In The Shadow Of The Prophet

May 14th is the Prophet’s birthday and my good friend Ayaz, a young man born in Afghanistan and raised in Saudi Arabia, has invited my son and I to take a special meal with him and his Wahabi friends and associates at the house of his employer, a wealthy saree manufacturer, in the old part of the city.
Wahabism, a brand of Islam based on the fundamentalist ideas of a religious reformer by the name of Mohamed ibn Abdel-Wahhab, was used by the Saudi royal family some seventy years ago to fire up their army of Bedouin tribals that comprised their main fighting forces. It is an austere branch of Islam that advocates public beheadings, amputations of hands for theft, stoning for unchaste women, gender segregation, strict dress codes and numerous other unsavory practices. It is considered by most analysts to be the basis of the religious zealotry underlying the Taliban and the September 11th attacks.
With trepidation and a bit of nervous excitement we entered into the dark gallies or alleyways that lead into the main section of the Muslim community. Our Hindu rickshaw driver understandably hesitated, for though things were peaceful at the moment conflagrations were known to flare up quickly often leaving scores of people dead and wounded and only by the promise of a double payment were we able to convince him that as it was the Prophet’s birthday all would be safe and no harm would come to any of us. If they were going to attack anyone, we explained, it would be two fat, juicy Americans rather than a poor, Hindu rickshaw driver. Seeing the logic of this he proceeded into the foreboding neighborhood to drop us off quickly before the sun went down and darkness settled .
We were greeted with profuse salaams and invited to be seated on the floor of a large, stark, high ceiling white room devoid of any ornamentation; no pictures, no flowers, no indication of any of those western flourishes that might lend a “homey” touch to one’s living space. It was sparse and elegant, dignified and unadorned of pretense and unnecessary busyness and evoked a cool cleanliness and a minimalist majesty. A servant brought us water and as Qu’ranic recitations from another part of the house drifted by we were asked the usual, and some unusual, questions of who and what we were and more importantly, what we believed. These were difficult questions for me to answer for I was, and still am, seeking answers to those fundamental questions of existence and the deeper I delved more questions would surface rather than answers.
“What is your faith?” they asked.
“I have no faith,” I replied.
“But what do you believe?” they insisted.
“I believe in life, love, the innocence of little children and the stupidity of man.”
“No, no, no,” they retorted, “We all believe in that, but what is your faith?”
“I have no faith,” I insisted.
“But you must have a faith, a religion to guide you through life, otherwise you fall into indolence and bad ways.”
This was not the time or place to say what I thought about faith, that those who put faith in dogma or other people are admitting to the poverty of their own lives, that faith is a shell or prison that keeps one enslaved, that it kills wonder and joy, it kills the mystery of our existence and that those who believe in other are afraid to believe in themselves.
“If I choose one religion then I must deny the others. Are they not all different paths to the same God?” I asked.
“ I have surrendered my life to the creative spirit or Allah as you call him, I believe Mohammed to be a prophet, I have a beard, I’ve had four wives, sometimes I go to the mosque with my Muslim friends. Does that make me a Muslim? I also practice Buddhist meditation, sing bhajans with my Hindu friends and put up a Christmas tree with a star on top to celebrate Christ’s birth on December 25th. Am I a kafir, an infidel, or a man of God?
About that time a large, burly, bear of a man came in. Looking us over he asked our host in Urdu who we were. When told that we were visiting Americans he retrieved a local newspaper from his bag, opened it to the centerfold and revealed a full size picture of George W. Bush and Osma Bin Laden facing each other.
Pointing to Bush’s picture and then to me he said, “George Bush your friend, Osama my friend,” and with that he proceeded to shot me with an imaginary gun, “rat-tat-tat-tat-tat,” all the while repeating, “George Bush your friend, Osama my friend, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”
For a few a moments a peculiar air of suspense lingered in the room that made everyone uncomfortable as no one seemed to quite know in what direction this bit of play acting would take. The Daniel Pearl episode was still fresh in everyone’s mind and there was a palpable tension throughout most quarters of the Muslim community. In addition recent news releases had announced that the US was creating a dozen or more CIA branch offices in the surrounding areas and most Americans were suspected agents to begin with. I myself knew two of my fellow countrymen who operated quite openly with such obvious front businesses in Varanasi and with such a blatant modus operandi that it was embarrassing as well as dangerous.
Since Bush the Lesser had been on the throne life for Americans in this part of the world has become difficult and unpredictable. Like Hitler’s legal accession to power in the 30’s, Bush’s US Supreme Court sanctioned coup d’etat and the word democracy had become, in most people’s minds, little more than a smoke screen for world domination, rampant militarism and corporate globalism. These were obviously the thoughts in everyone’s minds as they waited for me to respond to the visitor’s challenge.
“Gentlemen, this is the Prophet’s birthday and not a political debate. I am neither a politician nor a representative of the US government. I am a tourist and a student of philosophy and religion who is interested in learning about Islam so we might become more knowledgeable and thus understand each other on a deeper level. I do not condone or appreciate the policies of my government. and am frankly embarrassed by them. Bush proclaims to the world that he is a Christian and that he is doing God’s work. At the same time Osama says he is fighting a holy war that Allah has sanctioned. If Jesus or the Prophet were to return to earth today I think they would both be ashamed of the behavior of both men. As the Hadeeth, the sayings of the Prophet, tells us “To follow such a man is like holding the tail of a camel as it falls into a well.” When righteousness is practiced because it is believed to be the will of God rather than for it’s own sake it is usually with a fanaticism that is most ungodly. Both men I consider to be fanatics. People are being killed unnecessarily, thousands of women and children because of Bush’s policies in the Middle East and thousands as a result of Osama’s jihad against the US. Did not the Prophet say that it was ungodly to kill women and children? In my reading of the Qu’ran it is said ,”Whoever has killed a single human being…it is as if he has killed all of mankind and whoever saves the life of one it is as if he has saved the life of all mankind.”
As everyone was nodding in agreement a servant brought in the food and placed it on the cloth that had been spread on the floor for the occasion. As large steaming dishes of mutton and chicken Biryani, sauces, salad and dishes of sweet preparations were laid before us all talking ceased, the servant passed water for washing the hands and everyone commenced eating.
After the food was finished people started drifting out, all conversation was over as well as the gathering and after smiles, profuse salaams and expressions of sincere appreciation for the food we took our leave out into the night
The gallis were brightly lit with thousands of twinkling lights in celebration of the Prophet’s birthday and everyone was dressed in their best clothes, long white kurtas or kamize and pyjamas and white skull caps or the small pill box hat that Muslims wear. After locating a rickshaw we were soon on our way to our quarters in the Hindu section of town.

Several day later I was sitting on a bench having tea in an outside tea stall on the main street in the Muslim neighborhood. A man of indeterminate age, maybe forty, maybe eighty, dressed in an immaculate white salwar-kamize sat next to me and engaged me in conversation, introducing himself as Maulana Mohammad Shah Ibn-Ali and stated that we had taken food togther on the night of the Prophets birthday at the house of Abdullha the saree maker. As there had been about a dozen people at the dinner I did not recognize him at first since the atmosphere had been not only unfamiliar but emotionally charged by the intrusion of the Bush-Osama imbroglio.
As we sipped our tea the Maulana proceeded to tell me that he and the others had agreed that in spite of my being an American they had seen that I was a genuine disciple of Allah and as such was as true a Muslim as any other and if I so desired they would be honored to initiate me into the Sufi brotherhood in which he and other friends belonged.
Generally speaking the Sufis are the mystical branch of Islam that arose in Persia in the ninth century as a reaction against the rigid monotheism and formalism of Islam. It is composed of men and women who have adopted an ascetic or quietist mode of life and in some countries were Shariah law prevails they are outlawed and persecuted.
Sufis, or Faqirs, as they are called ( roughly equivalent to the Hindu Sadhu ) are divided into two different classes, Beshar, “without the law”, and “Bashar,” within the law. A large number belong to the former group and use intoxicants like ganja, opium and alcohol, all of which they consider acceptable and lawful. They do not follow the precepts of the Prophet and pay little attention to fasting, praying or attempting to control their passions. They are considered to be debauchees and are not highly regarded by Muslims in general and are feared by many. “Bashar,” those within the law, follow all the rules of Islam such as praying, fasting and abstaining from intoxicants. There are many varieties in this group, some with wives and children who live by farming, trading or begging. Others are of the “abstracted” type and lead an ascetic life, some being affected to such a degree for their love and mystical affection for Gnosticism and the Deity that they are dead to any form excitement, hope or fear. This is the rarest class of Faqirs as it takes a peculiar conformation of mind and personality. There are others of education and sophistication, metaphysicians they are regarded as, who reject as unfashionable belief in the Koran and the five pillars of Islam.
There are many orders or sects of these Muslim holy men, educated and dignified, uneducated, wild and hairy, conservative, with different costumes and practices, some naked and hairless, some celibates, some debauched and dissipated beggars, some that lead about monkeys and bears, some considered to be powerful miracle workers that can instantly effect what they please, can heal the sick and raise the dead, the whirling Darweshes and their ecstatic services, some outside the law, some within the law but all considered a part of the mystical brotherhood of Islam and therefore it is considered well to court their blessings and avoid their curses for as it has been said “ View not with scorn the humble sons of earth for beneath a clod a flower may have birth.”
I asked the Maulana about the order that he represented and if it was within or without the law and he assured me that it was of the former, very respectable with many rich and highly educated members of the community. I told him that I would indeed accept his invitation for initiation and hoped that I would be a worthy addition to its membership. He replied in the affirmative, that the honor would be theirs and that they were looking forward to my participation and friendship. I inquired when and where the initiation would take place and what would be required of me. He replied that it would be here in the old city of Banaras, in the home of the Murshid, or Pir, the spiritual guide who would conduct the ceremony. The custom of initiating a disciple ( murid ) has it’s origin with their ancestors, he said, and this very special duty is only entrusted to wise and reverend persons. When a person is to become a disciple they usually go to the household of the particular Pir or Saint who is recognized as such by the family descent or the ceremony take place in the home of the initiate. In my case since I was a tourist and had no home as such it was decided that the ceremony would take place in the home of the presiding Murshid which was located in the neighborhood near the large Masjid, or Mosque, of the old city and when the time was ready a messenger would inform me of the particulars. As that concluded our conversation he took his leave, touching his heart with his right hand and salutating me with the words, “As Salaam mu Alaikum,” Peace of Allah be upon you.

The next day, returning to my rooms after my evening meal, I found a letter under my door designating the time and place the initiation was to be performed, the necessary items that I needed to bring and instructions for my behavior during the ceremony. It was hand written, in English, in an elegant cursive script on soft parchment and embossed in gold with star and crescent and the name of the order. I still have the letter but for proprieties sake I shall refrain from divulging the name of the order.
On the appointed day I took a rickshaw to the address given, a compound surrounded by a high wall and shadowed by the graceful minarets and gilded dome of the large mosque. It was night and though I felt good about the coming proceedings this was India and underneath the glamour and beauty lurked undreamed of depths of terror and cruelty that could appear in an instant. I looked around at the filthy street and the squalid hovels of the poor next to the golden gleam of the majestic mosque that loomed above it all and for a moment I thought of returning to the safety of my rooms. Maybe this was all a setup, I thought, maybe I would be kidnapped and held for ransom, maybe beheaded as had happened to the tourist trekkers in Kashmir few years back or put in shackles and shown on International TV before they did the evil deed.
I took a deep breath, lifted, and let drop the massive knocker on the ornate double door. Boom! The sound reverberated throughout the whole neighborhood. Too late to turn back now, I thought.
Momentarily I heard the turn of a key, the rasp of a bolt being drawn and then the creak of rusty hinges. A small man wearing a black turban and black patch over one eye opened the door, salaamed deeply and silently bid me enter. We crossed the dark courtyard and entered the building and into what appeared to be the main room. It was stone-floored and bare of unnecessary furniture or decoration. Scattered about in large earthen pots grew tropical plants in lush profusion. A door on one wall led into an antechamber where the servant, without speaking a word, directed me to be seated. Another door stood open onto the dark shadows of a garden with the scent of flowers and a small slice of moonlight peeking through. An ancient stone bench underneath an orange tree invited me to sit and take in the rich aromas of jasmine, oleander and orange and as I sat and waited for the unfolding of the event that lay before me I thought of the rich and bloody history that Islam had brought with it to this fabled land now called India.
How had Islam given birth to so many fanatics I wondered when the Prophet was such a gentle and kindhearted human being? Compassion and tenderness, simplicity and humility sincerity and courtesy, all virtues he had in abundance yet a trail of blood had covered the earth from the beginning of his mission to the present day. He had prohibited his soldiers from killing women and children, of inciting terror in the hearts of defenseless civilians for the maiming of innocent men, women and children was forbidden by both the Prophet and the Qu’ran. And yet they slashed and killed, converting the infidels with the sword, conquering vast areas of the world from Arabia to Mongolia, to all the four corners of the earth they rode and fought with a fury and ruled their conquered dominions with a cruel, iron hand.
And now it reigns no more, the glorious past when the horned moon of Islam had blazed throughout the land ruling all of Hindustan, when the Great Moguls had no peer until the blistering torrent of the Mahrattas and Rajputs and Sikhs burst forth and threw then into the dust and then a greater torrent blasted in from across the black waters to extinguish the last flicker of life from the heart of the great Mogul Empire.
The British had conquered the conquerors and now the quiet wind of modernization sweeps in as the Americans take over, inexorably, with Coca-Cola, Hollywood and MacDonald’s, capturing by default this vast sub-continent once ruled by Akbar Jehangir, Shahjehan, and the almighty Aurungzebe, “Holder of the World,” Now the sword of Allah has been dulled, broken and replaced by a so called democracy, but the quest for power and plunder is still rampant since the Emperor has only changed clothes leaving the substance of venality and dissimulation intact.
But here and there truth prevails, small pockets of men and women who hold high the lamp of the Prophet. Sufism, that ascetic branch of Islam that aspires to a state of union with God through mystical contemplation rejects privileges based on wealth, race or power. Allah created all human beings as equals and they are to be distinguished from each other only by their faith and piety….
The murmur of voices in the next room woke me from my meditations and Maulana Mohammad Shah Ibn-Ali entered and quietly told me to follow him into the dressing room where I was to bathe, change into the fresh clothes that I had brought with me along with a small envelope of money to be given as a gift to the Pir that was to conduct my initiation.
While bathing a servant came in with a box containing scissors, comb, razor and several bottles of lotion and indicated that I was to be shaved as that was part of the procedure. When I objected to this he left and a few minutes later returned with the Maulana who explained to me that it was a symbolic act only and a snip of hair from the “four beauties of the face,” head, eyebrows, beard and chest would suffice. I relented and the servant took the required amount which he put in a small container that he produced from his barber’s box. He also clipped my fingernails and while doing so repeated sentences or prayers from the Qu’ran. I then dressed in a clean white lungi and kurta. The Maulana returned, gave me a quick inspection, took the envelope containing the gift for the Pir and instructed me to wait.
The Maulana returned shortly and led me out into the large room that was now occupied by about twenty people, some of whom I recognized from the house of the sari maker that I had dined with on the night of the Prophet’s birthday. The people formed a horseshoe with me in the center and the Pir, a rather fierce looking gentleman, immaculately dressed in white, at the head facing the East so that when I faced him I would be looking in the direction of Mecca. The Pir then placed a small skullcap on my head and gave me a piece of white cloth about five feet in length which I turbaned my head with. He then took hold of my right hand with his right hand in such a way that out thumbs touched. Then the Pir asked me to repeat the formula of asking forgiveness from God, the five sections of the creed, the assertion of the unity of the Godhead, the rejection of infidelity and other supplications that I had been instructed in after which I said to the Pir, “Whatever sins I have intentionally or unintentionally committed I now repent and I sincerely promise before my Pir and in the presence of God and his minister never to commit them again.”

Then the Pir read of a long list of all the Saints of the order according to the genealogy which went back to the time of the Prophet and then asked me if I consented to acknowledge them. When I replied in the affirmative he then asked me if I acknowledged him as my Pir. Again I replied in the affirmative. The Pir then released my hand, received a cup of some sweet liquid from one of the ministers, offered prayers over it, blew on it several times, took two or three sips and then handed it to me. I then rose from my seat as instructed and with profound reverence, drank the last of it. The Pir then draped over my shoulders a shawl that he himself had worn and then instructed me in my new name; Bismillah Shah (Shah, or King, signifying that one is lord over one’s own will and has thus renounced the world and Bismillah, in the name of Allah.) At the end of these rites the Pir gave me the following precepts: “What stands do not touch, what lies down do not move,” that is to say do not steal or take what is not rightfully yours, “Let your tongue observe truth,” that is do not lie, “Keep your loin band tight,” that is do not commit adultery, “Treasure these things in your mind, Beware! Exert yourself and earn your living in a righteous manner and eat only what is lawful.” I then turned and prostrated myself three times toward Mecca, then stood up and faced the gathering, salaamed deeply and they, returning the salutation, chanted “Be thou blessed, be thou blessed, be thou blessed,” three times.
The ceremony was over. Everyone gathered around me smiling, congratulating and shaking hands. A large cloth was laid on the floor which was soon covered with heaping mounds of steaming rice and mutton and other tasty dishes of the local variety. We ate and talked late into the night and I was called upon to expound endlessly on America; its problems, the government, poverty, crime, black people, drugs, the life style of the rich, the food, the religious habits, sex, music, marriage and to give my opinions and comparisons and thoughts to all the deep and disturbing questions they had on their minds.
I pray to Allah that I did them justice….