Knowledge of the law [‘ilm-i Shari‘at] and knowledge of Sufism [‘ilm-i tariqat] are the very same thing. The law and Sufism are also the same. When someone knows the commands of the Shari‘a, he has knowledge of the law. When someone knows the essence of the command, he has knowledge of Sufism. To perform a duty or necessary deed against the will of the self [nafs] is to act in line with the law. When sincerity [ikhlas] and love for the reality of God completely encompass the depths of the heart, that is called Sufism. So long as knowledge and practice are in conflict with one another, Shari‘a will dominate. When the conflict dissipates, that is Sufism.18
The ultimate point of Sufism is to make worship come naturally. Worship (‘ibadat) requires two things: knowledge of the religion (‘ilm-i din), and a “longing for, desire for, and delight in worship.” The latter is fostered through Sufism.19
The corollary to Shari‘a and Sufism as outer and inner manifestations of the same ethical imperative is that Sufism can be derived directly from the scriptural sources by which we know the Shari‘a—namely, the Qur’an and Hadith. Thus, one of Thanvi’s treatises, Haqiqat al-tariqa min al-sunnat al-aniqa (Realities of the Sufi path derived from the elegant Sunna), derives Sufi ethics through a commentary on 330 individual Hadith narrations.20 Each is labeled with several categories depending on the particular “benefit” (fa’ida) that the narration offers. For Thanvi, Sufi ethics are contained in, and derived from, the Qur’an and the Hadith. These are the ethics that the Sufi masters embody, and which one acquires through companionship with them or, failing that, through reading stories about them:
After correcting one’s beliefs and reforming one’s external [zahiri] actions every Muslim is obligated to reform his or her internal [batini] states. Innumerable verses in the Holy Qur’an and endless narrations in the Hadith attest to this duty. And yet people are heedless of this, bound by sensory desires. Who does not know that the Qur’an and Hadith stress acquiring virtues such as asceticism [zuhd], contentment [qana‘at], humility [tavazo‘], patience [sabr], gratitude [shukr], love of God, acceptance of fate, trust [tawakkul], surrender to God [taslim], and expressly forbid qualities such as love of the world, greed [hirs], pride [takabbur], hypocrisy [riya], lust [shahvat], anger, envy [hasad], and contempt? . . . This is the meaning of reforming one’s internal actions and the fundamental purpose of the Sufi path [tariqat], and it is proven without the slightest doubt that this is a required duty [of all Muslims].21
I return to the theme of Sufism as a “required duty of all Muslims” below. For now, I want to note two important points relevant to the passage above. First, one of the aims of disciplining the self was the proper regulation of the emotions that arise from the nafs, not necessarily their elimination, which Deobandis understood to be impossible, in any case. Thanvi and other Deobandis follow al-Ghazali here, as they do on many matters. For al-Ghazali, certain predilections of the nafs had to be properly regulated and channeled; thus, anger (ghazab), for example, is the basis for courage (shaja‘at).22 Thanvi used these Ghazalian insights in his sermons, preaching that anger at sin is an emotion the drives the work of reform.23
Second, expounding on the mutual imbrication of Sufism and Shari‘a was also a rhetorical strategy for arguing against Sufism’s new critics. Thus, one could also see Thanvi’s Haqiqat al-tariqa min al-sunnat al-aniqa as a rebuttal to Salafi critics of Sufism that, ironically, substantiates Sufism solely through the Hadith, at once challenging their view on Sufism and reaffirming Hadith-centered modes of rhetoric and argument. By the first two decades of the twentieth century, when Thanvi was writing and publishing his most important work, Muslim modernists on the one hand, and Wahhabis on the other, had leveled vicious accusations against Sufism. Thanvi understood that he had to demonstrate that Sufism is rooted firmly in the Qur’an and Sunna if he hoped to counter Sufism’s most hostile critics. One way of defending Sufism was to show meticulously how the Qur’an and Hadith are wellsprings of Sufi ethics. Thanvi, like other Deobandis, argued that what we now call “Sufism” and what we call “law” (fiqh) were not yet disaggregated in the era of the Prophet:
Shari‘a is the name for the collection of rules from which all inward and outward actions derive. In the terminology of the ancients the word “fiqh” had a meaning synonymous with Shari‘a. . . . Then in the terminology of the present, the part of Shari‘a connected to outward actions became “fiqh” and the part connected to inward actions became “Sufism,” and the paths for these inward actions is called “tariqat.”24
The very distinction between the two emerged only as a “convenient means of describing the inner and outer dimensions” of the same thing. Treating them as actually separate “is an error of the ignorant, which today has even infected the learned.”25 To disabuse the reader of the notion that this is simply self-evident, Thanvi notes with a good deal of irony that “extreme” Sufis and “superficial” (khushk; literally, “dry”) ‘ulama actually both hold the same erroneous notion: that Sufism is not to be found in the Qur’an and Sunna:
The principles of Sufism exist in the Qur’an and the Hadith, yet people seem to think Sufism is absent from them. Of course, that is wrong. Extreme Sufis and superficial ‘ulama alike believe that Qur’an and Hadith are free of Sufism. Both are wrong. The superficial ‘ulama say Sufism does not exist, but this is delusional. . . . The extreme Sufis say that the Qur’an and Hadith are only about external matters, that Sufism is inner knowledge for which—God forbid!—the Qur’an and Hadith are not necessary. In short, both groups believe that the Qur’an and Hadith are devoid of Sufism. One group thinks they can ignore Sufism; the other, the Qur’an and Hadith.26
Yet, even though Shari‘a and Sufism are mutually interdependent, Deobandis have been clear that the acquisition of core religious knowledge must take precedence over embarking on the Sufi path, for if the aim of Sufism is moral cultivation, the aim of religious knowledge is avoiding eternal damnation. In some sense, Thanvi seemed more concerned about “extreme” Sufis than the ‘ulama who rejected Sufism altogether. Such ‘ulama, though profoundly misinformed, were still likely to enter paradise, whereas such Sufis imperiled their salvation by collapsing the very distinction between Islam and unbelief (kufr).27 This is why the choice of a Sufi master educated in Islamic law was critical: “If the seeker is a scholar [‘alim], he will be aware of the requirements of the religion [din]. If the seeker is not a scholar, he should search for a master who will first correct his beliefs and instruct him in legal matters [fiqhi masa’il].”28 For this reason, Gangohi insisted on not accepting a Sufi pledge (bai‘at) from any prospective disciple who was still a student. He rebuffed even Ashraf ‘Ali Thanvi’s request for bai‘at while Thanvi was still a student at Deoband. He would, however, accept the pledge from a lay Muslim who was not a student—the implication being that, for the student, acquiring religious knowledge takes precedence over self-reform, whereas for the lay Muslim, anything at all is better than nothing.29 Ashraf ‘Ali Thanvi, too, would not normally accept the Sufi pledge from prospective disciples while they were still students, though he did occasionally make an exception for outstanding disciples.30
CONTAGIOUS PERFECTION: CHANNELING PROPHETIC AFFECT THROUGH COMPANIONSHIP (SUHBAT)
Deobandis have argued that, in the lifetime of the Prophet Muhammad, what would come to be known as Sufism and what would come to be known as Shari‘a had not yet been disaggregated. This is less an argument about history—certainly, speaking about “Sufism” avant la lettre is anachronistic—as much as it is an argument about the Prophet himself, who seamlessly and powerfully embodied Sufism and Shari‘a.
We can see this in how Deobandis understand an all-important Sufi concept, ihsan, meaning “goodness” or “excellence” but, in its core semantic root, also linked to the concept of beauty. Ihsan and Sufism are often simply equated, as in Muhammad Manzur Nu‘mani’s Din o shari‘at (Religion and Shari‘a): “In the prophetic Hadith, the perfection of din is called ihsan, which we ca
ll Sufism. In common parlance, it can be explained this way: one’s heart attains the same degree of certainty and assurance that one attains from the direct experience of reality, in which there is no room for doubt about its veracity.”31 When one attains ihsan, he continues, this heart-certainty infuses every breath with God-consciousness.
This idea goes back to the roots of the Deobandi movement. Gangohi, who taught his disciples that “Sufism is fundamentally another name for ihsan,” explained ihsan in terms of prophetic affect. The affective power of the Prophet Muhammad’s presence was such that an unbeliever who recited the testament of faith (kalima) before him would attain ihsan instantly. After the Prophet’s death, the Companions and the Followers still retained that power, but it had begun to diminish. The first Sufi masters invented spiritual techniques to recover that power, but as that first generation became a distant memory, Sufis took these techniques to be ends in themselves rather than tools for re-creating that prophetic affect, which is part of the origin of bid‘a.32 Elsewhere, Gangohi explained ihsan as a constant introspective gaze, one that reflects the visceral cognizance that God sees what one does at every moment: “One should maintain this inward gaze (muraqaba) at all times. In short, apprehending God’s presence with every deed, one should discover what pleases God and do that, and discover what displeases God and avoid that. This is the nature of ihsan.”33
This prophetic affect is channeled genealogically from Sufi master to disciple, in principle extending back to the Prophet himself, as Sufi silsilas (initiatic chains) often do. But what is being transmitted is not merely esoteric knowledge or mystical insight but that very affective power that the Companions felt in the Prophet’s presence, which is connoted in the concept of “companionship” (suhbat; from the Arabic suhba). Suhbat has roots in the traditional transmission of knowledge in premodern Islamic education. A student training to become a jurist would undergo a period of “fellowship [suhba]” with a master. A sahib, “fellow,” was the student who became a constant companion of a particular master. Both terms are linked semantically to the Companions (sahaba) of the Prophet Muhammad, who learned from observing his model (sunna) and whose observations of the Prophet’s behavior became an important part of the Hadith.34 Similarly, for the Sufis, suhbat is an “intimate spiritual communication between human hearts,” mirroring and complementing the genealogical transmission of knowledge, a genealogy that originates with the Prophet Muhammad himself. The Naqshbandi Sufi Mirza Jan-i Janan (d. 1781) experienced this prophetic suhbat directly in an ecstatic moment during a Hadith lesson. The affective power of hearing the Prophet’s words was like “companionship [suhbat] with God’s messenger. . . . I experienced the Prophet’s divine energy [tawajjuh] and spiritual countenance [altafat].” In this moment, he says, “[t]he meaning of ‘The religious scholars [‘ulama] are heirs of the prophets’ became clear.”35
Gangohi, too, taught that this prophetic companionship was at the core of Sufism. Sufism provided the spiritual resources to experience what it would have been like to be one of the Companions. In a letter to a disciple, he described this companionship in terms of divine effulgence (faiz):
The ultimate aim of all the Sufi paths—once you have reached this summit there is nothing else beyond it—is this: Why did the Companions of the Prophet give up all their wealth and prestige? What did they see? It was that they had acquired certainty [yaqin] through the divine effulgence of companionship [fuyuz-i suhbat] of the Prophet Muhammad, passing away [fana’] from the world and subsisting [baqa’] in the afterlife, acquiring certainty in the truth of the Maker. Afterward this became the basis for every action. What made Sayyid ‘Abd al-Qadir Jilani, Khwajah Mu‘in al-Din Chishti, and Baha al-Din Bukhari [Naqshbandi] so great? This very same certainty.
Establishing this connection (nisbat) is the reason God sent the Prophet, Gangohi says—a connection that illuminates the Ummah horizontally through his suhbat and vertically through time as that suhbat is channeled by the Sufi saints, connecting generation to generation, which Gangohi calls the “light of certainty” (nur-i yaqin).36
This prophetic affect can be ascertained through companionship with Sufi saints, but in a critical concession to a bibliocentric economy of knowledge, Deobandis taught that one could get glimpses of it from reading stories about the saints. Thus, an introduction to Thanvi’s Hikayat al-awliya’ (Stories of the saints) by one of his disciples explains how the milieu into which the Prophet Muhammad was sent was one of utter ignorance (jahalat) in which every individual was governed entirely by lust and passion, how there was no distinction between truth and falsehood, and how tribal sentiment (‘asabiyya) prevailed over human relations. The Prophet Muhammad changed all this solely through the spiritual power (faiz) of his very presence (suhbat). This power had such “force of influence and quickness of effect that after just a short time, it reached people everywhere.” The author of the introduction adds: “The Sufi masters know well the secret [raz] of this power, and that companionship of the righteous [suhbat-i nek] is absolutely necessary for the reform [islah] of their students and followers . . . a notion corroborated everywhere in their writings, words, and letters.” But these Sufi masters also know that “many are incapable of leaving one’s family and occupation to undergo strenuous travel and to spend one’s wealth and provisions” to seek out their companionship. “For this reason, the stories [hikayat] and discourses [malfuzat] of these noble ones are compensation for those deprived of their presence.”37
Stories, then, allow readers to experience at least a glimmer of the spiritual energy (faiz) that the Sufi masters ultimately inherit from the Prophet himself. Like everything else for Deobandis, faiz (from the Arabic fayd, “flood”) can be easily misunderstood. Faiz is the energy that emanates from holy bodies, objects, and spaces, whether a saint’s shrine or a sacred text. It adheres to objects but also penetrates bodies. Central to Sufi cosmology and psychology, faiz has been understood by Sufis to be a divine emanation that travels through the subtle centers (lata’if) of the cosmos, which are reflected in the subtle centers (lata’if) of the body. Unsurprisingly, twentieth-century Sufis have often compared it to electricity. For Ahmad Sirhindi (d. 1624), the Prophet Muhammad’s perfect intimacy with God meant that he was also a perfect embodiment of this divine emanation, one that the saints can also experience in proportion to their own intimacy with God.38 Ibn al-‘Arabi understood faiz to be a cosmic reverberation of the act of creation itself, and thereby a continuous self-disclosure (tajalli) of God.39
It will be no surprise, then, that Gangohi would be apprehensive about the ability of the masses to understand this phenomenon without the appropriate training. Faiz “can be experienced at the shrines of saints,” he says, “but it is never permissible to sanction this for the masses.” One can learn about faiz according to one’s spiritual capabilities and intellect, but “for the masses, to explain these matters is only to open up the door to unbelief [kufr] and associationism [shirk].”40 Thanvi elaborated: “Some ignorant people believe that the Sufi masters have the ability to administer divine grace [faiz] however they wish.” But “when even the Prophet did not have this power”—citing a Hadith in which the Prophet clarified a verse from the Qur’an, “Indeed, [Muhammad,] you do not guide whomever you like” (28:56)—“how could anyone else?”41
Faiz is, then, simultaneously a powerful tool of spiritual self-formation and a potential source of normative disruption. This is why, among many other reasons, Thanvi opposed the “study” (mutala‘a) of Sufism without the guidance of a Sufi master—for mere study was “insufficient to reform one’s character,” and many benefits of the Sufi path are simply inaccessible without the “companionship of an expert” (mahir ki suhbat) in Sufism.42 But he also made concessions to those who did not have time to stay at a Sufi lodge or take up a disciplinary relationship (islahi ta‘aluq):
The thing around which reform [islah] ultimately revolves is the companionship [suhbat] of those who have already experienced refo
rm, and serving and obeying them. When their literal companionship [suhbat-i zahiri] is not feasible, then one can experience their spiritual companionship [suhbat-i ma‘navi] by studying their lives, tales, and teachings, which will be, to a certain extent, a sufficient substitute. This is the secret as to why the authoritative texts [nusus] urge the companionship of the good and warn against companionship of the evil. This is also why there are stories of God’s faithful everywhere throughout the Qur’an and Hadith.43
Deobandis understood that the need for suhbat placed a sort of intrinsic limitation on their quest for public reform, for not everyone had the time to seek out a Sufi master. To overcome this dilemma, Thanvi argued that companionship in the same physical space as the Sufi master, while ideal, can be replaced by a sort of companionship mediated by mail. This is why he spent part of every day responding to letters written by the hundreds of disciples who lived across India. The Sufi adept should “spend a few days with his master if he has some free time, and if he does not, this spiritual instruction can be carried out remotely—for instance, by means of letters if the disciple [murid] is unable to reach the master in person.”44 Failing that, the core principles of Sufism could be grasped through reading introductory books on Sufism. But books never replace the master. In most cases, in fact, “[b]ooks may be beneficial, but they are for the master. Disciples do not benefit from studying books, but may study them at the master’s discretion,” said Thanvi, adding rhetorically: “Is your book a perfect human being [insan-i kamil]—that is, a master? Do you resolve difficulties [on the Sufi path] with reference to your books?”45
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