In times unknown - 3 days in the village
In the midst of lockdown numero uno in Lahore over the weekend, I decided to head to my village in Radhan, a half an hour or so from Sargodha. Traffic in Lahore was beyond light, almost absent, so we hit the motorway quickly and reached Sargodha earlier than expected. I thought the drive through the city would have been a much desired breeze as well but the residents of the city seemed to be out and about per their normal routine. Clearly the rules set upon the larger cities hadn’t taken effect here yet. But it was the village that was the bubble existing above and beyond everything that seemed to be happening in the world.
Unlike the rest of it, or at least the West, Pakistan has taken the approach of slow roll-out in what was likely going to be a long-term lockdown. We had started with 2 days on March 21st, now we are at 15 and everyone assumes that will be extended in the same slots indefinitely. A few stories about the treatment of those who have revealed their state of being positive to the State have been frightening to the point that unless faced by death, I think people will stick it out in their rooms. And some might also prefer to die there.
There are articles abound about people in the north testing positive, then running away from the health facilities to God knows where. No one has a real clue what is happening of course and beyond the “We love China” anthem the PM is singing, what we are really hoping for is one of those hospitals our “all-weather friend” built in 8 days, (or was it 18), to pop up in at least one province each. Personally, I would rather the People's Republic ended the internment of a million Muslims but we seem to have already signed off on that being ok.
The poor are scared out of their wits because we have extremely high numbers of workers in the larger cities who earn their income on a daily basis and with the shutdown, they don’t have a clue as to how to feed their families. Those of the Sahib e Taufeeq are therefore anxiously and quickly trying to distribute ration for a month to as many families as possible. Meanwhile the Sahib e Maal contingent is interneting themselves to wherever that will lead, which we will soon discover.
In Lahore, if one meets someone, all one talks about is the virus. For a while at least. That has been my experience of the under 50 crowd. It’s like the greeting of “salam” changed to “yaar yeh kya cheez aa gayee hai?” which then moves forward into exchanges of updates and readings per each person’s interest and/or fear of death. Since I have been most influenced by my friends and elders who, while taking sensible precautions, believe in the “jiss ko hona hai, uss to hona hai” (whoever’s going to get it is going to get it) school of thought, I have little to offer.
While being holed up, I scan Drudge and get the scariest breaking updates of the world on a daily basis. It makes me smile that the US has already ingrained into the public that 18 months are on the horizon for this nightmare and we are going forward in 15 day increments. I guess if the Pakistani Government made a similar announcement of 180 days (plus), people would just be like “screw it” and brazen defiance would follow. The rest of my days are spent humming tunes to come up with melodies for the kalam in my book which I then share with my friend, Ustad Imran and we play with it till its ready for upload on a gorgeous insta page, courtesy of Hiba.
Meanwhile, the rumour mills are spewing out new suggestions daily. High on the list is bio-weaponary going out of hand. China-US-Israel are the three villains most frequently named. On the spiritual side a trusted spiritual master says it is the fasid jinns, who, in collusion with fasid humans, are creating this havoc. Like millions, I have all my hopes tied to the return of Imam Mahdi (as) who might appear to save the day.
The Saudis closing Umra, cancelling Haj and making the tawaaf practically void is what saddens the believers the most. As one who had intended to perform the Haj this year, it is no doubt tremendously disappointing. But then I had heard from my Mamu many years before he passed that the Haj would stop in the future. I just imagined that it would happen because of war, not a plague. The Naqshbandis were told by their Spiritual Master, Sheikh Nazim (ra), that blight would arise from China and spread into the world and would disappear one day just like it came. In the days through it, he had advised his disciples to give sadqa to express their gratitude for life.
But coming back to the story of the village. After having lunch and meeting Pathani, who worked for me for 20 some years and is now retired, I sat with the women who work in the house near their out-door kitchen. I began the conversation in the way I had been taught these past few days in Lahore. Except it was in Punjabi.
“Yaar eh ke shay saddey pichay peh gayee hai” (what is this strange thing that has come after us?)
The women looked at me but no one said anything. I waited but they seemed to be waiting also, I gathered, for me to continue. When I didn’t, they just went back to what they were doing. I gave it another shot.
“So everyone in Lahore is holed up in their houses and living in fear,” I attempted raising the bar from casual conversation to sensationalism. “No one goes anywhere and all the markets are closed.”
Again I received nothing.
I think one woman said, “Jiya” in a tone which best translates into a flat “I guess” or “Mmm hmmm.”
I started smiling. “You guys are really lucky,” changing gears yet again, this time offering praise of good fortune. “You can roam around and it’s so beautiful here. And clean. And the food is good and fresh. And there’s hardly any people.” I racked my brain for more positives. “And it hasn’t turned hot yet so the weather is perfect.”
This time instead of one, I got three “Jiyas” and one “Jiya Ji.” It made me give up. I’ll try again tomorrow I thought. I got a charpaaye and spend the rest of the day in the massive garden reading books I had brought with me from Lahore and again, humming the melody of the next tune. It was by Baba Farid Kot Mithan (ra) and I have to say it had an effect on my heart that was superbly softening. Sometimes the words made me smile and sometimes I cried. I love the range of the arc that poetry can make, going from the earth to the sky, from the sun to the moon, from the day to the night and from the heart to the heart.
The next day I went for a walk in the kinoo gardens. The fruit has been picked but the orange blossoms were in full bloom and deeply intoxicating. I sat under a tree brimming with the flowers and listened to music on my Ipod. At lunch the women sat nearby, possibly feeling bad for me that I always came all alone. I decided, incorrigibly, to mention the virus again.
“So to stay safe you have to wash your hands A LOT. My teacher, Qari Sahib, says to just stay in a state of wudu. Even if you are not going to pray soon.”
I looked at each woman one by one, this time awaiting their favoured response.
“Jiya,” said one. “This is a good suggestion.”
I was dying to ask if they did that or prayed but gained control of myself.
Usually the gate to the house is left open for people from the village, essentially women, to come in and say hello to the arrivals from the city. But this time Pathani had given strict instructions to the chawkidaar to not let anyone in.
“Not even Ghulam Biwi?” I asked. As I write this I wonder if her name is Ghulam Bibi re-pronounced Biwi in the village or if she was literally named “the wife of Ghulam.” Probably the former. How would anyone know the husband’s name at birth?
“No,” she decided. “Best to be safe. She roams around the whole village and God only knows where else all day.”
Amma Ghulam Biwi was an old woman in her 70s who was almost deaf. On every visit I had made in the last few years, she had come to see me. She had a lovely voice and knew tons of Punjabi songs, film and spiritual kalam, and would sing to me. She loved Nur Jahan tracks from the 60s and I enjoyed my time with her. The conversations were by sign of course. She loved me and I loved her.
She was the reason I had come to understand that the prayers of a poor person, who one is kind to, far exceed in their expression the prayers of even one’s own parents. “Takhtaan te bakhtaan,” is what she always asked for me. Thrones and best of fortunes! I’m pretty sure neither of my parents ever prayed for thrones for me! Plus I often heard her address God as “Takhtaan te bakhtaan aaliya,” which meant she was asking Him to give me of Himself and that which is His. Not to mention the ask of never-ending wealth and telling Allah to give me more and more and more. Again, I don’t think my parents asked for that either! If they did it would have indeed been strange. Then there was “Allah raazi howey iss tun,” the most elevated prayer of all, “God, be pleased with her.”
I was a little bummed that I was not going to see her but it seemed like the thing to do. But fortune had other plans. Later in the afternoon I went to the family graveyard, just outside the women’s house and adjacent to the haveli the men occupy. For the second time in my lifetime, I went to the graves inside the mosque where my grandfather, his brother and their father are buried. Usually I just sit in the area outside where the rest of our family, including my mother and sister are, but I had visited the village a month before with my Nani (kind of) who is in her 90s and had gone inside with her.
When we had arrived at the graveyard then, just the walk from the car to the graves, only a few feet away, had taken so long and seemed so tiring for her that I had told her to just pray from there and not walk the extra few feet to where her father and brothers were buried. She had waived me away as if I had suggested something beyond ludicrous and said, “Then why am I here?”
With her nurse holding her on one side and me on the other, we had gone into the small room where the three graves lay in a line. In the back was a large marble slab and on it was a Surah from the Quran. She had kept insisting she wanted to read it herself but when I asked if she wanted a chair brought in while she did so, she had waived me away again. Apparently it was another absurd idea. I told her I would read it for her and while she sat at the feet of her father, I recited the Surah.
It was Al-Mulk and I remember crying the whole way through it. I didn’t understand it all of course but I wept because of the lines addressing the ungrateful who will be asked if a warner came to them and they will say, yes, a warner did come but we rejected him. I cried because I didn’t understand why they rejected him and I hoped I wasn’t one of them because rejection has its own layers. And I sobbed because of those I love deeply who live restless lives in perpetuity but refuse to unhinge themselves from a position that they took for one reason, one incidence or another, that had now taken hold of them, replacing all their happiness with anxiety and paranoia to live a life lifeless.
But it was the second line that never left me from that first time I read it for it had triggered a significant part of my understanding of the Quran.
"He who created death and life, that He may test which of you is best in deed.
And He is the Bestower of Honor and Oft-Forgiving."
The revelation had formed a chunk of my address at the book launch: that the verses of deep consequence referencing “deed,” giving it a singular, exalted status repeatedly by God, tie in precisely and inextricably with the multitude of verses on Nabi Kareem (saw) as the one to follow and obey. Making his deed one’s own rendered one “best” indeed.
This was going to be the second time I would enter the room inside the mosque. I had heard earlier in the morning, quite randomly, that my mother used to take the Quran to her father’s grave every day after he passed while she was in the village. To read it for him, to send the blessings of her readings to him. I had never done that before even though my family members had died almost 23 years ago. But on this day that I did it I knew it meant the beginning, albeit a late one, of doing it for them in the future.
It was on my way back from the graveyard that I saw Amma Ghulam Biwi standing near the gate of the house with her cane and some cloth she was carrying. From a distance she didn’t recognize me even though I waived at her but when I got close, she threw the cane and cloth on the ground, raising her hand up in the air, letting out a cry of joy.
Normally she would greet me with her favourite song by Nur Jahan; "Chan mahiya teri rah pai takni aan. Tariyan tu puch le ve chan kolun puch leh, sareian tu puch le, mein sayn nahin sakni aan." The words translated into "Dearest sweetheart, I have been looking for you to come my way for so long. Ask the stars, go ask the moon. Ask them all, I haven't slept a night waiting for you." I always laughed at the intensity of the tone. It made me wonder if she was a Scorpio like me.
When I got close to her I tried to yell that it’s best we don’t meet like we normally do but of course she didn’t understand a word. Next thing I knew she had thrown her arms around me, pulled me towards her and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. I burst out laughing while I heard the gate-keeper doing his best to scream out that that was not the way to meet in these times. She walked at a snail’s pace so it took us a while to reach the house from the gate and someone brought a chair for her to sit on and some kinoo juice to drink.
She had once told me she would say prayers and breathe them on water, something we call “pani dumm karna,” meaning making a water have the capacity to heal through the effect of verse from the Quran. I had a half finished bottle of water with me so I handed it to her and gestured for her to make me one. But before that I played the part of a mime and explained that the whole world was under attack by a disease and people were sick and dying. That required a decent amount of touching my forehead and sticking my tongue out as if fatigued beyond belief. And it worked! “Bimari aa gayee ae?” she said. And I nodded in the affirmative vigourously, holding my palms up in the air, signaling for her to pray for all of us.
I listened as she spoke the prayers out one by one for the water. The prayers have to be recited in a specific number, usually 11 but she went over a few times so she must have different system. I recognized the prayers and each time I thought she was done and got up to take the bottle from her, she waived me away as if annoyed by my impatience. The wave of dismissal must be a thing of older women from Radhan. The prayer that struck me was “Qulna ya naaro, kuni bardan wa salaman ala Ibrahim (as).” “We (God) said, ‘Fire, be cool and safe for Ibrahim (as).’”
The verse was in my book in the chapter on Trust. Also I was studying deeply each mention of the Prophet Ibrahim (as) in the Quran these days with Qari Sahib. Each incidence was extraordinary for he was Khalil Allah, the Friend of God. His asks, his bestowings, every action, was spell-binding through the tafseer of Ghaus Pak (ra). I know he is the only one who gives the exegesis of the word Ibrahim in specific verses to be the soul. That itself changed everything entirely as suddenly it was about me. And everyone else!
Before Amma Ghulam Biwi left, she looked at me with deep anguish and said her heart ached that I kept bending over. I had been doing my stretches while she sat in the chair and was touching my toes over and over, holding the position and counting to eight. I wanted to tell her that I was fine so I tried giving her a thumbs up but she just looked extremely bewildered so I decided to leave it alone. We said our goodbyes. My info on the disease devouring the world had left no impact on her so she hugged and kissed me again, then shuffled out of the house.
On my last day at breakfast, one of the women who brought me my meal asked, “So what is the news from Lahore?”
I was thrilled that I had managed to pique enough interest that she had gotten some information on her own about it which she wanted to relay to me.
“You heard about the extension of the lockdown?” I asked expectantly.
She looked blasé.
“No. I’m just asking what is going on there?” As in “What’s up in Lahore?”
“Oh,” I said. “Nothing much,” I responded, taking on her indifference and expressing my capitulation. “It’s more of the same. Who knows what will happen?”
She smiled at me and left to go back to the kitchen.
The village! The simplicity of life is apparent always. In the scenery and the quietness, the apparel and the taste of the food cooked without any overwhelming flavours or colour of individual ingredients, yet incomparably delicious. But the glaring cut-off from the world is from lack of technology interceding in life, as relates specifically to the internet. And this applies of course to those of my age, 50 and above. Maybe even just the women since I don’t interact with any men at all while there.
My three days spent there left me happy and smiling as I gathered my stuff to return to a city that I also deeply love. I felt grateful that in these times of extreme gravity and not having a clue as to who will live another day, life can still have a lightness to it. Recently I saw a beautiful painting the famed British artist, David Hockney, made to life the spirits of the world in this time of gloom. “Do remember, they can’t cancel spring,” is what he said. In that vein, my motivation to make music set to words written by poets extraordinaire and spiritual masters had accelerated. I also wanted to alleviate the sadness of the world. Because I already knew the effect of sound on the soul. It was a major part of my new writing:
"In Risala Qusheria I had read page after page of what was said about the effect of sound on the heart. Imam Ali (ratu) and others like him attest to the fact that every single thing in the Universe is in a state of zikr, remembrance, of Allah As-Sami’, The Hearer of All. And most surprising of all, it wasn’t just elements of nature, the birds, the bees, water and wind. It was instruments when played without a voice, it was the wheel of the potter, it was the rope that pulled water from a well. Hazrat Abu Suleman Durani (ra) said, ''A beautiful voice does not insert anything into a heart. It only resonates with and makes alive that which lies in it already.'"
Who knows what lies inside hearts except those who occupy them but one line rings true for all of us and it comes most beautifully worded in Punjabi by my Pir Mehr Ali Shah Sahib (ra.) For the ask from God of those who know Him, as opposed to those who merely worship Him, focuses on what can be bestowed, as opposed to what can be withdrawn.
Sha Allah wat aawin uwa ghariaan
May those moments come back again.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0x2U1fWwS8&feature=youtu.be
kalam by Ustad Imran Jafri on insta @the.softest.heart
In times unknown - 3 days in the village
In the midst of lockdown numero uno in Lahore over the weekend, I decided to head to my village in Radhan, a half an hour or so from Sargodha. Traffic in Lahore was beyond light, almost absent, so we hit the motorway quickly and reached Sargodha earlier than expected. I thought the drive through the city would have been a much desired breeze as well but the residents of the city seemed to be out and about per their normal routine. Clearly the rules set upon the larger cities hadn’t taken effect here yet. But it was the village that was the bubble existing above and beyond everything that seemed to be happening in the world.
Unlike the rest of it, or at least the West, Pakistan has taken the approach of slow roll-out in what was likely going to be a long-term lockdown. We had started with 2 days on March 21st, now we are at 15 and everyone assumes that will be extended in the same slots indefinitely. A few stories about the treatment of those who have revealed their state of being positive to the State have been frightening to the point that unless faced by death, I think people will stick it out in their rooms. And some might also prefer to die there.
There are articles abound about people in the north testing positive, then running away from the health facilities to God knows where. No one has a real clue what is happening of course and beyond the “We love China” anthem the PM is singing, what we are really hoping for is one of those hospitals our “all-weather friend” built in 8 days, (or was it 18), to pop up in at least one province each. Personally, I would rather the People's Republic ended the internment of a million Muslims but we seem to have already signed off on that being ok.
The poor are scared out of their wits because we have extremely high numbers of workers in the larger cities who earn their income on a daily basis and with the shutdown, they don’t have a clue as to how to feed their families. Those of the Sahib e Taufeeq are therefore anxiously and quickly trying to distribute ration for a month to as many families as possible. Meanwhile the Sahib e Maal contingent is interneting themselves to wherever that will lead, which we will soon discover.
In Lahore, if one meets someone, all one talks about is the virus. For a while at least. That has been my experience of the under 50 crowd. It’s like the greeting of “salam” changed to “yaar yeh kya cheez aa gayee hai?” which then moves forward into exchanges of updates and readings per each person’s interest and/or fear of death. Since I have been most influenced by my friends and elders who, while taking sensible precautions, believe in the “jiss ko hona hai, uss to hona hai” (whoever’s going to get it is going to get it) school of thought, I have little to offer.
While being holed up, I scan Drudge and get the scariest breaking updates of the world on a daily basis. It makes me smile that the US has already ingrained into the public that 18 months are on the horizon for this nightmare and we are going forward in 15 day increments. I guess if the Pakistani Government made a similar announcement of 180 days (plus), people would just be like “screw it” and brazen defiance would follow. The rest of my days are spent humming tunes to come up with melodies for the kalam in my book which I then share with my friend, Ustad Imran and we play with it till its ready for upload on a gorgeous insta page, courtesy of Hiba.
Meanwhile, the rumour mills are spewing out new suggestions daily. High on the list is bio-weaponary going out of hand. China-US-Israel are the three villains most frequently named. On the spiritual side a trusted spiritual master says it is the fasid jinns, who, in collusion with fasid humans, are creating this havoc. Like millions, I have all my hopes tied to the return of Imam Mahdi (as) who might appear to save the day.
The Saudis closing Umra, cancelling Haj and making the tawaaf practically void is what saddens the believers the most. As one who had intended to perform the Haj this year, it is no doubt tremendously disappointing. But then I had heard from my Mamu many years before he passed that the Haj would stop in the future. I just imagined that it would happen because of war, not a plague. The Naqshbandis were told by their Spiritual Master, Sheikh Nazim (ra), that blight would arise from China and spread into the world and would disappear one day just like it came. In the days through it, he had advised his disciples to give sadqa to express their gratitude for life.
But coming back to the story of the village. After having lunch and meeting Pathani, who worked for me for 20 some years and is now retired, I sat with the women who work in the house near their out-door kitchen. I began the conversation in the way I had been taught these past few days in Lahore. Except it was in Punjabi.
“Yaar eh ke shay saddey pichay peh gayee hai” (what is this strange thing that has come after us?)
The women looked at me but no one said anything. I waited but they seemed to be waiting also, I gathered, for me to continue. When I didn’t, they just went back to what they were doing. I gave it another shot.
“So everyone in Lahore is holed up in their houses and living in fear,” I attempted raising the bar from casual conversation to sensationalism. “No one goes anywhere and all the markets are closed.”
Again I received nothing.
I think one woman said, “Jiya” in a tone which best translates into a flat “I guess” or “Mmm hmmm.”
I started smiling. “You guys are really lucky,” changing gears yet again, this time offering praise of good fortune. “You can roam around and it’s so beautiful here. And clean. And the food is good and fresh. And there’s hardly any people.” I racked my brain for more positives. “And it hasn’t turned hot yet so the weather is perfect.”
This time instead of one, I got three “Jiyas” and one “Jiya Ji.” It made me give up. I’ll try again tomorrow I thought. I got a charpaaye and spend the rest of the day in the massive garden reading books I had brought with me from Lahore and again, humming the melody of the next tune. It was by Baba Farid Kot Mithan (ra) and I have to say it had an effect on my heart that was superbly softening. Sometimes the words made me smile and sometimes I cried. I love the range of the arc that poetry can make, going from the earth to the sky, from the sun to the moon, from the day to the night and from the heart to the heart.
The next day I went for a walk in the kinoo gardens. The fruit has been picked but the orange blossoms were in full bloom and deeply intoxicating. I sat under a tree brimming with the flowers and listened to music on my Ipod. At lunch the women sat nearby, possibly feeling bad for me that I always came all alone. I decided, incorrigibly, to mention the virus again.
“So to stay safe you have to wash your hands A LOT. My teacher, Qari Sahib, says to just stay in a state of wudu. Even if you are not going to pray soon.”
I looked at each woman one by one, this time awaiting their favoured response.
“Jiya,” said one. “This is a good suggestion.”
I was dying to ask if they did that or prayed but gained control of myself.
Usually the gate to the house is left open for people from the village, essentially women, to come in and say hello to the arrivals from the city. But this time Pathani had given strict instructions to the chawkidaar to not let anyone in.
“Not even Ghulam Biwi?” I asked. As I write this I wonder if her name is Ghulam Bibi re-pronounced Biwi in the village or if she was literally named “the wife of Ghulam.” Probably the former. How would anyone know the husband’s name at birth?
“No,” she decided. “Best to be safe. She roams around the whole village and God only knows where else all day.”
Amma Ghulam Biwi was an old woman in her 70s who was almost deaf. On every visit I had made in the last few years, she had come to see me. She had a lovely voice and knew tons of Punjabi songs, film and spiritual kalam, and would sing to me. She loved Nur Jahan tracks from the 60s and I enjoyed my time with her. The conversations were by sign of course. She loved me and I loved her.
She was the reason I had come to understand that the prayers of a poor person, who one is kind to, far exceed in their expression the prayers of even one’s own parents. “Takhtaan te bakhtaan,” is what she always asked for me. Thrones and best of fortunes! I’m pretty sure neither of my parents ever prayed for thrones for me! Plus I often heard her address God as “Takhtaan te bakhtaan aaliya,” which meant she was asking Him to give me of Himself and that which is His. Not to mention the ask of never-ending wealth and telling Allah to give me more and more and more. Again, I don’t think my parents asked for that either! If they did it would have indeed been strange. Then there was “Allah raazi howey iss tun,” the most elevated prayer of all, “God, be pleased with her.”
I was a little bummed that I was not going to see her but it seemed like the thing to do. But fortune had other plans. Later in the afternoon I went to the family graveyard, just outside the women’s house and adjacent to the haveli the men occupy. For the second time in my lifetime, I went to the graves inside the mosque where my grandfather, his brother and their father are buried. Usually I just sit in the area outside where the rest of our family, including my mother and sister are, but I had visited the village a month before with my Nani (kind of) who is in her 90s and had gone inside with her.
When we had arrived at the graveyard then, just the walk from the car to the graves, only a few feet away, had taken so long and seemed so tiring for her that I had told her to just pray from there and not walk the extra few feet to where her father and brothers were buried. She had waived me away as if I had suggested something beyond ludicrous and said, “Then why am I here?”
With her nurse holding her on one side and me on the other, we had gone into the small room where the three graves lay in a line. In the back was a large marble slab and on it was a Surah from the Quran. She had kept insisting she wanted to read it herself but when I asked if she wanted a chair brought in while she did so, she had waived me away again. Apparently it was another absurd idea. I told her I would read it for her and while she sat at the feet of her father, I recited the Surah.
It was Al-Mulk and I remember crying the whole way through it. I didn’t understand it all of course but I wept because of the lines addressing the ungrateful who will be asked if a warner came to them and they will say, yes, a warner did come but we rejected him. I cried because I didn’t understand why they rejected him and I hoped I wasn’t one of them because rejection has its own layers. And I sobbed because of those I love deeply who live restless lives in perpetuity but refuse to unhinge themselves from a position that they took for one reason, one incidence or another, that had now taken hold of them, replacing all their happiness with anxiety and paranoia to live a life lifeless.
But it was the second line that never left me from that first time I read it for it had triggered a significant part of my understanding of the Quran.
"He who created death and life, that He may test which of you is best in deed.
And He is the Bestower of Honor and Oft-Forgiving."
The revelation had formed a chunk of my address at the book launch: that the verses of deep consequence referencing “deed,” giving it a singular, exalted status repeatedly by God, tie in precisely and inextricably with the multitude of verses on Nabi Kareem (saw) as the one to follow and obey. Making his deed one’s own rendered one “best” indeed.
This was going to be the second time I would enter the room inside the mosque. I had heard earlier in the morning, quite randomly, that my mother used to take the Quran to her father’s grave every day after he passed while she was in the village. To read it for him, to send the blessings of her readings to him. I had never done that before even though my family members had died almost 23 years ago. But on this day that I did it I knew it meant the beginning, albeit a late one, of doing it for them in the future.
It was on my way back from the graveyard that I saw Amma Ghulam Biwi standing near the gate of the house with her cane and some cloth she was carrying. From a distance she didn’t recognize me even though I waived at her but when I got close, she threw the cane and cloth on the ground, raising her hand up in the air, letting out a cry of joy.
Normally she would greet me with her favourite song by Nur Jahan; "Chan mahiya teri rah pai takni aan. Tariyan tu puch le ve chan kolun puch leh, sareian tu puch le, mein sayn nahin sakni aan." The words translated into "Dearest sweetheart, I have been looking for you to come my way for so long. Ask the stars, go ask the moon. Ask them all, I haven't slept a night waiting for you." I always laughed at the intensity of the tone. It made me wonder if she was a Scorpio like me.
When I got close to her I tried to yell that it’s best we don’t meet like we normally do but of course she didn’t understand a word. Next thing I knew she had thrown her arms around me, pulled me towards her and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. I burst out laughing while I heard the gate-keeper doing his best to scream out that that was not the way to meet in these times. She walked at a snail’s pace so it took us a while to reach the house from the gate and someone brought a chair for her to sit on and some kinoo juice to drink.
She had once told me she would say prayers and breathe them on water, something we call “pani dumm karna,” meaning making a water have the capacity to heal through the effect of verse from the Quran. I had a half finished bottle of water with me so I handed it to her and gestured for her to make me one. But before that I played the part of a mime and explained that the whole world was under attack by a disease and people were sick and dying. That required a decent amount of touching my forehead and sticking my tongue out as if fatigued beyond belief. And it worked! “Bimari aa gayee ae?” she said. And I nodded in the affirmative vigourously, holding my palms up in the air, signaling for her to pray for all of us.
I listened as she spoke the prayers out one by one for the water. The prayers have to be recited in a specific number, usually 11 but she went over a few times so she must have different system. I recognized the prayers and each time I thought she was done and got up to take the bottle from her, she waived me away as if annoyed by my impatience. The wave of dismissal must be a thing of older women from Radhan. The prayer that struck me was “Qulna ya naaro, kuni bardan wa salaman ala Ibrahim (as).” “We (God) said, ‘Fire, be cool and safe for Ibrahim (as).’”
The verse was in my book in the chapter on Trust. Also I was studying deeply each mention of the Prophet Ibrahim (as) in the Quran these days with Qari Sahib. Each incidence was extraordinary for he was Khalil Allah, the Friend of God. His asks, his bestowings, every action, was spell-binding through the tafseer of Ghaus Pak (ra). I know he is the only one who gives the exegesis of the word Ibrahim in specific verses to be the soul. That itself changed everything entirely as suddenly it was about me. And everyone else!
Before Amma Ghulam Biwi left, she looked at me with deep anguish and said her heart ached that I kept bending over. I had been doing my stretches while she sat in the chair and was touching my toes over and over, holding the position and counting to eight. I wanted to tell her that I was fine so I tried giving her a thumbs up but she just looked extremely bewildered so I decided to leave it alone. We said our goodbyes. My info on the disease devouring the world had left no impact on her so she hugged and kissed me again, then shuffled out of the house.
On my last day at breakfast, one of the women who brought me my meal asked, “So what is the news from Lahore?”
I was thrilled that I had managed to pique enough interest that she had gotten some information on her own about it which she wanted to relay to me.
“You heard about the extension of the lockdown?” I asked expectantly.
She looked blasé.
“No. I’m just asking what is going on there?” As in “What’s up in Lahore?”
“Oh,” I said. “Nothing much,” I responded, taking on her indifference and expressing my capitulation. “It’s more of the same. Who knows what will happen?”
She smiled at me and left to go back to the kitchen.
The village! The simplicity of life is apparent always. In the scenery and the quietness, the apparel and the taste of the food cooked without any overwhelming flavours or colour of individual ingredients, yet incomparably delicious. But the glaring cut-off from the world is from lack of technology interceding in life, as relates specifically to the internet. And this applies of course to those of my age, 50 and above. Maybe even just the women since I don’t interact with any men at all while there.
My three days spent there left me happy and smiling as I gathered my stuff to return to a city that I also deeply love. I felt grateful that in these times of extreme gravity and not having a clue as to who will live another day, life can still have a lightness to it. Recently I saw a beautiful painting the famed British artist, David Hockney, made to life the spirits of the world in this time of gloom. “Do remember, they can’t cancel spring,” is what he said. In that vein, my motivation to make music set to words written by poets extraordinaire and spiritual masters had accelerated. I also wanted to alleviate the sadness of the world. Because I already knew the effect of sound on the soul. It was a major part of my new writing:
"In Risala Qusheria I had read page after page of what was said about the effect of sound on the heart. Imam Ali (ratu) and others like him attest to the fact that every single thing in the Universe is in a state of zikr, remembrance, of Allah As-Sami’, The Hearer of All. And most surprising of all, it wasn’t just elements of nature, the birds, the bees, water and wind. It was instruments when played without a voice, it was the wheel of the potter, it was the rope that pulled water from a well. Hazrat Abu Suleman Durani (ra) said, ''A beautiful voice does not insert anything into a heart. It only resonates with and makes alive that which lies in it already.'"
Who knows what lies inside hearts except those who occupy them but one line rings true for all of us and it comes most beautifully worded in Punjabi by my Pir Mehr Ali Shah Sahib (ra.) For the ask from God of those who know Him, as opposed to those who merely worship Him, focuses on what can be bestowed, as opposed to what can be withdrawn.
Sha Allah wat aawin uwa ghariaan
May those moments come back again.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0x2U1fWwS8&feature=youtu.be
kalam by Ustad Imran Jafri on insta @the.softest.heart