All Kinds of Magic: One Man's Search for Meaning Across the Material World (24 page)

‘For me Sufism is the way,’ he explained. ‘Our India has too many problems with division, with fighting, with who has the right to temples and land and power. But in Sufism all are welcome. I come to this
dargah
every week at least one time. I ask the saint to hear me.’

‘What do you ask for?’

‘I ask for truth,’ he said simply. ‘And I like just being here. Here my problems seem to fly away. Sometimes there is
qawwali
music. Sometimes there are
pirs
.’

I asked him what a
pir
was.

‘A Sufi master! They give teachings and healings. They teach us the
Tariqah
, the path. And they tell stories which I like very much. Shall I tell you one?’

I nodded. We were sitting down against the far wall of the complex, and the spring light was warm and benevolent on our faces. To one side, an old man knelt with a fistful of incense and blew upon the tips until the smoke poured forth like a visible prayer. Emerging from the tomb, a generously proportioned Hindu lady in an emerald-coloured sari wiped tears from her face, then broke into a wide smile.

‘Mulla Nasruddin once gathered all his friends and asked them if they wanted truth. “Yes, yes,” they cried, “we would like to hear the truth.” So Mulla Nasruddin held out his hands and asked that first they please give him money. “But how can you charge us for the truth?” said his friends. “Haven’t you noticed,” said Nasruddin, “that it is the scarcity of a thing which determines its value?” ’

I spent several hours at the
dargah
that morning. Certainly, it was one of the most vivacious places I had been to in Delhi, with its graceful marble arches, white lattice-work added by the Emperor Shah Jahan and the mausoleum itself: a square chamber surrounded by verandas with arched openings. The dome, rising up from an octagonal drum, is ornamented by vertical stripes of black marble and crowned with a lotus flower. Beneath it, raised on a marble plinth and covered with a golden shawl, lies the tomb of the saint.

Later, I would read a description of Nizammudin in a book by Khushwant Singh, the irascible Sikh who has been one of India’s most prolific journalists since Independence. In his homage, ‘Delhi’, Singh tells the tale of the saint Nizammuddin Auliya, and his trial for heresy at the court of Sultan Balban: ‘Darvish, the ulema have complained that you make no distinction between Musulmans and infidels; that you pose as an intermediary between God and man . . . that your followers indulge in music and dancing in the precincts of the mosque and thus contravene the holy law of shariat . . .’ Nizammuddin answered in a quintessentially Sufi manner. For him, he explained, there
were
no differences between Hindus and Muslims: all are children of God. In a world clinging to its divisions as much as our own, it was a brave statement indeed.

Later that week, I returned to the Nizammudin district to meet Wasi. He had agreed to take me to the house of a great Muslim
pir
, whom he considered one of the holiest men living in India. Would a Sufi mystic, I wondered, have much the same countenance as a Hindu
sadhu
? Were they effectively tapping into the same state through different cultural forms? Or would he impress on me, as I have found in previous encounters, that Islam is the only acceptable path to God?

‘A very aged man,’ Wasi explained. ‘Between ninety-five and a hundred years old. If you have problems – physical, mental, emotional – they will be disappearing in his grace.’

I had heard such boasts before.

From the
dargah
we branched out into the back streets. This was a place where few if any tourists wandered. Beneath a roiling, polluted sky we crossed cul-de-sacs, alleys and byways through what was once the ancient city of Shahjanabad. Despite my reservations about the way India is modernising, it was hard not to feel that these areas were long overdue for renovation. Walls crumbled into the street like old cheese, open sewers exuded a horrific stench that could only worsen with the arrival of summer. The ancient
havelis
, or private mansions, of this former imperial city were fighting a losing battle with the ravages of time. Outside a cast-iron grating, a dead rat stiffened upon its back.

After about twenty minutes, we arrived at a pair of imposing panelled doors, studded with iron bolts. A grimy lane stretched away towards the Thieves’ Bazaar. After rapping firmly we heard the sounds of a lock being chivvied, and then the doors swung slowly open. Inside, I found myself in the courtyard of an old
haveli
, a formerly grand residence now in spectacular disrepair. An imperious rooster scuttled to one side as a young man, wearing a plain white
salwar kameez
, ushered us in. Heavily bearded, he had the pious, solemn look of a scholar. He bowed to us formally.

‘Son of Hadji Abdul Shah,’ whispered Wasi. ‘Also in training to be a
pir
.’

In the courtyard, several old men on a bench sipped black tea from tiny glasses, while in the corner a tethered goat, with velvety brown ears, strained on the end of a coir rope. Several doorways led into the house, beyond which I could hear the subdued voices of women and the clanking of pots and pans. Behind ornamental shutters, I made out children peering out to get a look at the
feringhee
(foreigner), and soon a boy wearing a navy-blue crocheted
kufie
(prayer cap) peeked his head out and grinned, then vanished from where he had come.

‘Hadji Abdul Shah is getting up,’ said the son. ‘Please take tea while you wait his arrival. You are welcome.’

We sat down opposite the old men. Spring was in its first flush, and this
haveli
felt immensely peaceful beside the bustle of the world outside. Tea arrived, and a selection of
mithai
or Indian sweets, piled high upon a silver platter.

‘Your mother country, sir?’ came a voice.

It was one of the old men, cultured and affluent by the look of things, with manicured nails, parted white hair and intent beige eyes. I told him I was from England, and that I had come to see the
pir
.

‘
Acha
. Then you have come to the right place, sir!’ He spoke in plummy Oxbridge tones, somewhat reminiscent of the voice of Jiddu Krishnamurti. ‘I have been coming here forty years now. I don’t miss a day.’

‘What can you tell me of him?’

The man held his hands out frankly, then placed one over his heart. ‘Sir, I will tell you one thing. I believe that after today, when you go back to your country, you will say that you saw a great city, Delhi, and in this place you saw Nizammudin, and in Nizammudin you had the fortune to meet a true saint.’

‘You’re wearing a Brahmin’s thread,’ I said, pointing to his spindly wrist. ‘Does the
pir
receive anyone, regardless of their faith?’

‘Of course! His role is not to make conversions, but to make cures. Just the other week I heard a woman telling him her problems. She mentioned that she read the Bible and Hadji Abdul Shah said “Why
not
trust the Bible, for the Bible writes ‘Surrender under to Him’.” That said, he does encourage the reading of the Koran.’

I asked the old man what had first brought him here, all those years ago. He refilled my tea from a tin pot and insisted I take a third piece of
halwa
. Clearly, he was one of the fixtures around here.

‘It was 1965, a bad time for us because of the second Indo-Pakistani conflict. Both sides wanted Kashmir, you see, and the violence was appalling. But actually I was having big problems in my personal life. I was restless, couldn’t sleep. I lost all interest in my wife, my children, my work. I felt that some
demon
had taken residence in me and was tormenting me. And that there was no one I could confide in. Finally, after visiting many Hindu swamis and gurus, one man informed me of a Sufi
pir
here in Nizammudin. It was said he had the power to assuage even the most serious problems with a touch of his hand. I came at once, and my problems disappeared that very day. I went home and asked my wife for forgiveness, and swore then that I would visit this place every day for the rest of my life, so as not to forget what Hadji Abdul Shah had done for me.’

‘You’ve not missed a single day?’

He shook his head earnestly. ‘God has given him powers. And when we feel those powers, we feel God himself. If I am thirsty, why would I not go to the well?’

Just then a shuffling noise caused us to glance across the courtyard. The great
pir
, flanked on either side by each of his grandsons, was moving slowly towards us. Certainly, he was one of the most aged men I had ever seen, the skin stretched so tightly over his skull one could see every ridge and groove. He wore a blue jumper over which a striped shawl was wrapped; there were two silver rings on his right hand.

It was only when he reached us and I stood up to greet him that I realised he was blind. On either side of a hooked, fine-boned nose were two of the most startling eyes I have ever seen. They were so intense it was almost disquieting: a burning viridian blue, all the more striking for the fact that they seemed inert. He also had two of the largest ears I’ve ever seen: they stood out almost perpendicular to his face, making me think at once of Roald Dahl’s BFG. It was impossible not to like him immediately.

‘
As-salāmu alaykum
,’ he muttered, reaching out both hands. He beamed with good humour.

‘
Aleykum as-salaam
: and upon you be peace.’ I held out my hands and hoped I’d got the traditional greeting right. He took them warmly; his hands were skeletally thin and lined with translucent veins.

One of his grandsons pulled a stool over and the
pir
sat down carefully opposite Wasi and me, seemingly looking straight at us. For some time Wasi explained my interest in Sufism to him, and what I was doing in India. Hadji Abdul Shah nodded, occasionally grinning to reveal the lurid purple teeth of the betel addict.

‘
Acha
,’ he said at last, his voice a husky whisper. ‘You are interested in Sufism; that is good. I, too, was called to this path. I shall tell you how. But first,’ he turned to his grandsons again, ‘has our guest had tea, and something sweet? These things are important!’

They said that he had.

‘Very well. Then we shall begin.

‘I was born almost a hundred years ago. The exact dates are uncertain – no one thought to record it – but it was in the early years of the last century. For the first few decades of my life I was as normal: respectful of God, but without any sense of being called to him. But then, in 1940, I met a guru – Abdul Ahat Abagi – who picked me out as being one capable of serious instruction. He taught me meditation –
Muruqab
– and I did this for six to eight hours daily for some years. His guru in turn was Hasrat Charall; there is a lineage which goes right back. After three years, my third eye,’ he touched the empty space between his two wispy eyebrows – ‘opened, and I achieved union with Him.’

‘Were you already blind?’

He concurred. ‘I was born blind. I think this was in fact one of the reasons that my guru chose me as his student. “Most people are spiritually blind,” he said. “You are physically blind but you have the capacity to see the true reality.” ’ He thought for a moment. ‘In Islam eyesight is
basar
whereas spiritual insight is
basira
. For
basira
you do not need eyes, you need to open the heart. Perhaps you have learned this already?’

‘And after this union, you could heal people?’

He scratched his soft white stubble. ‘Yes. At this time I felt a great energy in my body. I knew immediately that this energy could be used to heal people and I began to do so. With this energy I could sense and dispel the djinns which cause many of our human problems. Do you know about djinns?’

‘Very little,’ I said.

Hadji Abdul Shah held the first finger of each hand to the sky. ‘Terrible creatures. A race of spirit beings that were here before man. God created mankind from the day, and angels from light. But the djinns were made of fire. They are mentioned in the Koran. For most people they are invisible. But for me they are everywhere.’

‘Do you heal anyone, not just Muslims?’

‘Of course! Beyond religion, there is only the human being. But religion is an important organising principle. For me, Islam is the right one, though I do not insist on it.’

‘These powers you have,’ I asked, edging closer to my real field of enquiry. ‘Are they magic?’

He shook his head, the vast ears waggling a little. ‘No. The Koran prohibits magic. Mohammed, peace be upon him, clearly says that magic is forbidden. But miracles are allowed!’