Indian Nationalist

Indian Nationalist 🇮🇳

In Mumbai, Malhar was known for his fiery speeches against what he saw as the invasion of foreign cultures. He had always hated Arabs and Islam. His passionate rants were a common feature at rallies, where he railed against the threats to his country’s identity.

One day, Malhar found himself in Saudi Arabia for a business trip. As he walked through the streets of Riyadh, he couldn't shake off the discomfort that came with being in a country whose culture and religion he hated. He headed toward a mosque where he intended to make his hate known.

As he approached, he saw a large crowd of Arab men gathered outside. They were preparing for the evening prayers. The area was packed, with people standing shoulder to shoulder. Malhar was driven by his frustration and decided to push through the crowd to reach the front.

However, as he tried to force his way through, he found himself increasingly trapped. The crowd was so dense that moving was almost impossible. He was surrounded by people, and the sounds of prayers and murmured supplications filled the air. Malhar began to feel an unusual sensation, as if the atmosphere itself was pressing in on him.

The discomfort was at first physical, but soon it turned deeper. Malhar’s skin, which had been a deep brown, began to lighten. His facial features started to change subtly, aligning more with the features he had so long hated. His once fiercely nationalist thoughts began to fade, replaced by innocence, obedience to the sunnah and calmness.

As he was enveloped by the crowd, he felt more change occurring within him. His old beliefs and prejudices dissolved, replaced by a new understanding and acceptance. The anger and bitterness that had once fueled his rhetoric were now replaced by empathy and peace.

When Malhar finally emerged from the crowd, he was no longer the man he had been. Standing in the street, he looked around and realized people called him Marwan. The memories of his former self were vague and distant, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

Without hesitation, Marwan turned back toward the mosque. He joined the crowd of faithful Arab men with their rituals and prayers. As he knelt in submission, he felt a connection to the traditions and beliefs he had once avoided.

Zamzam's Blessing

With @next-pharaoh

Thomas could not believe he had made it. After toiling through what seemed to be all of Saudi Arabia, he had finally found himself in front of the Zamzam Well. According to the Islamic narratives, the well was a miraculously generated source of water which had opened up thousands of years ago for the son of Ibrahim, Ismaʿil. The legends and lore went on and on, and Thomas could see why. What stood before him was incredible.

Stepping a bit closer to the fount, Thomas could only imagine how silly he must have looked. Some scrawny white tourist, already sunburned after two days barely spent in the desert. Atheist nonetheless; he was certainly not the well’s typical affair. But he had had a passion for worldly monuments ever since he was little, including religiously-affiliated ones. When he had decided to take this journey, he had known it would be difficult, but now Thomas could finally find it worth it.

Smiling, Thomas peered a little farther forward, not noticing his foot catch on the edge of the gate protecting the holy well. With a small yelp, he felt himself lose his footing and tumble directly into the hole. Thomas immediately descended into the hole, each second flying by before splashing into the water. 

Thomas took a quick gulp of air as his panic began to rise. Questions began flying around as if they were bouncing off the well’s walls. How could he have been so careless? Was he going to be able to survive this? Did someone see him fall? Would he be deported? And last but not least: why was he not drowning?

With an awkward blink, Thomas considered that last question again. Timidly, he just barely opened his mouth to relieve some pressure. He was not prepared for his breath to be restored. Hesitantly accepting this realization, Thomas tested a bit more, until eventually he realized he could breathe while underneath the well’s water. It was strange, unsettling, and frankly exhilarating to the non-believer. It was as if he was trapped in a womb.

And like a womb, the water was getting warmer. The panic began to resettle as Thomas realized just how quickly the pool was heating up. The hot water was cooking him, streaming through every hole and crevice it could into his body. Thanks to the smallest amount of light from above, Thomas was able to witness his miraculous transformation.

It started first with Thomas’s skin. The low boil of the water burned him, but instead of leaving reddish scars, it darkened his exterior. Thomas’s skin crisped into a warmer brown, his hair darkened to a rich black, and his facial features subtly shifted to reflect a new masculine, Middle Eastern heritage. As his nose grew wider and eyes inhabited a deep, rich brown, Thomas could not help but emit heartfelt moan underneath the water’s surface.

The masculinization came next, for the well gifted Thomas with the prime body to carry out its will. Broadened shoulders now led to massive arms meant to carry the Qur'an's wisdom. A sturdy chest then traveled down to impenetrable legs to carry the new man across the world to aid in reversion. Larger feet to stomp out the dissension, a virile pouch to spread the Arabian seed. Thomas’s body was built to be an unstoppable Islamic machine.

And finally, his mind would become one with his new mission. In ecstasy, Thomas cried out as his past was rewritten for a new destiny. His old beliefs and ideals dissolved, replaced by a new understanding and acceptance. The atheist wonder that had once fueled his rhetoric was rewritten by Islamic empathy and peace. The passion Thomas once derived from multiculturalism was extinguished, replaced with an appreciation for full reversion.

As his transformation settled in, the well’s water level began to rise. Thomas’s metaphorical womb was ready to give birth to its newest disciple. The warm embrace rushed around him as he was pushed up and up, his magnificent body adapting to the masterful current. As his final change was instituted, the water exalted its creation to the top, leaving the Arab man dry beside the well.

“Ah, I thought I heard the well’s waters again,” a gravelly voice chuckled. “It had been a while since anyone was blessed.”

From the other side of the well stood an old janitor. The rest of the exhibit was empty, suggesting that the historic site had been closed for a while now. The janitor came around the fount and helped the sturdy Arab man up, leading him to a small room off to the side of the exhibit.

“What’s your name, brother?” the janitor asked.

“Tariq,” the Islamic disciple answered with the utmost clarity. “What just happened?"

“The well blessed you” the janitor replied, now searching through a drawer. "I thought it was fairly obvious."

Looking upon himself, Tariq was surprised to have not noticed earlier that he was bare besides a pair of underwear. By its branding, he knew the janitor's words were true.

“You can have these.” The janitor tossed a pearly white thobe to Tariq. “Now go out, you know your mission.”

Swede

A young Swede called Georg had arrived in Qatar for what he expected to be a brief visit. He had planned to meet friends who would escort him to his destination, but as he stepped out of the airport, he realized they were nowhere to be found. Confused and uncertain, Georg wandered through the unfamiliar streets of Doha.

The midday heat was intense, and Georg felt out of place. He had no idea where to go or how to navigate the city. Just as he was starting to feel overwhelmed, a gleaming 4x4 pulled up beside him. The vehicle was occupied by a group of friendly-looking Saudi men. One of them, a man named Hamza, rolled down the window and called out to Georg.

“Hey there! You look lost. Want a lift?” Hamza asked in broken English with a welcoming smile.

Georg was relieved to find someone who spoke English and gratefully accepted the offer. He climbed into the luxurious SUV, and hoped this would be the solution to his despair.

As he settled into the plush seat, Hamza turned on some traditional Saudi music. Georg found the music strange and unfamiliar. It was a blend of rhythmic drums and melodic vocals that didn’t quite resonate with his Westerm taste. At the same time, Georg noticed a strong, distinctive smell in the car—a musky, masculine scent that seemed to be coming from the men around him. It was a scent he wasn't used to, and he found it somewhat overpowering.

As the journey progressed, Georg found himself breathing in more of the musk that filled the car. The scent penetrated his senses, and as he inhaled deeply, he began to feel a strange sensation. His body started to change. His skin tone gradually shifted to a warm, olive hue, and his facial features altered to fit those of the Saudi men around him.

His previous life, memories, and identity seemed to fade away as he embraced his new form. His skull reshaped subtly to match the typical features of an Arab man, and his understanding of the world evolved.

The Saudi music began to sound pleasant and familiar. Georg found himself enjoying the rhythms and melodies, his earlier discomfort replaced by a growing appreciation for the music.

The car was filled with brotherhood and warmth. They laughed, chatted, and sang along to the music, making him feel completely at home.

They called him Gaith, and when Gaith settled into his new identity, he glanced around the car and noticed something curious. One of the toys in the back seat had Swedish names on it. It was a small reminder of his past life, a life he could barely recall now. It was as if the car had held a piece of his former self while he was becoming someone newer and better.

If you're a brother, comment with a green heart: 💚

This is what everyone should become. This is what every male should look like my brothers.

Little Brother

With @next-pharaoh

“Eh, dirty Arab,” Markus muttered to himself, squeezing into the aisle seat next to the younger brown man beside him. He could only hope his suit would not get filthy while next to the fellow. Markus was on his way to a meeting across the country, hoping to be promoted to an associate at his law practice.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, zalameh?” Markus’s new acquaintance asked innocently. Markus grimaced at the hair that seemingly covered every exposed part of the young man’s body, and the musk that naturally wafted off of it.

“Nothing, nevermind.” Markus did not want to get into an argument. He was not worried about the other passenger’s size–Markus's hobby of weightlifting would definitely make it an even match–but he was on a plane. They were going to sit together for at least three hours.

“Picking a fight with me is rather bold,” the man beside him warned. “Just because we are in public does not mean your big brother Khalil won’t put you into place. I’ve had no problem doing that in the mosque, remember?.”

The second half of the comment caught Markus off guard. “I’m sorry…what?”

“Do not play dumb, zalameh,” Khalil smirked. “Although I guess skipping that post-secondary education may have slowed you down.”

“N-no, I’m smart…and I’m not Muslim.” Markus struggled to regain his footing, which was surprising for the lawyer of almost ten years. But then, something else began to alarm him. “Wait, what’s happening to my suit?!”

Right before the pair’s eyes, Markus’s suit had begun to dwindle away, pulling back towards his core. The jacket disappeared completely, while the starched button-up softened into a basic graphic tee. Markus’s pleading eyes searched for help but no one seemed to notice his pant legs curling up, becoming sweat shorts that reached halfway across the thigh. Finally, as his premium loafers morphed into beaten sneakers, Markus switched to the offensive.

“You’re doing this aren’t you, you camel-”

“Shh, brother,” Khalil placed a brown finger to Markus’s lips, shushing him. “You don’t want to make a scene, do you?”

Recovering fast, Markus ripped Khalil’s hand away, but then he noticed a new problem. “My-my arms! Why are they…”

“They’ve always been brown,” Khalil stated as they both followed the wave of melanin that flushed over Markus’s arms. “They’re as hairy as mine, but if you joined me in the gym more often than they’d be as buff and strong as mine too.”

Markus’s arms shrunk under Khalil’s comments, now more toned than muscular. “Wha-” 

“And that runner’s build too,” Khalil commented. “Sure you have abs and that thick treasure trail, but it makes you more boyish than man.”

“No, stop it!” Markus exclaimed. And yet no attention was given to him from the other passengers as his frame thinned out into a figure appropriate for a runner.

“At least you have that fat, bushy, Arab cock our family name takes pride in!” Khalil suddenly grabbed Markus’s crotch, both of them noticing the heftier weight. Markus did not understand how, but he could feel his white sperm rapidly evaporating within Khalil's grip.

“B-but I’m not Arab…and I’m a lawyer…and I’m-”

“You're my little brother,” Khalil finished, grabbing Markus’s face. “Praise Allah I have patience for your misunderstandings.”

Markus was going to comment, but instead was distracted by a foreign feeling on his chin, “Since when do I have a goatee…?”

“Since you could grow one, zalameh. You’ve wanted to be like me ever since you were little.”

Markus groaned. “I don’t...ow, my head...”

“By Allah you practically are like me at this point,” Khalil chuckled. “One could even confuse us for twins.”

“No…that can’t be…true.” Struggling, Markus got up. To his surprise, Khalil did not stop him–nor did anyone else for that matter–as he stumbled towards the bathroom. He had to see if it was true. Markus had to know if…

“Subhanallah!”

With the mirror in front of him, Markus was able to witness what Khalil had meant. Reflected back was a young Arab man, no older than 25. Attractive in a boyish way, but still held that Arab hair and funk that many brown men were proud of. Markus’s eyes began to water, but before he could cry his phone received a notification.

“Marwan, what’s taking you so long! We are about to take off!!"

Marwan shook his head, what was he just thinking about? It probably did not matter anyway. Luckily his older brother Khalil was looking out for him once again. Admiring his own brown, masculine beauty and quickly thanking Allah for it, Marwan left the bathroom to return to his brother. Khalil was beaming from ahead, eagerly awaiting him.

The Basement

With @next-pharaoh

“Richie?” Billy called out into the hazy basement. “Richie, are you down here?”

Billy had never thought of Richie as a religious kind-of-guy, nor a Muslim for that matter. What other reason would he have had to come down into the creepy, old mosque? Heck, Richie’s whole family was Catholic, the stereotypical devout Latin family. Billy’s too, although of a Polish heritage instead. That was probably why they had always gotten along so well–they could bond through trauma.

“Richie?” Billy asked once more. The basement was rather small, just a single room with a twin mattress, a few sheets, and a tiny window shining the bare minimum amount of sunlight into the space. The place was covered in dust, something Billy unfortunately had not noticed until he had patted down his all-black outfit, surprised to find it covered in the pale powder.

“Alright, that’s it,” Billy grumbled. “I can’t even get reception down here anyway.”

That was how this had all started. Billy had received an emergency text with a location from Richie that he had been locked and needed help. However, that text had taken over 24 hours to deliver. Billy had rushed over here as fast as he could, but now he could not find Richie anywhere. Perplexed, he made his way back to the basement’s door, not expecting to find it locked.

“No…” Billy spoke to no one in particular. “No, no no!”

Frantically, Billy pulled at the handle, hoping, praying that it would come off. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, it would not budge. It was times like these that he wished he would have participated in some athletics throughout his schooling career, rather than focusing on communications and the arts. 

“Hello!” Billy shouted, banging on the door. “Can anyone hear me?!” He grabbed his phone and quickly sent out a text to his friend, not surprised when it was unable to go through. Backing away from the door, Billy began to consider what he could do. Someone would have to find him eventually, right? Phones had tracking devices, so it would not take long before people questioned where he was. And the window, maybe from there he could-

“Oh-!” Clumsily, Billy fell back onto the twin bed, so preoccupied in his thoughts that he had not paid attention to his footing. The dust flew up in a cloud around him, slowly cascading over his body. The particles coated his sandy-colored hair and fair skin as if he had been hit by a bag of flour. A bit embarrassed, Billy coughed, inhaling some of the dust.

“Gosh, what is this stuff…?” Billy questioned, his head suddenly a bit dizzy. “Is it…powdered salt…?”

Slowly, Billy’s body fell back onto bed, an encroaching weariness enveloping him. Within moments, he was fast asleep while the dust began carefully absorbing into his being.

———

Rashid unlocked the door to the mosque’s basement. He already possessed the keys to the lock, and he knew not to reopen the door until at least daybreak. Well, at least not while the current convert is awake. It was necessary for Rashid to go in while the convert was resting to provide the necessary materials.

“Ah, I see you are awake,” the strong, proud Muslim announced in Arabic as he swung open the door. “And already studying the analysis of the Hadith book I provided you with.” 

“Yes, thank you brother,” the reply came back, also in Arabic.

“Do the pants fit you alright, Bilal?” Rashid asked. 

“They will carry the load.” With his massive hand, Bilal cupped his mighty Arab meat to emphasize his point. Rashid took a once over of Bilal, taking in the bronzed alpha and confirming the dimensions he had hypothesized in his head. Bilal was tall, muscular, a perfect specimen of Islamic masculinity. His chest would ideally slide into the thobe Rashid had ordered for him, and his wide feet would easily fill the Nike sandals Rashid had set aside.

“Now Bilal, are you ready to promote the genetic Arabization of the world?” Rashid demanded. “To defend Arab interests, to sacrifice individuality for global brotherhood?”

Bilal immediately nodded, his fate had already been sealed.

Rashid smiled, “I assume you have already left your past behind?”

Smirking, Bilal motioned his head towards the drying white splurge behind him. By the afternoon, it would become just another part of the basement’s transformative dust.

With a nod, Rashid ushered Bilal up, and the two made their way out of the basement and back into the mosque. They prayed together, feasted together, and were preparing to leave the mosque just as a frightened Asian-American boy rushed past them.

“Billy? Billy!” His shouts echoed throughout the hall as he dashed into the religious hallways. Rashid and Bilal exchanged knowing smiles. They held hands and bid farewell, the keys transferring between their hands.