The Old Sufi Saint

| 2 MIN  READ | Amidst strife, an unexpected sanctuary

After the terrorist attack at Pahalgam, I read the first Kalima. It comes intertwined with memories of Tripoli, where my father sacrificed his youth and lost his fortune. Early morning, at a desk by the hotel window, I hear it rise into the desert skies.

“la ilaha illallah, muhammadur rasulullah” – There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.

In how the various metaphors alluding to an inexpressible truth are owned, understood, lived and defended – lie the upheavals and heartbreaks of worldly existence.

Everything is as it is. Because everyone is as they are.

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Many moons ago, my mother encounters a deep trauma. That moment keeps returning back to viscerally haunt her. She cannot be left alone, so my father takes her with him to work. She sits quietly in a corner and comes back home with him.

 We travel to the Bihar School of Yoga in Munger. An ashram and training centre close to the banks of the Ganga. Stay here for a month to go through a yoga training program. During one of the evening talks, someone mentions the healing powers of a Sufi Saint who lives in the compound of a Dargah in Vadodara.

My mother feels drawn to see this Sufi Saint, but hesitates. She seeks her Guru’s consent. He accedes, saying Saints transcend the religions they are born into.

My father takes her to the Dargah once she is back. It is in the Muslim enclave in the old part of town. Close to a large water reservoir. There is a green Darwaza framed by minarets at the entrance. The shrine is on one side of an open courtyard and the Sufi Saint sits in a small room at the back. Amidst the slow movement of devotees, overwhelmingly male, the arrival into the compound of a Hindu sari clad woman is incongruous. As she enters his room, he greets her with the playful observation, “You come here armed with your Guru’s permission!” And smiles.

He takes a sip from a glass of water and hands it over to her. She drinks the rest of the water and experiences a neural calm she has long forgotten.

After that, my father leaves her here each morning and picks her up late afternoon. She just sits in the sanctuary of his presence. For a few moments each day, he places his hand on her head. When he recites the Kalima, she quietly absorbs the vibrations in his rhythm. He shares the leftover food from his plate with her after he has eaten. Days turn into weeks, spill over into months. She feels gradually restored through her unstinting faith and his unconditional calm. Energy surrounds, morphs and carries us in mystical ways.

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A year later, in an era when information trickled around slowly, my mother instinctively goes to the Bhailal Amin Hospital. She arrives at the front desk but does not know why she is here. She sits down in the lobby to wait for a while.

As she prepares to leave, she runs into the Sufi Saint’s son. Together they go to see his father. He gives her his last blessing and passes on a few days later.

 The Sage Jiddu Krishnamurti says: “Life is a strange business. Happy is the man who is nothing.”

Saints transcend the faith they are born into because they see the world for what it truly is. And they see themselves for what they truly are.

To the old Sufi Saint, I say – Hari Om / Alhamdulillah / Hallelujah / Waheguru. Praise be to God. The one a grieving mother found in you.