Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Imaan: Takmeel al-Insaan
Mankind in turmoil,
From ages immemorial.
For what, then, this memory undying?
What, indeed, is its lesson unyielding?
The battle for the Soul of Man -
Has it not raged off and on?
How often, indeed, has history seen it wax and wane!
Between the forces two: of Divine Spirit and the Demon's Mane!
What then the battle-cry of the One in his Mane of Vanity?
"For that Thou hast cursed me this day, this hour of calamity,
'tis for me to misguide Adam unto his last struggling seed;
Away from Thee; away from Thine; away from the Path that's his need!"
What, then, the Promise Divine, the countering cry?
God's Word that none of Adam shall the Demon, with success, try
Except for the ones of Adam whom no remorse sets aright,
For their sins - against their souls - of every day, every night!
This, then, is the hope, this is still the way
With which the believer may yet hold sway:
The Shield of Faith held above his head;
From right, from left, and on the Path he has to tread.
What of this Faith - this Imaan, you say: how is to be really had?
In this age far ahead of the Prophets' own, in these times not unchanged a tad;
Past a history beyond repair, all but cast within layers of deepening gloom,
Where the heirs of the Prophets walk blinded; where, thus, no hope there is to bloom!
Would that the Prophet be amidst us now,
To grant today's believers the faith: Oh, but how!
For, in his life, did the first believers directly see,
What faith truly meant; what its Reality!
Imaan then is no cheap commodity;
For which there is no price in its crudity.
To profess belief, therefore, is to profess nothing,
If with belief there is no practice, no sacrifice scathing!
Muhammad's Imaan did change the world;
But what of his followers: if all into one were today rolled?
Would their Imaan suffice to direct
History's course in positing Islam anew, erect?
Alas, dear reader, while one yearns for an 'Aye!'
The truth, dear reader, is but 'Nay!'
Recall the Messenger on the morrow: 'My followers, in their numbers - a multitude in sequence,
But, as froth on ocean waves, of little, or no, consequence!'
How has this happened, this plight insecure?
Whence has the 'Best of Communities' become all but obscure?
Is it not clear, the reason, to see?
The Imaan of the 'Best' has been for free!
That the price of true Imaan may not be belittled,
God has placed a requirement on the believers, well-considered!
For this is only in the possession of a heart open,
And a firmness in the knowledge of things unseen.
A knowledge unlike that of a worldly science,
Whose only motive is the discovery of manifest, and visible, rules and signs:
The Imaan of the Prophets called forth of the Believers
A discovery of signs hidden; of those of the heart, the redeemers.
That these facts unseen form the true - and eternal - Reality
Of the Hereafter, which to the Believer is no mere formality,
Was but ingrained in the lives of the Messengers
As the only truth worth living for against all harangues.
So great a truth was it to the Messengers Divine
That, to them, all done in forgetfulness of the Hereafter combine
To beget nothing in deeds but what the Qur'an calls:
'Mere ornaments of their lives,' which befools their doers in the Demon's very Halls!
Imaan, then, is firstly, to believe in the Creator of all
As the One, the Only, the Source of Life, Goodness, the Wherewithal.
And Ihsaan is, therefore, that belief in perfection,
Where the believer lives in the Creator's light, His benediction.
The struggle, relentless, for the cause of Imaan - if that be Jihad,
What then the holy study of possibilities in its way today but Ijtihad.
The Believer then is the warrior serene, not only of Imaan, but also of Ihsaan,
Not only in Jihad but Ijtihad too: all in the making of the Perfection of Man - the Takmeel al Insaan!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
The Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS), or the National Center for Scientific Research, is a government-funded research organization, under the administrative authority of France's Ministry of Research. Founded in 1939 by governmental decree, CNRS has the following missions: evaluating and carrying out all research capable of advancing knowledge as well as that having social, cultural, and economic benefits for society, contributing to the application and promotion of research results, developing scientific information, and supporting training for and through research, participating in the analysis of the national and international scientific climate and its potential for evolution in order to develop a national policy. As part of its research initiatives, in July 2006 the CNRS interviewed the Executive Editor of the Muslim Digest, an Islamic monthly magazine in English published from Bangalore, India, since the past quarter of a century. In this wide-ranging discussion with the researcher from CNRS, Max spoke of Islam, its premises, and of the predicament of the community associated with it within and outside the Indian subcontinent. Presented hereunder is the condensed text of the interview.
CNRS: What is a Muslim for you? What of the good and the bad Muslim?
MAX: A Muslim is a person who has accepted a certain state of being, a state of Islam. Anybody, anything, that accepts the state of Islam, is a Muslim. Islam is not a stereo-typed religion like Christianity and Buddhism where you have even the names of these religions defined by the alleged founders of these faiths. Islam is a state of peace and harmony which comes through the complete submission and total surrender to God. A Muslim, therefore, is one who accepts the law of God unconditionally and completely for himself/ herself. Strictly speaking, there is nothing called a bad Muslim. 'Bad Muslim' is a contradiction in terms. I am speaking from an idealist perspective.
CNRS: What is Secularism for you?
MAX: A compromise where peaceful coexistence between different communities and groups is given preference. It implies freedom for all people as long as they abide by the constitution. From the Islamic perspective, it's not compatible. In secularism, there is a man-made constitution that has to be respected. This is something unacceptable according to Islam, which insists on the way, the legislation, of God, since the human mind is relative and can therefore offer only relative solutions to human problems. But, in the sense that it tolerates other religions, yes, Islam is tolerant but not in the way secularism exhibits tolerance. We should distinguish between secularism and tolerance. A Shariah-governed state is preferable.
CNRS: But what of the Dhimmis under Islam? Are they not discriminated upon?
MAX: That Dhimmis have lesser rights than Muslims is a misconception foisted upon Islam. When the Prophet spoke about helping out one's neighbour, he never insisted that he was speaking of a Muslim or a non-Muslim neighbour. The egalitarianism and tolerance of Islam is well-known. In fact, the very term Dhimmi literally means 'the protected one' and so the community that goes by that title within an Islamic state is protected by the state, and, unlike the Muslim citizens, cannot be forcefully conscripted into the Muslim state's army when the state is at war with its enemies. Nor can the Zakat tax be extracted from them, as it is extracted by force of arms if necessary from the Muslim citizenry.
CNRS: How do you view Democracy?
MAX: As something by the people, for the people, and a state wherein the minorities are ruled by the majority opinion. In Islam, there is a rule of Divine law: the only thing of true value. All other systems, whether democratic, or authoritarian, are all man-made and so not acceptable within the Islamic dispensation which accepts no other law-giver other than God Almighty. Among man-made methods of governments, democracy is perhaps a lesser evil as compared to Fascism, and Nazism. But even this is proven wrong when we see what goes on in the United States today. The story doing the rounds today in the corporate media is that the US is trying to spread democracy. Actually, its a minority that rules in the US - a minority that does not speak the will of the majority.
CNRS: Which authors have influenced you the most?
MAX: There is the former Bosnian President, Alija Ali Izzetbegovich, with his magnum opus, Islam between East and West and his more recent Notes from Prison: 1983-88. There is also Arundhati Roy with her work on social issues like The End of Imagination, The Greater Common Good etc. (all of which related to some of the premises of Islam which I had, although she was a non-Muslim herself. It shows that morality is common for the whole of humanity, not just for the Muslims). There is also Sayyid Qutb, Mawdudi, Hassan al-Banna, Maryam Jameelah (formerly Margaret Marcus, she was an American Jew who later reverted to Islam and became one of the most prolific intellectuals of the Muslim world). These are basically reformist Muslim intellectuals of the last century; they all had a common thread running through their thinking. Other writers, like Edward Said (a Christian, with Christian principles, but whose system of values coincided with many of Islam; it again shows that despite your religion there is a common basis for human morality). From the Western side, there is again Noam Chomsky. I was also influenced by Ali Shariati, the intellectual ideologue of the 1979 Iranian Revolution, at a certain stage of my intellectual growth. As far as the growth processes in intellectual development go, it was not a problem for me that he was Shia. At certain levels, the differences between Shia and Sunni Muslims are more of a political nature, although ideological differences have been the real stumbling block on the path to a true unity between the two.
Thus, my direction in life was given to me by Islam and its Muslim reformists but then I found common things running throughout the intellectual world, whether Christian or Muslim. In the Indian context, even Medha Patkar is engaged in social issues which call forth your respect. There are also Western academics like Samuel Huntington who through his The Clash of Civilizations, generated debates that kept me in sustained intellectual ferment. It opened up various other things to me. It showed that the premises of the early Islamic reformists were correct. I speak of Huntington in a negative sense, because while he opened up a range of debates and discussions for my understanding, I never quite agreed with him. There is also John Esposito and Amartya Sen (his contributions to welfare economics again highlighted to me that the underlying concept of welfare economics was correct: that it actually underlined the structure of Islamic economics itself. He was awarded the 1998 Nobel for Economics for that.) Among other influences, the French revert to Islam from Communism, Roger Garaudy: I respect him for his incessant search after the truth, and for his commitment to stick to that truth, no matter what befell him.
CNRS: Why do you think you have been influenced so much by Islam and not the Left?
MAX: Islam is the only system which bases itself on an ideology which satisfies the inner longing for spirituality in man. This is a longing that you cannot deny, that even an atheist who does not believe in God cannot deny. It is the only system of belief, of thought, which gives us a basic purpose in life - something which man is always seeking after. This is not given by the Leftist, the Communist or the Marxist philosophy. The Marxist Philosophy bases itself on the very absence of God: there is no (divinely ordained) morality as such here. However, this is what the human being actually yearns for. No matter how you term it, non-believer or atheist or whatever, he is ultimately in an unenviable position where his principles stand compromised by outward practices. For instance, when he is rendered helpless, and caught up in such extreme situations of life, he is wont to appeal to higher powers: this is something you cannot deny. The only practicable ideology which pays attention to that is Islam, and it is also a theology of liberation, all rolled into one. That's only in Islam. That's not given by any other. In the capitalist-Western scheme of the world, on the other hand, man is treated as the highest power.
CNRS: In your view, who are the most important Islamic/ national thinkers? Why?
MAX: That's a hard question because they are so many. Modern thinkers, I can just tell you off-hand: Jamaluddin al-Afghani, Hassan al-Banna, Abul A'la Mawdudi, al-Shaheed Syed Qutb, Muhammad Qutb, Malik Bennabi, Khomeini and Shariati (where their thoughts pertain to the anti-imperialist, anti-colonialist struggle), al-Shaheed Ismail Raji al-Faruqi, Maryam Jameelah (formerly Margaret Marcus), Muhammad Asad (formerly Leopold Weiss), al-Shaheed Omar Mukhtar (Libyan revolutionary against the Italians) and many others. It's a whole tragic cycle of resistance, of occupation, and again resistance. And if you come to Afghanistan, it's been the same for past 30 years. People are just resisting: when do they have the time to create civilization? They have only the time to offer sacrifices, or strategies to defend what remains of their lives and honour, in wars forced upon them.
CNRS: What has been the influence of Abul A'la Mawdudi and Syed Qutb on your own way of thinking?
MAX: I think that it can be safely said that the most fundamental influences in my initial leaning towards Islam have been through the works of Abul Ala Mawdudi, Syed Qutb and Abul Hasan Ali Nadwi along with Ahmed Deedat's work against the contradictions of Christianity. All later accumulation of knowledge was, in my experience, essentially a confirmation of what the above-mentioned personalities meant to me. It is interesting that Syed Qutb himself acknowledged Mawdudi and Nadwi as his respected compatriots in the struggle for which he ultimately gave up his life in 1966. As a teenager fooling around with concepts of morality, commitment and sacrifice within Islamic history, what was especially poignant for me was the element of self-immolation, indeed selflessness, within the repertoire of both Mawdudi and Qutb as they stood up for all that was good and noble against the inimical forces that sought to hem them in. Their prodigious talent was no lesser than their iron will in the cause of Islam. As much is in evidence in Syed Qutb's monumental In the Shade of the Qur'an which is a commentary of the Qur'an that was composed, in the main, during the years that he spent in Egyptian jails as a political prisoner - or how should I say – as a prisoner of conscience. In addition, the revolutionary fervour that was set in motion by Qutb's seminal Milestones against the corrupt elites in the Muslim world has been instrumental in the resurgence of all revivalist movements in the modern Muslim world. So powerful was its appeal that the Egyptian government executed its author for his unwillingness to modify any part of the said treatise. But to kill a believer is not to kill a belief, and so Qutb's influence, like that of many other martyrs in the Islamic cause, continues to live on after his death. Abul A'la Mawdudi too had had his share of trials in the cause that he upheld, with him being sentenced to death at one point in his career. This sentence was later commuted by the Pakistan government due to national and international pressure. In short, I have believed that Abul A'la and Syed Qutb went beyond the average modern Muslim academic in their understanding of Islam as a comprehensive way of life and in their articulate validation of Islam as the true, and lasting, alternative to the problems of the contemporary world, Muslim or otherwise.
CNRS: What are your views on the Christian version of the theology of liberation?
MAX: The Christian theology of liberation is, I think, something very personal, at best, since it requires a leap of faith that is not always supported by reason; not always applicable at the societal level. For instance, the present day Bible would have us believe that Christ died for the sins of the world; that 'God so loved the world that he sacrificed his only begotten son that any believing in him should not perish but have everlasting life.' If this is the basis for human liberation then you will agree that it definitely entails a leap of faith that is unrestricted by reason or by the contradictions that such a statement gives rise to. To be fair, however, if we agree that Christian theology as it exists today offers the believer a certain code of conduct, of forgiveness, love and mercy, in his quest for a personal liberation from the afflictions of the world, we must also agree then that this code of conduct is essentially based on a philosophy of world-renunciation, not world-affirmation as in the case of Islam. But surprisingly, it is also a theology that, in historical experience, has not tolerated freedom of thought and reasoning; it is a theology that resulted in the hated inquisitions of the Middle Ages and the persecution of scientists in Europe and beyond. It has been a theology that saw sexuality as inherently evil and, thus, celibacy as the epitome of virtue. The Christian theology of liberation based on the handiwork of different people who wrote and edited the Bible through the course of the centuries, is a theology that is relative through and through, coupled as it is with the contradictions and inconsistencies associated with multiple gospel writers who were prone to all the shortcomings of the human mind. Of course, all this is not to state that reformative attempts have not been made or that they have been unsuccessful in Christian history. There have been several heroic attempts to stick to, or to go back to, the original teachings of Christ and the earliest disciples, but all of these were efforts against the scriptures that were deemed canonical and infallible by the third century after the disappearance of Christ. Foremost in these efforts were the struggle of the Unitarian Christians against the Church, the Protestant reformation of Martin Luther, the efforts of St. Augustine with his City of God, and of course, the luminaries of the scientific community like Copernicus, Galileo Galilee and even Sir Isaac Newton himself.
CNRS: Do you see Zakat, as donation? Do you respect the prohibition against riba? If, yes, how do you manage in daily life? If you want to buy a house, or if you want to send your kids to a good school, how will you do so? Islamic banking?
MAX: I do not see Zakat as donation. Rather, I understand Zakat as the right of the poor; not as charity, nor as dole-outs for the needy. I don't take interest. It's primarily an issue of obedience to God, as mentioned in the Qur'an. So since the Qur'an is against riba, we are against riba, and that's about it, at least on the surface. And, of course, if you dwell into the matter more deeply, you find the problems associated with interest/ usury. You begin to see how the world economy is geared to the capitalist class as against the Third World countries because of this factor. The interest rate's bearing on inflation in the economy is undeniable. As a tool of exploitation, interest must be discouraged, even done away with. Apart from the religious aspect, this has to be done even as a matter of social importance. As for meeting my own minimum needs like housing or other family requirements, we just save for the rainy day. We make it a point to see that when we are paid our salary every month, we don't just spend it all out. After paying up our Zakat dues, and after keeping aside enough for our monthly needs, we save the rest. Perhaps such inconveniences actually make us more responsible; and enable us to live within our means.
CNRS: There is no Islamic banking as such in India?
MAX: There are efforts going on. Now the government has given directions to the RBI to consider Islamic banking within the Indian economic system if it is a possibility. The Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh has given directives because, as an international financing system, it is gaining respectability throughout the world. You have many banks, even abroad, in the West, where you have these Shariah-compliant cells, quite apart from their main banking unit. This maybe to open it to Muslim deposits which would otherwise be lost to the Bank. But then, they know that it requires to be done, and so they are doing it. Islamic banking is here to stay.
CNRS: Do you think Islam can be easily practiced in India? When you work, can you obey the religious duties of Islam? If not, how do you personally reconcile this fact?
MAX: It depends on what type of interpretation you are looking at. If you are looking at an Islam where man is able to pray five times a day, give Zakat and fast during Ramadan and go for Hajj, yes: that can be practiced in India rather easily, at least as of this time. But the problem is deeper, because Islam is not just about these things. Islam involves a complete way of life, a complete system where all the fields of life are given specific laws, for instance: the judiciary, criminal law, the economic system, the social system, etc. Now all these things as a whole cannot be practiced in any place where Muslims are a minority, like in India, for instance. Wherever Muslims are a minority demographically, when they do not have the required political power in a democratic process to form bills in Parliament or to pass resolutions, or to change the constitutional law; when they are not in power in any important, practical, sense, they cannot practice Islam in full. Their Islam will be confined to doing the Salah, which is something that comes at a very personal level, to giving Zakat to the poor, fasting, and going for Hajj. These things are very personal but there are other socially related issues too, like I said, the judiciary, the economic system, an interest-free system, all of which requires a government, which requires political power if they are to be implemented. This is not possible in a country where Muslims are a helpless minority. It’s not just a question of demography, though. Even if you are in a Muslim majority nation, like Pakistan, for instance: they do not have Islamic laws there. On the contrary, they have governments supported by the West who are not sympathetic to Islam as a complete way of life. So wherever they are, whether as a majority or a minority, Muslims ought to try to abstain from laws which directly or otherwise requires them to compromise on their principles. As of now, this is the situation: they should try to stay away from compromising their salvation in the Hereafter for the superficialities, and compulsions, of the here and the now.
CNRS: What are your feelings about God? Which of the following statements comes closest to your view: everything in life is determined by God, God allows man to have some free choice in life, or God gives man total free choice?
MAX: As far as a believer is concerned, there are three stages in his/ her journey of faith: fear, hope and that stage where you do things solely for the pleasure of Allah. Some believers are in different stages, indeed, they keep changing stages. Sometimes, they do things out of fear of Allah, and also abstain from things out of fear of Allah. Then there are believers who do things seeking His Paradise, and who work on these lines. But then you also have that rare group of people who have gone past these stages, who do everything for the Pleasure of Allah: to get His good pleasure. Any good Muslim, at any point of time, keeps rotating between the three stages: fear, hope and the Pleasure of Allah. As for man's freedom of will, yes, man is given free will to live as he likes - whether to accept Good or to accept Evil. This is the moral justification of reward and punishment. Of course, in the sense that Allah knows what is going to happen, since He knows all infinity, He exists in all points of time. So He knows what actually will transpire, what will happen. It does not mean that He has affected it. These things are related to predestination and Taqdir. So it's a combination of the first and the last of the options you have mentioned.
CNRS: What are your feelings for the Prophet? What of the cartoon caricatures on Prophet Muhammad?
MAX: For the Prophet, I have respect, love, and allegiance worthy of the role-model that he was. Nothing more, nothing less. As for the Danish cartoons, I felt the cartoons were something to be totally ignored with the contemptuous indifference that they deserved. The personality of the Prophet has been attacked right from the time he started out with his message. This has been happening for the last fourteen hundred years. Muslims should live up to what Muhammad preached more than defending him while not yet practicing Islam in full themselves.
CNRS: What meaning do you give to prayer? Do you see it as a means to Jannah, as a duty (farz) as a good Muslim, as communication with God, etc.? Can one be a good Muslim without attending a mosque?
MAX: The Muslim Prayer (Salah) is all rolled into one. First, it is an act of remembrance; of Zikr; of remembering your allegiance to God. In praying regularly, you remember that you are under an obligation to Him; you remember that you owe obedience to Him, and then whatever follows is a corollary, a by-product. It's also your way to gain salvation; it's also your way to disciplining yourself. Many things follow. A Muslim can pray at home, although it is strongly recommended that he try to be with the congregation at the mosque every time. Praying away from the congregation might not be the ideal, but that, by itself, will not make him a sinner.
CNRS: Do you also see health virtues in fasting?
CNRS: What is the material side of Salah?
MAX: Disciplining oneself. You rotate your life around these five times, these five periods of the day. You do everything according to that. So wherever you are, whether in the railway station, in the market, you may immediately see a Muslim taking out his prayer-rug and start praying. This act talks to the world, it is a display of your allegiance to something superior to man, to humanity, at any time: no compromise whatsoever.
CNRS: What is the material aspect of not eating pork? Of eating only Halal food?
MAX: Look at it: modern science confirms that through pork you get hook-worms and other worms into your system. For health reasons: that's the material aspect of it. Alcohol: the same thing goes. The social destruction caused by alcohol is well known. America tried to bring in prohibitive laws during the 1930s but failed in implementing them. In Islam, it is a natural prohibition which people comply with because it comes from an authority superior to man, superior to the American Constitution. Halal (Islamically permitted) food includes meat of prescribed animals that have been slaughtered in a precise manner by disconnecting the jugular vein. Scientifically too, this form of slaughtering tends to allow for complete draining of blood from the body of the animal, thereby making it more palatable to human diet.
CNRS: What meaning do you give to ablutions?
MAX: Symbolic, physical-mental, inner-outer, cleanliness when addressing your Creator in prayer. Of course, you can't deny the general, external, cleanliness that ablution five times a day provides you with. This is all in the beauty of Islam. The whole list goes on like this.
CNRS: Do you think circumcision (khatna) is important? Why?
MAX: Yes, circumcision is an important recommendation and practice of the Prophet, indeed, of all prophets including Moses and Jesus. The Old Testament is on record that Adam himself was circumcised, that Jesus was 'circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin when he was eight days old.' That Paul, who had himself never even seen Jesus, thought it fit that succeeding generations of Christians may be absolved of the need for this important ritual and legacy is quite another matter. On the scientific side, circumcision is today hailed as one of the best preventive practices towards ridding society of the risks of sexually transmitted diseases and other related disorders.
CNRS: What is in your view the worst sin?
MAX: That man should deliberately deny God's existence - and as a result, His commandments - even after his best studies compel him to acknowledge the Divine Presence. This, I think is the home of all evil; indeed, the worst of all sins, for all else, all other sins, flow from this source, and from this source alone. Also, ignorance of God - whether feigned or genuine - can be no excuse either.
CNRS: How, when, and how frequently do you engage in Da'wah?
MAX: Da'wah happens in the sense that you are trying to communicate Islam with people. In that sense, the foremost requirement is to be a good Muslim yourself: your life is the biggest message you can give to humanity, to people to whom you wish to communicate Islam. So you need to be a proper, practicing, Muslim if you need to communicate; if you need to sound convinced when you speak to people. Unless you are practicing yourself, you are not doing it very convincingly. That rings equally true for any ideology, for that matter. Hitler believed in a particular philosophy - a racist philosophy - but he believed in it so firmly, in its value for the welfare, unity and, in time, the ultimate resurrection of his nation. So convinced was he that when he tried to communicate it to the German nation, people followed him in their millions to a war that ultimately destroyed whole notions of our times.
CNRS: Do you think it's a nice comparison?
MAX: Perhaps, not quite. But all I'm saying is that in Adolph Hitler we had a man who, even with a negative, destructive, philosophy, could convince millions, and finally turn up other people like him, when he was convinced of it himself. He could present his philosophy with such force only because he was convinced himself. The same could happen with any other philosophy, including Islam. Islam's is a positive, benign, philosophy and if you believe in that positive philosophy and are convinced yourself of the correctness of its position, and then try to convince others, it will doubtless have its own far more superior, multifold, effects. And since it is a positive philosophy, millions are easily influenced by it; indeed, all mankind is bound to be influenced by it, sooner or later.
CNRS: How do you go about Da'wah yourself? Do you involve yourself in some organized manner of Da'wah?
MAX: My profession itself is a form of Da'wah. That's why I am in this profession, although I was trained differently. I was trained as an engineer, in fact. I was working in the engineering field but had to leave it because of the compromises with principles that it entailed. Things that are rampant like corruption, things that are un-Islamic: I could not reconcile myself with those in my workplace. So I had to resign from my job with the engineering companies I worked with. So Islam is everywhere in your life: it's not just about Salah, and fasting. It's not just that: when you really live Islam you have to be doing so in the modern world, where you have your particular corners. Sometimes I hold seminars for Western-educated and/ or Western-influenced Muslims. This is because I believe we need to do a lot of homework as a community within the house, to clean ourselves first, before we proceed to communicate Islam to other communities.
CNRS: So it's basically through this journal that you do Da'wah. You are not with the Tablighis?
MAX: No. Of course, all these groups which try to sincerely propagate Islam to the masses have their own way of communicating with people. And we have different opinions about the best ways. As the Qur'an says, you must adopt wisdom in your approach towards people, towards communicating Islam towards people. You may need to look at the audience, at what type of thinking they possess. It's difficult to speak to a Western, in the way you talk to an Eastern. This approach has to be appreciated.
CNRS: What does Jihad mean for you?
MAX: Jihad refers to any effort to convey Islam, to defend Islam, by word, thought, or action. Every effort you make against evil, even with your own soul, your own self, for improving yourself personally: that's the bigger Jihad. Unlike the stereo-types given to it, like 'holy war' etc. Of course, when it comes to armed resistance, it's not a matter of whether it's Iraq, Iran, or Afghanistan. When people are unjustly stripped of their lands and their countries occupied, when their basic rights are taken away from them, you try to give this back to them, to defend them against injustice. That's the defense of their own right to exist: you can't take that from anybody. Even the UN charter for human rights declares that it's a fundamental right to survive, to exist. When it is taken away from you, it's very normal that you defend yourself. Of course, in that process, you should not allow the innocents to be targeted: that should not happen. In fact, in Islam, there are very strict rules of how physical warfare should be conducted, where women and kids cannot be targeted, where the monks, the clerics of other religions, religious personalities are not to be molested. Basic human rights should be ensured even in a battlefield. Physical warfare is the last resort, when there is no other way, when diplomacy proves useless.
CNRS: Do you celebrate Milad-un-Nabi? And what of Shab-e-Barat, 'Urs, etc.?
MAX: There are no authentic traditions to indicate that the Prophet celebrated Milad-un-Nabi, and that's how you need to look at it. Neither did his immediate companions. As far as Shab-e-Barat goes, there is no such celebration as far as the traditions of the Prophet are concerned. That's all part of the cultural baggage: that's what I call them. As Islam grew, it permeated different cultures. Muslims who embraced Islam belonged to different cultures. So lots of cultural remainders are still there with them. You have innovations in countries like India where they go to dargahs, to shrines. Whereas the Prophet prohibited the building of shrines above the graves, today it has become a means of livelihood with these dargahs and these festivals around holy men.
CNRS: Do you think that the majority of Muslims in Bangalore goes to dargahs?
MAX: Yes, I think everywhere in India, the majority of Muslims still go to dargahs. Among the younger generation, too, those who have not studied Islam still go to these places. However, there is this new generation of Muslims coming up who are more educated, and who make efforts to go to the sources of Islam. That's the whole difference between them and the immediate generations preceding them - the older generation which has been brought up with the cultural baggage attached. Many of them are today going to the roots of Islam, which is the Qur'an and the practice of the Prophet. There, they don't find these accretions: these additions came later on; they are innovations, and so we discourage these practices.
CNRS: What are your views on Sufism?
MAX: In all matters, we go back to the root. To the question: 'What did the Prophet think of this way of believing, this way which is call tasawwuf?' The Prophet and the men around him were almost ascetic; indeed, it seemed that they practiced a form of renunciation, where they took the least from that which this world had to offer them simply because they feared that worldly temptations would eventually lead to their fall in the Hereafter. Because they thought anything taken from this world might include things which came to them in an illegal way, in a way that was prohibited in Islam. So conscientious and morally awake they were that they lived more for the 'then and there' (Hereafter) rather than the 'here and now.' But its equally important to note that, at the same time, and as a general rule, they encouraged other Muslims to be moderate, though they themselves practiced a strict form of Islam that would go by the appellation 'puritanical' in modern terms. That philosophy, the purity of faith, was taken to different directions by the Middle Ages, so much so that praying or fasting were declared not important. What was important was your direct contact with your Creator. This was a deviation again, an innovation that Muhammad did not practice. Muhammad himself prayed, he fasted, he went for Hajj, he gave Zakah, he lived very much as a man of this world as of the Hereafter. Indeed, for him the Here was there only as a stepping stone into the Hereafter. Any sort of Sufism or, for that matter, any form of philosophy which deviates from the way Muhammad practiced it, is not acceptable. Granted the filtered truth that the spirit of the law is paramount over the letter of the law, that the faith communities that clung to the letter of the law over the spirit of the law have done so only at the cost of their internal solidarity, even the slight differences between the Mazhabs immediately pale into insignificance.
CNRS: Do you think that the tradition of Ijtihad (or deductive reasoning based on the sources of Islamic law) should be revived? And whether it has not been already revived in a way by all these young Muslims who go directly to the Texts, and bypass the teachings of the Ulama?
MAX: With regard to the viewpoint that Ijtihad as a special discipline has been closed, I cannot but disagree granted the dynamic and continuing spirit of research and study enshrined in the Quranic text as a whole. Even the statements of the Prophet - at certain places in the Hadith literature - corroborate this aspect of research and study based on new developments. However, it must be immediately pointed out that practicing serious Ijtihad requires Islamic scholarship (that understands well both the material and spiritual realms as one unit of existence) of a high order, and so the exercise cannot be expected of a layman in any successful way. Much in the same way as a casual reader of books on medicine cannot be expected to do a major surgical operation. Indeed, to a believer to whom matters of faith are even more critical (since his eternal salvation or damnation depends on it) the issue of Ijtihad will be of infinitely greater import, and thus will be exercised only with the utmost care and concern, and after a due process of study and reflection. But I think the best and most eloquent testimony to this truth of Ijtihad as applied to Modernism has come from the pen of the late Prof. Ismail Raji al-Faruqi who wrote: 'In one sense, Modernism is a nihilistic force which seeks to destroy tradition, to neutralize the power of religious ideals to influence life, to set man free to seek inspiration for his deeds from his own natural self, i.e., his personal or communal complexus of instincts, whims, passions and wishes; or finally to deny all need by the processes of life - the personal, the mental, the social, the economic, the scientific - for guidance by anything a priori, or external to themselves. In that sense, Modernism is a name for chaos and nihilism. Obviously, in that sense, it is the antithesis of Islam. But in its constructive sense, i.e., as a force for achieving a beneficient usufruct of nature under the moral law; as an attitude of a mind that is always critical of all information but equally open to the new evidence which life and existence present; as committed to concern with the totality of humankind and the wholeness of human life rather than a segment of it, Modernism is Islam as much as Islam is Tawhid.'
CNRS: Do you think that the education given in Madrasas is a good one? Do you think it is good enough to live in today's world/ society? Do you think Madrasas should be reformed? How?
MAX: Generally speaking, Madrasas today do not teach modern science and subjects related to science and modern technology. Since there is nothing against such instruction in Islam - rather since Islam actually encourages it - the present day Madrasas have to improve a lot in that direction. In Islam, there is no compartmentalization between state and religion, indeed, science and faith. It's all one whole. The current day mentality built up within the Madrasas has come up because of this compartmentalization, because of this deviation in the way those working behind the Madrasas look at knowledge. True knowledge cannot be divided into science, religion, social studies etc. The whole idea behind the Islamic knowledge structure is that it is one indivisible unit in itself. If you look at the Qur'an, there are more verses in it which call you to observe aspects of nature around you, than there are verses which call you to pray, to fast, to give the Zakah and to the other ritualistic aspects of Islam. There are more verses which call you to observe nature, to study, and to reflect upon the signs (ayahs) of God in creation. In fact, the first revelation which came to Muhammad started with the word, 'Iqra,' which means 'read,' or 'recite.' You see, that command had come to a man who was himself illiterate, himself unread: surely this has more to it than meets the eye? Why did a revelation come asking a man who is not read, who is an illiterate person, to read? The basic importance given in Islam was to the act of reading and understanding the signs of God in the universe. There are so many ayahs (verses) which ask us to ponder over the signs of God in the universe, and to thereby come to the realization that there is a Creator behind the Universe. This complicated universe cannot exist on its own; your complicated body cannot come by itself without a Creator. This is how Islam leads us to understand that there is a Creator. This aspect of the Qur'an which asks you to study science has been forgotten almost in its totality, in the course of the decadence that has crept into the Madrasa. In that sense, the Madrasas are yet to (re)understand the faith that they seek to represent and propagate.
More than reform, Muslim institutions such as the Madrasas - like the Muslims themselves - need to conform to the original Islamic teachings. Right now, there is little conformance with that. They just teach the ritualistic aspects and how you are supposed to wash your body, to maintain your cleanliness, and to do your ablutions. That's not what Islam is merely about. In fact, Islam is all that and much, much, more. Islam is also about an economic system, a judicial system, a charter of human rights, a procedure and premise (the true one!) for explorations into science and technology: Islam is a complete whole. This has to be explained to them, to those who run the Madrasas, in order that they begin to understand. That's the conformance to Islam more than reformation that is long overdue.
CNRS: How do you view the image and role of the Ulama in Muslim society?
MAX: As far as the Ulama are concerned, I think they must accept a certain statement of fact: in today's world you can be committed to the community of Muslims, or you can be committed to Islam first, but never to both. These two things are sometimes - especially in the difficult times that we pass through today - very separate things. You can be committed to the supremacy of Islam as an ideology, as a way of life in this world, or you can be committed to the supremacy of the community of Muslims which admittedly includes many types of people. Among these are those who are just born into a traditionally Muslim family (and have little else to show for their religious affiliations), and those who genuinely do not know much about Islam. Unfortunately, however, all these groups too are classified under the Muslim denomination. They identify themselves, and are seen as, part of the Muslim community. Be that as it may, the first priority for the Ulama should be to attach due importance to the supremacy of Islam and its principles, rather than to the community that professes to go by it but which miserably falls short of strict adherence to even its basic tenets and practices. There are few today who can look at an average Muslim, and then say that Islam is the religion he would himself accept. In fact, there are few Muslims around who, through their lives, will tell you that you are looking at the 'best people raised up for mankind.' This is a tragic situation, because Islam really is the best solution for the problems of all mankind. It's like looking at a drunkard who, while driving a Mercedes Benz car, rams it into a wall in a fit of drunken stupour, and blaming the car for the driver's irresponsible attitude. You have to blame the man for it, not the quality of the car. The Muslim community today has reached a position where they do not represent the actual Islamic teachings. So if their leaders, whether of the Ulama or the Umara, really wish well for the community or for Islam they need to make them to conform to Islam first. They need to be uncompromising in the practice of Islam in any place. There should be total acceptance of Islam. There cannot be piecemeal, half-baked acceptance of Islam. If anybody does that - if any leader does that - I'd think it very unfortunate, as something that can only further the community's further estrangement from Islam.
CNRS: In your view should girls be educated? Should women work?
MAX: The Prophet is on record as having said that it is obligatory for both men and women to seek knowledge. As for women working, that should be only if the situation demands it. Otherwise, women have their own duties in bringing up a family, which are equally important as those of the men at work outside the family. But when a man cannot work, when he cannot earn for the family, or when he is incapacitated or dead, the woman is left alone. Then she may work to ensure the maintenance of the family.
CNRS: In your view, should women follow Purdah?
MAX: Yes, they must. Firstly, it is an injunction of the Qur'an, and thus a divine commandment. There is no questioning that if you believe in God as the source of the Qur'an. Then there are other reasons why they must do that, like women are respected more when they are covered up. The more the women are exposed, the more they create problems in society where it leads to temptation, moral anarchy and moral chaos. You have all sorts of diseases including AIDS through intermingling of the sexes: these problems are those which the West is suffering from more right now, as compared to the Middle-Eastern countries. There are higher divorce rates, higher number of single-parent families, difficult childhoods, etc. The covering-up can be according to your culture, but the clothes should be loose, and all of the body must be covered except for the face and forehands. It is also of interest to note that more and more Muslim women have now begun to adopt the Purdah for themselves by their own choice. This is despite the harsh measures being taken in some western countries like France where laws prohibiting head scarves have been brought into force. The particular case of Cennett Dougannay, a French school girl, who actually shaved off her hair when school authorities forced her to abandon her head scarf, is a poignant reminder in this regard.
CNRS: What are your views on polygamy and triple-talaaq?
MAX: With regard to Polygamy, there are injunctions of the Qur'an which have not prohibited it. One way to look at Polygamy in Islam is that it is only a contingency plan when a need for such a contingency arrives. Islam accepts the view that man is essentially polygamous by nature. You are an anthropologist, you must have studied that. But there are situations in human societies like large-scale wars, like what happened in Germany, and in Japan after the Second World War, when whole male populations were sent to the battle front. There was a drastic reduction in male population, and the excess of women who thus come into society were forced to remain spinsters or to go for some other illegal means of gratification.
Coming to the topic of talaaq, it needs to be mentioned at the outset that according to the Prophet, the most hated among the things permitted by God is talaaq. Of course, Islam is realistic, and so it is not oblivious to the fact that sometimes in a relationship there is no point in keeping the two together. Divorce is thus to be resorted to only as the last option. Even then, it has to be enforced in three stages, triple stages. It's not as a minority of scholars say that it should be in one go, 'talaaq, talaaq, talaaq,' and that's all. The sources do not say that. The traditions of the Prophet indicate that there should be a period of a month or more between each declaration of divorce. So after the first declaration, a man cannot just divorce his wife. The idea behind such legislation is that during this period there still remains a chance for the two to come together. If this does not happen, the husband is entitled to give a second declaration, and then he has to wait for another period of one month or more. So there are three stages, during each of which a lot of time is granted for the two to try to come together, and reunite again. This is how the talaaq system works in Islam: a pattern in which the first priority is always given to effecting a reconciliation between the couple. And still, there are further conditions to be fulfilled. When a woman marries a man, in the Indian cultural system, the man is supposed to get dowry from the woman's side. But in Islam, it is the other way round: it's the woman who demands from the man if he wants to marry her. Unless he gives her that amount called mehr, he cannot have her hand. So, in middle-eastern countries, you have situations where economically weak males have to get aid from the government to give the woman her mehr. Incidentally, this offers us an idea of the position Islam has given to women. If divorce happens, the man is not entitled to take back the mehr he had given her at the time of marriage. This is another factor that discourages the man from resorting to divorce.
CNRS: Your view on Muslim Personal Law and the Common Civil Code?
MAX: Personal law is only one part of Islam. Islam has a comprehensive code of law just like any nation, any country. The Qur'an is like a constitution: it has its own penal laws, economic laws, criminal law, and a prescription for personal law as well. If you look at it in the broad sense, you'll see that it is next to impossible to practice Islam completely in areas where Muslims are a minority. As far as personal law is concerned, what difference does it make, as of now, since piecemeal acceptance of Islamic legislation is like non-acceptance itself. The common civil code proposal is contradicted by the Indian constitution itself, because there is another clause in the constitution which ensures the freedom of religion to all communities. Personal Law is part of that freedom for all religions, not just for Islam. Practically too, common civil codes are impossible in a country like India where there are so many different ethnic groups, each with its own distinct culture, religion and even dialect.
CNRS: Is it not a problem to say, in India, that Islam is superior to Hinduism? Can you imagine someone in a Muslim country saying publicly that his religion is superior to Islam?
MAX: You mean the Hindus take offence? India is quite free in that sense; people are generally not taking it in the wrong spirit. On the other hand, if we talk of a Muslim country, it should not matter to its Muslim citizens because such debates are welcome in Islam. Realistically, Muslims who are not fully aware of Islam or of Islamic teachings are more given to emotions. Again, it depends on the culture. If you have a set-up where Muslims are not so hot-headed or emoting all the time, there would be more tolerance in such a country. Otherwise, you will have the usual problems that come off a particular cultural mooring.
CNRS: Is there any ideal country for you? Any truly Islamic one?
MAX: Ideal country? Not as such. Not of now, at least. But efforts are going on to Islamize, to bring Islamic laws into many countries, but they have not succeeded fully. It's a progression; it is at an experimental stage. If you look at the whole picture of modern civilization and then at Islam, you will see that Islam has nothing against modernism as such. In fact, Islam welcomes modernism, in the sense that it helps man to live his life better, within his moral law, without breaking his moral law. Muslims ought to therefore be in search for such areas of residence, for such governments, and for such people who abide by an understanding of the Qur'an that is out and out modern, futuristic. Where it does not contradict the principles of Islam as enshrined in the Qur'an and the Sunnah, they must hope to employ all modern developments happening in the world for improving their quality of life. They must learn to use it for the cause of Islam, to educate the Muslims further, to discover the new ayahs or the signs of God in the universe and to utilize what God has given them in deciphering the secrets of nature as an aid to the better appreciation and worship of God. In that sense, one country that comes to my mind - although not in the complete sense - is Malaysia. It gives you a country that is, futuristic, and modern peopled by a core population that is Muslim (more than 53-55%). It has a government which is sympathetic to Islam, and which has established Islamic universities for the purposes of Islam in the world. There are fanatics everywhere but it's the moderate, yet holistic, approach that is lacking in many countries. But then there are other Muslim countries which could have reached that level but apparently they have not been allowed to. They have been suppressed and have been under colonial yoke for centuries. They are still struggling to throw it off their burdened backs. They are still being ruled by puppet governments which are not representative of the masses.
CNRS: Like in Pakistan?
MAX: Yes, like Pakistan for instance. Look also at Algeria. They tried democracy there, they tried a ballot box, they tried a referendum, but they saw that 92% of the population voted for the Islamic Salvation Front - a party which was trying to install Islamic law there. France immediately objected. France was there always objecting. Being a French citizen, you know what happened in the Algerian Revolution if you have studied your history, if you have read people like Malik Bennabi of Algeria, who wrote most of his books on Islam in France. His analysis of the human condition makes him a frontline sociologist, although he was an engineer by training. He wrote books, like the Quranic Phenomenon, which are read with sustained interest even today, more than 35 years after his death. An Algerian intellectual who participated in the revolutionary activities of his homeland while in France, it would not be too much to say that Bennabi was the intellectual architect of the Algerian Revolution, which ultimately saw France relinquishing its hold on Algeria after having snuffed out more than a million Algerian lives during the course of that struggle. For the past several centuries Muslims have not been allowed peace of mind, suppressed as they have been all the time. There has been no avenue for them to develop their science and technology, and their innate creativity that once made them the leading light of the known world, the veritable guide of all western progress in science and technology. Thus, the best amongst the Muslims are today engaged in a battle where they spend their time, their energy, and their lives in defending their countries, in defending their right to exist. When any people are forced into such a heroic resistance against the encroachment upon their right to exist, not to mention their heritage and their values, how can you expect them to create science and technology? The same has been the case for any country anywhere, in any age.
CNRS: Who, for you, is the ultimate 'Other'?
MAX: What do you mean? The ultimate enemy; the ultimate opposition? If you think I have the West in my mind, you will do well to remember that many of the authors who influenced me are/ were from the West. I think what's important here is that any culture or civilization that contradicts the normal, healthy moral constitution of the ordinary human being is a threat to the welfare of the human race. The real antagonist, as far as I am concerned, can be any civilization that becomes as corrupt, as morally bankrupt, as spiritually empty and as carefree in destroying the whole world for its own vested interests or for that of a small group of people who run the administration, as is happening in the US today. Since the US leads this western civilization currently, the oppressed are easily prone to the belief that the entire Western world behaves likewise. After all, one wonders whether it is not the common American who votes the wrong people to power again and again. If you are talking of an external rather than an internal opposition, I think we dealt more with the external opposition to Islam, or to what Islam stands for. Any civilization which clashes with the Muslim Ummah directly, on a one-on-one basis, which steals from the Muslims, which kills, maims, and loots; any civilization that does so is an enemy of the Muslims, and of any other people who have been wronged, for that matter. This is quite naturally so.
CNRS: What are your views on the way organizations like Jamat-e-Islami and Ahl-e-Hadith are functioning in India?
MAX: These organizations, in the present stage of their development, still betray a narrow mind-set in that their thinking and planning remain confined to activities within their immediate group and territory. They do not have an internationalist outlook in any practical sense. They must learn to look outside, to see the internal and external problems that are facing them. In merely working from the context of their district, their state, or even India as a whole, they have to coordinate with many other organisations and factions purportedly working for Islam. This successful coordination is something they have not achieved to date. I think it would not be too far-fetched to even state that a certain degree of what I call 'organizational slavery' exists within every organization. While organizations are there to serve the purpose and principle of Islam - in itself a great need of the times - their members lie entrapped in the grip of organizational slavery. This happens when the purpose and principle for which the organization was originally set up are forgotten, and a kind of group feeling and 'holier-than-thou' attitude builds up among the activists in any organization. The attitude of present day activists of the Jamat-e-Islami make it seem apparent that they have all but forgotten the real reasons for Mawlana Mawdudi setting up such an organization. He wanted to bring a new and total, holistic, orientation of the Muslims towards Islam, but this objective has been little understood in the original spirit, if not by the present-day leadership, then at least by the activists at the lower levels of the organisation. Unfortunately, they now appear to feel, perhaps at the subconscious level, that the organisation is an end in itself. This consequently leads to such a tragic state of affairs wherein two separate Muslim organizations with even the same objectives cannot get together in any complete way for any common long term, and sometimes even short term, goal. This is what I do not agree with, since it goes contrary to the injunctions of the Qur'an where it says: 'And hold fast (all of you) to the rope of Allah and be not disunited therein.' It is a sad day, indeed, when even sincere Muslims cannot imbibe that other injunction of the Qur'an which asks them to 'cooperate with one another in all that is by way of piety and righteousness, and refrain from cooperation with one another in all that involves evil and mischief.'
Muslim organizations can ill-afford to be clashing with each other while being blind to the forces outside that are eating them inside out. The Muslim Ummah is not confined within India, the Ummah resides within the entire Muslim world. You can't ignore the Ummah in the US, nor can you do that with that part of the Ummah in Europe, as in France, where they are becoming more and more assertive, or in Britain where they can begin to think of dictating policies. In the Middle-East, Muslim homes are being taken away from them again by a new form of colonialism, whether that be in Iraq, or in Chechnya or Afghanistan. These are the tumultuous events holding the Muslims down the world over. Muslims, as a whole, must be aware of these internal and external problems, and must try to solve them to the best of their ability. This is no doubt a tremendous challenge to tackle; a challenge which Muslims must first seek to understand and to accept its existence as a reality before them. Solutions can come only after this realization. Before all else, however, it is the individual Muslim's progress that is paramount. He, or she, must improve as a person, as a Muslim, as a warrior always engaged in Jihad al Nafs (or the battle against one's own baser self). Through such struggle, through such a life lived in constant revolution against the evil in ourselves, the Muslim offers the highest, the ultimate, message that he, or she, as an individual, is capable of.
CNRS: In your view, which is the strongest organisation in terms of influence and numbers?
MAX: I think the Tableegh Jamaat would be a strong contender for that position. A large section of Muslim youth is in the Tableegh Jamaat for the simplicity of its mission. The Jamaat-e-Islami too has a special following throughout the country in the sense that it inculcates a forward looking, and more or less comprehensive enlightenment in its activists. I am more inclined towards the politics - or rather the social engineering - of the Jamaat-e-Islami than towards that of any other organization in India. Although I suspect within the Jamaat-e-Islami, a lack of understanding, and a certain over-cautiousness that borders on indecision, regarding priorities and policies for the Muslim Ummah in India, I daresay that a stronger following for the Jamaat-e-Islami is a positive sign as far as the correct interpretation of Islam is concerned. The Jamaat-e-Islami as organized by Maulana Mawdudi was one of the most positive developments in the Indian subcontinent. Today, the organization is at its strongest in Kerala where literacy rates, political awareness, and demography are all in favour of the Muslims. In other states, it is more or less a strong influence.
CNRS: What do you make of the general perception that young Muslims today are making it difficult for themselves to practice their faith; that they seem to impose it on themselves?
MAX: If you impose something on yourself from the outside, then it becomes difficult to maintain any true affiliation to that which is so imposed. On the other hand, if one accepts something internally, then it becomes easy to relate to it at all times. The Qur'an itself is very realistic. It mentions categorically that unless the believer is in complete agreement with whatever the Prophet recommends for him, he will not be able to fulfill its requirements. Such purity of purpose as called for by the Qur'an can happen only if the believer finds no opposition within him to what the Prophet asks of him. Piecemeal, or selective, acceptance and practice ultimately results in rendering the believer more or less akin to a hypocrite.
CNRS: I was speaking of sincere, committed young Muslims who seem to live with a sense of guilt all the time.
MAX: But this is not entirely a negative phenomenon. As an individual, you try to be obedient to God to the best of your ability. Perfect, sinless, believers hardly exist. So what's the problem in that? Islam implies a state of peace that comes through submission to God. But that comes at a price. You can't get it cheap. You can't make it happen through yoga, or exercise. You can only aspire for it through sacrifice, and a constant readiness to let go anything that may be of value to you, if necessary. This happens only through your living your life through the woof and warp of human experience, through living very much as part of this world, not as a part away from it. In the process, the believer is content in the firm knowledge that his is the good pleasure of God in return. The more you struggle towards this end, more the options and opportunities that open up for you. Feeling guilty of our failures is part of the growing belief process: it confirms one's position as a believer.
CNRS: What do you think of Muslim interaction with other communities in India?
MAX: In the course of centuries of interaction, Muslims in India have imbibed the local culture(s). I suppose that speaks a lot for the cultural assimilation of Indian Muslims, even if it has been at the cost of their allegiance to core principles of Islam itself. Furthermore, the Mughal dynasty effectively ruled this country for over six centuries. Had the Muslim rulers ever wanted to do so, they could have easily converted the whole country, but this did not happen. This speaks of the tolerance of the Muslim rulers of India: they allowed people to go by their own religion. Consider Spain, for instance, where Muslims contributed so much to the advancement of human civilization and progress. That much of Western material progress owes itself to the magnanimity and genius of an Islamic heritage is something that the Western world - now busy recolonizing Muslim lands - must be reminded of time and again. Almost all the advancements in science and technology in the West originated under the Muslims in Spain.
CNRS: Your views on 9/11?
MAX: So much has been said about it by now that I hardly know what more to add. Even now, five years after the event, so many game plans and conspiracies are being suggested. There was a time immediately after the attacks, when Americans and Europeans were blaming their own governments for venturing into the wrong foreign policy decisions with regard to Muslim states. There was a speech at Cornell University by Lionel Jospin, former Prime Minister of France, in which he spoke out against the American Empire. The 9/11 Commission has announced that the WTC attacks may have been caused by a deliberate, criminal, negligence by the CIA. If they wanted it, they could have stopped it. The US government was complicit in it, particularly because it needed a pretext to invade Afghanistan and Iraq. Later events have confirmed various hypotheses, like the absurdity surrounding the weapons of mass destruction (WMD) story on Iraq - WMD that were never there in the first place. In time, a whole lot wider picture comes out to you. As far as the Muslim point of view is concerned, while what happened on 9/11 is debatable, it needs to be stressed immediately that Islam has its own ethics of battle, of warfare, through which it even humanizes warfare. No innocents can be killed, no women and children touched. As such, going by the Islamic conception of human rights, 9/11 was a regrettable incident. But again, if the Muslims were indeed the real perpetrators, this was only a reaction: this has to be mentioned and repeated as many times as necessary. The Muslim countries have to be left alone and exempted from Western interference.
CNRS: Your views on the events in Gujarat/ Ayodhya?
MAX: It is clear as to what happened. At Ayodhya, a Muslim place of worship - the historic Babri Masjid - was razed down on the flimsiest of pretexts. This is one example of the injustices perpetrated against minorities in this country. Even the Archeological Survey of India (ASI) came out with a study which revealed that no temple existed before the mosque. Although a scientific study, it was not respected, for whatever reasons, by the different governments that have come to power since that time. In Gujarat, the Godhra train tragedy was made a pretext for something that was already pre-planned. The forensic report in Delhi has clarified that the Godhra tragedy was an accident. So who is now to pay for the 2000 or more Muslims who were butchered thereafter on this pretext? If you look at the motives behind the pogrom, you may see that such massacres can happen anywhere where Muslims are economically strong, like they were in Gujarat. The people behind such politics of communalism exist throughout the country.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
MERCY FOR MANKIND
Of recent days, in myriad ways,
A million controversies
Has risen today: all in chorus for an image;
Even as in bygone days, in a bygone age.
Not anything new then,
These controversies.
In their message too,
They recall but time's travesties.
Round and round a person they float.
A person unlike any time has witnessed.
Born within history's darkest slot,
Redeemer of Man in God and the Angels;
Foe of the Demon in whom he is harassed.
Thus has Muhammad withstood time and its test;
Thus shall he remain way above the rest.
No matter then what his detractors say;
For that's only where one in the Demon's snares lay.
Shall the Muslims then worry about Muhammad's name?
When God Himself has destined its eternal fame?
Won't the Muslims then look into themselves instead?
And see how much of his purpose they've all but worsted!
Would that be the love that they profess for him?
Is that the meaning of this clamour for his sake, this unending din?
Will they not then see the Demon's crooked Grin?
At this, his success in raising this contradiction!
Reminded then the Muslims must be,
That Muhammad did, indeed, cry of necessity:
'If truly thee loveth God, then follow thou me,
For then would God grant His love to thee.'
Is then the love of God or the love of Muhammad the more,
For a believer's faith to be washed ashore?
Away from the tribulations of the oceans of trial,
Away from the sea of fire prepared for those in denial.
And into the lap of the Bliss Supreme,
Into the bosom of the Paradise of Yore!
Nay! Verily then it must be the love of God,
Of which must come the love of Muhammad,
And of which must come the allegiance to Muhammad
And whence must proceed the obedience to Muhammad.
Muhammad - an angel he was not!
The pinnacle of creation - that was his lot!
For above the angels did his spirit soar,
Since in his Amaanah did he with patience forebear.
That from which God's creation withdrew,
Whence Adam, our father, upon himself threw
The Trust of volition, and of free-will,
In the face of the Demon's oath to instill
In us, of Adam, the disobedience to God's Law
And to make of each a manifest renegade, an outlaw.
But overturn the Demon's plot did Muhammad,
When time and time again he resisted;
Much in the pattern of the Prophets of Old,
Whose legacy he was repeatedly told.
Whose heritage was all but his inheritance -
The one thing that he held in the greatest reverence.
The legacy of Adam - our father - Noah, and Lot,
Of Abraham, David, and Moses who were never in doubt.
And to Christ, the Messiah, too was he akin,
For Muhammad did claim for himself the status of their next of kin.
So how then do the 'Christians' go about in calm,
With their task of maligning him who meant no harm,
Neither to their hero in the Messiah, the Christ,
Nor to his mother, Mary, the upright.
Howbeit then that their scholars forgot,
That in Muhammad lay the vindication of Christ.
That in the Arabian Prophet was the confirmation of Moses,
The knowledge whereof is granted to whomsoever God chooses,
Even today in these times of the Neo-Jahiliyyah; of the losers.
Have they not known the Old Testament Prophecy?
Through Isaiah, the Prophet, who, through his book, did cry:
"The Book is given to him that is not learned, saying 'Read!'
And he says: 'I am not of the learned!'"
How else was Muhammad given the Qur'an, the Last Testament,
But by this very manner uttered by Isaiah in the Old Testament.
Even as it is writ large in the Bible today,
Complete and perfect in the prophecy's every way.
Dante did try his hand in mocking Muhammad,
In his work; in his Divine Comedy that he composed.
For purposes more of belittling than of eulogizing
Muhammad's Mi'raj, his ascent, his rising.
But he whom God has lifted, none, let alone Dante, bringeth down.
For who be the Dantes of the world, but those that ignorance in its ignominy crown.
What then of the Mi'raj, the rising?
Was it then of the body or of the soul?
Or was it in both, the body and the soul?
Was it not a representation,
Of the real goal of Man, his destination?
The heights of the heavens would be his,
As in the Mi'raj whence Muhammad's sight ne'er did miss,
The heights above the angels, nigh unto the Throne;
The position of God's vicegerent, the role of Man!
But from that height could he also fall,
As did our father in his first fall.
Though only after a descent can there be an ascent,
Came about thus the sinusoidal wave of the Crescent!
Would that, O God, we live in the crests of that wave!
Would that, dear Lord, we of ourselves pave,
The once paved out way of Thy messenger,
Who often times did ask us to remember
The Message Thine in Thy Holy Book,
Which we have all but forgotten, all but forsook!
What then that message, ye ask?
For 'tis no easy one that: its task.
Remember not then that Qur'anic verse?
That informs us of the Muslim's role, to rehearse:
'Thus have We made thee a nation moderate,
Perchance thee stand a witness unto mankind (considerate).
Even as the Messenger amidst thee did stand,
An eternal witness unto thee (unto every soul, every land).'
For he was, indeed, God's lasting Mercy to Mankind.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
A REVIEW FOR AN INTERVIEW
He had known her since the past many years.
He had known her ever since his interest in Islam had found its first expression in the particular books that he sought out for his reading. To be precise, however, to know a person isn't exactly the same thing as knowing of a person. And for Max, this had been so very sadly true. It was sad because he had wished to have known her in person; to have communicated with her; to have shared his thoughts with her; to have held her in intellectual communion in the common aspiration that they both shared many great distances apart...
In spite of all his wishings, however, Max had never really known her; he had only known of her. Through her books, her writings, her autobiographical letters, her links with one of the foremost Islamic revivalists of the twentieth century after the disappearance of Christ, through her convictions, her loves, her hates...
He had followed her life as closely as her works. Not quite infrequently, he had wondered at the strange contours of her life; of her dignity; her perseverance in the pursuit of what she thought was the Truth. It had mattered little for her that she was in quest of something that was totally opposed to all that apparently mattered in her life, in her parents' lives, in the life of the community in which she was reared, in the face of her cultural contexts and in the face of her first beliefs...
Be that as it may, there are times when people make decisions with their lives. More importantly, however, there are times when people take on life-changing decisions. Most importantly, still, there are times when people stick to those life-transforming decisions once they are taken. Back in the years when Max first began reading about her, it was strangely compelling for him that nothing had mattered for MJ when she took that final decision to part ways with her past.
MJ.
MM to MJ.
Max smiled to himself as he looked back upon the text of the interview before him on his editor's desk at the Muslim Digest. Her name in acronym was much better to his memory now, all these years past. He knew that she had shifted from her home in the United States after her complete reversion to Islam in her twenties. Indeed, she had shifted her home, her faith, and her life - all to begin anew. The Orthodox Judaism of her parents had ironically, and in actual fact, convinced her against the basic tenets of the Jewish faith while Christianity, for her, had always been an intellectual bag full of the most irreconcilable dogmas. Her very own American culture by itself churned up the greatest revulsion in her; she had rejected it outright. She had fought against its influence tooth and nail; she talked against it no end; she alienated herself from her friends in the American society within which was she reared and brought up; she objected to the crass, blind materialism of the American way.
While thus she remained in the United States, she had existed as an island. An island in a land of lakes. Hers was loneliness in her intellectual isolation. Hers was soon a gnawing depression that steadily ate away at her soul. At her very being. Until she finally suffered breakdowns, and had to be cared for at medical institutions that catered more to the mind than to the body. But unlike those who genuinely worried about her - like her parents - she knew what her ailment was, and her mind was the very last place in her being which was ailing: of that she was sure. She knew she had to break away from her environment, if she was to have a cure for her illness. She had broken away from the confines of restricting doctrines a while ago when she had discovered Islam; when she had stumbled upon the world of the Qur'an. But now that discovery had led to another pressing need: she had to move from the environment that bred a context always at war with the elements of the Qur'anic teaching. And she had too much of a resonance with the Qur'an to not heed that call which promised her life. There was too much of a resonance there for her not to undertake her personal Hijrah; her movement as of the spirit, so of the body, towards that call of Providence. That call which almost all men feel, but few heed in their business with the distracting glitter of this world: snare of the Demon in his hunt for the soul of man.
It had been sometime since MM became MJ while still in America. When Margaret Marcus became Maryam Jameelah. Maryam Jameelah who would then correspond with Abul A'la Mawdudi of Pakistan and accept his invitation to make Pakistan her home. That was her cue, and that was when she finally moved out of America and into Pakistan. From one culture to another totally opposing one. From one faith to another. From being an unmarried American woman in her late twenties into being the accommodating second wife of an Islamic activist in Pakistan. From being a depressed intellectual to being the caring mother of four children who were all born amidst the heights of a growing career as an intellectual and a writer. Through her prolific writings on Islam, she gave vent to her deep misgivings of the culture that she had just rejected. To Max, who had grown up with many of her distrusts and revulsions to the Western way of life, MJ had further reinforced his own growing conceptions about the world that was the Muslim's canvas. The world that was to be restructured in the image of God. The world both of the East as well as the West, for did not God Himself declare his Omnipresence as 'the Lord of the two Easts and the two Wests?'
MJ had been a beacon of light these many years, showing Max what Westernism was, and was not; is, and is not. And although he differed with MJ in her rejection of industrialism and modernism that was in any way tinged with westernization, he understood very well the reasons for her extreme caution. They were reasons, which, in the end analysis, he never failed to appreciate for the circumstances that necessitated such caution. He had ever appreciated her reasons - and her caution; indeed her apprehensions - in that they had emanated from no west-hating Asiatic or some rabid, illogical African ideologue content in blaming the Westerners - and perhaps, not altogether unjustly - for all the woes of indigenous races on the planet. He had appreciated her study of the West, because that was where she came from, because the West had been her first home, where she learned to talk, to walk, and to run, but not to fly. For in the domain of the spirit where man seeks his freedom the most; in that domain where satisfaction unattained counts as a life gone waste; in that domain was MJ constrained in her flights of freedom within her Western home. And that was where Max first found a system, a pattern of life that had gone all wrong.
In recent years, therefore, Max had evinced the greatest desire to meet MJ, before she became a thing of the past, before she entered permanently into the pages of Islamic history. To live in an age, a century, together shared with an Islamic celebrity was indeed an honour as things stood for Max. However, to get in touch, not to mention staying in touch, at least on the intellectual plane, was more of a dream for him. But then an entire generation gap and a great distance separated him and MJ.
'Will it be ever possible?' Max has asked the Wayfarer. 'Will it forever remain a dream until MJ or me die away, Wayfarer?'
And in his peculiar, inscrutable way in which he answered Max, the Wayfarer responded to his question in - of all things - a dream. A dream whence one night, and as he lay asleep, Max was introduced to MJ, wrapped up in her all-covering purdah. The dream was of course symbolic and to Max, who firmly believed in the potent symbolism of dreams, it was a prelude to action.
Max knew that MJ presently resided at Lahore, she being all of one and seventy years of age. His attempt to get in touch with MJ through a blog-writer friend in Islamabad failing, he lay awaiting the next opportunity. And Providence had been kind to him in that that opportunity came calling a few months ago. It came in the form of a book - in fact a dissertation - entitled 'Isaac or Ishmael?' that had come by airmail all the way from Lahore. It had been sent to Max by an elderly research fellow at the Al-Mawrid Institute of Islamic Sciences, requesting him ever so humbly for a review. How that elderly scholar came to know of him or to trust a review for so valuable a dissertation from so inconspicuous a figure as himself was, of course, beyond Max's power to know. What he did know, however, was that the opportunity that he had been long awaiting had now come knocking. Max's plan was simple: he would do the review for the scholar and, in turn, request him to arrange an interview with MJ for him. Both MJ and Al-Mawrid being in the same place, such an arrangement would not be beyond the bounds of possibility, Max had calculated.
And so the days passed by wherein Max diligently studied the question of the only son who was taken for the sacrifice by the Prophet Abraham under Divine command. Was it Isaac, as affirmed by the Judeo-Christian camp or was it Ishmael, as believed by the Arabs and the Muslims? That was the question discussed by the able scholar from Al Mawrid in his book 'Isaac or Ishmael?' It was a question that was of considerable interest to Max himself, and in some uncanny way it had come to have a faint relevance to the object of his immediate quest: MJ was once Jewish herself!
Max's apparent success with the review, when he finally finished it, was a thing of the greatest and most unmitigated delight to the elderly scholar from Al Mawrid. As far as Max was concerned, his scholar friend would have bought him the moon in return if he could, leave alone setting up an interview with MJ who was right there in downtown Lahore. His review of the book, from beginning to end, would read as follows:
For a book that was intended to be an appendix to another book namely 'Paran prophecy of the Bible regarding the Prophet of Islam,' the writer's contention that 'Isaac or Ishmael?' has instead become an attempt to solve a long addressed problem on the principles of objective research is, indeed, something of a humble understatement. Few Muslim scholars in the recent past have addressed the question of the identity of the actual son of the Prophet Abraham with such vigour and tenacity as has been done by Abdus Sattar Ghawri in his 'Isaac or Ishmael?' What makes Ghawri's work of particular relevance is his almost total, albeit deliberate, reliance on the Bible and the works of Biblical scholars to prove his point. Indeed, and as the author himself whole-heartedly admits, the question that he addresses in his book had been 'settled once forever' by the celebrated South Asian Muslim scholar, Imam Hamid al-Din Farahi in his masterly Arabic work, 'al-Ray al-Sahih fi man huwa al-dhabih,' which was later translated into English ('Who was offered for sacrifice?') by Nadir Aqeel Ansari while its Urdu version was produced by Amin Ahsan Islahi in 1975. Muslim scholarship on the subject, that was based primarily on Muslim sources, had, thus, probably effected a culmination with Farahi's work in the first quarter of the twentieth century. However, genuine Muslim scholarship on the same subject, based on Judeo-Christian sources, was not as forthcoming. It is, perhaps, into this genre of academic work on the topic that 'Isaac or Ishmael?' categorically falls, and in which it has become something of a pioneering effort.
To say, today, that the work of an artist has an innate tendency to grow on him as he progresses with it, is to say something that is generally accepted as a matter of fact. Indeed, true art - and any effort worth its time can be rendered to the sublimities of a quintessential art form - presupposes an evolution of purpose within the artist in his work. True scholarship, too, is not beyond the pale of such artistic renditions. That much, at least, is in evidence as one reads through the path of discovery which Ghawri charts out for us in the progression, indeed, the evolution, of themes that center around the moot question: was it Isaac or Ishmael who was taken for the sacrifice by Abraham? Doubtless, in this evolution of themes around the central point, there has been a broadening of the very scope of the book itself. Thus, it covers, and addresses a whole host of different, yet intimately related, incidents and issues that must necessarily be of the greatest interest to the genuine scholar, Muslim and non-Muslim alike. Amongst others, it covers the relevant themes of the site of Makkah according to the Bible, pilgrimage to Makkah as described in the Bible, the site of Al-Marwah in the Bible, King David's visit and pilgrimage to Makkah and of his later yearning to be there, the offering of sacrifices at Makkah as mentioned in the Book of Isaiah, the well of Zamzam and a brief, yet significant, outline of the history of the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem.
The Judeo-Christian viewpoint on the subject has consistently been one which asserts that it was Isaac, and not Ishmael, who was taken for the sacrifice by the Patriarch Abraham. Strangely enough, however, and as Ghawri points out in his introduction, while the Bible has recorded the story of the sacrifice in a fairly detailed manner, the name of the only son of Abraham as Isaac has been mentioned but once in the whole of the narrative. Granted the strength of the contention over this issue down the centuries, it can hardly be any advantage, whatsoever, for the Judeo-Christian camp, that the son of Abraham offered for the sacrifice has been referred to as Isaac but once in the whole of the Biblical narrative. On the other hand, Ghawri also states that a majority of Muslim scholars affirm that it was Ishmael, and not Isaac, who was taken for sacrifice. Interestingly, this implies that there is a minority of Muslim scholars who, apart from the traditional folk-lore of the Muslims, are, at best, unsure of the exact facts of history: of the identity of the son of Abraham who was offered for the sacrifice. In the main, such a minority opinion amongst Muslims must necessarily owe itself to the fact that while the Qur'an describes God's command to Abraham and of Abraham's willing submission in taking his obedient son for the sacrifice, it does not, by itself, reveal the exact identity of the son concerned.
However, to go by the Biblical version of the identity of the son as being Isaac, would be to trust in the fleeting opinion of a redactor who penned down his wishful thinking, as being part of the Divine word, a full one thousand years after the incident of the sacrifice. Evidently, serious historians would hardly take such naive, or even pious, assumptions as genuine facts of history, particularly when the only instance in which the identity of the son is mentioned appears almost totally out of context, and in a manner which provides genuine grounds for suspicion. This, then, has been the methodology adopted by Ghawri throughout his presentation of the problem - a problem about which one observer noted very pertinently: 'Lying at the root of centuries old Judeo-Muslim differences, this controversy is all that the Judeo-Muslim relations stand for.'
Ghawri's has been an effort to, among other things, present a logical appreciation of the statements, factual or otherwise, that appear in the Bible. In thus providing a logical context for the narratives in the Bible, and with his own redoubtable understanding of history and data handling, his has been a thorough study of the subject which owes its authentication not to Muslim scholarship, but to the opinions and considered judgements of some of the greatest names in modern Biblical scholarship within the Judeo-Christian world. It is in this connection that reference must be made to the remarkable number of books and authorities which the learned author has consulted in the making of this ground-breaking research. Indeed, the extensive footnotes to which the attention of the reader is constantly invited in almost every page of the book constitutes a significant, if not a major, part of the work itself. In fact, the footnotes and annotations form a parallel world that operates on the reader's understanding in tandem with the main body of the book. The end result, of course, has been an overwhelming body of evidence in favour of Ishmael having been the son who was offered for the sacrifice: a conclusion made even more pertinent by the fact that it was derived almost in its entirety from the Bible, and from the works of renowned scholars of the Bible.
Of especial consideration, with regard to Ghawri's approach, must certainly be his eye for detail and his ability to go directly to the point; to the heart of the matter, as it were. While this approach has necessitated a seeming repetition of relevant aspects throughout the course of the study, when read in conjunction with the immediate context of the author's arguments, however, these repetitions almost never end in the dry monotony that would be otherwise expected of them. Contrariwise, they result in a further consolidation of the strength of the argument. One instance wherein the author's ability to go directly to the substance of the argument is seen quite early on in the work. A classical stance of the modern Judeo-Christian world with regard to the identity of the son taken for the sacrifice has been that while Ishmael was, indeed, the first born of Abraham, he need not be considered as such owing to his 'low' birth through Hagar, a mere bondservant of Abraham. As such, it must be Isaac, born through Sarah, the 'real' wife of Abraham, who needs to be considered as the first-born and the only son of Abraham. In a manner that amply illustrates the way in which he demolishes all such false, egotistic pretensions of the Judeo-Christian world, Ghawri quite simply brings the attention of the reader to the following passage from Deuteronomy:
"If a man have two wives, one beloved, and another hated, and they have born children, both the beloved and the hated; and if the first born son be her's that was hated: then it shall be, when he maketh his son to inherit that which he hath, that he may not make the son of the beloved first born before the son of the hated, which is indeed the first-born: But he shall acknowledge the son of the hated for the first-born, by giving him a double portion of all that he hath: for he is the beginning of his strength; the right of the first born is his." (Deuteronomy xxi: 15-17, KJV, p.181)
It would not be too much to say that Ghawri has merely allowed facts, and aberrations, from the Bible to speak for themselves. The rest of the matter should be easily settled by the common sense and intellectual logic of the impartial seeker after truth. The author's committed labours lend credence to the fact that scriptural aberrations or corruptions, far from hiding the facts, actually leave, in their wake, a string of clues and trails which the real historian, working with the advantage of hindsight, can sift and reassemble to reconstruct a semblance of what might, indeed, be the real Truth.
The sections appended to the book as Appendix I, II and III (titled respectively as Beersheba: the 'Well of seven' or the 'Well of Zamzam,' 'The text of the Bible and some types of corruptions in it,' and 'A Brief Account of the History of the Temple of Solomon') might very well have formed integral portions of the book, which, technicalities apart, they actually do. This is very much owing to the fact that they supplement the arguments in the core sections of the book, and the book would have been all the poorer for their absence from it. A useful index and a complete table of bibliographical references (which include 25 versions of the Bible, 39 commentaries on the Bible, 53 encyclopedias and 16 other Biblical studies, all by Christian scholars) must further place the work of Ghawri amongst the top-most references on the subject today. Indeed, it is hardly an exaggeration to say that 'Isaac or Ishmael?' has substantially altered the way in which the academic world must view the answer to the age-old question that it poses.
A fellow of the prestigious Al-Mawrid Institute of Islamic Sciences, Lahore, Abdus Sattar Ghawri is the author of a number of articles on the Biblical text that has special reference to the prophecies heralding the advent of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). He has also lectured extensively on the subject. This robust experience in treating the subject at hand is fairly visible in Ghawri's 'Isaac or Ishmael?' If the results of his honest labours are accepted in a spirit a impartiality and good-will within the community of Jews and Christians, it goes without saying that it will help in clearing the international atmosphere between the Muslims and the Judeo-Christian world so much vitiated by misunderstanding and hostility begotten of centuries of ignorance and mistrust. To this end has surely been the author's motivation, and in this end-result, most certainly lies, his higher reward. His highest reward, of course, must, like all other sincere efforts in the Islamic cause, find its expression in the presence of his Maker, the Changer of hearts, the Lord of all Creation.
Following the Al-Mawrid scholar's appreciation for the review, little time was lost in the execution of the next stages of Max's plan. Max's hurriedly prepared interview-questionnaire was sent from the Muslim Digest's office at Bangalore by email to the kind fellow at Al-Mawrid, and through him, MJ's consent for the interview clinched with the greatest ease, just as if she was waiting for it all along, or so Max imagined.
Less than a fortnight later, MJ had sent in her answers to Max's probing questionnaire through the untiring efforts of that most genial of scholars at Al Mawrid. When it arrived finally on his computer screen in its scanned-attachment version via email, Max had stared in complete silence, at that his first direct interaction with MJ, for what seemed an eternity. He had gazed in awe and wonder at the rounded handwriting of MJ, which despite her seventy-one years, was anything but illegible. The text of the interview dated June 7th 2005/ Rabi-us-Sani 29, 1426, and signed towards the end by MJ herself, would soon be printed in the pages of the Muslim Digest. In its transcribed form and lying there on Max's desk, it read as follows:
Max: We have always known about your conversion through contacts with Mawlana Mawdudi, but nothing about how in the first instance you got interested in Islam. Would you like to throw some light on your initial days of interest in Islam?
MJ: Like Muhammad Asad (Leopold Weiss), I first became interested in Islam by a fascination with everything Arab. I read all the books about Arabs I could find and loved to listen to recordings by Umm Kalsoum. Then, as now, most of these books were by Orientalists or missionaries and presented a very negative view which I knew was unjustified. Only years later I acquired knowledge about Qur'an Majeed through Muhammad Marmaduke Pickthall's translation which inspired me with the desire to convert to Islam.
Max: You have settled in Pakistan since 1962. How different has been the experience in this shift of cultures, indeed, of ideologies, as in your case? Of course, your expectations of Muslim culture would have been quite high, and there must have been some disappointments especially in the beginning. Was it a lack of alternatives or, satisfaction with what you found in Pakistan or merely familial bindings that led you to remain in Pakistan, perhaps never traveling out once?
MJ: I settled in Pakistan at the invitation of Maulana Maudoodi with whom I had been corresponding for two years. He not only gave me emotional support as a new convert but also a permanent home in Pakistan, and helped me find a good husband. I have been on such good terms with his family. I never wanted to go anywhere else, convinced there was nothing for me in America. My first impression of Pakistan was that it was a very good Muslim country. Disillusions with its numerous shortcomings only came later.
Max: Have you performed Hajj and what has been your impression. Do you travel for 'Umrah and if you do, do you find changes in Arab adherence to Islam in the two holy Harams?
MJ: I talk with everyone I know who has returned from Hajj and read everything about it that I can. I deeply regret that the expansion of the Haram and the Masjid-an-Nabi could only be accomplished by the massive destruction of nearly all the Ottoman structures of the Holy Cities including numerous historic places associated with the Holy Prophet. Everything has been modernized/ westernized including much inappropriate technology. However, the comforts and physical accommodations have been vastly improved. Despite all this, returnees who have returned to tell me their experiences insist that the Hajj was the greatest spiritual experience of their lives.
Max: You have known the late Mawlana Mawdudi well in your close association with him. How relevant are his ideas for the future of the Muslim community today? How do you view the policies and practices of the Jamat-e-Islami in Pakistan today? How has its policies changed since the time that it was first launched in 1941?
MJ: At the beginning in 1941 Maulana Maudoodi was concerned with cultural matters in Islam's relation with the West. Now everything is politics. Placing politics at the centre of the Islamic mission is contrary to the traditions of Islam. However, Jamat-e-Islami deserves all the credit for restraining the worst excesses of secular military dictatorships.
Max: It has been said that the logic of your discursive approach has recently led you away from current forms of Islamic revivalism and even from the Jamat-e-Islami itself. It has also been said that increasingly aware of revivalism's own borrowing from the West, you have distanced yourself from the revivalist exegesis and have even criticized your mentor, Mawlana Mawdudi, for his assimilation of modern concepts into Jamat-e-Islami's ideology. How much do you agree with this?
MJ: I became disillusioned about the Maulana's disdain for the necessity for beauty in the lives of his followers, of traditional Islamic philosophy and Islamic art and his whole-hearted acceptance of industrialism, technology and evolutionism. But now I am less critical. Maulana Maudoodi, Sheikh Hasan al Banna and Syed Qutb devoted their entire lives to the Islamic cause and sacrificed all their time, energy and resources and even their lives towards that end. They strictly abided by Shariat all their lives and inspired many others to do so.
Max: You once said that you were totally in disagreement with what Allama Iqbal wrote in his 'Reconstruction of religious thought in Islam.' Can you please explain the basis of this disagreement?
MJ: In his 'Reconstruction of religious thought in Islam' Allama Iqbal attempted a most unconvincing reconciliation with certain 19th century western philosophies. The entire book is based on evolutionism and progressionism. It will remain one of the most well known classics of Islamic modernism.
Max: You have known the late Muhammad Asad through his writings and perhaps also in his capacities in the foreign ministry of Pakistan. Were his works like 'The Road to Makkah' and 'Islam at the Crossroads' instrumental in your own conversion to Islam? Did you ever perceive a certain evolution in his thought: an evolution to which you couldn't reconcile yourself in later years? If so, can you please explain where you differed from his viewpoints? What is your opinion about his Commentary (on the Qur'an)? Would you recommend its inclusion in Islamic studies, either private or institutionalized?
MJ: Muhammad Asad's 'The Road to Mecca' inspired my desire to live in a Muslim country and 'Islam at the crossroads' determined my entire literary career. However, his 'Message of the Qur'an' is almost entirely based on 'The Manar' by Shaikh Muhammad Abduh. It is filled with modernism and naturalism. Muhammad Asad was a great admirer of Shaikh Muhammad Abduh and was much influenced by him.
Max: Alija Ali Izzetbegovich, the former President of Bosnia-Herzegovina, has been one of the most unsung Muslim intellectuals in modern European history. What has been your own assessment of his life and works? How would you rate his work, 'Islam between East and West'?
MJ: Having only read a brief biography and obituaries and not 'Islam between East and West,' (I may say that) Alija Ali Izzetbegovich is renowned as the most distinguished Bosnian Muslim statesman.
Max: Writing in as far back as 1969, you had stated that the Muslim Ulema (with honourable exceptions) 'had become like the Pharisees against whom Jesus Christ devoted his entire mission. In their extremes of verbal hair splitting, some of our Ulema have outdone the Talmud and put the Rabbis to shame.' How much has the situation progressed for the better today, some thirty-five years later?
MJ: Although certain Ulema have shortcomings the righteous amongst them uphold the Shariat, combat bid'ah or innovations and can be regarded as the indispensable pillar of traditional Islamic civilization.
Max: Do you see a marked difference in approach on the part of the Orientalists in view of the spread of Islamic knowledge, and in view of questions of their intellectual integrity raised now and then, especially by Norman Daniel?
MJ: Even the most 'sympathetic' Orientalists think Islam should change in conformity to the demands of modern life; some of them even propose that Qur'an and Hadith be subjected to 'Higher Criticism' like Biblical studies, (and that) a search (be made) among modernists for one who could play the part of a Muslim Martin Luther and 'updating' Islam like Vatican II.
Max: Some years back when Frithjof Schuon was criticized in the Impact for his Sufi practices, you had reacted strongly. Do you agree with the ideas presented by him, and the practices he tried to promote?
MJ: I was utterly shocked by the article in Impact condemning Frithjof Schuon and considered it (and still do) the worst character assassination. When dissatisfied with revivalist books, I was at first greatly impressed with Schuon's writings. The writings of his school were alone in emphasizing the necessity of beauty and Islamic art, strongly condemned industrialism and modern science and upheld traditional orthodox Islamic civilization in every aspect of a Muslim's life. Schuon's writings remained my favourite books until I met with his divorced third wife. We became best friends and she related all her experiences in her 30-year life with Schuon. So Impact's article turned out to be true after all. My new found friend disclosed even more shocking facts about Schuon which utterly disqualified him as a spiritual guide. She disclosed that Schuon lived with three women without proper Nikah. He loved nudity and was accused in court of sexual child abuse. He hugged dozens of beautiful, bare-breasted young girls clad in only a transparent loin-cloth. He painted fifty pictures of his youngest wife in the nude. As entertainment, he and his followers danced native Indian dances. Outside Schuon's house was a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary. Worst of all, he forbade his followers to befriend other Muslims. I still have all Schuon's books; they still attract me but I cannot look at them without a profound sense of shame.
Max: What, in general, is your assessment of the neo-apologists and propagators of Sufi ideas such as Schuon, Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Martin Lings, or others of this class? Do you think that, in effect, they offer pantheism rather than impress about Islam's unique ideas and strict tawhid perspectives?
MJ: Like Schuon, Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Martin Lings are my favourite writers. More profound criticism of Western philosophy, science and technology is not found among any of the revivalist writers. Martin Lings Seerat is by far the best in English - based entirely on Qur'an and Hadith.
Max: How do you rate Rene Guenon's writings? Do you think his obsession with the cyclic explanation, did away with whatever good criticism he made against the Western culture, and contributed nothing, despite his long stay in Egypt, to the projection of Islam as primarily rational?
MJ: No modern writer attacked modern civilization and all it stands for more than Rene Guenon. Next to him the revivalist figures appear childish. His all-out attack on evolutionism and progressionism is decisive and irrefutable. He proved the cyclic and disproved progress. No sensitive, intelligent mind can study Rene Geunon's 'Crisis of the modern world' and 'Reign of quantity and signs of the times' without being changed forever.
Max: How would you explain the exclusion of many powerful Muslim personalities of not only our own times, but even of the first half of the last century from the 'Encyclopedia of Islam' produced at Braille, when you find entries on other less influential men of the past?
MJ: The 'Encyclopaedia of Islam' is entirely an Orientalist work. The exclusion of these powerful Muslim personalities of the past and present serves their own nefarious purposes of keeping serious scholars ignorant about them.
Max: In your opinion, how effective is the present educational system in the Muslim world? Will a piecemeal attempts at making conventional western-style education conform to Islamic requirements suffice in effecting a lasting transformation amongst the Muslim youth today? Or will a wholesale shift in paradigm be necessary before a new edifice of education is built on premises that are strictly in keeping with the founding principles of the Islamic worldview?
MJ: The present educational system in Muslim countries results in imitation of Westerners. It destroys faith in Islam and the Islamic way of life. Maulana Maudoodi was most concerned about this when in 1939 he wrote Talimat and Tanqihat. Despite all their defects I am most opposed to the secularization or closing down of the Deeni Madaris - all that is left of traditional Islamic education for the young today.
Max: While the Jews have always disowned the 'Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion' ever since it was first discovered in the early years of the twentieth century, there is a widespread belief that the 'Protocols' form the blueprint for Jewish world domination. What is your own view on the 'Protocols' and the Zionist movement in general?
MJ: Nobody knows if the 'Protocols of the learned elders of Zion' is authentic or not (?). If so, it was probably written by Theodore Herzl at the first Zionist Convention in Basle, Switzerland in 1897. Literary similarities between the 'Protocols' and 'The Jewish State' (1896) are striking. Racial anti-semitism produced by the 'Protocols' which fail to distinguish between Judaism and Zionism is a Western import into the Muslim world previously unknown. Orthodox Judaism and Zionism conflict and are irreconcilable.
Max: The WTC attacks of September 11, 2001, have had a profound impact on the prospects for Islamic revival in the 21st century. How historic do you think is this development? What has been your assessment of global developments with regard to Islam and the Muslim world in the four years since the event? Do you perceive an attempt at neo-colonization of the energy-rich Muslim lands by the Western Powers led by the US as sufficient justification for those Muslims who have picked up the gauntlet and have responded in kind to the oppression that has become the staple fare of innocent Muslims in several parts of the globe?
MJ: The USA under President Bush is engaged in an all-out war on Islam: the same colonialism and imperialism as the British and French a century ago. But insurgency and suicide bombers are no effective response. Shocking disregard for human life, especially women, children and the elderly - all innocent non-combatants cannot qualify the struggle as Jihad. Jihad must be waged according to Shariat.
Max: Your views on the future of the Muslim people and the prospects for the Islamic faith in the 21st century? Do you see a vision of hope which bases itself on the inherent strengths - howsoever negligible - of the Muslim Ummah today, as against one which has for its premises the myriad weaknesses of the community?
MJ: As despair and hopelessness are forbidden in Islam, I view the future with great caution. The destruction of most of the outward signs of traditional environment and atmosphere in Islam, particularly architecture and Islamic dress for males as well as females is a catastrophic loss. Taqwa will remain in the next century although it will grow less and less and harder and harder to find. Many signs of the Last Days predicted by Hadith are now present. When asked what to do at the approach of the Last Days, the Holy Prophet replied: 'Separate yourself from the evil ones, concentrate on your own affairs and cling to the roots of the tree (of Islam) until death overtakes you in that state...'
Thus had come about Max's interview with a living celebrity of the Islamic world today. Sitting back in his editor's chair and with the review for 'Isaac or Ishmael?' and the interview with MJ laid out separately on his desk, Max considered the working of the small niche that he operated in the Indian Muslim Media scene. He amused himself with the idea that this interview would go down as the biggest 'scoop' in the Muslim media scene in India since a long time, for few other media outlets in India had reached out to an Islamic intellectual of the caliber of MJ in recent years. To Max at least, the timing of the interview was poignant enough: he had heard that MJ had become weak and indisposed since some time now. How many more active years she had remaining in her was anybody's guess. But then, how many active years, indeed, days, do any of us have any way? Every moment of our lives counted as if it were the very last, or so the Wayfarer would remind him again and again.
The interview with MJ, however, would remain special for in the months that followed Max would be writing fairly detailed life profiles on Ahmed Deedat and Zaynab al Ghazali who died in quick succession and that too in a single month (August 2005). Writing on Deedat was especially painful for, the guidance of the Wayfarer apart, Deedat was the man who had first put Max on a track that would take him through the mists of a Christianity concocted by St. Paul to the brilliant purity of Islam. Meeting Deedat too had been a dream for Max: one which unfortunately was not destined for fulfillment. After having written a profile on Zaynab al Ghazali, and without having recovered from the shock of having lost these pioneering Muslim intellectual-activists of the last century, Max would write to his chief editor at the Muslim Digest:
"Of late, and of a most tragic coincidence, sir, we, at the Muslim Digest, seem preoccupied fully with the writing of obituaries and profiles for successive luminaries of this Ummah who will now be confined to the halls of our memories and to the illuminating patches of the otherwise darkened pages of modern Islamic history. In their departure we lose not just their consoling presence, but even the very progress and consolidation of the vast corpus of our otherwise once-dynamic but now-stagnating knowledge base. Had not the Divine confirmation come to the prophet that in the Last Days knowledge will be divorced from the people inasmuch as our scholars will be taken away from us? Is this generation of the Ummah really doomed to witness the fulfillment of this Divine intimation?"
The chief editor's reply, as was expected of him, was crisp and to the point:
"The fulfillment of God's word notwithstanding, I invite you to pick up the gauntlet now and, in twenty years from today, to carry on from where they have left off. We are counting on you, Max."
"That, sir," thought Max to himself, "is taking matters a bit too far." Max was up from his table now, and as he walked past his cabin to the News Room adjacent, he found himself remembering and thanking that scholar-friend from Al-Mawrid in Lahore for making his interview with MJ happen before it was too late. In the course of the intervening chain of events, Max had made him his review as well in exchange.
A review for an interview. But then, did not the Qur'an itself state: 'Hal Jazaa al Ihsani illal Ihsan?', meaning 'Is not the reward for the good but the good?'
Sunday, March 06, 2005
There was something about the park that struck him as being oddly nostalgic since the time he first entered its precincts more than two years ago. The flat that was allocated as his residential apartment by the publishing company that employed him was just a few hundred meters down the western side of the park. Richard's park, of course, had four very well defined sides, being the square that was its basic design. Parks and gardens are no novelty in Bangalore, for, not without reason, the city itself was called the 'garden city' of India. Perhaps that fact alone had caused him to ponder over the question of the park's strange attraction to his thinking. What was it that made Richard's park so vaguely familiar to him despite the numerous other gardens in the city? Max had asked himself the same question almost every time that he visited this block of greenery on evenings that had become too numerous to remember. Evenings like the present one as he strolled along in thought on the stone-laid pavement just within the park's outer boundary.
The day had dwindled down to an evening bearing the cool winds of Bangalore: unassuming heralds of the colder night that was soon to descend upon the city. The cool caress of the evening breeze was, of course, what made you want to take a stroll down the park every evening. To Max, however, this was one of those rare days when he could afford the walk amidst the greenery and the smell of foliage, since he hardly ever got home from work before seven in the evening. And that was the time when the park was closed for the day.
This day was different inasmuch as he was able to be at the park a half hour before its closing time. And to be able to enjoy the strange sense of nostalgia that was the park's offering to him.
To be able to enjoy the sense of calm amidst the foliage around which a few regular joggers went a-jogging.
To enjoy the sudden, remarkable way in which the sky in Bangalore could turn overcast with heavy rain laden clouds within the space of a few minutes.
To enjoy the renewed, undying wonder of a child at the first drops of rain as it fell from heaven earth-bound.
To enjoy the smells of the earth unleashed by the innocence of the raindrops to give a sense of time and space as old as man's sad history.
To concentrate for one fleeting moment on the smell, the sight and the sounds of the surrounding and to be able in that one moment to reflect on the meaning of life and of existence.
The smell.
The sight.
The sound.
Max stopped in his strolling tracks.
"God, how I remember now!"
The light drizzle pattered gently on the pavement around him. It lent its wetness to the greenery of the trees and the plethora of plants in the garden that surrounded him. The drops slid down the leaves, the branches, the stem: sparkling gems in the daylight if only the clouds would move away to offer the dying rays of a declining sun.
Despite the sudden dullness of the evening, Max's eyes had now lit up with the memory of those first years. As the drizzle continued, he walked into the protection offered by a nearby tree. Its huge, ancient trunk with its overhanging overgrowth of thick branches and leaves offered a shelter as good as any that an umbrella would have provided. Of course, its offering was unconditional; its humble sheltering always there for the asking, without any asking back in return.
No asking back.
No expectations.
Selfless.
He remembered the times when he would be the regular early morning jogger around the municipal gardens near his home in the capital of the UAE.
Yes.
Max was certain now: it was the Municipal gardens near Najda Street which Richard's park reminded him of. Back in those days the newly built sprawling building of the Abu Dhabi municipality complex was surrounded by a garden that used to be Max's regular haunt.
He remembered that day in his seventeenth year when just before his jogging rounds he met up with the incident that he knew he would not forget in a long time. The man had been waiting for him at the entrance of the mosque as Max had come out after his dawn prayer, fully attired in his jogging suit. The stranger had the white robes of an Arab: Max had fleetingly noticed as he came out at the entrance to get his jogging shoes. He had bent down, slipped one on, when the stranger in front of him began a series of questions addressed to his identity. Max had paused, the other shoe still in hand, and had answered his mildly searching questions. He had then smiled, and bent down again only to raise up his head a few seconds later to ask the stranger a few questions of his own.
The stranger, however, was there no more.
He had completely disappeared without a trace. Stunned at the disappearance, Max had peered into the fading darkness all around. The streets were empty save the one worshipper who had come out of the mosque and passed between the two men at the entrance. Max had seen him then walking off into the distance. But what of the stranger who had stood before him just a few seconds earlier?
Max remembered that he had searched quickly within and around the mosque's premises. He remembered that he had looked around once, twice, straining his sight in the semi darkness of a new dawn for a possible rational explanation. But his senses did not reveal any.
He remembered how he had walked half-afraid to the municipal gardens, a stone's throw away from the mosque: its trees and foliage now beckoning him with a foreboding strangeness with which he was unaccustomed; with which he was now uncomfortable. Despite his jogging attire and the readiness with which he had arrived for his daily jogging rounds, Max could not get himself to jog that day. Instead, he walked amidst the bushes and the trees of the Municipal garden, almost absent to the smell of early morning foliage with which he began his every day; with which his memory would fuse for long years to come, until some day when a similar smell would ignite recollections of many years past.
Max remembered clearly now how on that early morning, he had abandoned his regular solitary jog in the municipal gardens and had returned to his home on Najda street.
He remembered how he had opened the door of his house in a hurry and moved past the sleeping household into his own bedroom and into the safety of his bed. What was that which he had seen? Max had considered in some fear. Whatever it was, it was strange enough to have shaken Max so much that he actually left the key of the house in its lock while he rushed in, only to be found still dangling from the keyhole by his surprised mother several hours later.
Had that been the initiation? Max wondered.
The first contact with the Wayfarer?
So many a year ago.
So several a year.
The stranger's face, of course, was not clear even on that first and, to date, last vision since that early morning darkness more than a decade ago. However, that was immaterial, for the voice had remained.
That inner voice.
The Wayfarer.
"You remember well, Max." The voice broke through his memories as Max stood by the tree in Richard's park.
"Wayfarer!" The two other people standing under the shelter of the tree started in some surprise at the low cry that escaped Max's lips. Of course, their surprise was not so much because of Max's utterance as it was due to the fact that he was addressing nobody in particular: there had been none in front of him to whom he might have offered his exclamation.
"I am sorry, brother, but did you tell us something?" One of the two people standing besides Max under the shelter of the tree asked him timidly.
"No." Max came back, "I'm sorry, but I was just speaking to myself.." He stared briefly at the young man who had spoken to him, at the perfectly clean shaven face, the slightly aquiline nose, the enquiring eyes, and then looked away at the evening drizzle that was now filtering in through the branches and the leaves of the tree that was sheltering the three of them.
"Memories, then...?" The other, bespectacled, older man suggested. He had looked up from the book that he was intently scanning through his glasses. A raindrop slid down from the branches above and found its way downward on to his bald head. He wiped it away with a handkerchief promptly drawn from a side pocket of his - robe..
"Well, yes. You could say that." Max smiled as if caught out unwittingly.
"Wayfarer, are you here?"
Silence.
"We understand your outburst then, brother. Memories can seem so real at times, you know." The younger of the pair remarked, distracted slightly by the fact that their tall companion under the tree still seemed a trifle immersed in his daydreams.
"Oh yes," Max assured him. "They can get more real than we can ever imagine. In fact, many people, indeed, nations, have nothing but their memories with them. The memories of a great past; of happier times. It is all that they possess for their own - a possession that, more often than not, acts as a drug against their waking up to the present and the possibilities that their future offers them."
"Wayfarer, I know you are here."
"Yes, Max. I am."
"Its been a long time, Wayfarer."
"Time? Does time have any meaning, Max?"
"That is the First Principle, is it not, Wayfarer?"
What was faintly disturbing to Max was the attire of the two men standing with him under the tree. They wore long robes with full sleeves. Not white robes. No. They were deep brown instead, with that lighter border running through the middle; top to bottom. That white thread tying the otherwise open robes at the waist; and, of course, the characteristic crucifix dangling just below their chests from chains around their necks. The older of the two had now closed the thick, leather bound, book that he was scrutinizing partly because of the drizzle, and partly because of Max's last remark. Max was now taking in his immediate surroundings more quickly: he noted slyly the cover of the book: The King James Version of the Bible.
Churchmen.
"Brother, but you have spoken the very truth." The man had removed his spectacles, his eyes somewhat more alive to Max's presence.
"Yes, and if only our memories would allow us to locate that verse in the Bible." The other, younger man confessed to something of what they were preoccupied with.
"But, Wayfarer, why the silence upon my first call?"
Silence.
"Wayfarer?"
"You are already on to something you need to remember more often, Max. Here, with these two men."
"I am?"
"And what have you been trying to locate in the Bible?" Max continued with the odd conversation with the two 'churchmen'.
"But, you are...?" The older man quickly sought the clarification with his half question, before the conversation moved any further. To seek for a name was almost certainly to seek for a persuasion, an attitude, a religion. In a world devoid of objective understanding, to ask a name is to ask for partisanship. It is to look at the dividing line. Rather than the one that joins.
"Maximus. Max, if you please."
"Oh, and of which Christian denomination, Max, if I may ask?"
"That of Christ's own persuasion, if I may say so." Max was being honest to the core as he replied.
"Very well said, brother." The younger man smiled broadly. "We need to build bridges amongst ourselves. Not walls."
"Indeed!" His elder companion confessed grudgingly. "I am Father Callaghan and this is Brother Joshua. We belong to the Catholic Church, Max, and are here at the Bible Society of India just down the road to participate in the two-day Bible convention that is being held under its auspices." He made light of the introductions.
"How very interesting!" Max was being sincere. He knew the Bible Society of India building. It came up on the right side of the road as he walked down from Richard's park to his apartment at the farther end. He had made it a point to glance across at the tall, four-storied building every time he left his apartment and particularly on weekends when there would be a large coterie of vehicles lined up outside in the parking lot: indicative of some particular conference that was probably in progress. Max agreed with himself that he had seen those extra number of cars outside the building as he came up the road today as well.
"What is this convention all about?" Max was curious to know.
"Well," Joshua, the younger man began, "You know that our churches have missions working in Christ's name all over the world."
Max nodded slowly, but the twinkle in his eyes was lost on the two in front of him. He waited patiently for the other man to go on.
"However, in recent years, we have realized that quite apart from blindly criticizing, it is best that we seek to know - to really understand - the belief system of those who are the targets of our efforts. It is in this spirit, therefore, that the Bible Society of India has been making efforts to understand the minds of the Muslim people, in guiding them to Jesus Christ, our lord." The man paused.
"Splendid!" Max was visibly delighted. "A most correct approach. It's always best to have your homework done. I see that the drizzle has stopped." The light rain had, indeed, stopped and a strong southwesterly wind had picked up to draw the gathering clouds away from the horizon. For all the light drizzle that had fallen, the earth smelled fresh and very much alive. The three men moved out of the shelter of the tree and on to the paved walkway of the park.
"But in dealing with the Muslim faith there are some - how should I say - difficulties." Father Callaghan remarked quietly, his Bible now held carefully in his hands. Hands that were now held behind him as he walked along in deep thought.
"Difficulties?" Max's question was almost contrived.
"Well, yes, Max." The other man nodded. "For instance, Muslims already believe in Jesus as a great Messenger. And Mary as his chaste and pure mother. They even have a chapter in the Qur'an named after Mary."
"Yes, I have heard that too, but.." Max began but the man cut him off.
"They even believe in all the Biblical prophets, you know," he went on.
"Yes, but," Max began again, "Why should that present difficulties? These similarities should make it easier for them to appreciate Christianity, should it not?"
"Appreciate, yes. But to accept, no." Father Callaghan firmly pointed out. "The differences between the two religions are as profound as well."
"What matters then that Muhammad had actually copied wholesale from the Bible while he composed the Qur'an. Muslims just can't stomach that, can they?" Joshua sighed.
"That's odd, though." Max remarked with little effort as the three men approached the hexagonal, domed enclosure in the center of the park. The structure was an open one on all its six sides, each of which had a low wall with an open arch above it. The enclosure formed a pavilion to which the four main walkways in the park led from four directions.
"What's odd in that?" asked Joshua, as they reached the pavilion and slowly made their way up the low steps into it center.
"I have read that, for centuries, the Arabs held the Jews in great suspicion and animosity, if not outright enmity, and vice versa. This was no less in the time of Muhammad in the 6th Century AD." Max worked up a suggestion.
"And so they have, but what is your point?" The other man looked at Max questioningly.
"Well, it just occurred to me that if Muhammad had composed the Qur'an himself, all the while copying from the Bible, wasn't it foolish on his part to choose a Jewish woman to name an entire chapter of the Qur'an after? What acceptability would he have amongst his own Arab tribesmen if he gave their antagonists this honour? Would he not risk losing his supporters and followers from his own men? Why couldn't he have chosen the name of an Arab woman instead? Maybe even his own daughter or that of his wives?" The questions from Max were ones that he had asked himself long ago, and from which there could be only one conclusion. Indeed, given the full glare of recorded history under which he lived and died, to suppose Muhammad to be an impostor raised more problems than it solved.
The two men by his side had fallen silent. They looked at each other, strangely surprised by the slight confusion on their own faces. The confusion in each man made the other's face a mirror of his own.
"We were talking about similarities, though." Max said again as he sat himself on one of the half walls of the open enclosure, his gaze intent on the small children's playground just across the pavilion, the embarrassment that he had caused barely escaping it.
"Oh, yes." The younger of the pair seemed relieved. "We were looking for that verse in the Bible, that is strikingly similar to the one in the Qur'an."
"Yes?" Max turned back towards the pair as they leaned over the wall.
"That God said to Moses, that He will have mercy on whom He wills to have mercy and will harden whom He wills to harden. Isn't it striking that there are verses in the Qur'an that are exactly similar in meaning to this verse from the Bible? I did have a difficulty with this verse in the Bible for a long while, right until the time that I spotted the same verses in the Qur'an." The older man explained.
Max was genuinely puzzled now: "How did you solve your difficulty when you spotted similar verses in the Qur'an?" He asked in ill-disguised surprise.
"I didn't so much as solve my difficulty as I alleviated it when I saw it in the Muslim scripture, Max. It was sufficient relief for me that Muhammad had not missed out in copying these difficulties as well. The Qur'an then had man-made irrationalities: it couldn't then be the word of God." A slight smile picked its way across Father Callaghan's face.
For a moment Max stared at the man unbelievingly. To associate oneself with scholarship was always a worthwhile thing to do: he had believed.
But what of such scholarship that has been made blatantly subjective?
Of scholarship which, after having striven for a lifetime, had forgotten its true mission in the search for objective truth?
Of scholarship that took sides; that was partisan in its very outlook?
Of scholarship that cared not for the very ground that it stood on, as long as the ground was taken away from beneath the feet of its antagonist.
"But where, Father Callaghan, is your difficulty? For myself, I see none." Max braved the most intense of feelings as he came out with himself.
"Come, come, Max." The older man laughed. "We do have difficulties in our faith, don't we now? Difficulties at which the Muslims, and God knows how many others, have been laughing for centuries." The voice was hardening. The younger man sat down besides Max.
To Father Callaghan, Max might have presented an image of bewilderment then, for he continued in a voice that slightly betrayed an underlying bitterness of the soul: "All objective reasoning, indeed, the very spirit of true religion, presupposes a certain freedom of will for man. That man has been given the discretion to choose what, and what not, to do. This then is the moral basis of God's reward and punishment."
"Exactly!" Max couldn't have agreed more.
"So, Max, what of such verses in the Bible and the Qur'an which state clearly that God guides whom He wills and leaves astray whom He wills? How do these verses fit into our agreed scheme of things? Surely, you do agree that they present 'difficulties' if not outright contradictions in our belief system."
"But Father Callaghan, God has said this only in order that man may not believe that he is saved by his own virtue, but may perceive that life and the mercy of God have been granted him by God of His bounty." Max wan't really sure how that would go with Father Callaghan, but that then just had to be it.
"But that, Max, is your own interpretation. You cannot quote that explanation as coming from scripture."
"But it is from scripture, Father." Max persisted. "These are the words of none other than Jesus of Nazareth. Its there right in the Apocryphal literature of the Church. We have missed it all these centuries."
"The Apocrypha!" The younger man exclaimed. "You have been going through the Apocrypha?"
"I have found it to hold answers which Christianity has long forgotten to be the original teachings of Christ. The Apocryphal literature of the Church is a world in itself: full of meaning and common sense." Max explained himself. He hadn't forgotten the times when one question led him to another, one quest to the other, in his search through the study of comparative religions. Until the day when he finally stumbled on the Apocrypha: forgotten, forbidden, versions of the Christian gospels composed by some of the closest disciples of Christ immediately after his disappearance more than two thousand years ago. These included works like the Shepherd of Hermas and the Gospel of Barnabas - works that remained influential throughout the first four centuries after the disappearance of Christ, until the council of Nicea in 325 AD, when Emperor Constantine, although - through one of the great ironies of history - himself dying an Unitarian, ordered all other versions of the Bible, apart from the four present day canonical versions supported by the followers of St. Paul, to be consigned to the flames; to be included in the list of books forbidden, by the Pauline church, to be read for pain of persecution for heresy. However, in spite of the cruel inquisitions that followed on the heels of the unyielding followers of true Christianity, these forbidden scriptures - the Apocrypha - had survived down the centuries and had remained the moving force behind all Unitarian movements in Christianity, past and present. Movements that held Christ to be nothing more than a mighty messenger from God; movements that threw out the idea of Trinity as a pagan concoction; movements that drew very close unto the Islamic view of God and man.
Father Callaghan had known of the Apocrypha himself, but he had been too much of a conformist to go through them. He vaguely understood that his emotional commitment to his Church had got the better of him. Another moment of silence followed before Father Callaghan went on, "But you still cannot get across the problem of predestination, can you? That all things have been predestined for a certain, unchangeable end."
Max almost knew for certain that this subject was coming up. There was no evading it now. "As I understand, father," he began, "Predestination is based on the law of God and human free will. And so even if God could save the whole world so that none should perish, He would not will to do so lest thus He should deprive man of freedom, which He has granted him in order to do despite to Satan, in order that man scorned of the spirit, even though shall sin as the spirit did, may have power to repent and go to dwell in that place whence the spirit was cast out. It is not without reason, therefore, that Christ once declared, 'Our God willeth, I say, to pursue with His mercy man's free will, and willeth not to forsake the creature with His omnipotence. And so on the day of Judgement none will be able to make any excuse for their sins, seeing that it will then be manifest to them how much God hath done for their conversion, and how often He hath called them to repentance.'"
"Is that also from the Apocrypha?" Joshua asked in some wonder at Max's quoting extempore from scripture.
"Wayfarer, you know what led me to the First Principles as a teenager?"
"Yes, Max. You know I do."
"That saying of Muhammad where he mentions that all deeds of a human being, all of his or her fate, character and destiny are already marked out even before he, or she, is born. I never could reconcile God's justice with that saying of Muhammad for as long as I could remember. Right until the time you cleared it for me, Wayfarer. Soon after we first met when I was seventeen."
"And how was it cleared, Max?"
"I had not understood the implications of absolute and relative time until that point. And that was where I kept faltering. That man's mind is relative in its ability to perceive things around him is the single most important principle that I had not realized. Once that had been grasped the remaining pieces fell into place, to form the perfect picture."
"And so?"
"And so, man's mind being relative, he requires a point of reference from which to judge the course of events. Time makes sense to him only in there being a past, present and a future. Today, tomorrow and the day after; now, then and thenceforth: all have meaning only in this context of his relating to the passage of the fourth dimension, of time. If then man were to judge predestination as an act of God that was done at some point at the 'beginning' of creation with a clear objective of unalterably finalizing the 'end' of things, then God would indeed appear to be unjust in creating man. But, of course, this is purely man's misunderstanding for if the mind of man is relative, God is never that. God can, in a way, be said to be Absolute in His perception. Thus, He does not have to exist in relation to anything. In His own words in the Qur'an He is As-Samad, or the Absolute, the Independent. This implies therefore that when Muhammad, the last messenger from God, declared that God has decreed the fate of all humans, he meant exactly that. To put it in human language, since I understand now that God does not exist in relation to time, I, as a human could say that He exists in all time - in the past, the present and the future - but all at the same time, at the same instant. This is something that we can understand but cannot hope to attain to. When One exists as such, One is aware and alive to the working of the history of all eternity in a single instant and, as such, knows how everything ultimately transpires in human as well as natural terms. However, to be aware of the course of events is not necessarily to be held responsible for how things eventually happen as much as, for instance, Nostradamus, the French seer of the fifteenth century, cannot be held responsible for events happening as he had foreseen them happen. This is, of course, not to say that God cannot and does not interfere in the course of events in nature and human life. In fact, He does do that in keeping with the nature of His several perfect attributes. Nevertheless, whether He has interfered in the working of human destiny, or has left it to follow its own natural course, whether it is through the general pattern or the particular pattern of God's working in the universe, all events of the past, present and future are known to God in one eternal, undying moment. As for man, he must ever use the power of discernment and the ability to choose between Good and Evil to sculpt his own destiny and predicament in the Hereafter. Whether God chooses to aid him or not, in this making of his destiny, is left almost entirely to man himself and his determination to choose Good over Evil, God over the Demon.
Wayfarer? Are you still here?"
"You have learnt well, Max. You realize then that all things in existence and of which man has knowledge exists as such because man perceives them as such. Were it not for the human intellect, and the description of things given to it through the human senses like sight, hearing, smell and touch, all things in existence would be meaningless. Indeed, remove the human intellect and all else is mere illusion, Max: a faint resemblance to a world and a reality that already exists within the Ultimate Perception of things."
"Max, did you read that in the Apocrypha as well?" Joshua repeated his question, while both he and Father Callaghan stared at the suddenly silent figure of Max bowed down as he sat on the half wall of the enclosure.
"Max?"
"What?" Max looked up out of his preoccupation. "What did you say?"
"You were quoting Jesus on predestination, Max. Were you quoting from the Apocrypha?"
"Yes, yes," Max fell back out of his reverie. "I picked that up from the Apocrypha some time ago. It made a lot of sense, unlike the four Gospel writers. I think it was in the works of Arius, or Donatus."
Father Callaghan was visibly moved. Christianity still had hope then. If only in the Apocrypha, if not in the mainstream scriptures. But he had spent a lifetime studying Christianity, abiding by its every stricture. How then had this truth, so easily received by one seemingly half his age, avoided him for these many years? Was there a criterion beyond academic scholarship that bestowed enlightenment upon those who passed its test? Could that criterion be intellectual honesty more than emotional affinity?
Joshua had got up from his sitting position on the half wall, seemingly unaware of his own action. He made his way slowly down the steps of the enclosure with the other two following suit. The darkening of the evening sky, it seemed, was then drawing the curtains on an absorbing discussion between the three men in Richard's park. The sun had surely gone below the horizon and if there was any doubt, the ululating, soul-stirring call of prayer issuing out of the minarets of the Sir Ismail Sait mosque in Frazer Town now reached their ears, setting the issue at rest: it was, indeed, sunset. While the call to prayer was unsettling for Max; the other two, however, would not be hurried as they walked slowly to the exit from the park.
"But, Max." The younger man wouldn't let the conversation die out. "In choosing to live a life in keeping with God's commandments, as against the powerful insinuations of the Satan, doesn't man get to earn his reward. Doesn't he actually merit paradise? Is he not the maker of his own destiny?"
"Merit, Joshua?" Max looked at the young priest. "Can man really merit even a little breath which he receives every moment? Consider, brother, the parable of the one from Nazareth: If one should lend you a hundred pieces of gold, and you spend those pieces, could you say to that man: 'I give you a decayed vine-leaf; give me therefore thine house, for I merit it'?"
"No." It was Father Callaghan, in a voice that betrayed inner feelings. "He should first pay that which he owed, and then, if he wished for anything, he should give him good things, but what good is a decayed leaf, like these fallen leaves before us?" He gently tossed aside the autumn leaves that had fallen from the branches above the park's walkway that led to the exit.
"Exactly, Father." Max confirmed. "So who was it who created man out of nothing? Doubtless, it was God, who also gave him the whole world for his benefit. But man by sinning has spent it all, for by reason of sin is all nature turned against man, and man in his misery has nothing to give to God but works corrupted by sin. For, sinning every day, he makes his own work corrupt. How, then, should man have merit, seeing he is unable to give satisfaction?"
"Is it not possible then that there are people - a very few people, at least - who might not be sinning?" Joshua wondered aloud.
"If you looked into the Apocrypha, brother," Max reminded the young priest again, "You would find Jesus telling us: 'Certain it is that our God saith by his prophet David: 'Seven times a day falleth the righteous'; how then falleth the unrighteous? And if our righteousnesses are corrupt, how abominable are our unrighteousnesses! As God liveth, there is naught that a man ought to shun more than this saying: 'I merit.' Let a man know, brother, the works of his hands, and he will straightaway see his merit. Every good thing that cometh out of a man, verily man doeth it not, but God worketh it in him; for his being is of God who created him. That which man doeth is to contradict God his creator and to commit sin, whereby he meriteth not reward, but torment.'"
"Even what we consider our own virtue," said Father Callaghan quietly, "is facilitated by the mercy of God. It is our sins alone that do not have God's sanction. In that, what is truly ours, and ours alone, are our sins which we commit at our own discretion. And yes, Max, can we really hope to merit anything with nothing of our own save our unrighteousness? Can we even dare to say we merit?" Father Callaghan's voice rose and fell with the intensity of sudden conviction.
Max smiled at Father Callaghan: "You already knew it, didn't you, Father?"
"Well, it was about time. I'm an old man in the service of the Church now, Max." Father Callaghan laughed. It was laughter that breathed hope and a prayer that deep down there was still a way out of the rigidities of the Church. Even if it was in the Apocrypha that he had now to ransack. It was somewhere, at least. It was, comfortingly, consolingly, still there, somewhere.
Max looked at the evening sky from outside the gates of Richard's park. It had turned a deep red and the darkness was already seeping in. His time was almost up, and he had to hurry onto the main square at Frazer Town before he missed out.
"It has been such an interesting evening with you two, but I really must hurry now." Max began to say goodbye.
"But tell us, Max, which denomination do you belong to? With your interest in the Apocrypha, it isn't even strange to ask, you know!" Joshua pleaded, already fascinated by this stranger's understanding of the scripture. He wished that Christianity had more members like him.
"I am a Muslim by faith, Joshua. And I'm still striving to be one by practice." The answer came easily from Max. "But like I said earlier, my faith is that of Christ's own persuasion."
Max then grabbed two suddenly lifeless hands, "We must meet more often, but now I must rush to the mosque at Frazer Town if I am not to miss my evening prayers. May God be with us."
By a single thought that comes into the mind,
In one moment a hundred worlds are overturned.
Or so said Rumi in his Mathnawi, thought Max, as he moved away quickly, waving back to the speechless men behind him. Two men who, in a few moments, had a thousand worlds overturned. By a single thought, or was it several? Max chuckled to himself as he made haste to reach the mosque. Maximus: he never was comfortable with his name. He never had been, with its meaningless, non-Islamic nature. But then there were times when he liked it that way.
This, clearly, was one of those times.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
HISTORY'S END ?
As I turn to the mirror of my heart,
Always then the last resort;
As I ask it in its agony,
'Mirror, mirror, of my heart;
How, indeed, has the year gone by?'
For the December of another year
Is finally, finally, all but here.
'Good master, then,' my heart weeps out loud,
'Remember not how, over your scribbling bowed,
Your piteous self in yesteryear,
Penned a poem in pain you scarce could bear.
For had it not been the 2003rd, the new year?'
So howbeit in 2004;
Did history take a new detour?
Alas, dear reader, if only you'd known,
That we, of the Muslims, have been thrown,
For better, or for worse, one year on,
Into an impasse of no return.
Alas, dear reader, as you read,
My lamentations, prayers and my dread;
All of a year as in 2003,
Now past the pages of history.
You'll know then that little has changed;
Has our history, indeed, come to its fag end?
Here then, that song of 2003;
So new, so fresh in its pain and its hope,
That how can we, with another such, ever cope :
'Twas a year ago, when I had laid my hopes anew,
For one was full of plans and dreams.
Ne'er minding the shame, the hurt, the trials of old;
And I was lookin' for the time ahead.
For, it was, they said the new year 2003.
But scarcely had the year begun,
When Islam was again declared as the enemy to be,
Not enough was the broken lives in Afghanistan,
Not enough the agony in Palestine!
For, it was, they said the New Year 2003...
Yes, O comrades, barely had the year been born,
Were there tremblings of a war to be.
And long before the rain of fire,
One's heart bled for Iraq in 2003.
For men of power more, but less of compassion,
Raved and ranted of threats and deals.
And Oh! How the Ummah throbbed, and thronged, in pain,
On the morn' of 2003.
Will this misery never end, Oh Lord;
Won't this pain ever subside, dear God?
But why this trial so eternal, so unending:
Is this, indeed, our fate to be?
Or is this Thy retribution for 2003?
But there arose a song within me;
Telling me of the Law Divine:
That the fate of a people, God changes not,
For 'twas the people who had to change it first,
Even in this year of 2003.
Oh! For the Chechen: incarnation of the spirit defiant!
Woe is the Russian Czar, who, to its pain, incompliant.
And Oh for the misery of Chechnya; of its children and women brave,
Who, with their lives, bought the sweetness of the grave!
Away from the pain, the suffering, Oh Lord;
Away from the tribulations in seeking after the world.
And away, away, Oh God,
From the horror that was 2003.
Was suicide then the only way,
For the Palestinian heroes of yesterday?
Suicide bombers they were to be called
Oh! for the agony and pain of it all!
For, it all happened in 2003.
And God did mention from of old,
That our prophets were, indeed, told;
That not by burning the books heavy,
Would knowledge be removed for eternity.
Nay! Not by knowledge, but by the knower;
Not by scholarship, but by the scholar;
Would the Lord, our God, take up learning from hereof.
As it did transpire in 2003.
For him who struggled, him who strove;
Him who, within the dungeons, bore
For years on end a lifetime's learning;
Him did God take away from this yearning!
Ah! Pity then the Bosnia which
Cries for the noble Izzetbegovich.
Yes, O my comrades! For he did die in the year 2003.
And how I remember, our friend Edward, the Christian.
Who for all his life was but a Palestinian.
A Gladiator in the battle with the Snake of Zion;
For till the end he never ceased being the Lion.
No matter what the Demon had to say,
Edward always had the last say!
For, he was, indeed, Edward Said;
And yes, he did pass away in 2003.
But the year hasn't passed, not yet;
And I hear a rumbling still.
My heart skips a beat that it doesn't get;
For, the earth has shaken in Iran
Oh my Lord! But where's the villain;
Who's the villain for all this misery?
And hear the women, how they cry!
Oh, if only it would pass away: this 2003.
But where is the hope,
Where is the way?
How can we, with these disasters, cope?
Ah! Listen to the Messenger, what does he say?
'Strange is the believer in his way:'
For let Evil visit him or let it be Good,
Patience and Resilience are his Food.
For, in Evil, thus, is also his making,
And in Good he makes in gratitude, the partaking.
Same is it for 2003 as it is for Eternity.
So did I write of 2003;
How then of 2004 and its misery?
Is it the same, this suffering, this pain?
Has it not all come over us yet again?
Did not the men of evil from power to power return?
Did not our scholars die out by their turn?
Have not the tears fallen off Palestine?
Over the martyr; the murder of Ahmed Yassin?
As it happened in 2004,
As always it was in the days of yore.
Tightened its coil, has the snake of Zion
In the departure of that 'last' bastion?
Farewell, then, O Abu Ammar,
Leaving us the legacy of an unfinished war.
And all of it before the end of 2004.
In Iraq still rages the tempest of faith,
Unperturbed by the martyrs' pile of wreath upon wreath.
Nay, rejoicing even, is the Resistance, at the sight of that pile,
For with one of the Two Victories it will soon have to reconcile
Cry then, O Fallujah, that 'One is, indeed, mine!'
Cry then, O Fallujah, 'the Demon's power we shall, thus, undermine.'
Weep not, O watcher, for the laying waste of Fallujah,
For has it not been decreed by our Lord, Almighty Allah,
That He has, indeed, extracted from us a price,
In return for His everlasting Paradise.
Has He not asked: 'What thinketh ye, ye hapless men,
That Paradise would soon become your possession,
As soon as ye say, 'We believe'?
Without ever wanting, your earnings, to leave;
Without yet a suffering, a trial, by its touch,
Not having scorched you, and asked of you much;
As it did happen from of old
To many a people of similar human mould!'
Patience and Resilience, then, my comrades,
Must still be our weapons as we scale the Demon's barricades.
With the armour of our knowledge that the prayer of the oppressed
Will never, not for a minute, be for an answer be ever suppressed.
For as the Demon plots at the dusk of 2004,
His Maker, the Plotter Supreme, encompasses his plots in full, as before
Even as early as the Dawn of his own creation
How then stands the plan of the Demon before that Revelation,
But as stands the solitary drop in the vast Ocean!
And how much even less,
For the Demon, the thought, to caress!
Wake, then, O descendents of Adam,
From the slumber that has been your wont.
Rise, then O heirs of Adam, from the silence of the lambs.
And let the Demon know that, for once, he, his bidding do, he certainly can't.
No, not in this dusk of 2004, nor in the dawn of 2005,
Nor until the Last Day and not while there is even one of you alive.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
He wasn't fully the type that his son would have wanted to see as a father. But was the poor man solely to be blamed? Max wondered. He was, after all that can be said about him, the quintessential family man. Loyal to immediate family bonds almost to the exclusion of all others in society. Perhaps, unknown to his own self, a materialist even. More of an introvert. Quick to anger. Strict and tough with his only son. Lenient and gentle with his two daughters. That was Max's summing up of his father even as the memory of his childhood presented itself to him. But then childhood is, like all things, a passing phase and one soon gets to grow out of it; to reassess impressions; to reassign priorities as one moves forward in life. For Max, however, despite the many years that passed out through his childhood and teenage years, few things had remained as constant - as rigidly as his earliest impression - as the image of his father's peculiar attachment to his religion. Most other things about his father had undergone at least a marginal change over the years: he had become more outgoing, he could now hold back his temper occasionally, he had realized that his only son was not a child anymore and so he had to deal with him man to man, but, of course, he still loved his daughters and was still lenient and gentle with them. Even if they were both married now and had settled down with their families in distant cities across the seas. But the way that he related to his religion throughout all these years had undergone little change. He still believed that he was a far better 'Muslim' than those Arabs in the Gulf states amongst whom he had worked for more than a quarter of a century. 'What was the point if you had a rosary in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other?' Max recalled his father asking his friends. And they would nod in solemn agreement. It was a strange thing to Max, even back in those days when he attended primary school, that his father was rarely amongst the hundreds of worshippers who thronged to the mosques of the city every Friday. With the advantage of his maturing years, however, Max now realized that those were mostly worshippers who probably never bothered themselves with any of the other mandatory prayers save that one weekly congregation. He now knew that there were people who considered it sufficient, for their religious pretensions, to have met each other and performed the rituals of a Friday congregation together in that one assembly and then to be done with their religion for another week, even as they immersed themselves in the concrete realities of the world. Their jobs. Their children. Their families. Their moneymaking. Their luxuries. Their life that was to be lived for, without end, in the here rather than the hereafter. Friday, then, was such a tragedy. To Max, it represented in a cruel, ironic sense the pathetic failure of the Muslim world. The general relegation of worship and brotherhood to one day in a week, when Islam gave a vision of mosques full with worshippers five times a day. In that sense, Ramadan - the Muslim month of fasting - too was a tragedy to Max's peculiar way of thinking from behind, or to, what he would come to define later, his way of thinking laterally. It represented a month of devotion amongst the general Muslim world, which he now began to hold in contempt. For, if, to some, Ramadan meant a month of great self-restraint and devotion, to Max, Ramadan was the herald of the next eleven months when the mosques would be emptied of worshippers, all restraints kept aside, and the sense of brotherhood and fraternity all but forgotten until the approach of the next Ramadan. The world had not changed much since then, those childhood years, Max sadly knew. You still had a majority of people who still thought in those terms. And it was infinitely sadder to Max that his own father should be amongst an even more select band of followers who cared little for such pretensions as Friday worship. To them such pretentious acts amounted to nothing less than hypocrisy, pure and simple. Of course, Max himself was not totally averse to such a judgement. But the problem lay more with the judges than with the judgement itself. To these people who would judge others, matters of faith were exactly just that: a matter of faith. Nothing more. Nothing less. Faith, to his father, was what you believed and not how you believed. It was essential to him that we believed in one God and in His messengers but his indifference to the question of how that belief should affect one's life was near total. And that was precisely where the son shifted away from the father. For, to Max, faith that was based in true knowledge meant nothing if that knowledge was not put to good use. One of the arguments for his position which he suggested to himself as a teenager was one which he was always going to present his father with. He would plan endlessly of the way in which he was going to put it forward, the only problem being that he just could not get himself to ask and argue. That, then, was how some children were brought up: intimidated by the father's very presence; unable to ask, or say, something unless it was through the medium of a caring mother who was not there always to be the communication link between father and son. In such instances where the mother was absent, there would remain that unbridgeable gap between the two, marked by a world of silent company and imaginative assumptions of what went on in the mind of the other. Max's argument, however, remained unarticulated, undescribed and lodged within his own being with a force that would resemble the stored up energy of water contained across the barrier of a dam in a river. 'When, O God, will this dam give way?' Max had pleaded in his prayers. 'When will one ever come out of the inhibitions with which one is surrounded, to declare to the world, to those whom one cared for the most, the real meaning of faith? The message to which they must pay heed as to nothing else?' The dam of course gave way in time, but not within his family. It burst open elsewhere. In that campus atop a hill. At that town by the Arabian Sea. At the place of his father's greatest expectations for his son and for the dignity of his own standing in society. At that temple of the modern world where the devotees turned up in droves for the blessings of the god of applied science for their children. At the high altar of an institution, indeed, a philosophy of life, that was dedicated, in the main, to the routine production of minds caught young and acculturated to a one-eyed ethic of life and employment that gave primacy of place to a purely materialistic orientation. To the basics of making money through your profession. Of outdoing the Joneses. At the new home of the Demon's revolution. The dam gave way not within Max's family. It burst forth while he was in university. Not a university that promoted theology or metaphysics, but a university dedicated to the applied sciences like engineering: the stream through which his father had wanted him to swim through to dignity and status in society. Max did swim through the stream however, although he never swam with the stream. He swam against it. And in the process caught a few other lives that were going downstream and turned their course upwards. Against the tide. University completed, he returned home and for all his experiences at the campus, home was still unchanged. The dam was still here. His convictions and frustration at being unable to convince his father continued to remain in the reservoir of his being. Home, then, was not a place. It was where you found contentment, where you flowed freely without obstructions. Without dams. Home is where you find it. The argument - Max's argument - nevertheless, remained: What is believing in the imminent collapse of the building you have climbed into if that belief did not help you to realize, and act upon, the urgency with which you must back out of the building to save yourself? Is not the true believer in this collapse the one who tries to save himself, or herself, before that disaster struck? Was it not the fool who said he believed and yet stayed within the building until it collapsed over him? Max wished that his father would realize that believing in God and His warnings - repeated over and over in His message - actually meant that he was to obey Him in each of His commandments. If God existed, then surely He didn't exist just so that His highest creation would merely acknowledge His existence. For that would be just a passive existence. And that was a concept repugnant to an understanding of any higher manifestation of God. Divine existence, then, was to be a dynamic one in that our knowledge of that existence must prompt us to understand, and pay heed to, His ways and His commandments. This, of course, should be more so because it is ultimately tied up with our own salvation and contentment in the Hereafter. Undoubtedly, however, the search for personal salvation, as represented in the yearning for safety from Hell, and personal contentment, as represented in the longing for paradise, within realms outside of space and time as we know it, are but two stations on the way to the highest goal: the pleasure of God; the countenance Divine, as it were. But what of those who cannot see through to even those two stations? How are they to be helped? And that too before the coming of that Day when, in the words of the Qur'an, 'every man will flee from his father and his mother; from his wife and from his children,' in search of safety for none but himself. A Day when every man would wish that his wife, his children and his parents could be given in ransom for his own safety from Divine wrath. A Day that brings to end the validity of that sacred bond between father and child by which God swears one of His strongest oaths in the Qur'an: 'By (the bond) between the begetter and that which he begot.' And that too if the people that are to be helped are those like his own father. His father who was chiefly responsible, albeit in an indirect way, for having guided him into the light of true belief; who insisted on the best education and the best books in the English language for his only son as he grew past childhood and high school; who brought into the house literature on comparative religion, little knowing that his curious son would soon be seeking them out to satisfy the reading appetite that his father had so carefully nurtured in him. To the father, Islam represented a fascinating aspect of his own identity; something which he saw could be very well defended against the feeble intellectual challenges posed by other religions. And this logical, rational foundation of Islam fascinated him no end. It gave him immense satisfaction to see the creed of his fathers being defended so successfully by the great TV debaters of the day, chief amongst whom was a certain Ahmed Deedat from South Africa. If nothing else, Deedat was perhaps the first rational face of Islam which the father had seen in all his adult life. Sadly to the son, however, there seemed to be nothing else for his father; there had been no further progress beyond that interest in comparative religion. There was just to be the sense of tribal affinity which was satiated with every successful projection of Islam against the contradictions of other religions. A feeling of triumph that soon dissipated with the slightest thought of implementing Islam in one's own life. That was when Islam wouldn't be allowed to percolate further into personal life. That was when the 'how' of belief in God didn't matter. That was when the popular saint worship of the day became non-problematic. That was when rational thinking didn't matter too much. That was when the vilest innovations in religion become the norm, rather than the exception. That was when strict obedience became a burden. An inconvinience. To the son, however, such an attitude towards faith had come to represent the equivalent of reinstating idol worship back into Islam. For, God, of course, was believed in but not to the exclusion of the other objects of worship like current social norms and one's own over-riding interests, one's own likes and dislikes that came about in preference to God's command. These then were the old, yet new, idols within one's heart. They were old in the sense that such selfish considerations have existed right from the beginning of man's story; right from the time Cain murdered Abel so long ago. But they were new too in that they had become exclusive to this age by virtue of the ancient concept of idols and belief in idols becoming obsolete with the passage of the centuries. Today, in the twenty first century after the disappearance of Christ, nobody with a proper scientific education seriously believed in idol worship in the traditional sense. Idol worship had to be reinvented: if there couldn't be idols of clay and wood, there would always be the idols of the heart. And that, of course, was what the Demon always counted on. In that sense, thought Max, was his own predicament similar to that of Abraham, the Haneef? Abraham who, according to the Qur'an, turned, with those with him, towards his father and people - all idol worshippers - and declared, 'Today there has come about a wall (of separation) between us and you which will not be removed until you worship none but Allah.' In that act of Abraham, said the Qur'an, there was an excellent example for those who truly believed. But Max loved his father too dearly to want to relate to that 'excellent example' just yet. He hoped that occasion would not arrive so soon. There still was hope. After all, they were alive, both of them. Both, father and son. Both their hearts. And every new dawn held a promise. The promise of another day. Of another chance. Before all chances came to an end with the tenure of life herein. Before the Day finally arrived. Judgement Day.
Monday, July 26, 2004
He re-read the paragraphs that he had scribbled down one last time.
Arabic had never been his particular strength. At least, not in the way that English was. Sadly, to Max's thinking, this was despite the fact that he had just missed being born in a nation that had Arabic as its mother tongue; despite the fact that he had almost all the happiest memories of his childhood and upbringing in a country that wholly belonged to a culture that is, and a people who still are, out and out Arab; despite the fact that his neighbourhood friends and their families with whom he mingled and lived in those wonderful growing up years were all Arabs or Arab expatriates living in the United Arab Emirates. There were Palestinians, Egyptians, Jordanians and even Somalis, he remembered. All of them Arabs who, with their innate sense of hospitality and brotherhood, made him feel for the land where he grew up as if it were his second home: his home away from home; who made him feel that the faces that sat around him now rocking in the now-violent, now-gentle motion of the train on its rails represented the poorer half of humanity: poorer for all the warmth and hospitality that was, to the Arabs he had known, second nature.
But this was India, Max reminded himself, and these were Indians. And the UAE was already fading into the dim mists of his memory. A memory that was reality until around eight years ago when he had to return home to do his graduation in Mechanical Engineering. At that campus atop a hill. Above that town by the Arabian Sea...
The train rolled on through the night.
Max was on assignment to Hyderabad where he was to attend a conference on interest-free banking in his capacity as the Executive Editor of the periodical that he worked for at Bangalore. His interest in the practicability of Islamic Economics and Banking as a potent, humane alternative to the exploitative system of international finance was deep and of many years standing. Indeed, it had prompted him, as a sensitive nineteen-year-old witness to what he felt within was the unbearable poverty of rural India, to embark on an exciting adventure through the slums of the village that he hailed from. It had brought him into contact with the richest, the most affluent in his society on the one hand while on the other, it had him talking and sitting with the hapless, poverty-stricken villagers who formed a great majority in the village that was his home. Between these two classes whose combined existence formed the very symbols of an unjust, predatory economic philosophy, he had proposed the bridge of Zakat: the Islamic instrument that, to his mind, would reduce the wide chasm between the two... For a nineteen year old who had just returned from his eighteen years in the elegant, oil rich cities of the Persian Gulf, and who suddenly found himself in the poverty of an Indian village, that must have been an act of great daring, Max considered in retrospect. Those first years when he got back to India from the Middle East had been difficult years, he remembered. 'But with difficulty there comes ease,' as the Qur'an would tell him repeatedly throughout the decade that had passed since then. A decade at the end of which, today, he would recall all those years, wherein he had learned much after his return, with an aching fondness that he knew he would not have gained if he had continued to spend a lifetime in the luxurious, deceptive embrace of the middle east...
The Middle East, the Arabs: that was what the words he had scribbled down reminded him of. After all, he had been attempting to translate into English, one of the greatest prose works in Arabic ever written in modern times. It didn't matter to him too much that he was attempting the assignment given to him by an Islamic publishing company in India - that of translating the late Syed Qutb's monumental In the shade of the Qur'an - in the rocking coach of a train that was on its way to Hyderabad. In a coach whose dim lights did little justice to the effort that he was making in converting the Arabic of the original into an English of agreeable standard. The English edition would go into the international market, the company authorities had reminded him. So the English had to be good, if not the best.
To the other passengers in the coach, the man sitting by the window presented a peculiar image not too often seen in train compartments in India. They had surely seen others who sat reading, fully absorbed in the book in their hands, while the train carried them along on to their destinations. There were even people who occasionally wrote a few things while on journey. But this man seemed an exception for, he was obviously involved in writing one language while almost simultaneously reading from another book that was in a different language. A language that seemed very like Arabic in script from a distance. Perhaps, not all the six passengers traveling in his coach had noticed as much, but the man who sat opposite Max, beside the other window, had indeed seen it for he asked in some surprise, 'That is surely Arabic that you are copying from?'
Max looked up from his bent position as he sat squatting - as only an Indian can - on the smooth cushion of the common coach seating. The passenger adjacent to him too had heard the question and looked on in interest as Max put down the pen into the middle of the notebook, which he then closed and kept beside him.
'Yes, it is Arabic.' Max answered, but then as an afterthought, he added, 'And I am not copying, I am translating.' Max observed his questioner closely for the first time since he got into the train at the Bangalore City railway station. Of course, that was the starting point of the train's journey but the man was already at his place by the window when Max had entered past the two policemen who stood outside in the compartment corridor. Max had sat down opposite him by the other window but apart from a smile that was exchanged between the two, there had been precious little conversation until that time.
'Oh, but that sounds interesting,' replied the man in some amazement. The other passenger besides Max nodded as if in agreement. 'I have always wanted to study Arabic in some depth, you know,' he went on. 'But I never had the chance.'
There seemed to be an air of genuine regret about the man, as he sighed and looked away momentarily out of the window as the night sped by. His face surely displayed the signs of his youth: the yet unwrinkled features, excepting, of course, for those that appeared momentarily on his forehead when he raised the skin covering it in a gesture of surprise or alarm, the smooth texture of his skin and the jet black beard now grown carelessly but which, Max was certain, had seen better days. The only thing that perhaps revealed the experiences befitting a more aged man was the streak of silver that ran through his hair at regular intervals. In fact, Max could only take him as one who was ahead of his own age by maybe a couple of years. The man looked back away from the window at Max and then asked again, 'Do you mind if I read something of your translation?'
Max smiled at him, unsure of the man's persuasion or ideology, but he found himself consenting to the man's request. 'No, not at all. Please go ahead.' Max opened out his notebook again and handed it out to the man. The man produced his left hand from underneath the red blanket that he was using to cover himself up from the cold breath of the night blowing in through the open window. As he moved forward to take the book, Max was not very sure whether he had not heard a faint clanging of metal that came from the man's direction. But the greater noise of the murderous train wheels on their rails drowned his efforts to ascertain the exact source of the sound.
'Thank you,' the man said as he sat back again with the book still held in his left hand. He raised the open page of the book a little towards his face and Max observed his eyes as they scanned the lines of the paragraphs that he had translated from the preface of Syed Qutb's work. The man's eyes seemed to sparkle with new life as he went over Max's wordings in English:
Living in the shade of the Qur'an I came to know of the beauty of the mutual relationship that exists between the universe created by Allah and the way of human life that He had dictated. Next, I saw the bitter consequences that came upon man when he strayed from these laws of nature. (I also saw) the great discrepancy between the misuse to which nature was being subjected and the natural laws that were prescribed by the Lord of the Universe in His great mercy. I asked myself: which accursed devil was it who was now dragging mankind into the vortex of this hell?
What peace can there be for man, what contentment, what blessing can there ever be without first comprehending within his heart this clear and comprehensive vision?Living under the shade of the Qur'an, I beheld in my sight a greatness in man; a greatness which I never did perceive before. For, after all, is he not but a part of the Divine spirit itself? Indeed, it is this breath of the Divine spirit that made him the representative of God on this earth. Made all that is on the earth subservient to him... The greatness and nobility that was conferred upon him through the investiture of the Divine spirit thus became the sacred bond of his destiny, the writing of the pledge, as it were. His nation, his country and his people all came to be represented in the creed of true belief.
The train was moving slowly again: away from the small station and its lights. Away from its pleas. Away into the night. The man shifted his position. Was that the metallic clang again? Max picked up his ears, but again the grinding of the wheels, again the metallic banging of its linkages. He still couldn't be sure.
'You write very well.' The man remarked as he placed his left hand onto the book, took it up and handed it back to Max.
'Thank you. But translations have to be faithful to the original.' Max took back his notebook from the man's left hand.
'What did you tell me your name was?' the man asked while he searched his left pocket for something and then presently brought it out. It was a cigarette.
'I am afraid I haven't told you that so far,' Max replied, a gentle smile playing upon his lips. The passenger next to Max had been smoking since a while, much to Max's irritation, and the stranger in the blanket leaned forward with his cigarette. The other man obliged and handed him his own lighted one. His cigarette lighted, the man in the blanket leaned back again, puffing away in some satisfaction.
'Oh, please excuse my memory but what is your name?'
'Maximus. But people call me Max.'
'Interesting name, Max.'
'Yes, like many things. But only if you will look into it.'
'So true.'
'And you are called...?'
'Oh, that doesn't really matter, Max.'
'How is that?'
'You'll see by the time I get off at the next station. In any case I see that you have been translating Syed Qutb's In the shade of the Qur'an. Is that right?' the man asked quite casually.
'Why, yes. Have you read it elsewhere?' Max was taken aback for a moment. He hadn't expected the man to know that.
'Well, not exactly. I have read it in parts. But I have heard a lot about it.' The man pulled at the cigarette in his left hand. 'I know that he wrote it in prison and that much of it reflects the emotions that he lived through while in prison.'
Max was delighted. The man seemed not just to be a Muslim but even a committed Muslim at that. 'Yes,' he agreed, 'Syed Qutb's commentary on the Qur'an does chart a new course in the field of Qur'anic exegesis. His work brings with it an originality and force of expression unheard of in many others of the same kind.'
'Exactly. Prison does a lot of things to a man, doesn't it?' The man seemed to reflect. 'To many it brings ruin and misery. But to some it brings out the best in them; it is for these people a period of meditation, a time to build upon their inner strength and will power. After a lifetime of advocating something, prison offers them the chance to test the strength of their convictions, doesn't it? It is, for them, the moment of truth.' The man exhaled smoke into the night outside the window.
'Very true in the case of Qutb.' Max agreed fully for he knew that the ordeal of imprisonment has been a common, almost universal experience for Muslim thinkers and activists in the modern world. For many of them, it has meant not just suffering, but also the opportunity to reflect upon past struggles, to review theories and strategies, to deepen and sharpen their insight, to plan and reorganize.
'I once read one Muslim scholar call prison the 'Josephian school', or the Madrassa-i-Yusufiye in Arabic if you please, referring thereby to both his own experiences of jail in Kemalist Turkey and the imprisonment of the prophet Joseph by the Pharoah.' The man was looking out into the night as he made this almost off-hand remark. But to Max it was as if he had discovered a world of new meaning.
'The Josephian school!' thought Max. 'What a great way of putting it!'
'You know,' Max joined in earnest, 'the whole imprisonment, trial and, ultimately, the execution of Syed Qutb revolved around what he wrote in his treatises on Islam and its applicability in solving the problems of today's world. I never quite got used to knowing that; the tragedy of it, that is..' Max voiced his inner most feelings.
'Yes, Max. I have heard that too,' the stranger in the blanket pulled at his cigarette for the last time since it had now burnt itself out into a small stub. 'We learned at school,' he continued, 'that the history of mankind began when he learned to write. But man became the human species when he learned to speak, to say what he thought. And then came others who forbade him to speak, thinking up the infamous 'verbal delict,' offences of the word, and returned him to the obscurity whence he had emerged.' The man finished as he threw the glowing stub that was his cigarette out through the window into the dark stream of darkness as it rushed by. A gentle throw from his left hand that send the glowing speck against the night tracing a trajectory into a passing field.
'The verbal delict,' thought Max. 'How precise can you get?'
'But the Egyptian regime under Jamal Abdel Nasser never quite managed to suppress the influence of Qutb's ideas, you know. Their impact has been permanent.' Max was thinking out loud now.
'No force on this earth can suppress the power of ideas, Max. Strong regimes do not condemn people for the spoken word, or for that matter the written word. It is the weak ones, which are afraid, and resort to violence in an attempt to prolong their existence.' There was a tinge of seriousness in the stranger's voice now.
Max nodded in agreement. He knew that prohibitions and force sometimes amount to nothing when persuading people is in question. The Qur'an itself makes this point in one of its most sublime and at the same time its most concise of sentences: La ikraha fil din - there is no compulsion in religion. If this is interpreted a little more widely, it simply means that in the matter of beliefs, in what people think, there can be no coercion.
What was that the Wayfarer once reminded him on this topic not so long ago? Max struggled to remember. But amidst that jerking and pulling and rolling of the train, Max did remember the Wayfarer's words: 'Those in power should be very careful about how they deal with a man who cares nothing for sensual pleasures, nothing for riches, nothing for comfort or praise or for promotion, but is simply determined to do what he believes to be right. He is a dangerous and uncomfortable enemy, because his body which they can always conquer, gives them so little purchase on his soul.' How the Wayfarer had, thus, added to his own deepening insight into the nature of consciousness wherein death shall be no more; wherein 'death, thou shalt die.'
'It doesn't Max, at least some of the time. But as a general rule, it often regards political prisoners as guilty for its own selfish reasons. It is a kind of defence mechanism. People cannot come to terms with the fact that they are living in a society where they do not have the protection of law and order. They are faced with the question of how it is that they can remain silent. Is it because it is easier for them to believe that the convicted person is guilty, that in any case he must have broken the law, because if not why would he be imprisoned and convicted? For if an innocent man is convicted in disregard of the law, then the person reflecting on this does not feel safe any longer and people instinctively reject this in self-defense. The harsher the sentence, the more easily this conclusion is reached and accepted. In the absence of evidence, a severe sentence is itself evidence of guilt.' The man's argument was more than convincing.
The train was approaching a bend in its track. While the bend was a gentle one it was, however, located on an incline, causing the train to tilt slightly as it moved over it. Max felt himself sliding over to the right and had to hold himself on to his seat to avoid moving over. He saw the situation to be the same with the other passengers in the middle of the compartment. As for the man opposite, Max was surprised to see the fingers of his right hand grip the horizontal window grills while the hand underneath the red blanket remained immovable. Instead, he saw the man hold firm on to his seat with his left hand. While Max watched in some amazement, the incline on which the train moved eased out and presently they were again in normal alignment. The whole episode had taken only a minute, but it was enough to raise even further Max's curiosity regarding the man's right hand. Of course, he could still not get himself to ask.
'Yea. You are right,' Max continued with the discussion, hiding his surprise. 'The man in the street would reason that if he wasn't guilty, he'd have got two or three years, not fifteen. Without clear and explicit proof of guilt, a lenient sentence of itself arouses suspicions, and indicates that even the authorities are unsure of themselves. In the case of a harsh sentence, that kind of doubt is dispelled. So the innocent man receives twice the sentence.'
'That's an old trick, Max.' The man in the blanket covering quipped. 'The Nazis used it too; not in the length of sentence but in the cruel harshness of punishment in concentration camps. 'Surely they wouldn't be so harsh with them if they weren't traitors' - this is probably how the average German rationalized things.'
'Strange thing, this Law,' Max sighed.
'And stranger still how people can be programmed to believe in all that is opposed to reality, in evil as against the good, in wrong as against the right,' the man in the blanket filled in slowly where Max had left off, his gaze still fixed on the night outside the window, his hair blown back by the wind against his face.
The man might not have known it but the Wayfarer had once told Max that what he had referred to was exactly what the Demon had planned for humanity all along: to reverse the moral order, the moral basis of true Law so that ultimately it is the innocent who end up the culprit and the real culprit, the innocent. On the other extreme of, or as opposed to, this condition stood the real underpinning of Law and through it an offender seems to us to be a free man who is acting according to his own laws, while the righteous man is a slave to rules. Behaviour according to this code that does not derive from the soul appears repugnant to us. In that choice, our sympathy goes out spontaneously to the free man. Most people do wrong in their own interest, in the cause of power, wealth, glory, love or whatever it may be. But there is also evil for its own sake, evil that is its own end. And therein was a manifestation of the Demon himself: inheritor of Hell.
'I have a colleague of mine who is in jail.' The man remarked without notice.
'Oh,' Max looked up. 'Has he been there long?'
'No. Not really,' the man looked at Max with a blank stare. 'And his imprisonment will be over soon, you know.'
'That's good to hear,' Max offered, not quite sure of the difference in the tone of the man's voice.
'Yea. He's on the death row. He will be executed next week...' the man's voice was as cold as ice.
'Good Lord,' Max gasped in disbelief. 'I'm so sorry,' he stuttered.
'No, its alright,' the man looked away. 'It's just that our discussion just reminded me of him. He had killed a man, see? A member of a gang whom he saw beat up his father in the town square like a dog. So he couldn't stand the sight of it, see? He had to do something and he ended up inadvertently killing one member of the gang...'
Several minutes ticked away with nothing but silence between the two: each in contemplation over the nature of law when it did, and didn't, reach resonance with the particular moral fabric of the human being. All was silent in the cabin except for the monotonous music of the train wheels and the occasional whistle of the train as it sped through the night. The other passengers had almost all gone off to sleep: some dozed in the sitting position with their heads hanging onto their sides, resting even, on the shoulder of the other man next to them who, if he was not asleep himself, would have been sorely irritated by it.
'Its one thing to study the mind of the criminal when you do your degree in Law, Max. But it is quite another to know of it from close at hand.' The man opposite Max went on.
'You have studied Law?' The question from Max was spontaneous.
'More than that. I have been a practicing lawyer, Max.' The answer was conspicuous by the absence of any underlying emotion. It was a blank reply stripped of all complexities.
'One would have thought as much,' Max confirmed.
The man did not seem to have heard him. Instead, he continued with his own train of thought. 'One thing I learned from my colleague is the way in which he coped with his predicament in prison. He often wondered particularly during the first few days after the verdict, whether he would have the courage to withstand what lay ahead. The days went by and he did not notice in himself any lessening of the will to live, but more and more frequently he caught himself thinking that he was fairly old and that death before his execution could not be far off. That thought brought him relief. He kept it to himself like some great secret...'
There was a sudden jerk as the brakes came on ahead at the train's engine bogey. The man in the red blanket lurched forward slightly at the jerking motion. The distinctive clanging of metal accompanied his movement: Max noted again of a sudden. All the compartments slowed down immediately one behind the other and fell in line with a gentle forward motion. Surely, another stop, another station was approaching. Two of the other passengers in the cabin got up in a hurry, made sure that it was the right station, unruffled their wrinkled shirts. They then picked up their luggage and made their way into the corridor outside the entrance to the cabin.
'You seem to know your friend's experiences very well.' Max told the man.
'Yes. I can relate to him easily. Like I was saying, Max, I was his colleague. Until today, that is. But now they have separated us.'
A faint outline of a frown had crept up on Max's face. 'What? Where was he your colleague until today?' He managed two questions.
'At the Josephian school, Max. I was his co-prisoner. A prisoner of conscience, as they would say. For, I was no murderer, I had just spoken out for the Muslim community. I had said the right word at the wrong time, Max.'
The train had ground to a halt outside the station: full of life, of passengers waiting to get in, others trying to get out, the hawkers with their wares, children running around. A world outside a world.
The man pulled aside the red woolen blanket and wiped his face almost indifferent to the gaping one belonging to the man sitting opposite to him. In the process his blanket fell off his right hand and there it was again. The metallic clanging with its source now uncovered: Max stared in stunned silence at the metal hand cuffs that had locked his right hand to the lowest iron grill on the window all the while they had been talking.
The two policemen whom Max had noticed standing outside the cabin when he entered, now walked in. While one stood at the entrance, the other came over to the man and unlocked the metal cuff that had arrested his free movement. 'Come, its time to go,' the policeman almost whispered as he pulled up his prisoner.
The prisoner's eyes were on Max's.
'They are transferring me to another prison. But we will see each other again, won't we?' he asked in a moment that prevailed before the policemen compelled him to move.
Max struggled to find his voice again. 'But, but....how have you been sentenced..?' He managed to ask, his eyes glazed for want of a blink of their lids.
'Maybe a few months, maybe a few years, maybe for life even....who knows?' the man smiled looking over his shoulder at Max as the policemen escorted him outside the cabin. Max was standing up now, unable to fully comprehend what had unwound before his startled eyes. His ears. His soul.
'We have to graduate, Max,' the man's voice echoed in his ears then as it would echo and re-echo over the many days that followed. 'We have to move along to meet our moment of truth. We have to graduate from the Josephian school some day to know it all, Max. To live each day as it comes.'
'Day by day.'
The train pulled away from the station, having unloaded its burden while taking on yet another. It then gained momentum, and sped away into the fading night.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
VIGILANTE JOURNALISM
Sunday.
That's the day for, what they call in journalistic circles, 'slow news.' The day of the week when most of the authorized sources of information are at relative rest. That's when, as the internationally acclaimed John Pilger once put it, 'nothing happens..apart from acts of God and disorder in far-away places.'
'Pilger sure got that one right.' Max sighed as he went over the colour brochures laid out on his editor's desk. 'Nothing ever happens on a Sunday.'
Today was a Sunday and unlike most other publishing firms - or even any non-publishing firm for that matter - Max's was a regular working day. At the Muslim Digest where Max worked as the Executive Editor, it was Friday that was the day off: an appropriate symbol of the Islamic nature of the organization to which he belonged. And so here he was at work this Sunday - as in all other Sundays - when the rest of the media world took a break.
'Much like the night watchman on his regular beat. Vigilant and alert while the world slept. Vigilante journalism at its best, even?' Max amused himself.
He read through the brochures for the umpteenth time and sighed yet again. The brochures announced the details of the Bangalore based Indian Institute of Journalism & New Media (IIJNM), which was successfully launched in the January of 2001. Max had read earlier that the curriculum being taught there was developed in association with Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, New York. In order to retain flexibility in its course offerings, IIJNM did not seek any national accreditation.
As the brochure said: 'The program leading to a diploma or a Postgraduate diploma in journalism, builds on the student's already strong background in liberal arts, the sciences, law or other disciplines. The purpose is not to train candidates for the next job in the field, but to educate them for significant careers.'
'Yea, and I guess that would apply also for those with a strong background in the applied sciences as well.' Max said to himself as he sipped slowly from the cup of tea in his other hand. Ever since he decided on a career-change that marked his entry into the Islamic media field from as diverse a professional background as the engineering one, in which he was trained, Max had wanted to do his post graduate studies in Journalism and the IIJNM represented possibly the best opening that this part of the world had to offer.
But there was just one small problem though: the PG diploma programme had a fee structure of just under two lakhs of Rupees! And as far as Max's financial standing was concerned, that was quite prohibitive. Max was certain then that his hopes for a PG programme at the prestigious institute would remain a distant dream, at least for the moment. Until then he would have to make do with writing essays and articles that testified more to his love for the cause of Islam that he espoused than to his innate talent for writing beautifully. He would have to make do with going around interviewing people of eminence in the Islamic field and in the secular field when it related to Islam...
The shrill ringing of the telephone on his table abruptly broke into his thoughts.
'Hello. This is the Muslim Digest. May I help you?' Max spoke aloud as he picked up and placed the receiver in his usual position between his left shoulder and his left ear while his one hand threw, into the dustbin, the empty plastic teacup and the other put back the IIJNM brochures onto the table.
'Can I speak to the Executive Editor please?' The female voice at the other end enquired.
'Sure,' replied Max. 'You are speaking to him right now.'
'Oh, I see.' The voice at the other side seemed a trifle embarrassed. 'Actually, we are calling from the Indian Institute of Journalism & New Media.'
'You are calling from where?' Max's eyebrows shot up.
'The Indian Institute of Journalism & New Media, sir. You have heard of it, surely?'
'But, of course.' Max was sitting straight up in his chair now, staring down at the photograph of the IIJNM in the brochure on his table. He could hardly believe his ears.
'How may I help you?' He struggled to prevent his voice from betraying his sudden excitement.
'Well, here at the IIJNM, we have been involved lately with what seemed to us as a timely, relevant project: we have undertaken research into the impact and role of Muslim free media in India and elsewhere. And as part of our task we thought it appropriate that we should have an interview on the subject with yourself in your capacity as one of the main editors of an Islamic Publication that has been in the market for the past quarter of a century.' The voice at the other end paused.
Max held his breath. This was happening just too fast.
'Could you spare us the time for an interview tomorrow at ten?' The woman put across the question that was coming along.
'Of course. It will be my pleasure.' Max heard himself say as if from a great distance and as if with a great effort.
'Thank you, sir. We will meet tomorrow at ten at your office then. Have a nice Sunday.'
'Yes, I'm sure I will.' Max said just before he hung up.
'This is unbelievable. Whoever said Sunday was the slow-news day?' Max spoke to himself as he got up from his chair excitedly. There really wasn't much time to prepare.
Over the course of the next day, the official from the IIJNM did take the interview with the Executive Editor of the Muslim Digest: an interview which was the first instance where Max was called upon to respond to the probing questions shot at him from a secular and reputed institution in the country. Several days later, he would have the text of the interview in which he had spoken out so boldly for the cause of a new, essentially, Islamic, spirit in journalism. That text would read as follows:
IIJNM: How did this publication start?
Max: The Muslim Digest first came out twenty six years ago amongst a few like-minded Muslim students who took upon themselves the task of creating an awareness of Islamic principles and values amongst the Muslim community, in particular, and amongst all communities in general. The first year in which the magazine was launched saw the Muslim Digest come out in a much smaller size than what it is today: both in the range of its contents as well as the overall appearance. It was really a very humble beginning; very much a noble, but small scale, endeavour of a few enthusiastic Muslim students from Bangalore.
IIJNM: What are the aims of the publication of Muslim newspapers/magazines? What are your aims specifically?
Max: To answer that question, and at the outset itself, I think one has to be very specific in the use of the word 'Muslim'. This is important because there is a contemporaneous, cultural connotation associated with the term just as there is an ideal one. The cultural connotation, under which this term is more popular today, is one that encompasses everything that falls under what goes by the tendencies of a community, howsoever deviant those tendencies might be from the ideal, original precepts of the Islamic faith. This brings us to the ideal use of the term 'Muslim'. Ideally, the Muslim is any person who has submitted himself, or herself, wholly to the belief in God and the adherence to His commands. A very important part of being an obedient Muslim is to explain Islam and to invite others to the understanding of the Islamic faith with whatever means that might be available for the purpose. Newspapers and Magazines, without doubt, fall under the category of these means of communicating the message of Islam as of anything else. Indeed, to neglect the use of this means of communication in today's world is to be indifferent to the cause of creating an adequately aware world. What all this essentially means is that, ideally speaking, the aim of Muslim newspapers and magazines should be, first and foremost, to dessiminate the message of Islam to the world at large. Doubtless, this will involve delving into the condition of the Muslim community as it exists, as such, in the world today. Thus, an important area in which the Muslim Media must concentrate is in bringing to light the condition of the Muslim people world-wide: in itself an area of the most daunting scope and challenge. For, few communities in the world today have been so misunderstood and persecuted as has been the case with the Muslims. Ironically, this has been so despite the fact that, in a historical context, even fewer communities have contributed to the elevation and ennobling of the human spirit as have the community created by the vision of Islam.
The aims of the Muslim Digest must be understood in the above-mentioned context. In its role as an Islamic publication, the magazine promotes the Islamic vision for the world, as free from inherent prejudices as from self-seeking hypocrisy. The Muslim Digest works for the cause of justice, awareness and understanding between the varied communities that people India, in particular, and the world, in general.
IIJNM: What has your experience been like in all these years that you have been operating? How has your readership changed/ grown?
Max: As I was saying earlier, the Muslim Digest has been operating since the past twenty-six years and that has been quite a long time for a publication, whether Muslim or otherwise. While I must say that at a personal level, I have been involved with this publication only since the August of 2002, a few general remarks will be in order.
The past decades, it must be admitted, has seen the dramatic rise of Islam and the plight of the Muslim community as focal points of discussion in the intellectual circles within even distant corners of the world. Such has been the tempo and pace of this debate that it would hardly be an exaggeration to state that today Islam has become the single most dominant theme in the collective consciousness of the intellectual, and political, elite around the globe. While such an awareness had been in the making since the beginnings of the twentieth century and maybe even earlier, there can be no doubt, whatsoever, that the level of that awareness has never been as acute as it is at the present moment. And each passing day reminds every honest observer that Islam has, indeed, come to stay in the consciousness of the world. There have been several obvious reasons for this presence. First amongst these reasons would be the inherent strength and consistency of the Islamic vision to withstand the tests of time and of human experience. Combined with these soundest of foundations, the remarkable ability of Islam to generate in the community of its believers the ennobling human qualities of fortitude and resilience in the face of the most severe of persecutions and exacting of tribulations has ensured that neither Islam nor the community (or even the culture) of its adherents will ever die out in the face of the greatest injustices perpetrated against them. And every injustice of this century ranging from the creation of the Zionist entity in Palestine in the 40s, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in the 80s to the rape of Bosnia Herzegovina in the 90s to name just three, and the responses that the Muslims put forth, have only sought to enforce, or entrench, the Islamic vision even more firmly within the moral consciousness of the world.
While the market for Muslim publications has never come to anywhere near what the market is for secular or other publications that cater to the baser tendencies of the population, it will, nevertheless, be conceded that with the awareness regarding Islam and the Muslim community touching a new high in a manner as has been highlighted above, the demand for such Islamic periodicals or newspapers amongst the better-read portion of the public has been increasing by the day. Interestingly, in the wake of the WTC attacks of September 11, 2001, it has been reported that the translation of the Holy Qur'an stayed on the top of the best sellers list in the US for quite some time. Even more interesting was the fact that, the remarkable phenomenon of mass conversions to Islam actually doubled in the US within months of the WTC attacks. What the WTC attacks did, in addition to causing the loss of innocent civilian lives, was to focus attention on Islam and the apparently incomprehensible behaviour of the Muslims in a way that was as dramatic as to have no equal to it in contemporary times. And when more and more of the Americans saw what Islam was really all about, they had no better choice than to accept a way of life that was as profound, all-encompassing and totally free of contradictions as it was equally susceptible to misunderstanding by the vast majority that is fed with what the explicitly biased western media had to offer them.
At the Muslim Digest, too, we have experienced over the years, this heightened feeling amongst our readers, in general, and the Muslims, in particular, in the increasing number of intellectually stimulating responses that we keep receiving from them. This has best been articulated in the quality of the letters that they have kept sending us and in the treatment of related subjects that many have attempted in articles, stories and poems that they send us for publication. To the common educated, concerned Muslim this has been an indicator of his, or her, struggle to come to grips with the reality of the predicament of the community into which each was born. The increasing number of annual subscribers to the Muslim Digest has eloquently testified to the truth of the above statements. To the educated non-Muslim his, or her, support for the magazine points to the wave of yearning to understand the Islamic vision that is now sweeping across the world. Starting with a humble readership of less than a hundred, twenty six years ago, the magazine has grown with the tempo of awareness regarding Islam in the world when it is seen that today its readership stands in the tens of thousands: a readership population that resides both within India and abroad.
IIJNM: Which are the most pressing issues that you have covered? Which are the most pressing issues that you are covering at the moment?
Max: While it must be reiterated that the most pressing issue for us at the Muslim Digest, at any given period, is always the presentation of Islam in all the ways that it manifests itself, there are certain issues that do come up from time to time based in the main on prevalent trends and events elsewhere in the world and within India. In this way, therefore, we have covered certain critical subjects in the past. For instance, there has been the topic of education, or more precisely, scientific education that has been picked up for discussion in the Muslim Digest. Apart from the fact that education, or rather the lack of it, has been a prime hurdle in the advancement of Muslim communities in Asia and Africa, we have tried to point out the equally critical need to decompartmentalize knowledge: a task that is, by its very nature, Islamic. For, in the Islamic scheme there exists no division or compartmentalization of knowledge in its varied spheres. All knowledge, whether of the sciences, medicine, history, sociology, economics, astronomy, mathematics or the like has an innate and common denominator which is represented in the empirical, deductive proofs for the pattern of God in Nature and which, as a consequence, is related to the very existence and affirmation of the Divine force in the universe. As such, all study in the various disciplines must necessarily point to the existence of a single creative Force, a Prime Mover behind the incredible working of natural laws. This is out and out the Islamic approach to seeking knowledge and, in effect, to education itself. Towards this end of further elucidating the picture, we have had, in recent times, an interview with Dr. Husain Nagamia, a medical doctor who is also the Chairman of the US based International Institute of Islamic Medicine (IIIM), where we compared the difference in approach of the early pioneering Muslim physicians of the golden age of Islam and the Muslim physicians of today. It was evident that while the early doctors based their intimate knowledge of medicine on their personal quest for higher religious truth as postulated by Islam, the modern day Muslim doctors, had, in a general sense, no idea, whatsoever, as to how their professional calling was intrinsically connected to the profound methodology of Islamic thought. This, incidentally, has made all the difference. Thus, education that seeks to separate true religion from true science is an aberration that can only breed scientists given to the one-sided materialism of modern western civilization. On this we have insisted and on this premise have we promoted the alternative vision, the panacea for the future of education of the Muslims, in particular, and of all people, in general.
We have also sought to investigate the predicament of the Muslim community in India where it exists as a minority - in fact, the single largest minority - amongst a non-Muslim majority. In one instance, we have done this through an interesting interview with the Chairman of the Institute of Objective Studies (IOS), Dr. Manzoor Alam. The IOS, as you might be aware, is a Delhi based intellectual organization of Muslims that cater to policy studies for the Muslim community in India. Furthermore, our open discussions with the Institute for Studies on Women (ISW), a Mangalore based organization of Muslim women have also brought to the forefront some of the most pressing problems associated with the condition of Muslim women in India.
At the moment, however, and with quite obvious relevance, we are involved with the issues of American neo-imperialism that seems, to all practical purposes, to be setting the pattern in which a new world order is being beaten into shape. With the demise of the Soviet Union in the early 90s, the twenty first century seems to be more and more inclined to be a century of American domination as distasteful as this now obviously means for the future of the persecuted communities throughout the world. The case of the Afghan and the Iraq quagmires are prime examples as to hardly call for any further elaboration. The pathetic failure of the US administration in concealing its neo-imperialistic, crusading spirit as it wrenches apart thousands of innocent lives across the Muslim world is now glaringly open for the world to see, in case it hasn't seen it earlier on. The festering cancer of the racist, Zionist entity imposed upon an innocent people in Palestine has been growing to alarming proportions ever since it was created and sustained under the patronage of the US and Great Britain behind the pretext of sheltering persecuted Jews who suffered under the fascist tendencies of a very European nation.
It is clear that unless and until there comes about a marked realignment of perspectives as regards international relations, the coming years should witness increased struggles by the people of the world, as against their corrupt governments, launched to counter the neo-imperialistic tendencies of the American government and its puppets where they exist on the global scene. It is high time to realize that the kid glove of Democracy has, indeed, fallen out to reveal the mailed fist of Empire that hides beneath.
IIJNM: Are you witnessing any consequential winds of change in the Muslim society? (In terms of the further 'opening up' of the Muslim society in India, and if yes, is this reflected in or, in any case, caused by the Muslim press?) Muslim press can bring about a decisive change in the way an average Indian Muslim thinks. (That being the traditional role of press in general). Have there been any efforts carried out by you to this effect?
Max: Well, the scene amongst the Muslims in India, in particular, and the world in general, is definitely not what it was like say, twenty five years ago. Much has changed since then, and, more importantly, the world has become a much smaller place owing mainly to the revolutionary transformation of the communications sector. This is true at least for the middle, upper-class segments of the Muslim population who are relatively well-off, economically speaking. Today, there are so many avenues for communication that people are exposed to ideas and news in a way that is unprecedented in the history of the world. With this information explosion there is, doubtless, the challenge and the opportunity. Challenge, because objectively sifting through the piles of information that comes in through the internet, books, newspapers and the television not to mention the satellite relays is, indeed, a monumental undertaking at the very outset of which one is daunted and confused by the sheer magnitude of the task. And opportunity, because it presents us with a chance to keep ourselves better informed and, thus, better committed to the cause of improving the lot of humanity that surrounds us, incidentally, the elite and better-privileged. Granted these basic premises, it must be said that several, if not all, sections of the Muslim community both within and outside India have made use of these tools of comunication to a greater or lesser extent. And to the extent that they have learned to use it professionally and effectively, they have articulated their position substantially well in the areas where they reside. In so doing, they have, indeed, opened themselves to the world around them. However, where they have truly stayed firm to the principles of Islam, they have gone even further in opening up when they tell the world that 'we are open to eternal values like love for truth, justice, education, and freedom from oppression for all communities but we are not open to falsehood, injustice, licentiousness, vulgarity and dishonesty exhibited by any community.' This mature attitude of a significantly large number of Muslims today has been reflected in and, to a larger or lesser extent, created by the Islamic media that has come up in the country since the years of Independence from British rule. Most of these publications serve as organs to major Muslim organizations that have been formed as a response to the Islamic awareness spreading across the country and the world.
The role of the press, or the media, as an agent of positive change will not be doubted by any who care to reflect in the slightest measure on the working of world opinion. The importance of the press in the formation of public opinion cannot be over-emphasized and as such, the Muslims, with their mission of improving the world around them, can ill-afford to be indifferent towards such a pressing obligation. As has been highlighted earlier, the Muslim Digest, as a vehicle of genuine Islamic thought, is no stranger to this responsibility. It has played, and continues to play its role in the improvement of the Muslim community, in particular, and other communities, in general, by actively and consistently disseminating correct information regarding Islam and of the plight of its community of believers. The magazine has done this in two important ways: 1. By explaining the original tenets of the Islamic faith by recourse to the most authentic of sources - the Qur'an and the practices/ statements of Muhammad, the last prophet of Islam, and 2. by offering commentaries on world events as and when they happen - events that are almost unfailingly related to Islam and its believers and as such begs for a proper interpretation and explanation. There is also a regular column in the magazine where the specific doubts of the readers are addressed and answers given by an authority in the field of Islamic guidance. To say the least, the response to these efforts at moulding public opinion has been overwhelming.
IIJNM: What, according to you, are the major roadblocks for the modernization within the Muslim community?
Max: Well, again I think it is essential to specify what exactly one means by 'modernization.' If by 'modernization,' we refer to the process of westernization which is singularly committed to the enforcement of the standards and norms of the western cultural and societal ethos on that of the native population of Asia, Africa and the Middle East, then I daresay that we are in no need of such 'modernization' for, the fruits of western culture as it manifests itself in the sexual promiscuity and breakdown of the family structure - the basic building block of the society - is anathema, indeed, fatal to all the greatest aspirations of the Islamic vision for the betterment of humanity. Modernization in that sense and as brought about by the western media apparatus will not be accepted in a Muslim society worth the name. But modernization, in the sense of a process that keeps open the intellect to the possibilities that life and experience has to offer for the advancement of the human condition, is something, which Muslims, before all other people, must whole-heartedly welcome. For, modernization in that sense - as an attitude of mind that is open to the benefits of technological progress in understanding the world around us and in properly utilizing the plentiful bounty of nature that exists in favour of man playing his part as the vicegerent of God on earth to perfection - has always existed in accord with the most sublime calling of the Islamic faith.
However, modernization, in this constructive sense, calls for certain pre-requisites. These pre-requisites include sufficient education and an awareness of what is intrinsically good for the wholesome well-being of the human individual and society. This brings us to the question of economic well-being of a community without which no higher education is actually possible and without better education a proper means of livelihood itself pales into a distant possibility in this age of super-specialization. So, as we can see, the circle is a vicious one, indeed. However, it is not a completely closed one. Modernization, in the constructive sense, for the Muslims depends, then, on the extent to which it is possible for them to rid themselves of the grinding economic poverty with which the majority of their lives have become punctuated. It is only with the elimination of economic want that any attempt at quality education can be made. Needless to say, before any of these considerations can even be proposed, the Muslim community, as a whole, must, in itself, be possessed of that zeal to overcome their predicament and to rise, like the legendary Phoenix, out of the ashes to which it has been reduced by the cruel twist of its destiny: a destiny for which the Muslims themselves, at least in part, have provided the cause and the effect. The Muslims must learn to seek inspiration from the heritage of a glorious past wherein for five centuries, they led the world out of its darkness and gloom and set it on the path of a genuine modernization programme by stubbornly insisting that the scientific spirit was never antithetical to true religious dispensation. In fact, according to the early Muslim scientists of the eighth to the thirteenth centuries of the Christian era, science supported and verified the facts postulated by true religion: an attitude that gave rise to some of the greatest pioneers of modern science - pioneers who were at once brilliant scientists and devout Muslims who saw in the separation of scientific enquiry from religious faith a fatal blow to the very foundations of Islam.
The removal of economic want is a task that must have the whole-hearted support of the financially better off sections of the Muslim community. Indeed, the removal of this social evil is a prime Islamic obligation upon the more affluent among the Muslim community. Islamic instruments of fiscal policy like Zakaat, which is the right of the poor in the wealth of the richer sections are still seen as potent tools for the alleviation of this unjust distribution of wealth. Indeed, considering the fact that in Islamic Economics, Zakaat remains the welfare tax that is appropriated from the rich amongst the Muslims as the right of the poor amongst the Muslims and the non-Muslims, the possibilities that this Islamic injunction offers for the cause of a just distribution of wealth for the nation as a whole is, to say the least, quite revolutionary.
IIJNM: What about the Muslim youth? How are they different from their predecessors (in terms of their attitudes towards education, occupations, religions etc)? What are their ambitions in general and expectations from the society and government?
Max: Again, the level of response from the Muslim youth of today has been varied and, of course, distinct from those of their predecessors. In an age wherein Western cultural mannerisms and norms are invading the fabric of Asian societies that comprise both the Muslim and non-Muslim communities, it is only to be expected that these values will be accepted sooner or later by the youth of these Asian societies as the model for the future. Unfortunately, however, the 'Muslim' youth, in general, have been no exception to this trend. With the invasion of the powerful western media that seeks to impose, with the blinding glare of Western technological progress, values and norms totally alien to the spirit of true civilization, the Asian youth have more or less come to accept the vulgarity and crass materialism of the western world as essential steps towards their 'modernization.' The thinking of today's youth as represented in their love for the fast life where education and occupation are but the means towards a life of ever-increasing and unbridled material luxury is quite symptomatic of the malaise confronting the future of the world. It is in this context that the vision of Islam, as opposed to the purely material aspect of living as it is supportive of an approach that balances and tempers man's material requirements with the sobriety of a realistic spiritual orientation, comes into sharp focus. The relevance of such a balanced vision can hardly be overstated in these morally decadent times. The importance of the Islamic resurgence in such a context assumes added poignancy in the face of the fact that it is as a part and parcel of just such a resurgence that the Islamic Media was born. It is a forgone conclusion, however, that under the influence of this remarkable resurgence, the Muslim youth in many countries have managed to see the danger that the Western cultural invasion represents. And in so realizing their folly, many young Muslims have now sought to channel their youthful energies towards the cause of improving their lives with commitment and efficiency by becoming votaries for the Islamic worldview: a worldview that is, at once, elevating and progressive in the best sense of the term. Muslim youth possessed of such an Islamic orientation seek, naturally, for an end to exploitation in society in all its manifestations and they seek education not merely for the material benefits that it might offer, but also because education would be the first step in understanding the world in which they live. They seek this understanding to be in a better position to rectify the ills of society to the greatest extent that it is possible for them to do so. And in their efforts for transforming society into a more caring one, these youth expect nothing short of complete co-operation from the government. With their sense of high idealism, and given the state of affairs in most countries today, these well-meaning youth can be quickly disheartened and embittered owing to the lack-luster quality of response that they receive from the society and the world at large. Nevertheless, granted the experience and the time, these youth must necessarily form the vanguard in the creation of a better world: a world as free of oppression, vice and vulgarity as it is committed to the real benefits of technological progress to the extent that it is humanly possible to achieve this potent, essentially Islamic, combination.
IIJNM: What are the biggest grievances of the Muslim community in India? How are you dealing with it? How is the government dealing with it? Which government do you think has been the 'best friend' of Muslims? Which one has been the worse?
Max: The Muslim community in India has not gone without its own share of grievances. The communalization of Indian politics as seen in recent years since the demolition of the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya in 1992, has brought these grievances out into the open as in no other time in the past. Indeed, the post Babri Masjid decade has exposed the vulnerability of the Muslim community which has found its fullest expression in the Gujarat massacre of 2002. While several commissions of enquiry were set up to probe into the anti-Muslim riots that have erupted from time to time, chief amongst which would be the Bombay riots of 1992-93 and the Gujarat incidents of 2002, little, by way of concrete action, has been initiated to seek legal procedures in keeping with the findings of these commissions. This has only exacerbated the situation and has led to embitterment of the community and the loss of its confidence in the government. The government's expressions of regret and half-hearted judicial procedures cannot be substituted for solid confidence building measures. The possible infringement on Muslim personal law as depicted in the Common Civil Code proposals that keep coming up from time to time, too, does not sit well with the Muslim community in India. Islamic law is, in its fullness, the very epitome of a complete juridical system in its own right. Nevertheless, and in the conditions of existing as a minority, Muslims have relegated themselves to the observance of simple issues of personal law in the countries where they live as minorities. As such, to implement the Common Civil Code as a uniform law for all communities in the country would be, besides creating other practical difficulties, taking away from the Muslim community what compromised little that was allowed to it in the matter of following the total divine legislation that was originally prescribed for it. Successive governments that have come up in the country have fortunately realized this predicament and have studiously abstained from implementing the proposed Common Civil Code.
While Muslims have felt themselves unjustly treated at the hands of almost all the major governments that have held the reigns of administration in the country, it would be politically naive to name this or that government as being the best disposed or the worst disposed to the plight of the Muslims. What would be more pragmatic, on the other hand, would be to delineate the yardstick by which Muslim feeling for or against any government might be judged. And in this defining of the yardstick, the granting of civil liberties, rights and freedom to minorities as enshrined in the constitution of the country will, doubtless, form an important component: a vital starting point conformance to which alone can ensure confidence in the government from the side of the single largest minority in the country.
IIJNM: How would you rate the collective scene of the free Islamic Media in India? How would you rate their performance and their impact? What do you think needs to be done in order to extend the reach and the influence or improve the performance of this kind of media? What are the limitations of Islamic media in India, or what complaints do you have, if any, about its performance? What future do you foresee for the free Islamic Media in India?
Max: The collective scene as represented by the free Islamic Media in India may be seen as one that still gives hope to the long cherished value of freedom of expression in the best democratic tradition. Catering to the direct media needs of almost fifteen crore of the Indian populace, the Muslim Media effort is not something that may easily be ignored. And given the growth of the debate on Islam both within and outside India, the Muslim Media in India has a relevance that is unique in itself. Indeed, other media organizations of a non-Muslim nature, too, cannot avoid its presence owing to the simple fact that these other Media centers also have to attend, time and again, to the media coverages that are essentially related to Islam and the Muslims. In fact, most world events these days are in one way or the other connected to the Islamic factor. The need and relevance of a proper media for impartially dealing with Islam-related issues have never been greater. The efforts by intellectual Muslim elite themselves, notwithstanding, there is always infinitely greater space for accommodating more of such ventures from the Muslims. While the impact of the Muslim Media in India as it exists today has been considerable (as mentioned above), a point of saturation cannot be imagined as of this time when there is a sustained demand for as many readings of current issues as possible. Definitely, some efforts at opening a genuine Islamic Media outlet with all the hallmarks of a professional publishing corporation, like the effort of the Jamaat-e-Islami in Kerala, have been moving success stories of the first order. In contributing to the alternative media effort, the Jamaat-e-Islami in Kerala has succeeded, among other things, in consistently operating a daily newspaper that has come to be respected today as a genuine forum for public discussion not just within the Muslim community of Kerala, but also among the native non-Muslim intellectual community as well. In many ways, this daily has come to represent the closest thing to the ideal, which the Muslim intellectuals of India have been nurturing in the field of path-breaking, society-transforming journalism backed by the Islamic spirit of justice and fair play.
Success stories amongst the Islamic Media outlets such as that of the Jamaat-e-Islami in Kerala, have proved the receptivity of the reading public to ideas of objectivity and honest journalism. But then, Kerala is incidentally also ranked as the most literate (100%) state in India. As such, it would seem that the success of objective, impartial journalism that works for the truth comes about only in places where the population is sufficiently educated and enlightened. Indeed, to say that mere education will suffice to render Islamic Media efforts popular is to give free rein to naive optimism. For, education without enlightenment is akin to the blind holding aloft the torch to see in the darkness. It is only on the premise of confidence in eternal human morals and goodwill, which does not look at vulgarity and exploitation as permissibles in society, that such enlightenment may be possible.
Quite apart from these genuine considerations, the Islamic Media organizations must learn to imbibe professionalism as a way of life: a quality that is in accord with the highest aspirations of the Islamic calling. For, in an extremely competitive market that thrives on easily exploited baser human tendencies for profit-making, unrestricted in the use of pornography and senseless violence, the Islamic media must necessarily struggle to make its mark on the public psyche with its, perhaps, unpopular but critically relevant, call to eternal and noble values enshrined in the collective consciousness of the human race. Without that sense of professionalism and aggressive, zealous marketing for which the ends and means must be justified, there can be little hope for efficiency in Muslim media efforts that must, in the main, be reflected in the success, even if relative, in achieving its stated objectives: objectives that are more in line with honest, effective reporting than with blind, unethical money-making.
A few days after the interview Max received a message by email from the IIJNM official who had interviewed him stating that his had been, by far, the best articulated response from amongst a host of professional editors who had been interviewed by the IIJNM for the purpose. The message also reminded him of the deep sense of gratitude that the IIJNM felt for his 'kind' gesture. The IIJNM would also consult him in future when it had to deal with issues relating to Islam and the community of its believers.
As he stared at the message on his computer screen that day, and with the euphoria of the previous Sunday and Monday dying out, Max wasn't sure whether he had to be happy or to be sad. Of course, he was happy that he had had his first genuine break into serious journalism. But was his response really 'the best articulated' one from amongst a sea of other Muslim editors in India? That was what really worried him. For, surely, there had to be better Muslim editors in India. He was just a beginner, an upstart, albeit with the love for Islam in him, no doubt.
For once, Max felt that that was one compliment that he could do without; that he should be unworthy of. Indeed, vigilante journalism demanded it.
For the cause of enlightened journalism, Max knew that there was an infinitely greater height that had to be scaled. A height whose peak he hadn't even begun to see in the distance.
His own effort was just the tip of the iceberg.
It just had to be.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
TIGER, TIGER, BURNING BRIGHT!
FRENCH REPUBLIC
Liberty Equality
Headquarters at Cairo,
7th Pluviose
7th Year of the Republic, One and Invincible
BONAPARTE, Member of the National Convention, General in Chief, to the most magnificent SULTAN, our greatest friend TIPPOO SAIB.
You have already been informed of my arrival on the borders of the Red Sea, with an innumerable and invincible Army, full of the desire of delivering you from the iron yoke of England.
I eagerly embrace this opportunity of testifying to you the desire I have of being informed by you, by the way of Muscat and Mocha, as to your political situation. I would further wish that you could send some intelligent person to Suez or Cairo, possessing your confidence, with whom I may confer.
May the Almighty increase your Power and destroy your enemies.
NAPOLEAN BONAPARTE
Dates and documents from history, like the aforementioned one from 1798 which instinctively came to his mind now, had always held a particular fascination with Max inasmuch as they chalked out, for his thinking, the milestones in the saga of human achievement or ruin. It provided him an opportunity to think back, to reflect upon, to go back in time and to seek to relive those particularly remarkable moments in history, which he yearned to have witnessed in person. True, however, that he could not be there; that he could not go back in time. If only in body, for, Max's spirit would always be there on his dates. And the dates: there were so many. Like the one today, and as he stood now before that imposing structure that was the Rashk-e-Janna - the Envy of Paradise - right in the heart of Bangalore, a quarter of a mile away from the main bus terminal near the City Market.
Today: the 4th of May, 2004 years after the disappearance of Christ.
The day when a little over two hundred years ago, in 1799, the British finally managed to silence, forever, the one implacable foe of their grand imperialistic designs over the Indian subcontinent. To the growing ambitions of the British Empire in the eighteenth century, there could not have been a better herald of victory than the death in battle of Tippu Sultan of Mysore. It was for the British a new beginning: the beginning of a beginning, in fact. For, after that last Mysore War fought at Seringapatam, near Mysore, the next one hundred years would see the white men from an island nation, who came into this country as traders, establish themselves as rulers over the teeming millions of this troubled land, rife, as it was, with the divisive and self-seeking politics of the numerous warring Indian states of the time. A politics of self-aggrandizement and intrigue between the Indian principalities which was exploited assiduously by the British in their policy of 'Divide and rule.' And in the face of insurmountable odds that soon came to bear upon the struggle for liberation from foreign yoke, one name, of all the Indian names, shone alone, a star, within the darkening skies of the late eighteenth century political horizon in the subcontinent.
The name of Tippu Sultan.
Tiger of Mysore.
'That will be five rupees, sir.' The man at the gate counter pushed forward the entry ticket towards Max.
'What?'
'Five rupees, please.'
'Oh, yes! Here you are.' Max exchanged a five rupee note for the entrance ticket in the man's hand, before looking back once more at the magnificent structure that had now become a government-protected historical monument, and at the gates of which he was now standing. The well laid out, well maintained lawn in the forefront of the Rashk-e-Janna gave the whole setting a laid-back look, adding all the more to that royal aura of a bygone age. This was Tippu Sultan's summer retreat in Bangalore: one of the many beautiful buildings that he, following the tradition of his illustrious father, Hyder Ali, an even more indomitable enemy of British interests in India, built all over the state of Karnataka. The Rashk-e-Janna itself was completed by Tippu in 1791, after Hyder Ali began its construction a few years earlier.
As Max moved along the walkway in the midst of the sprawling garden towards the arching entrance of the building, the sense of history was inevitable; indeed, palpable. The two-storied ornate structure with its fluted pillars, cusped arches, exquisitely sculpted minarets and balconies reminded him of a time when the Sultan of Mysore was at the height of his power, when he attended to the affairs of the state with a diligence and a vision for which he was famous, and perhaps of times when he gave public audiences from the balcony that projected from the first storey of this Rashk-e-Janna.
The balcony that now loomed over Max.
In fact, there were two such projecting balconies for the structure: one in front, facing west and directly below which Max stood and the other, towards the east, at the rear of the building. But both identical in measurement and design; both perfectly symmetrical. Between these two projecting balconies, the upper storey of the building housed several inner low-ceilinged chambers, or the Zenana chambers as they are called, in the left and the right wings. Chambers which, Max had noted with some delight, had square niches carved into its walls at regular intervals: niches that were still stained with what, Max imagined, was the black soot of lamps that burned within them in two centuries past. The lamp niches past which Tippu himself walked in thought and concern for the welfare of his people on many an evening more than two hundred years ago. Max had examined these niches in the chamber walls several times over ever since he paid the first of his many visits to this place on earlier occasions.
Although Max had read much in favour of Tippu Sultan's devout religious disposition towards the tenets of the Islamic faith, he never was quite sure whether it was in any measure greater than Tippu's preoccupation with the well-being of the subjects over whom he ruled. To agree to the idea that a ruler being concerned for the welfare of the ruled was somehow a lesser Islamic virtue than the enforcement of Islamic law is to agree to a seeming inconsistency. But as paradoxical as it might seem to some, for Tippu, there was no paradox involved whatsoever. To him, Islamic legislation on social norms included, and was prefixed by, the concern of the ruler for the well-being of the ruled. As Max climbed the wooden stairs - made entirely, like most of this building, from wood - leading to the left wing of the upper storey, he couldn't help remembering that memorandum which Tippu had issued to his finance minister in 1787 when he brought to Tippu's notice that the treasury would become empty if total prohibition (of alcohol) was enforced. Raising the issue with Mir Sadiq, the finance minister, Tippu had noted:
This is a matter in which we should be undeterred and undaunted by financial considerations. Total prohibition is very near to my heart. It is not a question of religion alone. We must think of the economic well-being and the moral stature of our people and the need to build the character of our youth. I appreciate the reason for your concern which is the loss of financial revenue, but should we not look ahead? Is the gain to our treasury to be rated higher than the health and morality of our people?
Standing now atop the flight of stairs leading to the left wing of the upper storey, Max turned back to look again at the lawn amidst which he had just strolled up to the palace. From that height, the view that offered itself to him was even more delightful to his senses. The vast open stretch of green bordered meticulously with belts of plants of a darker hue made for much of the contrasting beauty of the lawn. The lawn itself being watered continuously by the rotating action of several mechanically operated sprinklers arranged at suitable distances from one another. In a very small way this garden of the Rashk-e-Janna reminded Max of the other much larger and famous of its counterparts situated elsewhere in Bangalore: the Lal Bagh botanical gardens. Spread over 240 acres of flowering glory, the Lal Bagh has a rare collection of tropical and sub-tropical trees, plants and herbs to quench the thirst of any layman or horticulturist who was out in search of scenic beauty. While Hyder Ali was the driving force behind laying out that park in the 17th century, it was Tippu Sultan himself who was responsible for enriching the vast collection by importing several specimens from Afghanistan, France and Persia. Of course, Tippu, with his sound education and culture could not but think in terms of international relations when he sought to import the best specimens for the now-famous project laid out by his father. Lal Bagh is, today, artistically landscaped with expansive lush lawns, flowerbeds, lotus pools and fountains: altogether a prime tourist attraction. Adding to this remarkable acumen for industry that Tippu displayed, it was always a wonder to Max that this prince, in a land and in an age where princes did little but while away their time in frivolous pursuits, sought out and did establish, in his country and for his countrymen, the sericulture industry which he again initiated with nothing short of the finest specimens of silkworms imported, along with the know-how for silk rearing, from China. It was no wonder then that after the fall of Seringapatam, when the British stormed his fort they found no less than two thousand books on as varied subjects as philosophy, religion, history and the sciences from his personal library. Given an unquenchable thirst for knowledge of that degree, it was only natural that Tippu habitually sought to know of the happenings in the world outside his kingdom and abroad and so surprised a few visiting French dignitaries by asking them of the Industrial Revolution and its repercussions in France and in Europe that it left the dignitaries wondering at the internationalist vision of this young Indian prince.
Some of the visitors to the palace this evening loitered around the walls of the building which bore inscriptions from the Qur'an and a plaque announcing that the construction of the palace was begun by Hyder Ali but was completed in 1791 under Tippu Sultan. Others, there were, who strained themselves to look at the carvings on the Sri Venkataramana temple across the boundary walls of the palace. Max smiled inwardly at the sight. For, most buildings associated with Tippu Sultan has almost always had a temple going along with it for good measure! His fortress capital of Seringapatam near Mysore - nearly seventy miles from Bangalore - housed the famous Ranganatha Swami temple which, to this day, bears a large silver bowl, three silver cups and a silver kettle which was gifted by Tippu and which bears inscriptions, in Kannada, to the same effect. This was the happy enigma of Tippu Sultan as it presented itself to Max. The paradox to which he had seemingly to reconcile himself if he was to truly appreciate the legacy of the tiger of Mysore. The legacy of a man who, in spite of his curious idiosyncrasies bordering on superstition, was at once a scholar, a reformer, an administrator, statesman, soldier, patriot, ruler and economist. To Max's thinking, a true secularist, Tippu Sultan promulgated farmans, or decrees, which set out procedures and created an admirable administrative structure that stood the test of time and which later became a model for the British administration to adopt in their domain. As a military strategist, he foresaw the strategic value of naval power to check the entry and advance of aggressors from across the seas. He developed an army, which, in discipline and sheer fighting capability could match any in the world. A military strategist par excellence, he designed arms, weapons and rocketry and authored a treatise on military practice and warfare, the Fath-ul-Mujahideen.
Max walked himself into the projecting balcony that used to be the seat of state from which the Sultan conducted the affairs of the nation. He could almost see for himself, from across the mists of two centuries, the mass of people who were gathered on the floor below to receive the address of the Sultan. Standing there in the centre of the balcony and probably right on the spot where Tippu himself once stood facing his people, Max was now dimly conscious of that official decree in the Sultan's Code of Law and Conduct, of 1788, which declared:
To quarrel with our subjects is to go to war with ourselves. They are our shield and our buckles; and it is they who furnish us with all things. Reserve the hostile strength of our empire exclusively for its foreign enemies.
'What could have been the real motivation - apart from his own religious convictions - for the policy of religious tolerance and magnanimity so characteristically and unfailingly exhibited by Tippu throughout his empire?,' thought Max. To Tippu, he was the guardian of his subjects no matter what their faith and he was directly responsible for their welfare and freedom of belief. But Max could not exactly ascertain the extent to which state policy lay embedded with firm religious conviction in the persona of Tippu Sultan. In 1787, in his Religious Policy Declaration, the Sultan had stated:
Religious tolerance is the fundamental tenet of the holy Qur'an.
The Qur'an calls upon you not to revile the idols of another religion for it says: 'Revile not those unto whom they pray beside Allah lest they wrongfully revile Allah through ignorance..'
The Qur'an expects you to vie with each other in good works and It says, 'for each We have appointed a divine law and traced out a way. Had Allah willed, He could have made you one community...so vie one with another in good works.'
'Fair enough,' thought Max as he descended from the upper storey by way of the flight of stairs leading down from the right wing. 'So much for a man who was reviled by many British, and some Indian, historians down the line as being an intolerant, religious bigot who sought to forcibly thrust Islam down other people's throats.'
Coming down the flight of stairs Max was inevitably drawn to the hall in the center between the two staircases. Once probably a private chamber on the ground floor, the hall was now converted into a small museum of visual exhibits that depicted the major events in the life of Tippu Sultan. As on many occasions in the past Max followed the small line of people who filed past the huge images as they stared in some awe and wonder at the pictures of Hyder Ali, Tippu Sultan, the surrender of his sons to Cornwallis in 1792 after the third Mysore War, the British siege of Bangalore fort and the seige of Seringapatam, near Mysore, where Tippu made his last, defiant stand against the combined might of the British and their Indian allies - self seeking Indian states who saw, in their fellow Indian's fall, an opportunity for themselves - in an epic battle that has refused to die out from the annals of the Indian struggle for independence. And last, but not least, that touching depiction of the hour in which the battered body of Tippu was retreived from the battlefield: the emotion was there very clearly for Max to feel; the people crowding around the body, holding aloft lanterns in their hands, while the very British general looked on. The expression on the faces told it all as it happened on that somber evening of the 4th of May, 1799. The clash of steel, the sound of muskets and cannons, of the screams of men, the smell of blood and of death, and the sense of a great tragedy: all unveiled themselves to Max's sensitivity even as he stood gazing with the pain for something precious that was irretrievably lost.
Max had considered himself alone in that exhibit room, half-full of people, with his sensitivity and reflective mind until he heard something of a faint whimper next to him. The spell of the images confronting him broken, Max glanced to his right in some alarm. There, standing next to him was an elderly visitor to the palace seemingly as lost in the images as Max had been and so lost, in fact, that his eyes were actually brimming with tears as he stared at the distraught face of the Sultan as he lay dead of the bullet wound to his temple.
Max wished he had not turned so sharply, but it was already too late. The man next to him had already caught the look in his eye. He wiped off the tears in one fluent motion before looking up at Max, and then smiled.
'It is tragic, isn't it?' Max asked directly, knowing that there was no evading the subject now.
The man nodded slowly. 'Yes. More than we can ever imagine.'
His head lowered, the man moved alongside Max, as they filed past the other people in the room. There was something about the man which intuitively told Max that he knew and felt deeply for Tippu Sultan in a way that few others amongst the countless visitors to this historical monument would ever know.
'Have you come to this summer palace before?' Max asked thinking that the man might be on a visit to Bangalore.
The man looked up again and smiled wryly. 'Of course. I cannot but visit this palace often, you know.'
The way in which the man put those words, with that strange twinkle in his eyes, was enough to unsettle Max already. But he wished to make him say more. As they moved out of the exhibit room and on to the porch facing the lawn, Max was again attracted to the sculpted figurines on the walls of the Sri Venkataramana Temple just adjoining the palace. 'Isn't it strange,' he asked, 'that Tippu Sultan, who is known to have patronised Hindu temples and festivals and to have admonished the archbishop of Goa to take note of the fact that his Christian subjects were not conforming to Christianity, should have been later projected as a religious bigot and Muslim fanatic who destroyed temples and trampled upon other faiths with impunity?'
The other man sighed deeply. 'Well, that's not really strange, considering the fact that the conquered have always had this tendency to humiliate their conqueror in whatever way they can, for, by force of arms or by raw objectivity, they know they can never get the better of them. So it has to be by crooked means, by calumny and slander so that atleast succeeding generations will fail to appreciate the virtues of their foe; of the cause of their humiliation. And in that, the Britishers had a score to settle with Tippu for the several crushing defeats that he had handed out to them on the battlefield. So it was fitting in their eyes that the myth of the Sultan's intolerance be spread far and wide.'
The man had spoken slowly but his words were well measured and to the point: something, which Max always admired in other people. His interest in the old man was piqued again. He had spoken in fluent Urdu and Max agreed with him fully for, he had read that as much as the British hated Tippu, they feared and respected him in even greater measure. For instance, the use of rockets by Tippu Sultan's army and the extent of damage suffered by the British, must have made a deep impression on the British administration because soon after Tippu's death, the British administration permitted a certain Colonel Congreve to carry out experiments with rockets of the type Tippu Sultan pioneered and to improve upon them for future use in their army. The improvised rockets were successfully deployed by the British with deadly effect at Leipzig and were also used to bombard the French at Boulogne. Copenhagen was put out of action by starting huge fires through the use of these rockets. In the First World War, the rockets so used were called 'Bangalore Rockets.'
Furthermore, no other Indian prince in the subcontinent had ever ventured to foster an international alliance with the French under Napolean Bonaparte for the explicit purpose of uprooting the British from Indian soil. Indeed, it was the communication of Napolean to Tippu to this effect which fell into British hands which supposedly became the last of the many pretexts under which the then Governor-General of India, Richard Wellesly, swung into action with the combined might of the British and the conspiring Indian armies to launch the fourth and the last Mysore War. The man of daring and extra-ordinary vision that he was, Tippu had no equal in the subcontinent of those times who foresaw the threat posed by British aggrandizement in India and who actively pursued a national and international policy that aimed at removing the British power from India. Indeed, he is reported to have once told Hari Pant, the chief of the Maratha delegation when it came to visit him after the Marathas had participated with the British in the 1791-92 siege of Seringapatam: 'You must realize that I am not at all your enemy. Your real enemy is the Englishman of whom you must beware.'
Of this reputation of Tippu, the British knew only too well.
'Tolerance for other faiths is one thing,' Max was holding on to the theme that was still the source of some confusion for him, 'but what of Tippu's active patronizing of religious institutions and festivals of the Hindu or Christian tradition? I never could reconcile myself to that, you know! At least in our Islamic scheme of things!'
The other man leaned back on one of those intricately sculpted pillars that supported the main arch at the entrance to the building, moved his fingers over the meticulous artwork, and glancing across at the Sri Venkataramana Temple beyond the palace walls, said, 'There are questions today that can no longer be avoided by the believer once he has encountered the adherents of other Faiths. The Muslim or the Christian who has habitually regarded all others as infidels is forced to ask himself or herself whether one can continue to believe in a God who has apparently chosen to lead astray the majority of His creatures throughout the ages by permitting them to follow false religions and who chooses to send them to Hell for the only reason that they worshipped Him sincerely but in the wrong way.'
The man paused, but what he said had already disturbed Max.
'Are we to suppose that God mocks sanctity when it is arrived at by methods other than our own and do prayers go unaccepted unless addressed to Him in the name of Jesus, from the Christian viewpoint, or within the frame work of the Islamic creed from the Muslim viewpoint?'
'Well, perhaps you might have a point there.' Max conceded although he was still not very sure of himself. 'I suppose that Qur'anic verse which says: 'And if God had not checked one group of people with another, the earth would have been filled with corruption and the synagogues and the churches and the mosques, in which the name of God is remembered often, would have all been pulled down in utter destruction' makes sense in the context which you seem to refer.'
'Exactly!' The old man seemed thrilled. 'God does acknowledge the church and the synagogue as being similar in function to the mosque.'
Max nodded in partial agreement. Tippu's explanation of his religious policy in the proclamations of 1787 made some sense now, based, as it was, on the Quranic verse: 'For each of you We have appointed a divine Law and a way of Life. Had God so willed He could have made you one people; but so that He might try you by that which He hath bestowed upon you (He willed otherwise). Therefore compete in doing good. Unto God ye will all return, and He will enlighten you concerning that wherein ye differ.' In retrospect, it seemed to Max that a believer was faced, in today's world, with alternatives which his ancestors never knew. Either all religions are false and are fictions invented by man in his search for inner security in a world that gave no hints about what his tomorrow would be like, or else each is valid in its own way and represents a particular perspective in relation to one Truth.
'But what of the Qur'an when it says: Whoever follows any other religion other than Islam, it shall not be accepted of him, and in the Hereafter he shall be among the losers?' Max was somehow not prepared to accept the principle that the old man was driving at just yet. There was still something in it which disturbed him.
'Should we not understand the word Islam as self-surrender (to God)? In that case isn't the surrender of heart and will to God a basic principle of every authentic religion?' The old man's counter-questions were, indeed, searching ones.
'Yes,' Max agreed, 'it should be the basic principle of every religion that is, at least, in its origin, authentic. And in its original purity every authentic religion must be respected.' Max held the argument down.
The two of them were now walking back to the gate through the lawn; each an island of thought and reflection in himself. Max wished that the Wayfarer was there then to end the confusion. He almost called out:
'Wayfarer, how fare you this day?'
Silence.
'Damn!'
'Do you belong to Bangalore?' Max asked wishing to break the chain of thoughts coursing between the two of them as they reached the gate.
'Well, son.' The old man smiled slowly. 'My parents settled in Calcutta a long time ago. And I grew up in the streets of Calcutta. Its been a hard life there for us what with all the financial burden that we never really managed to cope with in all these years.'
'But how then are you in Bangalore?' Max was as curious as ever.
'Well, our ancestors have come from Karnataka, you know. Mysore to be precise. And we still have claims to some property in Mysore: property, which we feel, will somehow ease us of our financial debts back in Calcutta. So I have come all the way from Calcutta nearly five years ago, and had to settle somewhere near here until our property entitlements in Mysore are made over to us legally. Until such a time, I can have no peace.'
'But, sir,' Max interjected, 'Making claims and fighting for ancestral property rights can be a tricky business in Karnataka nowadays.' When the man nodded as if in agreement, Max asked, 'Is there a particular village in or around Mysore where your properties lie?'
'Yes, son. There is.' The man paused as he looked back at Max. 'It's called Seringapatam.'
The surprise in Max's eyes then was abruptly arrested as the man suddenly asked him the time.
'Its five minutes past six,' Max answered.
'It has been nice talking to you but I really must be hurrying now, before I miss the train to Mysore that goes in an hour from the Cantonment station.'
With that, the man bade farewell and was soon lost in the evening crowd in the street outside the palace compound.
'His ancestors hail from Tippu's hometown and he didn't even let me have his name.' Max shook his head in some amazement as he turned back to look at the imposing Rashk-e-Janna before he started to leave the premises himself.
'Impressive, isn't it?' the guard outside the gate remarked to Max, as the last of the day's visitors walked past outside onto the street.
'It certainly is.'
'Its such a pity, though.' The guard remarked again.
'What?' Max looked at the guard.
'Its such a pity that the members of the old Royal Wodeyar family that was reinstated by the British after Tippu fell have had all the privileges and their last member is today an MP in parliament. This is while the descendents of Tippu are reported to be living out their lives in the slums of Calcutta.'
'No!' It was a short cry that escaped Max's lips. He stared at the guard incredulously as what he heard suddenly sank in.
'Didn't you know?' the guard looked at Max in some astonishment. 'Back in 1999 we had some of the seventh generation descendents of Tippu Sultan who had come all the way from Calcutta to claim their ancestral properties in Seringapatam. Only time will tell if they will ever get anything from what truly belongs to them!'
The guard turned away from the young man who stood before him so profoundly shocked at his words. It was well past six in the evening and the gates to the palace had to be closed to any further visitors.
Max glanced back quickly across the length and breadth of the street, but, no, the old man was there no longer. He was gone, maybe never again, for them to meet once more.
To share the joy. Of a 'tiger, burning bright!'
And the pain. Amidst 'the forest of the night!'
Never again.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Refuge in art
The sea green eyes glared back at him with a ferocity that he had never seen before. No wonder then that those were the eyes that had captured the attention of the world ever since they were first discovered almost two decades ago amidst the pain and suffering of an Afghan refugee camp.
Was it the pain - the indescribable pain of one whose innocence was snatched away - that haunted those eyes and which had so moved him to pick up the pencil and sketchpad once again? But Max had known that the power of striking images; of their lights and shades; of the extreme feelings that they embodied would all be too much for him to resist the temptation once these features came together in any particular visual or photograph. And now, in the photograph of Sharbat Gula, which stared out captivatingly from the cover of the 1985 National Geographic issue in front of him, they did just that. They had come together to tempt him, to challenge him to copy out the feelings and the anguish on that face, the lights and the shades, the contours of that perfectly chiseled expression, the torn dupatta that hung back across her head half revealing the hair beneath: all on to the paper that he had taken into his hand for an involvement that the Wayfarer had once forbidden him.
Max had known then, as he knew now, that the Wayfarer's advice of caution against his artistic gifts would be something, which he would not, or, more precisely, could not, always heed. For, his was a gift that he knew contributed so much to making him the oddity, the exception, that he was; the one thing that told him over and over again that his endowment was one of those special, uniquely human characteristics, which distinguished man from beast.
How many were there from the people around him who could wield a pencil or a paintbrush with the mastery that was his?
How was it possible that he could be drawn, almost unwillingly, into tracing out, sketching and filling in images with an amazing life like resemblance to the original with such ease as to make his own self wonder each time?
How was it that he could do that without any prior training or exposure right from the time that he first learned to make sentences in the English language in his pre-primary school years?
His was that power: he had known, much early on. An ability, an endowment of nature with which he had sought satisfaction and acclaim throughout his school, pre-university and, the more recent, university years during all of which he had used his gift to the hilt; and to such telling effect. Max had gone on to win award after award for his sketching abilities right from his school years until, finally, in those two pre-university years he had capped it off with, what was in those days, the supreme achievement: two consecutive years wherein his college held the rolling trophy for excellence in the national painting contest. Max had been adjudged the winner of the coveted first prize in that countrywide contest, and that too for both the consecutive years. He had hardly turned seventeen then and there he was on top of the world, or at least, his world of that time. His paintings were splashed in the national dailies and he was a superstar on campus overnight. His name, in those days, was on many a lip.
But then things changed. His perceptions about life underwent a gradual, but solid, transformation. It was the year when the Wayfarer caught up with him. The year when Max began to timidly explore the realms of value, morality, sacrifice and commitment as described in the vision that, in its purity, was as old as man himself: the vision of that primordial calling that was Islam, submission to God.
It was then that he realized that with great power comes great responsibility; that, power, in its various manifestations, was never something to be used recklessly, wantonly and without care. It had to be used in the service of the cause of all causes; of informing oneself and the world of humans of the subservience to God, the Endower of all faculties in man. It had to be used in the cause of world transformation in the pattern of God.
In those years Max understood, and not without some reluctance, that the vision of Islam had, to a great extent, been distorted and blurred over the centuries by man's obsession with images and sculptures. An obsession that was ever to make him fall into the Demon's snare and, whereby, he forgot, time and again, the unity, the uniqueness and the singularity of the Divine force that had arranged his life in such intricate perfection in the first place. The prohibition against images had, thus, come in with uncompromising force through Muhammad's message. It was another matter, however, that this prohibition never prevented the development of art and architecture within the Islamic civilization, per se. It had, in fact, only given that development a different direction so that the world now had, as part of its heritage, the glories of Islamic art.
'But surely, it were only the images of living figures like the human and the animal that was forbidden to be reproduced by the hand of man.' Max had stressed the point.
'That, Max,' the Wayfarer confirmed, 'is the whole point!'
'And what a point at that!' Max was far from satisfied. 'What is the point in art if you cannot make a portrait? If you cannot go see where life resides? If you are restricted from reproducing, or from attempting to reproduce, to share, the emotions and grievances of the subject that you are working with?'
'Art is not all about making portraits, Max. The possibilities for the artist are still endless even with the prohibition on live images in place. Art, Max, is a nostalgia. It is a memory. And there is so much more to be nostalgic about than the expressions of the human face.' The Wayfarer's argument was persuasive.
'But the human face is where life is, Wayfarer. And what better theme can an artist work with?'
'If its life you are after, Max, then every art, and for that matter, every science, that attempts to recreate life is a blasphemy against the creative power of God. In that sense, no art can be complete, Max. No art attains to perfection. To life. And every such artist who makes such an attempt is guilty, Max. Guilty of attempted creation.' The Wayfarer's voice was harsh.
'How do you plead, Max?'
'Guilty as charged, Wayfarer. Guilty as charged, if intentions do not count!'
So that was that, and Max had decided from that day onwards that he would stay away from doing portraits, no matter howsoever touching - with all its lights and its shades - to his senses. That is until the day he saw that photograph of Sharbat Gula on the cover of the National Geographic.
The haunted face of that Afghan refugee had brought Max out of his restrictions, his inhibitions, and, quite helplessly, he soon found himself busy in copying out the outlines of the portrait before him and of the varied suggestions of each delicate facial muscle, every depression and every crest therein. And, of course, in doing so, he would seek to experience for himself what it was to be a child of war: a war that has been waged with the bitterness of over two decades of hate, love and patriotism by a heroic and gallant people who took to the desperate struggle for their country as fish took to water.
The sadness was there in those challenging eyes, Max saw, as he had filled in, with his pencil lead, the pattern of the iris and that ghostly sparkle that lay in it. That lay in wait. But as the sadness, so also the defiance of spirit. A defiance which called upon the world to come in and take away more of her family, if there were any left to be taken, and then to look her in the eye, undisturbed.
At the time Max did this portrait, Sharbat Gula's face was that of a child of perhaps twelve years of age. The photographer was the Geographic's Steve McCurry who, in 1984 had captured those unforgettable glaring eyes on film; the face that gave a new meaning to what it was like being a refugee, a victim of war. Seventeen years later, in 2002, McCurry was destined once again to meet, in person, the same child of war, the only difference being that she was no child anymore. She had become a woman of nearly thirty years, but the eyes still glared at a cruel world that had undergone little change in those seventeen summers. For, Afghanistan - her country - has known little peace in the last three decades of its sad history. Three decades! That was her age and then Sharbat Gula could not be anything but a child of war!
There was a pause in the strokes of his pencil. The eyes were beginning to shine by themselves now. How could they not burn with the ferocity of the original that Max was trying to extract for, Sharbat Gula was Pashtun and the Pashtuns, Max knew, are the most warlike amongst the Afghan tribes. Indeed, it is not without substance that it is said that the Pashtuns are only at peace when they are at war!
Sharbat Gula was again on the cover of the National Geographic after she had been rediscovered by McCurry who accompanied a special expedition that went out in search for her in 2002. But Gula's photograph in 2002 did not hold Max's attention like the one in 1984. Of course, her eyes still burn with feeling, but the ravages of time and hardship have all taken their toll, her skin is as leather and the structure of her jaw has softened. But above all, the expression of one whose innocence is suddenly lost, of a child forced to age in a hurry, has been lost forever, Max was sure. And the precise point at which that innocence seems to have been lost, so dramatically captured by McCurry, was that which made her face so special in 1984.
The pencil began to move again slowly over the imaginary bridge of the nose that now struggled to be born in lead. And sure enough, within a matter of minutes, Max had recreated it in the sketchpad laid out in front of him.
In a land where stories shift like sand dunes in a desert, it is tragic that Gula's story is not an exception. In fact, it is the norm. The numbers speak for themselves: twenty-six years of war, 1.5 million killed, 3.5 million refugees.
'There is not one family that has not eaten the bitterness of war,' a young Afghan merchant said in the 1985 National Geographic story that appeared with Sharbat's photograph on the cover. She was a child when her country was caught in the jaws of the Soviet invasion. A carpet of destruction smothered countless villages like hers. She was perhaps six when Soviet bombing killed her parents. By day, the sky bled terror. And by night, the dead were buried. And always, the sound of planes, creating in her a dread that has stayed with her all through her adult life.
'We left Afghanistan because of the fighting,' said her brother, Kashar Khan, filling in the narrative of her life. He is a straight line of a man with a raptor face and piercing eyes. 'The Russians were everywhere. They were killing people. We had no choice.'
Shepherded by their grandmother, he and his four sisters walked to Pakistan. For a week they moved through mountains covered in snow, begging for blankets to keep warm.
'You never knew when the planes would come,' he recalled. 'We hid in caves.'
The journey that began with the loss of their parents and a trek across mountains by foot ended in a refugee camp in Peshawar amongst strangers.
'Rural people like Sharbat find it difficult to live in the cramped surroundings of a refugee camp,' explained Rahimullah Yusufzai, a respected Pakistani journalist who acted as interpreter for McCurry and the television crew. 'There is no privacy. You live at the mercy of other people.' More than that, you live at the mercy of the politics of other countries. 'The Russian invasion destroyed our lives,' her brother said.
This, then, has been the continuing tragedy of Afghanistan. Invasion. Resistance. Invasion. Will it ever end? 'Each change of government brings hope,' said Yusufzai. 'Each time, the Afghan people have found themselves betrayed by their leaders and by outsiders professing to be their friends and saviors.'
In the mid-1990s, during a lull in the fighting, Sharbat Gula went home to her village in the foothills of mountains veiled by snow. To live in this earthen-coloured village means to scratch out an existence, nothing more. There are terraces planted with corn, wheat, and rice, some walnut trees, a stream that spills down the mountain, but no school, clinic, roads or running water.
'School, clinic, roads, running water: things we take for granted in our lives here faraway from the land of the refugees and the oppressed.' Max sighed, unable to reconcile the contradictions, which their worlds represented. 'And for what have these millions like Gula been suffering?'
'For the freedom to live their own lives, Max.' The Wayfarers voice shocked him for an instant before he looked down once more upon the drawing before him. He was surprised that much of it was over even as he was going over the tragedy, which the face represented. The lighting from the right had come in so that it left the left portion in relative darkness: so much the beauty of it, as it were. The hair had been filled in and so had been the torn dupatta and its folds. And, of course, those eyes, the iris that disturbed the world; that stirred its sleeping conscience: they were done to near perfection. So that they sparkled with life in the flashlight that reflected off their surfaces. Max smiled reluctantly and in wonderment: it had been sometime since he picked up his pencil for a portrait and one thing was certain - time had not diminished his skill. His gift was independent of time. It was timeless.
'Now, would that you give her life.' The Wayfarer's voice cut into him again. 'Finish the job, Max.' The sarcasm rang loud and clear.
'You know I can't do that, Wayfarer.' Max put the drawing and the pencil down onto the table besides the open window. 'That was never my intention. Besides, have you not taught me earlier that the basic premise of religion and art is the existence of another world in addition to the natural one? Did you not teach me that if there were only one world, art would be impossible? Is it not also true that every work of art is an impression of a world to which we do not belong and from which we have not come, but of a world into which we have been cast? Does not art validate the existence of two worlds?'
'But what of the example you might set in making such portraits. People with lesser understanding might misunderstand such an act and take in the wrong conclusions.' The Wayfarer stuck to the point as he did a couple of years ago when he persuaded Max to stop doing portraits.
'That, Wayfarer,' Max sighed, as he picked up his creation again, 'is only if people get to see my work.'
He lifted the drawing up before his eyes, stared wonderingly, into that mesmerizing gaze, into the pain and the sadness, as if for the last time and almost as if he sought his own shelter, his refuge, in it. And then, he tore it apart: first, in two, then, in four and then, in eight. That done, he then made an offering of the pieces to the wind outside the window and watched it carried away to be mingled with a greater creation. In making the portrait, his had been an act of disobedience, Max agreed.
But then, disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man's original virtue.
A la Oscar Wilde.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Exile: Living History
A cave.
'Good Lord! A cave in a hill. In this...in this..desert!'
Max felt himself turning around in alarm, staring incredulously at the landscape around him: this hot, humid terrain that he suddenly found himself in.
'Where has my room gone? My apartment? Richard's park? The buildings of the city? The greenery? Bangalore?' His voice was desperate. 'Where in God's name is this? Where am I?'
The night air is warm. Still. A partial, ghostly light and a great distance render the other surrounding hillocks wavery and swaying before his staring, unbelieving eyes. The moon hangs low above his head radiating from itself a pale unearthly whiteness that merges, without transition, into what should be the horizon, and is like a herald, a summons, to what is unfathomable, unknowable.
'Wayfarer, are you here?'
'Yes, Max.'
'Oh, thank God for your presence, Wayfarer!'
'For ever and ever, Max.'
'Where are we, Wayfarer? I do not understand this setting.'
'That is because you do not belong to it, Max.'
'What?' The ill-disguised desperation was growing. 'Just tell me where the hell I am, okay? I might have lost my mind, for all I know.' The voice was breaking up as Max felt himself staring helplessly again at the desolate, lifeless, sandy valley that he found himself in.
'No, you have not, Max. Its just that you have lost track of your times.'
'Great, Wayfarer!' The voice was a shout that was sucked up instantly into the dry desert air. Without an echo. A trace. 'So, tell me, what time is it now?'
'Its thirteen years before the Hijrah, Max.'
'Thirteen years before the what?' Max's voice was another shout: one that strangely did not seem to disturb the stillness around him.
'The Hijrah, Max. Muhammad's exile from Makkah, the land of his birth.' The Wayfarer's voice was composed.
'Now I have heard everything, Wayfarer. And pray tell me where I am.'
'A few miles out of Makkah, Max.'
'Makkah!' Max felt himself whirling around again trying to help his stunned vision take in the surroundings once more. The hills in the distance. The sandy valley. The hot and sultry night air. The barren, shimmering desert. The hill in front. With that cave in it. That cave.
'Tell me this isn't a dream, Wayfarer.'
'I can't do that, Max.'
'What?'
'Yes, Max. It is a dream. Your dream.'
'But, but, its all so real.'
'But you don't even see yourself, Max.'
It then occurred to Max's startled senses that the Wayfarer was, indeed, right. He tried to look down upon his body, his hands, his feet. But there were none. It was all just his sight and hearing.
'Good God!'
The man tossed himself to the right, shifting his position on the bed as he slept fitfully. His lips parted as if in an effort to utter some inner word, but failed. Then they joined together again in a grimace; his eyes shut to the cold Bangalore night outside his apartment building. Max had been asleep only a while.
'What day is it, Wayfarer?'
'The day of the Revelation, Max. The very first day in the cave of Hira.'
'The cave!' Max turned his vision towards the cave at a height now. 'The cave on mount Hira!'
'He's in there, isn't he?' Was that his own heart pounding somewhere within? Max could not be certain.
This is impossible.
This is history.
Max knew well, through several readings of the biography of Muhammad, that it was in the fortieth year of the prophet's life that on one night, in the month of Ramadan, six hundred and ten years after the disappearance of Christ, Muhammad met with that extraordinary event in the cave on mount Hira. An event that was, forever, destined to alter the course of human history.
'Yes, Max. He's in there with Gabriel. Blind yourself now.'
Max did not have another chance at asking a question, for it seemed to him then that the whole vision before him: the cave, the hill, the desert around and the whole valley; all vibrated and trembled in the upheaval of an instant before what seemed like a bright beam of light poured forth from the cave. A scintillating whiteness which then covered his entire view with a blinding power that must have erased everything else that was present in its path. Sparing nothing: not even his own memory...
The man woke up with a start: a jerking movement that caught the breath halfway up his throat and arrested the scream from coming out. Instead, Max ended up gasping for breath as he pushed himself up - coughing all the while - into a sitting position on the bed. Despite the coolness of the night outside, he was sweating profusely.
'What was that all about?' he thought to himself as he felt the perspiration on his neck. The pounding of his heart came upto his ears yet again.
Some cave in a desert.
The cave.
'Yes. The beginning of the Revelation.' He remembered now.
His sleep interrupted, Max pulled himself out of his bed and cursing the interruption, fumbled for the door of the bedroom in the darkness. He then stumbled across the modest furnishing of the living room as he made his way towards the refrigerator in the kitchen. He needed a drink of water. Desperately.
And, of course, he needed to sleep quickly as well. For, he was to conduct a crucial interview at nine in the morning the next day. That was important. He really had to sleep.
His thirst quenched, he found his way back to his bed only to collapse onto it exhausted. It had been a hard day's work completed. And a good night's sleep left incomplete. But before long, however, he was floating once more into that familiar sensation...
Another cave.
'Another day, Max.'
'Yes, Wayfarer.' Max was calmer now but the burning sun above him was merciless, its heat unrelenting. It was another desert scene again and as real as the first. 'But what time is it?'
'Thirteen years hence, Max.'
'Thirteen years? My God, it's the year of the Hijrah then!' Of course, he now strangely knew that he was dreaming in his sleep, but the surroundings, the sensation of it all was incredibly real.
As real as this mountain ledge he found himself on now.
As real as the sheer drop of maybe a hundred feet or more that he now saw, or sensed, below him.
As real as this other cave that faced him now with its yawning darkness within.
As real as the two rock doves that sat cooing and fluttering their wings at the entrance to the cave.
And, yes, O God, as real as that silken spider web that was spun across the entrance in all its intricate perfection. Its revelation. For the world to see. And to turn away.
As real as the one sitting in its center, dangling effortlessly by its string in the mountain wind.
'Wayfarer, this is the cave on mount Thawr!' The excitement was too much for Max. Would that he got just a glimpse of the Messenger and his companion who were surely huddled inside...
The clock in the living room struck one in the morning, its chime resounding through the living hall. Its jarring note was, however, lost upon the hearing of the man sleeping in the bedroom. But then he moved, fidgeted and called out, 'Thawr,' before the overpowering sense of an age, long lost, held him in its grip again. Max slept on through the night.
Thirteen years had elapsed since Muhammad received that first revelation in the cave on mount Hira. Thirteen difficult, trying years that saw him and his devoted band of followers moving from disaster to disaster, from one persecution to the other, from one sacrifice to the next. But they had not wavered in the least despite their tribulations. They had held their ground for the freedom to believe in God, and to act in His, and only His, holy name. To believe in Him as is fitting for His status and not as one amongst a vast galaxy of innumerable gods. Gods that included one's own lusts and fancies; one's own choices: the god of one's own interests.
The struggle had finally come from that to this: Max knew.
From those events to these.
From Hira to Thawr
From prophethood to exile.
Like in so many instances in the past, Max was suddenly confronting a personal revelation. 'Was it an accident of fate that there had to be two caves in the life of Muhammad whence he set out for accomplishing two respective pattern of events: two events that have shaken the world as no others in history?' Max wondered.
Of course! The caves were symbolic of the inner world from where must definitely proceed the first reformation before any attempt was made to change the outer. If Muhammad had received the first revelation at the cave of Hira, it was a revelation that called for the transformation of the heart of man; for the concrete realization of the uncontestable existence of the Maker of man; for the humanization of man's relation with his own kind for the sake of God. The revelation had to come from within, rather than without. For, otherwise, all revolution and transformation for the better would be hypocritical. Artificial.
Yes. It had to come from the hollow of the heart; from within. Like the hollow of the cave; from within its confines.
But its field of action, its battlefield, its canvas, would be the world outside. Outside the cave. In the life of man.
Muhammad's period of reflection and acceptance at Hira over, he now beheld a retreat in the cave of Thawr from the heart of which he was now to proceed with determination once, and for all, to, forever, cast the mould for the transformation of man and his life in the image of God.
If it was the mantle of prophethood that was forced upon his trembling, reluctant self in the cave of Hira, here, at Thawr, he was now being forced into another unwilling act: a forced self-exile from the land of his birth, childhood and maturity. An act at the beginning of which, a few days earlier on the outskirts of Makkah, halting his camel, Muhammad had turned around and, looking back upon the town, said: 'Of all God's earth, thou art the dearest place unto me and the dearest unto God, and had not my people driven me out from thee, I would not have left thee.'
Max knew that exile was a strangely compelling subject to think about but a terrible one to experience. Oddly to him, he was now alive to the unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home. Somehow, in that instant; in that world of dreams and history, Max knew that the essential sadness of exile can never, ever, be surmounted.
'The acacia tree, Max. It has started to grow.' The Wayfarer's voice interrupted his visions within the vision.
'Acacia tree?' It was then that Max's sight rested upon the sapling that had sprouted forth from the barren ground at the entrance of the cave. 'Of course, the miracle of the acacia tree.' Max realized with a thrilling sense of time and space which he never thought he was capable of. Until that moment.
And how the tree grew before his startled senses. He recalled then that it would grow to almost the height of a man and would serve to make the entrance to the cave obscure and seem undisturbed. To the world that would soon come hunting for the two inside: the pair of fugitives one amongst whom would look upon his fretting, anxious companion and say: 'Grieve not, for verily God is with us. What thinkest thou of two when God is their third?'
The doors of the bedroom window had been left open for the cool, air outside to make its nightly visits. However, the cat that now perched on the window-sill might have been an unwelcome visitor for anybody else. But not for the man struggling in the bed before its perplexed eyes.
'Get away inside. They are coming, they are coming... Get away, please!'
The surprised cat jumped onto the bed, by the man who would stroke it and play with it the every other day when he was here. It purred gently, placing its soft paws on the struggling shoulder of Max. The clock in the living room struck three. The cat jumped again, startled out of its curiosity.
They could now hear the voices as a group of men - perhaps five or six in number - made their way up the mountain ridge from below. Max's senses froze. There he was. Lost in time and space as the men hunting the fugitives came up the ridge and filed past his presence towards the entrance of the cave. There he was. Witness to history. Powerless to change it.
Max, the mute spectator.
Max, the man with his heart in his mouth.
Tears rolled down the twitching cheeks. Real tears from eyes closed shut to outer realities. From an unreal world in time and in history. The sleeping man wept for his dream.
They could now hear the sound of steps, which drew nearer and then stopped: the men were standing outside the cave. They spoke decisively, all in agreement that there was no need to enter the cave, since no one could possibly be there, what with the unbroken spider's web, the rock dove now nestled with its eggs in the hollow of a rock at the cave entrance where, a man entering would surely have sought a foot-hold, and the undisturbed acacia tree covering the mouth of the cave. No. Surely nobody could have crept past these three without disturbing them. The men then turned back the way they had come.
The web of a spider, the eggs of a dove and the outstretched branches of a tree: three humble miracles of everyday life that turned back the power of an arrogant world; of the tides of history, as it were.
'And the rest, as they say,' thought Max, unable to describe the emotions playing within him, 'is, indeed, history.'
Thus, had commenced, the Hijrah, or the forced exile of Muhammad from his native land. To a land that would, thereafter, be celebrated down the ages as the Medinat-un-Nabi, or the 'City of the Prophet.' In short: Medina.
A momentous event that was, undoubtedly: one that gave the community of succeeding generations of Muslims, in diverse lands and climes, a practical demonstration of that core instrument of Islamic policy in their search for the kingdom of God in this world. A demonstration of the instrumentality of the Hijrah as an agent for pro-active, revolutionary, change.
But Max knew that, like all other major injunctions of the Qur'an such as the testimony of faith or the shahaadah, prayer or salaah, fasting or sawm, the compulsory poor-due or zakaah, and the annual pilgrimage to Makkah called the Hajj, the injunctions of Hijrah like that of Jihad also, had a dual implication. Implications relevant to man's spiritual and physical life. Indeed, herein lay the beauty and the universality of Islam, as Max understood it.
It then meant that if Muhammad's physical exile from Makkah was the tangible manifestation of the Hijrah, then the spiritual, intangible manifestation of this divine calling may best be articulated in the manner of the declaration of the prophet Lot, who, in the undying words of the Qur'an, cried so long ago: 'I'm, indeed, a migrant towards my Lord: for He is the Exalted in Might, the Wise.'
'How is one a migrant towards his Lord, Wayfarer?' Max had once asked while he was growing up.
'You become a migrant, a muhaajir, towards your Lord, Max,' the Wayfarer had answered him then, 'when you shun, in your life, that which He has prohibited you. When you take up in earnest all that He has commanded you to do. When you begin to love for His sake and to hate for His sake. When you do nothing for your own sake. For your own interests. When you annihilate the god - the ilaah - of your own desires to replace them with those of the Maker Himself.'
The man, in his sleep, was breathing more easily now unlike an hour ago when his breathing had become heavy and loud. But the rapid eye movements beneath his closed eyelids were far from over. REM, the scientists called them: the rapid eye movements of the dream state, which no probing of modern science could fathom yet. The mystery of the dream state: Sign of God. A potent, rational indicator to the possibility of the Resurrection after death, even as one awoke into life from a period of dreams. The only problem with the Resurrection though, was that one could not wake back to life if what one was experiencing was a nightmare. The nightmare of Hell. Unlike the times one had a nightmare in one's sleep, where one could always jump out of it with a scream or a start, you could not do that with the Maker's Hell. You had to live with it. With your sins. And their consequences.
There now appeared a perceptible calm on Max's face, which, if he could have seen in his waking hours, would surely have given him cause to wonder greatly. The loyal cat at his feet stared, its glowing eyes fixed on the changing contours of its master's countenance, and might have wondered instead. The clock in the living room struck four.
The sound of a galloping horse in swift pursuit through the sand.
Max's sights now came down upon the man on his horse, straining under the burning sun to reach his would-be victims who were there right up ahead of him. Muhammad on his Qaswa and Abu Bakr, his companion, on his camel. Two men on their dromedaries pushing on with their hijrah to Medina. Two men now with a reward equaling a fortune on their heads. A reward which Suraqah ibn Malik ibn Ju'sham wanted to make sure would be his. His quarry was in sight and he couldn't fail now. But he did just that. Because, for the third time that day his horse buckled under him and fell headlong into the sand. Not once. Not twice. But thrice.
This was history again: Max remembered. For, here was the man who had left Makkah tracking the fugitives, studying their hardly decipherable trail along a less frequented southerly route. A route which then turned eastwards along the coast and then up north towards Medinah. He had tracked them for days, sifting their tracks and sorting them out from the rest, excruciatingly, persistently. And now when his targets were in sight, he had fallen headlong with his horse yet again.
But then, in that moment frozen in time, an ominous stir over the summit of the high sand hill in front of Max attracted his attention. When he looked more carefully, he could see that the movement was not at the summit but from within the dune crest itself: the crest was moving, ever so slightly, and then it seemed to trickle down the slope towards Suraqah like the crest of a slowly breaking wave. A deep redness wound up skywards from behind the sand dune and under this redness its contours lost their sharpness and became blurred, and a reddish twilight began to spread rapidly over the desert. Suraqah was then caught in a cloud of sand which whirled against his face and around a bewildered Max, and all at once the wind began to roar from all directions, cutting across the valley with powerful blasts as it filled the hot desert air with swirling sand dust which, like some reddish fog, blotted out the sun and the day.
'Good Lord! This is a sandstorm in the desert.' Max could hardly believe his senses.
From his vantage viewpoint behind a fumbling Suraqah, Max could see the man calling out to the riders ahead of him: 'I am Suraqah ibn Ju'sham. Wait for me so that I can speak to you. By Allah, I will not harm you.'
'What do you want with us?' A voice called back through the sandy haze. Was it Abu Bakr? The voice of the first caliph of Islam?
Max knew that Suraqah, the hunter, had changed suddenly at the sight of the ominous portents which now confronted his memory: that he should have fallen thrice from his horse was unthinkable and now this sudden sandstorm. Muhammad must be destined for greater things surely and he, Suraqah, wanted a part in that destiny.
'Write a document for me which will be a warrant of security.'
The document was written then and there and handed over to Suraqah who kept the piece of leather on which it was written for many years to come. 'Howbeit Suraqah,' Muhammad had then prophesied, 'when the bracelets of the Chosroes shall adorn your hands?' And, indeed, that event did take place. When Persia was conquered, the bracelets, belt and crown of Chosroes were brought to Umar, the then caliph of the Islamic empire. He summoned Suraqah ibn Malik and put the royal insignia on him. Although Suraqah offered Muhammad provisions for his journey to Madinah, they were not accepted.
'Conceal our presence': that was the only favour that Suraqah was asked.
Max watched in astonishment as the two men continued on their journey, northward bound. To the home of this Hijrah; this exile: Medinat-un-Nabi. A journey that would now, till the end of time, divide history as 'after hijrah' and 'before hijrah': an official directive adopted seventeen years after the event at the decree of Umar bin al Khattab, the second caliph, in consultation with, among others, Ali, the son-in-law and cousin of Muhammad.
'He who forsakes his home in the cause of God finds in the earth many a refuge wide and spacious.' Yes. About that Qur'anic remark Max was sure of, at least in the case of those two men who were now lost to his vision: two men who would soon find their sanctuary and refuge at Medina, only to come back less than a decade later to capture, in a bloodless manner, the town that had persecuted and hounded them for thirteen long years.
It was an act that would, for posterity, stand as a guide for the Muslims who would be persecuted in their homelands; who would be persecuted for their beliefs and for their insistence to live their lives fully as believers in God. Watching a page from history unfold itself before him, Max suddenly remembered that in more recent times, it was Usman Dan Fodio who had analysed the obligation to emigrate in his work, Bayan Wujub al-hijrah ala al ibad. Dan Fodio himself had fled persecution to launch a successful Jihad in Africa. Indeed, while Jihad in the sense of an unrelenting struggle and effort in the cause of God encompassed within its ambit the act of Hijra also, Jihad in the sense of an armed struggle against the enemies of Islam has almost always followed in the path of a successful Hijrah.
The Hijrah transforms a believer from a mere believer to a Mujaahid, the one who struggles for his, or her, faith. It is for this reason that the Qur'an has used in many places the words Iman, Hijrah and Jihad together: 'Those who believe (aamanu), and migrate (haajaru), and struggle (jaahadu) in the cause of God, as well as those who give (them) asylum and aid, these are (all) truly the Believers: for them is the forgiveness of sins and a provision most generous': This was how God had put it in the chapter entitled 'The spoils of war' or 'Al-Anfaal.'
Interestingly, however, Max also remembered God as having told Muhammad in the Qur'an that 'as for those who believed but came not into exile, you owe no duty of protection to them until they come into exile.'
In this strange flurry of Qur'anic instructions that now poured into Max's vision within the vision, with all their relevance, Max now recalled that other injunction of the Qur'an - the one in many such statements which warned the believers that a half-baked faith was not what God demanded of them:
'O you who believe! Enter into Islam in full and do not follow in the footsteps of the Satan. For, he is to you an avowed enemy.'
No. It had to be total surrender before their Maker. A complete submission before which no law save the law of God, no way of life except the one shown by the Messenger, would be acceptable from them.
How many times had the Qur'an insisted on one single definition as constituting three different forms of disobedience and, that too, in a single chapter?
'And whoever does not rule with what God has revealed, they, indeed, are the disbelievers (kaafiroon).'
'And whoever does not rule with what God has revealed, they, indeed, are the transgressors (faasiqoon).'
'And whoever does not rule with what God has revealed, they, indeed, are the wrong doers (daalimoon).'
Three separate expressions given the same and single definition. All within the text of the same chapter. The chapter called the 'Table spread' or 'Al Maaida'. The fifth in the Qur'an.
And to top it all, the reminder: 'Then is it to the rule of Jahiliyyah (of the Days of Ignorance) that you seek to return? And who, better than God, can promulgate laws for a people who are firm in faith?'
This, then, has been the criterion for devoted Muslims down the centuries. Muslims who have searched, and still search, for ways and means to circumvent any situation wherein the freedom to practice their faith would be questioned or taken away from them. And when it came to pure, unadulterated Islam, faith meant not just an issue of personal belief or rituals. It was much more than that: it meant the active adoption of every guideline in the Qur'an in the various manifestations of human life: be it the personal, social, economic, political, juridical or even the educational. This has been the challenge, especially for those Muslims who have lived, and continue to exist, as minorities in non-Muslim majority areas of the world, and in history. There have been, as there still are, times wherein such Muslim communities have compromised the demands of their faith.
The demand of the Hijrah.
Of sacrifice and migration in the way of God.
The sandstorm in the desert had abated just as quickly as it had come up. However, as the skies cleared above him, Max could no longer see Suraqah, nor could he see the two men on their dromedaries apart from what looked like specks in the distant horizon towards Madinah. Two men on their way to their tryst with destiny. Now, in front of him, there appeared again that all-enveloping glare that came forth from the direction of Medinah even as he calmly watched it grow. Steadily. Until finally nothing was left in his sight save that numbing whiteness and the loss of memory and of time...
Max was fully awake in bed by the time the sun shone in through the open window of his bedroom. He was now also aware of that dull throbbing in his temple that he remembered right from the point of his waking. He had a headache.
'And right when you had that interview with the chairman of the Institute of Objective Studies,' The IOS was an Islamic intellectual organization in New Delhi, working on, among other things, policy studies for the Muslim ummah in India. The chairman was on a rare visit to Bangalore and Max didn't want to miss out on this appointment. Despite his aching head.
And despite some dim confusion in his mind because of which he had the recurring impression of having got, and then lost, something recently. But was it while he slept or was it earlier? The previous day, perhaps? Max wasn't sure. Did he dream something? He couldn't remember, try as he might. Why then was his face wet with what seemed to be recent tears?
Still disturbed, and as he rushed out of his house after the basics of washing, brushing, dressing and a shower, his eyes fell upon a page of the open Qur'an that he had kept aside on the dining table the previous day. He had read casually but it oddly struck him as being strange, as if he was reading it for the first time. It was a passage from the fourth chapter and it went thus:
'When the angels take the souls of those who die in sin against their souls, (the angels) ask: 'In what (plight) where ye?' They reply: 'We were weak and oppressed in the earth.' Then the angels ask: 'Was not the earth of God vast enough for you to move yourselves away (from evil)?' Such men will find their abode in Hell - what an evil refuge. Except the feeble among men, and the women, and the children, who are unable to devise a plan and are not shown a way. As for such, it maybe that God will pardon them. God is ever Clement, Forgiving. Whoever migrates for the cause of God will find much refuge and abundance in the earth, and whoever forsakes his home, a fugitive to God and His messenger, and death overtakes him, his reward is then obligatory on God. God is ever Forgiving, Merciful.'
'Yea,' said Max, trying to recollect what he had lost from memory even as he closed, and locked, the door of his house. 'Just try telling that to our Indian Muslims of today. Or are they Muslim Indians? Heck, what does any one care if they are the Red Indians!'
'Come to think of it, they will end up like the Red Indians pretty soon, granted the way things are going on in this country now!'
As he rushed past the stairs of the second storey of his apartment building, he greeted the elderly man who was his Muslim neighbour and then, suddenly, intuitively, and without notice, he quipped: 'What date is it today?'
'February 22nd.'
'And in the Hijri calendar?'
'Well, it's the 1st of Muharram, 1425 AH. Happy New Year, Max!'
The neighbour laughed innocently at the blank look on his face.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Stagnant Waters
The dust had to settle, of course.
For, with the dust of the restoration work hanging in the air, the strange, haunting attraction of the lake was diminished this time in the late evening. The time of the day when Max would sometimes go walking the five kilometers that separated his office from his residential apartment. The times when he wouldn't take his trusted bike to his office simply for the pure joy of walking the distance in solitude The road wound around this famous lake of Bangalore: famous because Bangalore was nowhere near any sort of water body that could honestly be called a river or a sea. Thus, given the land-locked contours of Bangalore, the lake was a regular visiting spot for tourists as well.
This was the Ulsoor Lake. The lake that lies north-west to what the Britishers had once called a 'native suburb': the thickly populated Ulsoor region of Bangalore. It was the Ulsoor that brought back memories of 'Old Bangalore' and almost took one back in time with the ruins of old houses that have fallen after having seen better days, the houses that have still withstood the ravages of time and others that await the dust to settle before they themselves will eventually sit down, or will be made to sit down, in eternal slumber. The remains of what once was a clock-tower stands in the town square symbolic of the fact that time itself has come to a standstill when one enters into this part of Bangalore: the 'city market' of east Bangalore where one still saw the moving bazaars on wheels or pushcarts that move from door to door; where the sight of goods and people being drawn by horse carriages are, even today, far from having faded into a distant memory, a very real sight.
The Ulsoor Lake or Tank - once called the Ulsur Lake - lies to the North-West of Ulsoor. The lake can be quite dangerous to swim in and there were many a European soldier who had drowned in the same, perhaps caught in the weeds and lotus plants. Indeed, there was once a time when the condition of the Lake was regarded as dangerous to public health because of the weed-choked and shallow waters. In 1901, the water level came very low, and the lake was drained, and the weeds were removed before the monsoons. The entire operation of draining and rooting out the weeds took around thirty days. When full, the lake stretched across an area of one hundred and twenty five acres; it's greatest depth being around twelve feet, with an average of eight feet all around.
In earlier times, when Bangalore was a stationing point of the British garrison, the water-works for supplying the European troops were situated on the side of a rock adjoining, but with the introduction of piped water supply, this was put out of use. There was a Gymkhana which ran a Boat Club. One can still go for boat rides today on this lake and there are even a few islands scattered around that can be picnicked on. There is also a small garden to the Northeast of the lake known as Kensington Park, and which runs along Kensington Road. A swimming pool adjoins the Park. Fishing at the lake was licensed in the past, but Max was not sure if the practice continues, although one can find a number of sticks with string attached along the western side of the Lake. Of course, Max could not even start to imagine game-fishing with reel and tackle here. The Red Cross Home - once St. Mary's Home - sits just opposite the Park and the once Royal Engineers, and Sappers and Miners were located at the Meeanee Lines adjacent to it. North of Ulsoor lies Murphy Town, and the Murphy Road is now part of the Old Madras Road, and meets with Kensington Road that goes southward to meet Mahatma Gandhi Road (formerly South Parade) at the Trinity Church junction. Just at the tapering south end of the lake on Kensington Road, one finds the Sikh Gurudwara or Temple, and there are some large compounds that were once part of some old bungalows.
Then there were the tourists to the Ulsoor Lake like the one who sat next to Max now as he seated himself on one of the stone benches that faced the water. The man couldn't have been above fifty years, from what Max gathered of his youthful features as he sat gazing at the orange disc in the sky that was sinking into the waters of the lake behind the trees of that small island in the middle. Sunset in Bangalore during February comes sometime after six in the evening: the time when Max left his workplace. The setting sun had now cast a hue of bright crimson across the horizon beyond the lake and the whole setting had begun to assume the aura of a different world. Like himself, Max intuitively knew that the man next to him was also absorbed in this artistry of the Divine - this miracle of everyday life - that was now unfolding before their eyes in all its transient beauty.
'You have been in Bangalore before?' Max asked hoping to start up a conversation with this fair, foreign-looking stranger who, for some reason, seemed to him as a man of interesting experiences.
The stranger turned to look at Max and then smiled. A smile that suddenly revealed hidden lines in his face. A smile that suddenly showed how much older he looked for what seemed to be his age.
'No. This is my first time here although I have been in India several times earlier.'
'And how do you find the place?' Max wished he had a better question to ask.
'Well, Bangalore must mean a lot more to me since we lived off it back in the United Kingdom while I was growing up, you know.'
'I beg your pardon?' Max wasn't sure of what he had heard just then.
'Yes. My father was a soldier in the Bangalore garrison of the British army before the independence years.' The man seemed to be in an effort to avoid something unpleasant that had just come up.
'Oh, but that is interesting..err..Mr..?'
'Winston, friend.' The man smiled again. 'And you are?'
'Maximus.'
'Maximus?' The man raised an eyebrow.
'Yes. Maximus. Max, for short.' He was blunt.
'Well, Max. My father's an even more interesting person once you get to know him.' The man looked into the lake and seemed as if he was digging up something from memory.
'Really, Mr.Winston?' Max wondered at the speed with which a rapport was building up between the two of them.
'Yes, Max. He's a wanderer, you know, and he's been to all sorts of places in the world in his time.' The man's voice was strangely sad as he glanced at the white bird that now came down and alighted on the surface of the water, a little further away into the lake. 'He's seen people die, Max. And he's seen them in life as well. He's also killed people like he's seen others kill and be killed in his life as a soldier.' Max stopped the next question that came up to his throat just then and didn't let it come out.
'My father used to say that four years of war gave a man more than thirty years at a university in the way of education in the problems of life. And sometimes I knew he was right. But his wanderings through the Middle East war zones, however, did create a change in him that has been permanent.'
'What sort of change was that, Mr. Winston?'
'Well, for one thing, he distanced himself from the Anglican Church back home. But it proved to be not a passing phase, Max; not merely a passive rejection of Church principles. It was an active rejection: one in which he exchanged one belief and one culture with another belief, another culture.'
Max was suddenly very interested. 'May I ask what he adopted, instead?'
'Well, my father became a Moslem, Max.' A faraway look came into the man's eyes as they rested on the sagging, gentle ripples of the lake surface before him. The white bird spread out its wings, flapped excitedly, and then lifted off into the air.
Max barely managed to control the emotions and the hundred and one questions that then welled up in him. But he did control himself with a great effort that was aided, in part, by his switching the excited look in his eyes to the dying colours of red and crimson that now washed the evening sky above the serenity of the lake. His attention was momentarily distracted by the sight of the last edge of the golden disc that was the sun as it went down the horizon beyond the waters in front of him.
'Do you know what its like to be a Moslem?' The man suddenly turned in earnest towards Max.
'Well, I just might, you know. I have heard and read things about that religion.' Max was caught off guard but he balanced himself, unable at that point to recognize the direction in which this conversation was heading. He decided to wait it out.
'It was all because of those wanderings of his which gave him the opportunity to think different. Why couldn't he just be like these stagnant waters? Like this lake here.' Max felt the man switching track.
'Stagnant waters?'
'Yes. That's what my father calls those who do not move from one place; who remained fixed at one spot. He always said that such people never lived life at its best. Never gave themselves the opportunity to learn from experience. But that still never prevented him from wondering why it was that his own wanderings were not over yet. Why it was that he still had to continue on his way? Why it was that the life that he had chosen on his own did not fully satisfy him? What was it that was still lacking for him in that environment? He was sure that it was not the intellectual interests of Europe for, he had long left them behind him.'
'Does your father still feel that way, Mr. Winston?' Max was pushing the conversation to a logical conclusion now.
'Well, no. That was all before he changed over to the Islamic system. Before he met that Kurdish nomad in one of his escapades into Turkey during the Second World War.'
'This is getting interesting by the minute,' Max thought to himself as he shifted his position on the bench and let the evening breeze play with his hair. An evening that was fast turning into the darkness of night.
'A Kurdish nomad, Mr.Winston?'
'Yes, Max. There was this old Kurdish tribesman who once mentioned to him: If water stands motionless in a pool it grows stale and muddy, but when it moves and flows it becomes clear - so, too, man in his wanderings. Whereupon, as if by magic, all disquiet left my father. He began to look upon himself with distant eyes as you might look at the pages of a book to read a story from them; and he began to understand that his life could not have taken a different course. For he was to tell me later that when he asked himself: 'What is the sum total of my life?' something in him seemed to answer, 'You have set out to exchange one world for another - to gain a new world for yourself in exchange for an old one which you never possessed.' And then he knew with startling clarity that such an undertaking might, indeed, take an entire lifetime.' Mr. Winston finished, his head bowed down in the pain of some memory.
'Travelling in search of knowledge,' Max remembered Ibn Battutah's younger North African contemporary, Ibn Khaldun, as having written, 'is absolutely essential for the acquisition of useful learning and of perfection through meeting authoritative teachers and having contact with scholarly personalities.' But, the prophet Muhammad had put it more snappily, 'Travel in search of knowledge, even though the journey take you to China.' Despite the rhetorical injunction, the East for most Maghribis (or the westerners in the then known world) meant Cairo, Damascus and Mecca. The question to ask, then, is not why Ibn Battutah set out - thought Max of a sudden - but why he went so far. Max was certain that if Ibn Battutah himself could be asked why he went so far, it is just about possible that he would have retold the story of his meeting in Alexandria with the saint Burhan al-Din, the Lame, who, seemingly gifted like many of his holy peers with knowledge of future events, asked Ibn Battutah to pass on his greetings to his spiritual brothers in Sind, India and China. 'I was amazed at his prediction,' Ibn Battutah recalled, 'and the idea of going to these countries having been cast into my mind, my wanderings never ceased until I had met these three.' It is true that Predestination as an incentive to action may seem paradoxical; but not so for Ibn Battutah, the prince of Arab travelers who in the thirteenth century after the disappearance of Christ, traversed much of the known world almost in its entirety during a period spanning more than three decades. The quest, for him, was always part of the destiny.
'But, Mr. Winston.' Max was getting to love this man's father for the resonant chord that he seemed to touch in his own self. 'Where exactly is your father now? How is he faring with his life as a Muslim?'
'Well, Max.' Mr. Winston sighed as he got up slowly from the bench, his tall frame still bowed down as he walked up a step towards the waters of the lake. 'He didn't retire from active military service as he should have a long time ago.'
'But, his age? He didn't retire?' Max was dumbfounded. 'Is he in the United Kingdom now?' Max was eager to know.
'No, Max.' Mr.Winston sat himself on his haunches, balancing himself on his toes, by the concrete on the lakeside. 'He's not in the United Kingdom. He's right here, in front of us.'
'What?' For the second time that evening, Max wasn't sure he heard right. 'What did you say, Mr. Winston?'
'In the lake, Max. He drowned in this Ulsoor Lake, caught in the creepers and the vines at the bottom and got sucked into a mud-hole in the middle. His body was never recovered, though. So that's where my father ended up with his wanderings at the age of forty-six.' The man's voice trailed off into the night.
How many fellow travelers have I known? I cannot count.
How many corners of the earth? I cannot tell.
Now that my wanderings east and west are done,
There is but one last corner left: my grave.
That was how a wandering poet of the eleventh century had characterized his wanderings, not that it would have helped the two men on the shores of the lake just then. Two strangers with a world of inexpressible emotion between them. But then, as an old Arab proverb went: 'Strangers are kin.'
Ibn Battutah would have agreed.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Song of the Nightingale
It is one of the more hallowed cliches of our time that the life of a writer is a lonely one: Max had known that much anyway. But he was sure that he was not lonely simply because he could, or did, write. No. He was lonely because of something else. For, he never did write for the sake of writing or for being published. In fact, he was an engineer by training, if not by profession. But then, he knew he felt the pangs of loneliness every now and then because of just that: his profession.
His profession of the heart.
His intensity and his passion.
For a world that ought to be but not, painfully, is.
No. His loneliness couldn't be because of his writing. Simply because he hardly ever wrote anything for the sake of writing or for being published. He didn't care a trifle for such things. The Wayfarer had seen to that while he grew up in his company. In fact, he never did most things just for the sake of doing them. He always did them for what he believed in with all his heart.
With all his being.
No matter what his limitations were.
No matter what his weaknesses.
No matter what his mistakes were.
No matter what his sins.
Of commission and of omission.
Despite all that, he did love that which he believed in. He loved it with such passion and intensity that few ever imagined they could get closer to the fervent being that was his soul without being scorched themselves. Max was always too much for most people in his obsession with the tragedy of the Muslim Ummah and his brooding temperament lost, as it was, in a great wave of yearning for the way out of its travails. For a path that would grant him one breath - one single breath - in that ideal world that he longed to be in.
A world, the reality of which few people ever bothered to enquire. People who lost themselves in the attractions of the life-long surroundings into which they were born. And from which they had, one day, to pass away. People who catered more to merry making and the good things of this life. People of the type, in the midst of whom, another would be an exception. The oddity.
So out of fear of loneliness, Max had searched history for his friend and brother who was killed in the very blossoming of his youth for the crime of awareness. For, awareness in a world of ignorance, or like the Buddha said, 'to exist as an island in a land of lakes,' are unforgiveable crimes. Had not the last Messenger explained: 'The world is a prison for the believer and Paradise itself for the unbeliever.' It was another thing that a few persons questioned Umar bin al Khattab, one of the closest companions of Muhammad, regarding this utterance of his.
'How could that be possible when God had granted the believers the good in this world also?'
'That,' said the vigilant Umar, 'is because, in comparison with what the believers are to get in the Hereafter, this world would seem a prison to them, while in comparison to what the unbelievers are to get in the Hereafter, this world would seem to be a veritable Paradise, as it were.' But, Max never was certain with regard to that answer. For, he craved, and ached, for what could be achieved here and now, not there and then.
'The craving with which you are enamoured of, Max, is the driving power that sketches the Divine pattern in human history.' The Wayfarer had once informed him. 'Yea, thanks a lot, Wayfarer,' he had replied sarcastically because he knew it had to be from the heart, and not from the lips or even the head.
'Like the one who once pointed to his chest and said thrice: God-consciousness exists right here.' Muhammad had said that: Max remembered. The pain had to be there. The pain when one is left so terribly alone with the desires of one's heart. When none else cared for what you believed in.
'Your passion is not an exception, Max.' The Wayfarer had tried to make him understand. 'Nor are all those who possess such intensity for the cause destined to die an early death. You would see that, for instance, in the one who wrote of the lone nightingale in his complaint, Max. In his Shikhwa.'
'Shikhwa?'
'The Shikhwa of Iqbal, Max. You would do well to read it.'
'You have known Iqbal, Wayfarer?'
'I have known hearts that palpitate with the remembrance of God, Max. Throughout history.'
Yes, the Shikhwa. That was Muhammad Iqbal's complaint to God. Right from the heart. Like the solitary nightingale that sat singing its heart out for the rebirth of the garden that was its haunt. The garden of the heart that had dried out and was now dead to the possibility of another, perfect world.
And how Max read that every time he was gripped of loneliness, like he read it now:
Now the secret of the garden by the rose's scent is spread;
Shame it is, the garden's blossoms should themselves the traitor play!
Now the garden's Lyre is broken, and the rose's bloom-time sped,
And the minstrels of the garden from their twigs have winged away;
Yet one nightingale sings on there, rapt by his own melody,
In his breast the plangent music tosses still tempestuously.
All the ring-doves from the branches of the cypresses have flown,
And the petals of the blossoms flutter down and take to flight;
And the garden's ancient walks, how desolate they are and lone;
Ravished of their leafy robes, the boughs stand naked to the light.
Still he sings forlorn, all heedless of the season's changing mood;
Oh, that someone in the garden his sad anthem understood!
Life is joyless now, and death no comfort promises to bring;
To remember ancient sorrows is the sole delight I know.
In the mirror of my mind what germs of thought are shimmering,
In the darkness of my breast what shining revelations glow!
Yet no witness in the garden may the miracle attest;
Not a tulip there lies bleeding with a brand upon its breast.
Break, hard hearts, to hear the carol of this nightingale forlorn;
Wake, dull hearts, to heed the clamour and the clangour of this bell;
Rise, dead hearts, by this new compact of fidelity reborn;
Thirst, dry hearts, for the old vintage whose sweet tung you knew so well.
Though the jar was cast in Persia, in Hejaz the wine first flowed;
And though Indian the song be, from Hejaz derives the mode.
'Yes, Wayfarer.'
'Break, hard hearts, to end the loneliness of such a one!'
Saturday, February 07, 2004
The Heraclian Syndrome
The Instrument mere and the Obedient true.
'Yes.' Max was sure. Those were the words that the Wayfarer had used. And how many years ago was that?
Was it in 2000? No. Much earlier than that, surely.
1999, then? No. That still seemed too late.
1998, possibly? The year Max graduated with a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the Karnatak University at Dharwad. No, Max was certain now that the Wayfarer had granted him the concept of the Instrument and the Obedient in the last of those remarkable four years that he had worked for his engineering degree at a college campus that hugged the shores of the Arabian Sea.
Atop that picturesque, greenish hill.
Greenish and full of life when the monsoons swept in.
Dark and barren when the unsparing heat of an Indian summer beat down upon it.
Always awaiting the miracle of resurrection.
Of rain.
A few hours drive away from the largest, most spectacular waterfalls in South Asia: the Jog Falls.
1997 it was then, when, during those tension-filled days of the critical seventh semester university exams, the Wayfarer had interrupted his thought processes on one particular occasion of a cold, rainy evening as he sat, in front of those books on internal combustion engines, pondering over the fundamental questions of predestination and the tragedy of man's inescapable fate. Questions on man's choice of actions and the end results of those very actions; for man himself and for the particular pattern that was being set in the life of the universe by the dictates of the writ Divine.
Questions that were not exactly related to the subjects he had for the exams at hand.
'Well, maybe except for the Carnot cycle, that is.' Max had corrected himself as he had glanced over the illustration of the ideal Carnot power cycle for internal combustion engines in the textbook before him. For, the ideal Carnot cycle was just that: an ideal. Nevertheless, it was an ideal that could be looked up to; an ideal that could be sought to be attained, no matter however unsuccessfully. But each effort at attaining to it would certainly bring about vast improvements in the existing model.
Back in 1824, when the French military engineer, Sadi Carnot, first proposed the fuel cycle that was, thenceforth, to bear his name, he had clearly mentioned that his particular proposition was based on the assumption that heat was totally convertible into work energy and work, in turn, was wholly convertible into heat. This, of course, was just an assumption and an ideal basis for Carnot's theory: in real life, such wholesale conversion of heat into energy was an impossibility. But then, there he had it: the Carnot cycle. The ideal cycle that formed the basis for all future experimentations into fuel cycle efficiencies. And each effort at attaining to the Carnot cycle produced a better, more efficient fuel cycle every time: there was the Otto cycle, the Otto-Rankine cycle, the Diesel cycle and so forth. Not that any of these experiments produced the perfect Carnot cycle, but they did improve upon every previous model to lead to the most fuel-efficient power stroke of modern times.
Max was sure that this perfect-model theory suited very well with many aspects of man's spiritual, behavioural life as well. There had to be an ideal model - an ideal world - that had to be sought after not at some vague point in time and history, but right here and now. In times such as these, when man needed it so sorely like he needed it at no other time in the past. There had to be a perfect model for human life, the very effort to attain to which would greatly civilize and ennoble its existence. Its multifarious manifestations.
Modern science wasn't everything since it couldn't account for many, many factors in man's world. And more so, since the material sciences had to go by mere assumptions to get down to any empirical rule that was, in the end analysis, a spiritual, non-material truth anyway. Materially tangible efforts producing materially intangible results. For, ideally, the applied sciences, like engineering, always have their bases in pure science. And pure science was based in original spiritual laws that prevailed eternally in the life of the universe.
Even before man made his first appearance.
Even before he ever found mention for what he was: a tiny, insignificant, speck in the incredible, incomparable vastness of the universe that was his home in this life material.
'Wasn't this insignificant man then made the subject to which all else in existence was predicated?' Max had wondered. 'Has there ever been a greater honour than that?' The honour of his intellect: the pride of God's creation. His freedom of will and his, materially intangible, gift of conscience based on an absolute, Divinely ingrained code of morality.
'Freedom of will, Max?' That was the point where the Wayfarer had come in.
'Yes, Wayfarer.' Max picked up his ears. 'Man does have freedom of will, doesn't he?'
'Yes, Max. But like you were thinking about man being the subject to which all else in the universe is predicated, his freedom of will, is, in turn, predicated to a higher subject.'
'Which is..?'
'The highest Subject of all. The Will of his Maker, Max. The Plan Divine.'
'But then there is no freedom of will for man, Wayfarer. He must have the independence to act as he chooses. Else, the moral justification for reward and punishment is washed away, is it not?' Max was being cautious since he was sure that he had now tread upon a delicate, albeit vital, issue.
'No, Max. That is the general rule - the general pattern of God's working - that pervades man's life. The cause-and-effect pattern. And so the Divine law: God does not change the condition of a people until they change it themselves first. But there is also the particular rule that is the sole prerogative of God in His capacity as the Omnipotent Controller of the universe: the rule that He can, and does, interfere in the life of His creations, sometimes to aid them specifically, and at other times to ensure that His words find fulfillment so that His dynamic existence is asserted again and again in history beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt.'
'Yes, Wayfarer. For those who have hearts to see.'
'Thus, Max, man can end up being a mere instrument or a truly obedient servant in this very real drama of God's particular pattern in human history.' The Wayfarer's voice now had a special ring to it, like the times when he mentioned something of great relevance. And that note in his voice was not lost upon Max.
'How does one become a mere instrument as against an obedient servant of God?' Max asked with the half-innocence of the half-innocent.
'That's when one is in the grip of the Heraclian Syndrome, Max.'
'The what, Wayfarer?'
'The Heraclian Syndrome, Max.' The repeating voice was grim.
Max had then closed his textbook. 'I haven't heard that before, Wayfarer. Tell me more.'
'You know it yourself, Max. The only problem, however, is that you don't know that you know. And sometimes a name, or a title, can bring to mind an image more quickly than a hundred words put together.'
'Yea. And so God taught Adam the name of all things,' Max reflected suddenly.
The rain outside had been relentless once it had begun to come down in full earnest. The pattering of the heavy and innumerable drops upon the windowpane of Max's hostel room had produced a symphony that complemented the gloom that was gathering within him. Max had hardly noticed the streak of light which, at that moment, flashed across the darkening evening skies above the hill. But in the next instant, the electric power supply to the entire campus was cut off and Max was suddenly left alone in the cozy darkness of his room.
'Damn,' said Max to himself as he groped for a candle and the matchbox in the darkness. 'And just when you had a crucial university exam tomorrow. The generators better start running real quick here.'
A cool draught of air had then found its way into the room through the tiny crack in the upper left corner of the windowpane and it brought with it something of the dampness of the rainy night outside. The breeze, however, helped little as Max tried with some difficulty to light the candle on the table before his pile of books. In the end, when he did manage to light the candle, the light that it offered was little better than a flickering, wavering one.
One that cast long shadows onto the walls around him.
'Wayfarer?' Max almost called out.
Silence, save the sound of the rain falling outside.
'There you have it. You have left me in the middle of the riddle again.' Max was frustrated now, his hands unconsciously turning open the pages of his textbook as the shadows danced to the movement.
'Just as well. At least I can catch up with my subject now.'
But that, for Max, was easier said than done. 'Heraclian Syndrome? Does the word Heraclian ring a bell?' Max was asking himself then. The power-energy equations that he was staring at didn't make any sense.
'Heraclian. That sounds like its taken from Roman history.' The flickering light of the candle glinted off his suddenly sparkling eyes.
'Oh, Yes. Heraclius. The Roman emperor, Heraclius. The one who incredibly overran the might of the Persian War Machine in the seventh century after the dissapearance of Christ.' Max was beginning to pick up the thread.
'Wasn't he the one who played the role in fulfilling the astonishing prophesy in the Last Testament revealed to Muhammad?' Max fumbled with the pen in his hand. He had read that history before while still in his teens. It was the story that every Muslim child would know. The revelation in the chapter entitled Rome. The thirtieth of the Qur'an.
Rome was not built in a day. Max had heard that.
'But it almost came un-built in just about that time. Thanks to Heraclius' early misrule.' Max had by then risen from his seat and was slowly walking up and down the room restlessly as he tried to recollect what he had read of Edward Gibbon's Decline and fall of the Roman empire.
Max knew that at the time of the last divine revelation made to man, Arabia was a remote corner of the then known world, known to the outsiders for its hungry, ferocious, untamed desert-dwellers. The civilized world was divided into two major powers. Both vast, powerful, and several centuries old: the Roman and the Persian. The Romans ruled over some parts of Europe, the whole of Syria, Palestine, Egypt and North Africa. The Persian Empire had its roots in Persia. The two super powers of the time had long been warring with each other in an effort to expand territories. Lately, the Persians were particularly successful under the greatest of their emperors, Chosroes II, who had begun his campaigns against the Romans early in the seventh century of the Christian era. Muhammad was then about thirty years old and was not yet a prophet. Chosroes tore through the Roman defences and within thirty years reduced the illustrious empire to shambles having wrested away the best part of Syria, Palestine, Egypt and all the areas below the Capital of the empire, Constantinople.
Twelve of the thirty years of the victory-filled campaigns of Chosroes were conducted during the reign of the Roman emperor Heraclius, who, being more a man of the pleasantries of the palace than the battlefields, watched with complete helplessness the destruction of his empire. The greatest blow came when the Persians wrested from his hands Jerusalem and carried away the relics of the holy city to Persia. These relics included the 'Holy Cross' on which Christ was supposed to have been crucified. It was at this juncture that Muhammad, then in his fourth or fifth year of apostleship, received the astonishing prediction:
"Alif. Laam. Meem. The Romans have been defeated in the land lowest on earth. But after (this) defeat of theirs they will soon be victorious. Within a few years. With God is the decision, in the past and in the future. On that day shall the faithful rejoice."
Max now remembered, almost word-to-word, what Gibbon had written about this important incident. He had said that 'at the time when the prediction is said to have been delivered, no prophecy could be more distant from its accomplishment, since the first twelve years of Heraclius announced the approaching dissolution of the empire.'
But then something happened. Heraclius changed. Assuming the role of a hero, and borrowing all the gold that the churches could lend him, he set sail quietly into the Mediterranean Sea with a small band of soldiers. He landed at the shores of Syria and defeated the Persian army sent to intercept him. He marched on carrying in the process his victorious armies as far as the royal cities of Casbin and Ispahan, which had never been approached by a Roman emperor before. There he faced the largest-ever Persian army. An army so fearful that his bravest veterans were left speechless with awe. Although he knew nothing of the prophecy of the Qur'an, Heraclius addressed his commanders in prophetic words: 'Be not terrified by the multitude of your foes. With the aid of Heaven, one Roman may triumph over a thousand barbarians.' The victory was his. The decisive battle was at Nineveh, once home to the prophet Jonah. And a little later he recovered the 'Holy Cross.' In seven years Heraclius had liberated all the provinces that had been lost in thirty.
In all, Heraclius had undertaken six, incredible campaigns against the might of the Persian Empire. All within the span of that remarkable decade. Campaigns which possessed, in the manner of their execution and for the terrible odds that they were put up against, the authoritative stamp of true genius. Not since the days of Hannibal had the world witnessed such feats of daring and bravery. Feats that have become all the more incredible and logic defying for the personage through which they were accomplished.
It is quite another matter that this whole incident of history gave a further boost to the Qur'an's claim of being the last revelation from God, since only fools would argue that the illiterate Muhammad had ventured to make the prediction himself. A prediction that gave him and his poor band of followers little comfort from the mockery and ridicule of their countrymen until the fulfillment of the prophecy several years later.
This much Max was sure of.
'But what is the Heraclian Syndrome? And what had it to do with the Particular Pattern of God's Working in human history? And how is one made a mere instrument by the operation of the Heraclian Syndrome?'
The rain had lessened in intensity for, it was only the faint murmur of the drizzle outside that reached Max's ears then. But the power supply was still out. Max unlocked the doors of the window and opened them outwards, allowing the refreshing gust of the cool night air to wash against his pensive face. The campus lay in darkness save for what seemed a hundred candles shining through the windows of the hostel rooms where students poured over their books. Beyond the campus wall, and down the hill, stood the sleepy little town by the Arabian Sea. All in the cloak of a wet, damp, darkness. And beyond that stood the sea itself. Silent in its majesty. In its stillness.
'Okay. So Heraclius was used as an instrument in fulfilling a Divine prophecy.' Max rested his elbows on the window sill. His figure hunched in contemplation.
'And how, Max?' The Wayfarer was back.
'How, Wayfarer?'
'Yes. How was he used, Max? What happened to him after he played his part in fulfilling the prophecy?'
Max's eyebrows went up ever so slightly. Gibbon's remarks about Heraclius came flashing back along with the faint, dying, lightning that streaked across the sky: Of the characters conspicuous in history, that of Heraclius is one of the most extraordinary and inconsistent. In the 'first and last years' of a long reign, the emperor appears to be the slave of sloth, of pleasure, and of superstition, the careless and impotent spectator of public calamities.
'O my God, Wayfarer!' It was indeed a bolt from the blue as the idea came home to Max. He raised himself up from his elbows quickly, staring hard into the drizzling night. It was, indeed, true that the same Heraclius who, in those ten significant years that altered the course of history, reclaimed the glory of Rome, fell back immediately to his old ways of pleasure seeking, irresponsible administration and a life of ease and comfort, once the task of uprooting the Persian empire was accomplished. Towards the fag end of his life, few people knew him as the Roman ruler who had challenged and defeated the great Persian Empire. His subjects knew him more as the man who ended his life in misery in the shame of an incestuous relationship that he had contracted with his niece, Martina: daughter of his own sister. To add further insult to injury, by the time he died in 641 C.E. most of his empire was again in ruins and had, more or less, been laid to waste.
Heraclius had been picked up by God for a brief period for the accomplishment of His plans. Heraclius himself never profited in any lasting manner from the transformation that came upon him since when he was finally left to himself, he could only claim ignominy on his own.
'Heraclius was a mere instrument, Max. An instrument of God's will. An instrument that failed to even understand the very purpose for which it was being used. His fate in this world was a miserable end and in the Hereafter he is, like all else, at the Mercy of the Maker.'
To his great horror, the implications of the Heraclian Syndrome then dawned upon Max. It simply meant that no matter what one did for the cause of God, one could still end up as a mere instrument that was used for the accomplishment of God's purpose. Of victory and salvation in the Hereafter, where it counted the most, one might have none. One could so end up if one were to be affected by the Heraclian Syndrome. The curse. The curse because of which all such Mere Instruments of the Divine deceive themselves into thinking that they are in the process of doing something really worthwhile.
"Verily, those who remain unconvinced (and work not on the truth) of the Hereafter will have all their deeds rendered by God into the mere decorative ornaments (of their lives). That they may, thus, befool themselves thereby."
How the words of the Qur'an rang in Max's ears just then. With a shrillness that has remained to this day.
In retrospect, Max, could now place any individual action or effort, any historical event, any body of organizational endeavour, any thing that had served to further the cause of God, but later fell out after having accomplished its purpose as having been in the grip of this curse. The curse of the Heraclian Syndrome. Frighteningly for Max, his own efforts in the cause of God now seemed glaringly suspect to the affectations of the curse. Had he done all that he had done just for accomplishing God's Plan and then to be thrown into the confines of ignominy in this life and Hell in the Hereafter? It was a question that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. It would make him gloomy and burdened. It would leave him humbled and wet of the eye. It would ever make him sober of the heart. Everytime he remembered. Each and every, single time.
'The Obedient, Wayfarer. Tell me about the Obedient.' Max's voice was shaking now with urgency for all the implications that had come upon him of a sudden. The Wayfarer had cast the Obedient servant against the mere Instrument of God. Therein could be hope.
'The Obedient are those, Max, who follow the commands of God to its fulfillment in their own lives. They are those who are firm in their certainty about the Hereafter and the possibilities for their own fate therein. They are those who work upon the commands of God in this life for the explicit purpose of seeking the pleasure of God, and their safety, in the Hereafter. They are the ones who are alive to the General and Particular pattern of God's working in the Universe and in the life of Man. They are those who are ever conscious of the very real danger of their becoming a mere Instrument of God. They are ever alive to the Curse, Max. Alive in life, as in death. They have learned to die before their deaths.' The Wayfarer's voice was cold. Grave.
'But Wayfarer,' Max was almost besides himself with grief by then. 'How does one know that he isn't being used as a mere Instrument when all he ever thought as his greatest ambition in life was the holding aloft of God's word in this universe; when he realizes, at the same time, that he is indeed weak of the flesh, if not in spirit?'
'Yes, Max. Man is, indeed, created in weakness and as one given to his passions.' The Wayfarer's voice was a soothing caress. 'But you will know your status as the Obedient of God through your love for Him. Nobody can feign true love, Max. Nobody.'
'Least of all, to God, the Knower of hearts.'
The rain had abated now in its entirety, leaving the whole campus smelling, and full, of the new life that had been breathed into it. Through the miracle of a new resurrection. Through the revelation of a heavenly torrent. Even the moon was up in all its breathtaking fullness and beauty. A moon that reflected its own reflected light upon the waters of the Arabian Sea. The shores of which hugged the coastline that housed the campus atop the hill. The campus in which was the hostel room by whose darkened window one stood weeping for the torrent from heaven that had just descended.
To destroy, forever, the innocence of his deeds.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Call of the Cube
It was that time of the year again and Max had half expected it to happen anyway: at least two hundred and fifty dead in the stampede at the stoning ritual.
Some were so young - as young as thirty: Max observed.
Thirty.
Not too young
Not too old
But a 'vie-able, dieable' age. For what one believed in.
Two hundred and fifty dead. And that was the official Saudi figure. It could very well be much, much more: Max knew, while he scanned the headlines earlier in the day. These were people who had come heeding the call of the cube.
'Well, almost a cube, if one went by exact dimensions.' But it did have six flat surfaces - a fact that immediately pointed out the one in many symbolisms associated with the rites centred around it. The cube faced the world in six directions: north, south, east, west and the two vertical directions. In all, therefore, the cube addressed the world of man in directions with which he was well versed; in directions from which he would come heeding its call down the ages.
'But the cube sits on a sphere, as it were,' as the Wayfarer had once pointed out to Max.
'Like the Relative within the Absolute.' Max had joined in then.
'Yes, Max. Like the mind of man within the Mind of God.'
The cube was conspicuous by the contrast that its black colour presented against the ocean of white moving around it. Max had been staring at his computer screen since the morning hour that he reported for work. He had to get the right image for the article to be published in the next issue. Not that the cube in focus now was never photographed better. On the contrary, there were hundreds of images of the most famous cube of all time. And that was just what Max's problem was. He had to select the best, most awe-inspiring image of the Ka'aba that he could lay his eyes on.
Awe-inspiring.
'Yea, that's the only word for it,' thought Max as he stared at the several colour photographs of the main rites of the Hajj, or the Islamic Pilgrimage, on his computer screen. Max had never been there amongst that ocean of humanity circumambulating the Ka'aba, the house built by the patriarch Abraham and his elder son, Ishmael, dedicated to the eternal remembrance of God.
At Makkah.
In the land of Arabia.
In the land where Abraham's celebrated descendent would proclaim the culmination of the Revelation centuries after Ishmael, Isacc, David, Solomon, Moses and Jesus.
In the land where Muhammad was born.
No, Max had not yet received that opportunity of a lifetime, but he could very well feel something of the throbbing pulse of the vast sea of humanity that now thronged around the cubical structure. Around the cube that was the Ka'aba.
The center of the world.
'The center of the world?' Max thought again. 'Okay, that might be stretching it a little bit.' But one thing was for sure: two million human beings, irrespective of race, colour, language and culture converging onto one spot with nothing but the same, single intention must definitely be some centre of power. There was no mistaking that, no matter what you were: a Muslim, a Hindu, a Christian, a Jew or even one without any particular religion.
The same, single intention: Labbaik Allahuma Labbaik. Here am I! O God! Here am I, at Thy command!
For how many centuries has that call reverberated through the valleys of Makkah every year since Abraham: that cry of the pilgrim on his journey towards fulfilling the command of his Maker. A journey that is almost always expected to be one way.
The way.
The road that would carry the pilgrim to salvation and offer hopes of a rebirth, free of sins. Of a Renaissance Spiritual. And then of the expectant return unto the Maker in as clean an image as the one in which He first created His servant.
Except, of course, in one instance: the one in which the pilgrim embarked on the pilgrimage without having settled dues that he owed to any other.
Dues in cash and in kind.
Dues in insult and harm done.
All had to be atoned for.
All had to be forgiven by man before the rest could be forgiven by God.
Yes, the pilgrim could always return from his pilgrimage and seek this forgiveness so essential, but what if he never came back home from his pilgrimage?
What if he was to pass away into the presence of his Maker en route to the completion of this physical pilgrimage of the body?
What if the physical pilgrimage of the body was to lead to the spiritual pilgrimage of the soul even before its last rites were completed?
Who could then atone for his sins of commission to those whom he had to pay up?
So, logic dictates that the pilgrim settle the scores before one sets out for the pilgrimage so that one's Maker may accept one as sinless should he, or she, be destined to meet with death on the way, which incidentally happens to be the longing of the ideal, true, pilgrim.
There is no theme within the symmetric perfection of Islam that more fully portrays inherent symbolisms as do the rites of Hajj. Indeed, the Hajj is replete with symbols and suggestions:
Symbols pointing to the eternal struggle that is always the lot of Man in his movement towards God.
Suggestions evocative of the sacrifice that must necessarily dot human life as it progresses to meet its Maker.
But what really shook Max, once the Wayfarer informed him of it, was the symbolism of the Tawaaf, or the movement around the Ka'aba. With his explanation, the Wayfarer had pointed out the dual implications of the term 'revolution'. In one very obvious sense, the circumambulation around the Ka'aba marked a pilgrim's revolution around it. But this was never to be a static revolution for, the objective of the pilgrim's revolutionary path was undoubtedly its centre. A centre occupied by the House of God, the slightest touch of which was every pilgrim's fondest desire. For the mere sight of which the pilgrim would have traversed half the world on his meagre resources.
But then 'revolution' has meant dynamic, drastic change in the state of affairs as well. It has always meant change and, very possibly, for what was apparently better. It has always meant a transition from 'what is' to 'what ought to be'. Thus, every true revolution implies a movement towards the ideal at the Centre. Much like every circumambulation implies a desire, and an effort, to shorten the radius to the Ka'aba, the metaphoric House of God.
So as to get to the home of the pilgrim's heart.
So as to seize the idols that have been erected therein with the passage of time and of memory.
So as to break those idols into a thousand pieces against the barren floor of unadulterated monotheism, even as one did of old.
So as to erect anew within the pilgrim's aching heart the temple of love dedicated to the singular, sole, worship of the one True God; the Owner of the Ka'aba: object of the pilgrim.
'Is it a coincidence then that most systems in the Universe revolve around an axis?' the Wayfarer had asked Max. Of course, the earth went around the sun like the other planets, the sun itself moved around an axis along with the entire galaxy in an ever-expanding universe.
'And Max, there is the Sign of the Right, too.'
'The Sign of the Right, Wayfarer?'
'Yes. In the Islamic scheme, one is supposed to begin with the right always.'
'Alright. But what of it, Wayfarer?'
'The Tawaaf, Max. How do you start it? Clockwise or counter-clockwise?'
'Counter-clockwise, of course. But what's your point, Wayfarer?'
'What's counter clockwise, Max? Is that going right or left?'
'Right...But, of course!'
'Coincidence, then, Max?'
'Not likely.'
And if all that was not enough, there was the symbol of the sacrifice. For, every pilgrim was to sacrifice an animal as part of the rites of the Hajj. A sacrifice that was commomorative of an event where a father relented to sacrifice his only son at the altar of God's command. It was in memory of the patriarch, Abraham, who offerd to sacrifice Ishmael, his beloved son born to him in old age, in compliance with the order of his Maker. Abraham had had his faith tested severely on several occasions in the past: indeed, his whole life had been one epic of endurance under the most exacting of trials and tribulations. But this was perhaps the ultimate test: and one in whose execution Abraham stood true to his maker.
Abraham, the upright, the Haneef.
And Ishmael: ever the worthy son of a worthy father. One who asked his father to be patient and firm in the execution of his duty.
In the execution of his only, beloved, son.
It was a test wherein both father and son proved their credentials as torch-bearers of the prophetic tradition; proved themselves worthy combatants who took the sword and the fire into the Demon's lair.
The pilgrim has ever since, in making his own sacrifice of the animal during Hajj, commomorated this event of joy and of victory.
But has he ever gone out in search of the true meaning of sacrifice?
Has he ever realized the pain that separation from his beloved implies?
'Have we even started looking out for our Ishmaels?' Max had asked himself then. 'Yes, Max. You realize then that you, too, have Ishmaels, don't you?' asked the Wayfarer.
'Of course, Wayfarer. There are the smaller Ishmaels and the bigger Ishmaels, too. The only problem, though, is that we still haven't started looking at the bigger ones up front. We are still held up with the smaller ones all the time. The smaller Ishmaels that we haven't learnt to let go.'
'You have learnt well, Max.'
'Yea, now I have to just put it into practice. That's all.' Max had hardly hid the sarcasm in his voice.
'Certainly. For, learning without action is like the blind holding aloft the torch to see in the darkness.' The Wayfarer commented, ignoring Max's sarcastic remark.
The man at the computer stared and stared at the screen searching in vain for now he knew not what. His eyes blinded by the fires set ablaze by the rapidity and content of his thoughts.
'The Ka'aba, of course. Yes, that was it.'
'Yes. That, indeed, was it.'
Thursday, January 22, 2004
The wretched of the earth
The outstretched little hand pleaded with him; with his conscience. It was a scene that touched the very fibre of his being on occasions too numerous for him to recollect from the past. It was still the very image of India. Despite the liberalizations. Despite the globalizations. Despite the privatizations. Despite the economic restructuring that almost always only restructured and refurbished the haves of this country; that always forgot the pangs of the have nots; that always forgot the soul of India; that did not see the outsretched little hand that now confronted Max. The little hand of a skinny, dishevelled child in tattered clothes that pleaded with him yet again.
Little hands and eyes that now begged him to offer a meal for an empty little stomach and...for its mother whose body lay curled and wrapped up on the pavement by the road in the agony of some disease that he would never know. These were, indeed, the true inhabitants of this country, Max knew: its majority, as it were. Denizens of the coutless slums and alleyways that littered and criss-crossed the vast stretches of this wounded nation. In its villages, in its towns, in its great cities, in its metros - they were always there, without identity and without esteem. To live and to exist in their own. To see the light of another day. To eat of the table crumbs thrown to the dogs.
Max emptied the change in his wallet onto those pleading little hands, knowing that that would never be enough, knowing very well that it was the system that had to be caught by its very roots. To end this misery. To end this injustice. To end the blighted childhoods.
'How do you expect people to understand higher truths when you can't give them the lowest truth of all: one square meal a day?' Max thought, even as he turned his face, with great effort, away from the glowing innocence of those little eyes when it saw the money. How those eyes sparkled as if it had just got the world itself! The innocence was unbearable as Max closed his own eyes with a bitterness that still haunted him whenever he chose to think of such realities that infested the world in which he lived.
'How can you expect people to realize and act upon higher truths when they can ill afford a paltry little meal a day?' Max questioned himself as he crossed the street that led to Frazer Town.
'Yes.' The voice was expected. Imminent. The Wayfarer was here. Max raised his head. 'But poverty is only one side of this evil, Max. Sin is the other.'
'Sin, Wayfarer?' Max heard himself pick up the point.
'Of course. Want and suffering exist in this world not because of a lack of resources, Max.'
Max was beginning to get it now. 'There is no dearth of provisions in this world because of which people are made poor and destitute. It is the evil in man himself that is the cause of this suffering. That is the sin, Max. Man's lack of feeling and compassion for his own kind. The bane of pure, unadulterated Materialism: agent of the Demon.'
'Right' said Max. 'How else can you have two thirds of mankind existing below the poverty line at this, the twenty first century after the disappearance of Christ; at a time when medical and material progress has advanced like in no other time in human history.'
His country had opened up its economy: or so he was told, day in and day out, at the newsroom. So today, this country even had atleast one tech-savvy chief minister to boast about: a chief minister who, despite his love for the laptop and foreign IT corporations, had not a clue to the reason why many of the farmers in his countryside where committing group suicide along with their debt-ridden families! Back at Max's workplace, his desk was always full of the latest on globalization: the same phenomemon about which UN-Habitat had put forward its latest study. A study which concluded that Globalizaion has partly caused and greatly exacerbated the perilous social and physical conditions of the slum dwellers. It went on to say that while the liberalization of all economies may have offered opportunities for a group of select enterpreneurs and for cities to act in their own right, new insecurities created by globalization are aplenty, with hardly any benefits going to the poor.
Max had his own convictions on what the United Nations stood for, but here he thought it had produced a report worth considering simply because it struck a resonant chord within him. He had suspected ulterior motives behind the whole project of globalization from the start and now in the context of the Wayfarer's simple analysis of the problem, he was sure. The UN-Habitat report even went to the extent of pointing out that in the past decade - the period of the greatest wealth creation in history, and the largest growth in cities ever recorded - the rich have gained and the poor have lost. Some developing countries would have done better to stay out of the globalization process altogether if they had the interests of their own people in mind.
Max had now reached the main crossroad at Frazer Town, a few minutes walk away from his apartment near the park across the railway overbridge that he now saw beyond the junction. This crossroad was, of course, unmistakable for its famous landmark that bathed the whole area in the resplendent glow of its lights in the evening: the Sir Ismail Sait Mosque. Built during the years of the British rule, the Mosque, with its elegant Islamic architecture and spacious, well laid-out lawn, had become the pre-eminent showpiece of this particular part of Bangalore.
'That, Max' said the Wayfarer as Max cast perhaps his millionth glance at the Mosque, 'is the symbol of a legacy that can rid us of this curse of want and poverty.'
The statement was still very general, and Max waited patiently for the precise point that he knew was coming. 'The legacy of the unlettered messenger. The one foretold by the prophet Isaiah in the scripture revealed to Moses and Jesus.' Max knew the Wayfarer was referring to the twelfth verse of the twenty ninth chapter of the Book of Isaiah in the Old Testament. He had checked it out so many times in the past where it was said: 'And the Book is given to him who is not learned, saying: Read. And he says: I'm not learned.' No other person in history lived to be the fulfilment of this prophecy as did Muhammad, the illiterate prophet of Arabia.
'But, Wayfarer, charity has always gone hand in hand with religion since time immemorial.' Max interjected. 'That has not solved the problem down the centuries. Much less can Muhammad's message claim the sole right over such a solution like charity, if that's what you mean.'
The Wayfarer's voice seemed as if from a distance now as Max climbed the overbridge past the Mosque, 'Max, you are so hasty in your opinions. Yes, charity has gone along with religion in history, but where, other than in the message and legacy of Muhammad, has it been so revolutionized by making it an institution of the state; the message wherein it was declared to be the right of the poor and the needy which the state was supposed to extract from the 'haves' of society by force of arms, if necessary?'
Point.
'The war of apostasy, Max. That war which created such schism within the first, ideal, Muslim community, just after Muhammad's death. What was that all about? Was it not for the rights of the underprivileged?'
Point.
'Was it not for the permanence of Zakaat, even if that was at the cost of the priceless solidarity of the nascent Muslim nation?'
Point.
Max stood now next to Richard's park, his six-feet-one-inch frame bowed down in contemplation over the Wayfarer's words. A light breeze picked its way up and caressed the raven black hair, etched now in the darker silhoutte of a man groping through a mental maze as he moved towards his apartment building.
'What was to be done for an existence in such a world as that, Wayfarer? A world wherein one could live to see such a law come into force; where there are no wretched of the earth to bear the burden with.' Max heard himself whimper.
'Is it the fate of the true intellectual, then, to be miserably trapped between two worlds: one to which he is dead and the other into which he is powerless to be born?'
'No, Max. Such a world is possible still,' the Wayfarer's voice was fading into the night. 'I have been there, Max. I have seen it happen before. Over and over, down the centuries. You just have to work the dream with your love for that world.' His voice blended away into the evening breeze.
'Yea,' Max despondently said to himself as he climbed slowly the stairs to his apartment. 'Victor Hugo might have been pleased to hear that.'
'And so might Jean Val Jean of Les Miserables.'
'But not me, Wayfarer.'
'Not just yet.'
Monday, January 19, 2004
Dreams and Reality
The cup of tea on his table was going cold. Not that Max minded that too much. Tea was, after all, Tea, whether that was hot or cold. And Max needed that round the clock and especially when he was at his workplace in the chair behind the Editor's desk. Caffiene was one thing he couldn't live without, he was sure. And more importantly, think without.
George Soros's treatment of the current US government's imperial misadventure as an expanding bubble on the threshold of its bursting point had attracted Max's attention as he scanned the several articles on his desk. Wasn't Soros the Jewish financier and economist against whom Mahathir had launched such scathing criticism back in the late '90s when the 'tiger' economies of south east Asia began falling like a house of cards? The then Malaysian Premier had laid the blame for that squarely on Jewish fiancial brains like that of George Soros.
'Yea' thought Max. 'Shakespeare would tell you that as well. Courtesy, Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.'
It were people like Soros who had created the bubble of economic growth in south east Asia and of course, the bubble had to burst sometime or the other and they probably knew when to do that too. That was when other bubbles of the IMF and World Bank bailout packages type were already in the making.
'And now this guy talks of the bubble of American foreign policy,' Max said to himself. Machiavelli's Prince, at once, comes to mind as do the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. 'Even, the Demon does get caught in the act sometimes,' as the Wayfarer had once informed him. 'Yea,' thought Max, as he picked up the other article, 'and give the Demon his due when he says it like it is. When he says that he speaks in doublespeak. Doublespeak: the language of the cowboy administration that's in the White House right now. And that's what Soros had to say.'
The tea had indeed gone cold as Max took a sip out of it now while his eyes gulped down the paragraphs on the next article. One would have thought that his eyes even widened just then for what they had swallowed whole. 'My God! That could have been me instead of that municipality clerk. What with all this mindless violence that has been consuming the innocents of the world: innocent people who do not know what they are killing for or for what they are being killed.'
'My day is made already!' said Max slowly to himself as he reflected on the dream and the reality that sat before him on the Editor's Desk. 'Shakespeare would have approved this play for publication as well.'
It read as follows:
Watching flashes of the on-going violence in parts of the world on the TV, and pretty tired of the scenes, the municipality-clerk falls asleep on the sofa and immediately enters into a dream.
Act 1
Bursel: You have the gun.
Saad: No I don't.
Bursel: I will believe in you only when you show me the gun.
Saad: What! You mean I should get it first and then show it to you?
Bursel: Don't be illogical to the strongest and the cleverest man around here. You have the gun, because we gave you the gun.
Saad: O.K. Then my house is open. Search for the gun.
Bursel: Don't play this with us any more, we will destroy you with your gun.
Saad: But first of all why did you give me the gun?
Bursel: For your protection.
Saad: So aren't you interested in my protection now?
Bursel: But you're becoming a threat to a dear friend of ours.
Saad: But he also has the gun. In fact, several, and more powerful than the rusted one I once had.
Bursel: That's the point. If he has the gun you shouldn't have it.
Saad: Why?
Bursel: Because we want to make the world safer.
Bursel: By the way, we have also started liking your house. It has a beautiful garden. My wife will love it.
Saad: My wife also loves it.
Bursel: Shut Up! There is no comparison between my wife and yours.
Saad: I will take this case to the country court, you are being unjust.
Bursel: Ha! Ha! Ha! You are ignorant, the judge is my father in-law. I don't think he will like his daughter to be unhappy.
Saad: Then I will call my people.
Bursel: People! What people! They're all drunk.
Saad: But this is not right.
Bursel: We decide right and wrong, not you.
Act - 2
(A loud noise is heard from outside, Saad is worried and wants to know about the source of the noise).
Saad: What's the noise outside? Let me go and see.
Bursel: No need. My men have started digging in your garden to find the gun.
Saad: I curse your men, and hope they get destroyed and dangle on to the fence as old pieces of cloth.
Bursel: You're out of your mind.
Saad: O.K. With my rusted sickle I challenge you and your cronies to come and fight.
Bursel: Hmmm! When will you accept your defeat?
Act - 3
(Some shouts are heard from outside, a group of villagers have gathered. They shout slogans in favor of Saad).
Villagers: Stop this injustice! Stop this injustice!
Bursel: (Referring to the villagers) Injustice! My dear friends, we are helping Saad to beautify his garden, we want to pluck his old plants, plough the land and then sow new seeds. These new seeds will give rise to new plants, these new plants will bring out new flowers, and these flowers will spread new fragrance around. (He winks).
(The crowd immediately split into two groups. One slips away. One party remains).
Villagers: Oh! Bursel you are great - and kind. Please don't forget to come to our garden as well.
Bursel: (Smirking) Of course, of course. How can I forget you?
Saad: I hope my people will get off their stupor and help me.
Bursel: Forget them. They're always either sliding on the abyss or peering into the sky. I told you they are drunk.
Act - 4
(Saad's six-year-old daughter, Ana, comes running in from the neighbor's house).
Ana: Abooee! Who are these people?
Saad: My child, these are lizards. They have come to hiss at us. Don't worry. We'll drive them away.
Bursel: Oh my sweet little lady! Don't worry. We're the old friends of your father.
Ana: (Looking at the men pulling out plants), Abooee! Why are your friends plucking my roses. Ummi won't like it.
Saad: I told you, honey, they're lizards. Don't worry we'll plant new ones.
Ana: Abooee, your friends aren't lizards. They're more like roaches.
Bursel: (Angry, pulls his gun out and shoots Ana dead. Her blood flows into the plants).
Saad: (With a look of contrition) You animal, you have no heart to do this? (He lunges forward at Bursel. Bursel's men catch him. Struggling, he shouts) Listen to me. One day you will pay for this blood. And the blood will follow you. Not just in your life but into your grave.
Bursel: Still dreaming, poor fellow. Kill him!
Act - 5
The Devil appears. He starts chasing some people. A crowd is cheering him. In their excitement they throw popcorns at the Devil and yell, "Slit their throats! Slit their throats. Show us more blood!"
The clerk wakes up with a start. He is amused by the dream and joins the crowd in the street shouting, "Blood, blood. We need more blood."
The tea on the table was now going stale beside the empty Editor's chair.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
BETWEEN THE VULTURE AND THE WOLF
December and January are known to be the coldest months in Bangalore. But Max knew there were other places much, much colder than this: places where people talked of having fun at 34 degrees below zero!
The thought itself gave him the chills, like the one that gripped him as he sped down from work on his Honda.
But then Bangalore was known to have been colder in the recent past; prior to the last fifty years or so. He had heard from one gentleman whom he had met at the railway station the other day - an elderly affable person who had migrated to Bangalore back in the early 1950s - that Bangalore had witnessed freezing winters in his youth: winters where one saw ice floating on both stagnant and flowing waters in and around the Garden City! That had been a shock to Max. But then there was global warming, he knew. The price of 'progress'. 'O Yea', Max thought, 'just say that to the Wayfarer. He would tell you what progress was really all about!'
'O Yea', Max thought again, as he slowed his bike ahead of the looming crowd of vehicles. The question propped itself up as was usual when he thought of the Wayfarer:
'Wayfarer, how fare ye this day?'
Silence.
Max brought his bike to a halt, caught now in the vortex of a six-in-the-evening traffic bottleneck just off the famed Commercial Street. Ah! The Commercial Street, indeed, thought Max, as he viewed the queue of impatient vehicles that lined up ahead of his black Honda behind the traffic signal light turned red. It were the places like Commercial Street, Brigade street and the like that poignantly informed Max of the tragedy of an ancient society in transition. Much like the climate of this historic city, described with the pain of that elderly migrant at the railway station - an agony you saw in those aged eyes drunk with nostalgia; with a craving for a world that once was, but is not anymore. The despair of every migrant, like himself, like Max.
Yes, Max saw with sudden clarity: like the climate, so the people of this ancient land - changing with the times, with the cultures; making room for the invasion of their hearts and minds with the poison and the filth that will make them roll over in their graves for what it will do to their children, their grandchildren, their close ones loved by them the most. For what it will do to their own selves beyond the misery of their graves...
The horns blared wildly behind him, shaking him out of his reverie, stunning him momentarily. 'Damn' said Max as he saw the crowd ahead disappear beyond the traffic signal light now turned green. Other vehicles that were behind him now roared madly past and around him, hurling their abuse of exhaust fumes onto his embarassed face. Instinctively, Max brought down the visor on his helmet as he surveyed the mess he found himself right in the thick of this traffic rush. His much-loved Honda refused to budge! The engine just wouldn't start, no matter how much he tried. 'Okay, Don Quixote!' Max told himself, 'You should have refilled the fuel tank when the indicator showed it to be empty, stupid!' So that was it. He had run out of fuel right there in the centre of the road. And the closest petrol bunk was still half a mile away across Shivaji Nagar. Half a mile! 'So, Honda old pal, let's take you for a nice little evening walk with me', murmured Max in disgust as he pushed his bike a-huffing-and-puffing to the side of the road and up on his way to Shivaji Nagar. 'Damn!'
Looking on the brighter side, however, walking was anyway his first love for, Max really cherished those long treks in absolute silence, and with no other companion, ever since he was a teenager. And there was also the Wayfarer who almost always joined up with him in those walks, much like the time when he first met him while he was a walking on those early teen years not so long ago. Then they would go a talking. 'Yes, indeed' Max smiled to himself as he slowly pushed his Honda forward on. 'Walk the Walk and talk the Talk so that you live the Life. The Life that's worth living for; the life that's worth fighting for; the Life that's worth dying for.'
But walking with the heavy Honda was a slightly different proposition, Max assured his now weary-from-pushing self. But, push on he must for at least a quarter of a mile further.
The people he saw around him now, as in every other similar occasion, however, had no time for such walks: Max sadly knew. Speed was of the essence in today's world. Or so the world has been made to believe. Gone are the days when people reflected on great truths in the slow and steady passage of their lives; the days when people cared for others and not just themselves; the days when people valued sacrifice and love..
Just look at those faces, he thought. So engrossed, so lost in thought as to how to shore up their resources, how to build upon it so as 'to outdo the Joneses.' To outperform the other. And to what end, this rivalry for the transient material things of this world? They wouldn't take it beyond their graves: they would have to gift the temple of their achievements, willingly, or otherwise, to somebody else at that point. Possibly an unnamed, faceless, somebody. What then?
'Yes, Max. What then, indeed!' The Wayfarer's interruption shocked Max the second time this evening. 'The world of this sad humanity is, in these times, caught in the grip of one agent of the Demon. Even as it has been caught up in that of another in other times. Between these two, the plight of this suffering mass of humanity has been pathetic. Mankind has been caught unawares between the Vulture and the Wolf.'
'There you have it!' thought Max. 'Now we are talking, man. Walking the Walk and talking the Talk. This was not going to be such a bad evening after all!'
'The Vulture and the Wolf, Wayfarer?' Max questioned eagerly as he rounded the road corner that came just before Shivaji Nagar and the petrol bunk.
'Yes, Max. The Vulture and the Wolf. Let me narrate to you a parable from the improbable wisdom of this ancient land whence proceeded your ancestors.'
'O Yes!' Max interrupted his now attentive senses rather impolitely to remember that 'to be a historicist of India's cultural legacy is to be like standing before a massive and magnificent castle in the darkness of night and brood over its history whose last chapters are not written yet.' His voice hardly masked the enthusiasm in it as he quipped: 'Tell me more, Wayfarer.'
'There was once this Bhisma who thus spoke to his king,' began the Wayfarer with the inescapable reference to the age of the Mahabaratha, the great Indian epic, or so thought Max. 'Listen, O king, to the story of the discourse between a vulture and a wolf as it happened of old. Once upon a time a Brahman had, after great difficulties, obtained a son of large expansive eyes. The child died of infantile convulsions. It was at the crematorium that a vulture, summoned by their cries, came there and said these words: Go ye away and do not tarry, ye that have to cast but one child! Kinsmen always go away leaving on this spot thousands of men and thousands of women brought here in course of Time. Behold! The whole universe is subject to weal and woe! Union and disunion may be seen in turns. They that have come to the crematorium bringing with them the dead bodies of kinsmen and they that sit by those bodies (from affection) themselves disappeared from the world in the consequences of their own acts when the allotted period of their lives ran out. There is no need of you lingering in the crematorium, this horrible place that is full of vultures and wolves.'
Max could now see the petrol bunk right ahead as he trudged on pushing his bike with him. But the Wayfarer was onto something now and he would hear him out even if that was the last thing he would do today. He deliberately slowed down in his tracks.
'At this time a wolf, black as a raven issued out of his hold and addressed those departing kinsmen, saying: Surely, ye that are kinsmen of that deceased child have no affection! There the sun still shineth in the sky, ye fools! Indulge your feelings, without fear! Multifarious are the virtues of the hour. This one may come back to life!
The vulture said: Why do you mourn for that compound of five elements deserted by their presiding deities, no longer tenanted (by the soul), motionless and stiff as a piece of wood? Why do you not grieve for your selves? Ill-luck is born with the body. It is the consequence of ill luck that this body has departed plunging you into infinite grief? Wealth, kin, gold, precious gems, children all have their root in penances. Penances are the result of Yoga. Cast off sorrow and cheerlessness. Leave the child on this exposed ground, and go ye away without delay!
The Wolf said: Alas, terrible is the world of mortals! Ye cruel mights, how can you go away, casting off parental affection upon hearing the words of a sinful vulture of uncleansed soul? Happiness is followed by misery, and misery by happiness. It seems that ye are sure to obtain happiness! Ye that are afflicted with grief on account of the death of this child will surely have good luck today. Anticipating the probability of inconvinience and pain (if you remain here for the night) fixing your hearts on your own comfort, whither would you, like persons of little intelligence, go leaving this darling?
Bhisma continued: 'Even thus, O king, the kinsmen of the deceased child unable to decide upon what they shall do, were, for the accomplishment of his own purpose induced by that sinful wolf who uttered agreeable falsehoods - that denizen of the crematorium who wandered every night in quest of food - to stay in that place.'
The vulture said: Dreadful is this spot, this wilderness, that resounds with the screech of owls and teems with spirits and Yakshas and Rakshasas. Terrible and awful, its aspect is like that of a mass of blue clouds. Casting off the dead body, finish the funeral rites. Indeed, throwing away the body, accomplish these rites before the sun sets.
The Wolf said: Stay where you are! There is no fear even in this desert as long as the sun shines. Till the god of day sets, do ye remain here hopefully, induced by parental affection. Wait as long as the sun shines.
Bhisma continued: The vulture then addressed those men saying that the sun has set. The wolf said that it was not so. Both the vulture and wolf felt the pangs of hunger and thus addressed the kinsmen of the dead child. Both of them girded off their loins for accomplishing their respective purposes. Exhausted with hunger and thirst they thus disputed, having recourse to scriptures. Moved alternately by these words, sweet as nectar of those two creatures, viz, the bird and the beast, both of whom were induced with the wisdom of knowledge, the kinsmen one time wished to go away and at another to stay there. At last, moved by grief and cheerlessness, they waited there, indulging in bitter lamentations. They did not know that the beast and the bird, skilled in accomplishing their own purposes had only stupefied them by their addresses.'
'That was the parable, Max', the Wayfarer said as he ended his narration.
'What?', asked a stunned-again Max, looking incredulously at the man in the petrol bunk with the petrol hose in hand. 'How many litres, sir?', the irritated man repeated his question a second time. 'Oh! That. Oh, Yes. Just make that one litre, please.' A dazed Max searched his pocket before saying: 'Or maybe just half a litre will do! Please.' Max smiled sheepishly at the man who had already started filling his Honda's belly. He had run out of money as well. The man shook his head helplessly. 'Some people!'
Of course, the Wayfarer was gone. Leaving Max alone to judge the implications for himself. The chilling embrace of that cold Bangalore night was all that remained with him of the encounter as he remounted the Honda again. But the walk had not been in vain and the talk had yet again informed him of mankind's predicament between a God-denying Materialism and a World-denying Ascetism. Between the Vulture and the Wolf. Yes, both were essential elements in Man's life but one never to the exclusion of the other. Therein was the fatal danger. The good in Materialism should, indeed, complement the good in Asceticm in the life of Humanity. Left to themselves, they would destroy, surely and steadily, Mankind's aspiration to set the World in the Pattern of God's Law. This, the Demon has known since time immemorial. And he has known it well enough to engender this eternal tug-of-war for the soul of Humanity.
But the battle isn't over yet, thought Max. Not if the Wayfarer can help it. It's just that the battle lines have been drawn. As they were drawn from of old. Or as the Wayfarer would have put it, 'ever since Cain murdered Abel' so very long, long ago.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
THE BURNT OUT OF HEART
Few people ever knew him as Maximus. Fewer still ever called him Max. But then, that was the arrangement with the Wayfarer. Not that Max ever troubled himself too much with the anonymity.
For, to Max, getting the Wayfarer into blog country had become a recent obsession: one for which he would, and could, pay the price of anonymity.
The Wayfarer had insisted that Max had yet to master the virtue of humility - and Max knew he was right. And humility was just one in a long line of virtues that he had to incorporate still. There was contentment, Max knew, as there was patience and perseverence. And of course, there was restraint in anger: all virtues that he had yet to imbibe in any required measure.
How could one not hate one's enemy? Max had wondered not so long ago. How could one ever forget the bitterness which humiliation wrecks upon one's soul? How could he ever learn to forgive the one who is the cause of that humiliation? But the Wayfarer had told him otherwise.
The Wayfarer had reminded him - with that inimitable style, that self-same symphony that had compelled Max through all his mature years - that the hater lives with a volcano within. A smoking cauldron of hate that blinds his reddened eyes to the realities of life; that contaminates the mind, that takes away the smile from his face unless, of course, it is the smile of twisted lips emitting fumes that scorch and burn. The Wayfarer had stressed that the hater required not imitation, but sympathy.
How the Wayfarer moved Max then with that unforgettable description of the best among mankind: 'Every believer who is burnt out of heart and truthful of the tongue'. Did Max then question him of the expression 'burnt out of heart', for he was sure of the 'truthful of the tongue'? It seemed so long ago to him. But who are the 'burnt out of heart'? Max remembers the Wayfarer's quiet voice as he echoed centuries of prophetic wisdom in his reply: 'The fearful (of God), the clean: one in which there is no hatred, no deception, no injustice and no envy.'
How many centuries did that hark back to? Was it to the cradle of civilization? Was it to the blinding glare that rebounded off the burning sands of Arabia? Was it a voice crying in the wilderness of more than fourteen centuries past? Max was almost sure.
Yes, Max decided, the Wayfarer in blog country would be worth the try. Worth having the story told. Not one, but two: the intertwined two.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
The Wayfarer enters upon the roads through blog country, taking him home...
'Country roads..Take me home!'
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