City of Sufis
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Ayeda Husain Naqvi
Sufism is the chain that links Moinuddin Chishti
of Ajmer to Baba Farid Ganj Shakar of Pak Pattan, which was once the ancient Punjabi hamlet of Ajodhan
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Baba Farid once told a visitor: “Do not give me a knife; give me a needle. The knife is an instrument for cutting asunder and the needle for sewing together.” This is what his shrine does in many ways. Besides spiritual training, it acts as a meeting place for his followers from all over the world. In keeping with the sufi tradition, the spirit of the Urs is about bringing people together, rather than driving them apart
walk through the streets of Pak Pattan is a walk back in time. As I trudge up the hill to the shrine of Hazrat Farid Ganj Shakar, I find all barriers of time and space dissolving. And the higher I climb, the more I become attuned to that which has come before me.
It is through these very alleys that Waris Hasan Shah, that great mystic of the late 1800s, once made his way. He would come from Lucknow each year to attend the Urs, or death anniversary, of Baba Farid on belgaris along with his followers. I see my driver wave. He has found parking.
After paying my respects at the shrine, I will follow this same alley up the hill where sits a dilapidated little house. Built in the 13th century, it is owned by the family of Baba Farid. Twice a year it is opened up and cleaned for the “ silsila wallahs” where they stay almost free of charge. I think of all the saints who have stayed here. I think of Maulana Zauqi Shah (1878-1951). Things had already changed since his murshid’s time: the belgari had been replaced by the train.
Indeed, Pak Pattan, some 200 kilometres south of Lahore, has played host to generation upon generation of sufis who have come here to learn and be inspired before leaving to spread the sufi message of love and tolerance around the world. Among these mystics are Shahidullah Faridi and my (late) murshid, Captain Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani, both of whom succeeded Maulana Zauqi Shah. In 50 years, Captain Sahib did not miss a single Urs in Pak Pattan.
The ancient city of Pak Pattan is full of stories. Originally called Ajodhan, it was renamed Pak Pattan because those who visited Baba Farid would wash their hands and feet there; these first pilgrims started calling it Baba Sahibji da Pak Pattan, or “Farid’s cleansing ferry”. Ever since the early 1200s when Baba Farid established the shrine as a great center of sufi thought, people have been coming from all over world. And it is not just the uneducated and the uninformed who flock here but people from all backgrounds – scholars from the East and the West, villagers from southern Punjab, and intellectuals from all over Pakistan.
In some cities, the burden of history can be oppressive. In Pak Pattan, the past welcomes me, inviting me to become the latest link in a chain going back eight centuries. It is here I realize I belong to a lineage, not by birth but by my initiation onto the Sufi path some ten years ago.
Sufi orders are referred to as silsilas, meaning “chains”, simply because that is what they are: unbroken chains of guides, each trained, initiated and confirmed as a teacher by their guide. No sufi exists as an individual, only as a link in the chain. The concept of the silsila is central to sufism because it connects with the sufi concept of knowledge. Sufis believe that there is zahiri (obvious) knowledge and batini (hidden) knowledge and that batini knowledge can only be passed on from one person to another, not simply entombed in a text. A silsila is therefore not only a chain of teachers, but a chain of teachings going all the way back to the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH), and through him to God. No wonder then sufis believe that once initiated onto this path, an individual is never alone but always under the protection of his/her murshid, and all of his murshids who make up that particular silsila.
The Chishtiyya silsila, to which I belong, was founded by Khawaja Moinuddin Chisti who came to India in 1191 from Iran. At that time, Islam had only a precarious toehold in the subcontinent, established by the invader Mahmud Ghaznavi. Over the centuries to come, the disciples of Moinuddin Chisti would succeed in spreading the message of Islam far further than the sword of the Ghaznavids ever could.
Even today, the shrine of Moinuddin Chisti at Ajmer Sharif is one of the few shrines in India which attracts devotees from all religions. Baba Farid, at whose family’s house I rest, was one of the closest disciples of Moinuddin Chishti. That is why unlike many other shrines, there are two Urses which are celebrated at Pak Pattan each year: one of Baba Farid and one of Moinuddin Chishti. Literally translated as “marriage”, these Urses celebrate the union of the saints’ souls with God.
This Rajab, I have come to Pak Pattan to attend the Urs of Moinuddin Chishti. As I sit on the floor with other “members” of the Chishtiyya silsila, I realize our common bond. Some say that the relationship of a guide to a disciple can be compared to a tasbeeh: the guide is the common thread holding disciples together like beads. Eight hundred years after his death, Moinuddin Chishti still seems to be doing this by bringing thousands of us together to attend his own Urs at his disciple’s shrine. I have never met most of these people but they smile at me. I ask a lady whether we will ever meet again. She tells me “ yeh rishta khoon say ziada mazboot hota hai.” We are all but beads being held together by a common line of saints.
Baba Farid once told a visitor: “Do not give me a knife; give me a needle. The knife is an instrument for cutting asunder and the needle for sewing together.” This is what his shrine does in many ways. Besides spiritual training, it acts as a meeting place for his followers from all over the world. In keeping with the sufi tradition, the spirit of the Urs is about bringing people together, rather than driving them apart. It is about drawing on similarities rather than differences, creating something rather than destroying. I think about the state of Pakistan today. We have much to learn. But the lessons are all to be found in our own cultures, in sufism.
It has become fashionable these days to discuss Pakistan as a historical accident, as a motley crowd of peoples accidentally jumbled together. This spirit of secession is captured in the reputed observation of G. M. Syed that he had been a Sindhi for 5,000 years, a Muslim for 1,000 years and a Pakistani for 50. Yes, Pakistan is a land of many cultures. But just as a guide brings his disciples together, similarly sufism is the thread that binds together the disparate beads of Pakistan’s four provinces into one whole.
The mystical core of Islam, sufism is a way of love, a way of devotion and a way of knowledge. Sufi shrines have always been centers of learning; but a different form of learning. There are no books or lessons required, just an open heart. Sufism has long preached openness, towards each other and towards learning. No wonder then that so many of our sufi saints have been such learned men.
I sit in the family house of Baba Farid and listen to Hazrat Siraj Sahib, the successor to my murshid. He is surrounded by people. An educated man, he patiently answers all questions, from spirituality to the coming of Imam Mehdi to the global media war against Islam. He has been coming to Pak Pattan for more than 40 years. As a child, he would come with Zauqi Shah. Today, he comes as a revered elder. He too is part of a chain – a chain I did not see myself a part of till recently.
After he withdraws into the men’s quarters, we get up and leave for the shrine again. It is time for qawali, the highlight of the Urs for many of us. In the Chishtiyya silsila, this form of music is held in high regard because of its role in spiritual development. For it is through this music that sufi poetry is given a voice and a beat that speaks to the heart. This is the reason it speaks to so many people who do not even speak the language, this is the reason it induces haal, or spiritual intoxication, in so many others.
We have been taught that to be overpowered in qawali is to invite digression. The more you resist, the higher you go. Even dancing in qawali is looked on as a sign of being overwhelmed, a weakness on the sufi path. The lesson, or challenge, here is to learn to control your nafs. The ability to do so is believed to raise you higher spiritually. A man gets up and starts frenzied dancing. He looks hypnotized. We sit there motionless with our eyes closed. The whole world seems to be spinning.
After the qawali finishes, we leave the shrine. We are standing at the top of the hill looking down. It is time to go but nobody wants to leave. This too is a lesson those on the sufi path must learn: balancing the competing demands of the Path and the world. I recall the name of a book I recently saw at a New York bookshop: “After the Ecstasy, the Laundry.” Nothing could possibly describe what I feel more at this moment.
I look at the winding alleyways. I am sure I see someone there staring at me, someone not dressed like the others. Then he disappears. I am curious. I have a sudden urge to run into these alleys. But I must return. As Robert Frost once wrote: I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.