| IN THE SHADOW OF THE PROPHET |
Stevan Orescan
May 14th is the Prophet’s birthday and my good friend Ayaz, a young man born in Afghanistan and
raised in Saudi Arabia, has invited my son and I to take a special meal with him and his Wahabi
friends and associates at the house of his employer, a wealthy saree manufacturer, in the old part of
the city.
Wahabism, a brand of Islam based on the fundamentalist ideas of a religious reformer by the name
of Mohamed ibn Abdel-Wahhab, was used by the Saudi royal family some seventy years ago to
fire up their army of Bedouin tribals that comprised their main fighting forces. It is an austere branch
of Islam that advocates public beheadings, amputations of hands for theft, stoning for unchaste
women, gender segregation, strict dress codes and numerous other unsavory practices. It is
considered by most analysts to be the basis of the religious zealotry underlying the Taliban and the
September 11th attacks.
With trepidation and a bit of nervous excitement we entered into the dark gallies or alleyways that
lead into the main section of the Muslim community. Our Hindu rickshaw driver understandably
hesitated, for though things were peaceful at the moment conflagrations were known to flare up
quickly often leaving scores of people dead and wounded and only by the promise of a double
payment were we able to convince him that as it was the Prophet’s birthday all would be safe and
no harm would come to any of us. If they were going to attack anyone, we explained, it would be
two fat, juicy Americans rather than a poor, Hindu rickshaw driver. Seeing the logic of this he
proceeded into the foreboding neighborhood to drop us off quickly before the sun went down and
darkness settled .
We were greeted with profuse salaams and invited to be seated on the floor of a large, stark, high
ceiling white room devoid of any ornamentation; no pictures, no flowers, no indication of any of
those western flourishes that might lend a “homey” touch to one’s living space. It was sparse and
elegant, dignified and unadorned of pretense and unnecessary busyness and evoked a cool
cleanliness and a minimalist majesty. A servant brought us water and as Qu’ranic recitations from
another part of the house drifted by we were asked the usual, and some unusual, questions of who
and what we were and more importantly, what we believed. These were difficult questions for me
to answer for I was, and still am, seeking answers to those fundamental questions of existence, and
the deeper I delved more questions would surface rather than answers.
“What is your faith?” they asked.
“I have no faith,” I replied.
“But what do you believe?” they insisted.
“I believe in life, love, the innocence of little children and the stupidity of man.”
“No, no, no,” they retorted, “We all believe in that, but what is your faith?”
“I have no faith,” I insisted.
“But you must have a faith, a religion to guide you through life, otherwise you fall into indolence and
bad ways.”
This was not the time or place to say what I thought about faith, that those who put faith in dogma
or other people, are admitting to the poverty of their own lives, that faith is a shell or prison that
keeps one enslaved, that it kills wonder and joy, it kills the mystery of our existence and that those
who believe in others are afraid to believe in themselves.
“If I choose one religion then I must deny the others. Are they not all different paths to the same
God?” I asked.
“I have surrendered my life to the creative spirit or Allah as you call him, I believe Mohammed to
be a prophet, I have a beard, I’ve had four wives, and sometimes I go to the mosque with my
Muslim friends. Does that make me a Muslim? I also practice Buddhist meditation, sing bhajans
with my Hindu friends and put up a Christmas tree with a star on top to celebrate Christ’s birth on
December 25th. Am I a kafir, an infidel, or a man of God?
About that time a large, burly, bear of a man came in. Looking us over he asked our host in Urdu
who we were. When told that we were visiting Americans he retrieved a local newspaper from his
bag, opened it to the centerfold and revealed a full size picture of George W. Bush and Osma Bin
Laden facing each other.
Pointing to Bush’s picture and then to me he said, “George Bush your friend, Osama my friend,”
and with that he proceeded to shot me with an imaginary gun, “rat-tat-tat-tat-tat,” all the while
repeating, “George Bush your friend, Osama my friend, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”
For a few moments a peculiar air of suspense lingered in the room that made everyone
uncomfortable as no one seemed to quite know in what direction this bit of play acting would take.
The Daniel Pearl episode was still fresh in everyone’s mind and there was a palpable tension
throughout most quarters of the Muslim community. In addition, recent news releases had
announced that the US was creating a dozen or more CIA branch offices in the surrounding areas
and most Americans were suspected agents to begin with. I myself knew two of my fellow
countrymen who operated quite openly with such obvious front businesses in this very holy city and
with such a blatant modus operandi that it was embarrassing as well as dangerous.
Since Bush the Lesser had been on the throne, life for Americans in this part of the world had
become difficult and unpredictable. Like Hitler’s legal accession to power in the 30’s, Bush’s US
Supreme Court sanctioned coup d’etat and the word democracy had become, in most people’s
minds, little more than a smoke screen for world domination, rampant militarism and corporate
globalism. These obviously were the thoughts in everyone’s minds as they waited for me to respond
to the visitor’s challenge.
“Gentlemen, this is the Prophet’s birthday and not a political debate. I am neither a politician nor a
representative of the US government. I am a tourist and a student of philosophy and religion who is
interested in learning about Islam so we might become more knowledgeable and thus understand
each other on a deeper level. I do not condone or
appreciate the policies of my government. and am frankly embarrassed by them. Bush proclaims to
the world that he is a Christian and that he is doing God’s work. At the same time Osama says he is
fighting a holy war that Allah has sanctioned. If Jesus or the Prophet were to return to earth today I
think they would both be ashamed of the behavior of both men. As the Hadeeth, the sayings of the
Prophet, tells us, “To follow such a man is like holding the tail of a camel as it falls into a well.”
When righteousness is practiced because it is believed to be the will of God rather than for it’s own
sake it is usually with a fanaticism that is most ungodly. Both men I consider to be fanatics. People
are being killed unnecessarily, thousands of women and children because of Bush’s policies in the
Middle East and thousands as a result of Osama’s jihad against the US. Did not the Prophet say
that it was ungodly to kill women and children? In my reading of the Qu’ran it is said ,”Whoever
has killed a single human being…it is as if he has killed all of mankind and whoever saves the life of
one it is as if he has saved the life of all mankind.”
As everyone was nodding in agreement a servant brought in the food and placed it on the cloth that
had been spread on the floor for the occasion. As large steaming dishes of mutton and chicken
Biryani, sauces, salad and dishes of sweet preparations were laid before us all talking ceased, the
servant passed water for washing the hands and everyone commenced eating.
After the food was finished people started drifting out, all conversation was over as well as the
gathering and after smiles, profuse salaams and expressions of sincere appreciation for the food we
took our leave out into the night
The gallis were brightly lit with thousands of twinkling lights in celebration of the Prophet’s birthday
and everyone was dressed in their best clothes, long white kurtas or kamize and pyjamas and white
skull caps or the small pill box hat that Muslims wear. After locating a rickshaw we were soon on
our way to our quarters in the Hindu section of town.
*****
Several days later I was sitting on a bench having tea in an outside tea stall on the main street in the
Muslim neighborhood. A man of indeterminate age, maybe forty, maybe eighty, dressed in an
immaculate white salwar-kamize sat next to me and engaged me in conversation, introducing himself
as Maulana Mohammad Shah Ibn-Ali and stated that we had taken food together on the night of
the Prophets birthday at the house of Abdullah the sari maker. As there had been about a dozen
people at the dinner I did not recognize him at first since the atmosphere had been not only
unfamiliar but emotionally charged by the intrusion of the Bush-Osama imbroglio.
As we sipped our tea the Maulana proceeded to tell me that he and the others had agreed that in
spite of my being an American they had seen that I was a genuine disciple of Allah and as such was
as true a Muslim as any other and if I so desired they would be honored to initiate me into the Sufi
brotherhood in which he and other friends belonged.
Generally speaking the Sufis are the mystical branch of Islam that arose in Persia in the ninth century
as a reaction against the rigid monotheism and formalism of Islam. It is composed of men and
women who have adopted an ascetic or quietist mode of life and in some countries were Shariah
law prevails they are outlawed and persecuted.
Sufis, or Faqirs, as they are called (roughly equivalent to the Hindu Sadhu) are divided into two
different classes, Beshar, “without the law”, and “Bashar,” within the law. A large number belong
to the former group and use intoxicants like ganja, opium and alcohol, all of which they consider
acceptable and lawful. They do not follow the precepts of the Prophet and pay little attention to
fasting, praying or attempting to control their passions. They are considered to be debauchees and
are not highly regarded by Muslims in general and are feared by many. “Bashar,” those within the
law, follow all the rules of Islam such as praying, fasting and abstaining from intoxicants. There are
many varieties in this group, some with wives and children who live by farming, trading or begging.
Others are of the “abstracted” type and lead an ascetic life, some being affected to such a degree
for their love and mystical affection for Gnosticism and the Deity that they are dead to any form
excitement, hope or fear. This is the rarest class of Faqirs as it takes a peculiar conformation of
mind and personality. There are others of education and sophistication, metaphysicians they are
regarded as, who reject as unfashionable belief in the Koran and the five pillars of Islam.
There are many orders or sects of these Muslim holy men, educated and dignified, uneducated,
wild and hairy, conservative, with different costumes and practices, some naked and hairless, some
celibates, some debauched and dissipated beggars, some that lead about monkeys and bears, some
considered to be powerful miracle workers that can instantly effect what they please, can heal the
sick and raise the dead, the whirling Darweshes and their ecstatic services, some outside the law,
some within the law but all considered a part of the mystical brotherhood of Islam and therefore it is
considered well to court their blessings and avoid their curses for as it has been said, “View not
with scorn the humble sons of earth, for beneath a clod a flower may have birth.”
I asked the Maulana about the order that he represented and if it was within or without the law and
he assured me that it was of the former, very respectable with many rich and highly educated
members of the community. I told him that I would indeed accept his invitation for initiation and
hoped that I would be a worthy addition to its membership. He replied in the affirmative, that the
honor would be theirs and that they were looking forward to my participation and friendship. I
inquired when and where the initiation would take place and what would be required of me. He
replied that it would be here in the old city of Banaras, in the home of the Murshid, or Pir, the
spiritual guide who would conduct the ceremony. The custom of initiating a disciple ( murid ) has it’
s origin with their ancestors, he said, and this very special duty is only entrusted to wise and
reverend persons. When a person is to become a disciple they usually go to the household of the
particular Pir or Saint who is recognized as such by the family descent or the ceremony take place
in the home of the initiate. In my case since I was a tourist and had no home as such it was decided
that the ceremony would take place in the home of the presiding Murshid which was located in the
neighborhood near the large Masjid, or Mosque, of the old city and when the time was ready a
messenger would inform me of the particulars. As that concluded our conversation he took his
leave, touching his heart with his right hand and salutating me with the words, “As Salaam mu
Alaikum,” Peace of Allah be upon you.
The next day, returning to my rooms after my evening meal, I found a letter under the door
designating the time and place the initiation was to be performed, the necessary items that I needed
to bring and instructions for my behavior during the ceremony. It was hand written, in English, in an
elegant cursive script on soft parchment and embossed in gold with star and crescent and the
name of the order. I still have the letter but for proprieties sake I shall refrain from divulging the
particulars and name of the order.
On the appointed day I took a rickshaw to the address given, a compound surrounded by a high
wall and shadowed by the graceful minarets and gilded dome of the large mosque nearby. It was
night and though I felt good about the coming proceedings this was India and underneath the
glamour and beauty lurked undreamed of depths of terror and cruelty that could appear in an
instant. I looked around at the filthy street and the squalid hovels of the poor next to the golden
gleam of the majestic mosque that loomed above it all and for a moment I thought of returning to
the safety of my rooms. Maybe this was all a setup, I thought, maybe I would be kidnapped and
held for ransom, maybe beheaded as had happened to the tourist trekkers in Kashmir a few years
back or put in shackles and shown on International TV before they did the evil deed.
I took a deep breath, lifted, and let drop the massive knocker on the ornate double door. Boom!
The sound reverberated throughout the whole neighborhood. Too late to turn back now, I thought.
Momentarily I heard the turn of a key, the rasp of a bolt being drawn and then the creak of rusty
hinges. A small man wearing a black turban and black patch over one eye opened the door,
salaamed deeply and silently bid me enter. We crossed the dark courtyard and entered the building
and into what appeared to be the main room. It was stone-floored and bare of unnecessary
furniture or decoration. Scattered about in large earthen pots grew tropical plants in lush profusion.
A door on one wall led into an antechamber where the servant, without speaking a word, directed
me to be seated. Another door stood open onto the dark shadows of a garden with the scent of
flowers and a small slice of moonlight peeking through. An ancient stone bench underneath an
orange tree invited me to sit and take in the rich aromas of jasmine, oleander and orange, and as I
sat and waited for the unfolding of the event that lay before me I thought of the rich and bloody
history that Islam had brought with it to this fabled land now called India.
How had Islam given birth to so many fanatics I wondered when the Prophet was such a gentle and
kindhearted human being? Compassion and tenderness, simplicity and humility, sincerity and
courtesy, all virtues he had in abundance, yet a trail of blood had covered the earth from the
beginning of his mission to the present day. He had prohibited his soldiers from killing women and
children, of inciting terror in the hearts of defenseless civilians, for the maiming of innocent
men, women and children was forbidden by both the Prophet and the Qu’ran. And yet they slashed
and killed, converting the infidels with the sword, conquering vast areas of the world from Arabia to
Mongolia, to all the four corners of the earth they rode and fought with a fury and ruled their
conquered dominions with a cruel, iron hand.
And now it reigns no more, the glorious past when the horned moon of Islam had blazed throughout
the land ruling all of Hindustan, when the Great Moguls had no peer until the blistering torrent of the
Marathas and Rajputs and Sikhs burst forth and threw them into the dust and then a greater torrent
blasted in from across the black waters to extinguish the last flicker of life from the heart of the great
Mogul Empire.
The British had conquered the conquerors and now the quiet wind of modernization sweeps in as
the Americans take over, inexorably, with Coca-Cola, Hollywood and MacDonald’s, capturing by
default this vast sub-continent once ruled by Akbar Jehangir, Shahjehan, and the almighty
Aurungzebe, “Holder of the World,” Now the sword of Allah has been dulled, broken and
replaced by a so called democracy; but the quest for power and plunder is still rampant since the
Emperor has only changed clothes leaving the substance of venality and dissimulation intact.
But here and there truth prevails, small pockets of men and women who hold high the lamp of the
Prophet. Sufism, that ascetic branch of Islam that aspires to a state of union with God through
mystical contemplation rejects privileges based on wealth, race or power. Allah created all human
beings as equals and they are to be distinguished from each other only by their faith and piety….
The murmur of voices in the next room woke me from my meditations and Maulana Mohammad
Shah Ibn-Ali entered and quietly told me to follow him into the dressing room where I was to
bathe, change into the fresh clothes that I had brought with me along with a small envelope of
money to be given as a gift to the Pir that was to conduct my initiation.
While bathing a servant came in with a box containing scissors, comb, razor and several bottles of
lotion and indicated that I was to be shaved as that was part of the procedure. When I objected to
this he left and a few minutes later returned with the Maulana who explained to me that it was a
symbolic act only and a snip of hair from the “four beauties of the face,” head, eyebrows, beard
and chest would suffice. I relented and the servant took the required amount which he put in a small
container that he produced from his barber’s box. He also clipped my fingernails and while doing
so repeated sentences or prayers from the Qu’ran. I then dressed in a clean white lungi and kurta.
The Maulana returned, gave me a quick inspection, took the envelope containing the gift for the Pir
and instructed me to wait.
The Maulana returned shortly and led me out into the large room that was now occupied by about
twenty people, some of whom I recognized from the house of the sari maker that I had dined with
on the night of the Prophet’s birthday. The people formed a horseshoe with me in the center and
the Pir, a rather fierce looking gentleman, immaculately dressed in white, at the head facing the East
so that when I faced him I would be looking in the direction of Mecca. The Pir then placed a small
skullcap on my head and gave me a piece of white cloth about five feet in length which I turbaned
my head with. He then took hold of my right hand with his right hand in such a way that out thumbs
touched. Then the Pir asked me to repeat the formula of asking forgiveness from God, the five
sections of the creed, the assertion of the unity of the Godhead, the rejection of infidelity and other
supplications that I had been instructed in after which I said to the Pir, “Whatever sins I have
intentionally or unintentionally committed I now repent and I sincerely promise before my Pir and in
the presence of God and his minister never to commit them again.”
Then the Pir read of a long list of all the Saints of the order according to the genealogy which went
back to the time of the Prophet and then asked me if I consented to acknowledge them. When I
replied in the affirmative he then asked me if I acknowledged him as my Pir. Again I replied in the
affirmative. The Pir then released my hand, received a cup of some sweet liquid from one of the
ministers, offered prayers over it, blew on it several times, took two or three sips and then handed it
to me. I then rose from my seat as instructed and with profound reverence, drank the last of it. The
Pir then draped over my shoulders a shawl that he himself had worn and then instructed me in my
new name; Bismillah Shah (Shah, or King, signifying that one is lord over one’s own will and has
thus renounced the world and Bismillah, in the name of Allah.) At the end of these rites the Pir gave
me the following precepts: “What stands do not touch, what lies down do not move,” that is to say
do not steal or take what is not rightfully yours, “Let your tongue observe truth,” that is do not lie,
“Keep your loin band tight,” that is do not commit adultery, “Treasure these things in your mind,
Beware! Exert yourself and earn your living in a righteous manner and eat only what is lawful.” I
then turned and prostrated myself three times toward Mecca, then stood up and faced the
gathering, salaamed deeply and they, returning the salutation, chanted “Be thou blessed, be thou
blessed, be thou blessed,” three times.
The ceremony was over. Everyone gathered around me smiling, congratulating and shaking hands.
A large cloth was laid on the floor which was soon covered with heaping mounds of steaming rice
and mutton and other tasty dishes of the local variety. We ate and talked late into the night and I
was called upon to expound endlessly on America; its problems, the government, poverty, crime,
black people, drugs, the life style of the rich, the food, the religious habits, sex, music, marriage and
to give my opinions and comparisons and thoughts to all the deep and disturbing questions they had
on their minds.
I pray to Allah that I did them justice….
Not Christian or Jew or Muslim,
not Hindu, Buddhist, Sufi or Zen.
Not any religion, or cultural system.
I am not from the East or the West,
nor out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal,
not composed of elements at all.
I do not exist, am not an entity in this world
or the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve
or any origin story.
My place is placeless, a trace of the traceless.
Neither body nor soul.
I belong to the beloved
have seen the two worlds as one
and that one call to and know,
First, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human
—Jalaluddin Rumi, 'Only Breath'
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