Revival From Below

by Brannon D Ingram

  If Muhammad Ishaq’s love for Mu‘in al-Din was such that he was willing to make an example of himself of what not to do, Gangohi was far more apprehensive about his public persona, and would adhere to the normative order even if it went against his own master’s suggestions. When Gangohi visited Imdad Allah in Mecca, Imdad Allah invited him to attend a mawlud. Gangohi replied, “No, Master, I cannot go. In India, I prevent people from going to this. If I participate, the people back home will say that I gladly went to a mawlud here.” The author of the anthology in which both of these stories appear adds: “Now, look! Who could be more beloved and honored than one’s Sufi master. Yet among the followers of the religion [din], its preservation is more essential [than love for one’s master]. When there is a contradiction between the two, preference was given to the religion.”145

  Gangohi’s aversion even to appearing to countenance controversial Sufi devotions extended to his treatment of his students. Whenever the ‘urs of his ancestor ‘Abd al-Quddus Gangohi was being held in Gangoh—which he had tried, unsuccessfully, to stop—Gangohi would become unsettled and irritable. One of his students came to visit him in Gangoh, but accidentally came during the ‘urs. Gangohi snubbed him, and the student was nonplussed as to why he received such treatment. When he realized the ‘urs was the reason behind Gangohi’s irritability, the student said, “Master, I have no attraction to the ‘urs! By God, I did not come to Gangoh for this reason and I had no idea that the ‘urs is being celebrated here nowadays.” Gangohi replied, “Although your intention was not to participate in the ‘urs, there were two men on the road coming to the ‘urs and you were the third. According to the Prophet, whoever supports a gathering is part of it.”146

  But Gangohi’s main grievance was with the social practices that had coalesced around the ‘urs. Gangohi specifically forbade leaving food at tombs on an appointed day or a specific occasion—a line of reasoning similar to Muhammad Isma‘il’s belief that anything done with a prescribed time encroaches upon the Sunna: “Distributing food on an appointed day is without the slightest doubt an innovation, even though one may still incur divine favors, and a fixed ‘urs is against the Sunna, and therefore an innovation. Distributing food only at an unappointed time is permissible.”147

  He also vehemently opposed circumambulating Sufi shrines, during ‘urs or on any other occasion. Gangohi rebutted an (unnamed) author who asserted that circumambulating shrines is permissible because “the fundamental principle of all things is that they are permissible until a legal rationale [dalil] is produced to prove they are forbidden [haram]. . . . With respect to circumambulating saints’ graves, it is not permissibility that is in need of proof. Rather, it is the impermissibility that must be proven.” The author argues that Qur’an 22:29—“circumambulate the Ancient House”—commands Muslims to walk around the Ka‘aba during the Hajj but does not limit Muslims to circumambulating the Ka‘aba, adding that circumambulating the Ka‘aba is an act of “worship” (‘ibadat) whereas circumambulating saints’ tombs is mere “reverence” (ta‘zim).

  Gangohi’s rebuttal is clear and incisive. Likewise citing the Qur’an—“We designated for Abraham the site of the House, saying ‘Do not associate anything with Me and purify My House for those who walk around it, for those who stay there148 and those who bow and prostrate’” (22:26)—Gangohi argues that God made circumambulation (tawaf) a ritual act on par with prostration (sajda), both of which must be “purified” of association with anything other than God. This is a clear textual proof (nass) that circumambulation is intrinsically an act of worship. Elsewhere, the Qur’an states: “He has commanded that you worship none except Him” (Qur’an 12:40). Taken together, these verses prove incontrovertibly that circumambulation is an act of worship, and that any act of worship is for God alone: “The only permissible reverence [ta‘zim] for the saints is that which is not specified for God.” Finally, he concludes, the hermeneutic principle animating the original inquiry—“The fundamental principle of all things is that they are permissible until a legal rationale is produced to prove they are forbidden”—applies only to matters for which there is no clear textual reference (nass) in the Qur’an or Sunna. Thus, he reasons, the author misapplied a core legal principle. He concludes by inverting the logic of the original inquiry: when we are speaking of worship, it is not the case that anything is permissible until proven to be impermissible; rather, is it permissibility that must be proven.149

  Ashraf ‘Ali Thanvi reiterates the same distinction between reverence and worship in Hifz al-iman (The preservation of faith), one of his most incisive critiques of Sufi devotions, published in 1901. Thanvi argues that prostration as reverence is analogous to prostrating toward someone as a form of salutation (tahiyyat), an action that appears in stories of past prophets, including Adam and Joseph. This form of prostration, however, was abrogated by the revelation to the Prophet Muhammad. Substantiating it today would require a proof (dalil) from the Qur’an or Hadith, but no such proof exists.150 Thanvi cites a Hadith from Abu Dawud attributed to Qays bin Sa‘d, who saw Persians prostrating themselves to a governor at Al-Hira and then told the Prophet he was deserving of this. The Prophet replied, “If you passed by my grave, would you prostrate yourself before it?” Qays replies, “No.” The Prophet says, “Then do not do this.”151 The form of prostration the Prophet proscribes here, Thanvi says, is to bow as a salutation. The other form, prostration as worship, is clearly shirk. All the proof we need, Thanvi says, is the Prophet’s negative response to Qays, which simultaneously proscribes both prostration as “reverence” in any capacity and prostration toward graves specifically. If prostrating toward a grave is reprehensible, “prostrating toward a living saint is even more reprehensible.” Thanvi also adduces a proof from Ibn ‘Abidin: “As for kissing the ground in front of scholars [‘ulama] or chieftains, this is forbidden, and both the one who does it and the one who approves it are sinners because it resembles idol worship.” He concludes: “When simply kissing the ground is forbidden by virtue of its resembling worship, prostrating resembles it even more so, and in this narration [from Ibn ‘Abidin], worship and reverence both fall under the same legal precept: prostrating in this manner is infidelity [kufr].”152

  Thanvi then takes up the question of circumambulating (tawaf) a saint’s grave. He begins his argument with the Hadith “Circumambulation of the Sacred House is like Prayer.” “Prayer’s most salient feature is that it is worship. Thus, whatever resembles this feature is also worship,” he reasons. “The meaning of this Hadith is that just as prayer is worship, so circumambulating is worship, and worship of anything other than God is forbidden [haram] and infidelity [kufr]. This is proven from absolutely clear textual referents [nusus].” Circumambulation, again, is intrinsically an act of worship, one that has been specified only for the Ka‘aba. Circumambulating anything else is forbidden.153

  Like Gangohi, Thanvi, too, believed that there is a value in visiting graves. They remind the visitor of his or her own mortality.154 But Thanvi knew all too well the emotional tug of the dead and its threat to tawhid. In Bihishti zewar (Heavenly ornaments), Thanvi lists tomb-based devotions first in his catalogue of impermissible innovations—which, he explicitly states, is arranged in order of their danger to the normative order:

  To hold fairs at graves with all manner of pomp, to light lamps at graves, for women to go to graves, to put sheets over graves, to build permanent gravestones, to revere graves excessively to win the favor of elders, to kiss or lick a ta‘ziya or grave, to rub the dirt of graves, to circumambulate or bow before graves, to perform the daily prayers in direction of graves, to make offerings of sweets, rice, or cakes at graves, to keep ta‘ziyas or flags, to offer them salutations, or offer them halva or cakes.155

  Thanvi is firm in his belief that one cannot attend ‘urs gatherings without being adversely affected by the moral corruption that pervades them; even if one attends with the best of intentions, it will induce in him or her a “propensity toward
sin.”156

  Thanvi lists off several other factors that, combined, shape his judgment against the ‘urs. He submits that among the worst kinds of ‘urs are those that entail musical assemblies (sama‘), and that these are “never, ever permissible according to the statements of the great Sufi masters.”157 Thanvi also rejects the common practice of traveling to a tomb for the sake of fulfilling some oath.158 Covering tombs with shrouds or decorating them with lights is equally repugnant, as is making offerings of food or other items near the shrine.159 But what of those who make the argument that shrine-based offerings actually benefit the poor, who are able to partake of the food offered? Thanvi rejects this notion immediately as a legal “trick” (hila) since, he submits, the real intention of those who offer such things has nothing to do with feeding the poor; their intention is solely to glorify the shrine and its saint. If they really want to feed the poor, why do so at a Sufi shrine? The same logic, as we saw previously, informed his views on mawlud.

  Aside from this litany of moral dangers and theological risks, visiting saints’ shrines (ziyarat) and celebrating their death anniversaries also encourage the public to believe that the saints are able to intercede with God on behalf of those who visit. Gangohi argued that there are three different types of calling on any entity other than God: The first is to “pray [du‘a] to God to carry out a task on account of the sanctity [hurmat] of such-and-such a person.” This is unanimously understood to be permissible, even at the graveside of a saint. The second kind is to say directly to the dead, “Please do this task for me,” whether at the grave or elsewhere. This is unequivocally shirk. The third is to go near the grave and to say, “Such-and-such person, please pray [du‘a] for me that God fulfills this task.” The legality of this, he goes on to explain, is up for debate, hinging on whether the dead are able to hear, about which the ‘ulama differ.160 As for Thanvi, if the sense of intercession (tawassul) that one has in mind when visiting a tomb is that saints have some direct leverage over the mechanics of the universe, this is a polytheism no different from the idol worship that God sent down the Qur’an in order to abolish.161

  But what if the sense of intercession is not about the saint’s power, but rather about the saint’s knowledge? The masses visit these tombs with the expectation that the saint will be able to bestow on them some insight into the future—for example, whether their children will reach a certain age. This, too, is deeply problematic for Thanvi. If one implies that the saint is essentially omniscient, then this is plainly shirk. But if one implies, by virtue of the proximity that the saint has to God, that somehow God conveys this knowledge to the saint, perhaps that is not shirk, says Thanvi, but such a view is unnecessary. In the latter case, why not just go directly to the source of such knowledge—in other words, to God?162

  The Qur’an itself states that asking for help (isti‘ana) should be directed toward God and God alone, as Deobandi Qur’an commentaries readily point out. A single verse from Sura al-Fatiha, in fact—“You alone we worship, and you alone we ask for help” (Qur’an 1:4)—makes this explicit. For Muhammad Shafi‘, “the secret [raz] to the Qur’an is Sura al-Fatiha, and the secret to Sura al-Fatiha is ‘You alone we worship, and you alone we ask for help.’” Shafi‘ explained that calling upon a saint as if the saint had power to fulfill some request independently of God, or even as if God had granted such power to the saint, is to associate God’s power with others (shirk). But, he elaborates, the Qur’an itself is replete with stories of the prophets’ miracles (mu‘jizat). Are these events not evidence that God channels his power through the prophets? Yes, but those powers are temporarily channeled through the prophets in the same way electricity is channeled through a fan. A fan cannot run independently of the power that makes it move.163 Similarly, one of Thanvi’s students, Muhammad Idris Kandhlavi (d. 1974), author of the famed Qur’an commentary Ma‘arif al-Qur’an (Sciences of the Qur’an), too saw this verse as a lynchpin of Qur’anic theology.164 In seeking help from an entity other than God, whether or not one is guilty of shirk hinges on the belief of the one seeking help. Believing that a saint, for example, possesses powers of intercession in essence (mustaqil bi-l dhat) is unequivocally shirk. It is even shirk to believe that God has bestowed that power onto the saint. But suppose someone does not believe such things, but still prostrates toward the saint’s grave or takes a vow (nazr) in the saint’s name? This, says Kandhlavi, effectively treats the saint as if he had such powers, something he calls shirk in everyday practice (a‘mal), if not necessarily belief (i‘tiqad). Shirk in practice does not render one a non-Muslim, but it is a slippery slope toward becoming one.165

  At first glance, it may seem that Deobandis sought to flatten the hierarchies of the medieval Sufi cosmos so that individual Muslims could, at least in theory, commune directly with God without any mediators. But I think we misread Deobandi texts if we assume they sought to purge Islam from all forms of hierarchy. As we will see in the fourth chapter, they sought to replace a saintly hierarchy based on miracles (karamat) with one based on moral distinction. For centuries, Sufis had varied roles in the spiritual lives of their disciples, but Deobandis opposed the role of what Arthur Buehler called the “mediating shaykh.” As the “sole intermediary between Prophet and disciple,” the mediating shaykh stands in contrast to the “directing shaykh,” who guides “the daily lives of initiated disciples.” As Buehler explains, “While the activities of a directing-shaykh enable disciples to arrive near God themselves, the mediating-shaykh ‘transmits’ the disciples’ needs to Muhammad, who then in turn intercedes with God.”166

  In all of these variegated critiques of saints and their graves, one might assume that Deobandis shared the same antipathy toward shrines that motivated Wahhabis to destroy them across Arabia—a process that began in Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahhab’s own day but culminated with the 1926 leveling of the Jannat al-Baqi‘ in Mecca, a cemetery containing graves of some of the earliest Muslims. But the Deobandis were never willing to anathematize even Muslims who participated in some of the practices they believed were shirk; in fact, they pushed back against those who did, as the Deobandi Qur’an and Hadith scholar Shabbir Ahmad ‘Usmani (d. 1949) made clear before an audience of Arab ‘ulama during a June 1926 conference in Mecca, convened by ‘Abd al-‘Aziz ibn Sa‘ud, then king of Najd and the Hijaz, but soon to be, as of 1932, the first king of the newly formed Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.167 The conference included ‘ulama from across the Muslim world, part of a series of conferences in the summer of 1926 in Mecca and Cairo whose ostensible aim was continuing the discussions about the caliphate that had been raging across the Muslim world since the end of the First World War.168

  ‘Usmani had been invited in part because of the scholarly reputation he had acquired in the Middle East on the basis of his famed Hadith commentary, Fath al-mulhim. On 25 June, ‘Usmani and other ‘ulama discussed “the construction and destruction of tombs and holy places.”169 Ibn Sa‘ud himself began the discussion by arguing that one who engages in shirk is also, necessarily and by definition, an unbeliever (kafir), adducing two verses from the Qur’an that, he submitted, applied to any “worshipper of tombs” (‘ibad-i qubur): “We only worship so that they bring us nearer to God” (39:3), and “We found our fathers following a religion and we followed in their footsteps” (43:23)—both verses being the excuses that those who insisted on worshipping other gods, in addition to God, gave to the Prophet.170 Ibn Sa‘ud drew on the same story we saw Thanvi cite earlier, about ‘Umar cutting down the tree that certain Companions had begun to revere. While Thanvi adduced the story to illustrate the hazards of practices like the mawlud, for Ibn Sa‘ud it justifies leveling graves, even—or especially—those of the Companions.171 Other ‘ulama at the conference had argued that anyone prostrating before a tomb is a polytheist (mushrik) on account of that action’s ostensible similarity to idol worship. The upshot of these assertions was that such people could be legitimately killed. ‘Usmani respectfully but firmly disagreed,
proceeding to defend those who prostrate before tombs on this point. ‘Usmani argued that there is a considerable degree of difference (ikhtilaf) among the ‘ulama on issues such as “prostrating before tombs, hanging lamps around them, or placing sheets over them. We regard these acts as innovations [bid‘at] and detestable [munkar], and we have always waged jihad of the pen and tongue against them, but we have never believed it permissible to take their wealth or spill their blood.”172

  For a Deobandi scholar to defend so-called grave worshippers before an audience of Saudi ‘ulama is remarkable. For one, it reminds us of the need to resist the facile usage of terms like “Wahhabi” to describe Deobandis. Shabbir Ahmad ‘Usmani’s audience before actual Wahhabis is perhaps just the most salient example of why this label is problematic.173 Most Deobandis have rejected the label. Khalil Ahmad Saharanpuri’s summary of Deobandi belief argued that the core feature of Wahhabism is the rejection of following a single legal school (taqlid), on account of which the Deobandis are hardly Wahhabis, but also lamented that the scope of the label had expanded to include anyone who criticizes shrine-based practices.174 As we will see in the final two chapters, Deobandis’ critics have deployed the label “Wahhabi” loosely and haphazardly, with little attention to the genealogy of the term, grouping together Deobandis who have actively critiqued Wahhabism with Deobandis who have offered them at least tacit praise.175

  Indeed, in this period, Deobandis did not carry out their critique of normative disorder through an assault on Sufis or their shrines, though the conclusion of this book takes up the question of Deobandi culpability for Taliban attacks on Sufi shrines in Pakistan in recent years. Their critique was primarily, though never exclusively, textual in nature, carried out through short critical pamphlets, primers on belief and practice, published sermons, and Qur’an and Hadith commentaries. The following two chapters turn to the Muslim publics that these texts harnessed toward the remaking of Muslim self and society.