and integrated themselves into the subcontinent’s political and cultural landscape. This is not colonialism; it is empire-building, a process that has been a recurring theme in Indian history long before the Mughals arrived.

On the matter of cultural imposition, the Mughals were far more syncretic than colonial. Akbar’s policies, in particular, stand out as evidence of this. He abolished the jizya tax on non-Muslims, married Rajput princesses, and incorporated Hindu traditions into his court. His Din-i Ilahi, though short-lived, was an attempt to create a unifying spiritual framework that drew from multiple faiths. While the Mughals did impose Persian as the court language, they did not seek to erase Indian languages or traditions. Persian became a lingua franca, much like English did later, but it coexisted with regional languages and cultures. This is a far cry from the British, who sought to replace Indian systems with their own, often dismissing local traditions as backward.

Economically, the Mughals cannot be equated with colonizers. While it is true that wealth was concentrated in the hands of the elite—a feature common to most pre-modern empires—the Mughals reinvested their wealth in India. They built monumental architecture, funded arts and literature, and developed infrastructure. The British, by contrast, extracted wealth on an unprecedented scale, draining India’s resources to fuel their own industrial growth. The decline of India’s share of global GDP from 25% under the Mughals to 3.4% under the British is a stark reminder of this difference. The Mughals may not have created an egalitarian society, but they did not impoverish India for the benefit of a foreign power.

As for governance, the Mughals were far more inclusive than colonial powers. Akbar’s court, while dominated by Turani and Irani nobles, included Indian Hindus and Muslims. This was a significant departure from the British, who excluded Indians from positions of real power until the very end of their rule. The Mughals’ administrative system, the mansabdari, was open to Indians, and many Rajputs and Marathas rose to prominence within it. The British, on the other hand, maintained a rigid racial hierarchy, treating Indians as subjects rather than partners.

Finally, let’s address the cultural legacy. The Mughals are remembered not as foreign occupiers but as integral to India’s history. Their architecture, from the Taj Mahal to the Red Fort, is celebrated as part of India’s heritage. Their contributions to art, literature, and cuisine are woven into the fabric of Indian culture. The British, by contrast, left behind a legacy of division and exploitation. Their railways and administrative systems, while significant, were designed to serve their own interests, not India’s.

In conclusion, to label the Mughals as colonizers is to misunderstand both their role in Indian history and the nature of colonialism itself. They were conquerors, yes, but they were also builders, patrons, and, ultimately, participants in India’s story. The British, by contrast, were extractive outsiders who never saw India as anything more than a colony. The Mughals may not have been perfect rulers, but they were not colonizers. To conflate the two is to oversimplify a complex history—one that deserves to be understood on its own terms.

Not another post whining about why “mUgHaLs WeRe nOt cOlOnizErs” like girl, they were literally foreign invaders who forced you to speak their language, broke your temples, tried eradicating your culture and collected zizya taxes motivated by religious bigotry in hopes of forcing your people to convert! At least have some shame and consideration for your ancestors.

babygirl i can be the one note on all your original posts

MAGDALENE BRIDE

There’s guilt that I retch onto the floor, and my rotting flesh stains the chapel, seeping into the cracks more than any of my prayers ever could. I gnaw at my own ribs, scraping them to pieces. The priest has remnants of me defiling his mouth, and the stoic eyes gaping at me from the pews—painted the same white as the walls, which have long forsaken me—don’t betray their dignity. Their postures are perfect, their suits well-pressed, and their expressions unyielding. The one awaited does not show up; he has become a prayer. Instead, he turns the bend and smiles—a smile that hints at quiet encouragement.

My body hits the floor, my knees bleeding—applauses are what reverberate. The space reeks of jasmine and myrrh, and the cold bite of metal from the cross stings my skin. The communion wafers lie long forgotten, and the sacramental wine dulls with the passage of time.I witness the priest standing a few feet away, his hands trembling with hunger."Young girls have corruption in their minds," he says. The horror of Jesus, hanging limply from the crucifix, his hands bleeding where they’ve been nailed and his feet rupturing flesh, gapes at me with open eyes full of helplessness and dread. A rag—grey with time, stained with his blood that is infected with rejection—hangs at his pelvis. The wooden framework encasing his heart of impotence and throat of meekness withers and cracks in the sun, but the dews remain cold. The congregation jitters and jeers, repulses and admires, devours and purges—they merely talk.

The stained-glass windows have witnessed men and women alike, with the eyes of its saints gouged out and their presence bleached by the sun. The children sink their nails into my skin as they taunt with their smiles, the candles serving them, delighting in the play they call their game. They like their toy. The priest prays at my hips, the altar cold and unforgiving against my back. He probes and digs at my flesh, tearing at it, splitting the skin—it does not tear cleanly. It clings because it lies. It pretends to be whole. The fibers, caught in clumps, wrap around his fingers, the blood soaking into his robes. But the sinews keep winding around his nails as he sinks deeper into the pulp. I witness my gaze burdening Jesus; he trembles, but his feet remain heavy with inaction, his body slack—limp, listless, beneath the weight of his own faithless mercy. It starts slow—a tear—but then my skin stretches and squelches. The audience gasps and gapes, the children laugh, Jesus suffers the terror of ridicule, and the rosary beads are made ever more maroon with blood spooling onto them.

need a love that turns Qais into Majnu and Laila into La ilaaha illalaah

just some dad appreciation

Father, Where Do the Wild Swans Go? - Ludvig Holstein | The Passing of Shah Jahan - Abanindranath Tagore | Father and Daughter - Amanda Strand | Book of Dreams - Peter Reich | Ferris Bueller’s Day Off | Connect the Dots (Saga of Frank Sinatra) - Car Seat Headrest | Me and My Dad - Onfim (ancient child)

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena // Alain de Botton, Essays in Love // Eden Robinson, "Writing Prompts for the Broken-Hearted" // Chloe Liese, Always Only You // Anne Carson and Euripides, An Oresteia // Two—Sleeping At Last // Studio Bones, SK8 the Infinity // Trista Mateer, "is it okay to say this?" // @moodylilac // D. H. Lawrence, "The Rainbow"

‘Love is the one thing that we’re capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space.’

“Eulogy from a Physicist” by Aaron Freeman, with quotes from Interstellar by Christopher Nolan, and images from NASA, Interstellar, Getty, Petrichara, and Reuters.

1- NASA: GOODS-South.

2- NASA: NGC 1850.

3- NASA: Iberian Peninsula.

4- Christopher Nolan: Interstellar.

5- NASA: From the Earth to the Moon.

6- Hannah La Folette Ryan: Subway Hands.

7- Adams Evans: Heart Nebula.

8- NASA: Exploring the Antennae.

9- NASA: Crescent Moon from the International Space Station.

10- Petrichara.

11- Getty Images.

12- NASA: SMACS 0723.

13- Reuters