The beginning of Sufi pedagogy is the pledge (bai‘at) to the Sufi master. Traditionally, the pledge was followed by a long period of study and spiritual training with the master, usually at a Sufi lodge (khanqah). Thanvi, as is well known, took on hundreds of Sufi disciples, many of whom did come to his khanqah in Thana Bhawan, where upon arrival they were asked to fill out a form on which they provided their name, home country or region, current address, occupation, whether they had given bai‘at to others and, if so, to whom, whether they had read any of Thanvi’s books or heard his sermons, their purpose in desiring bai‘at with him, and other details.46 To others he gave spiritual guidance through written correspondence.
But the Deobandis also saw the Sufi pledge as a crucial tool in the work of both individual and public reform. Thanvi saw bai‘at as a critical instrument in the project of religious reform (islah-i din).47 Biographies of Deobandi scholars abound with stories of middle-class people who underwent dramatic conversions after taking bai‘at. One of Khalil Ahmad Saharanpuri’s disciples, a certain Muhammad Yasin, wore English clothes and managed a tavern in Bombay before pledging himself to Saharanpuri. After taking the pledge, he gave up his job and his English clothes. A friend saw him and asked, “Are you Mister Muhammad Yasin?” He replied, “I am no longer a ‘mister.’ Just Muhammad Yasin.”48 For Gangohi, the Sufi pledge was a pledge for self-rectification, a “renewal of repentance” (tajdid-i tauba)—not the transmission of esoteric insight from master to disciple. For Gangohi, even the desire to be part of a spiritual lineage (silsila) missed this fundamental point. His biography records the basic text that he would read out loud while giving a bai‘at, which the prospective disciple would have to repeat after him:
I believe in God, His Angels, His Books, His Prophets, and in fate, that all is from God whether good or bad, and that there is life after death. I repent from unbelief [kufr], associationism [shirk], innovation [bid‘a], and all other sins. I promise not to lie, steal, fornicate, or slander. I commit to pray five times daily, fast during Ramadan, perform the Hajj if I can afford it, and pay the charity [zakat] if required. If I omit something, I will repent immediately. I am taking bai‘at at hands of Rashid Ahmad into the Chishti, Naqshbandi, Qadiri, and Suhrawardi lineages.49
SUFISM IS FOR EVERYONE
Remaking the self around the Sunna through the tools of subjectivation provided by Sufi pedagogy is also a way of remaking Sufism itself into a tool of mass reform. This is why one of the refrains we see again and again in Deobandi texts is that Sufism is for all Muslims, or even that it is obligatory. Like other ideas we have discussed, the idea of Sufism as a “compulsory” part of a Muslim’s ethical life is not completely new to Deobandis. One of the Deobandis’ foremost influences, Qazi Sanaullah Panipati (d. 1810), also taught that “pursuing the Sufi path is compulsory [wajib].” And like Deobandis, Panipati accentuated ethical divestment of qualities like envy, malice, ostentation, the desire for fame, and love of self.50 But Deobandis elaborated on the idea extensively. In some sense, the very possibility of regarding Sufism as “obligatory” presupposes distilling Sufism down to its ethical core. Thanvi made this point explicitly in letters to his disciples. As he explained to one, “The Sufi pledge [bai‘at] is not obligatory, but reform of one’s actions [islah-i a‘mal] is obligatory, and giving precedence to what is obligatory [taqdim-i wajib] is obligatory.”51 Though the master–disciple relationship is by far the best way to accomplish reform, requiring all Muslims to undergo a Sufi initiation would be impractical. But requiring self-reform for all is an extension of Deobandis’ understanding of Sufism as ethics. Sufism as ethics is, ipso facto, Sufism for everyone. Thus, Thanvi’s Bihishti zewar (Heavenly ornaments) sums up a litany of ethical qualities any young woman should have—repentance (tauba), fear of God (khauf), patience (sabr), gratitude (shukr), trust in God (bharosa), love of God (mahabbat), contentment (raza), sincerity of intention (sidq), and introspection (muraqaba)—as qualities that should be adopted by “every Sufi disciple, indeed, every Muslim.”52 One of Thanvi’s most important disciples, Masihullah Khan, echoes his master in maintaining that “it is incumbent for every Muslim to become a Sufi. Without Sufism, in reality, one cannot truly be called a complete Muslim.”53
In terms of his approach to educating lay Muslims, Thanvi’s Sufi pedagogy mirrors his legal pedagogy: just as a little bit of knowledge goes a long way to ensure that a Muslim understands correct belief and practice, even a small amount of Sufi knowledge, ideally from a living Sufi master, but from books if a master is unavailable, can go a long way in cultivating conscientious piety. And just as Thanvi is wary of lay Muslims opining on legal matters beyond their comprehension, he is also wary of Sufi adepts misinterpreting individual experiences as visionary insight (kashf). The problem is that far too many enter the Sufi path with the hope of having a vision or mystical experience. Thus, Thanvi attempted to constrain lay readers from pursuing the Sufi path for the express purpose of experiencing kashf. If such an experience happens to come along, it is a gift from God, but it is not an end in itself.54
Thanvi saw leniency on the part of the master, at least early on, as a core facet of Sufi pedagogy. “The Sufi masters know that too much severity can make people hold back from what is good,” Thanvi conceded. “Many people are too weak to abandon sinful practices all at once. This ability must be developed in stages.”55 His biographer confirmed this as part of his basic temperament: “God granted Hazrat [Thanvi] with a mild disposition. On every issue he always preferred ease [suhulat] for himself and for others. He would never make matters unnecessarily difficult.”56 Part of making Sufism “easier” was making it more palatable to modern sensibilities. One of the classic Sufi techniques of disciplining the self (nafs) was known as mujahada (“striving”), which entailed depriving the body of basic desires—typically food, sleep, conversation, and social interaction. Thanvi replaced the older Sufi practice of “abandoning” (tark) these desires with a “reduction” (taqlil) in them.57 He regarded deliberately subjecting oneself to physical extremes to be self-indulgent. Speaking about the bodily rigors to which some Sufis subject themselves during spiritual exercises (riyazat), Thanvi asked, “On any path there is an easy way and a hard way. Why not choose the easy way?” He compared self-imposed “hardship and severity” to walking to the next town to draw water for ablutions (wudu’) when there is plenty of water nearby.58
With this in mind, Thanvi’s Qasd al-sabil (The purpose of the path) proposed a simplified program for those interested in Sufism. The very first thing anyone should know about Sufism, he says, is that it is the art of translating knowledge (‘ilm) into practice (a‘mal). Religious knowledge can be attained from consulting a scholar (‘alim) or, if necessary, from reading books. The next step is repentance (tauba) for sins and the search for a Sufi master. The Sufi master should have knowledge, be pious, have no desire for worldly gain, and should not prove his holiness through miracles (karamat). The Sufi adept, too, must be motivated solely for the pleasure of God, not by a desire for miracles or mystical insight (kashf).
Qasd al-sabil breaks down this “simplified” Sufism into four programs: for non-scholars (‘awamm) who have no worldly responsibilities (dunya ke kam), for scholars who have no worldly responsibilities, for non-scholars who have such responsibilities, and for scholars who have such responsibilities. Both programs for non-scholars entail daily zikr—literally, “remembering,” denoting the recitation of phrases and litanies that aim to remind the Sufi of God. The main difference between the program for non-scholars who have worldly responsibilities and those who do not is that the latter should “go to spend time with one’s master” if possible, and if not, should at the very least avoid associating with other people and cultivate seclusion. Both groups of non-scholars should “learn about legal issues [masa’il] that are absolutely necessary” and “when encountering any new issues [masa’il], consult a scholar, and if one’s Sufi master is also a scholar, that is best.”59 As for ‘ulama
, those who have worldly commitments should engage in zikr daily, and lecture to non-scholars only on essential subjects, and whenever lecturing should do so “clearly, softly, and without severity.”60 A scholar who has no worldly commitments should strive to spend “some free time, at least six months,” in the company of his master. The main difference between the two categories of ‘ulama is that the latter should spend nearly all their waking hours in prayer and zikr.61
What Sufi adepts should read also depends on their status. For the ‘ulama he recommends al-Ghazali’s Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din (Revival of the religious sciences). For non-scholars, he recommends reading al-Ghazali’s Tabligh-i din (Propagating the faith), a condensed version of the Ihya’. Thanvi reveres this book, in particular, for its efficiency and accessibility in conveying Sufi ethical principles: parts three and four, respectively, enumerate the negative ethical characteristics (mazmum-i akhlaq) that a pious Muslim must eliminate from the self (e.g., excessive food, excessive speech, anger, envy, love of wealth, love of fame, love of the world, pride, ostentation)62 and the positive ones (akhlaq-i mahmuda) that a pious Muslim must adopt (e.g., fear of God, asceticism, patience, gratitude, sincerity, trust in God, love, contentment, and remembrance of God).63
Importantly, though, Thanvi says there are some Sufi texts that non-scholars should avoid, including the Masnavi of Rumi, the Diwan of Hafiz, and any other books in which a Sufi’s mystical states (kaifiyat) are recorded, for “the common man is not capable of understanding these books.”64 But, just as the ‘ulama should not discuss legal issues (masa’il) in front of the masses, Sufis should also avoid discussing finer points (daqa’iq) of Sufism in front of them, “for they may think that what they hear is opposed to the Shari‘a.”65
ANYONE CAN BE A SAINT
The ultimate implication of both a “simplified” Sufi path for busy, middle-class Muslims and the notion of Sufi ethics as “obligatory” is a reorientation of the very idea of Sufi sainthood around ethical criteria—ethics that anyone, common (‘amm) or elite (khass), can embody and inhabit. Deobandi works are replete with the idea that any Muslim can be a “saint” (wali). The final section of this chapter will explore how Deobandis have theorized sainthood itself through what I call “ethical sainthood.” To do so requires a brief digression into the history of the concept of Muslim sainthood itself.
Some premodern understandings of Sufi sainthood saw the saint (wali) as almost ineffably rare. For the fourteenth-century Persian Sufi ‘Ala ad-Dawla al-Simnani (d. 1336), the wali was so rare that there are only seven in the world at any given time. The wali, in fact, constitutes part of the very fabric of existence. Indeed, the very word for existence (kawn, from the root K-W-N) comprises the K (kaf) of the divine command “Be!” (Kun), the W (waaw) of sainthood (walaya), and the N (nuun) of prophecy (nubuwwa).66
By the early twenty-first century, in a point of stark contrast, Deobandis defined the wali in a near inverse of Simnani’s conception. When asked “What is the distinguishing characteristic of the saints [awliya’] of God, in light of the Holy Shari‘a?” a mufti of the Dar al-‘Ulum Haqqaniyya responded: “Every Muslim who conforms to the Shari‘a, is sober and abstemious, and avoids sins both major and minor is one of the saints [awliya’] of God and is among God’s friends [Allah ke doston].”67 How can we explain such wildly divergent views of the parameters of Sufi sainthood?
The word wali is derived from an Arabic root that connotes “nearness” or “proximity,” as well as “guardianship” and “protection.” Thus, the wali is said to possess proximity to God, and by virtue of this proximity, the wali has the ability to guard and protect. Scholars of Islam have long pointed out the pitfalls of translating the Arabic wali as “saint,” in part because of the absence of any canonization process in Islam comparable to that of Catholicism, a view particularly associated with Bryan Turner.68 But many scholars of Sufism have also defended translating wali as “saint.” Critiquing Turner, Vincent Cornell writes, “If a wali Allah looks like a saint, acts like a saint, and speaks like a saint, why not call him a saint?”69 Many, perhaps most, Sufis throughout history have understood the wali to be, at minimum, extraordinary. For Scott Kugle, it is the saints’ status as individuals “set apart” from society that gives them social power in society, especially by way of relics that metonymically stand in for the saint’s body and channel that power—what Kugle calls the “cultural logic of sanctity.”70
By contrast, Deobandis’ ethical sainthood does not so much invert or collapse saintly hierarchies as realign those hierarchies around the principal criterion of moral rectitude. Deobandis argue that any pious Muslim not only can be, but is, a saint, simply by virtue of that piety, and as saintly believers, Muslims excel over others only in degrees of piety. Deobandi scholars developed this idea quite gradually, by creatively appropriating and expanding a classical Sufi distinction between a “general” sainthood (walayat ‘amma), common to all believers, and special sainthood, or sainthood of the elect (walayat khassa).
The concept of a “general” or “common” sainthood emerged out of early Sufis’ engagement with the polyvalence of the term wali in the Qur’an itself. One of the earliest to suggest a dual meaning of the term wali was the Hanafi Sufi-scholar Abu Bakr Muhammad al-Kalabadhi (d. 990 or 994). Kalabadhi distinguished “two kinds of sainthood [walaya]”: “The first is going out from God’s enmity [‘adawa], and this is common to all believers [‘amma al-mu’minin]. It is not necessary that one be aware of it or realize it, and it has a general sense, as in the phrase ‘The believer is the wali of God’ [al-mu’min wali Allah].” The phrase seems also to be an allusion to Qur’an 2:257: “God is the wali of those who believe”—a verse in which wali conveys the sense of “ally.” However, Kalabadhi continues, the second type of wali “is chosen and made [by God], and it is necessary that one be aware of it and realize it. When one has this [status], he is saved from self-regard, and does not become vain. He is withdrawn from others, and takes no pleasure in seeing them. He is saved from the temptations of humanity, although human nature [tab‘ al-bashariyya] remains within him. He is not tempted by the pleasures of the self [nafs], and thus is not tempted in his faith, although natural temptations may remain. This is the special walaya from God toward his servant.”71 In Kalabadhi’s short, enigmatic depiction of two degrees of walaya—friendship, allyship—the first degree applies to all believers, the second only to a select few, who are aware of their status. The latter have tempered the self (nafs) to an extent that they are at least partially free from pleasures that tempt the “average” believer. For our purposes, this demonstrates, at the very least, that even as early as Kalabadhi, what distinguishes the “special” (khass) wali is an ascetic mastery of the self (nafs). Deobandis’ “ethical sainthood,” in other words, was not created out of whole cloth.
There are other premodern sources for the distinction between “common” and “special” walaya, and again, efforts to understand Qur’an 2:257 are often the impetus for the distinction. At the beginning of Nafahat al-uns (Breaths of intimacy), a collection of Sufi saints’ biographies by the Persian poet ‘Abd al-Rahman Jami (d. 1492), we find a similar contrast between a common walaya (walaya ‘amma) and a special walaya (walaya khassa). Like Kalabadhi, he also references Qur’an 2:257. Jami writes, “Common walaya is shared among the entirety of believers, for God says: ‘God is the wali of those who believe.’ The walaya of the elect,” on the other hand, “is special by virtue of its connections to the masters of the Sufi path.”72 But Jami quickly moves on to his biographies of great saints. I would like to suggest that his brief, even perfunctory, commentary on the two degrees of walaya is born of a necessity to recognize the semantic range of wali in the Qur’an, but that he did so by a point in the history of Sufism at which the “true” meaning of the wali was clear: it meant the great saints, and only the great saints.
One may speculate that Jami’s Nafahat al-uns, which “would later become one of the most influential Naqs
hbandi Sufi texts imported to Mughal India,”73 may have had some impact on Ahmad Sirhindi’s (d. 1624) distinction between what he calls lesser sainthood (walayat-i sughra) and greater sainthood (walayat-i kubra). Lesser sainthood has three stages of its own. The first, Sirhindi says, is that of “common Muslims,” who “follow the lofty Prophetic example” but who have not yet “calmed the self [nafs].” Calming the nafs confers a “degree of sainthood” (bi-darajah walayat). The second level corresponds to “those on the Sufi path who concentrate on the refinement of character.” The third degree is a “special sainthood” (walayat-i khassa), in which the self has become “tranquil and free of struggle and rebellion.”74 What Sirhindi then calls the “greater sainthood” (walayat-i kubra) is characterized by complete subjugation of the self.75
While Deobandis certainly read Sirhindi—though I have not encountered any Deobandi commentary on this particular passage—there are other, more direct, venues through which Deobandis took up the distinction between levels of walaya. Qutb al-Din Dimashqi (d. 1378), whom Gangohi translated into Persian, also saw in Qur’an 2:257 the basis for two classes of wali.76 Dimashqi, like Kalabadhi, understood “common sainthood” (walayat ‘amma) to denote those who avoid God’s “enmity” (‘adawa; Urdu, ‘adavat):
A wali is a friend [dost] of God. Friendship [dosti] with God is to have faith [iman] in him. As God says: “God is the wali of those who believe” [Qur’an 2:257]. Some masters [akabir] divide walayat into two kinds. The first is walayat-i ‘amma, which is avoiding God’s enmity [‘adavat] and hatred [dushmani]. God’s enmity is unbelief [kufr] and hypocrisy [nifaq]. This form of walayat applies to the entire community of believers. As God says: “God is the wali of those who believe. He takes them out of darkness and into light” [Qur’an 2:257]. The second kind is walayat-i khassa, which applies to those who achieve a constant and permanent state of obedience [to God] without deficiency [kotahi] or indolence [susti].77
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