The Book of Muinuddin Chishti

by Mehru Jaffer

  Not for the first time did it occur to Muinuddin that this was no land of self-negating ascetics but of people radiating inner joy even as they struggled to find a niche of their own in a hierarchal and complex social system, practising a degree of kindness and gentleness in their mutual relationships that he had not witnessed during all his travels. He wondered if the emotions expressed so explicitly by the poet made him shy because the values that he brought with him were puritanical and a lot less permissive in comparison. He was told that the chanting of Jayadeva’s Geet Govinda was merely the start of a lifelong contemplation of the idea of Krishna. Remarkably, Jayadeva had elevated human longing for the divine in his music without imposing earthly ethics on Radha’s and Krishna’s yearning to dissolve into each other.

  Muinuddin found Hindusim to be a most tolerant religion but it bothered him that tolerance was practiced at the expense of excluding the majority.8 But the idea of meditating upon the divine through music and dancing in the company of other devotees made Muinuddin happy. He wanted to renounce all awareness of the self, to suppress the ego so that he could concentrate solely on the essence of existence. He imagined his body step towards the soul and the soul sail towards the body till neither the body nor the soul could be distinguished from the other.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks at the thought of his spiritual master who was no longer with him. He recalled a verse he had heard Harwani hum ever so often.

  I know not, but look how I dance. It is with pride that before my friend I dance. Watch me, my love, stamp my feet shamelessly upon caution and whirl upon virtue. Gear on head and in flowing garment how piously I dance. I, Usman Harooni, a friend of Sheikh Mansur, below the noose I dance before the world froths and fumes.

  He thought of his visit to Baghdad in search of a teacher when he was barely out of his teens. There he had met Abdul Qadir Jilani, founder of the influential Qadiri school of Sufis. Jilani had preached that social justice is the highest duty of the religious and that jihad or struggle for spirituality was meaningless if it was not accompanied by compassion.

  When Muinuddin had been invited by the octogenarian Jilani for a sama to formally meditate upon the music of the mystics, he had walked into a place throbbing with spiritual intensity and swarming with ascetics from India, Kurdistan and Persia. The Quran was recited and zikr, or recitation of the ninety-nine names of God, was performed all night long in a room lit up by numerous oil lamps placed in niches carved into the walls. Muinuddin had been so bewitched by the sights and the sounds that he could not sit still. Jilani had continued to chant and was filled with joy as he watched Muinuddin rise up and dance. It was suggested by another guest that Jilani should join Muinuddin on the floor. The elderly mystic, unable to use his legs, shrivelled due to long hours of silent meditation, replied that it was in the best interest of all if at least his feet remain on the ground—otherwise the earth may not be able to bear the weight of so much ecstasy.

  Muinuddin wiped away the last traces of tears that had blurred his vision to discover that the musician playing Jayadeva’s music was now far ahead of him; the red-gold colour of his Vaishnava robes fluttering in the wind was about to merge with the horizon. Unknown to Muiniddin he had arrived at the shore of the Ana Sagar Lake. The sight of water made him thirsty and he bowed to reach the water. But before he could dip his hands into the twinkling waters of the lake, horse hooves came in his way.

  ‘How dare a mlecchha pollute the holy water! Be gone, or be dead,’ thundered a voice. The command came from Ajaipal, the court magician of King Prithviraj’s court, who flung a handful of coins at Muinuddin.

  Muinuddin took his time collecting the coins scattered here and there. With the lake now behind him he stood up to return the money to Ajaipal, saying that he had no use for it for he owned nothing and needed nothing. Looking deep into the eyes of the horseman, Muinuddin asked Ajaipal if the command not to pollute the water of the lake should be obeyed by Muinuddin’s body, indeed very different in appearance to that of the Rajput dressed in royal regalia, or by his soul that was surely part of the same atma as the courtier’s?

  Hearing this, Sadhu Ram, a respected priest who was accompanying Ajaipal, fell to his knees before Muinuddin.

  ‘What are you doing Sadhu Ram?’ Ajaipal demanded.

  ‘Paying my respects to a wise man, who obviously fears not the sword nor has greed for wealth. Accept my salutations, Baba. It has been a long time since I heard sanity speak.’

  Sadhu Ram was breathless as he touched Muinuddin’s feet. Before Muinuddin affectionately told Sadhu Ram to get back on his feet, a third man came panting from the direction of the walled city with an invitation for Muinuddin for an audience with Karpuridevi, the Queen Mother. Prithviraj had been an infant when his father died and his mother, Karpuridevi, continued to conduct both the worldly and the spiritual affairs of the kingdom most judiciously, even after the coronation of her son as king at the age of eleven. She constantly advised Prithviraj not to be suspicious of every human being who came into India from the mountains in the northwest and taught her son to learn to recognize friend from foe.

  News of Muinuddin’s presence in Ajmer had travelled like lightning to the royal residence and the Queen Mother wanted to meet the pir, to assure him that anyone who came to Ajmer without an army and weapons had no reason to fear harm here. Muinuddin of course was aware of the charms of the Queen Mother and had heard much about her clairvoyance. He would have liked to talk to her too but he regretted that he could not for he had more urgent work at hand.

  Muinuddin thanked Ajaipal, Sadhu Ram and the messenger and was about to retrace his steps when he felt in the mood for a little mischief. He unstrapped the empty flask he was carrying and immersed it in the lake for a moment, immediately creating an impression that the water had dried up. Excitement spread like wild fire through the city. It took one person to speak just half a sentence about the incident and varying versions rolled into different neighbourhoods making people abandon their daily chores and collect around the lake, wailing at the thought of life without water. Others joined the swelling crowds with news that all the camels in the kingdom were refusing to stand up and were just sitting around nonchalantly chewing fodder as if they had declared dharna for some unspeakable cause.

  Muinuddin was amused by the paranoia of the powerful and the haughtiness of those who dictated religious life in the city. But he also felt responsible for having added to the misery of ordinary people who, unfortunate as they were, had now been reduced to despair by his act. He immediately willed life to return to Ajmer as he had found it on his arrival.

  In Search of Peace

  Having witnessed the plight of the people of Ajmer, Muinuddin had made up his mind not to stay on there. He wished to return to Multan, and to Lahore, to seek out the wise men he knew in the twin cities of learning and coax them to talk to those in power to prevent further war and destruction. Even the thought of more violence caused him agony and the news trickling in from the northwestern borders was indeed gloomy. With complete disregard for human life, Muhammad Ghori was recruiting thousands of young people in Lahore to participate in his plot to avenge an earlier defeat by Prithviraj Chauhan.

  The hysterical wind that had shoved and pushed Muinuddin through the day stopped howling. It rested between stunted scrubs of the prickly tamarind bush, its exhausted limbs spread like sheets over still sand dunes. The dying sunlight led him gently out of Ajmer to the banks of the Luni where he drank his fill in the company of a gazelle.

  Not knowing how to thank the infinite generosity of the river he dropped a few tears in return for every sip of water his parched throat soaked in. Before the last flame of the sun faded he quickly cooled his feet in the river and scrubbed away the dirt from his hands and face. While he refreshed himself, a full moon stole above him to paint the landscape into an ocean of undulating waves in silver. The spotless canopy, stretching from horizon to horizon, was dyed in ink and embroidered with a galaxy of stars.


  ‘I am glad to be alive,’ Muinuddin concluded, hugging his clothes tighter around him, trying to protect his consciousness from being overwhelmed by the awareness of his own existence. He was happy, and it was time to pay homage and to praise the unseen. He fell to his knees and made himself comfortable, tucking his ankles under him. With the palm of each hand touching a thigh he was a picture of still humility as he made yet another attempt to meditate upon the mysterious relationship of the invisible to the visible, the spiritual to the material, birth to death, good to bad and body to soul.

  A toothless, turbaned man sat by the river, washing an utensil and singing softly to himself, filling the silence that had surrounded Muinuddin.

  Gems light up the forehead,

  Rings sparkle on the ears.

  Bracelets jingle along wrists

  And more tinkle around the ankle.

  Eyes singe like coal,

  Rosy cheeks with a single mole.

  Slender limbs the colour of gold,

  Precious as the moon

  One day old.

  Secretly she sways into my life

  To hurt the heart

  And to stab it again

  As if with sharpened knife …

  The bittersweet song was suddenly drowned in dust kicked up by the galloping silhouette of horsemen racing towards Ajmer. ‘Messengers of death,’ muttered the man, wiping the utensil with the end of his loincloth. He filled the pot with water and walked towards Muinuddin. ‘It is not necessary. But we make life so difficult to live,’ continued the elderly but athletic-looking man with burnished skin that glistened like molten copper in the moonlight. He shook his head in regret and looked away from the horsemen.

  ‘I know what this traveller would like. Here, help me light a fire, will you?’ he said. He found a boulder and on it he placed a bundle of dried wood. From a bag made from knotting together the four ends of a length of cloth he pulled out flint stones, a pouch of ground gram mixed with wheat flour, salt, a flower of garlic and a fistful of chillies.

  Muinuddin untied the tidy bundle and arranged a few logs and twigs loosely in a little pyramid on the sand. He struck two stones together and when the spark finally became fire he touched it to the dead wood, which immediately came to life. He fanned the flames, watching them dance in mesmerizing shapes. ‘I will return to live here,’ he resolved even as the vapours from the fire formed into plump clouds pregnant with fatality and about to drench the city in sorrow.

  The older man concentrated on kneading the ground gram and flour with water. He divided the dough into two halves and gave one portion to Muinuddin. They rolled the dough into smooth balls with the palms of both hands. Then they flattened the balls into discs no bigger than the inside of the hand and slapped the discs on to the side of a flat stone sizzling at the edge of the roaring fire. When both sides were done, the half-baked disc of dough was made to stand in between the embers and the bread was wheeled till it was cooked to its core.

  The aroma of freshly baked bread served as the first course of the meal. Then they broke the bread and ate it with bits of rock salt, crushed garlic and ground chillies, listening to the distant drone of sleepless women sitting outside thatched, windowless, low huts, after they had coated the floor and mud walls with paste made from earth and animal dung. The soulful singing of the women was a plea to the migratory lovebird to look for their absent husbands, whom they feared had been swallowed up by the labyrinthine ways of the world, and tell them about the aching hearts of their forever-waiting wives.

  Kurja bring me your wings,

  Allow me to scribble

  On both sides many things.

  Will you search for him

  Will you say,

  That without him

  I live on edge,

  Alive only on life’s rim.

  Sister you are filled with sorrow

  Almost fearful of tomorrow?

  Your heart is down …

  Yes!

  My thoughts spin round,

  And round.

  On the crown of the Kurja I will write

  When will you return

  Heartless one,

  To stop this nagging

  And this burning?

  Nightmares keep me awake,

  I know not what to do

  With the pain

  And this ache.

  Kurja come closer,

  At dawn,

  I will tell you more,

  Over a plate full of corn.

  Look sisters,

  There flies the Kurja away

  Over mountains,

  Across oceans,

  To drop my message

  Into his lap one day.

  Remember Kurja …

  What I have said,

  And also find out

  If he has found bliss,

  Perhaps in another bed …?

  ‘Tell me my friend. Who is the messenger of death?’ Muinuddin asked his companion as he stared up at the twinkling heavens, resting his head on his folded hands.

  ‘He who values not life. He who wants to grab more land without any concern for the people of that land,’ said the stranger, puffing hashish from a wooden pipe that he nestled lovingly in the palm of both hands. ‘These horsemen galloping back and forth with no feeling for our home and hearth, they are the messengers of death. They will kill to have more. They will give their life but never give up greed or pride’.

  ‘The threat of war is for real then. It is not mere talk …’ Muinuddin mused.

  Muinuddin marvelled at mankind, the only species in the evolution of the universe gifted with a consciousness and the ability to imagine the future. Of all the life on this earth it is perhaps human beings alone who have the capacity to make choices. They have the power to live in this world in harmony with their surroundings, or in discord. Most of the people Muinuddin had met in his life craved peace, beauty and truth. He had traversed half the world to try and find out why people say they aspire for the beautiful but do things that are uglier and more destructive than acts of the most dangerous beasts in the wilderness. The thought of the intolerance he had witnessed and suffered all his life saddened him. He could not help but notice that the world he lived in was preoccupied with more conflict than consensus, and he could not stop wondering why.

  As far as he could fathom, there were no explanations for the contradictions of human existence. He spoke for himself and knew that he could not have survived any other way except to become more humble when humiliated, more courageous when intimidated and more loving when confronted with cruelty. He was curious to find out how he was going to fare now when human folly once again stared him in the face, when ordinary people saw little point in being magnanimous and those in power had ceased to be just.

  Muinuddin was aware that he was a descendant of Muhammad, the founder of Islam. His Arab ancestors had left Mecca and Medina after Abu Bakr, the successor of Muhammad, failed to unite ambitious tribal leaders between 632 CE and 634 CE. After the death of Abu Bakr a massive expansion of Islam occurred under the Ummaya, a rival of the Hashim, the clan to which Muhammad’s family belonged. Fearing further persecution, the Hashim sought refuge as far away as possible from their relatives in power. Within less than three decades of Muhammad’s death the Islamic empire had expanded to all of Iran, parts of North Africa, the Caucasus and Cyprus. The conquered lands were divided into different provinces governed by representatives appointed mostly from the Ummaya tribe who jealously guarded the revenue generated in the lands occupied by them.

  Countless people converted to Islam during this period of extraordinary conquests, although this was often the result of defeat or an attempt to flatter the new Muslim masters. Persians who resisted the advancing armies of Arab Muslims befriended other Arabs rebelling against their own elite. Some Turkic warriors and vassals of Persian kings who converted to Islam subsequently overthrew their employers to declare a dynasty in their own name and interest.

  During t
his period of intense muscle-flexing only a few paused to ponder the spirit of what Muhammad had meant when he founded Islam. Martial-minded Muslims had reduced Muhammad’s ideals to a mere battle cry, and countless Muslims lived and died without realizing the true worth of the fundamentals of the Prophet’s teachings.

  Muinuddin’s elders had taught him that Muhammad was a good man who was loved because he could be trusted. He seldom let his companions down by saying one thing and doing the opposite. He found it impossible to deceive people and to remain true to himself at the same time. Muhammad lived in an age when even minor quarrels were settled with the sword but he had tried his best to participate in a minimum number of battles. His idea of jihad was an appeal to the conscience of every individual to make the right choice at the right time and to be prepared to face the consequences of each personal choice.

  In an attempt to dissolve differences between tribes that were in a state of permanent war with each other, partly because of the jealous worship of private gods, Muhammad had smashed idols in his hometown of Mecca. He wanted to shape a community of peace-loving people united in their common love for their homeland and respect for one God. He asked people to keep the body clean not merely as ritual but as a first step before they could even dream of exploring deeper into the self to discover the soul. He encouraged modesty among both men and women, and did not approve of excess in any sphere of life. He frowned upon ignorance and arrogance and it pained him to see humanity being divided into a few groups of masters who lorded over many slaves.

  Muhammad had shared his home with many women at a time when it was not possible for women to survive in a household without adult men. His sense of justice and ideas of universal brotherhood led him to open his home to slaves who were treated as equals. He was a leader who spent his life ironing out contradictions between his private and public life. His greatest strength was the moral authority he enjoyed among his followers at the peak of his popularity. To Muhammad, spirituality above all meant practical compassion and he believed that it was impossible to love God without first being kind to human beings.