Posted by Naim Naqvi

Let this scribe make a confession: He is no authority upon the subject – ‘Life and Events of Syed Hussain Sharafuddin Shahwilayat’. He is neither a historian nor a scholar chronicler or a very strong devotee of any cult or tradition. This article is simply based upon some folk stories, magazines, books, stray observations, cluttered thoughts and last but not least – some figments of unintended imagination. The reader is free to accept, reject, condemn and challenge any content of it at his own standards of merit and knowledge.

Before I describe the brief history of the Saint Sharafuddin Shahwilayat I feel it would be justified if I share few thoughts about Tasawwuf which could be simply described as the traditional Islamic science of self-improvement and spirituality. It is related to Sufism and defines our relationship with Allah. According to Moulana Ashraf Ali Thanwi – Many people have misunderstandings about tasawwuf. Many think that it is something beyond the Qur’an and Sunnah. Errant Sufis as well as the superficial ulema, although on the opposite ends of the spectrum, are together in holding this mistaken notion.

Consequently the first group has shunned the Qur’an and Hadith while the second group has shunned tasawwuf. Actually, although the term tasawwuf, like many other religious terms in use today, evolved later, the discipline is very much part of the Shariah. The department of the Shariah relating to external deeds like salat and zakat is called fiqh while the one dealing with the internal feelings and states of the heart is called tasawwuf. Both are commanded in the Qur’an. Thus while commanding Salat and Zakat, the Qur’an also commands gratefulness and love of Allah and condemns the evil of pride and vanity. Similarly, in the books of hadith, along with the chapters on Ibadat, trade and commerce, marriage and divorce, are to be found the chapters on riya’ (show off) takabbur, akhlaq, etc. These commands are as much a mandatory requirement as the ones dealing with external deeds. Its focus is tahzeebe akhlaq or the adornment of character; its motive is the attainment of Divine pleasure; its method is total obedience to the commands of the Shariah.

Sufism traces its origin precepts to Hazarat Mohammed (PBUH) through his cousin and son-in-law, first Imam and 4th Caliph of Islam Hazrat Ali (KAW). There is only one connection ‘Naqshbandiya’ which claims its origin to Hazrat Abu Bakar, the 1st Caliph of Islam. According to great Iranian scholar Abu Rayhan Albiruni, the ‘Sufi’ word is derived from the Greek word ‘Sofia’ meaning wisdom. The Sufi practiced asceticism and shunned the pomp and pursuit of pleasure flouted by Umayyad, Abbasi, Khilji and Toughlaq dynasties. They never preferred the company of feudal aristocrats for pleasure.

Today the picture of gun-totting terrorists, bombs and preachers-of-hate is in absolute contrast to the cool, inspiring, loving, smiling and reassuring images that conjure up when we remember Nund Reshi, Lalleshwar or Dehat Bibi, the saints of Kashmir Valley.

Pass through a cent per cent Non-Muslim locality and hark the melodious renditions of folk singers reciting:

“Chap tilak sab cheeni, baat ajab keh dini, mohe suhagan keenhi, monse nayna milayke…….”

(The eyes met and I gave up all the symbols of faith, my beloved spoke some enchanted words and made me a bride). You instantly knew the creator of these words – Ameer Khusrau.

Visit any dargah in your town when you feel exhausted and need some urgent peace of mind and the sacred ambience, the Qawaals will be there to welcome you with “Haideriyam Qalandram mastam, banda-ey Murtaza Ali hastam, Peshway tammam rindanam, ke sag-e-kooye-Yazdanam” (I’m a mendicant of Haider’s order, I’m a pure disciple of Ali Murtaza, who is the leader of all the Universe. I’m the dog of the lane of Mustafa (PBUH).)

Tasawwuf is the soul of Islam. Its function is to purify the heart from the lowly bestial attributes of lust, calamities of the tongue, anger, malice, jealousy, love of the world, love of fame, niggardliness, greed, ostentation, vanity, deception, etc. At the same time it aims at the adornment of the heart with the lofty attributes of repentance, perseverance and.

In India the concept of Tasawwuf is followed and practiced in different forms and different schools. They are not radically different from each and a subtle nuance of names categorizes them as beautiful branches of the same spiritual plant that shades over the schism that prevails in basics of belief. I am giving below the most popular schools of Tasawwuf.

Chishtiyyah:

The Chishtiyya order emerged out of Central Asia and Persia. The first saint was Abu Ishaq Shami (d.940–41 A.D.) establishing the Chishti order in Chisti Sharif within Afghanistan. The notable saint Moinuddin Chisti (d. 1236 A.D.) has championed this order within India, making it one of the largest orders in India today. Scholars also mentioned that he had been a part-time disciple of Abu Najib Suhrawardi. Khwaja Moiuddin Chishti was originally from Sistan (eastern Iran, southwest Afghanistan) and grew up as a well traveled scholar to Central Asia, Middle East, and South Asia.[He reached Delhi in 1193 A.D. during the end of Ghurid reign, then shortly settled in Ajmer-Rajasthan when the Delhi Sultanate formed. Moinuddin Chishti’s Sufi and social welfare activities dubbed Ajmer the “nucleus for the Islamization of central and southern India.” The Chishti order formed KHANQAH to reach the local communities, thus helping Islam spread with charity work. Islam in India grew with the efforts of dervishes, not with violent bloodshed or forced conversion. Until this day, both Muslims and non-Muslims visit the famous tomb of Moinuddin Chishti; it has become even a popular tourist and pilgrimage destination. Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar (d. 1605 A.D.), the 3rd Mughal ruler frequented Ajmer as a pilgrim, setting a tradition for his constituents. Successors of Khwaja Moinudden Chishti include eight additional saints; together, these names are considered the big eight of the medieval Chishtiyya order. Moinuddin Chisti (d. AD 1233 in Ajmer, India), Qutubuddin Bakhtiar Kaki (d. AD 1236 in Delhi, India), Fariduddin Ganjshakar (d. AD 1265 in Pakpattan,Pakistan), Nizamuddin Auliya (d. AD 1335 in Delhi), Nasiruddin Chiragh Dehalvi, Bande Nawaz (d. AD 1422 in Gulbarga, India), Akhi Siraj Aaine Hind (d. 1357 in Bengal India, Alaul Haq Pandavi and Ashraf Jahangir Semnani (d. AD 1386, Kichaucha India).

Suhrwardiyyah:

The founder of this order was Abdul-Wahir Abu Najib as-Suhrawardi (d. 1168 A.D.). He was actually a disciple of Ahmed Ghazali. The teachings of Ahmad Ghazali led to the formation of this order. This order was prominent in medieval Iran prior to Persian migrations into India during the Mongol Invasion. Consequently, it was Abu Najib as-Suhrawardi’s nephew that helped bring the Suhrawardiyyah to mainstream awareness.

Naqshbandiyyah

The origin of this order can be traced back to Khwaja Ya‘qub Yusuf al-Hamadani (d. 1390 A.D. ), who lived in Central Asia. It was later organized by Bahauddin Naqshband (b. 1318–1389 A.D.) of Tajik and Turkic background. He is widely referred to as the founder of the Naqshbandi order. Khwaja Muhammad al-Baqi Billah Berang (d. 1603 A.D.) introduced the Naqshbandiyyah to India. This order was particularly popular Mughal elites due to ancestral links to the founder, Khawja al-Hamadani. Babur, the founder of the Mughal dynasty in 1526 A.D., was already initiated in the Naqshbandi order prior to conquering India. This royal affiliation gave considerable impetus to the order.

Qadiriyyah

The Qadiriyyah order was founded by Abdul Qadir Gilani who was originally from Iran (d. 1166 A.D.).[ It is popular among the Muslims of South India. As a widespread order, the Qadiriyyah had a prominent sheikh in India. Muhammad Mayan Mir (d. 1635 A.D.) was a famous scholar known for significant non-Muslim tolerance and community service work. Worlds largest religious organisation Dawate-E-Islami also belongs to the Qadiriyyah order whose founder was Moulana Ilyas Qadri.

Sufism helped the assimilation of the Afghani Delhi Sultanate rulers within mainstream society. By building a syncretic medieval culture tolerant and appreciative of non-Muslims, they contributed to the growth of stability, vernacular literature, and devotional music in India. Literature related to monotheism and the Bhakti movement also formed syncretic influences in history during the Sultanate period. Sufi scholars traveling from all over continental Asia were instrumental in the social, economic, and philosophic development of India. Besides preaching in major cities and centers of intellectual thoughts, Sufis reached out to poor and marginalized rural communities and preached in local dialects such as Urdu, Sindhi, Panjabi versus Persian, Turkish, and Arabic. Their teachings of humanity, love for God and Prophet (PBUH) continue to be surrounded by mystical tales and folk songs today. Sufis were firm in abstaining from religious and communal conflict and strived to be peaceful elements of civil society. Furthermore, it is the attitude of accommodation, adaptation, piety, and charisma that continues to help Sufism remain as a pillar of mystical Islam in India.

The History of Hazarat Shahwilayat:

To begin with, very few history books are available in India now where he is mentioned in any form in relation to larger SUFI Movement of India. Perhaps, his father was shy of éclat and preferred the ascetic life of Amroha which was often referred as Qasba Azizpore in those days. He didn’t make Delhi or any royal city of his final abode. There is no provision of SAJJADA NASHEENI in his hierarchy that is so common and necessary in Sufi Schools. One can safely conclude that he had a limited spiritual domain and he loved the simple life of towns and villages.

He was the son of Mira Ali Buzurg who was a learned scholar. His mother’s name was ‘Umme Habeeba’ and she was the daughter of Syed Abdul Moueed Ali. Syed Jalaluddin Haider Surkh Posh, the famous saint of earlier Muslim Indian Sultanete, was the real brother of Bibi Umme Habiba.

The parents of Shahwilayat were direct descendents of Imam Ali al-Naqi al-Hadi (AS) – the 10 th Imam. Imam’s period coincides with the rule of Abbasids – AlWathiq and Al Mutawakkil. These rulers were jealous of Imam’s reverence, popularity an following among ordinary Muslims. He concocted excuses and called Imam from Medina and imprisoned him at Samrrah, Iraq. He achieved martyrdom on 3 rd Rajab 252 AH at the age of 42 years. He left behind five children:
1. Hazrat Imam Hasan (the 11 th Imam)
2. Hazrat Hussain
3. Hazrat Mohammed
4. Hazrat Jafar
5. Bibi Aisha

They migrated to the city of Sauda in Syria and from there to ‘Wasit’ a hamlet in Iraq. This town was established at the bank of River Dajla by Hajjaj Bin Yussuf in 83 AH. After a lapse of considerable time new designs of agriculture and water resources diverted water to other canals and waterways and it resulted in scarcity of water in the town. Political and Administrative frictions compounded and made life unbearable for the descending generations of Syeds of Abbasid Kingdom. Syed Mira Ali Buzurg had three sons and one daughter.
1. Syed Hasan
2. Syed Hussain Shahwilayat
3. Syed Mohammed
4. Bibi Umme Salema

Bibi Umme Salema and Syed Hasan died in childhood. In 662 AH, to avoid the persecution and tyranny of ruler they decided to leave their ancestral lands for the good and migrated to Bhakkar in Multan (now in Pakistan).

And according to many scholars, in the year of 670 AH, 2 nd Zil Hij (corresponding to Wed 29 th June 1272 AD) Hazrat Sharafuddin Shahwilayat, his father Syed Mira Ali Buzurg and his family along with many other members of his family group came to India via Multan and settled in Amroha. It was during the rule of Sultan Ghyasuddin Balban. However, some scholars disagree and claim that in 690 AH, during the rule of Sultan Jalaluddin Firoz Shah Khilji, the family landed in Amroha.

Boy Sharfuddin received his primary education Dars-e-Quarn and Hadith at home and his father was his mentor and tutor. As grown-up he was trained in spiritual disciplines by Syed Jalauddin, Syed Bahuddin – the father-in-law of Syed Jalauddin and Moulana Nasehuddin Suharwardi s / o Qazi Hameeduddin Nagori. The names of Saint Arif Suharwardi and Syed Usman Lal Shahbaz Qalander aka Jhulewala are included in the list of his teachers.

He was assigned the area between River Ganges and Kumayun Hills as his preaching spiritual domain by his spiritual guides. He followed the simple ascetic life and his message was universal love and respect. He was admired and received warmly by the people of all the faiths. The fame of his piety and erudition spread in all the four corners around Amroha.

The famous book of Amrohvi history ‘Tareekh-e-Wastiya’ describes Mohalla PACHDARA as the maiden nest for newly arrived family. He was married to Bibi Kaneez Fatima, the daughter of Syed Jalaluddin Bukhari and they had three children.
1. Syed Mir Ali Buzurg
2. Syed Abdul Aziz
3. Bibi Baqia-ut-tahirah aka Bibi Bakhuhi.

Bibi Bakhuhi was known for her piety,simplicity and devotion to prayers. The grave of Bibi comes your sight when you enter the gate of dargah.

There is no authentic record how long Hazrat Sharfuddin stayed in Amroha and then left for Kumyun Hills for meditation and prayers. His trip to Hills was meant to acquire knowledge and practice Riyazat, Chillakashi and special prayers. It was a sort of specialized spiritual training in splendid isolation. For this reason alone he was also called as PEER PAHARI – The Saint of Hills.

Some chronicles have mentioned about the trees he planted in the hills to support his place of meditation which was similar to MACHAN. He brought back those plants to Amroha when he returned. One of those plants survived and is still believed to be sheltering the shrine. He died on 21 Rajab 739 AH and was buried in Amroha.
He had also performed Haj and stayed in Mecca for 7 years. No dated of departure or arrival for Haj are available.

Syed Mohammed Abdal Dooda Dhari, a close relative of Shahwilayat was one of his appointed subordinate but Syed Sharafuddin instructed to discontinue the practice of baiyat and the system of succession was discarded forever in his lineage. Dooda Dhari Saheb died in 798 AH and all the sacred belongings of Hazrat Sharfuddin were buried with him.

Naim Naqvi

Did his graduation in Science discipline from AMU in 1972-73. He was Secretary of University Ali Society in 1970 and M.M. Hall Literary Society in early 70 's and member of Tayyabji Literary Society. Did his Diploma in Bakery Administration from HTT College Oxford Street London in 1987. Worked with National Herald - Delhi, Blitz - Bombay as Trainee Journalist and in Production Department with 'Naya Sansar Pictures' of Khwaja Ahmed Abbas at Bombay in early 70's. Traveled for study and training purposes to Germany, U.K., Switzerland, France, Dubai, Oman, AbuDhabi, Bahrain and Philepines.

Nov

2013

Our TEHZEEB – Gone With The Wind

Posted by Naim Naqvi

Life is not so short but that there is always time for courtesy.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Life is a difficult journey. We can pass through it easily if we make it easy for others. We make it one hell for ourselves; thorny and rocky for others if we forget that everyone needs respect, love and admiration even if he / she doesn’t demand for it. Courtesy and politeness are the best attributes to make life more amenable and conducive to peaceful co-existence. Customs, conventions and manners are the expressions of mutual understanding, sharing and appreciation. These traits do not make life difficult as someone had said, “Etiquette rules are fancy stuff invented to make the rest of us feel stupid.” It is not true. Relationships of existence, whether close or distant, become more bearable in the difficult times if we adopt or follow the fundamental principle of mutual respect. Unfortunately, as we are climbing the ladder of material progress and growth while we are leaving the good manners as dispensable flotsam – something we could do without. Children do not respect their parent, students don’t respect their teacher, a subordinate doesn’t respect the boss and public no longer respect the leader. The vice-versa, so essential for smooth sailing is also true. We are giving up the prescription the basic rules of existence and subsistence in our daily routines. There is hardly any consideration for others. Proper manners came into being not artificially, but these were based on an authentic concern for the love and respect of others.

Why our social relations so shattered today? Watch out the lonely street or a crowded shopping mall, a railways compartment or a bus stop. Everyone is busy with his or her mobile. No one wants to talk face to face. We avoid each other. Why? Just because we need not very many good manners while we initiate or carry forward the dialogue on mobile. Good manners and normal courtesy have been disregarded as unnecessary and superfluous. The pillars of shared ethical and moral code of conduct are rendered useless like Morse Key and Telegraphic system.

In these times of fast life, Dellhi, Lucknow and Hyderabad, the cities once the citadels of culture and traditions have become an emaciated shadow of their past. Delhi – 6 is difficult to distinguish from Noida – 60. Where are all the old Delhi Walas disappeared no one knows. In Lucknow you have to visit the Imambarahs and museums if you are looking for the culture Nawabs had left. No more Ikke-wallas are there to welcome you in a style that once used to make you feel respectable and important in the hoary past when you came out the ‘Char Bagh Station.’ In Hyderabad, you have to wriggle out of the complex Telengana issue to reach out to someone who has time for you to talk in the original sweet Hyderabadi lingua franca.

Demanding ‘self-restraint’ is consideration for others : A courteous man is a man of refinement, a gentleman or lady considers for others at all times. A golden rule of the past which is sadly disregarded at present is to rise to one’s feet when a lady, a senior person or a dignitary enters a room. This was a sign of respect for age and rank. A simple gesture like this helped to instill in youth a respect for age, rank, and authority. It used to instill the self confidence in both. Anyone cares to do that ?

The laws of hospitality were the corner stone of our spiritual and social development. In them were the reflections of the wisdom of the ages. Today hospitality is overtaken by hostility. A young boy is not willing to vacate the seat for a senior citizen in the transport even if it is clearly reserved for him. A well-dressed man doesn’t want to get up from the ladies seat until the lady demands for it. The hostility, alienation, and vulgarity of the modern day is the direct output of our hedonistic approach to life – devoid of spirituality and reason. We are leaving behind the manners and etiquette that had profound meaning to make life easier and more bearable.

So, when in a beautiful winter morning I was enjoying my Nahari and Nan at Bismillah Hotel, Ballimaran, Dehi- 6, a young boy sneaked into my hitherto unoccupied opposite chair and checked politely, “Can I sit here.”
If a seat is empty your opposite no one would care to ask your permission in Delhi to sit there. It is always his birth right. The very enquiry was a pleasant surprise.“You’re welcome, tashreef rakhen Janab.”

The gentleman took the seat with a smile and fired his first salvo – “I’m a real original Delhi Wala and your nice SHERWANI has compelled me to share the table with you.”
I got a lurking fear that he might be a cheat, a poseur ready to go fast on me. However, without knowing what was there in store for me I replied politely that I was honored. I’d been an old Aligarian (an Old Student of Aligarh Muslim University) and Sherwani wass still the integral part of my dress.”

Before I move on my story, I must make a confession. Unfortunately, I’d never felt at home at Delhi. I feel uncomfortable with the supercilious, plastic, back-stabbing, nasty and self-reverential culture of Delhi or New Delhi. To me, Mumbai / Bombay has always been real, straight, practical and beautiful; to me Mumbai is the center of attraction of life, a land of honest, hard-working and no-nonsense inhabitants. Many ideas could never be justified. You just feel them, savor them as candy floss. Being away of my country had often made me home-sick, nostalgic and at times morose. So, while I may stay anywhere I always long to go back to Mumbai; I want to have my breakfast of Brun-Pao at a Sun Light Hotel in Colaba and lunch of Seekh Kabab at Byculla or Biryani at Olympia. I miss Barah Handi Paye of Bhindi Bazar, and Puorhits’ Thali at Churchgate. It would if be a grave injustice if I do not recall the nice food of Sher-e-Punjab at V.T. and Delhi Darbar at Faras Road. Bombay had been my KARAM BHOOMI and I love this city as I love my own existence.

To continue my story, I was enjoying the winter-brunch at Old Delhi, expecting nothing but an Urdu Akhbar and some solitude with good food. This gentleman was an unwanted intruder into my life.

“Mohatrum, may I dare to ask you a question?”
“Of course you could as long as it is not too personal.”
“Where did you get your Sherwani stitched?”
“At Bombay, Mohammed Ali Road….”
“Thanks for enlightening me. I thought we have the finest Sherwani tailors only in Aligarh and Delhi. Your’s is a masterpiece with nine buttons.”

Usually I’m a well dressed individually and deem it unnecessary to welcome the comments upon my attire. I always dress for myself and put on what I like irrespective of what others think of my dress. The saving grace is that none of my dependable friend or relative did ever report that my dress was improper for the occasion and anyone ever laughed at it.

My expressions were categorical in suggesting that I no longer enjoyed the continuity of discussion or his company. He got up from the seat with a ‘Khuda Hafiz’ and a genuine smile on his face he left.

I was wondering after his departure why he made a reference of nine buttons in my Sherwani. The close scrutiny of Sherwani revealed that the sequence of my buttons was wrong and I could have been an object of ridicule had I attended the meeting in that style. There was a funny pop in the middle with a wrongly placed button. The boy saved me a serious embarrassment without slighting or hurting my ego. That was the Delhi – 6 at its best. I put it right and was looking for the boy when I stepped into the street. It was a turning point that redefined my feeling and kindled the respect for Delhi.
I wish you a day filled with courtesy, flowing in grace, to you and from you!

Naim Naqvi

Aug

2013

Waqt ne kiya woh haseen sitam….

Posted by Naim Naqvi

As the train trundled past the river bridge she looked beneath its parched dry bed. Once it was a gentle blue stream with its usual flora and fauna described in plenty of town chronicles. She looked out at the same old tall black chimneys towering above the Sugar mill; piercing the sky; but they were silent today. The crushing season was long over. The air was steeped with the scent of molasses, still adhered to the slanted walls of open Catch Tanks. The Old green tomb of the Sufi near the railway tracks was appearing brighter now and a few devotees could be seen coming out from its sacred portals with caps on and sweets in the hands. Old banyan tree, at a distance, with the suspended beard entangled roots was there. It was surrounded with sprawling shanties and two-story houses. You could see its top parts at the horizon as the eagles floated. The panorama had the same old features but with a different cosmetics.

She craned out her neck from the compartment window when the deserted Signal Tower approached. With the introduction of electronic signal systems the tower had become redundant now. There was no signal guard smiling with a green flag and with a pride unknown. The Old Good’s Railway Yard had not changed much except the absence of green man-size grass that used to grow around it. And now the train floated slowly by the platform and finally came to a screeching halt. She was back in the town which had once defined her life. The place was still the same old but looking fresh.
For long she had sung – “Country roads, take me home…..”.

When she was in Holland she was craving for her motherland. Now, she is there but now she is remembering the Amsterdam’s canals, its narrow buildings, the floating flower markets and the clatter of trams, ringing of bicycle bells. From Amsterdum to IG Airport it was a long journey. She had left the sleep-blinkers given in the aircraft and now she was wondering why she should have left them.

There was a lot of excitement when she had boarded the plane. It was no more as she had reached the destination. Her younger brother had come to receive her at the station. There were no collies, no fanfare, no festoons or banana trees, freshly cut and placed as décor at the sidewalks. Her brother embraced her softly and she kissed his forehead. Most of the Travel-Boxes and bags in India now run on castors. Extra help is not needed. They were out of the station soon. She was looking at the new topography and strange faces of her home flock. They were neither sorry not delighted to find her back. It was natural. For them she had become stranger now. The last thing there she noted there were plenty of bicycles in her home town – their freshness gone. These were poor sisters of the trendy gadgets they ply in Holland.

As a young lass she had left the town and now she was a mature lady.
“Where is Doolha Bhai (brother in law) ?” inquired her brother.
“She will be here next week most probably.”
No one seemed to be anxious to know and talk about the stranger doolha bhai who was supposed to a Dutch Seaman. They knew their girl was now much married without the consent of her parents and works in a foreign country that is one of the richest in the world. The old-relatives would still vividly recall the stories that circulated when she didn’t return in the initial years of her education. They only knew that she was awarded a scholarship and selected for an advance research course of Horticulture. Her parents died waiting for her to return and the boy she was betrothed had grown gray with a beautiful family.

It all had begun with her parents’ reluctance to let her go and she knew the inspiration they got originated in the castle of her future in-laws. She had developed strong repugnance for the boy as she had opposed her further studies in a European country. He had told, in loudest tone, he would not let her go as his future wife.
But she cared for no one. She knew that society would declare her a rebel. It is not so easy to break the codes of society and it is tough to face the music. Once you reach the end of the tether, there is no going back.

Many years ago, may be fifteen years, she had written a letter from Holland.
“Dear Mom and Papa, I know I’d left you without your permission and still it hurts us all. I should have thanked that you didn’t stop me physically. But you didn’t let me speak my heart. I’ve not forgiven you for casting aspersion at my character and future while I’d nothing in mind except my career. I don’t feel like returning and I can’t explain it and I don’t understand it myself. I owe you too much and no recompense from my part would meet your sacrifices and love. I must confess I’m your ingratiate child but I won’t call for forgiveness.

Your daughter,………………..”

There was an absolute disconnect in the family. Not much was discussed in the house after she had left. The rumour- mills worked overtime and fatigued after a few years. The story was over-lapped and forgotten for other juicy stuffs of society.

She could see that her father’s old Maruti car was still there at the station. Much was there for reminiscence as she stepped into that car. Crossing the old familiar road, lanes and by-lanes they reached their home – sweet home; bitter home!

Sajida was my old friend and my family invited her for dinner the next day. My wife made special continental dishes as she wanted to please her and look caring and considerate. Sitting at the terrace I asked her – where to start the discussion?

“From where you like !”
“Tell me in nutshell the whole of your Kahani.”
Reclining in the chair she had the following story to narrate:

“I left the country because I was suffocated and smothered. For my family my marriage was a big issue. I for one had no time for it. Then that boy,….what was the name, entered the scene. You see, all my family loved the boy as they were well placed and belonged to an aristocratic family. I had seen nothing or heard nothing about them that could be construed as a negative factor or a wrong selection. Initially, I felt he was good catch and he would be of a good espouse. But he came out in his true colors when the families drew closer. He was an adamant and a dictator. He began to send signals of his likes and dislikes and he sent me commands to follow them.

Meanwhile I was selected for the scholarship of my favorite subject. I had to go to Holland. He rejected the idea out-right and his family informed in no uncertain terms. He thought that whites would steal me away from him. He had some jaundiced notions of Western culture and didn’t show faith in my integrity and character. The worst flurry of blizzard I faced when my parents refused to trust me .They agreed with them and acquiesced. I shouldn’t and won’t be allowed to go.

I crossed swords with my father when he called me a prospective harlot. My mother kept silence. That was the moment when the bridges were burnt. I told them to go the Heaven and let me go to Hell. That boy is not cut-out for me and I was not sacrificing the course of my life for an idiot and for your false egos and values.”

Being a scribe I know where to give pause to a story. I asked her to begin with the dinner.
“No, let me complete the story. We say we love flowers, yet we pluck them. We love trees but we cut them down. I am a horticulturist and I talk what I know. Even today I’m afraid when someone declares his / her love for me. I tell you …we count the garden by flowers…….never with leaves that fall. To me leaves symbolize work and a serious and useful life. Flower symbolizes frivolous leisure. All natural flowers are also artificial. Leaves are real. They are dark and darkness has a unique color and brilliance. It delights my nature. I like leaves and wanted to be a leave not a flower. The pity is I had no capacity and wit to explain that.”

And where is our much gossiped doolha bahi, the proverbial Dutch Seaman ?” I tried to give her a break.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not married. I was never made to marry. I’m a born spinster. I wrote the story for the consumption of my parents, to close the subject for ever. Happiness of their dictionary has no meaning for me.”

It was difficult for me to understand the project of her life.

“Today, when I’m getting old, I have come to visit and revisit that ugly chapter of my life. I want to realize what my parents had undergone. I want to check the facts and foundation of their anxieties; their overwhelming sense of security, their claim of guardianship.”
I asked her where we go from here, uphill or down hill ?
“I begged my parents to let me go with their blessings. Unfortunately, none of supplications were heard. Contrary, they put my dignity on trial. No, I love them but I am still an aggrieved party.”

“Enough for now. We shouldn’t insult food which is lying for long and cold.” I suggested.
After dinner I repeated the same question. “Where we go from here, uphill or down hill ?”
She asked to get my violin and played the song of W.B. Rands she said she loved:
“I wish I live in a caravan,
With a horse to drive, like a pedlar man!
Where he comes from nobody knows,
No where he goes to, but he goes.
The roads are brown, and the sea is green,
But his house is just like a bathing machine.
The world is round but he can ride,
Rumble, and splash to the other side.
With a pedlar man I should like to roam,
And write a book when I come home.
All people would read my book,
Just like the travels of Captain Cook.”

I failed to conclude what she had done to her life. What she added and what she omitted to merit such life.

Naim Naqvi

Jul

2013

The Silent Sea

Posted by Naim Naqvi

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”
………..Rumi

The acrimonious verbal gymnastics or slang-shots devoid of content and basic decency among our TV demagogues have left the serious viewer stranded in the desert of free-speech and Parliamentary debates. These wrestlers of harangues neither care listen nor allow their opponents to put their point of views. TV ANCHORS, few exceptions aside, act as helpless bystanders under the studio festoons. They exhibit no deeper knowledge of the topic they bring forward, no command over the situation and at times reflect the partisan attitudes. They remain silent when they should enter in the debate and poke where they’re least required. Genuine Silence at the screen when the speaker puts across is a virtue rarely find these days. Shocking arguments with no logic, outright innuendoes and scurrilous presentations to push their point make a mockery of serious discussion.

Today, we live in a society and culture where we love to share every thought and feeling as it occurs. Substantiation of facts is least desirable virtue and we don’t pause to reflect on what we have just said. In a sublime way an Urdu poet had said –
“Woh baat sarey fasaney men jiska zikr na tha, who baat unhen bahut nagawar guzri hai.” The most painful part of the story was that remain unsaid. That is the beauty of discussion. That is how the civilized discussion used to be. How wonderful it would be if in TV debates we emphasize upon silence. It is a space between the verbal harangues which gives depth and respect to the discussions and disquisitions. Without being deeply authentic winning the brownie points is a sheer wastage of time. Viewers aren’t idiots. Our silence in debates allows others to be honest, imaginative, constructive and reasonable. We also discover what is going on within us.

“Lafzon ki rafta rafta zarrorat naheen rahi, ab who bhee sun liya jo usne kaha na tha.” Words are no more needed. I’ve listened to what hadn’t been said. If you’re sincere in what you speak, communication becomes straight and honest. Silence allows us to reflect at what we say. You realize the power of silence which is vitally important for coherent thinking. Listening, Speech and silence are the components of every argument. Silence allows us to digest the dialogues and prepares us for the next lines. It allows us to ruminate as to what is fit, what is true and what appeals to our conscience. It helps even when we know that our arguments are going to provide the escape routes for killers and rapists. Silence is a process of self-discovery.

Unfortunately, in the modern world silence has practically ceased to exist. Apart from the noise of TV EXPERTS, Man-made noises have buried the sounds of nature. No one anymore cares to listen the songs of birds, the staccato of brooks or enjoy the raze of howling winds. We live in the cacophony that assault our ears as roar of cars, the whirring of AC’s, the croaking of domestic gadgets, the clanging and thudding of trains and the jagged mechanical vibrations. We’re also burying the natural sounds of the Earth beneath a cacophony of man-made noise. We live our lives against the background of this cacophony, with the jagged mechanical sounds and least to mention, the chatter of radios and TVs in our own and other people’s cars and houses, Today, pop music blares from every conceivable place.
This quietness is history and could be found only in books. It is difficult to believe that our planet was a quiet place once where we could hear the origins of Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Nee……

In the concrete jungles of urban civilizations it is rare to find the sound of birds singing or of wind rushing through trees. Mechanical noise always jars and grates. We don’t realize that this noise is certainly one of the reasons why modern life is so stressful. A strange new phenomenon has entered in our lives from the backdoor. Our lack of quietness has changed us to the extent that people are no longer used to silence. They have even become afraid of it. We leave our televisions chattering away in the background even when they’re not paying attention to them.
The scribe is putting his inner noise on paper to seek the answer if progress is also a process of regress?

Naim Naqvi

Jun

2013

As the Candle Burns

Posted by Naim Naqvi

Part – 1

Our’s was not such an advance society but we were a mixed gathering usually consisted juniors and seniors of all ages of our mohalla and used to sit together and enjoy under the shadows of Neem and Pilkhan trees that had survived the edge of blade. While senior ladies were there as guardians, our old men avoided such flirtations of joviality and preferred to inhabit the ‘Dewankhanas’ with hubble bubble in their free time. All used to enjoy the ropes and swings in spring as the pleasant breeze blew and forced the branches of Pilkhan and Neem trees to dance in all gyrations.

It was pleasant day of a festival and we were enjoying our own chorus of folk songs meant for the occasion. Good singer among us were valued but quality of singing was not the strict standard. Fruit buds of Pilkhan, known as ‘Tushtis’ were dropping from the tree as the wind blew. Some of these tushtis made a wafting fall from the tree and landed at the tress of Zahabiya’s head and got entangled in the cascade of her auburn hair. Standing a short distance, a handsome boy Yavar gathered the instant courage and showed the audacity to brush them off from her hair before the full view with his shivering hand. Zahabiya didn’t take umbrage against this acts of valor and the first arrow of Cupid struck the right place. For months Yavar was finding himself innocently and emotionally attracted toward the girl as she rolled the Bidis from the bamboo platter known as Soof. Yavar considered it was the most beautiful frame of ‘beauty in action’ that he could ever capture upon earth. Liberty had its limits and it was not expected or accepted to express the feeling in a romantic prelude. All nuptial matters were the sole prerogatives of elders.

Zahabiya hated the smell of smoke and abhorred the smokers style also. She often looked up at the sky with hope and prayer that one day Allah would ask someone to remove this platter from her lap, full of scorching tobacco and green leaves which would pile up before her everyday to make a living.

Part – 2

The Clock Tower is one that doesn’t sleep. Three bells rang and echoed about in the overwhelming solitude of darkness. For Yavar sleep was a commodity snatched away from him for weeks. The marriage celebration in the ‘Upper Hill’ was slowly acquiring low decibels and tired participants were also falling sleep. Few stray shouts, low tide laughs and falling of some utensils could only be heard.

He got up from his bed and set down on a wooden platform, his elbows resting at his knees and his lopping head tumbled on the parallel palms, his fingers wide splayed and inserted into the strings of his disheveled hair. His eyes were shut and he was looking at the floor in the dark.

Someone placed a hand with a soft touch. Mom was standing before him. “Yaver try to sleep and let others also sleep. More than half of the night is already passed.” Request, concern and command of a mother all rolled into an appeal of love. She gave a glass of water and asked him to drink. Yavar took the water and poured into his mouth, half falling on his shirt and rest spilling over his mouth and some of it going into his throat straight. He begged mother to sit down.

“Ma…”
“Yes Yavar….”
“Have I ever been disrespectful to you ?”
“Who said that ? No.”
“Have I ever been hard upon you ? Have I ever been unkind with you ?”
“Never.”
“Were you not the one who loved me the most after my God. Were you not the one who had sacrificed her youth to bring us up after father’s death ?”
“It was my duty.”
“Were you not the kindest of mother upon earth ?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know it mother. Then why did you inflict the sharpest of the cut upon the sapling you had planted ?”
She pulled his head to her bosom and kissed his cheek.
“Yavar..”
“Yes mom…”
“Do you believe in religion?
“Yes mom….but not much as you do. Of course I’m a believer.”
“The Holy Book says you must obey your parents’ the holy traditions say that marriage is always suitable in the families of HUM KUFF.”
“What does Hum Kuff mean mom ?”
“It means equality in status of both the families who are joining in marriage. I know more of this world than you know. I know what is good for you and what is bad. My hair has not turned grey in the sun. I can’t allow my son to marry a girl which would be a stigma for the grace for a family I’d sacrificed my everything.”
“But Zahabiya is one of us mom. Her family is related to us. Zahabiya is not a loose character mom.”
“Did I say that? I know his father was a senior officer when he prematurely died of heart attack. Her mom messed up everything including the name and left-over fortunes. Now she is not respected in the company of Bidi winders of Bidi rollers. I didn’t compromise with the family honor when your father died. I went door to door and asked if someone wanted the kids to learn Quran. I maintained my dignity and brought up you all in toughest times.”

“Mom…”
“Yes Yaver……”
“But is was none of Zahabiya’s fault.”
“In our society faults percolated down the generations and I’d not designed this society.”
“Mom, you knew I loved Zahabiya. I promised you that I shall help their whole family to rise up. Mom…a rising tide raises all boats. I’d promised you that I would be that rising tide.”
“Yaver, a rising tide brings back a lot of silt and garbage also. You are still immature, inexperienced and innocent. In your age love is a passing emotion of the weak, a misguided spell, an ephemeral idea. And now what is left to discuss ? She is going to Pakistan on Thursday. Today MEHNDI and RATJAGA (celebration before the wedding night) both are over.”
‘Mom…”
“Yes Yaver……”
“I still love Zahabiya…”
“Your love would be a sin from tomorrow once she is tied in religion with her husband.”
“Mom…”
“Yes Yave….”
“Pious love could never be a sin mom.”
“There is no any such thing as pious love between the man and women if they are not related by blood and still…………”

“But mom, once you also liked Zahabiya”
“Liking doesn’t mean that I would invite her to be my daughter- in- law. I like Taj Mahal but it doesn’t mean that I want my grave to be there in it.”
She wiped the tears from Yavar’s eye with her dopatta and kissed again the face of her son.
“Mom…”
“Yes Yavar….”
“Zahabiya is poor but she is elegant, she is different, she is respected by everyone.”
“It is a cliché now. Now she is getting married to a very good boy from our own relations. The boy is a good employee in a big company in Karachi. Oh God I’m so thankful to you as you have managed the situation for everyone’s satisfaction. Not for nothing the seniors of the family are loved and respected for their sagacity and wisdom, their powers of command and their farsightedness. Now you have not to worry about her future. She would have all the comforts. Happy Life & Safe Distance.”

“Mom…”
“Yes yaver….”
“You were never that cruel.”
“I’m still unknown to the word ‘cruelty.’
“Than what its mom ?”
“Discretion…which is always the better part of valour.”
“Mom it was my life and I were to live with her.”
‘But it was your life, with God’s grace, I’d given to you.”

The sound of Express Train passing over the River Soat bombed the discussion. It trundled past over the bridge and Yavar recalled the night when in his childhood the same sound had disturbed him and asked his father as to why the sound becomes so intense when the trains passes over the bridge. It was silence after the noise now receded and gone. But now there was again a emotional atom bomb that exploded between mother and son.

Someone in the neighborhood was begging to join for the last GHAZAL of the night.
“Get up babies, just one last song and then there would be the Azan (Morning Prayer) time….I’m making the nice tea with cardamom and mint.”
The host organizer was no other than Zahabiya’s mother. Yaver and mother were silent and now they could listen the chorus.

“Jo dil ke pas hote hain woh kaheen jaya naheen karte,
Mohabbat karne wale ghum se ghabraya naheen karte…”

Those who are near to heart they never disappear, those who love, sorrows make them never fear. Each and every line of Ghazal was repeated again. It was the third time that the rendition of the same ghazal was done in the wedding house.
‘Yaver…”
“Yes Mom……”
‘It is time to pray. Go to mosque.”
‘Yes Mom….”

Everyone in the house was sleeping when he returned from the prayers. This morning he just recited the Arabic in silence. He didn’t ask God for anything. He went to his room and after some time the sleep visited him.

Part – 3

Around 10 A.M. Abiha, his cousin sister and friend stepped into his room. She was 5 autmuns senior to him. She sat down on the chair lying next to his bed. She put her hand at his forehead. It was wet with sweat. The warmth of fingers were known to Yaver. He put hands over her ringed fingers.

“Baji…”
“Yes Yaver….”
“I’d never bargained for it.”
“All that happens, happens for the best Yavar.”
“No baji, is there still a way to invent and apply the time machine ?”
“No Yavar. Our society is too powerful, our parents are too strong and our guardians are too strict.”
“Baji….”
“Yes Yavar…”
“Zahabiya will go Pakistan on Thursday ?”
“Yes Yavar.”
“What is the day today ?”
“Tuesday…”
“Baji..”
“She has never read Urdu. She speaks Urdu but she writes Hindi.”
“She is not going to write you a letter Yavar…”
“Yes Baji…..’
“Tempus fugit…”
“Time flows Yavar. Did you listen the last song of the night ?”
“Yes baji. It was a message for you that Zahabiya had requested her mother to convey through ghazal. Life is the precious gift of God. You are not allowed to destroy it for the sake of one girl.

Meanwhile, Yaver’s mother entered in a delicate gait. She took another chair and sat down.
Both the children got up in respect and sat down after salams.
“yavar…”
“Yes mom….”
‘I’ve sent a telegram to your uncle that you are coming to Bombay.”
“Yes mom….”
“You go by the earliest train from here for Delhi and from Delhi you can a catch an early flight. The ticket is only Rs 440 /-.”
“Yes Mom.”
“All the items and clothes you need are packed. I’ve talked your boss. He has asked you to report after a fortnight.”
‘Yes mom.”

When the breakfast was over, one could hear the trot of a horse. A tonga reported at the door for station. Someone put his bag and suitcase in the carriage. He looked around his house. He felt he was deserting a poor old friend. Here, when the going was good, Zahabiya used to visit often; here just under the Jamun tree she had looked into her eyes and felt their transparence; here when the going was good between the two families, Zahabiya’s father was still alive they had taken dinners together. Here just next to rose bushes he remembered Zahabia curled up in her father’s arm when she was a kid. Here her mother had once given the sprinkler in Zahabiya’s delicate small hands to water the plants. But it was when Zahabiya’s family was HUM KUFF, equal in status.

“Mom….”
“Yes Yavar…”
“May I go…”
“We have to tie the IMAM ZAMIN round your arm.”
“Yes Mom.” Mom tied the the cloth ribbon that had prayers for safety with some currency.
“Mom….”
“Yes Yaver…”
“You have crossed the threshold Mom !”
“No Yaver..”
“Yes Mom….”
Khuda Hafiz !”
‘Khuda Hafiz !!”

Part – 4

He stepped into the tonga. Modest preparations for Zahabiya’s Nikah were in full swing. Some kids came near the horse and one or two elderly wished him Good Bye from distance. Abiah kissed his fore head ! He embarked upon a new journey, an escape invented for him – this time the itenerary was open-ended.

It is story with vintage tag.
The End

Naim Naqvi

Jun

2013

When people prefer sleep over dreaming who will dream and who will interpret the dream?

Posted by Naim Naqvi

Last month I was discussing with a publisher about a book on dreams. In reply, he showed me a quotation, ‘There are two kinds of dreams. There are dreams that we have while asleep and dreams that we have while we are awake. What is the connection between the two types?

Both kinds of dreams are about the yearnings that are held deep inside us. Some of these desires are so secret that we dare not share them even with our closest friends. Those of us that dare to put our dreams down on paper are showing the courage and faith that they will come true.” So, I decided, then and there, to write something on the subject.

Being a hopeless flop in almost every sphere of life except where God’s unseen hands pulled my life to a respectable survival, I have always been a dreamer by choice. I believed that a bed of solitude and a room with a ceiling fan is heaven upon earth. Unfortunately, as the famous Urdu poet Joun Alia has said, “Apne ander se ab nikal aao, ghar men saman ki zaroorat hai.” Come out of your self-imposed habitat, home needs something to satisfy the basic needs. So, like a reluctant traveler who have had no specific purpose for his imposed terrestrial journey I searched and did spend some reasonable time to make the both ends meet.

But bed had always been the heaven and the best rendezvous, an escape from all the worries, ugliness and frustrations of life. I dream and love to dream as this is only one avenue where God is not asking my choice. Here is a diorama played by no one but God and I just have to watch without moving in my bed with my eyes closed. Then you see good dreams, pleasant dreams, mysteries, bad dreams and of course horrible dreams.

However, after dreaming the whole span of life, for me dreams still remain a mystery and we still don’t know as to why we dream, where dreams come from and what is a dream. Is it a physiological or a psychological phenomenon? How we dream? Is it the spontaneous self activation of brain which swings our thoughts to-and-fro into different zones of our past, present and future? The Holy Books communicate some make-believe ideas about dreams and their interpretations which could be acceptable to a dreamer in proportion of his religious zeal and faith.

It is my habit that I discuss every issue and every plan of my life with my wife as it is the most durable trusted safety valve in case of failure. You can always blame her if the situation is discomfited. So, when I discussed with her that I wanted to write a book about ‘dreams’ her guards of wisdom were alert. In this state of physical debilitation what is that much left in you and who is coming to your dreams? Having assured that no one had ever appeared in my dreams except Her Majesty she came with a better idea.

First who will buy your book?” She is also ardent admirer of poetess Parveen Shakir and narrated her couplet spontaneously – “Neend jab khwabon se pyari hon to aise waqt men, khwab dekhe koun aour khwabon ke de tabeer koun.” In times when people prefer sleep over dreaming, who will dream and who will interpret the dream. I reminded her that that old saying ‘behind every successful man there is a woman’ was corrupted by powerful women of past and the original one was – ‘behind every unsuccessful man there is a woman.’ She was not bemused but refused to give up. She came with an instant new advice – “Better write a short essay about SLEEP, may be some people would care to read.” I had another chance to confirm that she was still wiser and the following passages are to be credited to her persuasion and my pen was just a catalyst.

When we put ourselves to bed we don’t know when sleep would visit. It just happens and we have no say in it. Even an ordinary zhola chap doctor could tell you that a sound sleep is necessary for a good health. However, according to science sleep helps to consolidate our memories. It deletes unnecessary information which clutters in the day. In sleep most of our senses come to full stop. It is the time when mind takes stock of the happenings and helps consolidate the most needed events. It invigorates and charges our batteries.

The studies of brain in Electroencephalography (EEG) reveal that in deep sleep low frequency Delta waves are generated which produce life and mood enhancing chemicals. This phenomenon is assigned to the freshness we feel when we get up after the deep sleep.

In deep sleep most of the peripheral neuron activities of brain are reduced and almost shut down. Only the central portion of the brain-seat of the autonomous nervous system works. According to science it is the area where our long term memories are restored. As the peripheral brain shuts down unnecessary memories get dissolved.

When we are disturbed in our deep sleep we feel like assaulting the intruder. Why ? The cycle of dissolution of memory process is broken while the memory knots keep growing. It creates irritability and short tempers.

At present I have something to save for the future project of my dreams as too much material is not available in this nebulous field. Here I conclude with the following poem written by Michelle McGath: