Song Of The Dervish: Nizamuddin Auliya : The Saint of Hope and Tolerance

Bibliography

Chapter 1

The Dervish Heeds Your Call

The story of Sanjiv Malhotra

He knew he was dying. The knife had ripped into his stomach. One stroke up and then two more — left and right. Blood oozed out of his shirt. His intestines were coming out like snakes.

He slumped into the seat of the train as if he had been sedated. He grew weak. Sleep blanketed him like a shroud. His life flashed before his eyes — his father, his wife and his two-year-old son.

Sanjiv Malhotra was no stranger to struggle. His father, a Hindu, was in the army, his mother a Sikh. Hard times came knocking when his father retired and started a business. It didn’t work. He became bankrupt. There were seven children at home — five boys and two girls.

They lived in a cramped two-bedroom home in Delhi’s Harinagar. There was no space to study. The house had one desk and a chair. The children took turns studying. Sanjiv stayed up all night — he would start at 11pm and end at 4am. School began at noon and he would be back home at 7pm. There was no time to play. He took a quick nap. Night shift would start in a few hours. Food was limited — just bread and lentils. Nothing else. There was no question of getting milk.

Sanjiv’s relatives gave them old clothes to wear. He remembered how demeaning it was for a 17-year-old to wear clothes no one wanted. He would cry inside.

But life took a turn for the better. His father’s business picked up, he went to college and money started to flow in. His brother even set up another business. The days of bread and lentils were over. His father and brother pampered him. They showered him with money, gave him a motorcycle and let him live life to the full. Sanjiv did just that.

But the joy was short-lived. Sanjiv had to leave the business — he was out of a job and had no money. He took up a part-time job; he became a cashier at an amusement park. He was paid a daily wage of 25 Rupees. The harsh life he had seen growing up had made him resilient. Sanjiv found a full-time job as a sales officer in a company that took him to Jaipur. That was in 1993. Four years later, he was back in Delhi, and in 2001, he was on that train, travelling home after conducting business in Chandigarh.

The Kalka Mail left Chandigarh at 5pm, reached Ambala at 6.30pm and then went on to Panipat. The train left Panipat a little after 7.30pm. He was sitting in seat A5. There was something sinister. He could feel it.

A man entered their compartment from the front door. He had a knife in his hand. A passenger sitting in the first row immediately handed the robber money. The gangster started harassing a woman in front of Sanjiv. He tore her clothes with his knife. Sanjiv asked him to stop molesting the woman — if he wanted money he should take it. Sanjiv drew courage from the fact that a few weeks ago he was on another train, the Rajdhani between Kolkata and Delhi, when a robber snatched a woman’s bag. He had fought the gangster and helped in his arrest.

This time was different. From the corner of the eye he saw four men enter the compartment through the back door. Sanjiv knew he was in trouble. The gangster, who had torn the woman’s clothes, walked up to him shouting: ‘Do you want to become a hero?’ Sanjiv gave him all the money he was carrying — 2,500 Rupees. Moments later, the gangster slashed Sanjiv’s right hand and then thrust the knife into his stomach. He pushed him into the seat. Sanjiv could feel something hot, very hot — first blood and then his intestines. Sanjiv held the intestines in his hands. The gangsters continued to loot and assault passengers. The attack carried on for an hour. Somebody pulled the chain and the train came to a stop. The gangsters came back to Sanjiv. One of them put a steel-coloured revolver to his head. ‘Finish him, he is the only witness,’ another gang member screamed. The men argued whether to shoot him. The gangster was about to pull the trigger when the men heard footsteps. They fled.

Police entered the compartment. The ticket collector showed up. They peered into Sanjiv’s face. Sanjiv smelt whisky as he felt their breath on his face.

A woman sitting near him appeared to be a doctor. She said he would die. The next station was Sonepat, but it was not a scheduled stop. The ticket collector said he would send a message, saying the Kalka Mail would make an unscheduled stop at Sonepat to get him to a hospital. They gave him a towel. The woman said Sanjiv would not make it to Sonepat.

Sanjiv knew that too. Life was fading out of him. That shroud of sleep blanketed him again.

A man, bathed in shining white light, came to him. He was wearing flowing white robes and had a white beard. ‘Hold on, hold on,’ the man appeared to say softly. ‘Sonepat station is coming.’

* * *

The story of Feroza

‘I don’t know why he married my mother. She was just 14 — they say it’s destiny,’ says Feroza, a woman in her early thirties.

A devout Muslim, Feroza’s only anchor is her faith. There was little else to fall back on.

Her mother, Mumtaz, was 19 when she gave birth to her first child, Feroza. Her memory goes back to when she was four: her father, Jamal, arguing with her mother. Seldom was there peace at home.

‘It was not a normal childhood. I was never treated like a child,’ says Feroza, thin, gaunt and reticent. She never used to be this way, this tentative, this diffident.

Jamal, now in his seventies, was a fisherman and would go to sea for stretches of three to six months, leaving his wife and children at home.

Mumtaz was studying to be a nurse in Hyderabad when Jamal approached her father, asking for her hand in marriage. It was 1976, Mumtaz’s father agreed to the match. He had to get his daughters married — there were six of them. Mumtaz was 14 and Jamal 29.

Jamal took flight soon after marriage. He would come home to Mumtaz every few months. But people talk: someone said Jamal had another nest in Hyderabad. Mumtaz threw a fit. It was her and no other.

But he wasn’t going to destroy any of his nests. Jamal’s passion for Mumtaz had borne no child. It had been four years, but Mumtaz had not conceived. Jamal grew restless; his love was growing cold. Doctors asked him to be patient. His wife was only 18. There was nothing wrong with her.

His friends chanted Jamal must take another wife, who would bear him children, never mind that his first wife had given him four. Mumtaz had let him down; it was time to have another go. And Mumbai would be the next port of call. For there, in the bowels of a slum, a woman was waiting for a secure future. She had tasted marriage once, but it was bitter. She left the man. Jamal came calling — his friends knew her. How could she say no to a better life? They were soon married. Back home, Mumtaz now 19, had a surprise waiting: she was pregnant.

But her joy was short-lived. Mumtaz uncovered Jamal’s nest in Mumbai. He was in love. ‘My mother was upset,’ says Feroza. ‘My mother tells me that soon after I was born, I fell ill. I became yellow; I was dying.’

Jamal was happy though — his true love, Mumtaz, had done him proud. ‘My father told my mother he would divorce the Mumbai woman because he loved her very much.’ But she too had a surprise: she was pregnant. Jamal kept all three wives who had borne him children. The first wife he put up in a separate house and Mumtaz and his new wife were kept in a flat. ‘There were fights every day. My mother had no time for me. Both women started having kids. The woman from Mumbai told my dad to leave my mother because she was only producing girls. The Mumbai woman had given him a son. My dad loved her children more,’ says Feroza.

The many years at sea wore Jamal down. He took up a job and even built a house for his two young wives. Mumtaz was given a room to live in with her children, while the other woman had the run of the house. ‘More fights, more trouble, more kids,’ says Feroza. ‘My dad had a system. He spent one night with my mother and one with the other woman. When he was with my mother in the room, we children would sleep in the hall.’

Feroza’s childhood was lost in the bitterness of two women sharing a man under one roof. ‘No one paid attention to my sisters or me. I started feeling responsible for my siblings when I was a child myself,’ she says. Feroza still carries that burden. She hasn’t rid herself of that cycle of guilt — she constantly feels responsible for her brothers and sisters.

Most children hate school and textbooks. But Feroza loved school. She could stay away from home. She could be a child at last. Feroza says she loved to read, books were her refuge. She excelled at her studies and would teach her younger sisters.

Life continued the way it was. Feroza went to secondary school, graduated to high school and on to university.

Times soon started to change for the better. Jamal became considerate towards the family. Feroza was devout. She never questioned her Maker. Every day brought hope. Life would turn. Feroza found a good job in public relations. She loved her work. She stayed long hours in the office — like school, anything to be away from home. Feroza blossomed in her career. She never missed a day at work; never let the outside world know what was brewing inside. Feroza rose through the ranks and became a manager. She made friends, went to the movies and she even binge shopped.

Feroza lived a cloistered life. She knew nothing of men and love. She believed she would marry one day — it would be an arranged marriage with the blessings of her parents. She would never fall in love against her parents’ wishes. Mumtaz and Jamal were too precious to her. Life was now looking up. Jamal’s first wife had died and he had divorced the woman from Mumbai. There was peace at home. Jamal’s health was suffering — he did not have the will or the energy for prolonged arguments.

Feroza started to feel vulnerable. Her sisters had fallen in love and married. Jamal did not know they were in love. He received formal proposals from the men’s families and he agreed to the matches. ‘We made it look like everything was arranged,’ says Feroza with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. Mumtaz’s nursing instincts had taken over and she devoted all her time to Jamal. Feroza’s brothers were wayward and would run into various kinds of trouble. She didn’t relate to them, but she was their elder sister and with that came a sense of responsibility. Feroza felt alone.

A man came knocking one day. She knew what had happened. Her brothers had got into a fight again. But this man seemed sympathetic to her troubles. In time, they became friends. Feroza had never been friends with a man before. He was attracted to her. He asked if she would marry him.

Why not, she thought. Feroza saw a future at last. She was not in love, but she would get to care for him once they married. Time would infuse affection, and perhaps even love. Marriage would also bring stability to their home, now that Jamal had been diagnosed with lung cancer, her brothers were of no support to her and Mumtaz was physically and mentally drained. A strong man with a kind nature would be someone everyone could rely on. He said he was employed with a company. He had the right qualifications. He was Feroza’s age, in his late twenties.

The two would meet in a café or park their cars in an empty space and talk. They spoke on the phone too. Feroza agreed to marry. Life was getting even better because she had found a new job. The money was good and she held a senior position.

But soon, there was bad news. Her prospective husband had met with an accident, he said, and would have to travel abroad for treatment. It was nothing serious, just a foot injury. He would return and they would marry. He asked Feroza if she could drop by his house before he flew out of the country. Feroza drove to his house and parked outside. It was not right to enter a man’s house all alone in her culture. It would be seen as too bold. She didn’t want to create a bad impression in his family, especially since she was to marry into it.

They met in the driveway. They spoke and he did the unthinkable. He invited her in. He wanted to show her the house she would live in. Feroza was reluctant at first, but gave in. They walked into the house and he said he would take her to ‘their’ room first.

As they entered, the man who had professed sympathy and love for the past twenty-five days, the man Feroza trusted, and she didn’t trust easily, turned into a beast. He caught hold of her, ripped her clothes and threw her on the bed. He took pictures of her, and when she resisted, he brutally assaulted her. He raped Feroza. When he was done, he lit a cigarette and asked her to leave, threatening her with the most severe consequences if she reported him to police.

Feroza ran out of the house trembling; she was in shock. Fear almost choked her. Feroza retched. She didn’t know what to do. Does she tell her parents? No. They would not be able to bear it. Should she tell her sisters? She did. Her brother-in-law took her to the police station and reported the case. The man was arrested.

She was barely a few months into her new job, but Feroza, who never stayed away from work, called in sick every other day. Her bosses were angry. She couldn’t afford being sacked. The court hearings started and she had to face the beast. Each time she would go to court, the barbaric assault would play in her head, over and over again, like a tape on loop.

Life was hell. It was falling apart. There was nothing to live for. Panic attacks plagued her through the day and night. Feroza did not want to leave home. The violence kept coming back. It was the only memory she had. She could not put food in her mouth. Feroza lost ten kilograms in two months. She went from fifty-seven kilograms to forty-seven kilograms. Feroza could not sleep at night. There were just tears. She could not even cry aloud. Her parents did not know, her brothers knew, the man who attacked their sister was their friend, but they did not care. Her sisters had their own families — they had to lead their lives. Feroza grieved alone. She asked: Why?

Feroza, the devout woman who always fell back on her faith, started to question that very foundation that kept her buoyed when life gave her jolts ever so often. This time life had battered her foundation. Feroza never stopped praying, but she had one question: she had never harmed a soul, she had never strayed from the straight path — so why her? There was nothing left. No hope. Would she live again?

It is close to 1am, scores of people have gathered at Nizamuddin Auliya’s shrine in Delhi. Some are rich, some so poor that their only source of food is the shrine. It is like this now. It was like this 700 years ago when Nizamuddin was alive. They would come to his house looking for food. No one left his doorstep hungry. But he could not sleep at night; food would not go down his throat because Nizamuddin knew someone somewhere had gone to bed hungry. He knew how hunger felt because he had gone hungry too.

There are Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Sikhs at the shrine this night, lost in their thoughts. Religion does not matter here — just faith. People come to Nizamuddin to leave their troubles at his gate. They come for peace of mind; they prostrate themselves looking for hope. Some ask for a better life, some are plain hungry.

The harmoniums have struck an ethereal note as they are joined by the rhythmic beats of the tabla and drums. The qawwals (singers of devotional Sufi songs), sitting in the courtyard that lies between the tombs of Nizamuddin Auliya and master poet Amir Khusro, break into Man Kunto Maula, a qawwali (devotional Sufi song) composed by Khusro. The accompanying singers clap, the tabla and drums become louder, more staccato and more rhythmic. The qawwals hit a crescendo.

And in one corner, tears streaming down her cheeks, sits Feroza. She needed to talk; she needed for someone to listen. She wanted hope. She wanted to live. Nizamuddin called.

* * *

The Dervish is born

Bibi Zuleikha’s father, Khwaja Arab, was a man of riches in Bukhara when Chinghiz Khan, the Mongol, set his sights on the riches of the city. He sacked Bukhara, plundered its wealth and murdered thousands.

Bibi Zuleikha, Khwaja Arab and their family managed to escape the massacre and fled Bukhara, leaving behind all their wealth. Khwaja Ali, a friend of Khwaja Arab, also survived the carnage. They travelled to Lahore and then settled in Badaon, a quiet city, free of political intrigues.

Khwaja Arab gave his daughter, Zuleikha, in marriage to Khwaja Ali’s son, Ahmad. They had a daughter, Zainab, and a son, Mohammad. Ahmad passed away soon after Mohammad was born in 1244. Mohammad would later be known as Nizamuddin. Zainab told Nizamuddin how their father had died.

One night, their mother, Bibi Zuleikha, heard a voice in her dream, saying she should choose between her husband or son as one of them was destined to die. She said Nizamuddin should live. Khwaja Ahmad fell ill soon after and passed away.

Chapter 2

One Soul Born into Two Worlds

The thirst of a young spirit

Nizamuddin would go bounding to his mother asking for food. ‘We are the guests of God today Nizam,’ Bibi Zuleikha would say.

Nizamuddin knew what that meant. There was no food at home. Many a time he would come home from school with hunger pangs gnawing at his stomach and his mother would comfort him with those words.

There were days when his family, consisting of his mother and sister, Zainab, would get all their meals, but there were times when there would be nothing to eat. Young Nizamuddin would wait for those times. He wanted to hear those words: ‘We are the guests of God.’ They gave him solace. The trust was taking root.

His teachers in Badaon were of a different mould. Shadi Muqri, a slave of a Hindu, taught the Quran. Whoever studied under Shadi Muqri, memorised the Quran. Alauddin Usuli, an erudite man, taught Islamic law. But more than anything, he instilled in Nizamuddin humanity. He taught him that money and education must not mix.

Once at a barber’s, Usuli’s chosen life of poverty became known to everyone. He prided in his poverty just as Bibi Zuleikha told Nizamuddin there was dignity in penury. Extend your hands before no one but your Maker. The barber removed Usuli’s turban to find dry seeds. That was his source of sustenance. The barber, thinking he would end the great scholar’s days of hunger, told the neighbourhood of his misery. Money, grain and clarified butter poured in, but Usuli shunned the desire of a satisfied stomach. The barber was given a dressing down.

Usuli employed a Hindu woman who looked after his home. She was depressed as she was away from home. She missed her son. Usuli took her back to her family. He had not just returned her to her faith, but he had brought happiness to the human heart. That was the core — bringing happiness to people. Nizamuddin observed Usuli and absorbed his life.

Amir Khusro is born

A little away in Patiali, around 1253, Saifuddin Shamsi, a Turk, was celebrating the birth of his second son.

The Mongols had driven thousands out of Central Asia. Saifuddin joined the army of the sultans of Delhi. He married, Daulat Naz, the daughter of Imad-ul-Mulk, the army minister of the sultan. Imad-ul-Mulk was a strong man and kept a hawk eye on the recruitment and salaries of the army leading to a disciplined and efficient fighting force.

Abul Hassan Yameen Al Deen was born to Saifuddin and Daulat Naz. He was born into riches and a milieu where brother killed brother and nephew his uncle to sit on the throne. The sultan’s court was a cauldron of intrigue, deceit, and murder. Abul Hassan’s father, Saifuddin, was the sultan’s soldier, his grandfather, Imad-ul-Mulk, a key member of the royal court, the epicentre of political deception. Abul Hassan was cradled in this air of evil design, distrust and conspiracy.

Saifuddin lived adjacent to a man with a gift for prophecy. He took one look at baby Abul Hassan and said: ‘You have brought someone who will be two steps ahead of the poet Khaqani.’

Abul Hassan would grow up to be known as Amir Khusro — the master poet and musician; the confidante of sultans; and oddly enough the favourite disciple of Nizamuddin — the dervish who despised politics, who shunned sultans.

Nizamuddin was a bright student, who studied hard. But Badaon could not cure his hunger for knowledge. He wanted to move to Delhi, the seat of education at that time. It was 1260. Bibi Zuleikha agreed to his request. The family left Badaon for good and travelled to Delhi.

A political farce in Delhi

The Turkish aristocracy held sway in Delhi. The sultan was Naseeruddin Mahmood. He had wrested the throne from Alauddin Masood Shah after hatching a plot with Balban, a powerful nobleman.

Naseeruddin entered the capital as a sick man and then like a chameleon dressed up to become a veiled woman. A coup followed — Masood Shah was deposed and Naseeruddin proclaimed sultan. Naseeruddin’s mother, Mallika-e-Jahan, had a hand in the plot to get her son to the throne.

Naseeruddin, the chameleon, suddenly turned to religion, handing all power to Balban. He had had enough of intrigues and violence. Naseeruddin immersed himself in higher ideals. The sultan spent his time copying the Quran and in prayer. He led a simple life, so stark that there was no maidservant. His queen, Balban’s daughter, cooked herself.

The politics of Delhi was cutthroat. Balban fell afoul of Naseeruddin and he was banished. But Balban grew powerful again and was back in favour. Balban realised who the