Do you drink parotta? 

At first glance, this question may sound absurd, maybe even a touch whimsical. It has that jarring quality—like someone suddenly asking if you wear socks on your hands. But linger with it a moment. Its oddness tugs at the edges of your understanding, making you pause.

Consider more peculiar statements that sound almost surreal:

Tea is written.

Rice flows like water.

A car is devoured on the street.

Fish curry is carved with precision.

Buildings rise through the echoes of song.

Trains ferment as they race forward.

Sugar douses itself in milk as if extinguishing a flame.

These sentences don’t just puzzle; they unsettle. There’s a sly, discordant music to them, as if language itself has decided to take a vacation from meaning. Words, usually reliable architects of thought, suddenly tilt at strange angles. And in that moment, our minds falter. Why? Because the human mind craves coherence—a neat alignment of sense and experience. Without it, understanding stumbles.

This craving for coherence extends to how we think about time. Yesterday at 10 AM? Clear enough. Ten years ago? A little hazy. A hundred years? That’s a sepia-toned blur. A billion years? Now you’re just tossing words into a void. Words like "eternity" or "infinity" sit on our tongues but refuse to take shape in our minds. They point to ideas too vast, too unruly for our finite faculties to grasp.

It’s not just time, though. Try holding the concept of infinity in your head. You’ll find it’s like trying to bottle the ocean. You get a taste, but the enormity spills out of reach. These abstractions—timelessness, vastness, boundlessness—slip through the cracks of our comprehension, leaving only the faintest echoes behind.

Faced with such limits, even the universe itself begins to feel transient. The sun rises and sets, rivers carve valleys and then run dry, mountains weather into dust. Stars burn out. Stones crumble. Everything carries the weight of impermanence. And with this impermanence comes the most unsettling of questions: How did it all begin?

Some suggest the universe sprang into existence on its own, unprompted by any external force. Chance, they say. Or perhaps some natural necessity. Yet this explanation tiptoes around a deeper question: How does nothing give birth to something? The leap from nonexistence to existence is a chasm that defies logic. Without an external cause, the mystery remains unresolved, like an equation missing a crucial variable.

Believers offer another answer. Look closer, they say. Every ripple, every shifting shadow, every intricate pattern in the cosmos points to an origin. The stars, the seas, the songs of birds at dawn—all of it bears the imprint of a Creator. Smoke signals fire; the stirring of leaves whispers of wind. Likewise, the existence of the universe speaks to a cause greater than itself.

And here’s the inevitable counterquestion: Who created the Creator? It’s a fair ask, though one rooted in a misunderstanding. The Creator, as understood by believers, is not like creation. Allah is unbound by time, space, or the rules of causality. Unlike the transient world He sustains, He is eternal—without beginning, without end. To ask who created Him is to misapply the logic of creation to the One who transcends it. It’s like trying to measure light with a thermometer; the tools don’t fit the task.

This isn’t an evasion but a call for humility. Our minds, remarkable as they are, have limits. Recognizing those limits doesn’t diminish understanding; it deepens it. When we encounter the divine, we don’t merely rely on reason. We reflect, we wonder, we stand in awe.

The universe is full of signs for those who look. The fine balance of life, the artistry of a snowflake, the grandeur of galaxies—none of it points to randomness. Instead, it invites us to ponder the One who set it all into motion. Faith, then, isn’t about silencing questions but embracing a deeper awareness. It’s the recognition that behind the fragile beauty of existence stands a Creator, timeless and sustaining.

And maybe, just maybe, it all starts with an odd little question. Do you drink parotta?