South Asian Sufis: Devotion, Deviation, and Destiny 9781472548696, 9781441151278

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In memory of Professor Syed Hasan Askari (1932–2008), philosopher, mystic and bridge-builder, Clinton’s Muslim teacher at the Centre for the Study of Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations, Birmingham 1978–9. To my father, John T. Ramsey, ever my guide, example, hero, and friend. In you we hear Hafiz: I am a hole in a flute that the Christ’s breath moves through—Listen to this music.

Notes on Contributors

Dr. Sarwar Alam teaches at the King Fahd Center for Middle East and Islamic Studies of University of Arkansas. He received his doctorate in Public Policy from the same university in 2006. He graduated from Chittagong University in Political Science and has an MA in Human Resource Development from Pittsburg State University. Before moving to the United States, he served in the Civil Service of Bangladesh, working as an assistant secretary in the Ministries of Primary and Mass education, Women’s and Children’s Affairs and Textiles and Jute. He also served as a magistrate in several rural areas. He was a postdoctoral fellow in the department of Middle Eastern and South Asian Studies at Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia between 2007 and 2010. He is currently preparing a manuscript for publication entitled Jewels of Honor: the Perception of Power, Powerlessness, and Gender Among Rural Muslim Women of Bangladesh. His two chapters in this book are expanded from synopsis presented at annual meetings of the American Academy of Religion, respectively at Montreal, Canada (2009) and Atlanta, Georgia (2010). Dr. Clinton Bennett divides his teaching between SUNY New Paltz, Marist College, Poughkeepsie, NY and Cambridge, UK. He completed his MA at Birmingham University in 1985, his PhD in 1989, both in Islamic Studies. A Fellow of the Royal Asiatic Society and the Royal Anthropological Institute, he also received the MEd from Oxford and a BA in Theology from Manchester, where he trained for ordination. A Baptist missionary in Bangladesh 1979–82, he maintains close personal and professional ties with South Asia. Director of interfaith relations for the British Council of Churches 1986–92, he has served on not-for-profit management committees, local, national and international ecumenical agencies, chaired a school governing body and represented an NGO at the UN. As associate professor of Islam and South Asian Studies at Baylor University, TX (1998–2001) he mentored Charles Ramsey’s MA. Special interests include post-colonial theory, use of film and literature in teaching, issues surrounding objectivity and subjectivity in religious studies, religion’s role in conflict resolution, contemporary Muslim thought, identity and belonging in multi-cultural contexts. He has written ten books, numerous articles,

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reviews, chapters, editorials, and encyclopedia and dictionary entries. He is ­editor of the Continuum Studying World Religions series. Home Page www. clintonbennett.net Email [email protected] Dr. Michel Boivin is research fellow at the Centre for Indian and South Asian Studies (CNRS-EHESS) in Paris and he teaches Contemporary History of South Asia. After training in contemporary History and Islamic Studies, he specialized on the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Muslim societies of South Asia. He devoted a number of years to the study of Ismaili communities of this area, from which four books were published and numerous academic papers. Later on, he shifted to Sufism as expressed in the “Sindhi world”. The “Sindhi world” includes the Pakistan province of Sindh, as well as part of Western India and also the Sindhi diaspora (See M. Boivin and M.C. Cook (ed.), 2010, Interpreting the Sindhi World: Essays on Society and History (Karachi: OUP,). His last book in English is Artefacts of Devotion: A Sufi Repertoire of the Qalandariyya in Sehwan Sharif, Sindh, Pakistan (Karachi: Oxford University Press), while in French, it is Le soufisme antinomien dans le sous-continent indien. Lal Shahbaz Qalandar et la tradition de la Qalandariyya (Paris, Les Editions du Cerf), both published in 2011. Dr. Arthur F. Buehler spent five years studying in the Arab world, including teaching for the British Council in Yemen for three years, before doing graduate work under the tutelage of Annemarie Schimmel. His PhD thesis submitted at Harvard University was Charisma and Exemplar: Naqshbandi Spiritual Authority in the Panjab, 1857-1947 (1993). He wrote Sufi Heirs of the Prophet (1998) after three years of fieldwork in the Indo-Pakistani subcontinent. His third book, a selected translation of the collected Persian letters of Ahmad Sirhindi will be published in 2012 (Paulist Press). Presently he is a senior lecturer at Victoria University, Wellington, New Zealand and an editor of the Journal of the History of Sufism (Paris/Istanbul). His current project is to write an introduction to Sufism that speaks directly to a general twenty first-century audience including Sufi practitioners to be published by I.B.Tauris. Dr. Ron Geaves holds a chair in the Comparative Study of Religion in the Theology and Religious Studies of Liverpool Hope University. His research interests focus upon the transmigration of Hinduism, Sikhism, and Islam into the UK. He began his work on the study of contemporary Islam and its diverse religious groups in  1990 when he embarked upon postgraduate research at the University of Leeds focusing on the newly created Community Religions Project. His PhD (The Sectarian Influences within Islam in Britain with special reference to community) was published in 1996 as a Community Religions Project and remains in publication and is essential reading for postgraduates researching British Islam. It was during the fieldwork for the thesis that he developed his interest in contemporary manifestations of Islam with an emphasis on lived religions.

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From then until now his publications are numerous, including student texts on the study of religion. In recent works he has been arguing for the revival of Sufism globally (see 2007, 2008, 2009 2009c) and hopes to build upon this work with new research projects in the Levant region. In addition to his prolific publishing record, he is the editor of the Journal, Fieldwork in Religion, and the Director of the Centre for the Study of Islam and Muslims in Britain and the previous chair of the Muslims in Britain Research Network. Dr. Marcia Hermansen is Director of the Islamic World Studies program at Loyola University Chicago where she teaches courses in Islamic Studies and Religious Studies in the Theology Department. She received her PhD from the University of Chicago in Arabic and Islamic Studies. In the course of her research and language training she lived for extended periods in Egypt, Jordan, India, Iran, Turkey, and Pakistan and she conducts research in Arabic, Persian, Urdu, and Turkish as well as the major European languages. Her books include Shah Wali Allah’s Treatises on Islamic Law (Fons Vitae 2010) and The Conclusive Argument from God, a study and translation (from Arabic) of Shah Wali Allah of Delhi’s, Hujjat Allah al-Baligha (Brill 1996). She was a co-editor of the Encyclopedia of Islam and the Muslim World (2003). Dr. Hermansen has contributed numerous academic articles in the fields of Islamic Thought, Sufism, Islam, and Muslims in South Asia, Muslims in America, and Women and Gender in Islam. Her studies of the American Muslim community have included articles on conversion, Muslim youth and girls, and American Sufi movements. Dr. Kelly Pemberton is assistant professor of Religion and Women’s Studies at the George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and director of graduate studies in the department of religion. Her research has covered Sufi mysticism, reform, and revival, and Islamic networks in South Asia and the Middle East, especially as these relate to women’s increased entry into market ­economies, educational institutions, civil society organizations, and positions of religious leadership. Recent publications include a co-edited volume of collected essays, titled Shared Idioms Sacred Symbols and the Articulation of Identities in South Asia, (Routledge 2009), a monograph titled Women Mystics and Sufi Shrines in India (University of South Carolina Press 2010), and “An Islamic Discursive Tradition on Reform as Seen in the Writing of Deoband’s Maulana Taqi ‘Usmani,” Muslim World Vol 99, no. 3 (July 2009). Aside from teaching, she also consults on projects focusing on women in the Middle East and Asia for nonprofit organizations and government agencies. Dr. Alix Philippon received her PhD from the Institute of Political Science, ­Aix-en-Provence, France, where she is currently teaching. Her geographical specialty is Pakistan, where she lived for many years in the course of her research. Her work focuses on the political dimensions of Sufism in Pakistan. She has

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notably analyzed the re-composition and mobilization of (neo) Sufi orders, especially those belonging to the Barelvi theological school. Her first book (Sufism and Politics in Pakistan. The Barelwi movement in the shadow of the “War on Terror”) was published in French by Karthala Publishing House in 2011. She has authored articles in The Muslim World, ISIM Review, Chronos: revue d’histoire de l’Université de Balamand and chapters in upcoming books, and has also directed a documentary on dance in Pakistan with Faizaan Peerzada (Laatoo, 2002). Charles M. Ramsey has lived and worked in India since 2000. He directs the Center for Islamic Studies at University Institute in New Delhi, and is a visiting faculty at University of Kashmir, Srinagar. He is an active member of the Common Word Movement and an advisor to the National Peace Committee for Interfaith Harmony in Pakistan. He is working on PhD research under Dr. David Thomas at Birmingham University, and previously studied Asian Studies and Religion at Baylor University, where Dr. Clinton Bennett mentored his MA thesis. He also attended graduate studies in the Centre for Development, Environment, and Policy at University of London (SOAS). Dr. Uzma Rehman is an Associate at Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, University of Copenhagen, Denmark. Her PhD thesis was a study of how religious identities are constructed at the shrines of Sufi saints Saiyid Pir Waris Shah and Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai in the provinces of Punjab and Sindh, Pakistan. In fall 2009, she taught a course titled “Contrasting Trends in Islam and Muslim Identity in Pakistan: Case of Sufi Shrines” to the students at the Master’s Program for Peace, Development and Conflict Studies, University of Jaume I, Castellon, Spain. She also taught a PhD course during January–April 2011 titled “Sufism and Muslim Identity in Pakistan: History, Politics and Practices” at the Government College University Lahore, Pakistan. She is currently working on a new research project titled “Social Support and Counseling: Organization and Functions of a Sufi Lodge in Contemporary Pakistan” that explores how institutions associated with popular forms of Islam help fill the vacuum in terms of social service provision left by the Pakistani state in the early twenty-first century. Dr. Hafeez-ur-Rehman is tenured track professor of Cultural Anthropology at the Department of Anthropology, Quaid-i-Azam University, Islamabad. Since 2003 he is also the Chairman of Department of Anthropology. He has published more than 50 research articles in scholarly journals and several book reviews. His work on Saints and Shrines in Pakistan from anthropological perspective distinguishes him from other contemporary scholars of this discipline. He has also participated in a number of conferences organized at National and International level and shared his findings. Besides teaching, he is also involved in applied anthropology and has conducted several research studies

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(63 research projects) with various international organizations. His area of ­specialization in applied anthropology is Education, Health, Migration, Women and Child trafficking etc. He worked as link coordinator with the University of Sussex, UK, under the Higher Education Link Program. The Project was sponsored by British Council, Islamabad and Higher Education Commission, ­Government of Pakistan. Dr. Hugh van Skyhawk is professor of comparative religion in the Taxila Institute of Asian Civilizations of the Quaid-i-Azam University, Islamabad, and associate professor of Indology (Privatdozent) at the Institute of Indology of the Johannes Gutenberg University Mainz. From 1978 to 1992, van Skyhawk studied the History of South Asian Religions and Indology with Günther-Dietz Sontheimer (1933–92) and Hermann Berger (1926–2005). He published a monograph (Bhakti und Bhakta. Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zum Gottesbegriff und zur religiöesen Umwelt des Śri Sant Ekanāth, Stuttgart 1990) and numerous articles on devotional religion in the Indian Deccan and the cults of Hindu-Muslim holy men. From 1992 to 2002 and 2005, respectively, van Skyhawk worked with Hermann Berger and Karl Jettmar (1918–2002) on the languages, cultures, and religious history of the Burushos of Hunza and Nager (Karakoram). This period of collaboration yielded two monographs Libi Kisar. Ein Volksepos im Burushaski von Nager (Wiesbaden 1996) and Burushaski-Texte aus Hispar. Materialien zum Verständnis einer archaischen Bergkultur in Nordpakistan (Wiesbaden 2003) as well as numerous related articles. From 2000 to 2005 van  Skyhawk worked on the languages and cultures of the Hindu Kush and Karakoram with Georg Buddruss (Mainz), especially on the Domaaki language of the ironsmiths and musicians of Hunza and Nager. In  2008, van Skyhawk ­co-edited (with Soren Lassen) Sufi Traditions and New Departures and, in 2009, edited a tribute volume to the first generation of modern German researchers in the Hindu Kush and Karakoram (Masters of Understanding: German ­Scholars in the Hindu Kush and Karakoram, 1955–2005). In 2008, van Skyhawk received the Peace Award of the Belgian-Pakistani Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) Institute of Peace and Development (INSPAD). Since 2008, the promotion of inter-faith and peace dialogues has been the focal point of van Skyhawk’s work. Mauro Valdinoci obtained his MA in Anthropology from the University of ­Modena and Reggio Emilia in 2007. His thesis was an ethnographical study of the dargāh of Sayyid Baba Sharf al-din Suhrawardi (d. 1286) in Hyderabad (A. P.), a popular pilgrimage centre visited by both Muslims and Hindus. The thesis addressed issues of ritual and spiritual authority. At present he is attending a PhD in Anthropology at the same university. During the period 2008–10 he carried out his fieldwork in Hyderabad for a total of twelve months, studying

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different branches of the Qadiria Sufi order. His dissertation deals with ­strategies of identity making and of adaptation of Sufism to the complexities of ­twenty-first century life. Furthermore, it explores the responses of the Qadiri Sufis to the attacks of the Ahl-i Hadīth and other Salafi-oriented Muslims. Dr Pnina Werber is professor emita of social anthropology at Keele University, UK. An urban anthropologist, she has studied Muslim South Asians in Britain and Pakistan and, more recently, the women’s movement and the Manual Workers Union in Botswana as part of the ESRC programme on Non-Governmental Public Action. Since 2008, she has been principal investigator of two major projects: ‘New African Migrants in the Gateway City: Ethnicity, Religion, Citizenship’ (ESRC) and ‘In the Footsteps of Jesus and the Prophet: Sociality, Caring and the Religious Imagination in the Filipino Diaspora’ (AHRC). In 2006, she convened the Association of Social Anthropologists diamond jubilee conference on Cosmopolitanism and Anthropology. Her published articles and collected volumes engage with the challenges presented by the rise of Islamic radicalism, the Rushdie affair, cultural hybridity, migration and culture, religious identity, women, citizenship and difference. She has presented plenary addresses to the Australian, Swiss and American Associations and been invited to give keynote addresses throughout Europe, the USA, Australia, Israel, Pakistan, and Indonesia. She has been co-editor of the prestigious ‘Postcolonial Encounters’ series published by Zed Books (distributed by Palgrave in the US). In addition, she organizes the annual Pakistan Workshop at Satterthwaite. Her monographs, Imagined Diasporas among Manchester Muslims (2002) Pilgrims of Love (2003) and The Migration Process (1990; new ed 2002) make up the Manchester Migration Trilogy, a series of single-authored books tracing the processes of Pakistani migration, community formation, religious transnationalism and diaspora over a period of fifty years. Her website is http://www.­pninawerbner.co.uk

Acknowledgments

Many people, libraries, friends, and colleagues made this book possible. The idea began with Charles Ramsey in conversation with Clinton Bennett. It quickly developed into a proposal for Continuum’s consideration. We wish to acknowledge the participation and helpful recommendations from Ron Geaves, John Renard, Carl Ernst, and Syed Hossein Nasr, along with that of all our authors, whose expertise and knowledge were indispensable in turning an idea into a book. Contributors represent many nations and academic fields, making this an international, multi-disciplinary project. Charles Ramsey recruited some through his large network of contacts in the Indian subcontinent. Clinton Bennett recruited some, mainly through membership of the American Academy of Religion’s Islam section. All brought enthusiasm, experience, and suggestions for improving the book, to the project. Our commissioning editor at Continuum was Kirsty Schaper, now succeeded by Lalle Pursglove. We are grateful to both for their unstinting commitment at each stage of the process, from initial enquiry through to completion. We also thank Tom Crick and Rachel Eisenhauer of Continuum and other team members for past and current involvement. It was a pleasure for Clinton Bennett to collaborate with Charles Ramsey on this project. The former had the privilege of mentoring the latter’s MA research at Baylor University, Texas. Off and on, they maintained contact over the years. Clinton had started his career working in Bangladesh; Charles moved to India soon after receiving his Masters. We both believe that this book represents a valuable addition to literature on contemporary Sufism, especially with its focus on South Asia, still a relatively neglected area of scholarly enquiry. Our best efforts to standardize use of diacritics and transliterations may have been confounded by technology, for which we apologize. We are responsible for errors, not individual contributors. Finally, Charles and Clinton are grateful to their families for the much needed moral support, especially from their respective wives, Brooke Ramsey and Rekha Bennett. This book is dedicated to the memory of Clinton’s Muslim teacher at Birmingham, Professor Syed Hasan Askari, philosopher, mystic, and bridge-builder and to Charles’ father, John Ramsey, his “guide, example, hero, and friend”. Clinton Bennett and Charles M. Ramsey July 2011

Introduction: South Asian Sufis—Continuity, Complexity, and Change Clinton Bennett

Often described as the soul of Islam, Sufism is one of the most interesting yet least studied facets of this global religion. Sufism is the softer, more inclusive, and mystical form of Islam. Although militant Islamists dominate the headlines, the Sufi ideal has captured the imagination of many. Rumi—a thirteenth-­ century sage— continues to be a best selling poet in America. As new versions of Western Sufism emerge, some academics are observing the role of Sufism in making Islam more palatable to Europeans. In his prize-winning Islam’s Fateful Path, Zidane Meriboute describes Sufi Islam as “liberal, rational, enlightened and tolerant” and as the “only way in which Islam will be able to co-exist in the West.”1 On the other hand, Sufi Muslims have a reputation for nonparticipation in politics. There are exceptions, though. Arguably, Sufi Islam is an alternative to the form of Islam that media representation depicts as dominant. Some Sufi engagement in politics is described in this book. Although Sufism’s potential for changing the political landscape across Muslim space is not labored, this exploration of Sufi Islam does challenge popular distortions and writing that focuses on a limited, narrow aspect of the Muslim reality. While medieval Sufi philosophy and poetry have received scholarly attention, study of the applied—rather lived—contemporary practice of Sufism has been quite limited. There is a body of literature related to historic personalities, classical texts, and even specific communities but little has been done to observe and describe the current practice of the orders.2 Ethnographic compilations have presented research carried out in Europe and North America while the Sufi heartlands have attracted less attention.3 Consequently, there is a gap in the literature regarding ethnographical studies of Sufism in South Asia. Yet nowhere in the world is the handprint of Sufism more observable than South Asia. Not only does the largest Muslim population of the world reside there but also the greatest concentration of Sufis. The heritage of shrines provides a golden thread to guide the study of contemporary orders (turuk). This book sets out to follow the thread, to gather studies of active Sufi communities in Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh that shed light on the devotion, and deviation, and destiny of Sufism in South Asia. It examines Sufism as a complex phenomenon, which includes continuities with past tradition and processes of

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change in response to new contexts and circumstances. The book aims to ­provide a composite of contemporary Sufi orders in Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh. A few chapters, such as Buehler’s, van Skyhawk’s, and to some degree my own, are more historical but these create links between analysis and current realities or contexts. The text draws from the extensive work of indigenous and international scholars to provide an in-depth study of the subject. Sufi Islam also has a significant presence in Africa. The focus on South Asia represents an attempt to make the project manageable, leaving other geographical contexts for those with relevant expertise to cover in another volume. One book cannot adequately survey the whole Sufi world. I was recently asked why no Arab contributions were included, to which my response was “that is another book.” Books on Sufism in Arab space, in Africa and elsewhere, would be equally viable and valuable. Due to the influence of currents from Iran that flowed into South Asian Islam, the first chapter explores Iran’s impact on the development of Sufi thought and practice further east. Migration, too, has carried South Asians to all parts of the globe, so South Asian Sufism has a significant presence in such contexts as the United Kingdom and North America. Partly to attract wider interest in the book, partly because contact between Sufis in Diaspora and South Asia has an impact of its own, chapters discuss Sufis in Britain and Sufis in North America. While South Asia, as Hermansen points out in her chapter, stretches “beyond Pakistan and India to include Sufi trends from Sri Lanka and even Fiji,” we have limited our focus to what was historically the Indian subcontinent.

Research questions Several questions informed the research behind this book: “Which of the historic turuk (singular tariqa) continue to thrive? Is the current devotion consistent with the founders’ teachings—is the link still strong?” How have they impacted society, particularly as related to religious coexistence and gender relations, and what potential is there for future impact?” How will the global dialogue within schools of thought in Islam impact Sufism? Will it endure?” Does Sufi Islam, of which the Saudi state disapproves, with its openness and bridge-building capacity, sit more comfortable with multiparty democracy? These questions were used to create consistency across chapters, which were circulated for comment and cross-referencing by editors. The concept was for chapters to flow into each other, creating a cohesive study, not a collection of disparate, independent ­articles. Given that Islam in Asia constitutes 60% of all Muslims and that several increasingly stable democracies exist, three of which have elected women leaders, there may be lessons that South Asian Islam can offer to Muslims elsewhere. For example, the Arab states are the second lowest region in terms of women’s parliamentary participation and are weaker democratically. Interest in South

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Asian Islam as possibly offering an alternative model to Arab Islam (20% of the world’s Muslims) is increasing, as is interest in this version of Islam as an alternative to more militant expressions, not least of all in the Muslim Diaspora. However, while there are a number of studies looking at the growth of fundamentalist Islam and the possibility of fragmentation of existing states in the region, Sufi Islam remains relatively neglected. This work aims to help to shift the focus back to what may be regarded as a positive phenomenon. The stronger and healthier this tendency within Islam is, the less likely it is that counter trends, less embracing of diversity, gender equality, and democratic governance will flourish. The distinctive feature of this work is that it surveys the whole region, rather than focusing on one context.

Contributors and methodology Contributors represent a range of disciples. The majority work broadly within Religious Studies, either with a specialty in Islam or with Islam as an exclusive focus. At least one contributor has training in two disciplines, history and Islamic studies. Three hold formal qualifications in anthropology. Almost all use ethnography or social scientific research methods, observation and interview alongside historical and text-based study. Every contributor has close ties with the Subcontinent. Some are from there, some live there, and all have spent time researching or working there. One contributor holds a doctorate in Political Science and another in the related field of Public Policy. At least two contributors have backgrounds that combine Religious Studies and Theology. This indicates the breadth of interest and expertise that the authors bring to the book. The contributors represent four continents, a wealth of experience, and years of combined interest in and research on South Asian Sufism. Several of our authors reference other contributors’ published work, indicating the value of their research. Recognizing that different writers have developed their own methodological approaches, they were allowed a degree of flexibility. The editors did not want to place too many limitations on authors’ methodologies and work processes. Nonetheless, an underlying goal is to listen to authentic voices, speaking on behalf of actual Sufi practice, resisting where possible the imposition of external notions. Contributors draw on various analytical tools, such as Victor Turner’s concept of communitas and Hippolyte Delehaye on the purpose of hagiography and Asef Bayet on “imagined solidarities.” These are described in relevant chapters. Few academics, whether Muslim or non-Muslim, who choose to research Sufi Islam lack sympathy toward their subject, even though they may claim to be value-free, or neutral. However, there is no single, preconceived concept of what is or is not true or pure Islam, deviant or orthodox behind this book. When these terms and distinctions are used, meaning is specific to particular contexts and discourses as described and analyzed by individual

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c­ ontributors. Contributors were free, if they wished, to declare their presence in the text (through use of first person, for example) or to avoid the first person. They were free to indicate changes in perception, reflecting on the research process, or to refrain from doing so. One change in this book, between conception and birth, relates to how chapters are structured. Initially, editors planned to order chapters geographically, moving neutrally vis-à-vis content from Pakistan in the North, south through India, and then East into Bangladesh. However, anxious to ensure coherency, which can be problematic in a collected volume such as this, as contributors submitted chapters and common themes emerged, it made better sense to structure by theme. There is some overlap between chapters. This could have been avoided, through the editorial process. However, while—as stated above— the hope was to produce as cohesive a volume as possible, chapters may be read out of sequence, so each also needs to stand alone in terms of argumentation, analysis, and historical background. The editors decided to retain the chapters’ flow and integrity as much as possible, so they applied a light cutting hand. Where possible, conversation has been created between chapters, usually in footnotes but sometimes within the main text. The license extended to authors included how they use footnotes, although citation style is standardized. The composite bibliography cites main sources, leaving most internet references to footnotes. Internet addresses were correct at time of writing.

The themes The themes that emerged are spiritual practice; community bonds, and social relationships; politics; the issue of what is “traditional Islam” as opposed to innovation or bid’a; and interfaith openness. Bid’a is traditionally proscribed in Islam; taqlid (imitation or following the example of the prophet and Muslims who base their conduct solely on the Qur’an and Sunnah) is encouraged. Clearly, what some denounce as innovation others regard as acceptable, often contextual, adaptation. Issues about the acceptability of saint veneration, visiting tombs, praying through saints, represent bid’a for some critics of Sufi Islam. Debate on all these issues surfaces several times in this book. Islah (reform, to repair or reshape) has a long pedigree, however, and is wholly legitimate. Reform can take a revivalist form, aiming to reestablish what is perceived to be more authentic Islam from its earliest period, or progressive, suggesting that an application of Islam’s spirit can evolve better, equal, or even more legitimate expressions of Islam. In the subcontinent, Muhammad Iqbal (1877–1938), referred to and cited in this book, and Syed Ameer ‘Alī (1849–1928) (see my second chapter) both championed this approach. Iqbal was critical of some aspects of Sufism, as were revivalist reformers in India. However, he can be said to “belong to the history of Sufism, to which he made both scientific and

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­ ractical contributions.”4 This is yet another example of how reform in South p Asia has rarely set itself in complete opposition to Sufism. My chapter on Iran’s influence remains Chapter 1, as originally conceived, since Iran’s role in influencing Indian Islam is widely recognized. This provides a gateway from one important space where Sufism flourished into another. This chapter traces cultural and religious exchange across the Iran–India border back to pre-Islamic times. Ideas and objects flowed both ways. An ancient tradition of religious tolerance existed in both spaces. Indian rulers adapted Iranian court etiquette before Muslims arrived as conquerors and rulers. Conquerors and dynasties were of Turkic and Turkic-Mongol origin, not Iranian. However, they spoke Farsi and more often than not sponsored Farsi culture. Even in Bengal, at a distance from much direct Iranian influence, the upper or Ashraf class preferred Farsi over the local language. Over time, that was itself influenced by Farsi. Sufi ideas about the unity of truth (wahdat al haqq) and the unity of being (wahdat al-wujud) impacted Indian Islam, which developed strategies for building on and blending with preexisting beliefs and concepts, instead of replacing them. Iranian Rumi (d. 1273) became the most cited of any poet across the Subcontinent. Six chapters in this book (Rehman, Phillipon, Ramsey, Alam, Van Skyhawk, and Hermansen as well as my first chapter) refer to Rumi. Rumi attracted Christian as well as Muslim disciples, continuing an ancient tradition of inclusive spirituality. I use Iran (from Middle Persian) for the state and Farsi for the language, rather than Persia and Persian, since this is closer to indigenous practice. Iran was always used internally, never Persia, at least for the past three thousand years. Persia (derived from Old Persian) comes to us from Greek custom. It did refer to a region, Pars, in South Iran; it did not designate the whole territory.5 Next, chapters by Valdinoci, H. Rehman, and U. Rehman are clustered under the common theme of spiritual practice. All demonstrate the continued vibrancy and vitality of this aspect of South Asian Sufism.

Spiritual practice Valdinoci takes us to Hyderabad, India. There, we learn that a branch of the Qādiriyya tradition is creative, adaptive, and popular. The teacher’s message (like that of Naqshbandi Zindapir, researched by Werbner) balances spiritual nurture with recognition that most disciples pursue careers in a secular world and that they are involved in that world. Interested in whether the traditional role of the lodge or retreat center is changing, Valdinoci concludes that this particular case study represents an example of creative change in how Sufi teaching is conducted. Important material in this chapter on how disciples, at a distance, visualize the Pīr is presented. Visualization, itself a traditional Sufi practice, and shorter pīr–mur īd meetings substitute for longer and more frequent meetings. This new method, used in other Qādiriyya branches in

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­ yderabad, is evidence that Sufism is successfully responding to contemporary H challenges. Incidentally, while the book does not pretend to be a handbook on or an introduction to Sufism, readers will find it a rich source of information on Sufi origins, beliefs, practices, and theology. Almost every chapter points to how Sufi shrines and lodges still play important roles within South Asian Sufi Islam. Hafeez-ur-Rehman’s chapter examines the continued significance of the bai'at (oath) and of the master–disciple relationship, focusing on the shrine of Golra Sharif, Islamabad, where Pīr Meher Ali (1859–1937) of the Chīshtī order is buried. Here more traditional modes are practiced than those described elsewhere in this book; for example, within the Minhāj-ul Quran (MUQ), members are not required to take an oath. At Golra Sharif, only Muslims are admitted as members; a non-Muslim must first convert to Islam. There is only a slight variation in how women and men are admitted. This contrasts with the order described by Alam that does admit non-Muslims and with universalist Sufism described by Hermansen. Toward the end of his chapter, Hafeez-ur-Rehman raises a point that surfaced in my fieldwork, that Sufis link their shaikhs’ nearness to God with Muhammad’s, so the pīr does not displace Muhammad’s role or marginalize his Sunnah, which disciples are required to follow. Alam, on the same point, uses the term imitatio Muhammadi. Uzma Rehman’s research takes us to two shrines in south and central Punjab; these are, respectively, the tombs of Shah Latif (1689–1752) and Waris Shāh (1722–98). With others in this book, Rehman stresses how shrines and Sufi teachers historically aided positive interaction between Muslims and Hindus, analyzing some of the processes involved in making this possible. The chapter includes discussion of the baraka, and how both academic and Sufi discourse understands this. Rehman refers to an interesting parallel with how some Christians understand the spiritual power of the reserved sacrament vis-à-vis understanding how Sufis view the Saints’ “power residing in the tomb.” Rehman also discusses access to the blessing of the saint mediated through ritual and poetry. We read that one of the two masters discussed, Shah Latif, traveled with Hindu yogis. These shrines appeal to non-Muslims as well as to Muslims, linking this theme with that of interreligious openness. This is another example of how ideas about rigid, closed religious identity are subject to challenge. Shared notions of what is sacred cross religious, racial, linguistic, and other differences, even creating a “common frame of” spiritual reference. Shah Latif was probably a Qādiriyya; Waris Shah was Chishti. These traditional orders’ current vibrancy is attested throughout the book.

Community bonds and social relations The next cluster of chapters, by Werbner, Boivin, Phillipon, and Alam, relate to  community bonds and social relations. The fact that seven contributors

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(­Bennett, Boivin, Geaves, Hermansen, Hafiz Rehman, Uzma Rehman, and ­Valdicini), cite Werbner indicates her research’s significance. She is one of ­several professional anthropologists whom Islamic Studies specialists admire and whose work impacts their own. Her chapter takes us into the heartland of Barelvi Islam in Pakistan, to the Sufi lodge at Ghamkol Sharif shrine, Kohat, Pakistan, founded by a Naqshbandi saint, Zindapir, who died in  1999. She focuses on the annual ’urs or birthday celebration, on how this functions to nurture a somewhat ambivalent relationship between Sufi Islam and the more legally trained Ulamā, to a degree reducing tension with popular and legalistic, including Islamist, Islam. Elsewhere in the Muslim world, for example in much Arab space, legal Islam and reformist Islam totally reject Sufism. In the Subcontinent, the relationship between Sufism and reformist Islam is complex, complicated, even confusing, but they are not completely polarized. Such reformist movements as Deoband and Tabligh are more critical of Sufi practices; MUQ is less critical. Migration outside the Subcontinent, too, has transplanted this “symbiotic relationship” between pīr and lodge, ´Alim and mosque, into the wider South Asian Diaspora. Werbner emphasizes the inclusive, bridge-building aspect of these celebrations. People from different social classes as well as from other Sufi orders attend. The same applies at the ’urs celebration organized by Birmingham’s Ghamkol Sharif mosque. While writing this Introduction, I visited this thriving complex with an international group of young Christian, Muslim, and Jewish leaders; all remarked on how the buildings blend into the neighborhood. The range of educational and welfare services provided to the local community also impressed us. Barelvi Islam is vibrant in Pakistan today, as it is in the British (see Geaves) and North American (see Hermansen) ­Diasporas. Other chapters in this book refer the role of ’urs celebrations. With Boivin, we visit the Naqshbandi shrine of Shah Inayat (1655–1718), known as Shah Shaheed at Jhok, Sindh. Bovin applies Turner’s concept of communitas to discuss the social processes involved in activities that take place at the shrine and with reference to relations between teacher and disciples. Shah Inayat’s life was influenced by the “Naqshbandi restoration following” Sirhindi (1564–1624), thus Boivin’s chapter links with Buehler’s on Sirhindi. Sirhindi wanted to rid Islam of alleged Hindu elements. However, reaction against Hindu and pantheistic elements in Sufism does not preclude the contemporary Pīr from openness toward non-Muslims, since at the shrine there is no expectation that devotees are Muslims and Hindus, although non-Muslims do not take part in the “main rituals.” Again, this links with the theme of interreligious openness. However, at this shrine, unlike for some shaikhs in Hyderabad, their authority, which extends from the religious into other spheres, rests on more traditional P rīri–mur īdi relationships. On the one hand, the shrine helps to merge “different segments of local society”; on the other hand, it reinforces social exclusion. For example, participation in rituals by a low caste of musicians is limited. The pīr, who is Shi’a, has Sunni and Shi’a disciples. This is

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unusual in the Naqshbandi tradition, which uniquely traces its silsilah through Abu Bakr (not Ali) and so has less appeal for Shi’a. Phillipon’s chapter demonstrates both the continued vitality of the traditional Qādiriyya order and how some “neo-Sufi” or “sufi-based reform movements” create distance between themselves and Sufi practice. However, they do not make a complete break either. Focusing on the MUQ, founded in 1981 by Tāhir-ul Qādri, this movement combines elements of traditional Sufism with aspects of Islamic reform. As I point out in my chapter, reform Islam in the Subcontinent has had a somewhat different relationship with Sufism than counterparts elsewhere in the Muslim world. MUQ, alongside such “neo-Sufi” movements as Tablighi-i-Jammat (TJ) and even Deobandi, is a case in point. Unlike TJ, MUQ also founded a political party (Pakistan Awami Tehreek, PAT). Politically, both MUQ and PAT stand for “love, tolerance, harmony, and respect” and have challenged and condemned the Talibanization of Pakistan and the tactics of Osama bin Laden. Vis-à-vis the West, in sharp contrast to the Muslim Brotherhood elsewhere in the Muslim World and Islamists in general, the movement is conciliatory but not uncritical. In a 600-word fatwa (March 2, 2011), Qādri unequivocally repudiated terrorism. Terrorists, he says, are infidels. He praised the West’s freedom of religion and international law, suggesting that the old category of House of War no longer properly describes this sphere. Islam as “love and tolerance” is the preferred image. Reportedly, he was a friend of Benazir Bhutto. Members of MUQ do not take an oath, yet within the movement the P īr–mur īd relationship is the main source of authority. However, in formally joining MUQ, members are automatically considered disciples in the spiritual lineage of the tariqa Qādiriyya. Dhikr (remembrance) is practiced, while some members visit Sufi shrines. Tāhir-ul Qādri, who now mainly resides in Canada, does not act in every respect as a traditional P īr. However, his followers love and honor him as if he did. Several other similar movements, also founded by Qādiriyya Sufis, suggest that this order remains active and relevant. MUQ has spread to the British South Asian Diaspora (see Geave’s ­chapter) and in North America (see Hermansen). Alam’s first chapter in this book, on the life of Zia ul-Haqq Maizbhandari (d. 1928–88), shows how this popular saint in Bangladesh drew on the spiritual heritage of three Sufi orders in his teaching and practice. Examining three hagiographies of the saint, we see on the one hand that hagiographers do not always distinguish legend from historically verifiable fact. On the other hand, analysis of their work helps us understand the context of the saint’s life, including the need to apologize for Sufism against anti-Sufi criticism. They were most interested in the saint’s “piety, virtue, and charity,” in his message of tolerance and in depicting his work as a continuation of that of Muslim pioneers in Bengal, thus the order and its shaikhs stand in continuity with “an early and hence orthodox, Islamic tradition.” Again there is a link with interreligious openness; the order accepts non-Muslim disciples.

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Politics Buehler’s chapter, together with Alam’s second contribution, share a political focus, not absent from Phillipon’s chapter either. Shah Inayat, too, described by Boivin was a social activist dubbed by some the “socialist Sufi.”6 Buehler’s research on Sirhindi, a Naqshbandi shaikh, is more textual and historical but his interest is on how Sirhindi’s ambivalent legacy informs contemporary attitudes and beliefs. Sirhindi transformed and revived Naqshbandi practice across the world. Today, the order is active in Turkey, Egypt, Syria, Palestine, and elsewhere, as it is across the Indian Subcontinent. Sirhindi crossed the bridge between Sufi teacher and reformist Islam. As the latter, he attracts a great deal of criticism focused on alleged anti-Hindu attitudes. Muhammad Iqbal, who first formally proposed a separate state for India’s Muslims, admired Sirhindi, who is known in Pakistan today as a champion, if not of a separate state, then at least of Muslim identity against the dangers of a “unity of Being” influenced slide into Hinduism. He has been depicted as fomenting Hindu–Muslim and Shi’a–Sunni hostility. Buehler cites material that can definitely support this case. Shah Wali Allah (d. 1762), who also set out to de-Hinduize Islam in India, saw him as the renewer for the seventeenth century. Muhammad is said to have predicted that every century would see a renewer of the faith, a Mujaddid. Buehler argues that some of Sirhindi’s harsh language about Hindus, who should not be employed by the Emperor, was motivated by his Ashr āf heritage and conviction that only Muslim nobles should hold high office. The lower classes, Hindu and Muslim, are subject to animal appetites. Yet he “recognized different religions with different ways of living” and there is no evidence that he ever attempted to convert non-Muslims.7 He thought that mixing low- and high-born Hindus and Muslims caused strife, that harmony was best achieved when Muslims and Hindus lived in their own religio-cultural worlds. Sirhindi also must be understood against the background of Emperor Akbar’s eclecticism, which for some took interreligious openness too far. Al-Ghazali (d. 1111), widely recognized as the Renewer for his age and one of Islam’s most revered scholars, had also striven to reconcile external with esoteric Sufi Islam. He was critical of each for neglecting the other (legalists neglected the inner aspects, mystics the ­external). Alam’s chapter on three Sufi-based political parties in Bangladesh ­challenges a general perception of Sufi political quietism or political disengagement. ­Actually, as I show in Chapter 1, Sufis have historically played a role in ­legitimizing and sometime delegitimizing political authority in the Subcontinent. Alam argues that these parties in Bangladesh, as does the PAT, the Sufibased party in Pakistan described by Phillipon, oppose Islamism in favor of tolerance, a more inclusive national identity, and strong democratic institutions. None of these parties has enjoyed electoral success. However, Alam suggests that by damaging the image of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party-led

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alliance of more extreme Islamic parties, they “helped people stand against militancy,” thus assisting the 2008 more secular, nationally inclusive Awami League’s victory. Sufi shaikhs have had some success, then, in creatively extending their moral leadership from the religious into the political sphere. This chapter supplements Bennett on the current political context in Bangladesh, especially the tension between competing notions of national identity. Alam notes that while politicians with Sufi affiliations have held power in Turkey, they have not chosen to form Sufi-based parties. What is traditional Islam? Who is doing ‘bid’a’ (innovation?) Chapters by Geaves, who describes South Asian Sufism in Britain, and Ramsey on the Rishis of Kashmir raise issues related to innovative practice vis-à-vis ideas about traditional Islam. Geaves describes how different South Asian Sufi movements have taken root in Britain. Both traditional turuk and reformist versions such as MUQ are now popular and active there. He identifies a number of innovations, including the practice of learning from several shaikhs from various orders without choosing to identify exclusively with any, producing a post-tariqa spirituality in which oaths and traditional p īr–mur īd relations are absent. Thus, Sufism in the West is adapting, to some degree “repackaging,” Sufi Islam. At least in part, this responds to modernity and to life in a secular context. Geaves also identifies a tendency of some Sufis to express solidarity with the Western alliance against “Islamic extremism” as an alternative, tolerant, peaceful expression of Islam. His contribution includes an important discussion of the etymology of the word Sufi. This is probably not from the Arabic for “wool”, which has tended to minimize Sufism’s theological and spiritual origins, somehow distancing it from Islam’s so-called mainstream. It is most likely from the word for “pure.” Ramsey’s chapter explores the contribution of the Rishis of Kashmir, who carried a variety of Hindu practices and ideas into a Kashmiri expression of Islam that some Muslims call syncretistic. This has an obvious parallel in how I describe the acculturation process that rooted Islam in the soil of Bangladesh. Numerous saints and shrines are associated with this Sufi movement. Rishis are less active today and fewer in number. Yet even their reduced number reminds us of a “shared heritage and universal message” that unites Hindus, Muslims, and others across religious divides especially through what can be called a “natureappreciating spirituality.” The shrine at Bamuddin retains a lingam. Ramsey suggests that the harmonizing, reconciling bias of the Rishis extends to minimizing Sunni–Shia conflict, which can result in violence in Kashmir and elsewhere. To some degree, the Rishi expression of Islam is under attack from those, including Ahlu-i-Had īth (imported) and the indigenous Allah-Walle, who denounce this as heterodox, calling for an alleged purer or more authentic Islam, one rid of “Hindu” elements. Ramsey raises questions about what is and what is not “orthodox,” positing that claims to adjudicate are subjective and that power, politics, and control are involved in this rivalry. Rishis still preach an inclusive,

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not polarizing message, respond creatively to modern challenges, and are quietly equipping youth to perpetuate their “distinctly indigenous tradition” in the face of opposing currents.

Interreligious openness Finally, although this theme also appears in  Alam, Buehler, Uzma Rehman, and Ramsey, it emerges as a major motif in four chapters: my second, van Von Skyhawk’s, Hermansen’s, and Pemberton’s. This theme focuses on Sufism’s tendency to form interreligious bridges but it should not be forgotten that it also builds bridges within Islam, crossing different schools not least of all Shi’a and Sunni. References to “legalistic Islam” are descriptive not evaluative vis-à-vis Sufism. Stress on openness as a common Sufi characteristic does not mean that all non-Sufi Muslims lack this. Supporters of the Common Word initiative, for example, include Sufis and non-Sufis.8 Rather, it suggests that Sufism nourishes this. My second chapter examines how Islam spread in Bengal, especially in East Bengal, remote from centers of Muslim power and independently of any government proselytizing program or sword-point conversion. Islam spread through the teaching of Sufi saints, who chose to acculturate Islam into the soil of the land, which, loved by Bengalis, reduced the gap between preexisting spiritual traditions and Islam, which challenges notions of religions as self-contained systems. The compartmentalization of religions into separate, rival communities was a later development. I argue that inclusive currents in contemporary Sufi Islam, in Bengali culture and literature, represent continuity with an ancient stream that has yet to run dry, despite opposition from critics and from an alternative, more exclusive idea of national belonging. Sufi Islam in Bangladesh still builds interfaith bridges. I speculate that Bangladeshi Islam might resonate with potentialities in the Qur’an on gender equality and interreligious openness, so could have potential to transmit alternative understandings of Islam back to Arab space, from where Islam spread throughout the world. Van Skyhawk’s chapter, beginning with Benazir Bhutto’s assassination in 2007, describes some recent acts of violence in Pakistan between political and sometimes religious rivals. He reminds us that Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s original vision was for a state where all citizens, regardless of religion, would be equal stakeholders. Referring to some distorted, ill-informed, and sceptical reporting on whether “hashish-smoking” Sufis might feasibly “counter the Taliban,” van Van Skyhawk sets out to suggest that resources within Sufi Islam may indeed offer something of an antidote to mindless violence. He takes us to the shrine of Nathar Walī in Tamil Nadu, India, where for over one thousand years Hindus, Muslims, and Christians have worshipped side by side. I have observed Christians and Hindus visiting a Sufi shrine in Hyderabad, India, where I spent several successive summers. Visiting the teaching of Ibn Arabi (1165–1240) and

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others, he argues that Sufis are compelled to love, cherish, and honor the Other, for all are children of the One. Allah lives in every heart; therefore all religions contain truths and command respect. Faith is God’s gift to us, not a human work dependent on adopting a specific, exclusive religious identity. Hermansen’s chapter on South Asian Sufism in North America again shows the vibrancy of some traditional orders, including Naqshbandis and Chīshtī, which she calls “transplants.” Transplants include, alongside Sufi orders, some movements that can be described as Sufi-reformist, including the Deobandis and TJ (also discussed in my second chapter) and MUQ. She identifies two types of Sufi-related movements that began in North America, rather than outside, namely organizations with a distinctly universalist outlook and hybrids that combine more legalistic Islam with Sufi spirituality. Her paper explores examples of these three, with a lot of material on Hazrat Ināyat Khan’s movement. His teachings “explored the common spiritual themes of various world religions” without requiring “followers to formally accept Islam or to practice the Islamic shari’at.” She concludes with interesting speculation on why different expressions of Sufism have found Canada more congenial than the United States and vice versa, which may relate to Canada belonging to the wider British sphere in which more people remember an India where Muslims and Hindus sometimes lived in harmony. She also roots universalist Sufism’s shift toward gender equality and equal male–female participation in the Sufi heritage, as I do in my second chapter. Pemberton’s chapter begins with the 2007 attack on the Sufi shrine at Ajmeer, India, “which draws pilgrims from all faiths.” The attack was almost certainly intended to “stir up communal strife.” Subsequently, members of the Chīsthī order have “stepped up efforts to foster intercommunal harmony” drawing on a long and rich legacy. This move includes a stress on the universal aspect of narratives and shared faith in the divine. Pemberton describes this as a form of social activism that goes beyond merely conveying the message of Mu’in ud-din Chīshtī (d. 1230) into a conscious attempt to shape public identity. Her chapter bridges the themes of social relations, politics, and interfaith openness, suggesting that these often flow into each other. She suggests that Sufis can assist in repairing the broken relationship between India and Pakistan, emphasizing that this is not an independent or solitary effort but includes mobilizing multiple partners in attempting to bring about lasting social change.

Conclusion Ramsey concludes this book, using the questions framed above to interrogate each chapter. Summarizing what has been said about devotion, deviancy, and destiny, as well as change, complexity, and continuity, he draws attention to how Sufis are adapting to new contexts. Alongside the survival of historical orders

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and many traditional practices, innovation and creative change are being ­channeled into reformist Sufi movements, some revivalist, others progressive. On the one hand, several chapters, not least of all Pemberton’s, could suggest an optimistic view of Sufism’s potential to challenge less inclusive, less democratic-friendly expressions of Islam. On the other hand, Ramsey expresses caution here, suggesting that it is overoptimistic and too sanguine to rely on Sufis to counter alternative currents. Sufism’s tendency to build bridges across divides is undeniably positive, at least for those who value human solidarity. Sufi activism in providing social and welfare services to communities is also positive. However, others—non-Sufi Muslims, non-Muslims, civil society partners, and strong democratic institutions—are necessary allies in any effort to challenge antidemocratic, communitarian forces. In fact, Pemberton refers to such collaboration as a major aspect of Sufi activism. Sufi Islam remains vibrant because it meets the devotional and spiritual needs of practitioners: it nourishes their souls; it deepens their relationship with God. It will survive and thrive for these reasons, regardless of any additional—arguably ancillary—social or political benefit. It will survive, too, because it can accommodate change.

Notes Zidane Meriboute, Islam’s Fateful Path. (London: I. B Taurus, 2009), 13. The French version won Special Mention in the category of spirituality, Mediterranean Centre for Literature, Perpignan (the Jury was chaired by André Chouraqui) in 2005. 2 Claudia Liebeskind, Piety on Its Knees: Three Sufi Traditions in South Asia in Modern Times. (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998) Rozehnal, Robert. Islamic Sufism Unbound: Politics and Piety in Twenty-first Century Pakistan. (NY: PalgraveMacmillan, 2009). 3 D. Westerlund (ed), Living Sufism in Europe and North America, (London: Curzon RKP, 2004). A. Zhelyazkova and J.S. Nielsen (eds), Ethnology of Sufi Orders: Theory and Practice, (Sofia: IMIR & CSICMR, 2001). 4 A. J Arberry, An Introduction to the History of Sufism (London: Longmans, Green & Company, 1942), 47. 5 See for example the discussion in John W Garver, China and Iran: ancient partners in a post-imperial world (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006), 327, Footnote 1. 6 Sebte Hasan Naveed-e-Fikr (Urdu) (Karachi: Daneyal, 1982), 180. 7 Based on the idea that it is natural to be Muslim, many Muslims prefer to speak of people “reverting” rather than “converting” to Islam, see Q 30: 30. 8 Launched on October 13, 2007, a Common Word invites Christians and Muslims to enter into dialogue around such shared values as love, mercy, and compassion; see Lejla Demiri (ed), A Common Word: Text and Reflections (Cambridge: Muslim Academic Trust, 2011). Signatories include Shi’a (various branches), Sunni (all legal schools), and Ibadi.

1













Chapter 1

Iran’s Role in Stimulating South Asian Islam Clinton Bennett

The history of contact and cultural exchange between India and Iran is as old as both civilizations. Discussion involves cultural war, especially with reference to pre-Islamic contact. This chapter begins with the pre-Islamic period. Next, it summarizes contact after Iran’s conversion to Islam. The third and main segment focuses on the role of Farsi within Islamic India, on Sufi ideas formulated and popularized in Iran, and on notions of authority derived from Iranian thought. The chapter shows that Iran’s impact on Islam in India spread much further than might be expected in terms of proximity to Iran. Few if any Muslim rulers in India were Iranian but the Turkic and Turkic-Mongol peoples who established sultanates there all practiced an Iranian-flavored Islam.1 Iran’s influence, perhaps surprisingly, is not restricted to Shi’a Islam in India, although the number of Shi’a Muslims in India (approximately 30% the total Muslim population2) results from Iran’s influence. One tendency is to see Islam in India as essentially foreign. This contributed to the decision to partition Muslim majority from Hindu majority areas in  1947, separating Pakistan from India. However, this analysis suggests that Iranian-nurtured Sufi Islam helped produce a form of Islam that took root in India’s soil, transforming Islam into an Indian religion, blurring the distinction between Hinduism (largely, in this writer’s opinion, a Western scholarly abstraction) and Islam in a cultural context where rigid boundaries between religions did not exist. Imposition of boundaries under colonial rule, based on assumptions that people belong exclusively to one religion and oppose followers of others, pitted Muslim against Hindu as distinct and incompatible communities.3

Ancient Iran–India contact Discussion of ancient contact across the Iran–India border involves the “Aryan invasion theory” (AIT), which many European writers accept as historical fact. This argues that the Aryans of North India and those of Central and Northern Europe have descended from a single people. From “some cold climate in Central Asia” they migrated in various directions. Some settled in Iran, some in India, and some in Europe.4 This theory is based on linguistic similarities

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between European and Indian languages, giving us the Indo-European family. Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit are members. It also draws on parallels between the Vedas and other stories, thus a text such as the Rg-Veda “does not have an indigenous origin . . . but an Indo-European one.”5 Invented by Europeans in the nineteenth century, some Indian scholars dismiss AIT as cultural imperialism. Representing India’s culture as an import from outside, what was thought best in that culture was actually quasi-European; Indians’ contribution was to corrupt and degrade this. India’s glory lay in her past, “which had declined and had to be rescued through the agency of British colonialism.”6 The theory posits that the darker-skinned inhabitants of the Indus Valley civilization, themselves possibly earlier migrants, were pushed South around about 1500 BCE by lighter-skinned Aryans. They became the Dravidian people of the south, whose languages appear to be unrelated to the Indo-European family. The Indus Valley civilization flourished from 3000 to 1500 BCE. The archeological record suggests that it was abandoned rather than destroyed, perhaps due to climatic change or some type of “systems failure.”7 Critics of AIT argue that the Aryan or Vedic civilization in India was indigenous, and not an import. Whether or not peoples of ancient Iran and ancient India were related, cultural exchange occurred. Sagar claims that “the ancient Aryan culture of Iran was indistinguishable from the ancient Aryan culture of India.” He comments that regardless of the question of origins, there was “cultural, social and commercial links” between the two.8 What is to be challenged is the idea that traffic was in one direction. India probably gave chess to the world via Iran, for example. Some tales in the Arabian Nights are of Indian origin, alongside others from Iran and China. All entered the Arab world through Iran. Successive Iranian Kings tried to extend their rule into India; Cyrus (658–520 BC), Darius I (522– 486), and Xerxes (486–465) invaded but none reached “beyond the Punjab.” We know from Herodotus that Iran ruled Sindh from the sixth century BCE.9 India was the most “populous satraphy” of Darius’s empire.10 Roads were constructed across the border, with “stations and inns” every twenty kilometers.11 Xerxes army had a strong Indian contingent. Sagar says that Iran “left certain marks on Indian culture particularly in the field of language, administration, religion, architecture,” and “coinage.”12 Although he accepts that traffic went both ways, he thinks that India’s impact on Iran was weaker because Iran was the “more aggressive power.” He identifies identical words in ancient Iranian and Sanskrit. He argues, however, that Indian literature may have been much richer than Iranian at this time, thus “there was no appreciable Persian influence worth mentioning.”13 We may know more about Iran’s influence on India than vice versa because sources and evidence of the latter were lost.14 Alexander’s invasion in 325 BCE ended Iran’s rule in North West India but in many respects strengthened Iranian influence. The formation of the Mauryan Empire (321–185 BCE) as a centralized power, replacing tiny city-states, responded to the need for defense against attack from the west. Yet the ­Mauryans

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adopted much that was Iranian, including titles, love of monumental ­buildings, and “Courtly customs,” which were “purely Persian.” Like the shahs, the kings “lived in seclusion, only appearing for religious festivals and on solemn occasions.”15 Some Iranian festivals and customs were also observed. In Iran and India, the “king’s will was law.”16 A similar system of justice operated on both sides of the border, in which below the emperor seven justices or lesser kings formed a court to oversee lower courts “scattered throughout the realm.” Mauryan road building imitated the Iranian system.17 Linked to commerce overland through Iran, this infrastructure, for example, introduced the Indian domestic chicken into Europe.18 Finally, well before Islam entered India, a tradition of religious tolerance developed on both sides of the border. In Iran, this is credited to King Cyrus, who allowed Jews to return to Jerusalem. Kings Darius I and Artazerxes also “made a point of respecting and patronizing their subjects’ religions.” Their Sassanid successors abandoned this policy.19 India early adopted an understanding of religion that embraced many paths, beliefs, and practices, later subsumed under the label “Hinduism” (an English term coined in the early nineteenth century, derived from the Farsi for Sindhu). Although Buddhism emerged as a distinct tradition, perceived as a rival, Hinduism still accommodated the historical Buddha within itself as an Avatar of Vishnu.20 Throughout history, India has challenged the idea that religions are “closed, self-contained essences, and mutually exclusive.”21 In fact, what has been called “multiple religious participation” characterizes Indian religion – a phenomenon that extends to China and Japan.22 This bias may be indigenous to India or an adaptation from Iran. What can be said is that Iran’s pre-Sassanid history of religious tolerance helped strengthen India’s similar legacy. Turning to Iran’s influence on Indian Islam, several continuities from this first segment can be identified. One of these is a tendency toward religious inclusiveness rather than exclusivity. Another is that Muslim rulers continued to draw on Iranian notions of authority. Through the agency of Iranian inspired Sufism, this aided an indigenization or acculturation process. This challenges the notion that Islam in India remained an imported, exotic, foreign religion. In this book, this writer’s chapter on “Sufi Shrines as an interfaith bridge” in Bangladesh, drawing on Eaton’s work, shows how “Islam in Bengal . . . during the sixteenth through eighteenth centuries . . . appropriated and was appropriated by “Bengali civilization.”23

Islam’s entry into India Islam’s entry into the subcontinent began when the Umayyad caliphate, having completed Iran’s conquest (started by Umar, the second Sunni caliph, who lost his life to an Iranian assassin in 644 CE), pushed into Sindh. This took place in 711 under Muhammad ibn Qasim (695–715). Sindh, historically the bridge

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between Iran and India, now Pakistan’s southern most province, became the caliphate’s eastern border. Some early Muslims also settled in more southerly areas of India due to cross-sea trade from Arabia and North East Africa. There were three routes for Muslim passage into India: across the India–Iran border, across the Arabian Sea, and through the Hindu Kush. The latter was the usual route for successive Turkic and Turkic-Mongol invaders, beginning with the Ghaznavids, who “first carried Persian-Islamic civilization to India.”24 Although Sunni and of Turkish descent, the Ghaznavids “promoted the revival of Persian language and culture,” “used Persian . . . for public purposes, adopted Persian court etiquette, and enthusiastically promoted the Persian aesthetic vision in art, calligraphy, architecture, and handicrafts.” This set a pattern continued by subsequent Muslim rulers in India.25 From 1021 until their defeat at the hands of the Ghurids in 1186, Lahore was the Ghaznavid capital. In 1204, a Ghurid general, Muhammad Bakhtiyar, took his army east as far as Bengal. According to Eaton, Muhammad Bakhtiyar also took with him “a revised theory of kingship” that originated in Iran.26 From 1206, Delhi became the capital of a Muslim Sultanate. This ended in 1526, when the Mughals took over. The first Sultan of Delhi was, like Bakhtiyar, a Ghurid general. By then, the “unitary caliphal state” under the first four caliphs (632–61CE), the Umayyads (661– 750CE), and the early Abbasids had fragmented into numerous de facto independent sultanates. From 945 to 1055CE, effective power in Baghdad itself, the Abbasid capital, was exercised by a Shi’a dynasty, the Buyids, who maintained the Sunni caliph as a symbolic figure. It was in Iran that Muslim jurists “struggled to reconcile the classical theory” of a unified Muslim polity “with the reality of upstart Turkish groups that had seized control over the declining Abbasid empire.”27 In articulating a new theory of authority, these Iranian Muslim thinkers drew on “pre-Islamic Persian ideals of kingship,” especially on the need for a “strong monarch” who would also rule justly.28 In India, this theory allowed Muslim rulers to locate their authority or right to rule in “naked power,” which itself justified their rule.29 After the Mongol conquest of Iraq in  1258 CE, although a surviving Abbasid took refuge in Egypt, where his successors continued as caliphs, the idea took root that “Islam could have multiple caliphs and that they could reside even outside the Arab world.”30 Also originating in Iran, another idea regarding political authority flowered in India. This developed in Sufi Islam, which, by the tenth century, was firmly established in Iran. Indeed, the history of Iranian Sufism cannot be separated from that of Sufism itself or from the “origins of Sufism.”31 Many scholars label Sufism an “essentially Persian product,” drawing on ancient Iranian mystical traditions.32 For Sufis, God’s friends (possessors of authority), the saints, “govern the universe.” They form a hierarchy; all earthly rulers depend on their favor. Iranian “courtly traditions” began to overlap Sufi ideas, so that a term such as “wilayat” meant both a “territorially defined region” and “saint.” Saints as well as rulers used the title “shah” and held court in a darg āh. The “royal crown (taj) used in the coronation

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c­ eremony of kings closely paralleled the Sufi’s turban (dastar), used in rituals of succession to Sufi leadership,” which suggests that sultans “did not exercise sole, or even ultimate authority.”33 At the very least, they shared authority with the saints. Or, they exercised authority on behalf of the saints, who could delegitimize their rule. While Sufis are often said to be indifferent toward political power, this understanding of authority enabled some Sufis to wield considerable influence in the temporal sphere, where “their authority sometimes paralleled and sometimes opposed, that of . . . kings.”34 In India, where the Chīshtī order’s saints and shrines became “thoroughly indigenized,” Muslims no longer looked to a distant Arab caliph to legitimize their rule.35 Almost all Mughal rulers patronized the Chīsthī order, as did many rulers in Bengal and several earlier sultans of Delhi.

Iranian Islam’s influence and impact on Indian Islam Through language, ideas about authority, Sufism, and literature, Iranian Islam’s primary impact on Indian Islam aided its acculturation. In many respects, this mirrored a process that had already occurred in Iran itself. This analysis begins with language. It then discusses ideas about authority, followed by the role of Iranian-flavored Sufi Islam in India. Special reference is made to Bengal, due to this writer’s interest and field experience. Before reaching India, invading Muslims had adopted Farsi as their preferred language. This begs the question, why did Turkic and Mongol people choose Farsi? Having embraced Islam, why did they not prefer Arabic? Of course, they did use Arabic for their prayers and for reading the Qur’an. However, their cultural exposure to Islam was mediated by Iran, not Arabia. Iran’s rich literary, artistic, and linguistic heritage undoubtedly impressed them. They may also have found Iranian culture attractive because it was not Arab. Despite Islam’s teaching of racial equality, non-Arabs could feel marginal in a religion and society that elevated Arabic above all other languages, which reserved holiness for certain Arab places (plus Jerusalem).36 Islam has been described as denying non-Arabs their history and culture, so that everything non-Arab must be replaced. In this view, Islam and “Arab” are synonyms, to the exclusion of Indian or Indonesian cultures. Non-Arabs must “strip themselves of their past” to become “empty vessels.” Their territories must become “cultural deserts . . . with glory of every kind elsewhere” and the sacred limited to Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem.37 When Arab Muslims conquered Iran, they overthrew a proud and ancient civilization. The tendency of some caliphs to prefer Arabs to non-Arabs for high posts could not prevent Iranians performing many important administrative and scholarly tasks from a very early period. Given centuries of learning – unparalleled at the time in Arab space – pioneer Muslim scholars were often Iranian. Very quickly, Iranians took the lead in

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developing and propagating Islamic civilization. Compilers of the “six ­canonical Sunnite collections of Traditions . . . were, to a man, of Persian stock.”38 Even before the Buyids sponsored Iranian culture, it was “the focus of creative vitality within Islamic civilization.”39 The early Abbasids adopted Iranian court etiquette, Iranian notions about the ruler’s role as “protectors of the faith” and such functions as the vizier (chief minister) and qadi (judge).40 Harun al-Rashid (768–803) admired everything Iranian.41 Shi’a Islam, which looked to descendants of Muhammad as leaders rather than to a caliph chosen from among all Muslims, attracted a strong following in Iran.42 By adopting this form of Islam, Iranians asserted autonomy from Sunni Arab Islam. Of course, the earliest Shi’a were Arabs. However, it did not take long before Shi’ism adopted an Iranian flavor. Some see Zoroastrian influence in Shi’a ideas on Imamology, as well as behind Iranian mystical thought.43 As descendants of Muhammad – known as Imams – married Iranian royalty, Twelver Shi’a became increasingly identified as Iranian.44 This was less so for other forms of Shi’a: Zaidi flourished in the Yemen; Ismailis controlled Egypt from 908 to 1171 CE. However, an Ismaili Imam later married an Iranian princess.45 By making Shi’a Islam their own, Iranians found a way to “recover their national identity,” creating and developing a “new mode of Islamic culture with deep roots in the Iranian consciousness.”46 Places associated with the Imams and their suffering became sacred – none are in Arabia. While Arabs gave Iran Islam, it was largely Iranians who led the intellectual flowering that followed, alongside others who also enjoyed “longer and more advanced traditions of culture,” such as Egyptians, Syrians, Turks, and Indians.47 Turkic people, who had either invaded Iran or encountered Iranian culture at its fringes (for example, in Afghanistan or Tajikistan), spread Iranian-flavored Islam over a vast territory, including “India, Anatolia, and the Turkic regions of central Asia.”48 In most cases, these rulers chose Sunni Islam but Iranian culture, although Shi’a dynasties ruled several Indian states.49 Interestingly, these were geographically distant from the Iranian border. Adopting Farsi provided a vehicle for poetic expression that could not be criticized for attempting to emulate or surpass the Qur’an’s inimitable linguistic excellence. Turkic-Mongols, rulers of the Mughal Empire, raised Iranian-Islamic culture to new heights. As had earlier Muslim rulers in India, the Mughals sponsored Iranian art and poetry. Iranian poets were attracted to India, where Indians themselves excelled in the Farsi language, later combining this with Hindi in a new language, Urdu. Urdu poetry fused traditional Farsi styles and “themes of traditional Indian love stories,” creating a cultural blend that helped ground Islam in India’s soil.50 The poetry of Iran’s Sufi masters became universally popular in Muslim India, where Rumi’s Mathnavi “permeated all levels of poetry and literature both in the high IndoPersian literature and in that of the regional languages.”51 Bengali developed its own Islamic literature and poetry, over time displacing Farsi. Yet Bengali is also indebted to Farsi, the official court language until 1837. It adapted many Farsi

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terms related to court procedures. “Persian themes and songs,” too, were “appropriated into Bengali literature and composed into Bengali meters.”52 Shi’a influence emerged due to Iranian traders settling in Bengal; thus in medieval Bengali literature, “Muslim characters who battle the snake goddess Manasā in Hindu epic poems . . . are named Hasan and Husayn” and the locality in “which Muslims live is called Husainhāti.”53 Under British rule, the last dynasty of Bengali nawabs was Shi’a. In the nineteenth century, some Hindu nationalists set out to purge Bengali of “Arabic-Persian content.” 54 Iranian ideas about kingship and political authority profoundly impacted Indian Islam. Sufi ideas were especially significant. As noted, Delhi Sultans, Mughal Emperors, and various Muslim rulers in Bengal looked to members of the Chishti order to validate their authority. This established legitimacy, independent of any Arab caliph’s validation.55 Sufis could also chastise rulers for their failings. Rulers built lodges and mausoleums for the saints, and visited and patronized them.56 In Bengal, from 1415, when Jalal al-Din Muhammad, the son of a former Hindu Rajah became sultan, until 1532, twelve sultans “of various ethnic backgrounds ascended the Bengali throne.” All “were disciples of the line of Chīshtī shaikhs established in Pandua by Shaikh ‘Ala al-Haq.”57 Sultan Jalal al-Din did much to ground Islam in the soil of what is now Bangladesh, “portraying himself” to Muslim subjects as “the model of a pious sultan” with Chīshtī blessings, and to Hindus as “son of a Hindu king.” As did subsequent Muslim rulers in Bengal, he was happy to fund Sanskrit scholarship and made space for Hindus in his administration.58 This launched a process by which Muslims governing Bengal “sought to ground” their ruling houses “in local culture.”59 Increasingly, symbols linked with Bengali culture, many borrowed from Hinduism, were employed. Instead of building mosques in Arab style, these began to reflect “Bengali conceptions of form and medium.” Having attempted to possess the land, the land “now possessed them.”60 As Sufi shrines proliferated across India, an Iranian inspired, open, inclusive form of Islam gained popularity among India’s Muslims. The Sufi masters or pīrs who spread this form of Islam were less interested in conversion than in teaching a spiritual message, attracting disciples who may or may not call themselves “Muslim.”61 P īr, Farsi for guide, is universally used in India for Sufi masters rather than the Arabic term, shaikh. In some places today, Sufi shrines still attract non-Muslim visitors. During their lives, many masters had “Hindu” and “Muslim” disciples. “Hindus of both sexes” would “seek favor from the tombs of Muslim saints,” while “it was common for the Muslim ruler to celebrate” Hindu religious festivals.62 A misconception that research challenges is the idea that Islam was spread, in India and elsewhere, mainly through conquest. Conquest did aid Islam’s spread. However, subjects were rarely forced to convert, although point-of-sword persuasion did take place. Muslim rulers and their entourages settled in newly won territories, where other Muslims joined them, taking advantage of pioneer opportunities. Numbers were quite small. Such ­settlement

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and migration centered on capital cities and important urban centers. Yet the majority of converts to Islam lived in rural, not urban areas, where Muslim rule did not exert much power, at least initially. Eaton argues that comparatively small numbers of Muslims, confined to urban centers, governed mainly nonMuslim subjects until the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Neither the early Muslim Arab conquerors nor their successors in India made much effort to convert subject people, contrary to popular ideas about Islam as spread by the sword. In fact, in India it was mainly spread by the plough.”63 Sufi pioneers, acting as “cultural mediators” combined a civilizing role with evangelism.64 Under the land grant system, Sufi masters mobilized men and women, who tamed the forests and cultivated the land. Sometimes they acted as agents of Muslim rulers. Sometimes it was after becoming “men of local influence” that they entered into “relations with the . . . authorities.”65 In Bengal and elsewhere, such as Punjab, masters happily identified with spirits and powers already honored by local populations, adapting a “Hindu conceptual framework” to fit Muslim beliefs.66 For example, by connecting with the supernatural world,” where they “were believed to wield continuing influence” and with the forest, “a wild and dangerous domain that they were believed to have subdued,” they rooted Islam in the local soil.67 Subsequently, Islam was perceived to be a “civilization-building ideology associated both with settling and populating the land and with constructing a transcendent reality consistent with that process.”68 One Sufi saint in Bengal, instead of competing with the local tiger-God, maneuvered for recognition as a supplementary holy man, opting for peaceful coexistence.69 Several saints managed to recruit sacred trees to aid them, either sitting under one – like Hindu teachers – or using a twig in their rituals. The stories of some Sufi masters in Bangladesh are so intertwined with those of earlier holy men or spirits that they are almost entirely mythical; “pirs were made of local non-Muslim divinities or objects of worship.”70 In fact, both Bengal and Punjab had a reputation for devotion to “magic and witchcraft.”71 Through reputations for performing miracles, Sufi saints appropriated local loyalties and devotion. Ibn Battuta (1304–68) spent three days in a cave with a Sufi master near Sylhet, who was renowned for his miracles. Yogic practices were “partly integrated with Sufism.”72 Sufis appreciated the Yogic aim of controlling appetites and desires that prevent god-consciousness (taqwa). Yoga was also attractive because its practice is “unmediated by priests or other worldly institutions.”73 Some forestclearing, pioneer Sufi saints were subsequently transformed into ghazi warriors, waging war against infidels and destroying Hindu temples. This conformed to later ideals about Muslim heroes. However, there are no contemporary records of Sufis acting in this way or making such a “decisive break between Bengal’s Hindu past and its Muslim future.”74 In Punjab, which, like Bengal, was on the fringe of Islam’s economic and political reach, a p īr “might legitimize an ancient, pre-Islamic practice simply by calling it Islamic, and that would be that.”75

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For Bengalis and people elsewhere in India, where rivers and streams, trees and flowers, mountains and valleys, rocks and stones are sacred, this approach was wholly compatible with Hindu beliefs. Over time, too, as local Indian languages became acceptable vehicles for Islamic thought, Islam became less exotic, and more Indian. In Bengal, this replicated a process that had already taken place within Hinduism. As Bhakti-marga (the devotional form of Hinduism) attracted more devotees, use of Bengali for singing praise to the gods (especially to the feminine divine) helped greatly, since non-elites did not know Sanskrit.76 The building of Sufi shrines aided the process. It also provided local sacred places that could substitute for distant Arab ones. These remained holy, yet need not necessarily be visited. Stories could be transplanted to India, where the Nile became the Ganges. Adam, appearing on an island off the Bengal coast, planted seeds, harvested the crop, baked bread and established the paradigm that “farming the earth successfully is the fundamental task of all mankind.”77 Today, to be a good Muslim is still “closely associated with being a good farmer.78 Islam was no longer foreign. Rajmohun Gandhi wrote that Muslims might lose their hearts to India but fall short, for Hindus, because Islam forbids them from worshipping India.79 Arguably, some Muslims all but cross the line between love and worship. Sufi notions of the unity of all being (wahdat al-Wujud) and unity of creator and created (ittihad-i Khaliq wa Makhluq), developed in Iran, found a ready home in India. In Hindu thought, there is no ultimate distinction between Brahman, the Absolute (which is ineffable), and existence itself. The atman, within all beings, links everything with Brahman. Technically, there is neither creator nor creature in Hindu thought. The latter is an extension or projection of the former, “made by Brahman from within itself.” Existence flows from Brahman’s self- conscious expansion of being, of existence. Only Brahman’s existence is self-sustaining, non-contingent.80 Normative Islam posits distinction between Allah as creator and the created world; it also defines Allah as non-contingent being, the universe as contingent. Yet the Qur’an 21: 104 might open up the possibility that the universe is a projection, not an ex nihilo creation. Here, God says that God will roll the universe up like a scroll before “producing a new creation.” This also lends itself to the Hindu idea of cyclical universes; universes are born, decay, die, then begin again. The goal of Sufi Islam is to achieve the state of fanā, the passing away of selfishness, of the ego (the nafs) into pure God-consciousness, so that the Self ceases to exist (baqa) correct diactricial. The Sufi retains only a sense of the divine, within and without. This is almost identical to the Hindu goal of samadhi, a state of bliss in which the atman’s identity with Brahman is realized at the deepest level of being.81 Sufis teach unity of truth (wahdat al Haqq) as well as unity of being. They are less interested in the religious label worn by truly spiritually aware people than in their inner experience. Sufis have expounded perennial philosophy, regarding themselves as guardians of all revelations. Rumi, who had some “Christian and Jewish

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­ isciples,” constantly referenced the “universality of tradition” in his Mathnavi, d one of the most popular books among India’s Muslims. For the Sufi, all “forms become transparent, including religious forms, thus revealing . . . their unique origin.”82 In India, Sufis saw Hindu forms as different expressions of the same Truth, perhaps emphasizing a specific aspect or correcting an overemphasis in some interpretations of Islam. Literature could substitute the Arabic Allah with Sanskrit names for God, such as Niranjan, so that instead of presenting Allah as a rival God, Allah was identified as another name for the same divine reality. Sometimes, Sufis were initially content with planting the idea that Allah could coexist with other “superhuman agencies.” Over time, these names “merged,” enabling their interchangeable use. Finally, “the names of Islamic superhuman agencies displaced” Hindu, now rooted in the minds of the people, as was Islam in the land’s soil.83 Muhammad was described as an avatar, as were all prophets.84 Language was adapted to “introduce Islam to local residents in terms they could comprehend.85 Fatimah, Muhammad’s daughter, found a role as a manifestation of Kali,86 and even as “mother of the world.” Yet her virtue exceeded that of the Hindu deity. She was also depicted as a beautiful Bengali woman.87

Conclusion From Sindh, where Iran and India–Pakistan meet, to Bengal in the East where India borders Indo-China, Iranian Islam stimulated Indian Islam. It influenced poetry, art, and literature. It provided ideas about the need for governance to be just. Iranian-inspired Sufis held rulers to account, legitimizing or challenging their authority. Sufis provided a way for Islam to build religious and cultural bridges with Indian thought, concepts, and religions. Although Muslims and Hindus in India have chosen to create separate states – with strained relations between them – there are many examples of Hindus and Muslims coexisting and cooperating. They see themselves as co-seekers following different but complimentary paths toward life’s end-goal, the drowning of self in ecstatic, blissful awareness of total dependence on God, the annihilation of “­subject” –“object” duality.

Notes See Richard M Eaton, The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, (Berkeley, CA: The University of California Press, 1993), 27–8. 2 Nadeem Hasnain and Sheikh Abrar Husain, Shias and Shia Islam in India: a study in society and culture (New Delhi: Harnam Publications, 1988), 36. 3 See Vrajendra Raj Mehta and Thomas Pantham, Political ideas in modern India: thematic explorations (Thousands Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 2006), 171. They

1





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argue that communitarian rivalry in India was largely stimulated by European assumptions that there were “two great civilizations” in India, the “Hindu, which at times was also described as Indian” and “the Islamic.” This “understanding of difference and diversity . . . came from outside” and provided “fertile ground for harboring the politics of identity and, at times, even of difference.” Dealing separately with different communities, allocating resources and later seats in legislatures, suited the British who represented their rule as necessary to prevent violence between rival and incompatible religions. Yet even when the demand for partition gained popularity, some Muslims supported Hindu–Muslim unity. Within the Muslim community, Shi’a and Sunni collaborated in the independence struggle. Aga Khan III (1877–1957), leader of the Ismaili Shi’a, was President of the Muslim League from 1906 (when it was founded) until 1913. Muhammad Ali Jinnah (1876–1948) also Shi’a, led the League from 1934. He was Pakistan’s first Governor General. 4 S. C. Mittal, India distorted: a study of British historians on India (New Delhi: M.D. Publications, 1995), 171. The Gods are said to have revealed (“breathed out”) the Vedas, India’s most ancient scriptures. They probably started as oral tradition, which, according to AIT, was outside India. About 1200 BCE, they were written down, and most scholars think this occurred in North India. Division into four books is attributed to Vyasa, who later narrates the Mahabharrta (between 500 and 300 BCE), a Puranic scripture that includes the Bhagavad-Gita. The Upanishads (commentary on the Vedas), written between 800 and 400 BCE, and the Gita are the main sources of the philosophy and ideas about the Brahman–Atman continuum. 5 Sharada Sugirtharaj, Imagining Hinduism: a postcolonial perspective (London: Routledge, 2003), 52. 6 Peter van der Veer, Imperial encounters: religion and modernity in India and Britain (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Univ. Press, 2001), 143. 7 Pamela Kyle Crossley, The Earth and its peoples: a global history. Volume 1. (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2011), 115. 8 Krisha Chanda Sagar. Foreign influence on ancient India (New Delhi: Northern Book Centre, 1992), 17. 9 Sagar, 22. 10 Sagar, 23. 11 Sagar, 24. 12 Sagar, 25. 13 Sagar, 26. 14 Sagar, 32. 15 Sagar, 29. 16 Sargar, 31. 17 Sagar, 30. 18 Sagar, 31. 19 Sagar, 35. 20 Sagar, 182. An Avatar is a physical manifestation of Vishnu, the preserver and defender of dharma (order, truth). An Avatar appears when chaos and evil threaten universal order. Vishnu is one of the three gods (Brahma –who “creates”,

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Vishnu  – who “preserves”, Shiva –who “destroys, the Trimurti – three images) who, with their complimentary consorts (Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Parvarti), were popularized in the Puranas. 21 Eaton, 129. 22 Chenyang Li, The Tao encounters the West: explorations in comparative philosophy (Albany, NY: State University. of New York Press, 1999), 151. 23 Eaton, 303. 24 Eaton, 28. 25 Eaton, 28. 26 Eaton, 28. 27 Eaton, 28. 28 Eaton, 29. 29 Eaton, 35. 30 Eaton, 40. The Abbasids caliphate, maintained as a symbolic office by the Mamluk Sultans, continued until 1517, when the Ottomans conquered Egypt. A surviving Abbasid took refuge in Egypt after Baghdad fell. Subsequently, the Ottoman sultans styled themselves as caliphs. This caliphate ended in 1924, abolished by the new Turkish Republic. In India, some Shi’a intellectuals supported the movement for the caliphates’ retention and restoration. 31 William Bayne Fisher, Ilya Gershevitch, and Ehsan Yar Shater, The Cambridge History of Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 442. 32 Ehsan Yarshatter, “The Persian presence in the Islamic World,” in Richard G Hovannisian and Georges Sabagh (editors) The Persian presence in the Islamic World, 4–125 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 84. Pointing out that not all early Sufis were Persian, Yarshatter writes: “However, “Persia . . . took the lead in developing, expanding and propagating Sufi thought” as it did in “intimately” wedding Sufism to poetry. 33 Eaton, 31. 34 Eaton, 30. 35 Eaton, 84. 36 The first two of Islam’s three haram or sacred cities – Makkah, Madinah, and Jerusalem – are in Arabia. The list’s order indicates declining sanctity, with Makkah, the location of the pilgrimage, the reference point for Muslim prayer, home of the Ka’ba, in first place. Although sacred, the third, outside Arabia, is downscale from both Arab cities. 37 V. S Naipaul, Among the Unbelievers (London: Peter Smith, 1998), 311, 318. 38 Yarshatter, 93. 39 Yarshatter, 75. 40 Yarshatter, 13, 73. The Umayyads appointed qadis but these did not function within a religious framework. 41 Yarshatter, 72. 42 Technically Sunnis regard all Muslims as equal. They believe that the caliph (deputy) should be selected from appropriately qualified and pious candidates. In fact, only the first four were selected. After Ali’s assassination in 661, the first of three dynastic caliphates began, under the Umayyads. Succession was never strictly hereditary. However, it was confined to and controlled by a dynasty. Shi’a

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recognized Ali, Muhammad’s cousin and son-in-law, as the legitimate leader. Unlike Sunni caliphs, as Imam, Ali (“he who stands first”), was preordained to rule, sinless, infallible, and inspired as were those who succeeded him in lineal succession. Caliphs could err and had to share the task of interpreting Islam with the community, in practice with fuqara (scholars of Islam). 43 For example, Henry Corbin saw the ancient Iranian concept of the “philosophy of light” behind Shi’a Imamology – each Imam inherits the light (nur) that inspired Muhammad and created the world (see Yarshatter, 84). Sufis also subscribe to the concept of a light that illuminates seekers, conveying esoteric (batin) knowledge. 44 Twelvers recognize a succession of 12 infallible Imāms. The twelfth was mystically “hidden” by God for his protection – only the first Imām, Ali (also fourth Sunni caliph) exercised actual political power. The identities of most were kept secret. The real break with Sunni was in  680, when Husayn (Muhammad’s grandson) challenged Yazid I for the leadership and lost. Almost the entire House of the Prophet was slaughtered at the Battle of Karbala. Subsequently, martyrdom, suffering, and the struggle against injustice became major Shi’a motives. After the twelfth Imām’s occultation, scholars speak for him. All Shi’a owe loyalty to the mujtahid (senior scholar) of their choice. Iran became officially Shi’a with the rise of the Safavids (1501). Since scholars represent the Hidden Imām, there was often tension between the Shahs and the mujtahidun. The 1979 Islamic revolution ended this, when jurists took power, abolishing the monarchy. Zaidis (Fivers) separated after the death of the fourth Imām; Ismailis (Seveners) did so after the death of the sixth in the twelver’s lineage. 45 The main branch of Ismailis recognizes the Aga Khan as their living Imām. Since the early nineteenth century, the Imāms use the titles “Prince” and “Highness” due to their marriage into the Qajar dynasty. The title “Aga Khan” was awarded by the shah of Iran in 1818. It means “Lord.” In British India, the Aga Khan was recognized as a prince and a community leader. Aga Khan III chaired the League of Nations from 1938 to 1939, where he represented India. 46 Yarshater, 96. 47 Yarshatter, 96. 48 Yarshatter, 98. 49 The main Shi’a kingdoms were Ahmadnagar, Bijapur, and Golconda. In Hyderabad, which replaced Golconda, a Sunni ruled a majority Shi’a population. The Nijafi nawabs of Bengal (1757–1880) were Shi’a. Under the British, they exercised little power. However, this is evidence of how influential Iran was even at India’s opposite extremity, furthest from Sindh. 50 Annemarie Schimmel “The West-Eastern Diwan,” in Richard G Hovannisian and Georges Sabagh (editors) The Persian presence in the Islamic World, 147–71 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 156. 51 Schimmel, 150. 52 Sufia M Uddin, Constructing Bangladesh: religion, ethnicity, and language in an Islamic nation (New Delhi: Vistaar, 2006), 31. 53 Uddin, 194.

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Sandra Bermann, Nation, language, and the ethics of translation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 98. 55 Indian Muslim rulers also claimed to be caliphs in their own realm, or his right hand, his shadow; see Eaton, 39–40. 56 Eaton, 94. 57 Eaton, 56. 58 Eaton, 60. 59 Eaton, 58. 60 Percy Brown, Indian Architecture, Islamic Period (Bombay: D. B Taraporevala, 1968), 38. 61 Asim Roy, The Islamic Syncretistic Tradition in Bengal (Princeton, NJ: Princeton ­University Press, 1983) argues that, at this point, people did not necessarily or usually experience spiritual illumination or conversion. They began a slow journey that initially involved a “change of fellowship,” entry into a different community, a move from one community into another. This begs questions about what it means to be Muslim and whether “Islamization” and “conversion” are coterminous, 41; 252. 62 Rajmohan Gandhi, Eight lives: a study of the Hindu-Muslim encounter (Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press. 1986), 9. 63 Richard Eaton, “Approaches to the Study of Conversion to Islam in India,” in Richard M Martin (ed) Approaches to Islam in Religious Studies, 106–24 (Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press, 1985), 119. Sufia Uddin says that early Muslim rulers showed little interest in proselytizing non-Muslims, whose taxes paid for their armies; Sufia M Uddin, Constructing Bangladesh: Religion, Ethnicity, and Language in an Islamic Nation (New Delhi: Vistaar, 2006), 190. 64 I am indebted to Asim Roy for his work on Bengal’s Muslim cultural mediators, a term he adapted from Arnold J Toynbee’s “cultural brokers”. See Roy, 78, 253. 65 Eaton, 224. 66 Eaton, 218, 67 Earton, 218. 68 Eaton, 226. 69 Eaton, 270. 70 Roy, 210. 71 Eaton, 76 citing Ibn Battuta. 72 Eaton, 79. 73 Eaton, 78. 74 Eaton, 73. 75 Eaton 1985, 123. 76 Roy, 78-9. 77 Eaton, 203, 308. 78 Eaton 1985, 79 Gandhi, 14. 80 Nagendra Kumar Singh, Encyclopaedia of Hinduism (New Delhi: Centre for ­International Religious Studies: Anmol Publications, 1997) 818. Bengali Muslim writers repeatedly stressed Allah’s formlessness and indivisibility, adapting 54

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Hindu vocabulary; Allah as “the unqualified absolute” contained the “potency of ­creation,” 122. 81 Singh, 673. 82 Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Sufi essays (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1972), 146. 83 Eaton, 269. 84 Roy, 95–6; Uddin, 33. 85 Uddin, 33. 86 Shiva’s consort, Parvarti (patron of art), also has a ferocious form, Kali (or Shakti), in which she destroys ignorance, protecting Shiva when he enters into a deep meditative state. All manifest the One, so any of the Three can fulfill all responsibilities. Shiva’s meditations help preserve the Universe (Vishnu’s task); his dance of destruction to end a cycle of existence morphs into Brahma’s task of starting the next one. Yet when he meditates, Shiva becomes vulnerable to attack, so his consort transforms herself into a powerful being to defend him, destroying ­ignorance. 87 Roy, 94–5.

Chapter 2

A Model of Sufi Training in the Twenty-First Century: A Case Study of the Qādiriyya in Hyderabad Mauro Valdinoci

Introduction This chapter deals with some aspects of the contemporary training in a branch of the Qādiriyya in Hyderabad (Andhra Pradesh, India). My purpose is not to analyse the topic in depth, but also to focus on what I think is a most striking feature of present-day spiritual training in the Sufi orders which I studied: the physical separation between master and disciple. Both masters and disciples have daily engagements and busy schedules. The mashaikh (sing. shaikh) of the order promote a view of Sufism that urges individuals to avoid ascetic seclusion and to maintain a balance between religion (din) and the world (dunya). Most of them combine the role of spiritual guides with a secular job, so they cannot always be readily available to their disciples. As a result, the time they spend instructing their disciples is limited. My first aim is to provide an answer to the following question: is the present situation leading to a decline of the khānqāhbased model of training? Toward that end this chapter researches how these masters carry out the training of disciples. I will not get into the details of spiritual training; I am rather interested in highlighting the contexts in which the disciples are trained. I argue that in this branch of the Qādiriyya the model of training is not shaped according to the historical characteristics of the Sufi khānqāh, but is based mainly on brief occasional meetings between the master and his disciple and on recurrent gatherings. The second question I seek to answer is: if the master spends less time with his disciples, does separation affect the master–disciple relationship significantly? Is this spiritual bond, which is a crucial element in Sufism, at risk? I contend that it is not at risk; indeed this silsila applies particular techniques and exercises which allow disciples to strengthen their connection with their shaikh and to advance on the spiritual path, even if they are not able to spend extended periods of time with their shaikh. To this regard, I focus on the tasāwwur-i shaikh (visualization of the shaikh), a spiritual exercise common not only among the Qādiriyyas, but also

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among other Sufis. By providing an ethnographical description of how this exercise is performed and imagined by the members of this silsila, I aim at understanding its significance in the process of spiritual training. Besides the reasons cited by the mashaikh and the murīds themselves, I claim that the tasāwwur-i shaikh is an effective and extremely suitable tool for the modern age. Even if the disciples live far away from their shaikh, through the tasāwwur-i shaikh they can strengthen the bond with him and establish an esoteric connection with him, which enable them to receive his spiritual blessings and support. AQ1: We have fix the unnumbered heading style. Please clarify.

The contemporary Qādirī shaikh: Spirituality and involvement in the world It is important to have a brief overview of the biographical sketches of some of the most influential mashaikh of this silsila, by highlighting their occupations. The silsila was founded by Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddīqī (1871–1962), born in Hyderabad and initiated to Sufism by his maternal uncle, Muhammad Siddīq Husaynī (1847–95), who gave him the khilafat at the age of 16.1 At the age of 15 he started his career as a mufti and at the same time he began teaching fiqh at the Dār al-‘Ulūm a college established in 1856, whose curriculum included a combination of Islamic traditional sciences and modern subjects, such as sciences, physics and chemistry. Later on he also taught Arabic literature, tafsīr and Had īth.2 When Osmania University, a secular university, was established in 1918, he was appointed professor of Had īth and the first Head of the Department of Theology.3 Besides teaching, he was also a prolific writer, both in prose and poetry: he published books in Arabic, Persian, and Urdu on theology, Sufism, Islamic jurisprudence, philosophy, and logic.4 Long before his own death he appointed his son ‘Abd al-Rahim Siddīqī (1891–1968) as his successor. ‘Abd alRahim taught Persian, Urdu, and theology at the Medak High School (Siddīqī 2004, 219). After him the most charismatic shaikh of the silsila up to the present day has been ‘Abd al-Rahīm’s elder son, ‘Abd al-Alim Siddīqī (1928–2008). He received his MBBS degree at Osmania University and practiced as a medical doctor at his own clinic in the area of King Kothi. Most of the time he was busy with his patients and when he was at home, often people thronged outside his door waiting to meet him, as he was noted for his healing powers and his elevated spiritual level.5 After his father’s demise, he declined the offer of the place of sajjāda nishīn and the elders of the silsila appointed another son of ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddīqī, Abu Turab Alī Siddīqī (1905–88). He graduated from Osmania University6 and become employed as a primary school teacher in Marialgudah. Then he was posted in Mahbubnagar as school administrator and was later promoted as high school principal. A few years before his retirement he requested his department for a transfer to Hyderabad, so that he could attend to his elderly

AQ2: Please check the Shortened Running Head.

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father.7 After him his brother Abul-Qasim Muhammad Siddīqī (1908–89) was made the sajjāda nishīn, but he died just the following year. He was a science teacher at the Nampally High School.8 After him his brother Husain Shujah al-Dīn Siddīqī (1909–98) was appointed as the fourth sajjāda nishīn. He worked first as accountant-general, then he was transferred to Gulbarga as treasurer, then he was appointed director of awqaf in the town of Zillaperbhani, and finally was promoted to the post of revenue officer in the town of Hoshanagar.9 The present sajjāda nishīn is Ghawth Muhī al-Dīn Siddīqī who, along with his younger brother, is the only living son of ‘Abd al-Qādir. He has now retired from his scrap metal business. He lives at his residence and only comes to the dargāh to preside over the rituals of the monthly or annual gatherings. His elder son, Ahmad, is also a teaching shaikh and at the same time carries on a clothing business. At the darg āh the elder son of the previous sajjāda nishīn, ‘Abd al-Qādir, has been appointed by Ghaus Mohi al-Dīn to practice spiritual healing and to look after the people who come seeking a solution for all sorts of problems. However, since he also holds a secular job, he receives people only from 5.00 to 9.00 in the evenings. At present all the mashaikh of the Siddīqī family and the khalifas I met, besides being involved in religious activities as spiritual guides, healers, or teachers of the religious sciences, work in secular fields as well. In this regard, they are following in the footsteps of ‘Abd al-Qādir, who maintained that a Sufi should be concerned mainly with God and with ways to reach Him, but at the same time he is supposed to earn his living and to take care of his family. In this view, the ideal Sufi has to be detached from the world, yet he has to live in the world, among the people, serving the people. In ‘Abdullāh , the monumental biography of ‘Abd al-Qādir by his grandson and khalifa Anwār al-Dīn (1891–1969), there are many passages stating that though the saint was deeply involved in religious and spiritual issues, he did not neglect worldly matters such as the welfare of his large family. As an instance: “He was living among the creatures of God and used to respect their rights, at the same time he was performing his spiritual exercises and devotions.”10 One of his teachings, which his descendents still stress, was to respect everyone’s rights. He dealt with this topic in many works. The following quotation is from his Usul-i Islam (Principles of Islam): Human being is besieged with rights and duties. There are rights of Allah and His Apostle. Rights of the king and his subjects. Rights of the people living in the house. Rights of friends and rights of our own self. There is even the right of the enemy.11 The members of this silsila emphasize that our life is guided by rights and obligations. We have rights (huquq, sing. haq), but other people also have a right on us: our wife or husband has a right on us, as our parents or children do, or even the beggars. This view of spirituality is in line with the sermons and teachings of the founder saint of the Qādiriyya, ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jilani (d. 1166).12

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Decline of the khānqāh-based model of training? The mashaikh of this silsila have to carry on secular jobs besides their spiritual activities and have to look after quite large families.13 Similarly the disciples have their own school, family, and job engagements. At present it is unlikely that disciples have the chance to spend extended periods of time with their shaikh, while he watches over their training closely. Does this mean that the model of spiritual training based on the institution of the Sufi khānqāh is bound to decline? Undoubtedly we need more research to state that the khānqāh system is declining and it is quite risky to make such a generalization when multiple factors are involved. It is very important, I believe, to take account of the context; for example, things may change if we move from the city to the countryside, or if we consider a shaikh who does not need to carry on a secular job and can focus totally on religious and spiritual issues. However, here I don’t deal with the issue of the alleged decline of the khānqāh system, which requires a more extensive discussion, but I’m concerned just with a shift which may have occurred from the way the religious and esoteric education was provided within the khānqāh system. The medieval Indian khānqāh used to be a place where the disciples lived under the supervision and guidance of a shaikh. Not only did they receive spiritual training and learned the Islamic sciences, but ate, slept, and worked together as a small community. Maybe one of the most outstanding features of the khānqāh was the support provided to the poor and the needy, who were given shelter, food, and money.14 Below is a passage in which ‘Abd al-Qādir deals with the institution of the khānqāh: Some mashaikh maintained, by their own earnings, not only their murīdin but the murīdin’s wives and children as well. . . . Out [of their homes] there were a madrasa and a khanqah. Board and lodging were provided by the ­khanqah. If there were female murīdīn, they used to live in the house, however the khānqāh used to attend to their food and needs. The expenses of the pīr and his ­family were managed separately from those of the khānqāh. Social activities were separated from family matters. Within the house they used to eat ordinary food (bread and lentils), while outside [in the khānqāh] more tasteful food was made, such as pulao, anniversaries (‘urs) were organized and people were invited. . . . The pīr besides supplying religious, moral and spiritual education, used to look after the orphans, took on the responsibility of their ­marriage, education, helped them to find a job and took care of all their needs. In those times there was no need of neither any community donations, nor of orphanages.15 The author describes the khānqāh with a sense of nostalgia and laments that it is not a common institution anymore among his contemporaries. With a light

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argumentative mood he claims that in his times, the institution is not carried out according to the old rules: there is no concern for the poor and often the mashaikh use the income ensuing from grants, endowments, gifts, donations, etc. for their own family’s needs. ‘Abd al-Qādir’s successors never established any khānqāh at Siddiq Ghulshan. Within the dargāh precincts there are neither any cells nor any dormitories. Though there is a langar, food is not distributed on a daily basis, but only during the monthly and annual gatherings. The teaching of the traditional religious sciences is not carried out systematically. Since the establishment of the dargāh, regular Hadīth classes were held by ‘Ali Siddīqī, the second sajjāda nishīn, and he appointed one of his sons to ­continue the teaching after him. Today his son still carries on the job, though he moved the classes to his residence, which is quite far from the dargāh. The traditional classes of Arabic grammar and tafsīr, held on Fridays and Sundays, respectively, are still carried on by another grandson of the founder, ‘Abd al-Razzāq. The instruction of the disciples in the recollection of God (dhikr) in a collective form is not carried out on a daily basis. Two weekly sessions of dhikr are held, one at the sajjāda nishīn’s residence on Sundays led by Ghawth Muhī al-Dīn, and one at the dargāh on Thursdays led by ‘Abd al-Razzāq. During these sessions, the murīds get to know the different azkar (sing. dhikr) of the silsila and learn how to practice them correctly. Apart from these occasions, the murīds practice their spiritual exercises mostly on their own and not under the supervision of their shaikh. If the murīds want to meet their shaikh, they can go to his house during his free time, or to the dargāh during the monthly or annual gatherings. This means that the disciples get their spiritual education mostly in the course of private and individual meetings with their shaikh. However, during public gatherings also the murīds have a chance to learn something and to get spiritual blessings. As the members of the silsila stress, the mashaikh provide a great deal of teachings indirectly, for example through their behavior. During these events not only can the disciples observe carefully the behavior of the elders of the silsila, but also benefit from the company of their shaikh. On a monthly basis, three events are held, which include recitation of the Qur’ān and of the Qasīdat al-burda (The Poem of the Mantle), a dhikr session, a collective ziyārat (visit) to the graves of ‘Abd al-Qādir and of the main masters of the silsila, a communitarian meal (langar), and a musical assembly (mehfil-i sama). Annually the chief event is the death anniversary (‘urs) of ‘Abd al-Qādir, which is held from the sixteenth to the eighteenth of shawwal. On a smaller scale the members of the silsila celebrate also the anniversaries of the other influential mashaikh of the order. The celebrations of the ‘urs include all the aforementioned ritual elements in addition to the ceremony of the sandal mali16 and to the display of the holy relics owned by the Siddiqi family.17 Other gatherings are organized on the tenth day of muharram, on the birthday of Prophet Muhammad (twelfth of rabi’ al-awwal), and on the death anniversary of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī (eleventh of rabī’ al-thānī).18

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The ritual events of the dargāh are quite numerous; however, the dargāh is not managed according to the principles of the khānqāh system. The training of the disciples does not entail a constant and extended closeness of the disciple to his master; the disciple gets his spiritual education in the course of brief meetings with his shaikh, both private and public. The frequency of the meetings depends on various factors, such as the distance between the disciple’s home and his shaikh’s residence, the disciple’s availability of spare time, and the disciple’s determination to progress on the spiritual path. If a disciple lives far away from his shaikh, or if he has no spare time, it is unlikely that he will meet his shaikh often. If a disciple is at a basic level of the spiritual path and is not interested on advancing further – most disciples tend to have this attitude – he will be satisfied with the small amount of exercises he was given by his shaikh and with meeting him during the gatherings at the dargāh. Such disciples pay a visit to their shaikh mainly if they have some problem they want to solve with his help. Considering all this, maybe at present the spiritual training has to be organized in such a way that the religious and esoteric knowledge can be passed on also in the course of brief meetings and even without the constant presence of the shaikh. If this is true, I would suggest that historical and social contingencies contribute to remodeling and rethinking, to a certain extent, the Sufi methods of teaching.

Strengthening the connection with the shaikh from afar: The tasāwwur-i shaikh As members of the silsila have stressed, the exercise known as tasāwwur-i shaikh or visualization of the shaikh plays a crucial role in the master–disciple relationship. It is the beginning stage of the mur qaba (contemplation), which is one of the most advanced spiritual exercises in Sufism. As I observed during my fieldwork, at present it is a common exercise in the Qādiriyya, and the literature tell us that it is practiced also in the Chishtia-Sabiriyya (cf. Rozehnal 2007, 198) and the Naqshbandiyya (cf. Buehler 1998, 134–40; Werbner 2003, 141–2, 204–5). However, as other Sufi practices and beliefs, it is not universally recognized within the Muslim community. Some Muslim theologians and scholars openly criticize it and condemn it as shirk (polytheism) (cf. Gaborieau 1999, 460–1). Attacks against the practice of the tasāwwur-i shaikh came even from within the Sufi community.19 ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddiqi wrote in this regard: The Imām Hasan went to Hanad Ibn Hālah and asked him: “Uncle, please tell me how the Messenger of God was, so that I can imagine him.” These are the Imām’s words. . . . The shaikh [mashaikh] make great play about the tasāwwur-i shaikh. . . .Some among the ignorant say that the tasāwwur-i shaikh

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is shirk and kufr, what a statement! Those ignorant ones don’t even know the meaning of worship (‘ibadat); worship is of God, [while] the reverence (ta’zim) for the saints, which is obligatory [wajib] according to the law, is just reverence, not worship (Siddiqi 2004, 199). The shaikh justifies the legitimacy of this exercise by relating it to an outstanding personality of the Muslim tradition and to the established tradition of the Sufi leaders, furthermore stressing the difference between worship and reverence, which is a recurrent argument of the contemporary defence of the Sufi devotion. According to Buehler the tasāwwur-i shaikh “involves both an emotional tie of love and a specific psychological tie of modelling” (1998, 140).20 The same is true for these Qādiriyyas. In ‘Abdullāh, ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddīqī is reported to have said: We have a great method of visualization of the shaikh, which involves a journey (sair) to the Messenger of God and then to Allah. I become the shaikh, the shaikh reaches the figure (shakal) of the Messenger of Allah, the Messenger of Allah becomes the image (surāt) of Allah, then Allah reaches the figure of the Messenger of Allah, the Messenger of Allah reaches the figure of the shaikh and the shaikh reaches my figure. This is called ascent and descent (sa’ud wa nazul) (Siddiqi 2004, 199). In this statement the imagination of the shaikh is pictured as a journey of the mind. He wrote on the tasāwwur-i shaikh in his Nizam al-’aml-i fuqara’ (Order of the Spiritual Practices of the Derwishes). He stresses the power of thought and its effect on the human body.21 According to him the aim of this exercise is to focus the thought on a single point, in order to make it stable and strong.22 In the following passage he outlines two different methods of imagination: When you imagine you should think that there is a sharp beam of light going from Allah toward the heart of the Prophet. Then it goes from the shaikh’s heart to your heart. You should pull this light with full concentration towards your heart, don’t think it is just mere thoughts, [because] this practice means success. As it develops, it shows you amazing things. The form of the formless appears right in front of you and the ‘alam-i mithal [the world of simile] opens up. When the thought gets more powerful, one should start thinking that his face is that of the shaikh. A time will come when he thinks that and the shaikh’s face appears. Even externally the effect is such that the shaikh’s brightness appears on the murīd’s face and body. The other people also will feel that he [the murīd] is changing and taking some of the qualities of the shaikh. Even the voice becomes similar to that of the shaikh (Siddiqi 1959, 26–7).

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According to the author, the exercise has remarkable effect on the disciple: inwardly it contributes to expand and refine his/her spiritual vision, and outwardly it affects the disciple’s body and personality in such a way that eventually he/she starts to resemble his/her shaikh. The regular and intense practice of this exercise can lead also to the fanā fi’l-shaikh (annihilation in the shaikh), which is a crucial goal of the spiritual path and the prelude to the fanā fi’l-rasūl (annihilation in the Prophet) and to the fanā fi’llah (annihilation in Allah)23. During the interviews, the members of the silsila agreed that it does not matter if one is not able, due to lack of spare time, to carry out lengthy sessions of tasāwwur-i shaikh; however, one should try to practice it daily. As the masters of the silsila say, this exercise does not call for plenty of time, since even sessions of five to ten minutes are enough, but it requires consistency. This daily effort of visual focus on the shaikh undoubtedly contributes to strengthening the disciple’s tie with the shaikh, even if they live far from each other and cannot meet frequently. Thus, in spite of the physical separation, the shaikh gradually becomes a familiar figure for his disciples, a point of reference in their daily life.

Constantly available at the subtle level Among the various positive aspects of the tasāwwur-i shaikh, the members of the silsila emphasized two factors: the first is the chance to get the shaikh’s aid in critical times; the second is the possibility of communication with the shaikh in his absence. Below I quote a few examples from the interviews: 1. The murīd has to start focusing on the pīr. Then his vision is focused on one point, then it expands and he can experience wajd. With time he can reach fanā. [. . .] Once I had a serious pain in my neck. I am a doctor, so I treated myself in all the ways I knew, I tried different methods and medicines, but none of them worked, I was not able to get rid of this pain. So I contacted Hazrat Bahr al-'Ulūm [who was dead at that time], I called him and told him about my pain. I asked him to relieve me from it, “I am your murīd, why don’t you help me?” I was still absorbed in contemplation, and I saw his hand coming out of his grave and extending along the road which leads from Siddiq Ghulshan to my office. I saw a long arm and a hand stretching out up to my office, then entering my room, and then I felt that Hazrat was pressing his thumb and first finger on my neck. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up my pain was gone (khalifa, 6/10/2010). 2. The tasāwwur-i shaikh requires fantasy, imagination, and sheer concentration. It is very important, many people do it. You just need to imagine the shaikh with full concentration, ask for his help, and it will come insha’llah (murīd, 7/02/2010).

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3. The tasāwwur-i shaikh is an exercise which has to be developed and refined, and it takes time. You have to imagine the shaikh, focus your thought and concentrate on his image. Sometimes help comes immediately or just at the proper time. This connection is very important and it depends on love, because the more intense the love is, the easier it is to contact him. Once I was at an important meeting, many managers and engineers were present. At some point I blamed someone for a mistake, which I soon realized he had not committed. I knew I was in the wrong and within two to three seconds I asked my shaikh for help while visualizing his face. Fortunately the person, while replying, chose a completely wrong example and I avoided losing my face (murīd, 9/02/2010). Disciples who used to perform this exercise regularly stressed that they were able to come out from critical situations by recollecting the shaikh’s image.24 Many of them claimed that just by imagining their shaikh they were able to face every kind of problem. Their unshakable belief in the potential support provided by their shaikh is apparently based on the trust in the shaikh’s spiritual powers and on the persuasion of having established a solid connection with him. With regard to the second factor, many murīds claimed that being far away from their shaikh, by the tasāwwur-i shaikh, they could ask him questions and clear some doubts on important matters. Intriguingly enough, some of them said that by the regular and prolonged practice of this exercise they were able to communicate with their dead shaikh. According to my sources, this continues to happen even today, especially among the disciples of ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddīqī and his grandson ‘Abd al-’Alim Siddīqī. This ability is developed gradually. At an early stage the disciple is not able to communicate with his dead shaikh, but the latter can visit him and talk to him during dreams. At a more advanced stage the disciple, sitting with his eyes closed and fully concentrated, is able to ask questions and hear answers, while at an even more advanced stage he can talk to his shaikh and see him with his eyes open. This third stage is rarely achieved; however, some particular mashaikh and khulafa’ of the silsila have a reputation for such an ability. As far as I am told, some members of the silsila completed their own spiritual education with ‘Abd al-Qādir long after the latter’s death. They did that by performing contemplation at his grave. Such statements suggest that even though the shaikh and the murīds for most of the time live far away from each other, the Sufi training includes spiritual exercises and psychological bonds by which the shaikh becomes a stable figure in the disciple’s daily life. Among these exercises, the tasāwwur-i shaikh plays a crucial role. Thus, the master–-disciple relationship does not seem to be suffering from the physical distance between the former and the latter, since both are able to establish a solid connection at a subtle level, even without spending

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extended periods of time together. I would like to suggest that this visual focus on the shaikh may involve also another type of tie besides those pointed out by other authors, namely an esoteric tie which enables the disciples to communicate with their shaikh in his absence, to ask for his help in critical times, and to obtain it. Furthermore, this esoteric tie may enable the shaikh to look after his disciples and meet their needs even by being far away from them. Thus even though the shaikh is less present in the daily life of his disciples on the physical level, he is somehow constantly available at the subtle level, and the disciples know that they can rely on his support.25

Conclusion The spiritual masters of this silsila were considered models of piety and were all involved in worldly activities. They were renowned spiritual guides and healers and at the same time they carried out secular jobs. Their descendents adopt the same approach to spirituality. They teach their followers to pursue their spiritual aims without neglecting their social and familiar obligations. Disciples are urged to earn their living and look after their family’s needs. However, the concern for material well-being has to be balanced by a deep involvement in spirituality. At present, the daily engagements and busy schedules of masters and disciples make it difficult to carry on spiritual training based on community life and close supervision of the master, as it used to happen in the khānqāh. The disciples perform their spiritual exercises mostly by themselves. This chapter highlights a model of training based on sporadic meetings between master and disciple: private and individual meetings at the masters’ residences and public gatherings at the dargāh during the weekly, monthly, and annual events. The same model of training is quite common in other branches of the Qādiriyya of Hyderabad. In spite of the distance between masters and disciples, the disciples are able to internalize the relationship with their masters and establish a solid connection with them, thanks to specific exercises and psychological paradigms involved in the Sufi training. Among these methods, the visualization of the shaikh plays a crucial role. As it has been stated, the tasāwwur-i shaikh undoubtedly involves emotional and psychological ties, but it may be argued that it involves also an esoteric tie, which works at the subtle level. Such a tie seems to enable the disciples to communicate with their shaikh in his absence, to ask for his help in critical times, and to obtain it. This departs from some more traditional practices and pīri–murīdi systems described elsewhere in this book. However, it may be considered one of the various ways by which Sufism successfully faces the challenges of the contemporary age. This links with other chapters in this book, such as Ramsey’s on the Rishis in Kashmir and Philippon’s on “sufibased reform movements.”

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Notes Sayyid Murād ‘Alī Tāli’, Tazkira-i awliyā’-i Hayderābād (Hyderabad: Minar Book Depot, 1975), 143. Muhammad Anwār al-dīn Siddīqī, ‘Abdullāh. Siwākh-i hayāt Bahr al-‘Ulūm Hazrat ‘Allāma Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qadīr Siddīqī ‘Hasrat’ (Hyderabad: Hasrat Academy, 2004), 86. 2 Siddīqī (2004, 256–356). 3 Beside ḥadīth he also taught tafsīr and fiqh. His service was extended for over ten years beyond the usual age limits; then, in 1932, he retired and continued to teach at his home in Malakpet. During this period he was appointed as Honorary Rector (Shaikh-al-Jāmi’a) of the Jami’a Nizamia University. Siddiqi 2004, 104. 4 Tali’ reports 26 titles (1975, 144); for a comprehensive list see Siddiqi (2004, 357–84). He is famous especially for his Urdu translation and commentary of the Qur’an, tafsīr-i Siddiqi, and for his Urdu translation and commentary of Muhī al-dīn Ibn ‘Arabī’s Fusūs al-hikam, which was included in the academic syllabus of the Dār al-’Ulūm and of the Punjab University. He was also a renowned poet, and his poems are gathered in the collection Kulliat-i Hasrat and include almost all the poetic styles. On his poetic production see Siddiqi (2004, 437–52). 5 Siddīqī (2004, 247–8). 6 Later on he obtained also a Master’s degree (Ibid., 226). 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., 229. 9 Ibid., 231. 10 Ibid., 137. 11 Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qadīr Siddīqī, Usul-i Islam, trans. by Mir Asedullah Shah Quadri, Principles of Islam (Hyderabad: Hasrat Academy, 1996) 37-41. He supports his statement by quoting four times from the Qurān (51:19; 2:215; 6:151; 59:9) and by citing eleven Ahādīth. 12 Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, A History of Sufism in India. Vol. I, Early Sufism and Its History in India to 1600 A.D. (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1975). 13 ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddīqī had four wives (one at a time), ten sons, and twelve daughters. 14 On the institution of the khānqāh in medieval India see Khaliq Ahmad Nizami, “Some Aspects of Khānqāh Life in Medieval India,” Studia Islamica 8. 1957, 51–9. Arthur F. Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: the Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh (Coulmbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1988), 44–54. 15 Siddīqī (n. d., 9–10). 16 During the sandal mālī, some sandalwood powder is mixed to some rose water and spread on the saint’s grave. This is an important ritual in the ‘urs celebrations of the dargāhs of the Deccan. 17 Namely a hair of Muhammad and a hair of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī. 18 The anniversary of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī is a major event in Hyderabad, not only within the dargāhs of the Qādiriyya, but also in many neighborhoods and private houses of the city. Processions with flags are carried out, countless fatiha are recited, large quantities of food are distributed, and various events, including 1

AQ3: It is 1975 in Bibliography

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religious speeches and poetry gatherings, are held. Intriguingly many Hindus as well attend the celebrations. 19 Regarding the criticism of Sufi devotion by other Sufis in Hyderabad see for example the highly polemical book Dīn-i tasawwuf-o tarīqat by Sayyid Muhammad ‘Alī Husaynī. As an instance: “Through the above teachings we have learnt that to keep pictures, drawings or paintings of spiritual leaders is strictly prohibited in Islam. This amount to awliyā’ paresti (worship of saints), which is equivalent to buth paresti (idol worship). Sufism is strongly in favor of keeping pictures of the pīr and encourages people to focus on the face of the pīr at the time of prayer” (Husaini 2003, 149). 20 The statement is confirmed also by Rozehnal (2007, 198). 21 “The imagination of a tiger generates fear, the imagination of a woman love. By the imagination of a woman the man gets a nocturnal emission. Look! How much effect the thought has on the human body. When imagination of the šaīkh is practiced, it will bring [feelings of] respect and contentment and [it will bring] the secrets which are present in the muršid. By it [one] will achieve the highest profit” (Siddīqī 1959, 25). 22 Siddīqī (1959, 26). 23 Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qādir Siddīqī, Nizam al-’aml-i fuqara’ (Hyderabad: Hasrat Academy,1959), 27–8. 24 Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love: the Anthropology of a Global Sufi Cult (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2003), 141–2, 204–5. Werbner also mentions this factor in her description of a contemporary branch of the Naqshbandiyya in ­Pakistan. 25 Unfortunately it is difficult to understand how this process works, since so far I have not found an explicit explanation within the texts of the silsila and we have to rely on oral narratives.

Chapter 3

Understanding the Philosophy of Spirituality at Shrines in Pakistan Dr Hafeez-ur-Rehman Chaudhry

Introduction The spiritual system of the shrine owes its origin to, and is drawn from, the Sufi orders of Islam. According to Sufism, the universe is divided into two spheres, namely, majaz and haqiqat. Both spheres are believed to be the creation of a Supreme Being. As such, both operate under His absolute power and control. Nothing moves in both the worlds without His command and will. Majaz is the world of reality that one can see, observe, and feel through sensory perceptions. However, the ultimate objective of a man is not to immerse himself completely into majaz for it is purely temporary in its existence. The reality is to be found in the realm of haqiqat, which is sublime, unalloyed, and everlasting. It is the ultimate truth and ideal beauty. While Sufism is considered a separate system, the Islamic orthodox view does not deny a connection between the two. On the contrary, it is believed that majaz is the first step toward haqiqat, as is expressed in the Arabic proverb “Al-majaz-o-qantaraht-ul-Haqiqat” (majaz is the ladder of haqiqat). Majaz may, therefore, be taken as a reflection of haqiqat, and one can achieve the true experience of haqiqat only when one has passed through the stage of majaz. Thus majaz and haqiqat are parts of the continuum interconnected as well as complementary to each other. For instance, beauty is to be seen and observed in majaz, and eventually it is to be experienced in haqiqat. This concept of majaz and haqiqat is not a new one. It is found, in one form or another, in ancient Greek thought, and there have been such schools as those of Orpheus and Pythagoras (sixth century BCE). Plato (429–347 BCE) also describes it in his doctrine of ideas (or forms) in which he holds that the forms (haqiqat) have a real existence outside the world of sense (majaz): it is the unchanging reality behind the changing appearance. As the forms are absolutely distinct from things, so our apprehension of them (which is knowledge) is absolutely distinct from opinion, which is faculty set over things. There can be no true knowledge of the changing. Opinion is changeable, fallible, irrational, and the result of persuasion; knowledge is enduring, infallible, rational, exact, clear. Knowledge comes from teaching rather than persuasion, but from

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r­ ecollection rather than teaching; it is our recollection of the forms we saw with the mind’s eye before the body imprisoned and confused us. The things we see now remind us of the forms they imitate; and the love of a beautiful person can lead us to the love of wisdom and of the form of beauty itself. The supreme form is that of the Good, on which all the others are ultimately founded (Republic). Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822 CE) has voiced the concept of haqiqat (One) and majaz (many) in his famous elegy on the death of John Keats, Adonais: The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven’s light for ever shine, Earth’s shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity. Until Death tramples it to fragments. ‘Allama Iqbal also gives vent to his desire to see haqiqat in majaz in the following couplet: “Kabhi ay Haqiqat-i-muntazir, nazar aa libaas-i-majaz main, Keh hazarone sujdey tarap rahay hain miri jabeen-i-niaz main.” Plato has also stated that God is the fountainhead of three virtues in the extreme degree: Beauty, Truth, and Goodness. Philosophers and poets tend to identify the three virtues in various combinations For example, Edmund Spencer (1552–99 CE) identified Beauty with Goodness when he said: “All that fair is, is by nature good.” John Keats (1795–1821 CE), however, identified Beauty with Truth when he said in the Ode on a Grecian Urn that “Beauty is truth, truth beauty — That is all. Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” It is believed that a person seeking haqiqat should take a guide who will lead him to the “right path.” This guide is p īr or murshid, who has himself found the path through penance, self-mortification, meditation, and complete submission to the will of God. Having gone through all these stages leading to haqiqat, he is capable of holding the hand of a truth seeker and become his guide.

The bai'at Bai'at means to give one’s hand in the hand of another and make a vow1 (to abide by his commands), a vow of spiritual allegiance to a p īr, usually accompanied by a simple ceremony. It binds the follower to the p īr as a mur īd and, in a formal sense, inducts him into the institutional structure of Sufism.2 It is, in other words, a system of accepting an intermediary for attaining spiritual guidance. There is almost a universal practice in  all esoteric disciplines that the coming together of the hands of two persons symbolizes an initiation rite of self-realization. In all love, perhaps, the coming together of hands signifies a bond, a promise that is necessary and desirable because of its psychological significance. It also signifies (especially in modern times when people are

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haunted by a multiplicity of desires) that one is prepared to impose on oneself a limitation, and is ready to see that one is finite. Once he limits himself thus, through the agency of bai'at, it is only then that infinity will be revealed to him. The bai'at thus symbolizes the first break with the vicious circle of thought. The authority for taking bai'at is derived from A1-Qur’an: 1. Lo! those who swear allegiance unto thee (Muhammad), swear allegiance only unto Allah. The Hand of Allah is above their hands. So whosoever breaketh his oath, breaketh it only to his soul’s hurt; while whosoever keepeth his covenant with Allah, on him will He bestow immense reward (68:10). 2. Allah was well pleased with the believers when they swore allegiance unto thee beneath the tree, and He knew what was in their hearts, and He sent down peace of re-assurance on them, and hath rewarded them with a near victory (68:18). 3. 0 Prophet! If the believing women come unto thee, taking oath of allegiance unto thee that they will ascribe nothing as partner unto Allah, and will neither steal nor commit adultery nor kill their children, nor produce any lie that they have devised between their hands and feet, nor disobey thee in what is right, then accept their allegiance and ask Allah to forgive them. Lo! Allah is Forgiving, Merciful (60: 12). Furthermore, the Prophet in his lifetime received bai'at for a variety of purposes including for jihad, flight to another land, adherence to the tenets of Islam, not to indulge in the lamentations from the women of Madina, and to fight for the blood of Hazrat Usman (known as Bai'at al-Rizwan), and many others. The Sufis, therefore, say that similarly they could receive bai'at for the particular purpose of abandoning sins and adopting taqwa3 from their followers.4 Al-Ghaza1i says that if anybody could not reach God it is because he did not travel on the path of finding God,5 and because he did not find a p īr. Sayyid Abdul Qadir Jilani says that as God made Adam a teacher of the angels, and prophets teachers of men, and the Prophet made Abu Bakr his successor, in the same way the murshid is a link between God and man.6 Ali Hajwiri says, in Kashfal-Mahjub, that without the company of an accomplished p īr no person can become a Sufi or understand Allah.7 Imdad Ullah Muhajir Makki says that it is not possible to abide by tauhid (unity or oneness) without a shaikh, and a person who does not have a p īr, his p īr is Iblees (satan).8 In his writings Mu’in ud Din Chishti has placed great emphasis on the need for a shaikh. The Sufis have waxed eloquent in describing the need for a p īr or murshid.9 Even Rumi, a highly regarded scholar, recognized the need for a p īr as he states with the couplet “Rumi did not become maulvi himself until he became a slave to Shams of Tabriz.” It is narrated that once he was teaching students in his hospice when Shams Tabriz appeared and consigned all the books to the water tank (hauz). When Rumi showed signs of offence, Shams dipped his hand in the tank and

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brought out all the books as dry as before. This incident made Rumi his mur īd (follower or disciple). If a person has no p īr, he is nicknamed as be pira (without a p īr) or be murshida.10 Both terms are derogatory and degrade a person’s status in society; for it is believed that he does not have a source of spiritual guidance and his sins will not be forgiven on the Day of Judgment. He may also be treated with distrust as the be pira are apart from the relational structure of contacts in the community.11 Once the bai'at is done, the mur īd enters into a fraternity, a sort of thiasus, of which all the followers of the p īr are members. Other mur īds treat him like their own brother. The mur īds of the same p īr are known as p īr bhai, a fictive kinship term indicating sibling relationship. However, it has been noted that the relations between the real brothers can be strained if either of them has no p īr of his own. Hence normal social community relationships such as intermarriage or the exchange of vartan bhaji (social dealings) is not entered upon with be pira/be murshida persons. This behavior is explained in the sense that religious relationship is stronger than the blood relationship. Therefore, a person who does not have religious relationship cannot be accepted in other types of social relationship. Numerous cases are known where persons have been ostracized from their baradari (brotherhood) for not having a p īr/murshid. One of the most common practices is that the parents who are mur īds of a particular p īr lead their children to also become the mur īd of a p īr, preferably their own. In case they do not listen to their advice, they are threatened first by such admonitions as “God will never forgive you for your sins”; and if they persist in their own course, they are even asked to leave the house. Such parents feel embarrassed before the members of their fraternity that their children have not listened to their advice, and conclude that there is something mentally wrong with the son/daughter. Generally, a person only follows one p īr at a time. If there are reasons for him to believe that his p īr is not effective, or that his personal character is not above board, he can select another p īr. However, such cases are rare because traditionally the mur īd is supposed to justify the actions of the p īr under some pretext or other. In case he decides to change his p īr and accepts some other person as his spiritual guide, membership of this fraternity terminates automatically. However, if the p īr with whom he has taken bai'at dies, he need not choose another p īr because the spiritual relationship once established continues even after the p īr’s death. This was clearly noted among the devotees at Golra Sharif, an important shrine in Rawalpindi, Pakistan, where a number of persons were interviewed. Some of them were the mur īds of Babuji, the father of the present p īr, and they did not have to take bai'at on the hands of the present p īr, and they had the status of his mur īd all the same. They attend the shrine as in the past and ask for the du’a (blessings) of the present p īr just as they had done before from Babuji. This is due to a belief that the son of a p īr is also a p īr. Thus the spirituality of the p īr is believed to be a hereditary trait transferred lineally from

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father to son. Strictly speaking, the idea of inheritance of khilafat is not ­hereditary, as is evident from innumerable recorded examples. Abdul Qadir Jilani, Mu’in ud Din Chishti, Bakhtiyar Kaki, Farid ud Din Mas’ud, and Nizam ud Din Awliya, to name a prominent few, were not followed by their sons, as all of them gave their isle to their disciples who were the best in learning and piety. There is no bar, however, to the son of a p īr becoming his khal īfa if he fulfills the requisite standard of learning and piety. The relationship of p īri–mur īdi is formalized through the medium of bai'at. When a person makes bai'at to another person by giving his hand into the other’s, he accepts him as his spiritual guide or mentor, and makes a firm commitment with him to follow his dictates without questioning.12 It also means that the p īr has accepted him as his mur īd and would henceforth assist him to resolve problems, so that he can concentrate on attaining his objective, the experience of haqiqat. The functions of the spiritual master have been described in various ways. As previously stated, the first step for the mur īd is bai'at, through which the divine light passes from the hand of the p īr into the hand of the mur īd. It is only with his help that shari’a assumes a more intense and deeper tone.13 There is yet another aspect of the bai'at. When a novice comes to the p īr he is often afflicted with many conflicts between opposing desires. These desires compete with one another, persistently and relentlessly, each seeking immediate gratification. The bond of bai'at imposes a finitude on his desires, and the domain of his wishes becomes narrowed and constricted. Spiritual transformation demands the elimination of vanity, which is equivalent to ego or nafs inflation or glorification. The assumption is that unless vanity or kibr is eliminated, one cannot be surrendered to God. Vanity is associated with Satan,14 and no one can reach God without true humility. The opposite of vanity is surrender, and it is needed to attain nearness to God.15 Surrender is like negating the very basis of one’s being.16 For the beginner it is necessary that, in the first instance, he should surrender to some person who has already attained unity with the Godhead. The process of surrender may be irksome and painful in the beginning — this is the vicious circle of thought, meaningless memories of a meaningless past, vain and empty dreams of the ever-desiring, ever-unfulfilled future. But the benign influence of the p īr shatters the mask and creates a protective, healing image, the image of the p īr, which breaks this circle. It is an image which does not consciously direct, but it moves and develops dramatically in accordance with its own dynamics, and becomes an answer to the mur īd’s question and a fulfillment of his prayers. The point is that it is only through the image of the p īr that one can break through the coils of vanity and begin to experience love. According to Pnina Werbner (a contributor to this book), the challenge in Sufism is to overcome the arrogance of the soul, gharur takabar, which is equivalent to thinking that the soul, the self, is God. The nafs is where all evil things

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grow.17 The heart [qalb] is where all good things grow. It is the first to reach out to God. The nafs is pride, arrogance, vanity. A person who comes into the world thinks he is everything. According to Mujaddid Alif Thani, the nafs is a curtain between the person and God’s attributes. The ruh is related to air, sirr to water, khafi to fire, and akhfa to clay. The four elements are the curtains between a human being and God (zat). When this curtain is removed then everything is done for the sake of Allah. After that what remains are not human curtains but only curtains of divine light, as God Himself can never be seen. Firthof Schuon, in a contemporary analysis of the role, has suggested that the spiritual master “represents and transmits first the reality of ‘being’, second, a reality of intelligence or ‘truth,’ and third a reality of ‘love,’ union or happiness.” The function of the p īr is to give back to fallen man his primordial being. The first condition, then, of spirituality is to be virtually reborn and thus to realize the quasi-ontological basis of two constituent elements of the way, namely, discernment or doctrine on the one hand, and concentration or method on the other. Thus the p īr imparts “being” to the disciple in a particular religious context and lifts him from dissipation, first by creating consciousness of the supreme doctrine, and second by instructing him in the mode of concentration that is intended to lead him to a state of beatitude. The p īr may, through words or nonverbal symbols, create a gash in the mur īd’s heart through intuitive knowledge of his character and temperament. He may also induce in him a state of ecstasy and later stabilize him by his peace.

Institution of piri–mur  īdi The p īr–mur īd relationship is eternally kindled by a discourse of divine love (ishq-i-haqiqi).18 It is only through unqualified and unconditional love for the p īr that a mur īd passes through various stages in a meandering journey that culminates in the eventual merging of the mur īd’s identity with that of the p īr’s.19 The divine love sharply contrasts with the kind of love generally practiced by ordinary mortals. For the believer, mundane love is seldom sustained, as a captive of its own mundane love gradually isolates the self, thereby distracting the self from divine destiny. Satan’s sin was that he did not love God, but loved himself, and in the process became less than what he was. In Sufi discourse the substance of ishq is both an expression and an imagination. While it passes through the subsequent biographical stages, it requires of the mur īd an intense imagination of the p īr to realize itself. Ishq as imagination invokes the p īr within the mur īd’s own body. As an indissoluble imagination it resists any fragmentation of the mental image.20 Through the Sufi spiritual vision, the p īr’s ears not only mingle with but become the mur īd’s ears, the p īr’s eyes the mur īd’s eyes, the p īr’s tongue the mur īd’s tongue, the p īr’s hands become the mur īd’s hands, and thus the intense

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imagination converts the communion into a union.21 ‘Ishq as imagination prompts all of the mur īd’s actions but with the p īr’s permission. The p īr’s wish turns into a divine command guiding the mur īd’s actions. The mur īd thus possessed by imagination neither acts nor reacts without referring the situation to the p īr. It is not only that the p īr’s words become the mur īd’s words, but what is indeed striking is that the mur īd’s words are the p īr’s words. Yet the mur īd strives to bring into sharper relief the p īr’s image. Through sustained imagination of the p īr the mur īd concentrates on the p īr’s toe, and gradually such a focus moves right up through the p īr’s torso to the head. An accurate imagination alone acts as a source of power that can establish the control of the soul over other people’s bodies. It enables the mur īd’s soul to cleanse others of chronic ailments and spiritual contamination. Of course, this process of imagination must have, at every stage, the p īr’s concurrence. The tolerance of differences is a distinct characteristic of modern times. This tolerance has entered the p īr–mur īd relationship. Today the mur īd is far freer in the expression of his doubts and the articulation of his questions than he was in medieval times. For example, it is reported by Maulana Zain ud Din Barni, who was once present in Nizam ud Din Auliya’s darbar, that he saw that day a large number of people enter into bai'at with the shaikh. When he saw this he wondered at how the ancient Sufis used to exercise great care and caution in the selection of their followers. But Sultan al-Masha’ikh in his generosity had made his blessings accessible to all. He writes: I wanted to ask him about it, the shaikh became aware of my thoughts through kashf. He said, “Maulana Zain-din, you ask me many questions but you do not ask me why I give bai'at to everyone without seeking the credentials.” Hearing this I started trembling. I fell at his feet, and said: I had this problem with me for a long time and today also I had this doubt. God has made you aware of my thoughts. The shaikh said: “God in His great wisdom has given individuality to every age. The result is that people in every age have different habits and customs, and then temperament and mentality do not resemble the temperament and ethics of the people of an earlier age. Some people, however, are exceptional. The essence of iradat is that the follower should break his relations with other than God and become absorbed with God, as it has been described in detail in the books of tasawwuf. The early shaikhs would not offer their hand for bai'at, unless they were convinced that the seeker had already completely broken with the world. But from Sultan Abu Said Abul-Khair, Shaikh Saif ud Din Bakhaizi, and Shaiykhush Shaiyukh Shahab ud din Suhrawardi to Shaikh Farid ul Haq’s time, the masses thronged their doors and people of all classes assembled to receive their blessings. Now I answer your question. One of the reasons is that I have been hearing for a long time that many novitiates change their sinful mode of life,

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South Asian Sufis offer their prayers in Mosques, and take to invocations and nawafil. I also see that a Muslim comes to me in all humility and helplessness, and says: I have repented of all my sins. Trusting him I hold out my hand to him — especially as I have heard from reliable people that quite a few followers abstain from evil doings after bai'at.”22

This is the example par excellence of ijtihad (innovation) in Tibb-i-Ruhani of how a circle which was narrow in the beginning became wider and wider in view of the demands of time. Coming down to more recent times, the Sufi-poet of Punjab, Bulleh Shah, developed some differences with his murshid, Shah Inayat. As a consequence, he lost his spiritual power. After a great deal of restless wandering he again started pining for his p īr. His p īr was fond of mujra (dancing).23 In order to regain his favor, Bulleh Shah learned the art of dancing, appeared in his presence incognito, and performed the dance.24 After some time, the p īr recognized him and asked him: “Oay, tu Bulleh ain?” (Are you Bulleh?). Bulleh Shah replied: “Ji, main ee bhullah” (Yes, I erred).25 Thus there was reconciliation between the p īr (Shah Inayat) and the mur īd (Bulleh Shah). His own expressions of love for his p īr needed a deeper appreciation than it had already received.

P īri–mur īdi at Golra Sharif The village Golra Sharif is well known throughout Pakistan because of the shrine of Pir Meher Ali Shah. It is a medium-size village situated at a distance of about 18 kilometres in the North East of Rawalpindi city and currently constitutes E-11 Sector of the Federal Capital, Islamabad, Pakistan. Thousands of followers of Pir Meher Ali Shah visit the shrine daily to quench their thirst for manifest and latent desires. The system of p īri–mur īdi, as stated above, is deep-seated in the village of Golra Sharif, and also in other shrines of Pakistan. It is regarded as a heart-toheart relationship. It is transferred from one generation to another.26 That is why, if the son of a p īr is not found to be of the same high integrity and character as his father, the relationship is not broken. Some of the known sons of the p īrs having questionable integrity enjoyed the same esteem from mur īds as did the others who were more pious and nobler. Thus what is actually important is the affiliation with the line of the p īr. In an interview with the present p īr of Golra Sharif, it was explained to the investigator that when a person makes a bai'at, he is required to self-evaluate himself with regard to his life in the past and recollect all the sins that he had committed previously. This process, according to the p īr, leads him to a realization that he should henceforth change his mode of life and spend the rest of it

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in complete submission to the will of God and follow the path of truth and righteousness. The p īr keeps the mur īd in his determination and assures him that if he repents and corrects himself in his conduct, God will forgive him and he will have the opportunity to start life all over again.27 The p īr, through the application of his spiritual powers, would see that he is protected from the influences of the evil forces, and that the usual worldly problems do not distract him from his determinations to achieve the new goal.28 Thus the system of bai'at infuses a new hope and provides a strong faith to the mur īd. It awakens his inner conscience and works as a mechanism for self-restraint, self-discipline, and a motivation for leading a pious life. The p īr’s account describes an ideal function of bai'at and in certain cases might yield the intended results of the ritual. However, it is widely reported that despite the best intentions at the time of the bai'at, many subsequently try to use the influence of the p īr and other bhais for worldly gains. The principal reason for which so many people visit the shrine at Golra Sharif is devotion to the present p īr as well as his father (Babuji) and Grandfather (Pir Meher Ali Shah). The other reason is that they believe that through their intercession God will fulfill their wishes and desires. In a study of 250 respondents belonging to Peshawar University in different localities of Rawalpindi, comprised of 143 males and 107 females, it was revealed that People in distress, whether they are highly educated or illiterate, irrespective of their income group, believe in the supremacy of God and therefore seek the company of pious people.29 In conversation with the mur īds I asked them why they thronged the shrine so frequently. Their answer was that the p īr acted as an intermediary between them and God. “This holy man who is very close to God and still deeply concerned for us and for our welfare understands our plight, for he was a man like us. Therefore, he is able to take our case to God, intercede on our behalf and make us more acceptable to him.”30 They illustrated their point by saying that if a person wanted to see a high official, he needed someone who knew him or had an access to him; otherwise he would not have an easy admittance. Such analogies make a lot of sense; in a society where access to influential people is only possible through the recommendation (sifarish) from a well-placed person or one of his relatives. The pilgrims are very fond of saying Of course, one can approach the King directly. But when one looks at oneself and sees one’s own unworthiness, one knows that there is a far greater possibility of being rejected and condemned, than accepted. Therefore, it is much better to approach the King through the courtier, especially this one, for besides being loved by the King, he loves us.

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Generally, the response evoked is one of love, gratitude, and reverence, often expressed by the distribution of alms. Their regular visits to the shrine are an expression of this love they bear for him. One said: “I make it a point to come here as often as I can because I love this saint who loves me so much.” Another said: “I come to give my attendance to the saint. I want him to know that I have not forgotten his love or taken it for granted.” Many have said: “I feel a deep sense of happiness and peace whenever I am here, close to the saint.” One woman remarked: “I feel the supporting presence of the saint wherever I am. But all the same, I just have to come here to visit him and express my thanksand love for him.” Very important to these people is the ‘Urs (feast day of the saint), for that is his big day and keeping away from him on that day would be the most unpardonable of offences. Once in the shrine, the pilgrims kiss the steps leading to the saint’s shrine, and the thresholds of its doorways. On entering the shrines they spread rose petals on the tombs and, after greeting the saints, walk around the tomb, at the end of which they kiss the chadar (cloth covering the grave) and the small marble fence surrounding the tomb, sometimes touching their eyes and cheeks to these. Once outside the shrine they light incense sticks, explaining all these actions as manifestations of their love for the saint. Finally, they go to the side of the shrine where the head of the saint is supposed to lie and recite a part of the Qur’an saying that the saint loves to hear it recited to him, for it is the word of God. Explaining their actions further, they say: When someone loves another, for example a child, he wants to touch him and kiss him and be with him all the time doing him services that he likes. So it is between us and the saint. We do not worship the saint knowing that worship is due to God alone, but we love him deeply and are ready to do anything for him. The pilgrims also manifest their love for the saint by putting into the collection box whatever they can afford. They know that this money is not only for the maintenance of the shrine but also for the upkeep of the sajjada nashin, who maintain the shrine and intercede on their behalf. When I asked an educated young businessman from Sargodha why he had travelled so far to see the p īr when he could go to any number of shrines closer to him, he replied that if an ailing person wanted to consult a physician, he would naturally go to the best, if he could afford his fees, and not any and every doctor who was locally available. One mur īd said that once his mother was seriously ill. In spite of all sorts of treatment for a period of six months or so there was no improvement in her condition. While he was utterly confused and completely desperate, a mur īd advised him to visit Golra Sharif and approach the p īr for his blessings and du’a (prayers). During his meeting with the p īr he narrated the story of his mother’s illness. The p īr listened to him patiently, prayed for her

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recovery, and gave him a taveez (amulet) to be given to her after dipping it in water. He acted accordingly and his mother was cured of her prolonged illness. Ever since he had developed a strong faith in the spiritual powers of the p īr and believed that he could resolve problems which otherwise might appear impossible to handle. Some people are brought to the shrine to have evil djinns (spirits) exorcized. I was told of a woman, who was possessed by a djinn, and had withdrawn completely into herself. She was brought by force to the shrine of Pir Meher ‘A1i Shah, where she began to wail and hit her head on the marble wall of the shrine. After much prayer and supplication to the saint by the people who had brought her, the djinn left and she returned to her normal self. Another woman reported that after repeated prayers to Pir Meher Ali Shah at his shrine, she was freed from a djinn who had haunted her house and troubled their family. Continued interviews with those who visit the shrine regularly revealed their unshakable faith that Pir Meher ‘A1i is alive. They often said: “He is not dead. He has only put a veil between himself and us, ordinary mortals. That is why we cannot see him.” But sometimes he is believed to appear to some people. These appearances are taken as a mark of special favor and love. Because of the saint’s personal holiness and association with God, the shrine, the place where he is “most certainly present,” is considered holy ground. Pilgrims stress the holiness of the place by pointing to the behavior of all who enter the shrine, contrasting it with the behavior of people who visit the tombs of other famous and powerful Muslims. They say that at the tomb of a powerful emperor, people walk around with their shoes on and their heads uncovered. But here the atmosphere is different. Everyone who enters, even tourists, come in removing their shoes, covering their heads and talking in low tones without being told. They walk around the shrine with respect, and most pray, instinctively feeling the presence of the saint.31 Very often, cures from various illnesses and solutions to problems are taken as proofs of the saint’s deep love for those who visit him. Usually the saint waits for persons to approach him first. Even then, some do not have their petitions granted. Such persons console themselves by saying that the saint is testing them, and assure themselves of the saint’s love for them by repeating to themselves the good things the saint has done for others. But in some rare instances the saint approaches persons even before they know of his existence.

Method of taking bai'at The method of accepting bai'at is highly ritualistic. Whenever a person seeks bai'at at the hands of the p īr, he approaches the p īr in his chamber. The p īr takes his hand in his own hand and recites verses from the Holy Qur’an for a few minutes. Following this he directs the man to rub the hand on his face and

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exhorts him to pray regularly, five times a day, with the congregation in the mosque. After each prayer he should recite Darood Sharif and Kalima-i-Tauhid ten times on the beads of a rosary from Makkah. During this period he should concentrate on the benevolence of God the merciful and make a firm commitment to himself that he will follow the path of Islam. Toward the end of these rituals, the p īr raises his hands for du’a and the mur īd is asked to follow him in his prayers and the person is declared as a mur īd. When the seeker of bai'at is a woman, the same procedure is followed except that the p īr does not take her hand in his own hand (for holding the hand of a na-mehram32 in Islam is considered sacrilegious), and asks her to hold a piece of cloth on one end, and he himself holds the other end, and the whole ritual is followed in the same way as in the case of a man. During the period of the ritual for bai'at both male and female are asked to keep their heads covered with a cap, or a piece of cloth. This is done to intensify the purity of the ritual. It is interesting that no record of names and addresses of mur īds is generally kept at Golra Sharif either by the p īr or in the shrine’s secretariat. It is also not recorded how many persons have been accepted as mur īds on a single day. On certain occasions the rush of the seekers is so high that the p īr holds the hands of two or three persons at a time and accepts them in the fold. Similarly, sometimes many women hold the other end of the piece of cloth at the same time for accepting bai'at. No qualifications are laid down for becoming a mur īd. Any living person can take bai'at provided he or she is in a proper frame of mind.33 Young and old are treated alike. The only condition which seems prevalent is that the seeker should not be a child or a non-Muslim. If a non-Muslim wants to be accepted as a mur īd, he or she must first convert to Islam.

Characteristics of mur īds Pir Meher Ali Shah enjoined upon his mur īds the strict following of the Qur’an, Sunnah, fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence), and ethics. These include the following: Obedience, adab (good behavior), night vigil, persistence, suspecting the nafs or lower nature (being careful not to allow it to mislead), visiting, selfcontrol, conformity, blessedness, passionate devotion, dignity, ­dependence (on God), brotherhood, submission, endeavour, truth, dedication, ­self-­effacement, ­shunning of vanity, a friendly disposition, ­contentment, excellence of thoughts, endurance, compassion for all created things, humility, forgiveness, purity, beneficence, altruism, magnanimity, the keeping of the ‘ahd (the covenant to the Shaikh), dhikr (remembrance of God), repentance, good deeds, ­contemplation, asceticism, trust in God,

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gentleness in the heart, fear of God, control, the keeping of the divine ordinances, the proper qualities of religion.34 Pir Meher Ali Shah also isolated five requirements for those walking in the way: trusting in God in what is secret and what is open or revealed; following the Sunnah in word and deed; avoiding vain people’s company; being content with God in both little and great; and returning to Him in happiness and misfortune. The mur īd must lose his own volition (irada) and in a searching for God become one who wishes only for the Beloved. He must be totally directed to God and perpetually lodge Him in his heart,35 resting always under His command; for he taught that tasawwuf meant the purification of the souls from blameworthy characteristics; that its subject is the deeds of hearts in a pure way, and of the inner essence so that they may be cleansed; that its fruit is coming to eternal happiness and spiritual victory in the pleasure of God; its excellence lies in its being the highest of the sciences, since it is connected with deeds leading to God; its link with the other sciences is like that of the fruit to the tree. It is God Himself who is its author, for He has revealed His signs to teach praiseworthy qualities. The mur īd, therefore, need only follow the Prophet and those devoted to him, the Sufis. The mur īd is thus responsible for his material condition, and has a duty to strive to accomplish the daily task that the maintenance of life demands, for the disciplining of the soul and the good of his religion (d īn). For if the member is lacking in material wealth, if he is a faqir in the literal sense of being poor, he must work with his hands to preserve his dignity; and he must give alms from what he lawfully earns; and he must show mercy (raham) to the weak and the needy. He must help those in distress, comfort the oppressed, and take the blind by the hand on the way. In short, in all things good he must offer full cooperation. This world is not therefore, to be totally ignored or rejected since it is an integral part of the divine scheme of things. But its true significance resides only insofar as it relates to the next, and it is awareness of this “reflected” meaning that the mur īd must attain. It is only a preparation for what is to come, and though by no means intrinsically evil or a place of darkness, one must realize that its function is to serve as a prolegomenon to the ultimate reality. As the heart must be freed from vices and passions (shahwat), so it must be cleansed of love of the world by the agency of the spiritual physician to whose authority one is unreservedly committed. For hubb al dunya (love of the world) distorts the understanding of experience. It is only action whose root is directed to what comes after the dunya that is of inherent worth. Mundane achievement per se is therefore, at best, of neutral concern and, at worst, a spiritual danger in that it clouds the worshipper’s understanding and infects his heart. The mur īd is not opposed to the world and its social system; he does not protest against it, but rather moves within it, so qualitatively informing his personal relations with

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men as to enter into the contentment of God. To its economic and political institutions he is indifferent, since they have no relevance for his (individual) faith. He therefore neither withdraws from, nor interferes with, the social order and social action, but his evaluative analysis of it, and of his own experience, is drawn from spiritual criteria whose nature his shaikh has put before him. It follows from this attitude to the world that riches may be a negative element, while poverty is a passive one, since to be judged poor in the world’s terms indicates a right view of the essential lack of value that attaches to anything that exceeds necessity. To be a faqir means both to be needy in material terms and to be one of those who recognize their need of God and devote themselves to it. The mur īds are thus fuqara (poor) in the interior meaning,36 whatever their exterior wealth. Nothing prevents the rich man, however, from belonging to this group of mur īds, but before the shaikh he will sit with them, and in the process he will learn that the increase of means in this world is a danger to the soul, and of the saint’s dislike for one who did not use his money for the well-being of his fellow-mur īds or p īr-bhais. Clearly, however, we do not find here a radical transvaluation of poverty whereby it is exalted as a social condition of God’s elect. Wealth is lawful, and its possession, though potentially a danger, does not necessarily impinge on the interior quality of the believer’s essence.37 While it is meritorious to give to the poor, there is no Franciscan-like stress on the special grace of their state as contrasted with that of the rich. The mur īd is clearly directed inward to his soul and upward to his God, for therein lies his true path. The mur īd should therefore observe restraint and moderation in his life, and should follow the ascetic practices recommended to him by his murshid and suitable to his particular level of advancement, remembering that these are only praiseworthy means to an end, and do not constitute the end in itself. Other chapters in this book explore how some reform Sufi movements adjust the traditional p īri–mur īdi system, some (see Philippon) do not practice bai'at, and others do but have experimented with new ways that disciples can relate to their p īr (see Boivin).

Notes Mir Abdul Wahid Bilgrami, Saba’ Sanabil (Cawnpur: Nizami Press A.H 1299), 36; quoted in K.A. Nizami, Tareekh Mashaikh-i-Chisht, 238. 2 Richard Maxwell Eaton, Sufis of Bijapur: Social Roles of Sufis in Medieval India (Princeton: Princeton University, 1978). 3 ShahWaliullah Dehlvi, Qaul-al-Jameel, with annotations by Shah ‘Abdul Aziz and Urdu translation by Khurram Ali, (Cawnpur: Nizami Press A. H. 1291), 13, quoted in Tareekh Masha’ikh-i-Chisht, 240.

1





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In Islam bai'at was done at the hand of the ruler or khal īfa. In the lifetime of the Prophet, or of Hazrat Abu Bakr Siddique, or Umar Farooq no bai'at was taken in the name of any other person. If some other person took bai'at from certain persons in the absence of the khal īfa, it was also either in the name of the latter or in a time of conflict or jihad such as Akrama Abu Jehi in the field of Yermuk (634 B.C.), A1i and Amir Mo’aviyah, or when Imām Hussain took bai'at concurrently with Yazid. 5 Allama Iqbal also says: “Reach unto the Prophet, for he is whole religion; and if you do not reach him, then all is un-Islamic.” 6 Ghunyat-al-Talibeen, quoted by P īr Abdul Lateef Khan in Bai'at Ki Tushkeen aur Turbiyyet (Lahore: Jung Publications, 1994), 73. 7 Ibid. 8 The P īr’s shadow is better than praying to God. 9 Waris Shah says in Heer: “Without a murshid one cannot find the way [in the same way] that without milk one cannot cook the pudding.” 10 According to Mujaddid Alif Thani (quoted in the Urdu Daily Nawa-i- Waqt, Rawalpindi, dated December 4, 1995, in the column entitled Noor-i-Baseerat by Mian­Abdul Rashid), there are two types of persons, Mur  īds (disciples), for whom a P  īr is essential, or Murads (selectees), who are fortunate people as they will themselves be able to find their way. 11 In Sindh (A Province of Pakistan), the p  īrs are looked upon as spiritual leaders without whose intervention no one can succeed either in this world or in the one hereafter. As such, p īrs are believed to be the “Binin jahanan jo bor pulao” (best of both the worlds). To be be-pir (without a p īr) is unthinkable. “Bey-pirio kutto bhi chango na ahe,” say Sindh’s elderly (it is no good for even a dog to be without a p īr). Massoud Ansari, “The Daily News”, Special Friday Report, February 16, 1996. 12 Hafiz of Shiraz says: “If the p īr tells you to dip your prayer mat in wine, do it; for the guide is not unaware of the way of the destination.” 13 Bulleh Shah Said: “When I learnt the lesson of love, I dived into the River of Unity. I was caught up in its whirlpools. Shah Inayet (my murshid) helped me to cross it. Whirlpools symbolize difficulties, hardships and torturous problems confronted by a salik on the way to unification with Allah.” 14 Cf.Had īth-i-Qudsi “Pride is my raiment.” Also cf. Sa’adi of Shiraz in his mathnavi, “Pride ruined Azazel; and imprisoned him in disgrace.” 15 There are many stations in the tariqah, as Nawwab Mirza Dagh Dehelavi says: “These stations are tawakkul (complete trust in God), raza (acceptance of God’s will), and tark-i-khudi (elimination of ego). The biggest hurdle is the last one. Cf. Ghalib: “Although we have been very prompt in breaking idols, iconoclasm, but so long as We [ego] remain there are many a heavy stone in the way.” 16 Cf. Iqbal: Rumi said: “Whenever every old building is to be re-built, don’t you know it has first to be demolished?” 17 The sinful soul is known as nafs ammara, quoted from the book Pilgrims of Love, the anthropology of a Global Sufi Cult by Pnina Werbner (London: Hurst, 2003). 18 For a detailed discussion of adab as a code of behavior and values as well as of methods of personal formation in the p īr–mur  īd relationship, see Muhammad 4

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Ajmal’s “A Note on Adab in the Murshid–Mur  īd Relationship” in Barbara Metcalf ed., Moral Conduct and Authority: The Place of Adab in South Asian Islam, 241-151 (California: University of California Press, 1984). Also, see C. F. Farah, “Rules Governing the Shaikh–Murshid Conduct,” Numen. Vol. 21, 81–96. 19 Bulleh Shah said: “Shah Inayet brought me to the door (exit). His love clothed me in green and red robes. As soon as I flew, I achieved union with the almighty” (another version of this line is “as soon as I fly I am caught by the bird of prey”). 20 Mian Muhammad Baksh said: “Dogs are better than the heart in which ishq (true love/sincerity) is not immersed. They (dogs) guard their master’s door patiently and faithfully even if they are eagerly desirous of food. It is a common observation that most of the people (employees, servants, or even selfish wives) do not remain faithful when their employer is in a poor condition, which shows that they work or pass their lives for their own worldly gains. They behave selfishly and care for their own interests, whereas dogs have one very unique quality that they remain faithful to their masters in all circumstances. They do not leave them in adverse conditions.” In the couplet Mian Sahib admired the sincerity, patience, and faithfulness of dogs. He says that one should remain faithful to the Lord in any condition. It does not matter whether the conditions are good or bad. 21 In the common lore it is narrated that when the teacher of Qais (Mujnoon) caned him, the signs of the lashes appeared on the palm of Laila. People think that if there is real ishq between two persons, such things are possible. 22 Muhammad Ajmal, Muslim Contributions Psychotherapy and Other Essays, (Islamabad: National Institute of Psychology, Center of Excellence, Quaid-i-A’zam University), “Psychological Research Monograph” No. 5, p. 40. 23 Dancing was a part of ancient worship, and it still survives in the ceremonies of Hindu temples. Rumi also mentions it in his Mathnavi. The dance in his tariqah is a process of ecstasy with the accompaniment of nay (aulum or flute). 24 Mian Muhammad Baksh said: “You turned thieves into Qutb, I too have a bad character. Wherever I go I am kicked from their doorsteps except from your door (where I have a hope). Qutb: The highest cadre in the spiritual world.” 25 A famous line of Bulleh Shah: “In becoming a dancer there is no disrespect for me. I have to win over my beloved.” 26 Amongst the unlettered, and even in tribal societies, if the head of family or village or tribe becomes the mur  īd of a p īr, then the whole family or tribe or village becomes his mur  īd. It is not always so with educated families, because every member is free to accept the same p īr, or some other p īr, or may not do so at all. 27 Roman Catholics have the institution of confession, in which a Christian admits his sins before a priest, a pardoner, who writes them off after prescribing some penance and taking a promise from him that he would not commit them again. 28 According to Mian Muhammad Baksh: “I am blind (I know nothing/I am visionless) and the (worldly) path is slippery. How can I remain stable? Many are pushing me from behind, it is only you who can support me.” Here Mian Muhammad Baksh is showing the relationship between a p īr and a mur  īd. He is pointing out that the world is a slippery place; it diverts attention toward itself so easily that an ordinary man slips and falls into it. He is demanding a supporting hand from his mentor (spiritual guide) so that he could easily pass through this worldly but

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slippery courtyard. It is the wish of that disciple who wants to pass his life without indulging in any sin or misdeed. 29 Sayyedah Farhana Jehangir and Farah Naz Qasmi, “Attitude of People towards Religious Mentors,” presented at the 8th International Conference organized by the Pakistan Psychological Association held at Lahore in 1995. 30 Mian Muhammad Baksh said: “My spiritual guide is DamRee waalaa peeraa Shah Qalandar who helps me in each and every trouble in both the worlds (in this world as well as in the next world).” 31 Desiderio Pinto, S.J. “The Mystery of the Nizam ud Din Dargāh: The Accounts of Pilgrims,” in Christian W. Troll, ed. Muslim Shrines in India: Their Character, History, and Significance, 112–24 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 118. 32 Four persons are included in the category of mehrum — husband, real father, son, and brother. 33 In the initial stages of Sufism any and every person who came to a khānqāh was not made a mur  īd. The p īr would interview all new comers, especially to elicit their basic education in Islam, and only if he thought a person fit for becoming a mur  īd, he would give him bai'at. Sometimes a p īr would advise the intending mur  īds to go to some other p īr instead. 34 Extracted from Meher-e-Munir (1969). 35 Cf. the following couplet of Hafiz of Shiraz. 36 Cf. Al-Qur’an: “Allah-o-Ghhaniyyun wa untum foqara” (God is Ghani, and all of you are fuqra). 37 Cf. The Prophet’s (PBUH) ḥad īth: “Every nation has had a fitna, and the fitna of my ummah is wealth.”

Chapter 4

Spiritual Power and ‘Threshold’ Identities: The Mazārs of Sayyid Pīr Waris Shāh Abdul Latīf Bhitāi Uzma Rehman

Introduction Sainthood in Islam has invited considerable attention in Western scholarship.1 There are certain characteristics and merits that set the saints in the Muslim tradition apart from the saints in other religious traditions such as Christianity. While miracles and other spiritual and metaphysical traits are associated with saints in several traditions, the spiritual baraka (spiritual power, blessing) is often found more prominent among Muslim saints.2 What is the spiritual power that is perceived to reside in the saints and how is it accessed? Does this spiritual power have boundaries? Who can and who cannot access this spiritual power? How do perceptions of the sacred and spiritual baraka influence the processes of identity construction? This chapter seeks to find answers to the above questions. Drawing on Dominique-Sila Khan’s idea that belief in a ‘common single power’ recognizes no religious boundaries,3 this chapter examines how identities are constructed through shared perceptions of the sacred character of natural phenomena and various ways of accessing the saints’ spiritual baraka. This happens by physical proximity to the tomb, through contact with physical objects, by seeking refuge in the peaceful space of the Mazārs, through interpreting the saints’ poetry, and by devotees engaging in various rituals. All these ways of accessing the spiritual baraka illustrate how visitors and devotees at the shrines share belief in a common saintly figure which cuts across religious distinctions such as Muslim, Christian, and Hindu. In fact, the devotees share the belief that the saints’ spiritual baraka can help them attain spiritual or mundane benefits such as healing, fertility, physical protection, prosperity, and mental peace. The ethnographic research for this study is based on interviews and participant observation at the shrines (Mazārs) of the Sufi saints Saiyid Pīr Waris Shāh (hereafter Waris Shāh) and Shāh ‘Abdu’l Latīf Bhitai (hereafter, Shāh Latīf).

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The majority of these respondents included the devotees of the two saints as well as visitors to the shrines. However, descendants of the saints, members of the Auqāf Department, university scholars, government officials, literary persons, and journalists were also interviewed. The first section gives an introduction to the legendary history of the two eighteenth-century Sufi saints. The next section discusses the connections between the South Asian shrines and the natural phenomena across various religious traditions in this region. The third section presents definitions of the spiritual baraka within the framework of Islamic Sufi tradition and discusses its links with the sacred space of the shrines. The chapter then analyzes the modes of access to baraka at these shrines.

References to the legendary history Shāh Latīf (1689–1752) was born of a Sayyid family in the Hala Haveli about 80 miles from Bhit Shāh. His great grandfather Shāh ‘Abdu’l Karīm Bulri was thought to be a great Sindhi saint and poet. His father, Shāh Habīb, claimed much respect among the people of the area and was thought to have received education in spiritual matters. His poetry known as Shāh-jo-Risalo (the book of Shāh) is popular among the Sindhis – be they educated or illiterate. According to popular narratives, Shāh Latīf spent a few years of his youth traveling in the company of Hindu yogis. Compelled by his spiritual ordeals, he came to a ­solitary place covered by sand and sat on a bhit (literally, sand dune) – a place where he settled and spent the remaining days of his life and where he is thought to have composed his poetry and where the dargāh of Shāh Latīf is now situated. Although there are no authentic sources regarding Shāh Latīf’s association with a particular Sufi Silsilah, his descendants and close devotees believe that he belonged to the Qādiri. Waris Shāh (1722–98) was also born of a Sayyid family that followed the tradition of Pīri–murīdi.5 Waris Shāh never married, nor did he have any children. As a young man, Waris Shāh is thought to have travelled to southern Punjab, settling for some time in a town called Malka Hans. There he wrote his famous Hīr based on the fifteenth-century Punjabi legendary story of Hīr–Ranjha from a mosque in 1766. The descendants and the close devotees believe that Waris Shāh belonged to the Chīshtī Silsilah. The mazhar of Waris Shāh is situated in Jandiala Sher Khan, a small village near Sheikhupura in central Punjab.

South Asian Mazārs and natural phenomena Dominique Sila-Khan highlights the importance of historical and cultural processes in the construction of religious identities. She argues that in order to

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understand the religious identities of South Asia one must study the ways in which Hindu–Muslim interaction took place throughout history.6 She also argues that interaction between Hindus and Muslims could be classified in terms of three modes: alliances, sharing, and borrowing. She argues that devotees strike alliances with the saintly figures in terms of taking care of sacred sites (shrines) of another religious tradition, for example, guarding a Muslim shrine in a non-Muslim sacred complex.7 In South Asia, several Sufi Mazārs are associated with different kinds of natural phenomena such as ponds, lakes, or springs of water, and legendary animals8 that acquire a sacred character. While such associations are aligned with Hindu beliefs related to natural objects as manifestations of transcendent reality, connections can be found between the preIslamic sacred sites and shrines of Muslim saints. For example, some Sufi saints are said to have settled on the sites of former Hindu temples.9 Bennett’s second chapter discusses this in the context of Bangladesh. One can also witness a fusion of architectural elements among the buildings of South Asian mosques and Hindu temples, to which Bennett also refers.10 Being “places of veneration for all religious faiths,” several South Asian Sufi Mazārs “not only fuse architectural styles and motifs, but create a fusion of local customary rituals as well.”11 Although after the arrival of Islam the preexisting religious traditions in Sindh underwent enormous change, some of the older practices were retained by converts to Islam. Thus, legends associated with the worship of water-gods are also found among Sindhi Muslims.12 Similarly, in Punjab, Sufi Mazārs and their surroundings consist of elements related to pre-Islamic beliefs. These historical connections between the shrines and older religious sites point to similarities among cross-religious perceptions of the sacred. However, given the role of movements of religious reform, which were an important feature of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, one may have to dig deep to find these similarities. Although there may be similar perceptions held by Muslim and non-Muslim devotees in terms of the sanctity of the Mazārs and their surroundings as imbued with a sacred power, there are clear differences in terms of the concentration of this power. Outwardly, various natural phenomena or objects such as trees, wells, lakes, and animals found near Shāh Latīf’s dargāh are revered both by Hindus and Muslims, though their perceptions about these phenomena may be quite different. While Hindu beliefs related to the natural phenomena point to the origin of the world or acts of gods, conscious Muslim devotees revere these phenomena primarily due to their association with the saints. Unlike Hindus, Muslims are forbidden to worship animate or inanimate objects. However, they may attempt to establish contact with this divine power by visiting the tombs of holy men and women. The greater link an object may have with the saint or his tradition, the more importance it would acquire. Thus, the place Shāh Latīf occupied on a sand dune acquired its sanctity through the power that was perceived to be revealed in the saint

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­ imself. It was this power that attracted people from far and wide, thus with h time converting a sandy desert into a ­thriving town. From a phenomenological point of view, a pilgrim’s motive or goal of visiting a shrine is based on an archaic belief that there he/she will come in contact with the Divine. The ‘sacred’ is said to be, in a fundamental sense, ineffable.13 The ineffability or the ambiguity of the sacred is due to an unseen spiritual power that resides in it. Given that the sacred is ineffable and ambiguous, it lends a liminal identity to the place where it is revealed. Werbner and Basu argue that there is a sense of liminality in shrines that makes them sacred localities.14 Contact with the divine believed on the part of a pilgrim takes him/her out of purely earthly structures and commutes him/her across to a more unearthly plane and lends individuals’ identities a threshold character. They are no longer pure earthly beings, even though they may function well in their worldly lives. Keyes argues that the major sign of a saint’s charisma or spiritual power is his capacity of “miraculous cure.” Several miracles associated with the saints have similar structures to those found in the Hindu tradition.15 This is similar to the process in what is now Bangladesh by which Hindu sacred objects and deities were incorporated in the narratives of Muslim saints, described by Bennett and others from whose work he draws. In the following section, I will explore how the devotees perceive the spiritual power associated with the Mazārs of Waris Shāh and Shāh Latīf. This discussion about the spiritual baraka also focuses on how the devotees achieve access to it and what the criteria for accessing this power are. This section also examines how devotees construct or transcend their identities through these perceptions. However, first we will try to explore the definition of spiritual power.

Spiritual power and liminal space The concept of spiritual baraka is universally attached with Muslim saints all over the world.16 The Encyclopaedia of Islam defines it as “beneficent force, of divine origin, which causes superabundance in the physical sphere and prosperity and happiness in the psychic order” that can be implanted by God in the person of his prophets and saints.17 Based on her study of the Sufi shrines in the context of a West African mountain region in Niger, Rasmussen18 describes Al baraka as the “ritual power of Islamic blessing, benediction, and dynamic life force.” Spiritual power is also said to have an ambiguous character. Pemberton argues that spiritual power possessed by a saintly person is “ambiguous, unpredictable, and indeterminate, which makes its characterization problematic, its explanation fraught with contradictions.”19 She also contends that sometimes the spiritual power lends authority to individuals (or women as ritual specialists in this case). With the help of this authority, individuals can challenge ­established

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norms. Schimmel argues that the spiritual baraka infects even inanimate and animate phenomena, stones, earth, trees, plants, animals, persons, and all manmade objects and relics that have come into contact with the holy beings. Not only do such objects contain baraka, they also transmit it to other persons who achieve contact with them.20 However, in her study of the Sufi cult of Zinadapir, Werbner (a contributor to this book) defines the baraka possessed by Sufi saints as “an absolutely localized, focused rather than dispersed sort of power.”21 Devotees and pilgrims at the Mazārs of Waris Shāh and Shāh Latīf share the views that the saints possess a special power that was bestowed on them as divine favor. However, there is no single meaning attached to it. Some refer to it as an ineffable spiritual bliss. Others relate it with a sense of mental peace. Yet others interpret it as an unseen power by dint of which the saints provide the devotees with cure to their diseases and solutions to their mundane problems. Denny remarks that “in connection with Sufism especially and in all cases in which the saint is also a descendant of the Prophet, the baraka of Muhammad continues to reach down to the local level and extend itself into common life at many levels.”22 Several channels of spiritual power are associated with the Sufi Mazārs including the saints’ tombs, biographies, and poetry. However, in the consciousness of devotees, it is especially the tomb of the saint that contains the power that makes the space sacred. The question is how does one gain access to the spiritual power? The following sections will attempt to explore this ­phenomenon.

Modes of access to spiritual baraka The tomb that is imbued with the spiritual power is perceived to lend the Mazārs a sacred character. A saint, like a prophet, is a source of communication with God.23 Once deceased, his/her tomb provides the link with the world beyond.24 This link between the deceased saints and the Divine resides in the transcendence of death. The graves of saintly men define a particular point in space associated with a saint, and hence sacralized. Such sacred points attract worshippers, who travel on pilgrimage (if they cover longer distances) through space in order to reach out to God. But since God is everywhere, it is the plurality of saints that makes this ubiquitous God concrete. It turns the macrocosm into an extension of the microcosm by attaching it to a certain locality.25 Devotees and pilgrims express devotion toward a saint’s tomb since they believe that it emits a special unseen power. The majority of devotees and pilgrims to the Sufi Mazārs, especially among the Muslims, seem to be conscious that the objects are not important in themselves but acquire special meanings due to

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contact with the tomb and the emanating baraka. In the Islamic tradition, it is “not the place that gives sanctity to the tomb, but the saint whose remains sacralize the place, enduring it with power and prestige, which are then available to the people round about who come for blessing and comfort.”26 Although embedded in the Christian tradition, the following definition of devotional prayer provides an insight into how devotees perceive the power residing in the saints’ tombs: When the blessed sacrament is kept on the altar in church, we know that when we open the door to the church we shall see Jesus Christ, both God and man, in his body, as if sitting on a throne over the altar. And as Jesus himself is there, it is our instinct to come full of reverence, giving ourselves to him. We see before us a concrete manifestation of the divine reality towards which we can direct our devotion. We look beyond the mere object of the sacrament. To know that Christ is present in his sacrament is to experience both his grace and his judgement. To be placed in Christ’s presence is to be found by him and sustained by him. The sacrament calls us into the unseen mystery of God. Through faith in the sacrament seen we set a new value on the material world as a vehicle for unseen divine grace and truth.27 The above description of the Blessed Sacrament and the altar in a Christian church share a remarkable similarity with the devotional expressions of pilgrims and devotees at the tomb of a Sufi saint.28 Even though the feeling of presence may be comparable in the two contexts, the actual devotional expressions may differ. The tomb is the object of devotion insofar as devotees perceive in it the saints’ living presence. Pilgrims touch the threshold of the tomb-­ chamber or kiss it before entering the tomb-chamber, with both palms joined together, prostrate before the tomb and whisper their hearts’ desires to it. Some devotees and pilgrims sing odes in glorification of the saints. While departing, they often walk backwards, always facing the tomb. The scene not only reminds one of the etiquette shown by the Christian devotees at the Blessed Sacrament in a church, but it also shows that the pilgrims and devotees at a Sufi shrine perceive an unseen power ever present in and beyond the tomb. The tomb, to them, contains the essence of that power and a part of the Divine. In this sense, the tomb is a living tomb.29 It is the tomb where the person who became one with the Divine lies. He lives in God. Perceptions about Sufi saints’ powers are also linked with the status of martyrs or the Shi’a imāms30 who too are considered alive even after their physical death. Beliefs about the connection after death between the body and the soul vary among Muslim groups. According to some, when the soul leaves the body, it renders it lifeless and thus there remains no connection between the soul and the body. Thus Muslims with such beliefs (especially the followers of the Ahl-i Hadīth school of thought) usually do not venerate the graves of the deceased.31

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Mostly the Sunni (especially the Barelvis) and the Shi’a Muslims consider the graves of the deceased as the earthly symbols of their departed and look after them and pray for them on a regular basis. Here, the difference between the graves of common people and saints is revealed in that the latter are, due to the spiritual power they possess, considered alive even after their physical death. There are common expressions among devotees of diverse religious backgrounds that due to the annihilation of their lower selves and their union with the divine, the saints achieve an eternal life although their existence is veiled from the physical world. After the saints pass away, their tombs serve as a mark of their presence also in the physical world. As a devotee said: “Sarkar is present among us. Just as he was in this world in his apparent form, he exists in a veiled form in the spiritual world and continues guiding us every moment through his kalam (poetry).32 Such perceptions may be controversial especially among those who claim knowledge of legal and theological aspects of Islam. Muslim groups adhering to the Ahl-i Hadīth and the Deobandi traditions altogether reject devotional expressions directed toward the tomb. Although the saints’ descendants (­sajjada-nishin) are often well-versed in the Islamic tradition and know the limits of the shari’a, which separates human beings from Allah – the latter being a transcendent God and the former being His ‘ibad (servants) – they seldom exert their authority in matters of shari’a. This may be in part due to the saints’ Chīshtī and Qādiri backgrounds since these Sufi orders have a reputation for liberal attitudes and emphasis on the spirit, rather than the letter of shari’a. Bearing a different approach from that of the Chīshtī and the Qādiri orders, the Naqshbandi Sufis would deny such perceptions related to the visitation of the Mazārs, considering them heresy. Nevertheless, there are hierarchies of pilgrimage in Islam.33 While the Hajj to Ka’ba points to the axis mundi for the Muslims, a saint’s tomb is the ultimate focus of the shrine as his body is said never to rot and he ‘hears’ and ‘acts’ from within the grave. There is a widespread feeling among pilgrims and devotees that the saints are present in the spiritual realm. On the second, third, and final day of ‘urs at Shāh Latīf’s dargāh in March 2006, hoards of pilgrims tried to enter through the door of the tomb-chamber with an extraordinary zeal, all at the same time. While the pilgrims queued up before the chamber door, they constantly whispered the name of the saint and expressed their petitions, said words of praise for him, and expressed their awe and their gratitude for being “invited” by the saint to his abode. Some of them stopped for a couple of seconds before entering the chamber and kissed the walls or tried to get hold of whatever part of the entrance wall they could reach and touching it passed their hands over their bodies, especially their faces and chests, while the sick and handicapped passed their hands over the inflicted parts of their bodies. Despite standing amidst an enormous crowd, some even managed to bend the upper half of their bodies to touch the threshold. Women tried to transfer the power through their hands to their children. Inside the tomb-chamber, pilgrims

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circumambulated the tomb, desperately trying to touch the wooden screen surrounding the tomb or kissing it. At the end of their ritual walking around the tomb at the southern end, they sometimes splashed rose petals in through the screen or just placed them on the outer shelf. Men and women seemed to be elevated and consumed by the saint’s charm and his spiritual baraka. As one devotee noted: “Tell me one thing. We are sitting here and all of us are mesmerised; lost. How can then conflict [between us] emerge here? Maybe when we leave the Mazār, it will return. Until then, we are all lost [in ecstasy].34 Khan argues that devotees also strike alliances with a healing expert or a saintly figure in order to gain access to their powers related to protection and healing.35 In this regard, devotees seek help of the saintly figures without regard of their outward religious affiliation.36 This takes place in Sufi Mazārs where both Muslim and non-Muslim devotees seek a cure from possession by evil spirits, regardless of the healer’s outward religious affiliation. This mostly occurs in the Sindhi context where local customs and beliefs continue to reflect Hindu practices. Some scholars argue that even though the sacred is always connected with charisma, it is impossible to imagine that the charisma has an underlying characteristic that is universal.37 Keyes argues that the sacred is subjected to cultural perceptions.38 Thus, although, the tomb occupies a central position in the Mazārs, it may not represent, as phenomenologists like Mircea Eliade would propose, the axis mundi or “the central pole.” The tomb has a history behind it, the biography of the saint, the ancestral links that go back to the Prophet and a special power and miracles associated with the saint. Yet, despite having varied perceptions of the Mazārs, pilgrims of diverse social and religious backgrounds are linked together by the tomb. The tomb is the center of their focus. Pilgrims relate to the transcendent reality that exists beyond the tomb in their respective manners. While there may be several interpretations of this transcendent phenomenon, in reality, they are one, since they are focused on one object – the tomb. Although the tomb is the point where the saints’ spiritual power concentrates, other channels of spiritual power become available to the devotees and pilgrims, such as physical objects, performance of the saints’ poetry, and rituals.

Access through physical objects Devotees and pilgrims at the Mazārs of Waris Shāh and Shāh Latīf believe that the saints’ spiritual blessings prevail within their territories. In most cases reference is made to the area of the shrine but also the town or the city where it is situated. The blessing of the saint envelops everything that comes in contact with him including objects and persons.

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Upon visiting the Mazārs, pilgrims try to achieve contact with all the objects placed near the tomb. Anything which is brought in contact with the saint, his tomb, and his prevailing spiritual power, especially in the area inside or around the tomb-chamber, is believed to contain blessings. They eat the dried flowers from the tombs laid or offered by other pilgrims since they are taken as “a special sweet gift touched by the sacred tomb.”39 They also suck on the salt that is found in a clay pot right in front of the door to the tomb-chamber at Waris Shāh’s shrine. Pilgrims, both Muslim and non-Muslim, at the dargāh of Shāh Latīf suck on the sacred soil imported from Karbala in Iraq, the place where the great tragedy happened with the grandsons of the Prophet and their families in the seventh century. Others take a few pinches of the soil along, saving it in pieces of paper or their pockets. Others take a bit of oil placed in a niche along the western door of the tomb-chamber. It is observed that often acts like consummation of dried flowers, holy dust, and other sacred objects, which to a non-devotee may sound unhygienic, are considered to be not only safe, but also with blessed effects. There are common perceptions among the devotees that the power that resides in the shrines can heal them physically, mentally, and spiritually. There are shared views that this power can both help them through their worldly problems and ensure their salvation after they die. When achieved, the spiritual power gets converted in multiple shapes such as spiritual and physical healing, protection, prosperity, fertility, mental peace, social acceptance, and even political interests. As one devotee responded: “I was very poor but then I found the source success of income because Shāh Sahib (Shāh Latīf) gave me everything. All my needs are fulfilled.40

Mazārs’ roles as sanctuaries The Mazārs of Waris Shāh and Shāh Latīf are perceived by the devotees to provide them financial as well as physical security. Khan argues that devotees who share beliefs in a common saintly figure also strike “alliances” with the saint for protection.41 Sheldrake argues that an individual’s identity is often attached with being geographically placed as opposed to travelling, which involves ambiguity.42 People’s need to be associated with a place seems to have a lot to do with their sense of security. Thus, places are sources of security and identity. Such security and safety is linked to the spiritual power residing in the saints’ tombs.43 However, the term ‘sanctuary’ has specific connotations. Here, I use the term as refuge in two senses of the word: (a) as sanctuaries from the troubles of their mundane lives, violence, fear, and a sense of powerlessness; and (b) as physical security against persecution due to generational enmities. In the first case, the power contained in the saint’s tomb safeguards the weak and the sorrowful against “the natural anxiety generated by the necessary

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­ambiguity of the sacred word” and the transcendence of God.44 When asked why they visit the shrine frequently, most responded that they find sukun (peace of mind) there. In her book, Werbner terms the notion of sukun as “a basic Sufi conception” and links it with the healing powers associated with a living saint or his tomb.45 Literally ‘to inhabit’, this Arabic/Urdu word denotes “calmness, tranquillity, a Sufi state of mind which emanates from the mystic and imbues all his surroundings.”46 Devotees consider it necessary to physically travel to the Mazār in order to have close contact with the saint. It is considered to be an honor or a blessing to visit a saint’s mazar47 even though such an opportunity may come only once in a lifetime.48 There are shared views among devotees that the mazār emits a mysterious sense of quiet and peace which makes them forget the frets of life or even the world itself. With regard to the healing effects at a saint’s abode, Werbner’s discussion is quite close to my own analysis. She writes: “Just by being in the lodge the anxieties and fears of supplicants may be transformed into ‘peace of mind.’ To come within the ambience of the saint, like eating from his langar, is in itself healing.”49 An illiterate male pilgrim from a nearby town and a local devotee from Bhit Shāh describe their feelings about the atmosphere of Shāh Latīf’s dargāh: There are neither bedsteads (char-pa’i) nor beddings (bistar) [in the courtyard of the dargāh] but they (pilgrims) are sitting and lying down peacefully without any restlessness (bai-chaini) or wrangling (jhanjhat). This is what a peaceful life is like. They come to seek peace (sukun or rahat), love (mahabbat), brotherhood (bhaichara) as human beings seek peace. . . . Just look at the way people are sitting, lying down here.50 Some devotees consider the mazhar a refuge for those who are persecuted. The devotees consider the town of Bhit Shāh a sacred place where physical security is ensured. Several individuals and families have migrated to Bhit Shāh from other parts of Sindh in search of security since they had been involved in generational enmities or conflicts over money or land. They believe that they would not be harmed in the saint’s town. Others with poor economic background have settled there to improve their livelihood. Pilgrims claim that they find mental peace and love in the Mazārs:51 As a middle-aged male pilgrim said: “There is nothing (no fear). We are just sitting here out of love for this lover [of God and His Prophet]. God will have mercy on us for the sake of him (the saint).52 Or as another one said: Latīf Sarkar (form of address for Shāh Latīf) is everyone’s. Those who come here are happy and those who live here are also happy. People receive peace here. Where such beings are found, there is noor (light) all around and there are blessings around . . . anyone can get will power because of his

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­presence. . . . Latīf Sai’n is not there. He is buried in the earth. Yet, because of him here in the city at least 30,000 people are getting livelihood. Do you understand what I am saying? It is because of him through him [they get the livelihood] because people visit here because of him.53

Access through the saints’ poetry Devotees also gain access to the saints’ spiritual baraka through their poetry recited or sung at the Mazārs. Rasmussen remarks that “albaraka may also be conveyed through prayer calls and songs.”54 Just as the spiritual powers of the saints are considered to make no discrimination between religious backgrounds of the devotees, the power contained in their poetry and musical traditions knows no limitations either. More so, it binds devotees and pilgrims together as inheritors and believers of a shared legacy left by the saints. Devotees believe they achieve mental peace and spiritual satisfaction by rendering and listening to the poetry. This is also portrayed in the views expressed by a senior male raagi faqir: When the Sindhis listen to the rag, they know that they would forget all mundane things and would focus on spiritual things. They would pray for their spiritual satisfaction. . . . Just as the body needs food (roti) and nourishment, the soul (ruh) too may need food. Shāh’s kalam (the saint’s poetry) is food for the soul.55 While pilgrims listen to the Hīr Waris Shāh (the Punjabi epic poem written by Waris Shāh), they call out, with excitement, words of praise to the verses that are being recited or to the manner in which a particular Hīr-Khwan is performing those verses. Others listen to it quietly. But all who listen to the poetry seem to be drawn to its melody and the depth of its words. The Bhairavi raga56 used for singing Hīr has melodious and soothing effects. Pilgrims believe that the poetry has a magical, inspirational, and mesmerising effect.57 Both elderly people with a traditional approach to life and youngsters belonging to twenty-first century Punjab find the poetry appealing. While talking about the spiritual power in the poetry, a young devotee from Jandiala Sher Khan, who himself sings the saint’s poetry, says: “Poets like Waris Shāh have the power to transport people to the [spiritual] planes where they themselves are.”58 This is reflected in the view of one pilgrim who said: “Here, in Asia, Islam was introduced by the saints (Auliya Allah). The saints tried to find a way in which they could introduce Islam to the people. . . . Poetry is the best mode of conveying subtle emotions (Latīf jazbat). Sufi saints understood this need of the people. Prose cannot match the eagerness (tarhap) or attraction of the poetry.”59 The power of blessing can be achieved by the means of ritual, prayer, pilgrimage to shrines (ziyārat), and offerings,60 and through contact with living pīrs.61 Keyes explains that the miraculous healing powers associated with a person or a

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being are understood as an “expectation that the practitioner will be fused in some sense with the sacred and that from this fusion will flow the power to cure.”62 All the above means of getting access to the saints’ spiritual power (i.e., the tomb, physical objects, and the saints’ poetry) require devotees and pilgrims to physically travel to the Mazārs. However, the efficacy of these means increases the devotees’ participation in the rituals, both individual and collective.

Access through rituals Rituals performed at the Mazārs are another means of accessing the saints’ spiritual power. Devotees attempt to achieve contact with the spiritual baraka through, for instance, a communal prayer performed by the sajjada-nishin on the third day of the ‘urs,63 the singing/listening of the saints’ poetry, in Shāh Latīf’s case accompanied by music, and the muharram mourning rituals64 that include the sharing of food distributed twice a day and the mach (sacred fire). Some devotees also claim to have access to the effective power of the saint even though they are physically not present in the Mazārs. This, they claim, occurs whenever they are in difficulty and call out to the saint for help. The saint obliges them and gets them safely out of a difficult situation.65 Just as Mills66 remarks that darshan67 is where Pīr (preceptor) and disciple belong to each other, by entering the shrine’s premises and by catching a glimpse of the tomb, devotees become eligible candidates for the access to the saints’ power.

Eligibility for access to spiritual baraka Criteria of inclusion and exclusion are intrinsic to group identities. Here, we will attempt to examine what are the criteria – albeit informal – of eligibility for access to the saints’ spiritual baraka. Conditions for the imbuing of the blessing are generally twofold: (a) pure intention (niyat) and (b) strong faith (‘aqida). According to common expressions, in order to get their requests granted by the saint, devotees must have a pure, clean heart which does not bear any negative or evil feelings against anyone and they must have unflinching trust and faith in the saints’ powers.68 As a male devotee exclaimed: What can people give me? It is Latīf who gives. People cannot be expected to give. We are sitting at the doorway of the one who gives. What can people give? If they give, then they expect something in return. We only beg him (the saint). . . . God willing, he will give. We have faith in Latīf Pak (respectful mode of address used for Shāh Latīf).69 The argument presented by Dominique-Sila Khan that shared beliefs in a common saintly figure often cause devotees to transcend religious barriers is espe-

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cially relevant to devotees’ perceptions about eligibility of access to the saints’ spiritual power. Devotees enter the Mazārs with the aim of achieving access to the tomb. They perceive a mysterious power emanating from the tomb. To devotees, this power comes from God. It knows no boundaries. It does not discriminate between those who enter its sphere. More so, it touches devotees both in the ways they expect it and in ways unknown to them. Devotees often emphasize the transcendent character of the saints and their “deviation above ordinary mortals.”70 In order to benefit from the miraculous powers of the saints, it is important that the devotees consider themselves as powerless or weak. Keyes71 points out that people are motivated to look to charismatic persons for access to the sacred. This, he argues, happens when people find themselves in “marginal situations” (a term derived from Peter Berger) that impel individuals confronted with difficulties of life to resort to charismatic persons. They draw a line that separates what is mortal and ephemeral from what is supernatural, other-worldly. Saints are considered to possess authority that is above the authority of temporal rulers insofar as it “recognises no temporal political, ethnic or religious boundaries.”72 Largely human and mundane motives for getting access to the power break down boundaries based on social, economic, or religious differences. Even physical imperfections are accepted and respected due to the desired effects that may be achieved through the power. For example, due to the consoling effects, the needy and the deprived, including the crippled and the sick, find their way to the Mazārs in search of a blessed encounter with the sacred. This is reflected in the way a young male devotee explains why people may visit: This is a rule of the universe that every inferior thing (adna chiz) sacrifices itself for a superior one (a’la). We being inferior and good-for-nothing (nikamme) have no choice but to come to these superior ones in order to share our sorrows and pain (dukh-dard) [with them]. We human beings are dependent. . . . Allah is quite far. No one has seen Him, no one recognized Him. We come here because outwardly . . . these [saints] are representations of God (Khuda de rup).73 Another devotee noted: The fact is that not all tombs may be prostrated to. There are some specific tombs where one may prostrate. . . . There are specific places that are worthy of prostration . . . otherwise there are many who die. When they die [physically], they die. Persons like these saints are revered because they are alive [even after their physical death].74 There are common perceptions that all those who revere the saints and enter their territories receive their spiritual power, even though they may not know

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much about their biographies. Devotees share views about the saints’ all-embracing blessings and their unconditional love that does not discriminate between people. Instead, each person can tap into this power according to his/ her own perceptions. The criteria or eligibility for achieving contact with the spiritual power differs according to devotees’ perceptions. A Muslim devotee who emphasizes his religious or sectarian identity may therefore perceive that all those who believe in the Prophet Muhammad, and the Ahl-i Bait (members of his family), are blessed by the saints. Others may consider reverence for the saints as a requisite for achieving the baraka. Others yet believe that those in difficulty, in need, or in trouble receive the saints’ blessings upon entering their abodes, disregarding their religious backgrounds. These blessings are achieved by those who have strong faith in the saints’ powers. A young male devotee observed: Yes, I would like to stay here all my life. As long as the Sakhi (the generous; meaning the saint) approves, no one can get me out of here. ... I am here as long as it is his will and God’s mercy. When he wills me to leave here, even the president (of Pakistan) would not be able to keep me here. This is my belief.75 Devotees of both Muslim and non-Muslim backgrounds share perceptions that human beings commit mistakes, and even grave sins, but once they repent and ask for divine forgiveness, their sins become a thing of the past. They are purified. Such perceptions are described by those who go on a pilgrimage for the first time. For example, in the Muslim tradition, upon their return from the Ka’ba on the annual Hajj, the pilgrims are said to believe that the sins committed during their previous lives have been annulled and they have gone through a process of rebirth by performing the pilgrimage.76 Similarly, for devotees a visit to the shrine of an important saint symbolizes the annual Hajj. Some pilgrims of Muslim and non-Muslim backgrounds believe that the act of visiting the Mazārs is not determined by their own will or intention, rather the saint calls people to come. A Sikh pilgrim from India admitted that he was not really aware of what actually brought him to Pakistan until he reached Waris Shāh’s mazār. Here the Sikh pilgrim seems to refer to a common expression among the devotees of the saints that they are sometimes pulled toward the mazārs of saints through an unseen power which they can neither see nor explain. The Sikh pilgrim also said that it was not his own but rather the saint’s decision that he visited the mazārs: “Baba Waris Shāh’s fragrance has brought me here.”77 Similarly, another devotee of Waris Shāh and a Hīr-Khwan believes that it is the saint’s will to invite people to his mazārs. As one man said: It depends on one’s devotion and faith. Sarkar is not only for Muslims. Those who have devotion and reverence for him, fear of God and belief that he

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is a wali, Allah’s servant, they can get their troubles solved by visiting him, so they come here. It is not that a Muslim saint cannot be visited by a nonMuslim (here meaning Christian). Because he also belongs to the people of the book.78 A female pilgrim to Waris Shāh’s Mazhar told me that what brought her there was a prior meeting with the saint in her dream: Female devotee: I had a dream and so I came to greet [the saint]. UR: Was the dream about Baba Ji Waris Shāh? Female devotee: No. He (Waris Shāh) first met me in the form of an old woman, and embraced me with a lot of love. Then he took the form of a man. But a sign was made that he is calling to go and meet him. So, I came to meet him.79 Devotees’ perceptions about the saints’ wish to invite them determine their perceptions of fellow pilgrims and devotees. All those who visit the Mazārs are the saints’ guests and thus deserve respect from fellow pilgrims. Such beliefs seem to dispel distinctions of pilgrims’ backgrounds. Being the saints’ guests, pilgrims share an identity that is constructed by their devotion for the saints and transcends social and religious identities that exist outside the shrine’s domain. Amidst anxiety and expectations related to the saints’ intercessory powers, some recognize the presence of other devotees and pilgrims. Although devotees may compete for opportunities such as a glimpse of the tomb, or physical contact with the objects near the tomb, they recognize each other as equal candidates for the saints’ blessings. Religious or social differences matter the least while pilgrims are near the tomb. They either sit on the floor, stand, or perform circles around the tomb side by side. Here, pilgrims enter as individuals since they believe that they have the chance to directly receive the saints’ blessings. All in  all, inside the Mazārs, formal social or religious backgrounds become irrelevant as mediating structures.

Conclusion As religious or sacred institutions, Sufi shrines are difficult to locate in an exclusive Islamic tradition. Their appeal to Muslims and non-Muslims alike poses challenges to standard perceptions of religious identities. Given that devotees of diverse religious backgrounds consider the mazhar as sacred and imbued with a mysterious power, one is inclined to ponder over the concept of the sacred. Other contributors to this book explore how Sufi Islam builds interfaith bridges, linking with this chapter. Does this concept recognize no religious boundaries? Or is it that in certain cultural contexts, the sacred is thought to be

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a universal category? Owing to the fact that South Asian religious identities often converge at several junctures, such as cultural, linguistic, and ethnic, and sharp distinctions drawn between religious traditions and practices become irrelevant. The notion of sacred is shared by Muslim and non-Muslim pilgrims. Sometimes non-Muslim, especially Hindu, pilgrims find the Mazārs’ structures and related objects similar to their own notions of sacred phenomena. Similarly, the stories of miracles associated with the saints are often shared among Muslim and non-Muslim devotees. For her ideas of ‘threshold’ identities, Dominique-Sila Khan80 uses the metaphor of the Greek deity Janus-Bifrons, who is one but has two faces pointing to opposite directions. She argues that through alliances, sharing, and borrowing, communities belonging to various religious traditions are brought together on a threshold. This, she argues, “is the point where universality prevails over sectarianism, although devotees may preserve their distinct religious affiliations.”81 The sacred space of the Mazārs is permanently imbued with the saints’ power, thus having a liminal character. Those who enter the liminal space adopt ‘threshold’ identities which are situated at the open doorways. Perceptions about the saints’ spiritual baraka may have implications for the processes of identity construction. First, shared perceptions about the saints’ unlimited spiritual power often bring people into a common frame of reference. The ambiguous and mysterious sense prevailing due to the belief in the saints’ spiritual power creates a liminal atmosphere in the Mazārs where devotees’ diverse motives for coming are implicitly recognized and accepted. Second, the devotees consider the Mazārs to be sanctuaries and physical refuges. Pilgrims’ focus on the tomb of the saint binds them together and transports them to a ‘liminal’ territory where their identities outside the shrines become irrelevant. However, as Khan argues, devotees may still retain their original religious identities outside the shrines – these are just not emphasized inside the shrine. Since the Mazārs are considered sanctuaries where all are welcome and where all are protected against the threatening circumstances of life, demarcations of identities separating people on the basis of their religious affiliations as Hindu, Muslim, and Christian, and social backgrounds become irrelevant. Even if this differs between the two shrines and it is more obvious in the case of Sindh, this chapter paints a picture of religious practice in rural Pakistan that seems more complex than most of the mainstream media’s focus on religiously inspired acts of violence would lead one to believe.

Notes 1

Frederick M. Denny, “Prophet and Wali: Sainthood in Islam”, in Richard Kieckhefer and George D. Bond, eds., Sainthood: Its Manifestations in World Religions,

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69–97 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988); Katherine Pratt Ewing, “The Politics of Sufism: Redefining the Saints of Pakistan”, Journal of Asian Studies, Vol. XLII, No. 2: 251–68. February 1983; Jurgen Wasim Frembgen, “From Dervish to Saint: Constructing Charisma in Contemporary Pakistani Sufism”, The Muslim World, 2004, Vol. 92, Issue 2 (April) 245–57; M. Geijbels, “Aspects of the Veneration of Saints in Islam: With Special Reference to Pakistan”, Muslim World, 68, 3: 176–86, 1978; Nicholaas H. Biegman, Egypt: Moulids, Saints, Sufis. The Hague: Gary Schwartz/SDU. (London: Kegan Paul International, 1990). 2 Camilla C. T. Gibb, “Baraka without Borders” Integrating Communities in the City of Saints”, Journal of Religion in Africa, 1999, Vol. 29, Fasc. 1 (February), 88-108; Rasmussen, Susan J. (2005). “’These are Dirty Times’: Transformations of Gendered Spaces and Islamic Rituals Protection in Tuareg Herbalists’ and Marabouts’ Albaraka Blessings Powers”, in Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern (eds.) Contesting Rituals: Islam and Practices of Identity-Making, 73–100. (Durham: Carolina Academic Press, 2005). 3 Dominique-Sila Khan, Crossing the Threshold: Understanding Religious Identities in South Asia. (New York: I.B.Tauris, 2004), 34. 4 I use the term ‘dargāh’ for the shrine of Shāh Latīf and the term ‘mazār’ for the shrine of Waris Shāh because these terms are the ones used locally to describe the shrines. However, I use the plural term ‘Mazārs’ when referring to both shrines as well as Sufi shrines in general. 5 Master–disciple relationship. For a detailed discussion on pīri–murīdi tradition in the dargāh of the thirteenth-century saint Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya in New Delhi, see Pinto 1995. 6 Khan 2004, 32. 7 Khan 2004, 33. 8 According to popular narratives animals were tamed by the saints during their lifetime and have ever since been found there. For example, the Mazārs of Manghu Pīr near Karachi has crocodiles in its adjacent pond, the shrine associated with Bayazid Bistami in Bangladesh has giant turtles in a nearby pond, and the shrine in Kallar Kahar in northern Punjab (Pakistan) is also known for its peacocks. Usually a large number of pigeons settle on the domes of most Mazārs. In some cases, popular beliefs explain that these animals guard the saints’ shrines. See A.B. Rajput, “Crocodiles guard saint’s shrine” in The Nation, 4 November 2000. Also see, Annemarie Schimmel, Islam in India and Pakistan, in Th. P. van Baaren, LP van den Bosch, L. Leertouwer, F. Leemhuis (eds.) Iconography of Religions series (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1982a). 9 Annemarie Schimmel, “Reflections on Popular Muslim Poetry.” in K. Ishwaran and Bardwell L. Smith (eds.). Contributions to Asian Studies, 17–26, Richard C. Martin (ed.) Islam in Local Contexts, Vol. 17 (Leiden: E.J.Brill, 1982b); Aubrey O’Brien, “The Mohammaedan Saints of the Western Punjab”, The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Greet Britain and Ireland, 1911, Vol. 41, (July­December), 509-20. 10 See Schimmel 1982b), 18 and Bennett’s second chapter in this book. 11 S.A.A. Saheb, “A ‘Festival of Flags’: Hindu Muslim devotion and the sacralising of localism at the shrine of Nagore-e-Sharif in Tamil Nadu,” in Pnina Werbner and

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Helene Basu (eds.) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults, 55-76 (London: Routledge, 1998). 12 Khwaja Khizr, an immortal mystical figure known among South Asian Muslims, is believed to reign over water and vegetation, and protects castes such as washermen, water carriers, boatmen, and fishermen.. See Marc Gaboreíeau, “The cult of saints among the Muslims of Nepal and northern India”, in Wilson, Stephen (ed.). Saints and their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History, 289318 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 301-2. ) 13 Charles F. Keyes, “Charisma: From Social Life to Sacred Biography”, 1-22 in Michael A. Williams (ed.) Charisma and Sacred Biography. Journal of the American Academy of Religion Studies, 1-22, Vol. XLVIII, Numbers 3 and 4, American Academy of Religion, 1. 1982. 14 Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu, “The Embodiment of Charisma”, in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (eds.) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults, 3-27 (London: Routledge, 1998). 15 Miracles are especially associated with Shah Latīf. For example, legends telling about the saint’s ability to plunge in the well and emerge from rivers or lakes at different places in the Indian Subcontinent are similar to myths associated with Hindu deities. There is a legend about Shah Latīf’s visit to the shrine of the Hindu deity Kali Mata. The saint is said to have offered milk to the statue of the Hindu deity which the latter drank. However, this legend is popular among a limited number of devotees. 16 The term baraka (in Punjabi/Sindhi/Urdu, barkat) is used in scholarly literature for describing a special spiritual power or divine grace that, as devotees believe, resides in a saintly person or his/her tomb after he/she passes away. But in fact, the term is rarely used by the devotees. Instead, they use various expressions for describing the spiritual power that, they believe, emanates from the saints’ tombs. Here, the term baraka is defined by contextualizing the word. 17 Encyclopaedia of Islam 1979 Vol I., 1032. 18 Rasmussen 2005, 74. 19 Kelly Pemberton, “A House of Miracles for One and All: Sufi Shrines, Islamic Identity, and the Synthesis of (Sub-) Cultures in India Today”. Paper presented at Annual Association for Asian Studies Conference, (Washington D.C., April, (2002), 26. 20 Annemarie Schimmel, Deciphering the Signs of God: A Phenomenological Approach to Islam. (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994). 21 Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love: The Anthropology of a Global Sufi Cult. (Karachi: Oxford University Press 2003), 285. 22 Denny 1988, 91. 23 Lukas Werth, “’The Saint Who Disappeared’: Saints of the wilderness in Pakistani village shrines”, in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (eds.) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults, 77-92 (London: Routledge 1998), 78. 24 Werth 1998, 80. 25 Ibid. 26 Denny 1998, 76.

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Ralph Townsend, Faith, Prayer and Devotion. (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1983), 85. This is also similar to the manner that Hindus worship deities and goddesses in their temples or shrines or Sikhs show reverence for their sacred book, Guru Granth Sahib, placed on a high platform in gurdwaras. 29 There are references to “living tombs” in Punjabi Sufi poetry as tombs of persons who, through spiritual struggle and the Divine favors, have achieved the status of eternal life. Thus their tombs too are alive. 30 For a detailed study on the spiritual Baraka of a deceased Imām, see Liakat Takim, “Charismatic Appeal of Communitas? Visitation to the Shrines of the Imams,” in Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern (eds.) Contesting Rituals: Islam and Practices of Identity-Making, 181-204 (Durham: Carolina Academic Press, 2005). 31 Interview with Syed Sibtul Hasan Zaigham, a Punjabi writer and journalist from Lahore. March 16, 2005. 32 A middle-aged Hīr-Khwan at Waris Shah’s mazhar. March 10, 2005. 33 Surinder M. Bharadvaj, “Non-Hajj Pilgrimage in Islam: A Neglected Dimension of Religious Circulation”, Journal of Cultural Geography, Vol. 17, Issue 2, 1998 (Spring/Summer), 69-87. 34 A Sikh pilgrim from India at Waris Shah’s mazhar (Punjab). March 8, 2005. 35 Khan 2004, 34. 36 Ibid., 33. 37 Keyes 1982, 2. 38 Ibid., 9. 39 Qamar-ul Huda, “Khwaja Mu’in ud-Din Chīshtī’s death festival: competing authorities over sacred space”, Journal of Ritual Studies, Vol. 17, No. 1: 61–75, 70, 2003. 40 A male pilgrim (aged between 40 and 45) from Khairpur (a town in Sindh). April 7, 2005. 41 Khan 2004, 33. 42 Philip Sheldrake, Spaces for the Sacred: Place, Memory and Identity. (London: SCM Press, 2001), 11. 43 See G. van der Leeuw, Religion in Essence and Manifestation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), 395. 44 Charles Lindholm, “Prophets and Pirs: Charismatic Islam in the Middle East and South Asia”, in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (eds.) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults, 209–33 (London: Routledge 1998), 211. 45 Werbner 2003, 217. 46 Ibid. 47 Talk with some pilgrims of the large group of families, neighbors, and friends visiting Waris Shāh’s mazhar from Shahdara (Lahore). March 17, 2005. 48 Talk with male college students from Lahore at Waris Shāh’s mazhar. March 8, 2005. 49 Werbner 2003, 218. 50 A male pilgrim from Nasarpur visiting Shah Latīf’s dargāh. April 8, 2005. 51 A middle-aged male pilgrim in Shah Latīf’s dargāh. April 7, 2005. 27 28

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A middle-aged male pilgrim from Shikarpur visiting the dargāh of Shah Latīf. April 6, 2005. 53 A pilgrim and a former nazim of Thatta visiting Shah Latīf’s dargāh during the annual ‘urs. March 15, 2006. 54 Rasmussen 2005, 81. 55 A senior ragi faqir (aged 50–55) during a gathering of ragi faqirs. April 10, 2005. 56 A classical South Asian music genre in which the saint is said to have written his poetry. 57 Talk with male college students visiting Waris Shāh’s mazhar from Lahore. March 8, 2005. 58 A male devotee of Waris Shāh’s mazhar with an MA in Punjabi literature, a murīd of a well-known modern Sufi poet from a village near Jandiala Sher Khan. March 18, 2005. 59 A male devotee of Waris Shāh’s mazhar from a nearby village and a university student. March 18, 2005. 60 Gibb 1999, 94. 61 Samuel Landell Mills, “The Hardware of Sanctity: Anthropomorphic objects in Bangladesh Sufism”, in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (eds.) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults, 31-54 (­London: Routledge, 1998). 62 Keyes 1982, 7. 63 This ritual is performed by the sajjada-nishin when he wears the saint’s personal cloak, puts his cap on, holds his rosary, and walks from the quarter of the sajjadanishin to the door of the tomb-chamber and back. 64 One can also observe moments of intense mutual experience during the time when the Shi’a members among the local and traveling pilgrims perform mourning rituals during the first ten days of muharram and during the annual ‘urs at Shah Latīf’s dargāh. 65 Interview with the female members of the Tamrani faqirs’ families. March 2, 2005. 66 Mills 1998, 40. 67 Mostly the term darshan is used in the Hindu context. But one often hears the term at the mazhars when the devotees refer to their wish to have a glimpse of the saints’ tombs. In the context of Hindu devotional practices, the term darshan is sometimes translated as the “‘auspicious sight’ of the divine”. For a detailed discussion on darshan, see Diana L. Eck, Darsan: Seeing the Divine Image in India. (Banaras: American Institute of Indian Studies, 1996). 68 Jeddy, B.A. “And faith heals them” in The Dawn, 23 July 2000. 69 A male devotee and a non-professional musician who plays an instrument like the bagpipes at Shah Latīf’s dargāh. March 2, 2005. 70 Werbner 2003, 98. 71 Keyes 1982, 8. 72 Werbner 2003, 92. 73 A male devotee (in his twenties) and a resident of a nearby village visiting Waris Shāh’s mazhar. March 18, 2005. 74 A male Hīr-Khwan at Waris Shāh’s mazhar. March 10, 2005. 52

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A male devotee (in his twenties) and employee at the management of Waris Shāh’s mazhar who is in charge of opening the mazhar (Punjab). March 9, 2006. 76 Werbner and Basu 1998, 5; 2003, 106. 77 A Sikh pilgrim from India and wife visiting Waris Shāh’s mazhar. March 8, 2005. 78 A male devotee (in his twenties) and employee at the management of Waris Shāh’s mazhar who is in charge of opening the mazhar (Punjab). March 9, 2006. 79 A female middle-aged pilgrim from Gujranwala at Waris Shāh’s mazhar. March 8, 2005. 80 Khan 2004, 6. 81 Ibid., 44. 75

Chapter 5

Du’a: Popular Culture and Powerful Blessing at The ‘Urs Pnina Werbner

Much has been written about the Barelvi movement in South Asia, a movement that arose in the nineteenth century to defend popular Islam and the veneration of saints from Islamic reformist attacks.1 Yet there has been little appreciation of how the Barelvi movement is interpolated into the saintly shrine system in South Asia, or how the connection between saints and the ‘ulama, chief spokesmen and leaders of the movement, is sustained. The key to this relationship, I want to suggest here, is the ‘urs, seen as an open, inclusive popular festival. It is through the many thousands of annual ‘urs festivals held every year at shrines and lodges throughout the length and breadth of Pakistan that Sufi regional cults link into and sustain the wider Barelvi movement. With the global extension of Pakistani centers of migration the provenance of this symbiotic relationship has also extended. Yet while the ‘urs provides a platform for the ‘ulama, it is also an indexical occasion which reinforces the supremacy and autonomy of saints and reenacts the ambivalent relations of interdependency between saint and maulvi, shrine and mosque. The ‘urs is both a ritual and a giant popular religious festival. It is also the hub of the organizational power of a Sufi regional cult, underpinning its reproduction and enabling its continued geographical extension. These three aspects of the ‘urs: ritual, popular cultural, and organizational, are all essentially intertwined. In the first part of this chapter, I analyze the embeddedness of the ‘urs in the broader Barelvi movement and folk popular culture. The chapter then considers the ‘urs as a performative ritual moved by the power of blessing to its final dramatic moment. The different phases of the ‘urs are shown to be part of a single structured ritual. Finally, I review the centrality of the ‘urs as the organizational nexus of a particular Sufi trans/regional cult founded by Zindapir, a saint who died in 1999.2

Poets, singers, and orators During the ‘urs at Ghamkol Sharif, the space of the lodge, usually so tranquil and pastoral, is filled with blaring and often discordant sounds transmitted

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through a powerful sound system, and reaching into every nook and cranny of the lodge. At any hour of the day or night, festival participants volunteer to sing na’ts, songs of praise to the Prophet, or qasidas, odes to the pīrs (saints). Learned scholars volunteer to give religious lectures or sermons. Anyone may volunteer, even nondisciples, the moderator explained to me. He first tests the performers before allowing them to perform live. The popular cultural success of the ‘urs depends largely on improvisation and public voluntary participation, and it is these that help make it a successful cultural and intellectual performance, just as voluntary contributions, donations, and labor enable it to be a giant feast or a logistically complex three-day meeting. Such voluntarism is crucial to the success of the festival. It is truly the product of communal effort and none, with the possible exception of the invited speakers in the final session, gets paid for performing. What performers get is publicity and a growing reputation. The ‘urs is a genuinely open meeting of amateurs and semiprofessionals. Over time, amateur na’t singers and ‘ulama on the ‘urs circuit may acquire a name and as their fame grows, the na’t singers may turn semiprofessional while the ‘ulama may secure good posts in Barelvi mosques. Some performers, however, just enjoy appearing at their favorite‘urs. Hajji Ibrahim, for example, my attendant at the lodge, had a very good singing voice and was fond of a certain Punjabi poet. He sometimes sang his na’ts at Zindapir’s‘urs or at another ‘urs, at Bohra Jangal. Twice he was invited to sing on Radio Pakistan, he told me, but on both occasions he declined. During the ‘urs in March 2000, I interviewed some of the prominent maulvis and na’t singers who performed in the final prestigious session of the ‘urs. Their careers highlight how the openness and inclusiveness of the Barelvis as a movement is sustained through a circuit of such public festivals. The movement has, of course, gained much strength since the founding of Pakistan, especially through its network of Islamic schools and colleges.3 Its thousands of mosques, located in towns and villages especially in the Punjab, have always been independent. Malik hints at the political strategies deployed by the leaders of the Barelvi political organization, the Jam’iyyat-e ‘Ulama-Pakistan (JUP) and its mystical association, the Ham’iyyat al Mash’ikh Pakistan. On the whole, these organizations’ tendency has been to cooperate with Pakistan’s successive regimes. Measured in electoral terms the political power of the movement has remained negligible, but it retains its cultural-cum-political influence among its large Barelvi constituency. Given the surplus of Barelvi ‘ulama, a reputation as an acute and persuasive speaker is an important step on the ladder to a post as imām of a major mosque. The giant audience at an ‘urs enables aspiring clerics to display their intellectual profundity and oratorical skills. Na’t singers can gain a reputation leading to further invitations to perform on the ‘urs and na’tmahfil circuit and, if they are lucky, to a recorded cassette and a slot on a radio or TV show. The ‘urs of Ghamkol Sharif is widely publicized in the press and through posters plastered

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on walls throughout the major cities and towns of Pakistan. In addition, ­personal invitations are sent out to murīds and to ‘ulama or na’t singers who have previously participated in it. A detailed register which includes names and addresses is updated from time to time and tens of thousands of invitations are sent out annually before each ‘urs. I interviewed the leading ‘ulama and na’t singers at the ‘urs in March 2000. All three men had been invited especially to perform at the final and most prestigious session of the ‘urs. It emerged that they had been selected in advance, but through chance encounters. The na’t singer was a large man with a trimmed beard. One of the maulvis was a plump man, spilling out of his clothes. The other was well groomed and sported a small beard. The na’t singer’s name translates, he said, as ‘Pride of Performance.’ He is well known, he told me, and has produced cassettes of his songs and received many prizes. He is both a na’t singer and a QariQur’an, one who has received some formal Qur’anic teaching. He began by explaining that saints and ‘ulama are connected to one another. The ‘ulama are responsible for conveying religious knowledge; they help the pīrs by propagating their messages, while the pīrs lead by example, through their way of life, actions, and preaching. He himself is a member of a family of ‘ulamas. He is the only one in the family blessed with a melodious voice, bestowed upon him by Allah. When I asked about his performances in the past three months he laughed and said there was not a night vacant, believe me. Could he give an example of where he had appeared in the past week? He had performed, he said, in Multan, at Fateh Jang, at Waqant, and at a seminar in Islamabad. Apart from this last event, all the others were mahfilna’ts, meetings of na’t singers. When I asked if he had been invited he laughed once again and said: “there is a saying in Islam – don’t go to God until He calls you.” For a living he works in a Pakistan Ordinance factory. He is thus a semiprofessional. How did he come to be invited here? He has been here 28 times before, he said. Also, he met Chotta Pīr, the grandson of Zindapir, at a mahfil at the shrine of Bahauddin Zakoria, a Suhawardi saint. On the sixth of January he had attended an ‘urs at Idgah Sharif. The pīr there is a Naqshbandi, as he is himself. By contrast to the na’t singer, this was the first time that Mufti Muhammad Iqbal Chishti had attended the ‘urs at Ghamkol Sharif. He began by saying that the ‘ulama’s role at the ‘urs was to teach people to respect the auliya (the Sufi saints) and follow in their footsteps. Last month, he said, he had attended three ‘urs. The first was for Hazrat Nur Muhammad Moharvi Chishtiya at Nawarnagar, and the second at Sial Sharif, District Sarghoda. This was for a Chishtiya shaikh, Khwaja Shams Uddin Siarwari Chishtiya. The third was for Khwaja Ghulam Kamal Uddin at Mianwala. He himself is the grandson of Nur Muhammad Moharvi in the tariqa, and he is also a khalīfa in this Chishti order. He is the maulvi of the Jami’a Masjad Rizviya in central Lahore. He leads the prayers at this mosque and delivers taqrirs (lectures) at three other mosques in

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Lahore every Friday. Being a Chishtiya, I asked, how did he come to know about Ghamkol Sharif? “There are posters everywhere,” he said. He met Chotta Pīr in District Bahawalpur in the Jami’a mosque. He was giving a khutba (Friday sermon) there. Chotta Pīr had come there with a group of disciples. He invited him to speak at the ‘urs. Why did he agree? “The darbar is famous everywhere.” Many people had told him of Pir Sahib, how he had done chilla, and had a revelation in Madina telling him to come to this place. The Pir Sahib’s faiz goes on in his life and after his death. Does it matter that he is a Chishti while Zindapir was a Naqshbandi? “All the auliyas are the same, he said, but they reach God through different paths.” The final maulvi interviewed, Tāhir-ul (see Philippon below, p. 112) Qadiri, is a founder and leader of a political party or movement. He told me that he had ceased giving sermons at ‘urses fifteen years ago, but because he knew Zindapir and had missed his funeral, he decided to respond to Chotta Pīr’s invitation. Zindapir loved him, he said, and supported his movement. Qadiri is a sophisticated scholar with a good command of English and a comparative perspective on Islamic mysticism. He repeated to me some of the basic tenets of Sufism in a lucid and coherent manner, stressing that anyone could become a saint through ethical and ascetic practice (and by implication, that this was not hereditary and reserved for Sayyids only). He gave a detailed account of the beliefs surrounding death in Islam and in Sufi eschatology. This was also the theme of his sermon at the ‘urs. Although his presentation was very clear, it nevertheless reflected standard Barelvi views on the soul after death. Above all, what the three interviews indicate is that there are no strict separations between Sufi regional cults, saints, or orders; they are not exclusive sects. On the contrary, the ‘urs shows and enacts the fact that they are embedded in a wider social and religious movement. This is true in the order’s Birmingham ‘urs as well, which gathers na’t singers and ‘ulama from many different parts of Britain.

Popular culture In many ways the ‘urs is just sheer fun: the colorful tents, the streams of people, the smell of wood burning and meat cooking in the large langar pots, the qafilas, convoys, arriving with their banners, animals, and sacks of grain; the noise, the feeling of being on holiday. There is a buzz in the air, an underlying current of excitement. Friends and acquaintances run into each other. Khalifas and old army mates embrace. In the ‘urs of 2000, I wandered around the market and camping grounds with a young British Pakistani, licking ice cream while we bought small mementos and cassettes of prior ‘urses, and watched men carry chaddars (ornamented ceremonial grave cloths) in procession to the saint’s tomb. My companion had come from Derby to spend some months with his family in Kashmir.

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Many activities go on simultaneously at the ‘urs. Women dye their hands with henna and hold miladmahfil recitations in honor of the Prophet. Some gather together to sing na’ts and qasidas from special books, printed or written out by hand. Plump ladies and middle-aged men climb up the steep hill to the saint’s cave, showing surprising agility. From down below they look like ants as they follow each other single file up the hill. Once there, they pause a minute to gaze down in wonder and pride at the lodge below. Children get underfoot or climb the surrounding hills. Even wealthy, middle class women sleep on quilts spread on the floor, squashed together like sardines. The Pakistani square tents which hold the men are cozy, but for those women sleeping on the verandas of the women’s quarters it can get very cold at night, while the loudspeaker sound at times is quite deafening. The all-night dhikr is transmitted over the sound system in loud military staccato. People eat together in large groups or wander into the langar area as individuals for a bowl of meat and roti. It is all very casual and goodhumored. The spontaneity of the ‘urs at Ghamkol Sharif is a key to the enjoyment and attraction of the event. Although the ‘urs is a ritual, it is not a tightly organized affair. It also lacks some of the ritual elaboration characterizing‘urs festivals at older shrines in South Asia such as Ajmer, Bahraich, or Nagor Sharif, which have developed over hundreds of years.4 Even the laying of chaddars on the saint’s grave – a common custom at saints’ shrines in South Asia – only began for the first time at ‘urs after Zindapir’s death, in 1999. But despite this apparent lack of structure, I want to suggest that the ‘urs is nevertheless a structured ritual moved forward by the power of blessing.

The symbolic complex of blessing The key to the ‘urs as ritual can be found in the fact that no one leaves before the final du’a of the shaikh. Once the du’a is over there is a mad rush to the buses and trucks. In less than an hour no trace is left of the city of tents which had covered the valley, except the billowing dust raised by the departing vehicles’ wheels. The dust takes several hours to settle. Then it is all over. The progression of the ‘urs at Ghamkol Sharif may be traced from its first moment, the julus (procession) or qafila, the movement through space, which inscribes the earth with the name of Allah; second, the karamat: once they reach their destination pilgrims retrace the mythology of the lodge by visiting its sacred sites; third, the langar, sharing in the communal food through which the saint nurtures the congregation; fourth, the mulaqat, the meeting of groups with the shaikh to take bai'at (vow of allegiance), receive ta’wiz (an amulet), or simply bask in his light. This is when he gives his special disciples or khalifas gifts of caps, scarves, or gowns, the latter worn by him over the year and imbued with

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his charisma. Like a thread running through the whole ‘urs, from the moment pilgrims leave their home, is the fifth key ritual act of the ‘urs, the dhikr (remembrance of Allah), recited throughout the three nights of the program. Along with dhikr are the na’ts, poems of praise to the Prophet. Sixth is the shajara, the reciting of the sacred genealogy of the order. This is read out in the final session after all the khalifas, dressed in black on white, approach the stage along with the pīr himself. Seventh is the taqrir, the exegetic speech by a learned scholar. Finally, we reach the du’a. In different senses all these ritual acts are ways of reaching out materially to the saint’s grace. I use the word grace here deliberately because too much weight has been put by scholars of Sufism, including anthropologists, on baraka, as though this one term could sum up the complex ideas about charisma and blessing held by Sufi followers. In reality, there is a whole lexicon of terms referring to subtle differences in modes of saintly blessing. These terms together form a symbolic complex of blessing. The subtle variations between the terms are important because they allow us insight into the way Sufi cosmology is embodied and embedded in more usual ways of Islamic ritual blessing. Perhaps the most central Sufi term for saintly blessing, at least in South Asia, is not barkat but faiz (Persian, fayd in Arabic), a word which I have translated as divine grace and which followers use to refer to the divine light flowing through the saint and from him to his disciples. It is a light that both illuminates and feeds or nurtures. It reaches into the hearts of men and women even over great distances, whenever they pray a prescribed liturgy or evoke the image of the saint in front of their inner eye. The saint literally glows with faiz. He can project it at will, transferring it at a glance to a trusted khalīfa. It shines with his munificence and beneficence, an inner quality which his appearance and facial expression reveal. On the day after the 1991 ‘urs I dropped by the women’s quarters to meet the volunteers who were washing up the thousands of dishes left over from the langar. An educated woman from Lahore, a freelance writer in Urdu, told me: “The pīr’s light is responsible for everything you see, it all comes from his light. He has a tenth sense to see into people’s feelings and emotions.” She had been seeking someone (i.e., a pīr) but all the pīrs in Pakistan are frauds and thieves, she said. “He (Zindapir) is the only one in the whole world. I will obey his orders whatever he tells me because he thinks only of the good of a person. He is concerned about all the people’s good, even these poor people” (pointing to the women washing dishes). “What benefit does he give?” I asked. “He gives spiritual satisfaction through the light emanating from him,” she replied. When she is in difficulty she brings his tasawwar (image) in front of her eyes and she immediately gets help. Standing helplessly on the road, a vehicle appears to give her a lift. This has happened a thousand times.

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In ethical terms, then, faiz is the light of generosity, kindness, and concern emanating from the saint and communicated to his followers. Through faiz a pīr creates the tie, rabta, binding him to his followers. Faiz is the embodiment of his spiritual power, ruhaniyat, another key term which is used to express the pīr’s spirituality as a powerful force. Barkat is the third term in this symbolic complex. In Islam barkat (baraka in Arabic) may come directly from God without the intercession of a pīr. It may be mediated by the community or the poor. When people hold a sacrifice or give part of an offering to the poor, they regard the commensal food following their prayers as imbued with barkat. In this sense it is a general Islamic term for divine blessing. Barkat imbues objects, such as the salt given out by the pīr, or the langar, with the power of procreation, proliferation, fecundity, expansion, life, fertility, and growth (of children, crops, wealth, job prospects, health, and so forth). Barkat is magical and contagious. The very touch of a pīr can imbue an object with barkat. This means that the pīr himself is charged physically with barkat, which explains why he is constantly mobbed by devout followers, endangering his life in their attempts to touch him. Linked to all these terms is a further term, ruhanikhorakh, spiritual food. The pīr is said to nurture his followers spiritually. Finally, there is du’a and the blessings, fazl, received through the du’a in accordance with God’s own judgment of what is best for his followers. Du’a means both supplication and benediction. It also means blessing. Any person can say du’a on behalf of a congregation. In this sense du’a, like baraka, is a general Islamic term. But the du’a of a pīr, said on the final day of the ‘urs after all the dhikr recitations and langar feedings of the masses, is enormously powerful. It is believed that at that moment the soul of the dead saint which the ‘urs commemorates, and the souls of all the auliya and the prophets, gather over the congregation. Their combined spirituality is directed toward the saint’s appeal to God for blessing and healing. That is why no one goes home before the final du’a. It is the point of the whole ‘urs ritual. The ‘urs, of course, is also a wedding. That is why the women dye the palms of their hands with mehndi (henna paintings). While Zindapir was alive this wedding motif was not expressed in the ritual itself. It merely existed at the conceptual level. Since his death, however, the wedding theme has come to be enacted in practice very clearly through the placing of chaddars on the grave. The men approach the grave carrying the chaddar by its four corners so that it is raised horizontally above the ground, much as the chaddar is carried to be placed over the bride’s head during the mehndi ritual.5 As they proceed through the darbar, people throw rupee notes intended as nazrana (tribute) or sadqat (alms) on to the horizontally held cloth, just as they do at mehndis. The procession arrives at the grave, singing, before the men jointly cover the raised mound, much as a bride would be covered. Rose petals and other garlands of flowers or bank notes

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are also thrown on the grave, just as they are at weddings. I watched a top PIA manager from Karachi throw two whole baskets of fragrant rose petals onto the grave. Maulana Qadri, the ‘alim who gave the sermon on the final day of the ‘urs in 2000, explained: ‘urs means the spiritual marriage of the wali. … Whenever a person gets married he has mehndi on the hands and beads on the neck and a garland of leaves. The last thing (you do at the wedding) is, you throw on them rose petals. Whenever the flowers go on the grave of the wali, that is his shadi (marriage). People ... [ask: if] someone is sleeping, what can he do? What are you going there (to the grave) for? The explanation of the sleep (of a pīr) is exactly the same as when a woman gets married. … She is sleeping but she is not unconscious. Similarly the wali is sleeping but he is still awake. When the wali is lying in the grave and the people go to visit him and pay respects, he listens to them and replies to them and fulfils their wishes. It is not the end of his life – the only thing is that he has transferred from one place to another. This was due to … ‘amal, (his asceticism and piety), and now is the time to be rewarded. Whatever he sowed here he will reap there. Whatever his work, his reward is not exactly as in this world – he is looking at the Prophet’s face, at the rehemat (blessing) of God, and is [basking] in the full light. This is the reason why we say that the grave of the wali is always alive. And then you are rewarded from his grave with faiz.

The ‘Urs as the organizational nexus of Sufi regional cults In the final session of the ‘urs at Ghamkol Sharif the master of ceremonies always announces to the ‘ijtima, the congregation gathered, the tally of accumulated prayers dedicated to Zindapir which have been performed by all the different branches of his cult worldwide over the past year. In 2000, this tally was: 50,000 kalam e pak 7 crore and 30 lakh darud sharif SuratYassin 12 lakh and 18,000 The first kalimah 11 crore and 60 lakh The pir-bhai of Chakwal, for the sake of Pīr ‘Alam, performed a special Umra Kalimah taiba 150 crore and 7000; The MC concluded by saying: “We hand over all these to Qibla Badshah Sahib” (Zindapir’s son and successor).

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These fantastic numbers, adding up to millions of prayers dedicated to the saint, are performed daily, weekly, or monthly in many different localities of his Sufi order/cult, and are endlessly repeated. A khalīfa from Lahore, for example, was very proud of the number of prayers his branch had accumulated that year. He used one of the murīds, an accountant, to add up the numbers, he told me. We may say that in a sense the prayers form a unity in their very multiplicity, just as the regional cult that Zindapir founded is based on moments of separateness and moments of togetherness. Every organization needs events that bring together its key administrative staff. The ‘urs, held annually, doubles up at such a moment, in which representatives of all the main branches and many minor ones come together, while it is also the pretext for mobilizing voluntary labor needed for new building works at the central lodge. Virtually everything one sees at the lodge was built over the years in the weeks before the ‘urs. The festival presents difficult logistical challenges because of the vast numbers sleeping and eating at such a remote place for three days and nights. On several visits I was proudly shown the new toilets being built either for the women or for the men. Such mundane concerns are very important in making the ‘urs a success. Elsewhere I have argued that voluntary giving is a key to understanding the lodge as a good faith economy.6 Both the voluntary labor and the langar embody this economy and are dialectically related. This is because the langar creates very real logistical challenges. Unlike many other shrines in South Asia, the langar at Ghamkol Sharif is entirely controlled by the saint and his family. Both the cooking and the distribution of the food are centrally organized. At most older shrines like Bari Imam, for example, or Data Ganj Baksh, the langar is mediated by commercial cooking. Crucially at Ghamkol Sharif, the source of the langar is the pīr himself. He personally controls the giving of the langar and it is thus he who directly nurtures the multitudes. Like the need to provide lodgings for all pilgrims to the ‘urs, feeding vast numbers requires complex planning, from the utensils to be cleaned, the wood to be gathered, the animals to be slaughtered, to the food to be cooked, all in large in quantities. The voluntary labor mobilized for all these activities underlines the good faith economy and creates the connections, forged in action, between a saint and his close followers. The ethics of feeding and providing shelter and the labor devoted to preparing the decorations and sound system for the cultural performance consolidate the moral relations between saint and disciple, and among disciples themselves. They are crucibles on the path to God which create and foster ties between men and women. Many of the volunteers work day and night without pause, claiming, if asked, that they do not even feel tired. This, they say, is the miracle of the lodge and the pīr. The voluntary labor underpins the distributive and redistributive economies that maintain the lodge as an ongoing concern. It ensures that a remote place, away from

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major centers of population, can stage a large-scale, three-day event such as the ‘urs. The same system is replicated on a minor scale in most of the major branches of the regional cult and its global extensions.

Ambivalences of authority in the Barelvi movement The ‘urs is based on many different sorts of interdependencies between saint and follower. Zindapir’s khalifas devote their spare time and work on holidays to help with the building of the lodge and the preparations for the ‘urs. They do so selflessly, for the sake of their pīr. This obscures the dependence of the pīr and his family upon them. There are murīds who serve at the lodge as volunteers and some who work on the fields of the saint near Shekhupura. The pīr on his part gives his followers the privilege and opportunity to participate in the good faith economy and draw religious merit and Sufi boons from it. Unlike other Sufi followers, Barelvi ‘ulama occupy a far more ambivalent position within this good faith economy, and particularly so in the case of living saints like Zindapir. Despite their disclaimers, the ‘ulamas’ religious expertise, their learning, and the authority of the scriptures they command are inevitably pitched against the charismatic authority of the pīr. While they may be consulted on matters of law and asked to officiate at weddings and funerals, the pīr is deeply loved by his followers who come to him for advice and support, and for succor in times of need. While the maulvi preaches, the pīr blesses. Perhaps for this reason the ‘ulama may well prefer saints who are safely interred in their graves. There is also a difference in tone and ideology between saint and maulvi. While Barelvi ‘ulama are strident, militant, and populist, saints are soft-spoken and peace-promoting. At the ‘urs it is almost impossible even for a native Urdu speaker to understand parts of the ‘ulamas’ speeches, once they take off in flight. The thunder and passion of their sermons contrast sharply with the wavering voice of Zindapir, telling the same tale year after year, which is nevertheless heard in hushed silence by the congregation. Despite this, the ‘ulama do support strongly the continued veneration of saints in South Asia. They endow the ritual practices and Sufi beliefs associated with saints and shrines with wider political and public legitimacy. Unlike other parts of the Islamic world, the existence of Barelvi ‘ulama in South Asia has meant that the belief in saints and shrines and in Islamic mystical ideas more generally has continued to flourish. Followers have not been compelled to choose between saint and ‘ulama, shrine and mosque; these apparent oppositions exist in symbiotic relation within the same movement. This has been extremely important for the continued vitality of Islam as a mystical movement on the subcontinent.

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Notes Barbara Daly Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 18601900 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1982). 2 Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love: the Anthropology of a Global Sufi Cult (London: Hurst, 2003). 3 Jamal Malik, Colonisation of Islam: Dissolution of Traditional Institutions in Pakistan. (Delhi: Manohar, 1998). 4 Syed Liyaqat Hussain Moini, “Rituals and Customary Practices at the Dargāh of Ajmer.” in Christian W. Troll (ed.) Muslim Shrines in India: Their Character, History and Significance (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1989), 60–75. Edward B. Reeves, The Hidden Government: Ritual, Clientelism, and Legitimation in Northern Egypt (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1990). S.A.A. Saheb, “A Festival of Flags: Hindu-Muslim Devotion and the Sacralising of Localism at the Shrine of Nagore-eSharif,” in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (eds) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults (London: Routledge, 1998), 55–76. Tahir Mahmood, “The Dargāh of Sayyid Salar Mas’ud Ghazi in Bahraich: Legend, Tradition and Reality,” in Christian W. Troll (ed.) Muslim Shrines in India: Their Character, History and Significance (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1989), 24–47. 5 On the Pakistani wedding ritual see Pnina Werbner The Migration Process: Capital, Gifts and Offerings among Manchester Pakistanis (Oxford: Berg Publishers, 1990), Chapter 9. 6 Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love: the Anthropology of a Global Sufi Cult (London: Hurst, 2003).

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Chapter 6

The Sufi Center of Jhok Sharif in Sindh (­Pakistan): Questioning the Ziyārat as a ­Social Process Michel Boivin

This chapter wishes to explore the processes by which a communitas is at work in a Sufi center of Southern Sindh.1 In using Turner’s concept of communitas, it intends to highlight a number of clues by which people identify themselves in such solidarity. According to Turner’s typology, one has to distinguish between three categories of communitas.2 First is the existential or spontaneous communitas. Second is the transient personal experience of togetherness or normative communitas. Third is a communitas organized into a permanent social system or the ideological communitas, which can be applied to many utopian social models. As Turner himself claims, the experience achieved by the pilgrims, in Jhok Sharif and elsewhere, refers to the second type of communitas.3 The final aim of this chapter is not to give a detailed analysis of communitas as a social antistructure, to use Turner’s idiom. Although of course it wishes to investigate how this specific communitas comes to birth, and how it is sustained, it will rather focus on the process by which the equality provided through the belonging to communitas is based on two dynamics. First is the sharing of cultural items and second is the exclusion of some categories of the local society. While the pilgrimage to saints’ tombs, known as ziyārat, is usually understood as a provider of equality through the communitas, it is well known that in the South Asian context the pilgrimage does not imply the end of caste distinctions.4 I shall try to show here that the ziyārat is mainly a process by which cultural production and social discrimination are instrumentalized for maintaining the feudal domination of the sayyids.

Inventing a tradition Among the numerous Sufi centers of Southern Sindh, Jhok Sharif is located seventy kilometers south of Hyderabad, and thirty kilometers east of Thatta. Previously named Miranpur, the place reached some fame due to the figure of the local Sufi saint, Shah Inayat, who was killed in 1718, after rousing a revolt

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with his murīds and peasants against the king and the local sayyids. This Sufi center is an interesting case study for evaluating Sufi involvement in local society in present-day Sindh, the south-eastern province of Pakistan. In seventeenth-century Sindh, the Naqshbandi restoration following Ahmad Sirhindi (d. 1624) was at work. (On Sirhindi, see Buehler’s chapter in this book.) Makhdum Muhammad Hashim (1692–1762) composed his works in Arabic, Persian, and Sindhi. He fought the pantheistic inclinations of Sufism and also what he coined as Hindu features like musical parties. After the death of Aurangzeb, four rulers occupied the throne between 1707 and 1712, and under the fifth, Aurangzeb’s great grandson Farrukh Siyar (1712–19), the insecurity was felt over all the country. In the context of Sindh, Shah Abd  al-Latif was twenty-nine years old when Shah Inayat died. Shah Abd ­al-Latif is still the most popular Sufi writer. He composed the most famous piece of Sindhi literature: a poem known as Shah-jo risalo.5 Among the Sindhi writers, Shah Inayat (1655–1718) is known as the “Hallaj of Sindh.” He was probably born in 1655, so he was four when Dara Shikoh was executed by his brother Aurangzeb. Shah Inayat’s family was attached to the Sohrawardi tariqa.6 Despite this, he went to look for a spiritual master by himself and he finally found him in Burhanpur in the Deccan. Shah Inayat was initiated in the Qadiriyya order before staying in Bijapur, then in Delhi. When he went back to Sindh, Shah Inayat was beyond the stage of fana fi’l shaykh: he has obviously reached the stage of unity with the haqiqat muhammadiyya, the Prophet’s essence. However, it is not clear whether Shah Inayat was a beshar` Sufi.7 In spite of this, it is well attested that some of his companions were. A companion he had brought back from Delhi, Shah Ghulam Muhammad, was so impressed that he bowed down before him, although this practise was forbidden before human beings. The ‘ulama from Thatta wanted this blasphemy to be punished. They condemned Shah Ghulam Muhammad to flagellation. He was nevertheless supported by Muhammad Mu`in, a “deviant” Sufi who has been expelled from the Naqshbandiyya because of his taste for music and dance, and also his attendance to the celebrations of muharram with the Shias. Shah Inayat finally stayed at Jhok where he was the owner of some lands. There is not so much data on the community he founded then. It is nevertheless well known that his generosity (fayz) quickly attracted many peasants and followers of other local Sufi masters (faqirs). In this matter, the nearest neighbors were the sayyids of Bulri, the village where the sanctuary of Shah Abd al-Karîm was located, himself the great great grandfather of Shah Abd al-Latif. With the agreement of the governor of Thatta, the sayyids of Bulri and their zamindar (landlords) allies first attacked Jhok in 1715. So many dervishes were killed that their families lodged a complaint with the central government in Delhi. The governor decided that the lands of the assailants were to be given to the faqirs and to their families as compensation.

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This happy outcome caused a rush of peasants and faqirs to Jhok. Shah Inayat had sought to create a small egalitarist community sharing its time between works and prayers. His opponents took advantage of the naming of a new governor and they made him understand that Shah Inayat was gathering troops for challenging the Moghul Empire. The governor ordered the sayyids and the zamindars to rise up in arms again. A real army with elephants and cannons laid siege to Jhok. Yar Muhammad Kalhoro, from the powerful clan of the Kalhoras who were dominating the north of Sindh, was the chief of the army. After a vain attempt at attack, during which a great number of faqirs were killed, Shah Inayat, who tried to resist his enemy for more than two months, was finally obliged to surrender. He was beheaded and his head was sent to Delhi. The mystic thought of Shah Inayat is not easy to discover. Annemarie Schimmel, who stayed a week in Jhok in 1965 with Pir Muhammad Rashdi, states he didn’t compose anything while Sufi `Ata’ Allah Sattari, the present ­sajjada nashin,8 claims to own hundred pages from the hand of the martyr. According to him, every time the pages were to be published, a miracle occurred: the ink disappeared in the night. For the sajjada nashin, this is obviously a miracle with the meaning that Shah Inayat does not want his elevated mystic thought to be divulged to everybody. It is said that when it was brought to Delhi, Shah Inayat’s head uttered verses in Persian. It is probably related to the legend recorded in the Besarnama (The Poetry of the Decapitated Head). Later on, Shah Inayat’s martyrdom became a literary motif in Sufi poetry, for example in Sachal Sarmast’s verse. His martyrdom was also a symbol of freedom against zamindars, sayyids, and the ‘ulama. Finally, some Sufis saw him as the perfect master, like Mir Janullah Shah (d. 1754) who was said to be at Jhok when Shah Inayat was put to death. Bedil called the day of Shah Inayat’s execution qiyamat-e sughra, or the Minor Judgment Day.9 It is interesting to note here the role played by the Hindus. Born in Sehwan, Bhai Dalpatram (d. 1841) was a disciple of Bhai Asardas, himself a disciple of Shah Inayat’s son Salamullah Shah Sufi. He composed a Persian mathnawi he called Jangnama (Book of War) where he depicted martyrdom as man’s struggle with his nafs ammara (lower soul).10 In other works, Shah Inayat’s martyrdom was compared with Hussein’s sacrifice and some authors composed marthiyas in his honor. He was also associated with the famous Sufi al-Hallaj for the same reasons. The genealogy of Shah Inayat leads directly to Hazrat Ali. His son ­Makhdum Faqir Izzatullah Shah was the first sajjada nashin11. The second was Faqir Muhammad Zahid Shah, a grandson of Shah Inayat’s brother, Naley ­Chaughon Shah, since Makhdum Faqir Izzat Allah Shah had no son. The third was supposed to be his own son Sufi Fazlullah Shah, but he opted not to take the turban (pagri). He was nevertheless a great spiritual guide who was said to have reached the stage of unity. He was given the name of Shah Qalandar Data Pīr. Interestingly, the word qalandar is here the name of a grade in the spiritual hierarchy of Sufism. In the first centuries of Sufism, the qalandars

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were be shar` or Without Law, in the sense they didn’t pay respect to the shari`a.12 Nowadays, a Qalandar is said to be a Sufi who has reached a high spiritual level. After the sixth sajjada nashin, there was a break in the transmission. Shah Qalandar’s daughter Sahab Pak managed the dargāh with the help of Sufi Sadiq Faqir. The seventh one was Khawaja `Abdul Sattar, a descendant of Shah Inayat’s brother, Naley Chaughon Shah, through another lineage. The present sajjada nashin, Sufi `Ata Allah Sattari, is the eleventh sajjada nashin in direct line from Khawaja `Abdul Sattar. The sajjada nashins are the bearers of what Max Weber called “hereditary charisma.” They invented a tradition while transforming the fountainhead, who was a rebel and a martyr fighting the feudal order, into the origin of an orthodox tradition which now legitimizes a feudal system which is totally under their control.

Mapping a sacred territory A mapped territory is an essential condition for a communitas to be birthed. While the territory is most of the time restricted to the dargāh, the sanctuary of Jhok Sharif encompasses a variety of buildings and places. The town of Jhok Sharif, with a population of about 10,000 inhabitants, is on the eastern bank of the Indus River. The river is about five kilometers from the dargāh. The sanctuary is located two or three kilometers from the main road between Tando Muhammad Khan and Mirpur Bathoro, just after the mohallah inhabited by the Shidis, the descendants of African slaves. Other populations of Jhok Sharif are Kashkelis, Somras, Samas, Jatois, Mirbahars, Hindus, and Kutchis.13

Main Sufi places in South Sindh Although the delta of the Indus River is now very limited, Jhok Sharif is located in the historical deltaic Sindh, south of Hyderabad. The excavations of local Hindu temples give evidence that before the advent of Islam, Shaivism was widespread. In the Middle Age, the local dynasty of the Somras founded several capitals which were all in deltaic Sindh. Later on, under the Samas, the city of Thatta was the capital for many centuries. Thatta was controlling the maritime trade, and also the trade roads to Gujarat and to India. But deltaic Sindh was also on the road of important pilgrimage centers like the Hindu pilgrimage of Hinglaj. Facing Makkli Hill, the temple of Ashapuri Devi, also known as Singh Bhawani, is still an important place of Hindu worship. It is said that the Kanphata yogis used to stop here before reaching Hinglaj. Other tales and legends intermingle saintly figures from both Muslim and Hindu persuasions. For example, Shah Jamil Shah Datar is said to be Gorakhnath himself.14

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Figure 6.1 

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© Juliette Boivin

In Jhok Sharif, Shah Inayat’s sanctuary is enclosed by a wall. The enclosed garden is like a mirror of Paradise, with the green grass, the singing of the birds, and the sweet music of running water. This stands in stark contrast to the village, which is dry, littered, and dusty. The space devoted to the sanctuary can be divided into two main areas: the part where devotion is performed for the dead, and the part where devotion is performed for the living. The main part is the space devoted to the sacred dead: Shah Inayat, of course, who is the source of devotion, and also to a lesser extent Imām Hussein. The other side is the kingdom of the living saints, the present sajjada nashin and his family. The transition between both is made by the chaukundis, the previous sajjada nashins’ tombs, and by the nagarakhana, which symbolizes the role music plays in devotion. The main mausoleum devoted to Shah Inayat is all white. Before entering the mausoleum, it is compulsory to ring the bell, thus informing the saint that

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somebody is coming to pay him homage. The external decoration is very ­limited. Here again, other Sindhi dargāhs, like Bhit Shah or Sehwan Sharif, are quite different. They are very brightly colored and coated in gold, like Lal Shahbaz’s cupola. The internal decoration of Shah Inayat’s tomb is well balanced to the extent that there are kashi ceramics near the main gate. The colors are traditional Sindhi hues and the motifs symbolize the paths to devotion. Inside the tomb, one can note the fine paintings in the cupola that symbolize heaven, a metaphor for God, and the ultimate goal of devotion. The faqirs and pilgrims stay in buildings locally known as a bari, built with the donations of generous devotees.15 They can host hundreds of pilgrims. The other buildings correspond to different rituals or ceremonies performed through the year. The heart of the sanctuary is the dargāh devoted to Shah Inayat. It is located opposite the main entrance of the enclosed sanctuary. Near the dargāh is a mosque. It is not certain whether it is regularly used. Behind the dargāh, they are two important places in the life of the sanctuary. First are the chawkundis, or the tombs of the sajjada nashin’s predecessors. Second is ganj shahid, the kabirstan (graveyard) where the shahids (martyrs) who died in 1718 with Shah Inayat are buried.

5 Chaukundi

Shah Inayat’s dargah

Qasr-e Qalandar

4

1

mosque

2 b a r i

3 bari

bari Main entrance 1 chatri 2 `alam 3 bell 4 nagara khana 5 ganj shahid

Figure 6.2  The sanctuary of Jhok Sharif16

Entrance N

E

+ S

W

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Between the entrance and the dargāh stands the `alam. Not many ceremonies are performed here. In Jhok Sharif, the Shidis played drums when the `alam is raised for muharram. They first play in the `alam place in the town, then come to the sanctuary. They also play drums when the sajjada nashin arrives in the sanctuary. But they never sing or play another instrument. The drums they play are placed in a small house located in the center of the sanctuary, the nagarakhana (the place of the drums). The eastern part of the sanctuary is devoted to the performance of rituals attached to the person of the sajjada nashin. There are two main buildings here: the Qasr-e Qalandar, and the chatri. As we shall see, these places play an important role in the melo. Moreover, the sajjada nashin can walk from his house, located in a walled compound where he stays with his extended ­family.

Framing the adab Local tradition claims that Shah Inayat enhanced a new system of codes, a new etiquette (adab), which is still in use today. The first innovation was to give the name of Sufi to all his followers: it showed they were all equal before God, and that the caste and class barriers were removed. Shah Inayat himself gave up the laqab of Sayyid. The adab he gave was like a synthesis between the Qadriyya and the Sufiyya, the latter term meaning the innovations brought by him. The adab of Jhok Sharif is somewhat purged. The transvestites (khadras) and the dancer prostitutes (munjrahs) one can see in other places like Sehwan Sharif are not allowed to visit the sanctuary. Moreover, dance is forbidden and female voices are equally prohibited. But surprisingly, music, vocal as well as instrumental, plays a leading role in the spiritual life of the sanctuary. The sajjada nashin claims there are seven stages in the Sufi path in Jhok. The faqir who has reached the last one is allowed to wear the same pagri as the sajjada nashin. Another sign of spiritual attainment is the saffron pagri, which is, according to him, the color of the rising sun, a metaphor for the unveiling of mystical knowledge. The spiritual hierarchy among the Sufis encompasses titles such as ghawth, qutub, and darvish or qalandar. The tradition of devotional poetry was first perpetuated by several sajjada nashins. Abdal-Sattar II, the present sajjada nashin’s grandfather, was a prolific author although his poetry is not currently available. Sufi `Ata’ Allah Sattari, the present sajjada nashin, is himself a poet. The Manghanârs sing his kafis written in Sindhi, as well as his ghazals composed in Urdu. In Jhok Sharif, two authors nevertheless played a leading role in the field of devotional literature: Sufi Sadiq Faqir (d. 1848) and Sayyid Rakhyal Shah Sufi al-Qadri (d. 1940). The most important poet of Jhok Sharif is Sufi Sadiq Faqir. His poetry plays a key role in the different rituals involved in the sama`, under its different shapes

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including private performances or the performances during the melo. Born in Umarkot, Faqir Muhammad Sadiq Sumro was a follower (murīd) of Faiz Allah Shah Qalandar al-Qadri. His poetry is still mainly oral, although N.B. Baloch quotes some of his kafis in his anthology of Sindhi poetry.17 Moreover, Sufi Sadiq Faqir was his master’s interlocutor in the dialogue on the stages of Sufi knowledge composed in Persian under the title of Dard Namo (The Book of Pain).18 An abstract was translated in Sindhi under the direction of N.B. Baloch, but the present sajjada nashin considers it to fall short of the original.19 Although devotional poetry composed by other authors is performed, Sufi Sadiq Faqir is obviously the emblematic poet of Jhok Sharif. The other reference in the field of devotional poetry is Sayyid Rakhyal Shah Sufi al-Qadri (d. 1940). He was a Baluchi from a place called Fatehpur. In 1923, he published a voluminous work under the title of Bahar al-`ishq (The Ocean of Mystic Love), which was republished five times. The book is divided into three parts: 729 kafis, 284 bayts, and 2 Si Harfiyyun composed according to the Arabic alphabet. While being a follower of the sajjada nashins of Jhok, Sayyid Rakhyal Shah became himself the fountainhead of a new cult. After his death, a dargāh was built in Fatehpur and his grandson, Sayyid Sadiq Ali Shah, is currently the second sajjada nashin of this new sacred place. While having Sunnis and also Hindus among their followers, the sayyids of Jhok are fervent Shias. It is nevertheless to be noted that they do not use or write marsiyas, nor other Shia devotional literature, although this tradition is widespread among other leading Sufi families of Sindh. The Makhdums of Hala for example developed an old tradition of composing marsiyas in Sindhi. Makhdum Ghulam Muhammad “Gul Sa’in” published an anthology under the title of Shan-e Hussein (The Glory of Hussein) written by his father Makhdum Muhammad Zaman Taleb al-Mawla (1919–93), who was also the father of the present Makhdum of Hala.20 Interestingly, the faqirs are not involved in the celebration of muharram. The musicians who play during the different rituals are Shidis, whose status is very low. They are descendants of African slaves who were liberated only a few years after the coming of the British. The nineteenth-century British officers noticed that they delighted in music and dance, and also that many of the Shidi women make their living by prostitution.21 According to my informants in Jhok, the Shidis tend to be poor and illiterate. Although they are the local group specialized in music, the Shidis do not attend any performance related to the Sufi cult. They perform for weddings and other rites of passage, as well as for the ceremonies of muharram. Especially on the day of Ashura, they perform devotional poetry like marsiyas, nohas, or even qasidas. They sing inside the sanctuary but the sajjada nashin of Jhok does not have a private imambargah like the Makhdums of Hala. Obviously their duty is attributed by the sajjada nashin. As agents, the Shidis are thus excluded from the process that gives birth to the communitas in the sanctuary.22

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The commemorations surrounding the death of different spiritual masters mark the year. Although the most important celebration is the seventeenth of the Islamic month of Safar, the day of Shah Shahid, when Shah Inayat’s martyrdom is commemorated, a sama` is organized on the seventeenth of every month. This is only a vocal sama`, without instruments, and it is performed by the faqirs. According to local tradition, instrumental music is forbidden among the Qadris, and that is why this performance is called sama` qadriyya. It is performed in a place called the mehla (from mohala, area or neighborhood), which is the kacheri, a hall just before Shah Inayat’s sanctuary. Four or five faqirs come from different places in Sindh for this special occasion. At Jhok, the name of ragi is given to the faqirs who sing without instruments. Their repertoire is composed by vais and bai'at of Sufi Sadiq Faqir. The melo is performed every year on the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth day of Safar. Thousands of pilgrims come to pay homage to Shah Inayat. Different rituals are performed by the sajjada nashin, the faqirs, and the ziyāratis, but the celebration is dominated by two musical performances. The first one occurs in a place called the Qasr-e Qalandar. This building, named in honor of Faiz Allah Shah Qalandar al-Qadri, is made of two spaces. The first is half open while the second is totally closed. The latter, with a hexagonal shape, is decorated with the portraits of the five last sajjada nashins hanging on the wall. This is the place where the sama` is performed. Everybody can attend. The musicians are sung faqirs who sing different kinds of devotional poetry. I will return to them later. For this sama’, they are directed by `Imad al-Din Faqir, a Somro from Shikarpur,23 who himself writes devotional poetry. The literary form used is the kafi. This preliminary step of the melo does not require the presence of the ­sajjada nashin. For the melo of 2004, he sent in his place his eldest son and heir, Sufi Zubayr al-Din. The sama` is performed with the following progression: du’a, vai, bai'at, dhikr, and du’a. The dhikr is limited to the utterance of Allah hu in which the last part (hu) is silent. The last du’a is an invocation of Prophet Muhammad, Abd al-Qadir Jilani, and finally Shah Inayat. The basic structure is the same in all these elements: the soloist sings a verse that is later echoed by the choir. The most important moment of the melo is undoubtedly the sama` organized near the chatri. The sajjada nashin adorns his ceremonial dress before taking his place under the stone estrade where his followers gather around him. The sama` is performed by two different bands of selected musicians: the Manghanars and the faqirs. This year the band of Ustad Shafi Muhammad Faqir from among the Manghanars was selected to perform.

Building a local identity The Manghanârs are a caste of musicians.24 Unlike the Shidis whose occupation is not restricted to the performance of music and dance, the Manghanars are

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the only professional musicians that perform in Jhok. The status of the Manghanars is not easy to identify. While the role they play as bards is essential, especially in the Sufi rituals, a Manghanar will never eat with a sayyid, not even sit at the same level. According to Burton, the low status of the Manghanar is due to their mythical ancestor who condescended to eat with a Shikari, a sweeper.25 The females of many castes of musicians are dancers and occasional prostitutes. But as previously noted, this category of performer is forbidden at Jhok, while in Sehwan their dancing is included in important ceremonies patronized by a number of sajjada nashins. This is not the case with the Manghanars of Jhok. The performance of the Manghanars is not limited to the celebrations, or to the repertoire of Sufism. All the musicians of this band are family members. The most common instrumental band is the harmonium, the tabla, the benjo, the dholak, the yektaro, and the kharal. Regarding the singing, there is the leading singer, and two backup vocalists. The well-known tabla is a recent innovation. This instrument was not used in Sindhi music. One could believe its use is due to the fame, and then influence, of the qawwali, in which it has a central place.26 The benjo is also a recent addition. Despite its name, it looks like a lap guitar. The strings are attached to keys which are moved by other keys. The sound is very metallic. Ustad Shafi, the main singer and leader, plays the harmonium, although this too is a recent innovation among the Manghanars. It replaces the traditional kamatch which is a six-stringed (plus nine as a drone) instrument played with a bow and carved out of mulberry wood. The harmonium is obviously easier to play, less fragile, but it is limited to the reproduction of the sung melody, and its tone is more monotone than that of the kamatch. The ustad and his musicians performed four different pieces composed by Sufi Sadiq Faqir, on each of the three days of the melo. The use of new instruments by the Manghanars is evidence that the musical tradition is very alive. The Manghanars are in touch with the musical scene in Pakistan and abroad. Ustad Shafi performs for other patrons at occasions like wedding ceremonies, but also during two other melas. The first one is that of Shah Latif at Bhit Shah, and the second one is Misri Shah at Naserpur. In Jhok Sharif, another band performed after Ustad Shafi. They were the faqirs of Raqil Shah. As previously noted, Raqil Shah was a Shirazi sayyid from the region of Quetta in Baluchistan. They also play pieces of poetry composed by Sufi Sadiq Faqir. Devotion at Jhok Sharif is characteristically expressed by the sama’ performance of sung faqirs. In Sindhi, the word sung means companionship. Despite its pre-Islamic usage, the term has a somewhat spiritual connotation when applied to a group of pilgrims. The word sung was first used in this context at the end of the nineteenth century by Sulayman Shah, a follower of Pir Ali Gohar Shah (d. 1896).27 Here again, the sung faqirs’ kafis describe the longing for union with the murshid and with God. The repertoire is nevertheless not sufficient for defining the sung faqirs. They can be identified by their dress, their instruments, and their behavior.

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The sung faqirs are dressed in saffron-colored shalwar camise. They wear a turban with the same color. They arrive dancing and singing musical pieces which are usually in a fast rhythm. The performance is obviously choreographed although the sung faqîrs are not professional dancers or singers. Dances are performed and there is no room for improvization. For all these reasons, the performance of the sung faqirs can be traced to other regional performances like the bhagat.28 Finally, a group of sung faqirs is characterized by the use of two instruments: the yektaro and the chapar, although there is also a harmonium. Contrary to other devotional musical bands, the harmonium does not play a leading role, and the harmonium player is seated at the back of the stage. Each of the faqirs simultaneously plays the yektaro and the chapar. The yektaro is made from a hollow gourd or pumpkin that is shaped as a sound box and covered with an animal skin. A long wooden piece is fixed on which two strings are attached. The strings are tuned with two wooden keys. The yektaro is a modal instrument since it has to be tuned before every song according to the rag in which the song is performed. The chapar is a percussion instrument made up of two wooden rectangular pieces, about twelve centimeters long, which are struck one against the other. A sung faqir plays both the instruments while he sings. There is no fixed number of performers but there are usually a dozen or so present. In the sama’ the harmonium draws the melodic line for the faqirs, though it is barely audible to the audience, accompanied by dhols (small drums) and small cymbals (tahlyun). Regarding the devotional and mystical songs, the repertoire of the sung faqirs is not greatly different from that of the Manghanhars. On the other side, they don’t perform wedding songs or for other ceremonies linked to the rites of passage. Even when they might sing the same songs, the interpretation is nevertheless quite different. The composition of the band and the instruments used are quite different. Nevertheless, the occasions for the performances are similar, such as the annual urs celebrations at dargāhs, or the birthday of the living ­sajjada nashin, or at the major Islamic holiday, the eids. Furthermore, the sung faqirs and the Manghanhars perform upon invitation from a patron, most often a pīr, who might gather a sama’ in his house for a special occasion or to honor important guests. Whatever the occasion, the patron decides the songs which are to be performed. The performance will begin by the patron’s compositions, or his ancestors’ compositions, knowing that most of them were poets. Three other categories of poetical pieces will follow: abstracts from the Shah-jorisalo or kafis by Shah Abd al-Latif, abstracts of well-known poets from the northwest of the Indian subcontinent like Sachal Sarmast or Bulhe Shah, and finally regional poets unrecognized beyond the Sindh. The sung faqirs can also perform other devotional songs like marsiyas, the dirges devoted to the Shia imams who died as martyrs. Despite their valuable traditional significance, nowadays only about half a dozen bands of sung faqirs exist.

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Conclusion It is necessary to recall that the Sufi center of Jhok Sharif is located in the Sindh delta, along the present main branch of the Indus River. For centuries, pilgrimage centers were scattered in the delta area and there are still many Jain, Buddhist, and above all Shaivite remains yet to be excavated and studied. In the Islamic period, the Ismailis controlled the Sindh and there are many places relevant to Ismaili tradition. The Jhok Sharif ziyārat works as a social process to the extent that it allows the merging of different segments of local society. For instance, there is no restriction regarding the religion of participants: the present sajjada nashin has many Hindu followers. Despite this and contrary to other Sufi centers, there is no real blending with the local Hindu population. There is no active participation by Hindus in the main rituals like that found in Sehwan Sharif. One can nevertheless see the spread of the communitas during the performance of the most important rituals under the master’s spiritual leadership. Moreover, the ziyārat of Jhok allows the creation of a local identity that achieves two social processes: (1) the dominance of the sujjada nashin and of his family, and (2) the discrimination of marginalized groups. But while the sajjada nashin is himself the main mediator, between the pilgrims and God, nothing can be achieved without the performance of music. Thus this is obviously the more significant tool for understanding the social process at work. The sajjada nashin further exerts control through the roles he attributes to the musicians according two criteria: (1) the status they have in the local society, and (2) the extent to which they reinforce his own domination of this local society. This is the main explanation why the Shidis, a low caste of musicians, play a marginal role in the celebrations of the dargāh. Another feature to be noted is that although the founder of the Sufi center of Jhok Sharif was a martyr (shahid), and there is the kabirstan of the faqirs who died with Shah Inayat, there is nothing special related to the martyr in the rituals. The sajjada nashins’ lineage was Shia from the oldest times. It is also to be noted that the muharram celebrations are rather reduced, in comparison with other Sufi places, knowing that in southern Sindh, the sajjada nashins are mainly Shia. Although the sajjada nashin leads some ceremonies inside the sanctuary, he takes no part in the organization of the procession in the village of Jhok Sharif, unlike those of Sehwan Sharif. Finally, all the agents and rituals involved in the ziyārat of Jhok Sharif contribute to the implementation of identity markers. The tools of this process are very common: devotional poetry and devotional music, which cannot be separated. What I want to stress here is that the sajjada nashins have succeeded in acquiring a given local identity through these media. The local identity first appears through a mapping of the sacred. The sanctuary is composed of specific buildings

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which are reminders of their lineage, like Qasr-e Qalandar for example. Other identity markers are the poetry composed by the sajjada nashins, and specific Sufi music performance styles like that of the sung faqîrs. Finally, the Sufi center of Jhok Sharif appears as a combination of a regional identity, sindhiyat, with a local identity embodied by the sujjada nashins’ charisma, which spread through their mediation in the rituals and the sama’. The Piri–murīdi relation follows a more traditional pattern than that at the shrine in Hyderabad described in ­Valdinoci’s chapter.

Notes In the South Asian Muslim environment, the reference studies were often devoted to the “social roles” of the Sufis, such as Richard Eaton’s master study (Eaton 1978). In the context of Pakistan, one has to mention the book devoted by Sarah Ansari to the pîrs of Sindh (Ansari 1992), Katherine Ewing’s work on the malangs (Ewing 1997), and the recent study by Pnina Werbner of a Sufi global cult in the North West Frontier Province (Werbner 2003). See also her chapter in this book. 2 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process. Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company, 1969), 132. 3 Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors. Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1974), 169. 4 Ibid., 171. 5 Michel, Boivin, “Le shah et le qalandar. Les savoirs faqirs et leur impact sur la société du sud Pakistan, Archives des Sciences Sociales des Religions, L1, 4: 41– 2011a. 6 See Annemarie Schimmel, Pearls from the Indus: Studies in Sindhi Culture (Jamshoro/Hyderabad: Sindhi Adabi Board, 1986), 151–74. Schimmel mainly uses the Tuhfat al-kiram, a work by Mir ‘Ali Sher Qani’ composed at the end of the eighteenth century. 7 On the beshar` Sufis in the context of Pakistan, see Katherine Ewing, Arguing Sainthood: Modernity, Psychoanalysis and Islam (Durham: Duke University Press, 1997) & also Boivin 2011b. 8 Literally «the one who sits on the prayer rug», namely the head of the sanctuary who is most of the time a descendant of the buried saint, or of one of his ­companions. 9 Schimmel, 1986, 165. 10 Ibid., 169. 11 Interestingly, there is a website on Jhok Sharif created by a follower from the USA (www.sufisattari.com). 12 In Sindh, the famous Sufi saint Lal Shahbaz of Sehwan was himself a qalandar (Boivin 2005). In the historical sources, he is described as a mystic who was fond of music and dance. In his Baburnama, Babur coined him as a heretic. See Boivin 2011b. 1

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I give here the categories as the local people represent them. The Shidis are the descendants of the African slaves, while the Kashkelis are mulattos. Somras, Samas, Jatois, and Mirbahars are Muslim Sindhi tribes. Hindus are Sindhis whose religion is Hinduism and Kutchis are people who migrated from Kutch, a neighboring area in present-day Indian Gujarat. They are mostly Muslims from the Memon community. 14 In addition, deltaic Sindh was a crucial historical area for the Ismailis. The main Ismaili dargāh is that of Pir Tajuddin, known here as Shah Torrel. The last Ismaili pīr of the Indian subcontinent is the only one to be buried in Sindh, near Badin. He is said to be married to a Sodha Rajput lady. Not far from Pir Tajuddin’s dargāh, one can find traces of Pir Dadu’s story. Two dargāhs are devoted to his brothers who could not flee with Pir Dadu and were executed by Muslim bigots. Between Jhok Sharif and Hyderabad, there are other Ismaili dargāhs that are like marks of the activities of Ismaili predicators. 15 Usually, the words khanaqah, jama`atkhana, or musafarkhana are used. But in some places of Sindh, local expressions are in use, like kafis in Sehwan Sharif. 16 The map shows the different elements linked to the cult. 17 N. B. Baloch, Kâfîyûn. vol. 1 (Hyderabad/Jamshoro: Sindhi Âdâbi Board, 1985). 18 A short abstract was published in Sindhî translation under the leadership of N.B. Baloch; see Faiz Allâh Shâh Qalandar 2003. Surprisingly, Annemarie Schimmel does not quote this author (Schimmel 1974). 19 Personal interview with the sajjada nashin, Jhok Sharif, October 2005. 20 The name of Makhdum is at the same time the family name, and the title only used by the religious head of the place. 21 Richard Burton, Sindh and the Races that inhabit the Valley of the Indus (Karachi: Indus Publications, 1851). 22 The Shidis have got their own worship, a topic which is beyond the scope of this chapter. See also Helen Basu, “Theatre for Memory: Ritual Kinship Performances of the African Diaspora in Pakistan,” in Monika Böck and AparnaRao (Ed.), Culture, Creation, and Procreation: Concepts of Kinship in South Asian Practice, 243–70 (New York: Berghahm Books, 2000). 23 The Somras (plural of Somro) ruled Sindh from the eleventh to the fourteenth century. Their descendents are one of the most numerous communities of present-day Sindh. Somras also settled in Panjab and Gujarat. Shikarpur is a city located in the north of Sindh, not far from the border with Punjab. Various sources claimed that the Somras were Ismaili in the Middle Age, before turning to Sunnism and Twelver Shi’ism. 24 In Sindh, other terms are used like Mirasi, Doms, or Langas. Burton understood Manghanar to be the polite name (see Burton 1851, 417). Ustad Shafi Muhammad Faqir’s band comes from Umarkot, and he is in touch with his cousins staying in Rajasthan, India. He has himself visited India. On the Manghanars of Rajasthan, see Laurent Maheux, Moumal-Mahendra: Contextes et variations d’un cycle légendaire du Thar, unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, 2 vols. (Paris: INALCO, 2004). For the Manghanar of Sindh, see Abdul Haq Chang, “Sufi, Mirasi and Orthopraxy: Spirituality, Music and Religion in Eighteenth-Century Sindh,” in 13

AQ: It is Basu 2002 in the Bibliography.

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Fahmida Hussain ed., Sindh: Past, Present and Future, 129–46 (Karachi/Jamshoro: University of Sindh, 2006). 25 Burton, 1851, 303. 26 Ustâdh Shâfî’ Muhammad was probably influenced by the style of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. The latter himself innovated Sufi singing while introducing a performance borrowed from khayal, another musical style in use among the South Asian Muslims. 27 Pîr `Alî Gohar Shâh belonged to the lineage of the powerful Pîr Pagaros, who raised several revolts against the colonial power; see Ansari 1992, especially pp. 69–72. 28 Performance realized by Hindu bands of Sindh, in which are mixed epical and folklore narratives, devotional and mystical songs, comic sketches, and prayers. See Garin 2005. The sung faqîrs’ repertoire is nevertheless limited to singing and dancing.

Chapter 7

When Sufi Tradition Reinvents Islamic ­Modernity. The Minhāj-ul Qur’ān, a Neo-Sufi Order in Pakistan Alix Philippon

In the trumpeted “War against Terror” Pakistan is today commonly depicted as being among the most prolific hotbeds of international “jihadism” and at the epicenter of extremist activities.1 The insurrection in the northern valley of Swat and the dramatic increase in suicide attacks claimed by the Taliban Movement of Pakistan as early as 2007, interfaced with rising sectarian and interreligious tensions, have captured the attention of international media. For the past few decades, reformist theological schools such as the Deobandi and the Ahl-i Hadīth have indeed spawned, among other such offspring, sectarian and jihadi groups whose agendas and modes of action continue to be abundantly discussed in both journalistic coverage and academic research. However, less publicized and less known is the fact that the reformist trend of Islamization in Pakistan offers multiple facets. This is notably, yet not exclusively, the case within Sufi-based organizations. In Pakistan’s complex politico-religious landscape, it is undeniably the Barelvi movement (also known as Ahl-i Sunnat wal Jama‘at) that has most loudly proclaimed its affiliation to a Sufi identity. Often overlooked by scholars, this theological school was founded in the nineteenth century in colonial India in reaction to “orthodox” assaults of reformist movements such as the Deobandi and Ahl-i Hadīth. Usually presented merely as a counter-crusade against the repeated attacks against pīrs and shrines, or as a passionate defense of the Sufi status quo, this phenomenon can also be considered a reform movement in its own right. As the historian Usha Sanyal has pointed out in one of the few monographs devoted to the Barelvis to date, the founder Ahmed Reza Khan “promoted reformist religious methods in order to enable his disciples to become better traditionalists, more individualistic.”2 This movement has played a largely ignored role in Pakistan, whether in party politics, social movements, or through the islamization of society.3 Meanwhile, it has been the focus of very few academic contributions,4 even though most Pakistanis are known to be Barelvis in an extensive sense, that is to say basically that they practice the cult

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of the saints in the numerous shrines dotting the country, venerate the Prophet ­Muhammad, and often belong to a Sufi order. One phenomenon that has hardly attracted much attention from academia has been the emergence since the 1980s of multiple organizations hailing from the Barelvi school of thought, such as Minhāj-ul Quran, Da‘wa-i Islami, Sunni Tehreek, or Almi Tanzeem Ahl-i Sunnat. The founders of these organizations all belong to the Qādiri, one of the main four Sufi orders present in Pakistan (the others being the Surhawardi, the Chīshtī, and the Naqshbandi). However, the names of these groups by no means allude to their Sufi identity. And as a matter of fact, they do not always recruit on the basis of the Qādiri identity only; nor do they systematically impose the oath of allegiance to the Sufi master, which is compulsory in most orders. Furthermore, mystical initiation is not the main objective of these groups. They might be called, following Olivier Roy’s concept, “neo-Sufi orders.”5 They share many common features, despite some marked differences: they are associations recently created and whose founders are mostly still alive; they recruit along modern lines; they are preaching movements; the form of authority exercised by these leaders is mostly charismatic, that is to say, their devotees often believe the latter to be living representatives of the Prophet, endowed with baraka and the capability to help win their salvation on the Day of Judgment. Most of them are involved in intensive social activities and also at times participate in political life even though their degree of politicization, protestation, and radicalization has been markedly variable. They have evolved different strategies to defend their version of Islam and at times advocate the struggle for an Islamic State, an endeavor which they call the system of the prophet (Nizam-e Mustafa). The organizational form they have adopted is in fact a blend of a Sufi order, a social movement, and for some a militant association or even a political party. As defenders of a Sufi identity, their enemy is thus clearly identified as the “Wahhabi” trend, which tends to promote a purified Islam rejecting traditions and customs associated with Sufism and to “monopolize the rhetoric of religious legitimacy.”6 One of the most relevant organizations that best illustrates this Barelvi resurgence is the Minhāj-ul Quran (MUQ), even though in many respects its founder has outgrown the doctrine of Ahmed Reza Khan Barelwi.

An original Sufi-based reform movement Minhāj-ul Quran is an original Pakistani religious movement, as is manifest in its institutional framework, its ideology, its multiple activities, and the scope of its recruitment. Through the implementation of a Sufi repertoire, the aim of this spiritual revivalist movement was to invent a new modernity for Islam. Founded in 1981 in Jhang, Pakistan, by the Sufi and scholar Tāhir-ul Qādri, it has succeeded over a span of thirty years in attracting many members, generally (but

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not always) affiliated to a traditional Sufi order, and who have found in this new movement an ideology and an interpretation of Islam that is remarkably contrasted with what the religious and political arena of the country offered during that period. Indeed, the tactics of the state toward religion at the time rather favored the rise of sectarian jihadists. The military regime of Zia-ul Haq (1977–88) gave rise to a phase of unprecedented Islamist mobilization that gradually became sectarian under the impulse of the purportedly infamous Inter Services Intelligence (ISI). This gave the cue for the powers that were to patronize Deobandi and Ahl-i Hadīth groups and to strengthen legitimizing institutional ties.7 The more Sufi-oriented Barelvi groups were henceforth somewhat marginalized by the regime. The MUQ describes itself as a “revolutionary movement of revivalism.” Its organizational model, characterized by a strict hierarchy, partly replicated the structure of the most successful Islamist movement in Pakistan, the Jama‘at-e Islami founded by Abul A’la Mawdudi in the 1940s. Its specificity lies in the effort to create institutions in which the spiritual energy and the values associated with Sufism can be channelled into socializing sets. Tāhir-ul Qādri has reclaimed spirituality as the specific stamp of Islam and as the true representative of the subcontinent’s cultural ethos. Mahfil-e sama (spiritual recitations) including qawwālī (a form of Sufi music popular in the subcontinent) and dhikr (remembrance of God’s name) are regularly held in the headquarters in Lahore and abroad. Every year, a huge ceremony is held in Minar-e Pakistan in Lahore to celebrate the birth of the Prophet, milad-e Mustafa (or milad-ul nabi). The concept of intermediation, which is at stake in the debate among Islamic groups (Barelvis and Sufis being deemed notably by some other theological schools to be “polytheists”), is indeed defended as a legitimate practice in Islam.8 Although critical of some ritualistic aspects of the cult of the saints, the members of MUQ do perform ziyārat (tomb visitation), which, to them, is the “granite foundation” of the beliefs of the Ahl-i Sunnat. MUQ has also been active in re-islamizing Pakistani society from below through a chain of educational institutions, active preaching campaigns, and the diffusion of the thought of Tāhir-ul Qādri through hundreds of titles ranging from religion to science in print, audio, and the Internet.9 The same tools are used to spread the message abroad. As in the case of other Islamic organizations, the recourse to Internet usage aims at spreading their “ideological sphere of influence” to a global level and to reach a “global cohesion.”10 There are approximately half a million members in Pakistan and 25,000 abroad. Muslim diasporas have enabled the MUQ to go international and its network currently ramifies through several dozen countries. Most of the centers in the West have been set up as spontaneous initiatives by Muslims of Pakistani origin won over by the message and the interpretation of Islam provided by Tāhir-ul Qādri and feeling the need to organize community centers in order to consort and practice their faith together according to these guidelines.

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Inscribed in a context of globalization and tense national debate, the ­ideology of MUQ has indeed worked successfully at conquering new religious markets. Tāhir-ul Qādri equates humanism, Islamic awakening, and reform and claims to have understood very early on the reasons and stakes of the Muslim decline in the face of Western advancement, as well as the means to remedy the latter. Thus, he has above all attempted to materialize his first visions within the framework of an organization of “total reform.”11 Indeed, the aim of MUQ is clearly to awaken the Islamic community, to arouse feelings of moral and spiritual uplifting within it, and to fight against all the forms of “extremism” prevalent in Pakistan. As a matter of fact, Tāhir-ul Qādri has been one of the most vocal ‘ulamas in denouncing Osama Ben Laden and Al Qaeda’s modes of action and he has recently published a very long fatwa against suicide attacks. Opposed to any sectarian position, MUQ has made an effort toward inclusiveness in conceptualizing an ideology based on universal values and is also in interaction with Hindus, Sikhs, and Christians. Tired of often more radical versions of their religion, many Pakistanis and Muslims around the world have therefore expressed their support for a movement which, while defending the mystical tradition of Islam, also promotes a coherent project of Islamic awakening turned toward modernity. Geaves and Hermansen on the British and North American South Asian Diasporas both refer to MUQ. Tāhir-ul Qādri openly claims MUQ is rooted in a great historical Sufi brotherhood in which he was initiated, the Qādiri, but also draws inspiration from the reformist tradition. He has recourse to ijtihad, the latitude granted for individual initiative in interpretation, which is not the case of other Barelvi thinkers who favor taqlid, imitation. He basically wants to avoid the pitfalls of Islamism as well of “popular” Sufism, be they intolerance, violence, moral corruption, or stagnancy, and yet promotes the brotherhood form and mysticism as recombined models for collective action. Deeming the ‘ummah to be mainly responsible for its own decline, this organization does not condone sporadic and violent responses, but rather advocates for a global solution. Thus, its targets are not primarily external ones, as is often the case in the more radical politico-religious groups imbued with the discourse of antiimperialism. The greater jihad, the process of self-purification, is seen as the prerequisite for the lesser, whose aim is to purify social and political evils. The mystical approach is a tool to be used for the ethical reformation of people. Hence, MUQ differentiates itself from many other religious groups in Pakistan by a conciliatory (yet at times critical) discourse toward the West and by the promotion of a peaceful image of Islam as a religion of love, tolerance, harmony, and respect. The Sufi teachings appear to its leader to be the only weapon with a view to successfully putting an end to terrorism, subsumed under the term “Wahhabism.”

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Social and political activism Invested in educational, social, and spiritual activities, MUQ claims to be a ­nongovernmental organization (NGO). Its funding is mainly assured by the donations of its members, both in Pakistan and abroad. According to some sources, it might also have been financed by Iran.12 Registrations also provide a substantial income.13 Other sources of revenue include contributions from zakat and kurbani (the sacrifice of animals for the religious feast of ‘eid) and from the sales of Qādri’s publications that are gathered by their registered charity known as The Society for Human Rights and Welfare (founded in 1989). As far as the health sector is concerned, MUQ has built a hospital in Lahore and opened dispensaries throughout the country, as well as blood banks. MUQ also disposes of ambulances, free eye camps, and medical assistance. It has also invested time and money in water pump projects and is actively involved in helping the victims of natural disasters. In its educational activities, MUQ has adopted a modernist posture by establishing a system that is both modern and Islamic, which is an unusual feature in Pakistan, shared only by a Deobandi neo-Sufi order, the Naqshbandiyya Owaisia headed by Maulana Akram Awan, and two jihadi groups, Lashkar-e Janghvi and Dawat-ul Irshad.14 Tāhir-ul Qādri has clearly integrated education into his project for the moral and spiritual uplifting of Pakistan but he has tried to evade the traditional madrāssah model. MUQ’s Welfare Society sponsors the educational system and, as early as 1993, launched a massive program throughout the country. Kindergartens, public schools, colleges, a university, and an Institute of Qur’anic and Islamic Studies for foreign students have notably been created.15 In 1989, MUQ turned political and a party was also created, called Pakistan Awami Tehreek (PAT, the National movement of Pakistan), whose aim is the establishment of a modern Islamic state. If Qādri does have recourse to the lexicon, the symbolism, the values, and the practices of Sufism, he nevertheless appropriates some of the Islamist structures of meaning and the capacity of mobilization. But PAT has in a way secularized the Islamic principles to make them compatible with the conceptual framework of political modernity. The entire argument of one of Qādri’s essays, “The Islamic State,” is based on establishing that all the concepts of democracy are rooted in Islamic history.16 In the framework of the debate about whether Islam is compatible with democracy, the leader of PAT has thus made the point that the Islamic paradigm is convertible into the modern political idiom evolved in the West. His will to reduce antagonism with Western thought has led him to claim, like the early reformer Muhammad Abduh, that even though there might be differences in interpretation and definition, an “Islamic State means a pure democratic State.”17 According to Qādri, there is a common set of institutions and values shared by both systems: pluralism, human rights, equality, and social justice that were all ­present

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in the Nizam-e Mustafa, the political system built on the model of the Prophet’s community. “All things which West wants are already in Qu’ran,” says Tāhir-ul Qādri.18 PAT promotes an “Islamic democracy” innervated by principles perceived as “Sufi” ones (peace, tolerance, freedom). But while Tāhir-ul Qādri was indeed elected a Member of the National Assembly in the 2002 elections, PAT has so far failed to mobilize the masses. Furthermore, it has not really been active since Qādri’s resignation in  2004 from Parliament, seemingly in strong protest against the Musharraf regime’s corruption, institutional instability, and “undemocratic democracy.” Since then, PAT has boycotted all elections. Qādri has refocused on religious activities, but his organization has remained an active pressure group in the ongoing political crisis in Pakistan. Many conferences aiming both at denouncing the “talibanization” of Pakistan and at reasserting the role of Sufis in the promotion of an Islam of “peace, love, and tolerance” in contemporary Pakistan have been organized by MUQ. In March 2009, a conference organized at its headquarters in Lahore gathered 300 Sufis from across Pakistan and tried to elaborate measures in order to fight those actors who want to “discredit the peaceful message of the Sufis” and want to promote “anti-mysticism ideologies.”19 In May 2009, the MUQ organized yet another convention for the “protection of Pakistan” (Tahaffuz-e Pakistan) in which more than 200 Barelvi Sufis and scholars participated. They adopted a highly informative communiqué highlighting the positions of Barelvi representatives concerning the most recent developments of the “War against Terror.” They once again emphasized the “key role” of Sufis in “the construction of a peaceful society,” in the promotion of “peace and harmony,” and more generally in the propagation of Islam throughout history. Sufi shrines have been celebrated as “cultural symbols” whose recent profanation by ­extremist groups is only the expression of “un-Islamic actions.” The “violations” of the Constitution carried out by these groups have also been condemned in the harshest terms, as well as their attacks on schools for girls. According to the communiqué, gaining knowledge is compulsory for every Muslim without any gender discrimination. Islam guarantees the “respect and dignity” of women and their “practical role” in society. Suicide attacks are also strictly forbidden in Islam and are likened to “barbarian acts.” The Taliban’s practices, such as declaring war on the army, the security forces, and the police, or eliminating the voices of opposition, were also irrevocably condemned. 20

A charismatic leader Shaikh, leader, murshid (Sufi Master), guide are among the numerous expressions used by the members of MUQ to designate Tāhir-ul Qādri. His work has consisted in composing a complex partition of competences and registers of legitimization where the religious, political, academic, and spiritual domains

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have together composed a unique symphony of power. A prolific author, a respected religious leader, a leader of a (dormant) political party and of a transnational organization, a lawyer, a poet, a Sufi venerated by his devotees, Tāhir-ul Qādri shows his followers the countenance of an absolute guide endowed with great authority. He is one of the few Pakistani popular leaders to have succeeded in combining a religious and political leadership with a Sufi charisma, in a way quite similar to Shah Ahmed Nurani, the defunct leader of the Barelvi party Jamiyyat-i ‘Ulama-i Pakistan.21 But if he refuses to take any formal disciple through the traditional oath of allegiance (bai'at), he nevertheless does behave as a pīr, sometimes with the authoritarian tendencies accruing to Sufi masters who exercise a complete domination on their followers. Even if not actualized for the sake of modernization, the pīr/murīd scheme remains the prevalent form of authority within the movement. The procedures for membership have indeed been modernized: filling in a form is the only requirement, along with a fee. In a way, the traditional authority of the Sufi has been converted into a modern form of leadership. Notwithstanding, Tāhir-ul Qādri makes it clear to his followers that a faithful and active commitment within the organization makes them automatically disciples of the tariqa Qādiriyya and that they become the disciples of ‘Abd al-Qādir Gīlanī. Therefore, if the members are not Tāhir-ul Qādri’s “disciples” per se, his own initiation within the Qādiri brotherhood operates as a spiritual channel providing a relay back with the original founder of the order. However, most members consider Qādri to be their true spiritual leader, who can help and guide them, very often through dreams. Furthermore, the leader keeps promising his devotees a place in paradise. As such, he does claim the power of intermediation of a Walī-Allah, a friend of God. This spiritual bond is a strong incentive for activism: the members deploy their energies often voluntarily to keep the organization working, especially in the MUQ centers abroad, and donate their money to finance its numerous activities. Tāhir-ul Qādri’s wish was not simply to aspire to be a pīr, but rather to be an “all rounder,” the best player in  all disciplines. The figure of the composite leadership (at once a Sufi and an ‘alim, a mufti and a healer, a thinker and a politician) does indeed to a high degree inform the construction of personhood and society in Pakistan. For Muslims, the real leader is simultaneously down to earth and spiritual, both a man of power and a religious leader.22 In the case of Tāhir-ul Qādri, a real marketing policy has been implemented to legitimize his authority and make public his “exceptional” status as the contemporary mujaddid (revivalist) of the century, through the massive use of media. The Internet site and the publication department thus actively participate in the construction of a real hagiographic corpus on the shaikh. In one booklet entitled «What to say about him», written by three of his followers from Pakistan, Denmark, and South Africa, one can observe a construction of Qādri’s image as a complete leader, couched in hyperbolic terms of human perfection, which draw the profile of a superman. He is presented as having the ability to get

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people closer to God, to remind them of the prophet and also as being able to transform the heart of people, qualities that make him a saint, an insan-al kamil, a perfect man in the Sufi tradition. According to his official biography, widely broadcasted on the web site, Tāhir-ul Qādri’s birth was announced to his father, a physician, Sufi, and intellectual, in a dream.23 Qādri was thus educated in the only perspective that his life would be entirely devoted to the “renaissance of Islam.” Very early on, he was educated in Islamic as well as secular sciences. And if there is one thing vigorously claimed by Qādri himself, it is his spiritual “expertise,” both formal and informal. He dates back to 1962 the very beginning of his “formal academic religious education”24 and of his “spiritual education in Sufism in theory and practice.”25 At the age of 12, in 1963, he spent a year in Madina, Saudi Arabia, where he commenced his classical religious education. From 1963 to 1969, he underwent immersion in a traditional syllabus in dars-e nizami in a madrāssah in Jhang. His father was his first professor and informal spiritual shaikh under whose guidance he studied Sufi texts for 12  years and was initiated into the Qādiri order. Later he was further initiated by his father’s shaikh who settled in Quetta after leaving Baghdad, Seyyedna Tāhir Allah ud-Dīn al-Gīlanī al-Baghdadi, and from whom he received the status of khalīfa. Besides his titles as an ‘alim, Qādri is also the recipient of an MA degree in Islamic studies, and a doctorate in Islamic law from the University of Punjab (Lahore) following his research on “punishments in Islam, their classification and their philosophy.” He worked as a lawyer in the District Court in his native town, Jhang, in southern Punjab. He is considered as an “authority in Islamic law and jurisprudence, but also in the rational and scientific interpretation of Islamic teachings,” as is indicated in a eulogistic booklet.26 He is omnipresent on Qur’an TV, where he gives a slew of speeches and he is invited each year to give conferences during the death anniversary of the patron saint of Lahore, ‘Ali Hujweri, a ceremony organized by the ministry of pious works (awqaf), yet another sign that he is deemed to be a respectable scholar in Pakistan. One of the privileged ways in which Qādri has attempted to legitimize his authority as a religious scholar as well as a Sufi is the 150 “chains of authority” in Sufism as well as in Islamic sciences from which he received baraka (divine knowledge or grace).27 “Authorized” by the “greatest scholars” of his time, in his turn he has delivered permissions and authorizations to other contemporary Muslims. Furthermore, the title of shaikh-ul islam was endowed upon him by Arab shaikhs in 2004, among which were the imām of the Umayyad Mosque in Syria, Shaikh Assad Mohammad Sayyid As-Saghar, thus being acknowledged as none less than the leading religious authority in the present era. This title was bestowed on the basis of his spiritual qualities, his achievements in the fields of education, and preaching, as well as his religious and intellectual productions. This validation by Arab religious leaders has considerably enhanced his prestige among his followers and worked as a tool of legitimization both in Pakistan

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and abroad. This distinction is indeed regularly interpreted by official texts as the sign that he is one of the persons “elected and blessed by God” and part of the community of the lieutenants (khalīfas) of the prophet, comprising mujaddidin (revivalists), aulia (saints), and ‘ulama. He is thus promoted as the great revivalist of the present century. One piece of evidence often cited is the fact that he began his work in 1981, a date which corresponds to the beginning of the fifteenth Islamic century. As such, blessings flowing directly from the Prophet are bestowed upon him, besides all his other purported chains of esoteric and exoteric transmission of knowledge. This highly mediatory and hierarchic conception of authority is traditionalist and serves to justify his followers placing their salvation, their interpretation of texts, and also their votes into his hands.

A globalized Sufi cult? In the private life of an emotional community In the summer of 2005, I had the opportunity to join a “spiritual tour” where 250 members of MUQ from the Pakistani Diaspora accompanied Tāhir-ul Qādri to Syria and Turkey for two weeks. The tour consisted partly in socializing with local Sufis: two meetings were organized with Syrian members of the Shadhiliyya while in Damascus, where dhikr as well as musical spiritual sessions were held. We also frequently visited the tombs of great sufis (such as Ibn al-‘Arabī and Rumi), pre-Islamic prophets (such as Yahya and Zacharia), and illustrious characters of Islamic history (companions, family members of the Prophet, and Umayyad Caliphs). The practice of tomb visitation is often deemed to be “popular” piety and is generally attributed in Pakistan to Barelvis. It has persisted even among the MUQ members of the Diaspora, who mainly belong to the middle class. For this transnational emotional community organized around the charismatic shaikh, the tour also favored both a mundane and a mystical sociability among the devotees, strengthening the esprit de corps on a clearly Sufi mode, but also galvanizing the members’ commitment to the MUQ and their devotion to the beloved leader. Through the thought of Tāhir-ul Qādri and affiliation to MUQ, these bornagain Muslims have rediscovered their Islamic identity, once diffused by their insertion in the fabric of Western society. For the transnational structure of the organization to keep working properly, it remains somewhat necessary to maintain his charisma, as it is a catalyst for faith and a great management device. Indeed, the whole trip could be seen as an exercise in spiritual legitimization for Tāhir-ul Qādri. Labeled as “the true representative of the Holy Prophet” in the present age during a speech delivered by a senior MUQ officer from England, Tāhir-ul Qādri was presented as an intermediary bringing people closer to the Prophet, representing all the Sufi orders, and showering the grace of past

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Muslim scholars onto all those following his “mission.” For example, Tāhir-ul Qādri granted all the present members of the congregation the status of “intellectual disciples” of Ibn al-‘Arabī during a ceremony held at his shrine in the Syrian capital city. From my point of view, one of the greatest interests of the tour was thus the opportunity to observe the concomitance of two cults of saints: that in the shrines we visited, always punctuated with emotional speeches and prayers (du’a) by the shaikh, and that of the leader of MUQ himself. The powers and virtues that are granted to him by his followers, as well as the blessings expected from his intercession, do evoke a form of sainthood (walayat). As I witnessed, the devotion, love, and adab the members displayed toward their guide recalled those traditionally owed to a Sufi master. That was most obvious during the qawwālī sessions organized in Damascus, Konya, and Istanbul. Qawwālī is a poetical and musical form formalized by the Sufi and scholar Amir Khusrau in the thirteenth century from different musical traditions. A qawwālī session, a rite of spiritual hearing called mahfil-e sama, is traditionally directed by a shaikh. It has recently been popularized by the great Pakistani singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, and it can become profane listening material. But its initial aim was to transmit a mystical message and help devotees to attain trance in the framework of a communal assembly. The shaikh’s position is pivotal both in space and in the ritual. He is traditionally a center (markaz), an intermediary locus between the message of the qawwals and the audience, and between the latter and God. In the MUQ’s sessions, Tāhir-ul Qādri was indeed performing that specific duty of a traditional shaikh. He regularly interrupted a song to explain a verse by referring to the Qur’an or Hadīth, and the audience expressed the emotion and joy of being initiated to the mystical meaning of traditional Punjabi poems which are difficult to translate and can be interpreted in a nonsacred sense. He continually disserted on the key concepts of Sufism, such as nafs (ego or lower soul), or ruh (the spirit), and narrated personal stories or malfuzat, short didactic tales, to inculcate the values and doctrine associated to Sufism. For instance, he told the story of Rumi’s cook who had burnt his legs to make fire as wood was lacking and some unexpected visitors had arrived. Impressed by such devotion and sacrifice by his cook, Rumi decided to endow him with the status of khalīfa. “One has to burn in order to become light, that is the secret,” the shaikh declared as a form of exegesis. During one of these qawwālī sessions, the female participants expressed their state of bliss by rhythmically pounding their thighs. The men, on the other hand, stood up and danced before the shaikh with a savage joy more reminiscent of bhangra (folk Punjabi dance and music) than of the ethereal style of the whirling dervishes. Some dancers wore small bells around their ankles, the traditional adornments of Indian dancers, as a form of self-abasement before their murshid and to demonstrate their unfailing devotion. Some of them fell at his feet to shower kisses, and at times outside assistance was required to extricate the overzealous devotee from this passionate embrace. In the meantime, others

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collapsed breathless on the spot. Here lies the ultimate goal of qawwālī: ­projecting the devotee into the states of trance and ecstasy and allowing him or her to reach the much-desired state of extinction in God (fanā).

Conclusion The ideological system of MUQ displays an awareness of the fact that Sufism has been excluded from the symbolic resources of Islam by many contemporary Islamic actors. It also acknowledges the corruption within some Sufi practices and the necessity to supersede traditional institutions and evolve a modern form of organization. It is critical of the doctrines and actions of “Wahhabis” and has taken into account the way this category of Islamists has shaped Western opinion on Islam. In other words, it is an exceptionally self-conscious movement that has rationalized the terms of the heated ongoing debate around Islam, modernity, and the West, and tried to evolve a suitable alternative evolving Sufism into a cultural, ethical, intellectual, and political resource for the modern Muslim world.

Notes I am most grateful to Patrick Hutchinson for helping me edit this chapter. Usha Sanyal, Ahmad Riza Khan Barelwi: In the path of the Prophet (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006), xii. 3 See Philippon, L’Inconnue Barelwie. Soufisme et politique au Pakistan à l’heure de la “guerre contre le terrorisme”, Paris, Karthala, collection science politique compare de Science Po Aix, 2011. 4 Jamal Malik, “The Luminous Nurani: Charisma and political mobilization among the Barelwis in Pakistan”, in Pnina Werbner (ed.), special issue on ‘Person, Myth and Society in South Asian Islam’, Social analysis, 28: 38–50, 1990. 5 Olivier Roy, L’islam mondialisé, Seuil, Paris, 2002, p. 51. 6 Carl Ernst, Shambala guide to Sufism, (Boston: Shambala publications, 1997). 7 Saeed Shafqat, “From Official Islam to Islamism: The Rise of Dawat-ul-Irshad and Lashkar-e-Taiba”, in Christophe Jaffrelot (dir.), Pakistan, Nationalism without a Nation, 138–48 (Delhi, Manohar et Londres/ New York, Zed Books, 2002), 134. 8 Tahir-ul Qadri, Islamic concept of intermediation (tawassul), Lahore, Minhāj-ul-Quran Publications, 2001. 9 http://www.minhāj.org. 10 Thomas Pierret, “Internet in a Sectarian Islamic Context”, ISIM Review 15, Spring 2005. 11 Interview with Tahir-ul Qadri, Lahore, April 2004. 12 Interview with Pir Afzal Qadri, amir of Almi Tanzeem Ahl-i Sunnat, May 2008, Mararian Sharif. 1 2

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When I started my fieldwork in 2004, becoming a MUQ member implied paying a monthly fee of 25 rupees for Pakistan and 50 rupees for abroad. Life membership implied paying 5000 rupees for Pakistan, 10,000 thousand for Arab countries and 15,000 for those living in the West. 14 Shafqat, 141. 15 In 2004, the official figure mentioned that more than 70,000 youth were being educated in one of these institutions. 16 Tahir-ul Qadri, The Islamic State (Lahore: Minhāj-ul Quran Publications, 2006), 4. 17 Interview with Tahir-ul Qadri, April 2004, Lahore. 18 Ibid. 19 See http://www.minhaj.org/english/tid/7742/ retrieved August 3, 2011. 20 See http://www.minhaj.org/english/tid/8462/Tahaffuz-e-Pakistan-Ulama-o­Mashaykh-Convention.html, retrieved August 3, 2011. 21 See Malik, 1990. 22 Pnina Werbner, “Introduction”, in Pnina Werbner (ed.), special issue on ‘Person, Myth and Society in South Asian Islam’, Social Analysis, 28: 3–10, 1990, 4. 23 « shayk-ul-islam. Dr Muhammad Tahir-ul-Qadri, A profile » at http://www.islamtune.com/Shaykh_ul_islam_profile.pdf, retrieved August 3, 2011, 1. 24 Interview with Tahir-ul Qadri, May 2004, Lahore. 25 Ibid. 26 This brochure is entitled «Doctor Muhammad Tahir-ul-Qadri, the torch-bearer of peace, tolerance and socio-economic justice». 27 See «shayk-ul-islam. Dr Muhammad Tahir-ul-Qadri, A profile.», 9. 13

Chapter 8

Making the Case for Sainthood in Modern Bangladesh: Narrative Strategies and the ­Presentation of Holiness in the Life of Zia ­ul-Haqq Maizbhandari* Sarwar Alam

Bangladesh is the third largest Muslim country in the world. Most scholars believe that the majority of the population embraced Islam through the influence of the Sufis (mystics, holy men).1 In fact, a large majority of Bangladeshi Muslims perceive Sufis and their tariqas as sources of their spiritual wisdom and guidance. The Maizbhandariyya Tariqa is one of the major reformist Sufi tariqas of Bangladesh, “to which an unknown, but undoubtedly myriad number, of Bangladeshis claim some measure of adherence.”2 Maulana Sayyid Ahmadullah (1826–1906) was the founder of the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa. The Maizbhandariyya shaikhs are descendants of the Prophet Muhammad, and are followers of the Qādiriyya Sufi lineage.3 Their forefathers arrived in Bengal from Delhi in the sixteenth century and settled in the region of Chittagong. Sayyid Ahmadullah’s father, Maulana Sayyid Matiullah, moved to Maizbhandar, a village of Fatikchhari subdistrict.4 The Maizbhandari Order takes its name from this ­village. The Maizbhandariyya Sufi Order transgresses the common standard of exoteric Islam established by the ‘ulama (theologians) at least in two ways: (a) it admits as members not only Muslims, but also people from other faiths; (b) it gives precedence to ethics over rituals. The aims and objectives of this order are as follows: (1) achieving nearness to God by abandoning mundane self-interests, (2) establishing universal ideals of religious equality by minimizing religious conflicts in the world, (3) motivating humankind toward a true and just life, (4) encouraging humane attributes, (5) ensuring mundane and spiritual well-being, (6) attaining God through love, and (7) establishing personal and social peace by restraining all kinds of moral erosion. To achieve these objectives, one should observe the following rules: (1) to believe in the unity of God and complete submission to God, (2) to restrain from activities that are contrary to the Qur’ān and Sunna, (3) to follow all the directives of the Qur’ān and Hadīth, (4) to depend on God’s sovereignty completely, (5) to follow the lights

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of knowledge of the saints or holy men, (6) to abandon superstitions and blind beliefs, and (7) to attain a good character. The Maizbhandariyya Tariqa combines three spiritual streams: the Qādiriyya, the Chīshtīyya, and the Khidhiriyya.5 The first stream requires performing dhikr (invocation) to purify the soul. The second stream requires the performance of samā’ (devotional song) as a form of prayer. The third or Khidhiriyya stream is named after the Prophet Khidhir and focuses on the secret and mysterious laws of nature. Officially part of the Qādiriyya order, the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa integrates talāwat-e-ozud or seven kinds of dhikr from the Qādiriyya order with usūl-e-sab‘a or Seven Fundamentals of restraint. To achieve one’s objectives, the salik or wayfarer is recommended to observe both of these practices, in addition to fasting and regular prayer. Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq Maizbhandari was the fourth shaikh of the Maizbhandariyya Order. To date, three authors have attempted to write the sacred biography of this holy man. Jamal Ahmad Sikder wrote the first biography of the shaikh in 1982. This biography was written before the shaikh’s death. The other two biographers, Sayyid Muhammad Amir ul-Islam and Md. Ghulam Rasul, two high-ranking government officials, wrote their accounts of the shaikh’s life soon after the shaikh’s death in 1988. This chapter will examine historiographically the genre of modern Muslim hagiography based on these three works and the Maizbhandari Sufi journal Alokdhara, which is being published since 1995. Through these narratives, we shall see how the vita of a Muslim saint is constructed in contemporary South Asia and how the construction of sainthood in hagiography intersects with or differs from the more widely acknowledged genre of biography. All three hagiographers combine both facts and legends in their discourses. For example, they provide an accurate record of the shaikh’s birth, his stages of education with relevant dates, and other life events. However, along with these they also provide information about the shaikh’s ability to perform miracles, his extraordinary charisma, and his power of conveying messages through dreams. The primary concern of all three writers is not only to convey historical facts but also to convey the religiously motivated ethical message of the shaikh. Their accounts are styled after other Sufi discourses that are popular in other regions of South Asia.6 Unlike the hagiographical genres of other South and Southeast Asian holy persons, these narratives do not portray the shaikh as a human fetish.7 Rather, most devotees, including these hagiographers, were originally attracted to him because of his reputation as a pious Muslim. Shaikh Zia ulHaqq was neither interested in recruiting adepts nor did he make any efforts to develop any conventional pīr–murīdi (teacher–disciple) relationships with his followers. In general, the three biographical works about the Shaikh convey a religious message, similar to the model proposed by the Bollandist theorist of hagiographic studies, Hippolyte Delehaye. Delehaye argued that hagiographic works

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should be inspired by devotion and that they should maintain a primarily ­religious character.8 Concurring with Delehaye, Thomas J. Heffernan9 observed that sacred biographies tend to be didactic rather than historiographic in nature. Alexander H. Olsen adds that in order to edify the religious message of a saint miraculous and fictitious stories are incorporated in the vita of a holy man. Since hagiographers share a common experience with the audience of their works, they are “aware of the expectations of their audiences and try to fulfill them.”10 In contrast, I argue that in the case of Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq the hagiographers were most moved by the piety and meditational practices of the Shaikh as well as by his tolerant and accommodative views toward other religious traditions. However, like other hagiographers their aim is didactic, and an important secondary purpose of their works is to defend the orthodoxy of Sufi piety. Their contributions to this genre were negotiated and contested in public discourse before they were written down as hagiography.

Jamal Ahmad Sikder’s account of Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq Jamal Ahmad Sikder published the book Shahanshah Zia ul-Haqq Maizbhandari in 1982. He begins by discussing the family tree of the Maizbhandariyya shaikhs and sets the birth event of Zia ul-Haqq within a broad spectrum of creation stories across religious, philosophical, and scientific traditions. He briefly discusses the Christian notion of the Logos, the doctrines of Plotinus (d. 270 CE), the Vedas and Bhagavad Gita, the Muslim philosophical notion of “aql-e-awal” or First Intellect, Ibn Arabi’s (d. 1240 CE) concept of “wahdat al-wazud,” and even the Big Bang theory. He also compares the parallelisms between Vedic theology and Ibn Arabi’s monotheism. According to Ibn Arabi, claims Sikder, God does not create anything but rather manifests Himself in creation. He quotes a hadīth qudsi (word of God repeated by Prophet Muhammad) that says that God was hidden but manifests Himself out of love. He discusses the Prophet Muhammad’s Sufi orientation, the importance of the fourth caliph of Islam, Ali ibn Abi Talib, and his descendants, and how the Maizbhandari shaikhs are related to them. He spends the first three chapters of the book narrating the life stories of the first three shaikhs of Maizbhandariyya and the doctrines of the Tariqa. Zia ul-Haqq was born on Tuesday, the tenth day of the tenth month (Poush) of the Bengali year 1335, which corresponds to the twelfth day of the seventh month (Rajab) of the Islamic calendar; this corresponds to the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month (December) of the Common Era year, 1928. Sikder narrates several great events that occurred during that month. These include the building of Noah’s ark before the Great Flood, the first revelation brought to the Prophet Muhammad from God by the angel Gabriel, and the ascension (miraj) of Muhammad to Heaven to meet God. In addition, Jesus was born on the same day, which for the Christians is Christmas.

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Early years and education: JAS narrates that Zia ul-Haqq was named Sayyid Badiur Rahman during his naming ceremony (akika), on the seventh day of his birth, but that on the next day he was renamed as Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq because of instructions his father received in a dream from the founding shaikh of the order, Sayyid Ahmadullah. On the twenty-first day after his birth Zia ul-Haqq fell prey to an incurable disease and was near death. His mother asked her husband, Sayyid Delaor Husayn, to take the child to Sayyid Gholamur Rahman, the second shaikh of the Maizbhandariyya, for his blessings. Delaor refused to take the boy to the shaikh, saying, “I cannot go to him for a simple thing like begging for the life of my son. You can go if you wish.” So the helpless mother took the senseless baby to Gholamur Rahman and begged him to restore the life of her son. Shaikh Gholamur Rahman asked someone to pour water on the ailing child. Nothing happened even after seven containers of water were poured on him. At this stage the shaikh poured two or three drops of water into the mouth of the child with his own hand. A miracle happened. The child opened his eyes. At the age of four Zia ul-Haqq took his first Arabic lesson from his father. Soon afterward, he was admitted to a local madrasa. After completing the third grade he transferred to a nearby secular elementary school. He moved from Fatikchhari to the city of Chittagong in order to complete his high school education. He passed the Matriculation examination in 1948. In 1951 he passed the Intermediate of Arts examination in Chittagong Government College. He was then admitted at Kanungo Para Sir Ashutosh College in order to pursue a B.A. degree. But on the third day of his final examination he left the examination hall for an unknown reason. However, he continued his religious education from Sufi scholars and from his father, the third shaikh of the tariqa. He took the oath of allegiance into the Maizbhandariyya from Maulana Shafiur Rahman, a close associate of his father. Ascetic practices: There was a change of mode and everyday behavior of Zia ulHaqq after the day he left the examination hall. He kept himself aloof from others. He spent most of his time either in his room or at the mausoleum of Hazrat Ahmadullah. Some unusual patterns in his behavior also appeared during that time. He would immerse himself up to his neck in a pond and spend hours and sometimes whole nights there, even during the coldest month of the year. He would commonly disappear from home for days at a time. He would spend hours looking at the sweltering sun during the day and at the stars at night. After observing his odd behaviors, his parents decided that he needed to get married. However, his marriage did not bring about much change. He remained indifferent to his conjugal and family life for the first couple of years; he even spent his wedding night at the salt warehouse close to the dargāh of his great grandfather, Sayyid Ahmadullah. His family members and acquaintances observed that he did not change after his marriage. Zia ul-Haqq now spent most of his time at the salt warehouse, gazing at the mausoleum of his great grandfather for hours. At times he would stare continuously in the same direction for three or four days at a time, without eating or drinking. ­Sometimes

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he spent hours standing on one foot or on his head. On one occasion he spent 18 days alone in his closed room without taking any food or water. At one point he developed a habit of burning everything. He set quilts, blankets, pillows, and books on fire as if he enjoyed watching the flames. He would violently resist anyone who tried to prevent him from doing such things. Finally, he got rid of his clothes and remained naked in his room. Because he was in such an advanced stage of intoxication, his father and his disciples put him in chains. But the situation did not improve. How could people calm down a person who had drunk the wine of God’s love? His mother, his wife, and other close relatives became worried about his condition. In desperation, they sent him to a psychiatric treatment center and asylum. There, he underwent a therapeutic treatment and received at least ten sessions of electric shocks. After a while he returned home, but his habit of gazing at the mausoleum of his great grandfather remained unchanged. He used to spend the whole night in meditation and dhikr (invocation), sleeping only briefly at dawn. In this way he passed through one stage (hal) after another of Sufi practices and eventually realized the consciousness of God in himself (fanā fil-haqiqa). This ultimately led him to reach baqā or the stage of residing in God’s presence. Zia ul-Haqq, the shaikh: On the morning of April 6, 1974, Sayyid Delaor Husayn expressed his desire to select a successor. Accordingly, the followers with special ranks met all of the children of their master except Zia ul-Haqq. However, none of them expressed any interest in becoming the successor of their father. The next day, Sayyid Delaor Husayn declared his eldest son Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq as his successor in front of his children and other followers. In fact, he had received an instruction from his deceased grandfather, Shaikh Ahmadullah, in a dream as early as 1966 to select Zia ul-Haqq as his successor. That is how the intoxicated Zia ul-Haqq became the fourth shaikh of the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa. Shaikh Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq spent the remainder of his life guiding his followers. He used to insist that his devotees perform prayers and fast. He told them to purify their character, which was the essence of religion. He spent his time eliminating lust and fear from the hearts of his followers so that they could love God. Observing the people’s indifference toward God, he once made the following comment: “People come to me to solve their mundane problems, such as to bless their barren wives to have children, to remove obstacles for promotion in their professional careers, to make their trades and businesses prosper, or to heal the sick. Nobody comes to me for the sake of God. I am hiding in the city because of this.” Prophecy and miracles: Sikder also narrates the state of national and international politics and diplomacy and describes how Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq predicted certain events. For example, he foresaw the devastating effect of the imposition of the one-party system by the founding father of the country, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, three years after the independence. He predicted that such a system would not last long. Sheikh Mujib was killed on August 15, 1975 during a military coup d’état. The military-backed government revived the multiparty

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­ olitical system later. He foretold the triumph of Ayatullah Ruhullah Khomeini p and the fall of Reza Shah Pahlavi of Iran. He kept himself locked in his room on the night the Sabra and Shatila camps of Palestinian refugees were attacked by the Lebanese Christian Falangist militia. He foretold such events mostly during his ecstatic states. Less than a week before Sheikh Mujib was killed, one of the shaikh’s devotees and a leader of the ruling party in Chittagong met with the shaikh for a blessing before he left for the capital city, Dhaka. The shaikh told the devotee that he should not stay near Sheikh Mujib. The devotee understood the meaning of the suggestion after the brutal killing of Mujib and most of his family members a week later. Sikder also records other accounts that narrated miraculous events related to Zia ul-Haqq, such as how the remembrance of his name helped rescue a sinking fishing trawler from a storm in the Bay of Bengal; how his counsel helped a person overcome economic hardships; how he stopped tidal bores, storms, and rains; how his blessings helped ailing people get cured; how his blessings helped a sexually impotent person regain his strength; how his presence helped a chauffeur drive a car without gasoline; and how his blessings helped people find jobs. Some of the original narrators of these stories were lay devotees; some were professionals, such as medical doctors, college and university professors, journalists, technocrats, and political activists. Sikder narrates that the people who benefited from the shaikh’s miraculous power and blessings were not only Muslims but also adherents of other religious traditions. Thus, in addition to piety, Sikder pays equal attention to popular beliefs, beliefs in the shaikh’s charisma, and supernatural power. Traditional tensions between exoteric Islamic tradition and Sufi practices are also reflected in Sikder’s narratives. Traditional ‘ulama are critical of the popular belief in the special powers of the Sufis and also the popular practice of venerating tombs. One of the common purposes of the Islamic reform movements of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, such as Faraidi, Tayuni, and Tariqa-i-Muhammadiyya, was to discourage common people in venerating sufi shrines. The contemporary fundamentalist political organizations, such as the Bangladesh Jama’at-e-Isami, are also against these popular beliefs and practices. Sikder attempts to defend the practice of veneration of Sufi shaikhs and their tombs. He asserts that most of the Sufi shaikhs in Bengal were exemplifications of communal harmony not only during their lifetime but also after their death. Their shrines are still viewed as symbols of communal harmony in Bangladesh. The Maizbhandari Sufis and their shrines are a continuation of this tradition.

The hagiography of Sayyid Muhammad Amir ul-Islam Sayyid Muhammad Amir ul-Islam, a civil servant of the central government of Bangladesh, published his hagiographical narrative, Shahanshah Ziaul Huq

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­Maijbhandari (King of Kings Ziaul Haquue Maizbhandari), in English in 1992.11 In the narrative, he attempts to stress the importance of a walī Allah or Muslim saint. Somewhat like a prophet, a walī is a moral guide who helps people lead an ethical life. Islam describes a hierarchized list or order of twenty-five groups of people in which the Prophet tops the list and the general masses are at the bottom. The category Ghausul Azam (Greatest Benefit to Humanity) is ranked fourteenth on the list, after the Companions of the Prophet and the generation that followed them.12 The adherents of the Maizbhandariyya use the term Ghausul Azam to signify Shaikh Ahmadullah, the founder of the tariqa. This term was originally used for Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani (d. 1166 CE), the founder of the Qādiriyya order to which the Maizbhandariyya is affiliated. Islam describes Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq as Mojadded-e-Zaman (Renewer of the Age), meaning the most distinguished guide of the era who brings about reform in society and saves the Muslim community from moral degradation and erosion. This is an important term because it has quasi-messianic connotations that go beyond the limitations of Sufism. Like Sikder, Islam informs readers that Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq was born at subeh sadek (dawn) on Tuesday, on the tenth of Pous, 1335 (December 25, 1928 or 12 Rajab, 1347). He states that this day “will go down in history as a red letter day. For this day of the days gave rise to such a sun which has already brightened the globe by its shining sparkle” (p. 8). The Prophet Jesus was also born on the same day. On the seventh day of his birth, during the naming ceremony, his parents named the baby boy Sayyid Badiur Rahman. But on the very same day the baby’s great grandfather directed his father in a dream to name the baby Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq. To celebrate the new name another festival was arranged the following day. The latter part of Islam’s biographical narrative, such as the illness of Zia, his father’s reply to his mother’s request to take him to Shaikh Gholamur Rahman, and the subsequent events are identical to the narratives of Sikder. Islam describes the topographical and geographical location of the village Maijbhandar (Middle Store) of Fatikchhari (Crystal Fountain) as a village that was known for producing a number of famous religious figures with the blessings of Shaikh Ahmadullah. The author draws attention to the Sajara or lineage of the Maizbhandariyya path and of Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq with other Sufi shaikhs. Prominent in this lineage are Abd al-Qadir Jilani, Shihabuddin Suhrawardi, Junaid of Baghdad, the Shiite Imam Jafar Sadeq, and Ali ibn Abi Talīb, all of whom are related to Prophet Mohammed. The forefathers of the Maizbhandariyya shaikhs were residents of Arabia. During Muslim rule in South Asia, they moved to Delhi and later to Gour, the then capital of Bengal, during the reign of Sultan Ghiasuddin Azam Shah (1389–1409 CE). The Sultan appointed many members of this family to distinguished positions. Sayyid Nur Kutub-e-Alam, a prominent religious figure of his day and a member of the Sayyid family, played a pivotal role in overthrowing a treacherous Hindu king, Raja Ganesha

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(d. 1418CE) who had persecuted several Muslim preachers. When the Sultan of Gaur Daud Khan was engaged in conflicts with the Mughal emperor Akbar (d. 1605) and an epidemic of smallpox spread through the region, some members of the Sayyid family left Gaur and moved to the village Haola of the present-day Boalkhali subdistrict of Chittagong. Because of the reputation of some members of this family, Haola was later renamed Sayyidpur (p. 19). One of the branches of the Sayyid family led by Sayyid Hamiduddin Shah settled in the Patiya subdistrict of Chittagong. His descendant, Sayyid Abdul Qadir Shah, moved to Azimnagar of the Fatikchhari subdistrict, and his grandson Sayyid Matiullah Shah moved to the village of Maizbhandar where his son Sayyid Ahmadullah established the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa. Early years and education: Islam’s description of the early days and stages of Shaikh Zia’s education are similar to those of Sikder. However, he adds that after returning home to his native village the shaikh asked his father, Sayyid Delaor Husayn, to take advanced lessons in religion. Accordingly, his father asked Maulana Shafiur Rahman, the Imam of the Shahi Jam-e-Mosque of Chittagong, to give Zia lessons. At this the Imam became very timid; how could he impart lessons to the son of such a great man? Shaikh Delaor asked Maulana Shafiur to impart the basics of religion to Zia and said that he himself would take care of the rest. Through this means, Zia ul-Haqq started another journey into the unknown, as God says in sūra al-Ma’ida: “Oh ye faithful, you continue to fear Allah, search out a means to know Allah and do war in the Allah’s path.” Ascetic practices: Unlike Sikder, who stressed asceticism, Islam stresses the ecstatic elements in Shaikh Zia’s spiritual life. He reports that the shaikh immersed himself up to his nose in a pond or canal and would pass hours or even days this way, even during the chilly month of December. On several occasions, he traveled back and forth to Chittagong on foot, a trek of 22 miles from the dargāh premises. It was a common practice of Zia to find a solitary place and to stare at the stars at night and at the sun during the day. He used to meditate by staring at the mausoleum of his great grandfather; sometimes he spent three or four days in the same position without food and water. The rest of Islam’s narrative, such as those of Zia’s abnormal behaviors, psychiatric treatment, travels, and habits of fasting, is similar to the narratives of Sikder. Islam also mentions that the shaikh passed through the stages of fanā and baqā, but this time they are compared with the states of Husayn b. Monsur al-Hallaj (d. 922 CE), the famous ecstatic and Sufi martyr. Ziaul Huq, the shaikh: Unlike Sikder, Islam notes that Shaikh Sayyid Zia ulHaqq sometimes threatened people, demanded money from his followers beyond their capacities, and drove people away without giving them the chance to make a salutation. However, we are told that the object of these behaviors was to arouse in people a love for God in preference to greed, temptation, and fear. The shaikh advised people not to become bored or exhausted, but rather to

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have patience in times of danger and to rely on God. He was a living example of kindness to the poor and the downtrodden. Prophecy and miracles: Islam narrates some of his personal experiences as a companion of Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq. On one occasion he was traveling by jeep along with the shaikh in the coldest month of the year in nearly freezing temperature. But he did not feel cold at all. The shaikh wore a thin garment on the upper part of his body and he was absorbed in a deep meditational mood. He also described how his mother was cured of illness by eating “tabarruk” (blessed food of the free kitchen of the dargāh), instead of having a surgery. Islam also describes justifications for the samā’ and the tradition of sajida or prostration before a shaikh or his tomb. He argues that samā’ creates inspiration in people to love God. He argues that sajida is nothing but showing respect in its deepest form in lieu of the general Muslim greeting or salam. He informs the reader that sajida is of two kinds: sajida-e-ibadat and sajida-e-tehiya or sajida-etajim. The first form of prostration is meant for God alone, whereas the second is meant for prophets and saints. The Prophet Joseph was offered sajida by his father, mother, and brothers, and the Prophet Adam was offered sajida by the angels. He claims that the Prophet Muhammad also approved of this practice (p. 67). He also claims that the shaikh knew his exact moment of death, and that he died while invoking God’s name. According to Islam, at least a million people attended the shaikh’s zanaza (ritual prayer offered before burial).

The hagiography of Md. Ghulam Rasul Md. Ghulam Rasul, a senior government employee, published his hagiographical account in English, The Divine Spark: Shahanshah Ziaul Hoque (K.), in 1994. He sets his tone within the Sufi literary tradition of Islam. He argues that the seed of Sufism is dormant in the Qur’ān. In framing his argument he quotes some verses from the Qur’ān, such as “Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth” (verse 24:35), “He is the first and the last and the outward and the inward” (verse 57:3), “There is no God but He; everything perishes except His face” (verse 15:29), “I have breathed into him (man) of My spirit” (verse 15:29), “Verily, We have created man and We know what his soul suggests to him, for We are nearer unto him than his jugular vein” (verse 50:16), “Wheresoever ye turn, there is the face of Allah” (verse 2:109), and “He to whom Allah giveth not light hath no light at all” (verse 24:40). In addition, he makes references to the prophetic Sunna, such as the Prophet Muhammad’s practice of meditation in the cave of the mountain Hira, his night journey or miraj, and his prayer and absolute dependence on God. He notes that God endows two kinds of mercy upon Prophet Muhammad: prophethood (nabūwat) and sainthood (vilāyat); the Prophet was the Beloved of God (Mahbub-Khoda). He notes that after the demise of the Prophet, the sainthood or vilāyat passed to ‘Ali ibn Abu Talīb. He also

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contends that the Maizbhandari shaikhs inherited the velayet through Abd al-Qādir Jīlanī (d. 1166 CE) and Muīn ud-Dīn Chīshtī (d. 1135 CE). He observes that the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa is part and parcel of the Chīshtīyya Tariqa. He also briefly narrates the contributions of Rabi‘a al-‘Adawiyya (d. 801 CE), Harith ibn Asad ‘Anazi Muhasibi (d. 847 CE), Dhu’l-Nun Misrī (d. 856 CE), Abu Yazid Bistami (d. 874 CE), Husayn b. Mansur al-Hallāj (d. 922 CE), Imam Abu Hamid al-Ghazalī (d. 1111 CE), Ibn Arabī (d. 1240 CE), and Maulana Jalal ud-Dīn Rumi (d. 1273 CE) in developing the mystical dimension of Islam. Rasul notes that some of the descendants of the Prophet traveled and immigrated to South Asia; one such descendant was the ancestor of the founding shaikh of the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa, who settled in Chittagong in 1575. He very briefly describes the sevenfold method of the Maizbhandariyya path, and the life sketches of the first three shaikhs, Ahmadullah, Ghulam ur-Rahman, and Delaor Husayn. From chapter IV on he narrates hagiographic accounts of Zia ul-Haqq, the fourth shaikh of the tariqa. Like the previous hagiographers, Rasul discusses the birth date of Zia ulHaqq, which was Wednesday (according to Sikder and Islam, it was Tuesday), the tenth day of the tenth month of the Bengali year 1335, which corresponds to the twelfth day of the seventh month of the Islamic calendar and the twentyfifth day of the twelfth month of the Common Era year, 1928. Rasul narrates: “On his birth the mild breeze blew, trees danced and the whole universe welcomed him with overwhelming joy” (p. 49). Early years and education: Rasul’s description of the naming ceremonies of Zia ul-Haqq, his illness, his healing by Maulana Sayyid Gholamur Rahman Maizbhandari, and other events related to the early life of the shaikh are identical with those of Sikder and Islam. However, he elaborates the previous accounts by adding that after relinquishing his formal education Zia ul-Haqq returned home, threw out his books, and got himself involved in the spiritual learning of the Maizbhandariyya Path. Rasul narrates this event with an analogy of Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi who said, “Burn the pages of your books; bloom your heart with real truth” (p. 51). Ascetic practices: Because of his strange style of meditation and prayer Zia ulHaqq came to be known as a madman. Rasul’s description of the shaikh’s life of this stage (such as fasting, meditation, gazing, burning books, psychiatric treatment, and marriage) is identical to the descriptions of Sikder and Islam. However, in addition to these descriptions, Rasul informs his readers that after returning from the asylum the shaikh developed the habit of traveling at night. He traveled among hills, woods, towns, and ocean beaches during this stage of his life. Through extreme perseverance as well as absolute trust in God he ascended to the heights of glory. Rasul observes that the shaikh achieved complete perfection by practicing four very important things, namely (i) having the minimum of sleep, (ii) eating the minimum of food, (iii) speaking little or not at all, and (iv) having no association with others in society (p. 70). Through

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constant remembrance of God he caused his self to pass away in God (fanā) and attained the ability to abide continuously in God (baqā). Zia ul-Haqq, the shaikh: On January 16, 1966 Shaikh Delaor Husayn received an instruction from Shaikh Sayyid Ahmadullah in a dream to “place the deposit (i.e. amanat) in the custody of Zia ul-Haqq Mia.” Accordingly, Shaikh Delaor Husayn arranged a ceremony and delegated the trust of Shaikh Sayyid Ahmadullah, of which he was the custodian, to Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq. In this way, Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq became the fourth shaikh of the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa. Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq insisted that his followers observe daily prayers and fasts. He encouraged people to purify their hearts. Rasul states that the shaikh “used to remove all dirt from the hearts of the people and purify them” (p. 78). Rasul narrates how Zia ul-Haqq gave money to the needy and encouraged people to lead a righteous life. Prophecy and miracles: Rasul describes several miraculous events related to Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq. With very few exceptions, all of them are identical to those described by Sikder. Among the exceptions are descriptions of a female college teacher who was cured of amebic dysentery, a senior journalist who was cured of paralysis, and a female devotee who was cured of cancer by Sayyid Zia ulHaqq’s blessings. Rasul describes how he got a promotion with Shaikh Zia’s blessings. He also records how he fed more than a hundred men with the amount of food prepared for only thirty or forty people on one occasion when the shaikh stayed at his residence. The last chapter of Rasul’s book describes the final days of the shaikh, which he himself had witnessed. He narrates how the shaikh performed dhikr every day and night, even immediately before his death. Rasul observes: “Without any common organization Shahanshah Zia ul-Haqq (K) lived a life of poverty and self-discipline, devoting himself to meditation and prayer, and trusting all things to the providential care of Allah. His (K) meditation took the form of the continuous chanting of such words as, Allah! Allah! Allah!” Rasul contends in conclusion: “Shahanshah Zia ul-Haqq (K) is a man of outstanding personality, reputed to be blessed with the gift of miraculous powers or even of creation exnihilio, and found disciples crowding to him” (p. 141). Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq died on October 13, 1988 at 12:27 AM. Rasul attended the funeral prayer offered before burial and observed that about half a million people attended that prayer. In addition to these three sacred biographies, other individuals have published biographical accounts of the shaikh in newspapers and magazines, especially in the monthly Alokdhara. It may be mentioned here that Sayyid Muhammad Hasan, son of the late Shaikh Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq, is the publisher of Alokdhara. The primary goal of this magazine is to preach Maizbhandari Sufi ideals to the mass, especially students and youngsters. Its regular contributors are men of modern education. Among these writers are Professor Abdul Mannan Chowdhury, Muhammad Husain Chowdhury, Farūk Chowdhury, Professor Ranjit Kumer Chakravarty, Abser Mahfuz, M. Ali Sikder, Balai Kumer Acharya, Md.

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Mahbub-ul Alam, Hafiz Abul Kalām, and Principal Maulana Mahmudul Haque Talukder. All these writers are employed in modern professions. Their main points of focus in these narratives are on the shaikh’s rigorous method of meditation, his piety, his firm belief in the unity of God, his noncommunal and inclusivist outlook, and his stress on leading an honest and ethical way of life. None of these writers engages in theological polemics; rather, their primary interest is practical, such as in the communal harmony and peaceful coexistence of different traditions. Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq preached against the religious formalism and literalism advocated by the conservative ‘ulama; he asked his devotees to follow the Qur’ānic spirit of tolerance and peaceful coexistence with other religious communities.

Discussion and analysis All three sacred biographies are devotional in character with slight variations. Jamal Ahmad Sikder is speculative in tone. The author sometimes expresses his curiosity as to why a person becomes involved in the search of God and indifferent to worldly affairs or why a person engages himself on behalf of public welfare. He attempts to historicize the shaikh by setting his narrative within a broader politico-historical framework, in which the shaikh emerges as a guide and as a manifestation of personified virtues and ethics. By contrast, Sayyid Muhammad Amir ul-Islam expresses his devotion in a more personal way. He refers to Zia ul-Haqq as “my lord,” “my master,” “my guide,” and “my philosopher” whenever possible. On the other hand, Md. Ghulam Rasul sets his narrative more broadly and impersonally within the context of classic Islamic Sufi discourses. His tone is more assertive and didactic than that of the other two. However, all three hagiographers attempt to historicize as well as contextualize their sacred biographies13 by noting that through the shaikh’s rigorous meditations and spiritual practices, he embodied the teachings and the baraka (charisma) of the three preceding shaikhs of the Maizbhandariyya, as well as the spiritual legacies of the Qādiriyya, Chīshtīyya, and Khidiriyya ­traditions. These three authors also share another emphasis: they react defensively against the propaganda and opposition of anti-Sufi Islamists in Bangladesh. They attempt to defend Sufism by highlighting the practices of the shaikh that are most related to piety, virtue, and charity. They often quote Qur’ānic verses and Prophetic traditions in defense of their arguments. In justifying their position, they refer to people who are popularly perceived as the most conservative members of the exoteric Islamic tradition. An example of this is the citation of the Imam of the Shahi Mosque, who gave religious lessons to Shaikh Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq. Islam mentions how the principal of a liberal arts college once defended the goals of the Maizbhandariyya in a large public gathering. In

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a­ ddition, all three hagiographers are defensive about the practice of samā’ and ­prostration before the shaikh. Comparison of the narratives of Sikder, Islam, and Rasul with others in the issues of the monthly Alokdhara shows that they are consistent with other popular stories about the shaikh. The readers of this magazine as well as of the books just mentioned comprise of three categories of people: followers of the tariqa, those who are suspicious of Sufi practices, and the general public. For the followers of the tariqa there are devotional writings, for those who are suspicious of Sufi practices there are polemical counterarguments in favor of Sufism, and for the general public there are didactic stories. Yet there is also a subtle difference between the biographical accounts published in Alokdhara and the three hagiographies. Although all three hagiographers attempt to portray Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq as a historical figure, they also at the same time attempt to mythicize him. On the other hand, biographical accounts in Alokdhara tend to focus on more practical issues, such as the ethical aspects of the shaikh’s life or his ­teachings. In attempting to portray Zia ul-Haqq as a holy man and a saint, the three hagiographers narrate several of his miracles; they ascribed miracles to him. When the owner of the sinking fishing trawler recalled the face of his shaikh and sought his help, the trawler and its crew were rescued. The devotees also viewed Shaikh Zia’a prophetic utterances about nationally and internationally important events as miracles, because they predicted actual occurrences. Why do devotees ascribe miracles to a holy man? Is the capacity to perform miracles a necessary part of sainthood? According to Stanley Tambiah: “Considered as a literary device and work of art, a hagiographical work is not complete without anecdotes of supra-mundane and transcendental powers, for without such signs of achievement a saint is not a saint but merely a virtuous man.”14 Similarly, Thomas Heffernan holds that biographer seeks to maintain a difficult balance between the narrative depiction of a legendary figure and a moral everyman. If this biographical dualism is weighted too far toward the supernatural, we lose the man, while if the exemplary is underemphasized, we end up without our saint.15 Heffernan’s assertion appears to be partially true for our three modern hagiographers, as they equally emphasize the supernatural powers of the shaikh with his acts of piety and virtue. However, Heffernan’s observation also appears to be too reductive, as he does not take the living aspect of sainthood seriously enough. Apart from the abovementioned hagiographical accounts, the articles published in Alokdhara focus almost entirely on the existential and utilitarian appeal of the shaikh’s life. A few of them assess the importance of Sufism in Bangladesh. They contend that from the very beginning, it was the Sufis who introduced Islam in Bengal.16 In this sense, the Maizbhandariyya Tariqa and its shaikhs are the continuation of an early, and hence orthodox, Islamic tradition. In light of the trend toward religious extremism in Bangladesh in recent

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decades,17 they hold that Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq, who, like his predecessors, ­preferred religious pluralism and accommodation over conflict, was a model for national integration and that his example might resolve the tension between the secular and the religious in modern Bangladesh. In fact, the writers of Alokdhara show the greatest interests in those aspects of the shaikh’s life that inspired people to be tolerant of one another. In this sense, their purpose is not to sacralize the shaikh, but rather to contextualize the life of the shaikh in a political context. It appears that these two categories of narrative, one that emphasizes piety and virtue, and the other that is utilitarian in character, blur the boundaries between what Peter Brown has called “elite” and “popular” categories of religious practice.18 It has been argued that a hagiographer is not a historian, but rather an agent or a publicist, who prefers legends to facts and portrays myth as history; as Donald Weinstein and Rudolph M. Bell have observed, the work of the hagiographer reflects the collective mentality of his or her audience.19 Similar to Heffernan, Pierre Delooz asserts that “one is never a saint except for other people”; in other words, sainthood is an ascribed phenomenon.20 Delooz further argues that sainthood depends on a community’s recollection of a dead person’s past existence; thus, sainthood is situated in the act of recollection (Ar. dhikr). He also contends that regardless of the actualities of the saint’s real existence, sainthood is a constructed phenomenon, a product of collective representation (1983: 195). Vincent J. Cornell has elaborated Delooz’s observation by contending that sainthood is a matter of discourse; that the legitimacy of sainthood involves negotiation, and that the prospective saint must manifest outwardly visible signs of saintly status, such as exceptional piety, intercession, evidentiary miracles or unusual modes of behavior.21 The authors of the three book-length hagiographies were close companions of the deceased shaikh; they witnessed and experienced his piety, miracles, and behavior. In addition, they also recorded similar experiences and perceptions of other people about the shaikh, which were consistent with one another. To portray Shaikh Zia ul-Haqq as a holy man they incorporated not only popular stories about the shaikh, but also their personal experience of the shaikh’s miraculous performances in their discourses. Together they reflect a general trend of expectation of qualities of a holy man and a general portrayal of a holy man. Conventional positivistic historiography, which looks for the “proof” of events, differs in many respects from oral traditions or hagiographical narratives, which look for messages consistent with collective memories and expectations. Hagiographic narratives may not reflect real events objectively, but they do convey traces of collective memories consistent with the “ideal type” of virtues expected from holy people. If we agree with the argument that hagiography reflects collective memories as well as socially constituted mentalities, and that, as Hippolyte Delehaye had contended, the purpose of hagiography is to promote devotion as well as to teach religious doctrines, we may conclude that ­hagiography

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or sacred biography reflects both social and personal concerns. In his book Islamic Sufism Unbound, Robert Rozehnal (2007) contends that hagiographic narratives blur the boundaries between history and mythology. He argues that sainthood is simultaneously paradigmatic, protean, and socially constructed, and as a public marker of personal piety, sainthood is an ascribed status.22 ­Similar to Rozehnal’s observations, the intentions of Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq’s hagiographers are paradigmatic and protean, but at the same time, they are also didactic and most importantly defensive in upholding Sufi ­orthodoxies. When reviewing multiple hagiographic sources about a Hindu saint from India, Robin Rinehart (1999)23 has described the ways in which the followers of Swami Rama Tirtha constructed and preserved their memories about him. She draws our attention to the fact that hagiographers serve as mediators between the saints and their followers through their texts, especially when the saint is no longer living.24 Similar to Delehaye, she notes that “the hagiographies themselves serve as evidence of the hagiographers’ rhetorical strategies” and that “their strategies are governed by their first and foremost goal of inspiring devotion to the saint (and often institutions in the saint’s name) who is their subject.” 25 She also contends that hagiographies are accounts of experiential reflections; the first generation of hagiographers in particular describes the effects the saint had had on them and on others. In this sense, hagiography differs from biography because biographies focus on writing about the life (bios) whereas hagiographies emphasize those aspects of the saint’s life that lead to one’s recognition as a saint. She also describes the ways later hagiographers attempted to make the person a mythical figure. In the case of Swami Rama Tirtha, later hagiographers described him as an avatar, an incarnation of the god Vishnu or Krishna.26 Contrary to this mythologizing trend, the later biographical accounts of Shaikh Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq published in the monthly Alokdhara portray him as a holy person who embodied ideal virtues during his lifetime. Unlike Rinehart’s Hindu holy man, Zia ul-Haqq was not made into a mythical character.

Conclusion A review of the sacred biographies of shaikh Sayyid Zia ul-Haqq Maizbhandari shows that in terms of narrative style, theme, and depiction of personal experience, the three earliest works on his life are, to all intents and purposes, almost identical with one another. They include descriptions of dreams, miracles, and extraordinary acts of the shaikh in their sacred biographies. All three hagiographers were personally acquainted with the shaikh. They not only attempt to describe how Zia ul-Haqq embodies sainthood but also analyze what sainthood is meant to be in Bengali Islam. They sketch the vita of Zia ul-Haqq within the broader paradigm of Islamic sainthood, which requires attributes such as piety,

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spiritual insight, prophecy, miracles, and the power of healing, among others, in order to become a saint and support their argument by quoting those people who experienced such qualities in Zia ul-Haqq. By juxtaposing their own personal experience with those of others, they attempt to communicate with their audience the way they want the saint to be perceived. The authors are attracted to him mostly because of his reputation for piety and meditation. The more recent narratives, published in the journal Alokdhara, are focused primarily on the shaikh’s Sufi ideals of pluralism and tolerance. In general, the three hiographical works about the shaikh tend to convey a religious message, as Delehaye contended, more than the social message described by later scholars. However, they also tend to sanctify the performances of the shaikh, a common trend among the hagiographers of Muslim holy men.

Notes The synopsis of this chapter was presented at the annual conference of American Academy of Religion on November 10, 2009 in Montreal, Canada. I am grateful to Professor Ahmet T. Karamutafa of Washington University for his comments after the presentation, and Professor Vincent J. Cornell, Asa Griggs Candler Professor of Middle East and South Asian Studies of Emory University, for reading the first draft of this chapter. 1 Anisuzzaman. Muslim-manash o Bangla Shahitya [Muslim-intellect and Bengali Literature], third edition (Dhaka, Bangladesh: Muktadhara, 1983), 25; Muhammad Enamul Haq A History of Sufi-ism in Bengal (Dhaka, Bangladesh: Asiatic Society of Bangladesh, 1975), 260; Abdul Karim Social History of the Muslims in Bengal (Down to A. D. 1538) (second edition. Chittagong, Bangladesh: Baitush Sharaf Islamic Research Institute, 1985), 185. 2 Bertrocci, Peter J. (2002). “Form and Variation in Maizbhandari Sufism.” Paper presented at the conference, “The Work of the Imaginaire in South Asian Islam,” North Carolina State University, April 12–14, 2002 available at http://www.docstoc.com/docs/18727779/form-and-variation-in-maijbhandari-sufism, retrieved July 23, 2011. 3 Sayyid Delaor Husayn Maizbhandari, Velayet-e-Mutlaka, eighth edition (Chittagong, Bangladesh: Anjuman-e-Mottabe’in-e-Gaus-e-Maizbhandari, 2001), 40. 4 Jamal Ahmad Sikder, Shahanshah Zia ul-Haqq Maizbhandari (K.), (Chittagong, ­Bangladesh: Gausia Haque Manzil, 6th ed, 2005), 44; Rasul, Md Gholam, The Divine Spark: Shahansha Zia-ul-Haqq (Chittagong: Gausia Haque Mansil, 1990), 40–1. 5 For details, see http://www.sufimaizbhandar.org/maizbhandari_school_of_ thought.htm (accessed April 29, 2007). 6 See for Riazul Islam, Sufism in South Asia: Impact on Fourteenth Century Muslim Society (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2000) and Bruce Lawrence Nizam Ad-din Awliya: Morals for the Heart: Conversation of Shaykh Nizam Ad-din Awliya Recorded by Amir Hasan Siji. (New York: Paulist Press, 1992).

*













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For details, see Katherine Pratt Ewing, Arguing Sainthood. Modernity, Psychoanalysis and Islam (Durham, NC and London, Duke University Press, 1997); Joyce B Flueckiger, Joyce B. In Amma’s Healing Room: Gender and Vernacular Islam in South India (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2006) and Diana L. Eck, Darsan: Seeing the Divine Image in India, third edition (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998). 8. Hippolyte Delehaye, The Legends of the Saints: An Introduction to Hagiography, trans. V. M. Crawford (London: University of Notre Dame Press, 1961), 2. 9 Thomas J Hefferman, Thomas J. Sacred Biography: Saints and Their Biographers in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 38–72. 10 Alexandra H. Olsen, Guthlac of Croyland: A Study of Heroic Hagiography (Washington, D. C.: University Press of America, 1981), 7. 11 Islam, 1992. 12 The order of precedence the author described is as follows: 1. Mustafa Alaihis Salam, 2. Habib, 3. Rahmatul-lil-Alamin, 4. Khalil, 5. Ulul Azam, 6. Khatamun Nabiin, 7. Rasul (SM), 8. Habib, 9. Siddique, 10. Mohajir, 11. Ansar, 12. Sahabi, 13. Tabai, 14. Ghausul Azam, 15. Ghaus, 16. Kutubul Aktab, 17. Kutub, 18. Abdal, 19. Autad, 20. Majtahid, 21. Muttaki, 22. Shaheed, 23. Saleh, 24. Momin, and 25. general man (p. 5). 13 For a detailed discussion on historicized biography, see, Gustaaf Houtman, “The Biography of Modern Burmese Buddhist Meditation Master U Ba Khin: Life Before the Cradle and Past the Grave,” in Juliane Schober, ed., Sacred Biography in the BuddhistTraditions of South and Southeast Asia, 310–44 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1997), 322. 14 Stanley J Tambiah, The Buddhist Saints of the Forest and the Cult of Amulets (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 124. 15 Heffernan 1988, 30. 16 For details, see Richard M. Eaton, The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier: 12041760 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993). 17 Ali Riaz, Islamist Militancy in Bangladesh: A Complex Web (New York: Routledge, 2008). 18 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1981), 19–20. 19 Donald Weinstein and Rudolph M. Bell, Saints & Society: The Two Worlds of Western Christendom, 1000-1700. (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1982), 13. 20 Pierre Delooz, “Towards a Sociological Study of Canonized Sainthood in the Catholic Church,” in Stephan Wilson, ed., Saints and Their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History, 189–215 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 194. For a review of Delooz’s position, see Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1998), xxxi–xxxii. 21 Cornell 1998, 63. 22 Robert Rozehnal, Islamic Sufism Unbound: Politics and Piety in Twenty-First Century Pakistan (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 41. 7

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Robin Rinehart. One Lifetime, Many Lives: The Experience of Modern Hindu Hagiography (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1999). 24 Rinehart, 11–12. 25 Rinehart, 12. 26 Rinehart, 15. 23

Chapter 9

Ahmad Sirhindī: Nationalist Hero, Good Sufi, or Bad Sufi? Arthur Buehler

Introduction This article seeks to address Ahmad Farūqī Sirhindī (d. 1034/1624 Sirhind) in a larger context, revising the prevalent scholarly consensus. For those unacquainted with Ahmad Sirhindī, his best-known writings are his Collected Letters (Maktūbāt), the vast majority of which (roughly 85%) discuss contemplative practice and related sufi concerns. Using the contemplative exercises outlined in these letters, Naqshbandī-Mujaddidī shaikhs spread quickly throughout the eastern Islamic world,1 supplanting almost all prior Naqshbandi practices worldwide within two generations. The Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya continues to be vibrantly active today. At the same time, this dynamic Naqshbandī Sufi made his mark as a controversial figure. As a person who saw his mission in life as to renew Islam and who spoke out against the prevailing lot of jurists, rulers, and Sufis, Sirhindī would have lost the seventeenth-century popularity contest by a large margin. His having the title “Renewer of the Second Millennium” did not help raise his public relations image. In fact, Sirhindī’s lack of popularity reached such heights that toward the end of his life, Jahangir accused Sirhindī of being an arrogant imposter who compiled a book of idle tales called Collected Letters that led people to heresy.2 Jahangir called Sirhindī to Agra and imprisoned him from 1028/1619 to 1029/1620. Sirhindī was obliged to accompany the army for at least two more years before retiring in solitude to his home in Sirhind. Shortly afterward, he passed away in 1034/1624 at the age of 63 lunar years, apparently the same age as Muhammad had passed away a little over one thousand years earlier. After his death, many jurists, both in India and in the Hijaz, declared Sirhindī to be outside the fold of Islam. Jahangir’s grandson and Mughal ruler, Aurangzeb (r. 1068/1658–1118/1707), even proscribed the reading of Sirhindī’s Collected Letters. There has been no shortage of detractors since the seventeenth century given that there has been at least one book written per decade since 1022/1613 defending Sirhindī or one of his controversial ideas.3 Until the twentieth century if one wanted to know more about Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindī, there were either hagiographical works and apologetics, or tracts against him and his

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ideas. In the twentieth century, however, Ahmad Sirhindī became the ­seventeenth-century de facto “founder figure” of Pakistan after being extolled by Abu’l Kalam Azad and later by Muhammad Iqbal (d. 1938), the first person publicly to advocate the formation of an independent Islamic state in the subcontinent at a presidential address to the Muslim League on December 29, 1930.4 This identification of Sirhindī with modern political agendas in the guise of implementing sharī‘a and diminishing the role of non-Muslims in governance has only continued to distort his image.5 Yohanan Friedmann wrote a balanced study in  1971 stating the obvious (but then the obvious was not so obvious), namely that Sirhindī was primarily a Sufi and concerned with the accurate interpretation of religious experience (in Friedmann’s words “the exploration of Sufi mysteries”).6 Ter Haar, in a comprehensive study of Sirhindī’s ideas two decades later, concurs with Friedmann, but in a qualified manner. He reminds us that Sirhindī, although first and foremost a Sufi, also wrote letters to influential Mughal elite and on occasion did insist that Mughal India be made a more “Islamic friendly” place.7 In this chapter, I follow in Ter Haar’s footsteps by seeking to represent Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindī as fully and accurately as possible. This means directly addressing the issues that Sirhindī’s modern scholarly detractors have considered his most alarming statements, for example, his comparing the common people to cattle, suggesting that one treat Hindus like dogs, or his allegedly “self-inflating” and “smugly self-righteous” claims. The most balanced scholarship has sidestepped these issues, glossing them over because Sirhindī was basically a Sufi (that means he was a good guy), or because these kinds of utterances occurred very infrequently in letters written to influential Mughal officials. Nonetheless, Sirhindī, and even his Naqshbandi shaikh Baqibillah (d. 1012/1603 Delhi), continue to draw a disproportionate share of off-the-cuff criticism in the recent scholarly literature from twenty-first-century scholars of Sufism. I invite the reader to bracket any prior assumptions about Sirhindī and consider looking at him in a fresh manner, warts and all. The first section briefly outlines how Ahmad Sirhindī has become the political grandfather for the modern nation-state of Pakistan and the arch-villain of an independent India. The second section views Sirhindī’s image in late twentieth and early twentyfirst-century academic narratives. It provides sociocultural and contemplative contexts that heretofore have not been considered in the scholarly literature, which will enable us to explore the extent to which Sirhindī and his shaikh Baqibillah warrant this kind of academic attention in a larger context.

How did Ahmad Sirhindī become the national hero of ­Pakistan? It is generally recognized in Pakistan that Muhammad Jinnah (d. 1948) is the father of Pakistan because he was the nation’s first president. Poet-philosopher

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Muhammad Iqbal became the spiritual father of Pakistan due to the powerful ideas communicated in his Persian and Urdu verses. Iqbal also was the first to step up in a Muslim League meeting and advocate a separate Islamic state in northwest India. In addition, Iqbal’s stature as the de facto poet-laureate of his time among Indian Muslims has established him in historical memory. However, for contemporary official Pakistani historians (and many Pakistani academics), it is not Iqbal who founded the two-nation theory.8 Instead Ahmad Sirhindī is declared to be the “real” founder of the two-nation theory.9 This arguably makes Ahmad Sirhindī the political grandfather of Pakistan. What a sudden shift in perception! For the previous three centuries Sirhindī’s opponents had largely portrayed him as an extravagant Sufi very disrespectful of the Prophet with illusions of grandeur.10 What happened? In his 1919 Tadhkira, Abu’l Kalam Azad (d. 1958) portrayed Sirhindī as the hero who selflessly opposed the religious innovations of the Emperor Akbar (r. 963/1556–1014/1605). In an environment of greedy religious scholars and worldly Sufis with an emperor who was himself supporting these activities in addition to his own religious innovations, it was only Shaikh Sirhindī as a renewer of religion who confronted the religio-social corruption of the times, just as prophets had done before. Instead of simply opposing ignorant Sufi practices, exploring inner realms of consciousness, and announcing his insights of contemplative witnessing, Sirhindī now was portrayed as a political activist.11 This image transformation of Sirhindī is not evidenced in Iqbal’s writing until a few years before his death. In the few times Iqbal mentions Ahmad Sirhindī in his writing, he usually stresses the spiritual aspects of Sirhindī and his own personal experience. In 1916, Iqbal had a copy of Sirhindī’s Collected Letters, which had just been edited by Nur Ahmad.12 Soon afterwards, in 1917, in a letter to Sulayman Nadwi, Iqbal mentions how Khwāja Naqshband [Baha’ud-Dīn Naqshband (d. 1389) the eponymous founder figure of the Naqshbandīyyā] and Ahmad Sirhindī (in the letter, Mujaddid-i Sirhind) were dear to his heart.13 He mentions, in a letter to Akbar Allahabadī (d. 1921) how Ahmad Sirhindī tried to revitalize Islamic society.14In 1928/29 he gave his well-known seven lectures later published as The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam, where he mentions “Shaikh Ahmad of Sarhand [sic] – whose fearless analytical criticism of contemporary Sufism resulted in the development of a new technique [of contemporary practice].”15Iqbal went to visit Sirhindī’s grave with his 10-year-old son Javed in 1934 and said: “The visit had a great effect on me.”16 That same year he completed Gabriel’s Wing (Bal-i Jibrīl), his Urdu masterpiece, where he mentions Ahmad Sirhindī as the “cupbearer” (saqi), often a metaphor in Persian poetry for the sufi shaikh: O saqi! Bring the wine and goblet here once again. O saqi! I am reaching my station.

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The wine tavern of India closed three hundred years ago. O saqi! Now is the time for all to have some divine effulgence (fayd).17 Later in Gabriel’s Wing he mentions “Shaikh Mujaddid” as The one who did not bow down to Jahangir. Whose warm breath comforts people of freedom. In India he is the guardian of the Muslims’ [religious] assets. The one whom God informed at the suitable time.18 It is unlikely that we can attribute the dramatic makeover of Sirhindī as a ­twentieth-century political reformer to these eight verses of Iqbal’s poetry. But the new ideas of Abu’l Kalam Azad had already been in circulation for fifteen years. In contemporary Pakistan, Ahmad Sirhindī becomes the national hero by his having “continued his efforts for the establishment of [an] Islamic state (in India). . . . He also worked tirelessly for the establishment of Muslim India.19 [T]he ideological concept [!] (Wahda [sic] al-Shuhūd) interpreted and propounded by Hazrat Mujaddid Alf-i-Thāni (rahmat Allah ‘alayhi) which attracted and influenced the ideological [!] outlook of Dr. Muhammad Iqbal. . . . It is, therefore not wrong to say that had there been no Mujaddid there would have been no Iqbal.”20 In 1940, Burhan Ahmad Farūqī, mimicking the Naqshbandī hagiographical tradition, detailed how Jahangir was “converted” to Sirhindī’s version of Islam during Sirhindī’s year of imprisonment.21 He added a twist into the saga that ends up having an unexpected academic trajectory. First, the perspective of “the unity of being” (wahdat al-wujud) associated with Ibn al-‘Arabī’s school is (inaccurately) asserted to be un-Islamic.22 Thus Sirhindī’s supposed fight against the perspective of “the unity of being” has Farūqi implying that Sirhindī declared Ibn al-‘Arabi an unbeliever (which Sirhindī never even came close to doing).23 This distorted information was then incorporated uncritically by Mujeeb and ended up being popularized in the West by Esposito saying “Sirhindī. . . enthusiastically declared Ibn ‘Arabī a kafir.”24 The next step is equating the “unity of being” with “Hindu monism,” such that Sirhindī’s supposed fight against a now-reified “unity of being” becomes a battle to save the Muslims from being subsumed into Hinduism via the sliding slope of “unity of being.” The importance of the Mujaddid’s campaign [!] against monism was recognized by those circles in the subcontinent who were believers in the essential unity of Islam and Vedānta like Dārā Shikoh.25 Subsequent works depict Sirhindī as a leader of a religio-political “movement” who rejects any possibility that Muslims and Hindus can become reconciled

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and live together.26 This so-called movement finally brought Jahangir to Sirhindī’s point of view while Sirhindī was imprisoned, supposedly demonstrated by the sacrifice of a cow after the conquest of the Hindu fortress of Kangra. Subsequently Islamic orthodoxy/orthopraxy was reestablished fully in Aurangzeb’s reign, thanks to Sirhindī. The heroes are Sirhindī and Aurangzeb while the villains are Akbar and Dara Shikoh.27 Likewise, if Sirhindī is a Pakistani national hero, then it would be expected that he would be portrayed in post-independence India as a villain. Rizvi, and some historians in  Aligarh Muslim University, have taken up the task in the scholarly literature to depict him as an instigator of violence.28 Rizvi argues that Sirhindī’s primary mission was to foment hatred between Muslims and Hindus and between Sunnis and Shi‘is. In modern Indian terminology this is called “communalism,” which is ethnic-religious sectarianism leading to communal violence.29 Thus, in a discussion of Sirhindī’s letters to Khwāja Jahan, Jahangir’s chief finance officer (diwan), Rizvi says, that Sirhindī “did not, surprisingly enough, consider it necessary to inject the communal virus in him.”30 As for Jahangir himself, Rizvi asserts that Sirhindī had the “wrong notion that Jahangir would set everything right and restore Islam to its pristine purity if he were to wield his sword on the Hindus and Shias.”31 In another passage Rizvi says: “‘Sharī‘a can be fostered through the sword,’ was the slogan he [Sirhindī] raised for his contemporaries.”32 Sirhindī had such an allegedly vehement hatred against Hindus that in Rizvi’s words (without citation): He [Sirhindī] stood for an outright condemnation and destruction of the non-Muslims. . . . He did not attach any importance to the motive with which the Hindus were killed. He was satisfied with their mere destruction.33 Rizvi’s aforementioned ad hominem comments indicate his own personal prejudices more than his careful scholarship. However, Sirhindī did make some very outspoken and unambiguous comments in some of his letters to Mughal officials, for example, anyone who honors infidels (ahl-i kufr) disgraces Muslims – they should be kept away like dogs.34 “The object of collecting a special tax (jizya) from them is to humiliate them to the point that they will be afraid to wear nice clothing.”35 Rizvi had some definite material to make his case against Sirhindī, but his personal extrapolations from this material distorted Sirhindī beyond historical recognition. We will revisit these and other quotes by Sirhindī later. Rizvi does not stop there. According to Rizvi (himself a Shi‘i), “Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindī [was] the inveterate enemy of the Shias.”36 He cites for evidence an epistle Sirhindī wrote before becoming initiated into the Naqshbandiyya, Epistle Refuting Shi‘ism (Risala-yi radd-i madhhab-i shi‘a or Radd- rawafid), that defended the first three caliphs and ‘Aisha. Sirhindī explains that he wrote it in response to a letter written by the Shi‘i jurists of Mashhad to the jurists of Central Asia,37

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after the Uzbek leader ‘Abdullah Khan Shaybani had conquered Mashhad in the second year of Shah ‘Abbas Safawi’s reign (997/1588–9).38 In this epistle Sirhindī cites the evidence that the Shi‘is are unbelievers because they have called Abu Bakr, ‘Umar, and ‘Uthman unbelievers and have slandered ‘Aisha. Therefore he declares that Shi‘is should be killed and their possessions confiscated.39 Once Sirhindī becomes a recognized sufi shaikh, he writes a letter to Shaikh Farīd Bukharī, a lineal descendant of Muhammad and paymaster general (mir bakhskī) in the Mughal government who generously supplied funds for Baqibillah’s and Sirhindī’s sufi lodges, saying: “It is certain that harm from the treachery of a heretic (mubtadi‘) is more than that one who covers up the truth of God (kafir). The worst of all the groups (sing. firqa) is the one who bears malice toward the companions of the Prophet.” Here Sirhindī is referring to the Shi‘i who insult the first three caliphs.40 Later, Sirhindī backs off a little. “We do not judge those who deny the preference of ‘Uthman [over ‘Ali] [or] even those who deny the preference of Abu Bakr and ‘Umar [over ‘Alī] with covering up the truth of God (kufr).”41 In another letter, he says: Jurists have said that in those wars [the Battle of the Camel and the Battle of Siffin] ‘Alī b Abi Talīb was in the right. God almighty bless his face. His opponents’ striving was not proper and correct. In spite of this, there is nothing to find fault with. They did not have the capacity to be apparently blameworthy because that is a place that is related to infidelity or sinfulness. ‘Alī said that our brothers who rebel against us are not infidels or sinners because there is an explanation that prevents infidelity and sinfulness. The Prophet has said “Avoid discussing the differences occurring between my companions.”42 God bless him and his family and give them peace. So all of the companions of the Prophet must be honored and remembered for their virtue. Not any one of these notables was bad and one must not suppose this.43 Their disagreement must be considered better than the reconciliation of others. This is the way of happiness and salvation because the love of the blessed Companions is on account of the love of the Prophet. Hating them becomes hating the Prophet.44 Later in the same letter, Sirhindī goes on to remark: There are also two groups, the Kharijiyya and Shi‘i, who distort the [history of the] Companions and who think badly of religious notables. They imagine themselves to be each other’s enemies and accuse each other with hidden hatred. God spoke [Q. 48:29] about the companions of the Prophet. These two groups distorted God’s word, and stirred up enmity and hatred between the Companions. God almighty grant them a happy outcome and have them return to the straight path.45

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The difference in tone speaks for itself. Ahmad Sirhindī’s Collected Letters comprise 536 letters in three volumes and ideally one would contextualize comments in one letter with those in other letters, keeping in mind the addressee. We are not in a position to know whether Sirhindī’s later letters abrogated his earlier pre-Naqshbandi views, but there is a clear pattern in Collected Letters of his becoming more conciliatory over time. Hopefully, 350-odd years from now, someone will not retrieve 536 of my selected emails and start making judgments about me like people have jumped to conclusions about Shaikh A hmad Sirhindī.

From villain to good Sufi: The hagiographic and academic revision of Sirhindī As mentioned earlier, Friedmann was the first to give a balanced account of Sirhindī’s image over time. During Sirhindī’s lifetime there were those, like ‘Abdulhaqq Dihlawi (d. 1052/1642) who were upset by what they perceived to be Sirhindī’s arrogance, extreme statements, and supposed negative statements concerning the Prophet. Others, whom Sirhindī called wujudīs, thought that the experience of oneness with God transcended any need for formal religious observances. Thus they denigrated Sirhindī, who continually underlined the need for following the sunnat of the Prophet and assiduous performance of religious duties, as he reminded them that they were only beginners on the Sufi path. In contrast, the hagiographic accounts rewrite history (that is, run counter to extant historical documents). In this hagiographic revision, many prominent Sufis predict Sirhindī’s birth, and his adult life is filled with miracles that happen around him.46 Jahangir imprisons Sirhindī because Sirhindī refused to do the necessary royal prostration. After a year, Jahangir realized the error of imprisoning Sirhindī, repented, and honored Sirhindī. Subsequently, according to the hagiographies, the next two Mughal emperors and the high-ranking government ministers and religious scholars became Naqshbandī-Mujaddidī disciples. According to Friedmann’s research, Sirhindī was not considered to be a major scholar in the seventeenth century except by his disciples and the religious scholars who defended and refuted him.47 In the eighteenth century, Shāh Walīullah (d. 1176/1762) recognizes Sirhindī as the renewer of the eleventh/seventeenth century, not the second millennium.48 In light of Sirhindī’s subsequent twentieth-century portrayal, the seventh item of proof of Sirhindī’s being a renewer is: “He was able to withstand the cruelty of the Sultan [Jahangir] and bear the damage of opponents while still standing up for God and declaring the truth.”49 As in the previous centuries, the nineteenth-century tracts supporting/disputing Sirhindī, like the previous two centuries, deal with Sirhindī as a sufi and religious scholar, not as a political figure. In response to the dramatic changes in Sirhindī’s image in the twentieth

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century, whether asserted by his supporters or his detractors, Friedmann says: “Sirhindī was primarily a Sufi and must be assessed as such.”50 Ter Haar confirms Friedmann’s conclusion with minor qualifications. Before Sirhindī met his Naqshbandi Shaikh Baqibillah, that is, during his pre-Naqshbandi period, Sirhindī was a religious scholar (‘alim) with an expertise in creedal doctrine and sharī‘a. Afterwards, “his entire way of thinking is dominated and determined by mysticism.”51 Ter Haar does not discuss the controversial statements made by Sirhindī outside of a sufi context because Sirhindī only shows marginal interest in “his Indian environment.”52 It is these controversial statements, whether marginal or not, that we now turn to.

Sirhindī’s sociological context: ashrāf/ajlāf This section focuses on Sirhindī’s sociocultural and contemplative contexts that heretofore have not been considered in the scholarly literature. Sirhindī made a big deal out of religious affiliation. Not only was he a very self-­conscious Muslim, but he was a Hanafī-Maturidī Muslim. In the eyes of others, particularly his seventeenth-century South Asian contemporaries, it is of the utmost importance that Sirhindī came from a family with ancestry outside of India. Thus, they appended Kabuli and/or Farūqī to the names of Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindī and his father. The first appellation shows that Sirhindī’s ancestors came from outside of India, specifically Kabul. The second indicates that he is a descendent of ‘Umar b. Khattab al-Farūq, the second Sunni caliph after Abu Bakr. In the social milieu of Mughal India (and many centuries earlier), this kind of information was critical, even though modern accounts typically ignore this sociological dimension in analyses of Indo-Muslim life.53 These nisbats signal the social distinction between foreign-born Muslims who are “the noble” (ashrāf), and indigenous Indian Muslim converts who are “the commoners” (ajlāf). It is this very distinction that provides a lens to understand some of Sirhindī’s statements, particularly those that have been interpreted negatively by modern readers.54 But first let’s explore this sociological dimension. Muslim ashrāf, as early as the fourteenth century (at least from the texts we have available), coalesced into roughly four social substrata: sayyids, putative descendants of the Prophet; shaikhs, putative descendants of the Companions; mughals, putative descendants of Turkic origin; and Pathans, putative descendants of Afghans.55 Shaikh includes those of pure Arab descent. There are names ending in Siddiqī from Abu Bakr as-Siddiq the first successor to Muhammad, Rizwi from ‛Ali ibn Musa al-Rida, the eighth Shi‘i Imam buried in Mashhad, or ‘Abbasi from ‘Abbas, Muhammad’s paternal uncle. Mughals usually have Persian or Chaghatai descent, adding Mirza or Amirzada to their names. The commoners were tradesmen and farmers, the lowest of whom were

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­ utchers, weavers, barbers, and leather workers. The ashrāf were those who had b prestigious jobs in government service. Al-Barani, a fourteenth-century chronicler, noted that Iltutmish (r. 607/1211– 633/1236) dismissed thirty-three persons from government service on account of their low birth.56 In the same way, Balban (r. 664/1266–686/1287) removed low-born persons (ajlāf) from all important offices and sharply reprimanded the courtiers who had given Kamal Mohiyar, an Indian Muslim, a post as a tax collector (mutasarrif) of Amroha. Muhammad Tughluq (r. 725/1325–752/1351) consciously initiated the policy of giving preference to foreign-born Muslims in administration and government, and systematically ignored the claims of Indian Muslims.57 Being among the ashrāf was an important consideration for sufi authority also, at least if one wanted to attract ashrāfī disciples. In addition, ashrāfī sufis had greater status because they were perceived to be more sharī‘aminded and more pious in their formal Islamic practices, which were presumed to have taken the place of indigenous customs. By definition, all of those who Sirhindī corresponded with were among the ashrāf because they could read Persian (except the one letter written to a Hindu). In Indo-Muslim Mughal culture ancestry was a big deal, and this in turn affected sufi practice. South Asian sufis almost always avoided any identification with the trades or attaching professional attributions (nisbats) to their names because tradesmen were considered to be at the lower rungs of Muslim social strata. In ashrāfī terms, the translation for ajlāf is “course rabble.” Riazul Islam notes in his perusal of prominent hagiographical compendia of South Asia that almost all of the major hagiographic works make a point of mentioning the high pedigree of the leading shaikhs.58 From the textual evidence, there seems to be no doubt that this ashrāf/ajlāf social stratification permeated IndoMuslim life, politically, socially, and even spiritually. Shaikh Sirhindī was born into a scholarly, respected ashrāfī family. He grew up expecting that it was the normal course of things for the ashrāf to be the privileged upper crust of Muslim society, with the ajlāf below, and non-Muslims somewhere beyond the pale. In a letter addressed to Shaikh Farīd, Akbar (r. 963/1556–1012/1605) and Jahangir’s (r. 1013/1605–1036/1627) paymaster general, he says that anyone who honors infidels (ahl-i kufr) disgraces Muslims. This is not only Hindus being employed in the ranks of the Mughal elite, but also means keeping company with non-Muslims and talking with them, which implies a larger context than government service. They should be kept away like dogs. He says that the least harm from associating with these non-Muslim enemies is the weakening of the sharī‘a injunctions and a strengthening of nonMuslim customs. “The object of collecting a special tax (jizya) from them is to humiliate them to the point that they will be afraid to wear nice clothing.”59 In this letter to one of the Mughal elite, Sirhindī invoked the primary principle of social order. Muslims (and those in many other cultures) have sacrificed individual freedoms and rights for what they have considered the greater

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good of social order. Opponents of Mughal rule chronicled their complaints in religious terms. The most obvious example is ‘Abdulqadir Bada’uni’s Muntakhab al-Tawarikh.60 His views against Akbar’s way of governing were shared by most ashrafī Muslims. Right after Akbar died, ‘Abdulhaqq Dihlawī, who spent approximately five years in the Mughal court, sent a letter to the aforementioned Shaikh Farīd Bukhari, a lineal descendant of Muhammad. The letter uses religious terms to strongly censure Akbar for acting as if he were greater than the Prophet, making reference to the Egyptian Pharoah (who claimed to be God in the Qur’an). ‘Abdulhaqq then performs a “Sufi diagnosis” linking Akbar’s actions with his ego-self (nafs), which has not separated from the spirit’s subtle center (like the relationship of a man and a woman).61 It is noteworthy how he ends the letter. It has been said that the conduct of each group is according to its occupation. What that means is that each person in each occupation or job proceeds according to the manner of doing things [appropriate to the occupation]. Being summoned to the noble sharī‘a is the most important manner of doing something. Likewise, the Prophet, God bless him and give him peace, never elevated anyone up from a person’s business [in life] (harfat). He left farmers to agriculture, traders to their commerce, family men to keep care of the family and children, the unmarried to be apart, the rich to their riches, and the poor ones to their poverty and fasting. Each group had its well-established, regulated way of doing things so that they could do their work and not veer from the well-trodden, straight path. To deviate from this is covering up the truth of God (kufr often translated as infidelity) and disobedience.62 ‘Abdulhaqq is complaining about Akbar mixing up the social order by putting ajlaf (the common Indian-origin Muslims) and even classes that are beyond the pale (the Rajput Hindus) into elite positions in the government. This complaint is based upon ‘Abdulhaqq’s interpretation of Prophetic precedent, the sunnat, which Akbar has disregarded. Like ‘Abdulhaqq’s plea to Jahangir via Shaikh Farid, Sirhindī expected the government to maintain the existing social order. In other words, everyone was supposed to be in his “proper place” according to prior precedent. These two learned Sufis were conservatives in that they preferred to preserve what they thought had worked in the past. Akbar’s fiscal reforms and laws did not discriminate between Hindu, native Indian Muslim (the ajlāf), and the privileged foreign-born Muslim nobility (the ashrāf). The ashrāf did not appreciate Akbar’s policies because they lost their monopoly on lucrative landownership entitlements and government posts. This precedent dictated taxing young non-­Muslim men who did not join the military, and generally humiliating non-Muslims. The ashrāfī Sirhindī talking about how he feels toward Hindus was almost identical to Brahmin attitudes toward untouchable, outcaste mleccha Muslims. All of this,

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with its derogatory and discriminatory black-and-white pageant of blatant inequality, was intended to preserve a stable social order. Much of this, if not all, is unpalatable to modern sensibilities. It is very rare for Sirhindī to talk like this in Maktūbāt, but there probably was more going on than simply a bad mood that day. There are echos of al-Barani’s rhetoric almost four centuries earlier, whose “principles of governance revolves [sic] around sharī‘a, kufr, jihād, and jizya; all that is good originates from Islam and a non-Muslim is nothing but evil embodied.”63 ‘Abdulquddus Gangohi, the paramount Chishti-Sabiri shaikh who Sirhindī’s father met as a youth, declared that only Muslims “of pure and zealous faith” should have posts in the government and non-Muslims (kuffār) should not be employed in government positions. Forced to pay jizya, they should not be allowed to dress like Muslims; nor should they be allowed to practice their faith openly and publicly. There is a clear four-century consensus of the Indo-Muslim religious elite on how to treat and govern the Hindu majority. Sirhindī’s attitudes often fit the ashrāfī profile, as one would expect. Not all harsh language can be attributed to ashrāfī attitudes. Friedmann says that Sirhindī “frequently speaks of the common people with undisguised contempt. . . [using] expressions such as ‘common people who are like cattle’.”64 Most of the references to common people in Maktūbāt refer to common Muslims who follow the sharī‘a to distinguish them from the contemplative elite (khawāss). In the few instances Sirhindī compares common people to cattle, it is a description of common people’s unawareness (maqām-i ‘awāmm ka’l-an‘ām) or of common people being ruled by their stomachs.65 This does not appear to be a typical ashrāfī attitude or “undisguised contempt.” An ashrāfī attitude toward native-born Indian Muslims would be more like saying that they are “unworthy, disgusting and importunate, most of them being showy, superficial, and disagreeable.”66 Sirhindī’s statement, on the contrary, is an example of Sirhindī’s very high standards for what it means to be a real human being. He says: “The common people are outside this shared human reality since they are ruled by their animal natures.”67 From this perspective, Sirhindī is just saying it like it is, since few people tame their ego-selves, then or now. Here he is talking as a Sufi shaikh. There are also Central Asian Naqshbandi precedents. When we hear Sirhindī and other ashrāfī Muslims in India complain about the non-Islamic nature of Akbar’s government, one of their frames of reference is prior precedent in Transoxiana where Naqshbandīs and jurists had more influence in the political realm. The Naqshbandī shaikh, ‘Ubaydullah Ahrar (d. 895/1490), is often mentioned in Ahmad Sirhindī’s letters (33 times). While Ahrar was alive, he was the largest landholder in Transoxiana and the political patron of Timurid rulers and the Transoxiana elite. Ahrar had a clear visionary message that he was “divinely ordained to protect the Muslims from the evil of oppressors.”68 On a practical political level, he strongly encouraged rulers to implement the sharī‘a.

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In India, the ashrāf expected their comfort and welfare as ashrāfī Muslims to be the first and foremost priority. From this frame of reference, the government’s job was to discourage and abolish customs of non-Muslims. From the perspective of Mughal political reality, Khwaja Ahrar’s Central Asia is another time and place, as are most other prior Islamic principles of governance. ‘Abdulhaqq, like Sirhindī, complained about Akbar mixing up the social order by putting ajlāf (the common Indian-origin Muslims) and even non-Muslims (the Rajput Hindus) into elite positions in the government. This complaint is based upon an interpretation of Prophetic precedent, the sunnat, which Akbar had disregarded. From Akbar’s point of view, an expanding Mughal empire required a leadership unfettered by a special ashrāfī interest group touting their interests in the name of Islamic legalism. It did not make political, economic, or military sense just to think of the ashrāf when ashrāfī Muslims were at most three percent of the population.69 With very few exceptions, rulers of all times have put political expediency and maintaining political power before anything else. The Mughal emperors were no exception. Sirhindī’s concept of a stable social order was not a “Muslim-only” affair. His worldview recognized different religions with different ways of living one’s life (sharī‘as).70 It was a “live and let live” perspective exemplified by the Qur’anic verse he cites: “to you, your way of living (dīn) and for me, my way of living (dīn)” [Q. 109:6].71 There is no evidence that he ever concerned himself with trying to “convert” non-Muslims to Islam or preventing non-Muslims from practicing their religions or living their way of life.

Modern versus premodern notions of societal order Sirhindī’s incendiary comments about commoners or Hindus, in their potential to increase strife between people, contrast sharply with the larger perspective advocating Sulḥ-i-kull (peace to all) that held Akbar and his Mughal successors in good stead.72 From a modern perspective, one could accuse Shaikh Sirhindī, in spite of his documented spiritual insights, of expressing perspectives that disrupt social harmony. To a large extent, the contrast of hard boundaries between religious communities and relatively fluid or nonexistent boundaries between others on the basis of religious identity exemplify the ­qualitative differences between premodern and modern worldviews. In the modern world there is a rational notion of being a citizen among other equally legally, morally, and politically free citizens regardless of ethnicity, color, religion, or gender. In Sirhindī’s world one is a believer who, by embracing certain beliefs and practices, will be saved in the Hereafter. For the former, not having these freedoms is painfully inconceivable, and for the latter, to be an infidel is to be cast out of one’s family and community and forever doomed to punishment in the Hereafter. These are drastically different worldviews. In Sirhindī’s

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­ orldview, there would be no strife if Hindus lived in their world and Muslims w lived in their world, with the ashrāfī Muslims authoritatively presiding over the Hindus politically. There was no place in his worldview for mutual understanding, shared meanings, and much less mutual resonance between these two religio-cultural worlds.73 Sufi contemplative practice (or any other premodern contemplative practice), focusing on subjective individual experience and development, was structurally incapable of making an interreligious space for this to happen. Subjective contemplative development is independent of this dimension of intersubjective interreligious development. Just because someone is contemplatively gifted and can facilitate others to have similar experiences does not mean that culturally determined prejudices and proclivities automatically disappear. It is only with the advent of modernity that a critical mass of people could rationally view the cultural ignorance that had perpetuated slavery, caste, ethnocentricity, and sexism. With their collectively combined and increased intersubjective social awareness, moderns have made irreversible changes to human societies across the globe, which are still in process. This is a long-winded way of saying that Sirhindī had a worldview quite different from most of us in the modern world who read English.74 His way of ordering society to achieve what he considered social harmony contrasts sharply with modern notions of what multicultural harmony entails in functioning democracies.

Exaggerated claims In the western academic world over the last decades, Sirhindī does not get many compliments. This is nothing new. From ‘Abdulhaqq Dihlawi and Jahangir to the present day, the most common critique of Sirhindī has been his apparently exaggerated claims.75 Sirhindī claimed that he was the first to receive certain spiritual knowledge, that he was at a higher station than Abu Bakr (who as Muhammad’s first successor Sirhindī had declared to be the most exalted nonprophet human being), and that he was on par with the Prophet Muhammad.76 Sirhindī also declared himself to be the unique one (fard), having absolute authority from the empyrean to earth and implied that he was the renewer of the second millennium.77 What can scholars make of this and similar kinds of claims made by Sufis before Sirhindī? Ibn al-‘Arabi (d. 1240 Damascus) had multiple visions showing him to be the Seal of God’s Friends, the eternal source of being a Friend of God (walāyat).78 Ruzbihan Baqli (d. 1209 Shiraz) had an experience of God declaring him to be God’s vice-regent on earth and all other worlds. These are some of the better-known examples. Let’s just deal with Sirhindī’s situation, which will suffice for sufis’ apparently exaggerated claims in general. There are basically three possibilities here. The first possibility is that these claims were made in an altered state of ecstatic

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c­ onsciousness and deserve to be put in the category of what Carl Ernst calls “ecstatic utterances.”79 Sirhindī understands that non-realized Sufis can have altered states of consciousness (ahwal) where they mistakenly perceive themselves to be closer to God than they actually are. Sirhindī apologizes for some of his own claims, explaining that he was mistaken.80 Here we have the rare case of the Sufi himself recognizing some claims as inappropriate and abrogating them. But that leaves the question open because most of Sirhindī’s seemingly grandiose claims still remain.81 The second and third possibilities are that these claims are either true or false (or both). The vexing problem is that scholars qua scholars have no way of verifying these claims. If the intersubjective consensus of the Sufi community agrees or disagrees with a claim over time, then that has some weight. But that seldom turns up in the literature. In Sirhindī’s case, his implying that he was the renewer of the second millennium was revised by the Naqshbandī Walīullah community over time. By the eighteenth century, Naqshbandīs who came after him, including Shāh Walīullah (d. 1762 Delhi) and ‘Abdulghani Nabulusi (d. 1731 Damascus), recognized him as the renewer of the first century of the second millennium.82 My point is simple. When evaluating “Sufi utterances” one needs to have postrational criteria and data before one can evaluate post-rational claims as “boasts,” “self-inflating,” or “true.” The realm of the mind can allude to the realm of the post-mind (spiritual if you will) but without the post-rational data, the mind is not qualified to evaluate what happens in post-rational states anymore than a person not trained in calculus is qualified to verify a differential equation. There are ecstatic utterances and there is ego inflation, but scholars do not yet have the means to explore the realm of spiritual hierarchy to discern between these two or to discern truth claims. Scholars have not yet even picked up the “telescope of contemplative practice” to investigate these phenomena. This is why I have qualified my description of “exaggerated claims” with “apparently” or “seemingly” because of a lack of knowledge and the lack of standard criteria to measure spiritual development. I yearn for the day that the study of contemplative practice will have advanced to the point where scholars are trained experientially in consciousness exploration like anthropologists are now required to be trained in actual experiential field work. Then academics can begin to evaluate such claims and decide to what extent they are authentic or simply ego-based boasting. An evaluation will rest solidly on the basis of the proved consensus of an appropriately experienced scholarly community. It is this lack of contemplative expertise that also distorts scholarly evaluations of Sirhindī vis-à-vis Ibn al-‘Arabī. Not considering the contemplative context is particularly evident in “Aligarh School” scholars’ one-dimensional analysis of not only Sirhindī,83 but also his Shaikh Baqibillah. Muzaffar Alam, the only scholar who has taken the time to look closely at Baqibillah’s writings, finds them to have “a rather combative overtone.” Defending his position, he accuses Baqibillah of “making a bid to

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extend the domain of his own order, even if it meant violation of generally accepted Sufi practice.”84 Then he accurately quotes Baqibillah saying: “But if I find some of the seekers in two minds, I advise them to concentrate on one path.”85 What Alam omits is Baqibillah’s sufi training justification: “He who is in one place is in all places but he who is in all places is nowhere,” and “Unity of purpose is a condition of the [Sufi] path.”86 Alam goes on to say that “it was legitimate to allure the followers of other silsilas, [and] he did not allow the murīd of a Naqshbandi to seek guidance from any other pīr in India.” Again, he quotes Baqibillah admonishing one of his senior teaching disciples, Shaikh Tajuddin, never to mix up his teaching with methods of other lineages: “Whoever is your murīd is your murīd only. Train and teach him according to the Naqshbandi path only (. . .). Of what interest is the person who receives the light from you and then attends upon a Shattari [shaikh]?”87 There is a sufi training context for this situation also. In the previous letter to Tajuddin, Baqibillah complains, ever so gently, about how the connection between them is internally blocked, preventing the flow of divine effulgence (fayd). He very directly tells Tajuddin not to practice the methods of any other lineages.88 Tajuddīn, formerly in the Shattari lineage, had to wait four or five months before Baqibillah could teach him the Naqshbandi practices.89 In a Sufi training context, I read the above passage as follows: “What kind of flavor is there from Shattari [practices] for a person who receives the light of the Naqshbandiyya from you?”90 Professor Alam goes on throughout the rest of his article seeking to demonstrate “the competition between various orders of Sufis for influence over the Mughals,”91 as if Sufi practice involving subtle centers and subduing the ego-self were just a cover for another political lobbying group jockeying for power. Alam’s article makes the valid and significant point that Baqibillah’s Sufi activities had a political dimension. However, Baqibillah’s sphere of activity, like that of Shaikh Sirhindī after him, was overwhelmingly that of Sufi training.

Conclusion This chapter has been about shifting perspectives, in particular perspectives of who Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindī was. If there is one theme that continues throughout the variegated viewpoints and worldviews examined, it is to be careful about jumping to conclusions. Even for scholars (or should I say especially for ­scholars?), it is all too easy to forget that perspectives depend on levels of awareness, expressed succinctly by the adage “a hammer only sees nails.” For many seventeenth-century literalists Sirhindī was at best an arrogant person and at worst, outside the fold of Islam. Four centuries later, Sirhindī is still taken literally, which either makes him a hero or a villain. In this latter case, there is often the “screen” of a modern nationalist agenda, with Sirhindī being projected

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according to the agenda of the viewer. In a scholarly context, it is always useful to be reminded that perspectives are embedded in larger worldviews. It is difficult to impossible to remove ourselves from our conditioned environment, that is, our physical, lived conventional cultural worldview. Given that Bennett and Alam cite somewhat contradictory comments about a Naqshbandi-related political party in contemporary Bangladesh, it is not surprising that the task of deciphering what is and what is not true of a sixteenth-century personality is daunting and complex. Imagine seeking to extend a relatively straightforward historical and cultural understanding of Sirhindī outlined in this article to the realm about which Shaikh Sirhindī wrote the remaining 85% of his letters. Those of us who have grown up being educated and acculturated in a cultural matrix of scientificmaterialist assumptions have a worldview that makes it extremely difficult to really acknowledge this vast formless realm that Sirhindī has experienced (more than as simply an interesting intellectual idea). This cultural programming runs very deep. Sirhindī lived, breathed, and experienced a God-centered world. This is an Absolute-Truth world that includes many relative truths. Moderns acculturated in the scientific-materialist worldview live in a world of multiple relative truths. They acknowledge science of the outer world of form but not that of the inner realms beyond form. What is taken for “real” in modern consensus reality would be for Sirhindī the equivalent of sitting in the darkness of Plato’s cave with one’s hands over one’s eyes. Even though this article has touched upon multiple perspectives/relative truths about Ahmad Sirhindī, I hope the reader can appreciate that Sirhindī’s lived context was qualitatively beyond the sum of these perspectives. Boivin’s chapter refers to Sirhindi’s influence in the wider context of Naqshbandi restoration.92 This chapter also links with the discussion of Sufi political activism in this book by Alam and ­Philippon.

Notes 1

The retransmission of the Naqshbandiyya to Central Asia occurred under two Mujaddidi leaders, Shah Murad (r. 1785–1800) and Amir Haydar (r. 1800–26), who both emphasized their Muslim identity to rule the Bukhara Khanate, thereby ending their predecessors’ use of Chingizid connections for legitimacy. Both of these rulers were disciples of Mujaddidi shaikh, Miyan Fadl Ahmad (d. 1231/1815 Peshawar), who was a descendant of Ahmad Sirhindi. The first wave of Mujaddidis who arrived in Central Asia during the first half of the eighteenth century were disciples of Habibullah Sufi Allahyar (d. 1110/1700) who learned from Ahmad Sirhindi’s son Muhammad Masum (d. 1079/1668) in Mecca or India. See Bakhtiyor M Babajanov, “On the History of the Naqshbandiya Mujaddidiya in Central Mawara’annahr in the Late 18th and Early 19th Centuries,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries,

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eds., by Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen and Dmitruy Yermankov, Vol 1, (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1996), 385–413. “Die Entfaltung der Naqšbandīya muǧaddidıya im mittleren Transoxanien vom 18. bis zum Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Ein Stück Detektivarbeit,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, eds., Anke von Kügelgen, Michael Kemper, Allen J. Frank (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998), 101–51. 2 See Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi Sirhindi: An Outline of His Thought and a Study of His Image in the Eyes of Posterity (Montreal: McGill Queen’s University Press, 1971), 83. All translations are mine unless cited from English texts or otherwise noted. We do not know the specifics about those who opposed Sirhindi. Perhaps Dara Shikuh was one of those who informed Jahangir about the opposition. See Hamid Algar, “Imâm-ı Rabbânî,” Islâm Ansiklopedisi 35 vols. (Istanbul: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı, 1988), 22:194–9. 3 Not all of these treatises are extant. The first in 1022/1613 was by ‘Abdulhakim Sialkoti defending Sirhindi as the renewer of the second millennium and the latest (though not explicitly written to defend Sirhindi or his ideas) is the massive eleven-volume encyclopedia (almost 7500 pages) of the Indian Mujaddidiyya (Muhammad Mas‘sud Ahmad, ed., Jahan-i Imam-i Rabbani: Mujaddid-i Alf-i Thani Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 11 vols. Karachi: Imam Rabbani Foundation, 2005–7). See Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi, “Hadrat Mujaddad Alf- Thani quddus sirrahu ke dafa‘ men likhi jane wali kitaben” in Nur al-Islam 33 (Jan./Feb. 1988), 45–72. Augmenting Yohanan Friedmann’s work, some of these controversies and the sources thereof are briefly discussed in Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Shaykh (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 246–7. 4 Source: Speeches, Writings, and Statements of Iqbal, compiled and edited by Latif Ahmed Sherwani (Lahore: Iqbal Academy, 1977 [1944], 2nd ed., revised and enlarged), 3–26. 5 A few of these distortions, under the guise of scholarship, are exposed by Yohanan Friedmann. This article continues beyond Friedmann’s and ter Haar’s discussion. See J.G.J. ter Haar, Follower and Heir of the Prophet: Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) as Mystic (Leiden: Het Oosters Instituut, 1992). 6 Yohanan Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 115. 7 Ter Haar lists the government officials with whom Sirhindi corresponded and which letters were written to them. By his calculation there are about 66 letters. See ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 16–17. 8 The two-nation theory is a political ideology that posits religion as the primary identity of Indo-Muslims, thereby making Muslims and Hindus two separate nationalities and justifying the formation of the nation-state of Pakistan. 9 On the basis of four years’ living in Pakistan, my impression is that the average Pakistani on the street has never heard of Ahmad Sirhindi. However, on the website of the Pakistani Civil Service, civil servants when asked “Who was the real founder to the two-nation theory?” only get a right answer if they check the box by Ahmad Sirhindi (the other choices are Sir Sayyid and ‘Allama Iqbal). http:// www.cssforum.com.pk/provincial-public-service-commission-examinations/ ppcs-pms/35485-paper-subject-specialist-pakistan-studies-2010-a.html (accessed February 22, 2011).

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I have paraphrased Friedmann’s description, Yohanan Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 101. 11 See Abu’l-Kalam Azad, Tadhkira, ed., Malik Ram (New Delhi: Sahitya Academy, 1990), 263–4. 12 One of Sirhindi’s letters was mentioned in a letter to Shah Sulayman Pulvari, February 24, 1916 in Bashir Ahmad Dar, ed., Anwar-i Iqbal (Karachi: n.p., 1967), 9. Cited in Mas‘ud Ahmad, Mujaddid-i alf-i thani aur Daktar ‘Allama Iqbal (Lahore: Students’ Welfare Organization, n.d.), 3 fn1. 13 Shaykh ‘Ata’ullah, Iqbalnamah, 2 vols. (Lahore: Sheikh Muhammad Ashraf, 1951), Vol. 1, letter 35. Cited in Muhammad Mas‘ud Ahmad, “‘Allama Iqbal aur Hadrat Mujaddid- i Alf-i Thani,” Iqbal Review 5 (April 1964), 114. 14 Shaykh ‘Ata’ullah, Iqbalnamah, Vol. 2, letter 19. Cited in Muhammad Mas‘ud Ahmad, “Shar‘iat wa tariqat: afkar Iqbal ki rawshani men,” in Iqbal Review 6 (­January 1965), 89. 15 Muhammad Iqbal, The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam (Lahore: Sh. Muhammad Ashraf, 1986), 193. 16 Nadhir Niyazi, Maktubat-i Iqbal (Karachi: Iqbal Academy, 1957), 161 cited in Mas‘ud Ahmad, Mujaddid- alf- thani aur Daktar ‘Allama Iqbal, 6. 17 Muhammad Iqbal, Bal-i Jibril, in Kulliyat-i Iqbal Urdu (Lahore: Iqbal Academy, 1990), 351. The wine tavern has been used as a metaphor for the sufi lodge, wine for love, and the station (maqam) could easily refer to one of unitary awareness in love. Miyan Bashir Ahmad asked Iqbal about this verse and Iqbal replied that the saqi referred to Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi. See Mahmud Nizami, Malfuzat-i Iqbal (Lahore: Lahore Isha‘at Manzil, 1949), 28–9. 18 Ibid., 488–9. In his memoirs, Iqbal mentions that further studies on Ahmad Sirhindi should be done. See Shaykh ‘Ata’ullah, Iqbalnamah, 2:48. 19 Mas‘ud Ahmad, Mujaddid- alf- thani aur Daktar ‘Allama Iqbal, 12. 20 Ibid., 14. 21 Burhan Ahmad Faruqi, The Mujaddid’s Conception of Tawhid (Delhi: Idarah-i Adabiyat-i Delhi, 1977), 26–7. 22 “It is heresy of the worst kind” Ibid., 107. Ibn al-‘Arabi’s ideas are “against religion and against Revelation” Ibid., 113. 23 For the record, Sirhindi had difficulties with beginning Sufis who had experiences that convinced them of the unity of being because these “wujudis” thought they had finished their sufi training. Second, Sirhindi disagreed with some of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s perspectives but deeply respected him. It is absurd to think that he would ever call Ibn al-‘Arabi a heretic. For a fuller exposition see “Ahmad Sirhindi: A 21st-century update, “Der Islam 86 forthcoming, 2011 and Sirhindi (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, forthcoming 2012). 24 M. Mujeeb, The Indian Muslims (London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1967), 245; John Esposito, Islam, The Straight Path (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 124. 25 Ishtiaq Husain Qureshi, The Muslim Community of the Indo-Pakistan Subcontinent (Karachi: Ma‘aref Ltd., 1977), 175. 26 Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 107. 27 Ibid., 108. 10

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In  Aligarh’s history department, Rizvi is joined ideologically with Muhammad Habib (d. 1971) and his son, Irfan Habib. See Muhammad Habib’s scathing treatment of Ahmad Sirhindi in his Foreword to Athar Abbas Rizvi, Muslim Revivalist Movements in Northern India in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1993), xi–xix. See also, Irfan Habib, “The Political Role of Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi and Shah Waliullah,” Enquiry 5 (1961), 36–55 and in Proceedings of the Twenty-Third Session of the Indian History Congress, 1960 (Calcutta, np, 1961), Part I, 209–23. 29 Yet another scholar unversed in Islam in the Indo-Pakistani Subcontinent has accused Sirhindi’s enterprise of “leading to communalism and ultimately to separatism.” See Malise Ruthven, Islam in the World (London: Penguin, 1984), 280. 30 Athar Abbas Rizvi, Muslim Revivalist Movements in Northern India in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1993), 237. 31 Ibid., 247. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid., 249. 34 There is an implication here of non-Muslims being impure since dogs’ saliva is considered to be impure and requires washing of garments before prayer according to Hanafi jurisprudence. 35 See Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktūbāt, 1.163.43–4. (volume.letter.pages) Hereafter Maktūbāt. Where there are no quotation marks, I have summarized previous parts of the letter using Sirhindi’s language faithfully. 36 Ibid., 326. 37 See Ahmad Sirhindi, Radd-i madhhab-i Shi‘i, ed. With Urdu translation by Ghulam Mustafa Khan (Karachi: Anjuman Press, 1974), 3–4. The translator renamed this “Ta’id-i ahl-i sunnat” as a chronogramic title. Ter Haar discusses the context and content of this epistle, correcting Friedmann’s remarks that Sirhindi wrote this epistle as a “rite of passage.” See ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 25–6. 38 See Muhammad Ikram, “Hadrat-i Mujaddid-i Alf-i Thani Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi quddus sirrahu” in Muhammad Ikram Chaghata’i, ed., Hadrat Mujaddid-i Alf-i Thani (Lahore: Sang-e Meel Publications, 2009), 234. 39 Ahmad Sirhindi, Radd-i madhhab-i Shi‘i, 5th section. Cited by ter Haar in Follower and Heir, 26. 40 See Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktūbāt, 1.54.28. 41 See Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktūbāt, 1.266.130. 42 This ḥadīth found in the collection of Ibn Athir, is cited twice in Collected Letters. 43 For the historically minded such a statement is problematic at best. The murders of three out of four of the first four caliphs are just the cover story for all the other self-serving behavior that mushroomed out of control after the Prophet died. Power struggles bring out people’s dark sides. Sirhindi is reminding the reader that dwelling on negative past events is counterproductive. 44 Ibid., 2.67.49. 45 Ibid., 2.67.54. 46 Sirhindi’s father’s shaikh, Shah Kamal Kayt’hali Qadiri (d. 981/1573), senses Sirhindi’s greatness as a small child. See Kishmi, Zubdat al-maqamat, 127, 134. The stories mentioned here that foreshadow Sirhindi’s birth involve Muhammad 28

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(d. 10/632), Ahmad Jam (d. 536/1141), and Ahmad Jam’s son, Zahiruddin, Khalilullah Badakhshani, and Baqibillah. See Badruddin Sirhindi, Hadarat alquds, 42–4. These stories are further embellished and additional shaikhs foreshadow Sirhindi’s birth including ‘Abdulqadir Jilani (561/1166), ‘Abdulquddus Gangohi (d. 944/1537), and Salim Chishti (d. 979/1572). See Muhammad Ihsan Sirhindi, Rawdat al-qayyumiyya, translated by Iqbal Ahmad Faruqi, 4 vols. (Lahore: Maktaba-yi Nabawiyya, 1989), 1.101–10. 47 Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 91–102. 48 See ‘Abdulahad Wahdat Sirhindi, Sabil al-rashad, Urdu translation by Ghulam Mustafa Khan (N.p., 1979), 4–8. This is not Sialkoti’s, Dala’il al-tajdid as indicated by Iqbal Mujaddidi in “Hadarat Mujaddid-i Alf-i Thani ke dafa‘ men lik’hi jani wali kitaben,” Nur al-Islam 33/1 (Jan–Feb, 1988), 47. 49 ‘Abdulahad Wahdat Sirhindi, Sabil al-rashad, 7. Shah Waliullah outlined eleven “proofs” in this untitled tract. 50 Yohanan Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 111. 51 Ter Haar, Follower and Heir, x. It would be more correct to say that sufi practice and experience predominated the subjects of Sirhindi’s letters after meeting Baqibillah. Many of Sirhindi’s letters on the subject of doctrine and sharī‘a were written in the mode and language of a religious scholar. 52 Ibid., xii. In this statement, ter Haar is quoting what Friedmann had said in his Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 69–87. 53 David Damrel aptly notes that Sirhindi’s antagonism toward non-Muslim participation in government and overall antagonism toward Indian non-Muslims “more likely comes from his background in Indian Islam rather than from his membership in the imported Central Asian Naqshbandi order.” However, there is no further elaboration in his article, “The ‘Naqshbandî Reaction’ Reconsidered,” in Gilmartin, Beyond Turk and Hindu, 188. 54 See Arthur Buehler, “Trends of Ashrafization in India” in The Prophet’s Family in Islamic Societies, ed. by Kazuo Morimoto, New Horizons in Islamic Studies Series (London: Routledge, forthcoming, 2012). Some of the introductory material in that article is duplicated here. 55 See Ja‘far Sharif, Islam in India: The Customs of the Muslamans of India, translated by G. A. Herklots, edited by William Crooke (Delhi: Oriental Books Reprint Corporation, 1972), 10–11. 56 See also Zia’uddin Barani’s Tarīkh-i Fīrōz Shāhī, trans. Henry Miers Elliot The ­History of India Vol. 14, 2nd Edition (Calcutta: Susil Gupta Ltd., 1953), 178, for his contempt toward “low-born men.” 57 See Imtiaz Ahmad, “The Ashrāf-Ajlāf Dichotomy in Muslim Social Structure in India,” Indian Economic & Social History Review 3 (1966) 270. Indian in this context means people from families who did not trace their lineage to non-Indian Muslim regions. 58 See Riazul Islam, “Stories of Saintly Wrath,” in Riazul Islam, Sufism in South Asia: Impact on Fourteenth Century Muslim Society (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2002), 204. 59 See Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktūbāt, 1.163.43–4.

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See ‘Abdulqadir Bada’uni, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, 3 vols., trans. by Wolseley Haig (Calcutta: Baptist Mission Press, 1925). 61 This situation between the spirit and ego-self is explained in much more detail in Sirhindi, Maktūbāt, letter 1.287. This letter is translated in Buehler, Sirhindi in a forthcoming Paulist Press edition. 62 See Khaliq Ahmad Nizami, Akbar and Religion (Delhi, Jayyed Press, 1989), 409. This is my translation from the original Persian letter written by ‘Abdulhaqq. See Abu’l-Majd ‘Abdulhaqq Muhaddith Dihlawi, Kitab al-makatib wa-rasa’il ila arbab al-kamal wa’l-fada’il (Delhi, Matba‘-i Mujtaba’i 1867), 84–91 (letter 17). I have read ahammtarin for ahammbarin. Nizami Sahib has interpreted the message of the selection that I have translated to mean “The sphere of religion is not for the rulers.” Nizami, Akbar and Religion, 404. I translate it differently. The rest of the letter goes on to explain that deeds in this life have their fruits in the afterlife. 63 See Muzaffar Alam, “Shari‘a and Governance in the Indo-Islamic Context,” in David Gilmartin and Bruce B. Lawrence, Beyond Turk and Hindu: Rethinking Religious Identities in Islamicate South Asia (Gainsville, FL: University Press of Florida, 2000), 225. Parts of the rest of this section and parts of the next two sections are also found in “Ahmad Sirhindi: A 21st century update,” Der Islam 86 forthcoming, 2011. 64 See Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 50. Although my Fiharis-i tahlili-yi hashtgana-yi maktubat-i Ahmad Sirhindi (Lahore: Iqbal Academy, 2000) is not a set of concordances, of the ten entries for “common people” only two refer to them as cattle. Ajlāf is not a term used to refer to them. 65 See Maktūbāt 1.313.168 and 3.49.114. 66 See Richard C. Foltz, Mughal India and Central Asia (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1998), 107. 67 See Maktūbāt letter 2.67. 68 See Muzaffar Alam, “The Mughals, the Sufi Shaikhs, and the Formation of the Akbari Dispensation,” Modern Asian Studies 43/1 (2009), 144. 69 Urban population was 15% of the estimated 110 million population of the Mughal Empire, that is, 16.5 million. Even if one inflates the population of ashrāfī Muslims by counting them as 20% of the urban population, that is only 3.1 million out of 110 million. 70 See Sirhindi, Maktūbāt letter 2.55. 71 See Sirhindi, Maktūbāt 1.47.18. 72 Nasiruddin Tusi’s books were read regularly to Akbar. Muzaffar Alam explains the differences between “the sharī‘a-model and the Nasirean model of governance in his “Sharī‘a and Governance,” 216–45. 73 See Sirhindi, Maktūbāt letter 1.167. 74 There are those individuals who transcended aspects of the predominant culture like Dara Shikuh (d. 1069/1659) and Miyan Mir (d. 1045/1635). 75 According to Aziz Ahmad, Sirhindi had “an element of mystical egoism.” See Ahmad, Studies in Islamic Culture in the Indian Environment (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), 183. Niles Green uncritically comments on Sirhindi’s “abstract and 60

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self-aggrandizing speculation” in his Indian Sufism Since the Seventeenth Century: Saints, books and empires in the MuslimDeccan (New York: Routledge, 2006), 19. 76 See Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 87–9. 77 See Ahmad Sirhindi, Mabdā’ wa-maūād, ed. Zawwar Husayn with Urdu translation (Karachi: Ahmad Brothers Printers, 1984), 9–11. 78 It is ironic when the doyen of Ibn al-‘Arabi studies, William Chittick, finds Sirhindi’s claims to be exaggerated but never questions Ibn al-‘Arabi’s equally exalted claims. Note, for example, the statement of how Sirhindi’s criticisms of Ibn al‘Arabi are “superficial and self-inflating.” See William C. Chittick, “On Sufi Psychology: A Debate between the Soul and the Spirit,” in Jalal al-Din Ashtiyani et. al., eds., Consciousness and Reality: Studies in Memory of Toshihiko Izutsu (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 343. 79 See Carl Ernst, Words of Ecstasy (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1985), 3. 80 In Sirhindi, Maktūbāt letter 1.220, which apologizes for claims made in Maktūbāt letter 1.11. 81 Using primary textual translations, I demonstrate many of Sirhindi’s claims in “Tales of Renewal: Establishing Ahmad Sirhindi as the Reformer of the Second Millennium,” in Jack Renard, Tales of God’s Friends: Islamic Hagiography in Translation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 234–48.These claims are discussed analytically by Friedman, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 28, 60–8, 87–91. 82 See Shah Waliullah’s “proofs” of renewal in ‘Abdulahad Wahdat Sirhindi, Sabīl al-rashād, Urdu translation by Ghulam Mustafa Khan (N.p., 1979), 4–8; Samuela Pagani, Il Rinnovamento Mistico Dell’Islam: Un commento di ‘Abd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi a Ahmad Sirhindi (Naples: Universita Degli studi Di Napoli “L’Orientali,” 2003), 254 referrring to a passage in Sirhindi, Maktūbāt letter 1.260. 83 This includes Muhammad Habib, Irfan Habib, and Athar Abbas Rizvi mentioned earlier. 84 See Muzaffar Alam, “The Mughals, the Sufi Shaikhs, and the Formation of the Akbari Dispensation,” Modern Asian Studies 43/1 (2009), 168 [135–74]. 85 See ibid., 169. 86 See Baqibillah, Kulliyat-i Baqibillah, eds., Abu’l-Hasan Zayd Faruqi and Burhan Ahmad Faruqi (Lahore: Din Muhammadi Press, ca. 1967), 35. 87 See Alam, “The Mughals,” 169. Italics in original. 88 See Baqibillah, Kulliyat, 75–6; and Ghulam Mustafa Khan, Baqiyat-i baqi (N.p, 1989), 38. 89 See Ghulam Mustafa Khan, Baqiyat-i baqi, 27. 90 See Baqibillah, Kulliyat, 77. 91 See Alam, “The Mughals,” 173. 92 The term “Naqshbandi restoration” is used to refer to how Sirhindi’s legacy helped to attract more legalistic Muslims to the order because it distanced itself from what was perceived as Hindu elements; see Annemarie Schimmel, ‘Shah Inayat of Jhok, A Sindhi Mystic,’ in Liber Amicorum: Studies in Honor of Professor Dr CJ Bleeker, 151–70 (Leiden, 1969; Sindhi Literature, Wiesbaden, 1974), 152.

Chapter 10

Encountering the Unholy: The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh* Sarwar Alam

The generally held belief among Muslims about a Sufi (holy man) is that he is a walī Allah (guardian, protector, or intercessor). The Qur’ān depicts him as follows: “Verily for the auliya Allah there is no fear, nor shall they grieve” (verse 10:62). Because of his extraordinary piety and perceived miraculous power, a Sufi or holy man is usually viewed by the general masses as God’s vicegerent; he is believed to protect and intercede for others as God’s deputy. A Sufi is viewed as the heir to, as well as mimesis of, the Prophet (imitatio Muhammadi)1; he is perceived to have authority to mediate between God and humans. For many, a Sufi shaikh is the living pointer to God, the embodied Ka‘ba showing the Way, and the primary approach to God.2 Thus the obedience of a disciple to his Sufi shaikh is viewed as the first step of his obedience to God. By virtue of such obedience, among others, a Sufi shaikh receives necessary authority, and thus legitimacy of his command upon his followers, to paraphrase Weber.3 In general, by dint of his perceived power, a Sufi becomes an alternative source of authority.4 Consequently, Sufis exert two realms of authority: spiritual (religious) and temporal (political), which, argues Paul L. Heck (2007), “should be viewed not as a separation but rather as a complementary relation between the two forces that have shaped traditional Muslim society.”5 Because of their reputation of piety, renunciation of or indifference to worldly affairs, and mass support, Sufi masters have exerted their authority over the ruling elites throughout premodern Muslim history. There is evidence that Sufis protest against, as well as remind, the caliphs publicly of their duty in the premodern era.6 But how does a holy man exercise his power and authority in a modern state? It has been argued that fundamentalist and modernist movements have marginalized the Sufis and their authorities upon the ruling elites, and to some extent, the general masses. Heck observes that, “notwithstanding the significant challenge of Wahhabism, it has been modernizing reformism in the Muslim world, both rationalist and fundamentalist, that has pushed Sufism to reconfigure itself today” (2007:12). In this regard, Charles Lindholm (1998) holds that Sufi

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preachers have accepted the realities of subordination under ­unprecedentedly omnipotent central states, and he argues that, in doing so, Sufis “have lost what remained of their popular authority, and have been succeeded by Islamist zealots, who now take the forefront in contemporary religious struggles against government domination.”7 After observing the rise of Islamists in Bangladesh, Maneeza Hossain (2007) argues, “there is no counter-program in effect to address the comprehensive character of the Islamists’ agenda, notably in the area of cultural radicalization.”8 Contrary to the above observations, I argue that Sufi masters and the brotherhood they have established still exert their authority and power over the ruling elites as well as the masses, and they do so by adapting themselves with modern political institutions, such as political parties. I support my argument by analyzing three ­Sufi-oriented political parties of Bangladesh: the Islamic Constitution Movement of Bangladesh, the Bangladesh Zaker Party, and the Bangladesh Tariqat Federation.

Historical roots of Sufism in Bangladesh Bangladesh is the third largest Muslim country in the world. Most scholars believe that the majority of the population embraced Islam through the influence of the Sufis (mystics, holy men), and also through the influence of nonSufi preachers. Nevertheless, both the urban and rural societies of Bangladesh contain four overlapping Islamic traditions: (i) an accommodationist and tolerant tradition of coexistence of different faiths that influence one another on a religio-cultural basis under the influence of Sufis and pīrs (spiritual preceptor); (ii) a scripturally literalist and socially active Islamic tradition derived from the influence of revivalist reform movements in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; (iii) a modern Islamist tradition mostly derived from radical and militant Islamist political parties and organizations; and (iv) a secularized and modernist tradition of Islam derived from the European education introduced by British colonial rulers.9 Alongside the non-Sufi Sunni Islamic tradition, Sufi ideologies of different traditions have a great influence upon the daily lives of most Bangladeshi Muslims. Like in the early days of Islam on the Bengal frontier, Sufis still maintain important connections between Islam and the masses. In fact, a large majority of Bangladeshi Muslims perceive Sufis as sources of their spiritual wisdom and guidance10 and their khanqahs and dargāhs as the nerve centers of Muslim society.11 Present-day Bangladesh officially came under Muslim rule in the early thirteenth century CE, after the invasion of Bengal in 1204 by the Turkish general Ikhtyar ud-Dīn Muhammad bin Bakhtyar Khalji.12 Available historical artifacts show that the people of Bengal, especially those in the coastal areas of the region, were introduced to Islamic traditions before the Turkish invasion.13 Arabic names of some localities of Chittagong have led some scholars to speculate that people of

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 165 the coastal regions of Bengal were familiar with Islamic traditions long before the arrival of Bakhtyar Khalji. Arab traders had visited the coastal areas as early as the eighth century CE.14 In addition, historical evidence shows that some Sufis visited and settled in other parts of Bengal before the Muslim invasion. Shaikh Ahmad (or Abbas) Ibn Hamza Nishapuri (ninth century CE), Shah Sultan Rumi (eleventh century CE), Shah Sultan Balkhi (eleventh century CE), Baba Adam Shahid (twelfth century CE), and Shah Makhdum (twelfth century CE) are some of the said Sufi settlers.15 Shah Sultan Rumi settled in Netrakona district of present-day Bangladesh, Shāh Sultan Balkhī settled in the district of Bogra, Shah Makhdūm settled in Rajshahi district, and Baba Adam Shahid (the Martyr) preached Islam in Vikrampur. He was killed on the battlefield in 1119 CE. It is argued that Shaikh Jalal ud-Dīn Tabrizi, one of the Sufis of the Suhrawardiyyā order, came to Bengal before 1200 CE, and subsequently settled and died in the Maldah district of present-day West Bengal, India.16 People embraced Islam following the examples of simplicity, egalitarianism, and notions of brotherhood these holy men established.17 In this book, Bennett’s account of the conversion process in Bangladesh differs slightly from the one in this chapter. However, both accounts credit activities of peaceful Sufi pioneers, not sword-wielding conquerors or zealots. Prior to the coming of Islam, Hinduism (Sanatana Dharma), Jainism, and Buddhism dominated the socio-religious and cultural milieu of Bengal.18 In describing the authority of the Sufis, Richard Eaton argues that between the sixteenth and twentieth centuries, the authority of the charismatic Sufis in Bengal rested on three overlapping bases: their connection with the forest, their connection with the supernatural world, and their connection with mosques by which they were believed to have institutionalized the cult of Islam. Eaton (1993) also observes that it was the Sufis who played vital roles in mass conversion by engaging themselves in forest clearing and land reclamation as well as by their reputation for charisma. However, in contrast to other parts of South Asia, Sufis of Bengal did not emerge as landed gentry.19 Instead, some Sufis stood against the oppression of landlords and fought against colonial rulers. Some of them emerged themselves as a bridge between the ruling elites and the masses because of their reputation for piety and social engagement. However, during the Pakistan period (1947–71), we hardly find any Sufis of East Pakistan who actively participated in the national or provincial party politics.

Introduction of Islam in Bangladesh politics Bangladesh became an independent country in  1971 on the basis of secular issues. Because of the abuse of religion during the Pakistan era and also during the war of liberation, the new Constitution of the country adopted a principle of religious neutrality (dharma nirapeksata) that banned religion-based political parties. After the coup d’état of 1975, General Ziaur Rahman paved the way for

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religion-based political parties by repealing Article 38 of the Constitution, which upholds religious neutrality. He helped rehabilitate antiliberation political parties, such as the Muslim League and the Jama’at-e-Islami, among others, during his regime. A new era of the relationship with Middle Eastern Muslim countries developed during his military regime. This new diplomatic relationship opened new opportunities for employment for Bangladeshi workers in Middle Eastern countries, especially in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf countries. Some of these workers later brought Wahhabi ideology back home from Arabia and created a social ground and support base for future fundamentalists in the country.20 In 1988, Husain Ershad, another military dictator, declared Islam the state religion of Bangladesh by amending the Constitution. Both military regimes tried to overcome their legitimacy crises by manipulating the Islamic identity of the majority population. However, one of the differences between these two juntas was that the former attempted to woo the support of the Islamist parties while the latter the Sufi masters, among others, for legitimacy.

Sufis in politics Despite major differences in ideology, the Islamically motivated political organizations of Bangladesh can be divided into three broad categories21: those who participate in the existing political system, those who operate within the democratic political system despite reservations, and those who refuse to take part in constitutional politics. The Bangladesh Jama’at-i-Islami, the Bangladesh Tariqat Federation, the Bangladesh Zaker Party, and the Islamic Constitutional Movement are the major Islamic political organizations that belong to the first category. The Hizbut Tahrir Bangladesh belonged to the second category. It used to operate within the democratic system of the country but did not participate in the electoral process. The Harkatul Jihad al-Islam Bangladesh and the Jama’atul Mujahideen Bangladesh belonged to the third category that chose violence as the only strategy to establish an Islamic state in Bangladesh. It was Maulana Muhammad Ullah Hafijzi Huzur, a reformist Deobandi ‘alim of Chīshtī-Sabiri tradition, who paved the way for traditional ‘ulama ­(theologians) to get themselves involved in national politics. He formed a political party called the Khelfat Andolon (The Khelafat Movement), in  1981. He was probably inspired by the Iranian Revolution of 1979 led by Ayatullah Ruhullah Khomeini.22 It is also likely that he was alarmed by the increasing strength of the Jama’ate-Islami that encouraged him to form a political party. However, his example inspired others to participate in the national politics. Hafijzi Huzur contested the presidential election in 1981 in which he received 388,741 or 1.80 percent of the votes cast.23 He urged the entire nation to perform tauba or repentance, as both the rulers and the ruled, he stated, are sinners. The rulers committed sins by breaking promises and the ruled committed sins by casting their votes in

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 167 favor of them, he asserted. In a fatwa (edict) issued in  1984, Hafijzi Huzur declared General Ershad’s rule as un-Islamic since he did not uphold the Shari‘a. In the same fatwa he also declared Ershad an illegitimate ruler as he did not come to power with the consent of the people.24 Hafijzi Huzur contested the presidential election again in 1986 against General Ershad, the dictator of the country. After Hafijzi Huzur’s death, one of his deputies named Maulana Syed Fazlul Karīm, Pīr Sahib Charmonai, a Chīshtī-Sabiri ‘alim, along with Maulana Fazlul Haque Aminee (the son in-law of Hafijzi Huzur) launched the Islamic Constitution Movement (ICM) in March 1987 in order to establish God’s law in ­Bangladesh. In 1991, the ICM joined the Islami Oikkya Jote (IOJ, Islamic United Front), an alliance of seven small Islamic parties that contested the general election in the same year. In 1996, the ICM contested in 11 constituencies and bagged 11,159 or 0.0263 percent of the votes cast.25 The ICM left the IOJ in 2001 and joined General Ershad’s Jatiya Party and formed a new alliance called the Islamic National United Front. The alliance secured 14 seats in the 2001 election. It later quit the alliance and attempted to align itself with both the ­Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP)-led 4-party alliance and the Awami League (AL)-led 14-party alliance. Finally, it contested in 166 constituencies in the general election of 2008 (but bagged only 733,969, or 1.05 percent of the total votes cast).26 Pir Sahib Charmonai took a clear stand against militancy. He organized countrywide antiterrorism rallies. He once stated that “we hate bomb culture” in response to the growing militancy in the country27; he blamed the BNP-led coalition government for supporting militant organizations. Sayyid Rezaul Karīm, the son of the deceased Pīr of Charmonai is currently the leader of the party, which portrays itself as the representative of mainstream Islam, denounces female leadership, advocates the implementation of the Shari‘a, and opposes secularism. The party also stands against the nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and their programs of women’s emancipation, Indian hegemony in the region, the West’s hegemony on the Muslim lands, and the corruption of political elites. It viewed the Ahmadiyyā sect as non-Muslim and was in opposition to Jama’at-e-Islami. Interestingly, Pīr Sahib Charmonai Maulana Fazlul Karīm made alliances with Ershad and the radical Islamists. He served on the advisory committee of the extremist Islamist Harkatul Jihad al-Islami Bangladesh, a banned militant organization.28 However, it has an uncompromising attitude toward any deviations from the ideals it perceives as Islamic. The ICM has been opposing the initiative of introducing secularism in the Constitution by the ruling AL as it contravenes the ideals of Islam.29 In fact, the ICM has established itself as the defender of normative Islam and as the great challenger to the ruling AL. Another Sufi-laden political party known as the Bangladesh Zaker Party (BZP) was launched in 1989 by a prominent Naqshabandi-Mujaddedi shaikh, Maulana Hashmat Ullah (d. 2001) of Atrashi. The ousted junta General Ershad

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was one of his murīds during the 1980s. It was probably his ambition of ­associating himself with the core players of power that motivated the shaikh to organize a political party. It is also believed that General Ershad inspired him to launch a political party that would oppose the Jama’at-e-Islami. “A source close to the pīr describes him as ‘staunch supporter of democracy’,” stated S. Kamaluddin, the reporter of the Far Eastern Economic Review in April 1983, a time when the country was under martial law. He also reports that “the pīr, unlike most preachers in this country, favors modern education and enjoys the company of intellectuals. He firmly believes that without a modern, science-oriented educational system, the nation will never prosper.”30 After the death of the founding shaikh, his son Pirzadeh Mustafa Ameer Faisal Mujaddesdi took over the leadership of the party in 2001. He was one of the critics of the BNP-led four-party alliance government and especially of its partner, the Bangladesh Jama’at-e-Islami, for supporting Islamic militancy in the country. He once stated that there was no conflict between secularism and Islam, and that in order to rescue the country from the threats of religious extremists the principle of secularism should be restored.31 He used to publish a daily newspaper known as the Daily al-Mujaddid, and the magazine Weekly Meghna, to disseminate his ideals. The party contested in  251 constituencies and bagged 417,737, or 1.22 percent of the votes cast in  1991. In the 1996 election, it nominated 241 candidates that went on to receive 167,597, or 0.395 percent of the votes.32 On the eve of the general election of 2007, the BZP joined the grand alliance led by the AL. However, after the establishment of the military-backed Care Taker Government in January 2007 that arrangement was changed and his party contested the 2008 election by itself in 36 constituencies (but bagged only 129,289, or 0.19 percent of the total votes cast).33 The Bangladesh Tariqat Federation (BTF) was launched in 2005. Syed Najibul Bashar Maizbhandari was a member of the leading Chīstī-Qādiri sufi family of Bangladesh. The Maizbhandari Sufi tariqa is mainly popular for its pluralistic views. The founding shaikhs of the tariqa were famous for their piety as well as their social engagement. The tariqa preaches for communal harmony and interfaith dialogue. It does not believe that Muslims are the only believers of a true religion and encourages its followers to recognize and respect others’ faiths. It gives preference to the morality of religion in general over the Shari‘a.34 The Masik Tauhid, Jiban Bati, Nur-e-Rahman, and Alokdhara are journals of the tariqa that regularly publish articles on these issues. Najibul Bashar Maizbhandari upholds these ideals, and also the spirit of the liberation war of 1971, in the BTF. His engagement in politics is related to General Ershad’s government attempt to take control over the dargāhs (shrines) of the Sufis. In protest of this attempt, Najibul Bashar organized the Dargāh-Mazār Federation, which successfully blocked the governmental attempt of nationalizing dargāh premises of the Sufi shaikhs of the country. Sayyid Najibul Bashar later joined the AL in 1991 and was elected as an MP (Member of Parliament) in the same year. He later

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 169 quit the AL and joined the BNP and became its international affairs secretary. Upon observing the growing militancy and the attacks on the dargāhs and sufi figures by the militants, he resigned the BNP and alleged that the unholy alliance of the BNP–Jama’at had been patronizing militancy in the country. He later organized the BTF. He was a member of the Bangladesh Hindu-Buddhist Unity Council. The main goal of the BTF is to establish sufi ideal-based Islamic rule in the country. The BTF joined the former president, Dr. Badruduzza Chowdhury, and the framer of the Constitution of the country, Dr. Kamal Husain’s National Unity Front that joined the AL-led Grand Alliance in 2006. Later his party contested in 31 constituencies in the 2008 election (but bagged only 19,750, or 0.03 percent of the votes cast).35 The BTF maintains a strategic relationship with ruling AL. It helped the arrest of Jama’at-chief Matiur Rahman Nizami, former minister of the coalition government during 2001 and 2006, and also an alleged war criminal, by filing a case in a court of law for a blasphemous comment of the latter about Prophet Muhammad.36

Analysis and discussion Since Bangladesh is a country with a population that is made up of mostly Muslims, Islam has always been an issue in its politics. As discussed earlier, sufis or mystics played a vital role in preaching Islam in the region, especially in the rural areas of the country. At the same time, legalists or ‘ulama (sing. ‘alim) also played a vital role in consolidating as well as establishing the cultural heritage of Islamic tradition in the region, especially in the urban areas. The mystics maintained a dominant role as intermediaries among the political elites and the masses in the early days of Islam in Bengal. But the situation had changed after the consolidation of Muslim rule in the region when the ‘ulama established their dominance in the urban areas and in the centers of political power. Eventually, like in many other Muslim countries, Sufism became a contested phenomenon in the region. It has been argued that one of the oldest stereotypes in Islam is the eternal conflict between the legalist and mystic.37 This is partly because the core idea of Sufism, “ma‘rifa” (gnosis or mystical knowledge), does not appear in the Qur’an or in any prominent prophetic report or Hadīth.38 Especially revivalist movements of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries propagated against popular and so-called Sufi practices in order to establish “normative” Islam in South Asia. Ironically, some of the reformists themselves were linked with Sufi orders. During the colonial era, the ‘ulama remained dominant in the society as a whole, as some of them became an integral part of the colonial judiciary as interpreters of the Islamic legal traditions. In most cases, the mystics maintained a distance with the ruling elites, and in other cases they actively participated in revolts against them. The revolts of Fakīr Majnu Shāh (d. 1788) and

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Pagal Bidroho of the mid nineteenth century are still considered legends in ­Bangladesh. After the so-called Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, mystics of South Asia became marginalized in politics mostly because of two reasons: colonial rulers’ suspicions upon Muslim religious authorities, and the revivalist and reform movements led by the ‘ulama. During this period, Dar’ul Ulūm Deoband (established in 1866) became the model of traditional Islamic heritage on the one hand, while the Mohammedan Anglo-Oriental College (established in  1875 and subsequently developed into the Aligarh Muslim University) established an image of Islamic modernism in most parts of South Asia on the other. Muslims’ politics of the last few years of colonial rule was mostly dominated by the scholars or students of either of these two institutions.39 A number of reformers of this period emphasized the performance of Islamic rituals and religious education, while others tried to adapt the Muslim community to the changing situation through modern education. In either case, Islamic reform remained a central issue until the partition of India in  1947. Interestingly, Sufis did not participate in either issue. In fact, we did not see any prominent Sufi figures of this region active in politics during this period. However, alongside these two educational reform movements, both of which were mostly centered in urban areas, a number of religious reform movements also became a challenge to Sufi rituals and practices that were mostly concentrated in the rural areas as the traditional bases of Sufi-adherents. Prominent among the religious reform movements were the Farai’di, the Tayuni, and the Tariqa-i-Muhammadiyya. The Farai’di and Tayuni movements were exclusively puritanical in nature, but the Tariqa-i-Muhammadiyya movement, on the other hand, was radical and militant.40 Another movement similar to the latter was the Ahl-i Hadīth movement. The adherents of the Tariqa-i-Muhammadiyya and Ahl-i Hadīth movements were also loosely known as the Wahhabis in India (the Deobandis were also branded by some Islamic scholars as Wahhabis).41 However, it has been argued that there was no apparent relationship between the Wahhabism of Arabia and the so-called Wahhabism in India.42 The only meaningful similarity among all of these groups was that they denied the authority of taqlid (acceptance of traditional interpretation of a single school of Islamic law). Among these reform movements, the Fara’idi and Tayuni were the most active in East Bengal. After the demise of these movements, another movement known as Tabligh-i Jamaat began in the 1920s. This movement, which also aimed at purifying Islamic practices, was created as a response to the aggressive campaign of the fundamentalist Hindu Arya Samaj.43 Bangladesh has the largest organization of Tabligh-i Jamaat in the Muslim world and its annual iztema (congregation) is the second largest gathering after the annual hajj (pilgrimage) in Mecca. These revivalist as well as the reformist movements have deepened Islamic consciousness and shaped present-day Bengali Muslim customs and institutions.44 All of these movements had differences with one another, but they had one characteristic in common: all of them were against Sufism.

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 171 British India was divided into two independent states in 1947. The basis of this separation was the desire of some Muslim leaders for a separate political identity as they envisioned Muslims of India as a separate nation with a distinct cultural and religious heritage. In contrast to the western region of British India,45 Sufis of the eastern region maintained a safe distance from political engagement during the heydays of the Pakistan movement. The doctrines of the Sufis deeply influenced the masses, and their dargāhs were venerated not only by Muslims but also by the followers of other religious traditions.46 It has been argued that the development of coexistence and tolerance, especially between Hindus and Muslims, is one of the greatest achievements of the Sufis in Bengal.47 This tradition was in conflict with the ideological basis of the Pakistan movement, known as the “Two Nations Theory” (Hindus and Muslims are two different nations). The problem with this doctrine was that it defined Islamic identity in the context of communal tensions.48 Furthermore, it was grounded in the British policies that polarized the distinction between Muslims and Hindus and popularized the idea of an India with a Hindu majority and a Muslim minority.49 This ideological basis was in conflict with the hitherto practiced Sufi traditions of eastern regions, as the premises of the Sufis were viewed as melting pots of any communal differences. As a result, no prominent Sufi figure or brotherhood got involved in any political debates, especially in the eastern region of British India during the Pakistan movement of the early 1940s. It appears that it was neither the political elites nor the ‘ulama who marginalized the Sufis, but rather the Sufis who withdrew themselves from politics. However, the notion of a separate Muslim identity remained a central theme until the partition of India in  1947 (East Bengal became a part of Pakistan in 1947 and independent in 1971). Interestingly, it was not Muslim identity, but rather Bengali nationalism based upon the Bengali language and culture that dominated the political domain in the eastern part of Pakistan between the period of 1947 and 1971. During this period, ethnicity and language subsumed religion in Bengali nationalism.50 But Muslim identity was once again made an issue after the independence of the country in 1971. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman (d. 1975), the founding father of the country, established an Islamic institution known as the Islamic Foundation and attended the summit of the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) in 1974 to demonstrate his commitment to Islam. However, the Constitution he and his party adopted for the new country included clauses that distanced the state from establishing any particular faith, adopted religious neutrality (Article 12) as one of the basic principles of the country, and prohibited the formation of political parties or organizations based on communal issues or religious traditions (Article 38). It appears that the Sufis of the eastern region of South Asia remained politically alienated since the middle of the nineteenth century. After remaining aloof from political activities for more than a century, what motivated some Sufi figures of this region to step forward to participate in the mainstream political

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process is a mystery. It can be argued that the first military junta General Ziaur Rhaman’s attempts of amending the Constitution and renewing the ­relationship with oil-rich Middle Eastern countries especially benefited the Jama’at-e-Islami, which in turn alerted some traditional Deobandi ‘ulama to move forward to participate in politics. An example of this kind is the participation of Maulana Muhammadullah Hafizi Huzur in politics. The second military junta, General Hussain Ershad, encountered two challenges brought on by the AL, and the BNP established by his predecessor General Ziaur Rahman. To encounter the challenges from both parties, Ershad attempted to create an image that could potentially woo the support of the masses for his regime. He performed the pilgrimage in Mecca, publicly displayed his religiosity by attending Friday prayers and visiting shrines, and attempted to develop relationships with prominent Sufi masters such as the Pīr of Atrashi, a Naksbandi-Mujaddedi Sufi master, and Pīr Sahib Charmonai, a ChīshtīSaberi Sufi master, and a prominent collaborator of the Pakistan army during the war of liberation in 1971. In order to legitimize his regime, General Ershad tried to present himself as champion of both normative and Sufi traditions. “It was under Ershad that Islam became a political factor to be reckoned with,” observed Bertil Lintner.51 He made his affiliation with the Pīr of Atrashi a public event. This was a qualitative difference with the Pīr of Atrashi with that of Hafijzi Huzur. Hafijzi Huzur established his image as a moral guide; he was famous for his piety even after he launched a political party. It has been argued that General Ershad took several important political decisions at the premise of the Pīr of Atrashi, and fortune-seeking politicians and civil-military bureaucrats became murīds of the Pīr and used his premise for their personal gains. The Pīr became an important power-broker during the tenure of General Ershad. A Sufi master who remained on the periphery of power turned out to be an influential political figure by the patronage of a military dictator and thus shifted his authority from what Arthur Buehler called a “directing shaikh” to a “mediating shaikh.”52 During the restoration of the democratic movement, which was directly against the regime of General Ershad, Jammat-e-Islami took a stand that later helped it to achieve an acceptance as a legitimate political force alongside the anti-Ershad movements led by AL- and BNP-led alliances. The rise of Jama’at-eIslami is one of the major factors that stirred some Sufi figures of the country to launch political organizations. It is also likely that General Ershad inspired the Pīr of Atrashi and also Pīr Sahib Charmonai to initiate political parties. After the fall of General Ershad, the BNP formed the government in 1991 with the help of Jammat-e-Islami. The BNP–Jama’at alliance came to power again in  2001 when two senior Jama’at leaders became ministers of the country. One of the important changes that occurred in the political arena of Bangladesh during the BNP rules was the rise of militant Islamic organizations. Some of these organizations were involved in the bombings at the gatherings of secular cultural programs and at the rallies of opposition parties, churches, and shrines. Both

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 173 BNP and the Jama’at were accused of patronizing some of these militant ­organizations. When the country was shocked by the terrorist activities of some militant organizations, the Prime Minister and other leaders of both parties denied the existence of such militant organizations.53 When the AL, the major opposition party and known as the champion of secularism, was directly affected by the attacks of the militant Islamists, it denounced militancy but ironically attempted to make alliances with fundamentalist political organizations (such as Khelafat Majlish). To earn the support of ordinary voters it took the same strategy the BNP–Jama’at alliance took earlier by creating alliances with Islamic organizations. It nominated at least five militant Islamists in the general elections that were scheduled to be held in 2006 but were later cancelled.54 During this chaotic period, some Sufi masters took a clear position against militancy, and also against the Jama’at-e-Islami. They organized mass rallies, press conferences, and social awareness programs against militancy. The chairman of the Tariqat Federation, a party mainly comprised of spiritual leaders, accused the Jama’at of instigating attacks on Sufi shrines. Pīr Sahib Charmonai publicly criticized the BNP and its ally Jama’at for supporting the militants; he termed the Jama’at-e-Islami the enemy of Islam.55 As mentioned earlier, the leader of the BZP criticized BNP and the Jama’at for manipulating religion in the state affairs and said that there is no conflict between secularism and religion. It appears that the Sufis encounter at least four forces: the reformists including the Tablighis, the Islamic modernists such as Jama’at-e-Islami, Islamic extremists such as Harkatul Jihad al-Islam (banned in  2005), and the mainstream political parties of the country. During the colonial era some popular Sufi figures led rebellions against the unholy “infidel” British rule while defending their positions by practicing the Shari‘a-bound rituals. Long before organizing political organizations, they encountered the first two by their bayans or speeches and also by extensive publications. But establishing political parties is a new dimension in Bangladesh.56 To encounter the challenges posed by the Jama’ate-Islami and other militant Islamic organizations, the founder of the Islamic Constitutional Movement upheld the traditional conservative values and opposed any changes or reforms of those values. The Founder of the BZP stepped forward to organize a political party to become a part of the mainstream political culture of the country and to convey the message that the Sufi masters have the potential to become the key players of power politics. On the other hand, the founder of the BTF intended to uphold the interests of the shrines as well as the accommodative and tolerant Sufi traditions of the ­country. We may argue that the participation of the Sufi masters in politics is a result of three overlapping crises: (1) Ideological: From the very beginning of the inception of Bangladesh in  1971 as an independent nation on the basis of secular ideals, the first government skewed to Islamic ideals by participating at the

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­ rganization of Islamic Cooperation (1974) and by establishing the Islamic O Foundation, which was apparently in contradiction with the principles laid down in the Constitution of the country, Secularism (religious neutrality) and Socialism. It established a one-party system in 1975, following the models of socialist countries, and thus abandoned the principle of multiparty liberal democratic ideals outlined in the Constitution. After a series of coup d’états, General Ziaur Rahman took over the power and revived the religion-based political establishment by amending the Constitution.57 The ideological dilemma in setting the state principles helped increase the strength of the Jama’at that alerted the traditional ulama as well as the Sufi masters of the country. Later, General Ershad attempted to portray himself as a genuine Muslim and upholder of both exoteric Islamic heritage and a follower of esoteric traditions. In all of these phases, instead of pursuing socio-economic agendas, ruling elites attempted to use Islam as their political weapon to mobilize mass support. In this way the “political elites have failed to construct an ideology that on the one hand universalizes their corporate interests while apparently representing the interests of the masses on the other.”58 The shifts in ideology, especially the steady and consistent Islamization process, inspired Islamists to take advantage of the situation and at the same time caused Sufi masters to prepare themselves to defend their positions. (2) Governmentality: There have always been crises of good governance in the country. Before independence, the country was ruled by the military dictators for more than a decade. As mentioned earlier, within three years of independence the ruling elites abandoned the ideals of liberal democracy and introduced a one-party system. During that period they also deployed a special force called Jatiyo Rakhsmi Bahini (National Defense Force) mainly to control oppositions. They could not manage the flood and the famine of 1974. With the exception of very few, most of the power elites became corrupted. The legacy of corruption still continues. The practice of corruption is not only widespread among the ruling elites of the country but also among the government officials that include officials of police departments and the judiciary.59 The power elites could not develop strong local governments. In fact, the Bangladeshi society is controlled not by the local self-governments, but rather by the apparatuses of security that favor the ruling elites. The Sufi masters are aware of the state of governmentality.60 They took advantage of the lack of will and inability of the government to ensure “justice” to the people. Their agendas reflect the injustices that were being done to the masses by the government agencies. The Sufi masters have been trying to portray their agendas as functional alternatives to the existing system. (3) Religious extremism: The most important factor that inspired the Sufi masters to take part in establishing political parties is the rise of religious extremism. As we have discussed earlier, the first military junta amended the Constitution in a way that helped religion-based political parties, which were banned earlier, to reorganize themselves openly. To create an aura of political

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 175 legitimacy, military regimes rehabilitated and eventually collaborated with Islamic political organizations, some of which were radical and fundamentalist in character. As Tazeen Murshid has observed, “[r]eligion and politics do not necessarily come together only when political institutions are weak, but also when dominant authoritarian regimes feel threatened.”61 Both military regimes tried to overcome their legitimacy crises by manipulating the Islamic identity of the majority population. In this way, the military regimes not only created the opportunity for Islamists to be a part of mainstream politics in Bangladesh, but also made Islamization an agenda of the state and Islam the de facto state ideology.62 One of the consequences of the Islamization strategy was the rise of anti-Sufi Islamic militancy in the country. On several occasions the ruling elites defended the militants. During the rule of the BNP-led four-party alliance between 2001 and 2006, some militant Islamic groups received significant material and moral support from Islamists within the alliance.63 The Bangladesh Jama’at-e-Islami’s inclusion in the alliance is especially perceived to have emboldened extremists, who were protected from harassment by the authorities.64 In this regard, Ali Riaz has noted, “the presence of the Islamists in government has not only helped the militants to operate freely but limited the ability of the government to act decisively.”65 During this period, alongside the main opposition party, the AL, Sufi masters took a clear stand against the rise of militancy. Najibul Bashar Maizbhandari, the then International Affairs Secretary of the Ruling BNP and founder of BTF, quit his position and accused both BNP and Jama’at for harboring militancy in the country. There are differences among these three political organizations on a number of issues. The ICM is identical with any fundamentalist Islamic political parties that intend to introduce an ideal-type pristine Islamic state in Bangladesh, whereas the BZP and the BTF are more accommodationist in that they emphasized local heritage along with Islam. Because of its more conservative stand, the ICM aligned itself with some radical Islamists in recent times that support the BNP, while the BZP and the BTF, being accommodationist in nature, aligned themselves with the AL and other secular parties. Yet  all three Sufi masters stood against militancy, and the Jama’at-e-Islami; all of them view the alliance between the BNP and the Jama’at as unholy. Nevertheless, by both political and social engagement the leading Sufi masters of Bangladesh have been responding to the challenges posed by the state and the Islamists. Especially the period between 2001 and 2006, a period that represents the zenith of the militant Islamists, all three parties attempted to defend their traditions by denouncing militancy and by criticizing public policies pursued by the ruling elites. In contrast to the observations of Charles Lindholm, it was not only the Islamist zealots but also the Sufi masters who challenged the government. To encounter the ruling coalition government, they formed alliances with the mainstream secular political parties. Despite their lack of a large political support base, they exert influence upon secular political

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parties and leaders, especially during the time of general elections. This is most visible where the estimated voting difference among the candidates of major political parties is narrow. They transformed themselves from moral guides to political guides of the masses. It may be mentioned here that the BNP–Jama’at alliance could not win the general election of 2008. Although it cannot be said that their failure to win the election was the result of the preaching of the three Sufi masters, it can be presumed that their preaching damaged the image of the alliance and helped people stand against militancy.

Conclusion It was mainly the Sufi masters who introduced the people of Bangladesh to Islam. Yet the Sufi masters remained marginalized in politics since the middle of the nineteenth century. Because of some historical reasons some of the Sufi masters moved forward to establish political parties. In terms of electoral success, their achievement is not a very encouraging one but the very participation in the electoral politics provided them with an acceptance as a force that was hitherto unknown and unprecedented in Bangladesh. Capitalizing the legitimacy crisis of the military junta, the chaotic situation of the power politics, and the rise of radical Islamic political organizations in Bangladesh, they creatively expanded their space in the political arena. Despite deliberate attempts of modernists and Islamists, the Sufi masters transformed the attitudes held by the ruling elites toward them. The politics of alliance of the big parties gave them an opportunity to portray themselves as a political force both to the masses and to political elites. The engagement of the Sufi masters in politics and in organizing political parties is thus neither a reaction to a modernization process nor a consequence of diminishing hegemony of the rulers, as some scholars argue.66 Rather, it is a creative initiative of adaptation and also a testimony of pragmatism to expand their space in the mainstream political culture as well as establish their authority among the political elites and the masses. Many Sufis may well conform to the general perception of Sufism as apolitical. However, this chapter and Phillipon’s show that some Sufis are entering the political arena. Geaves, writing about the British South Asian Diaspora, makes it clear that Sufi expressions of support for the war against terror are calculated to earn political favor, at the expense of extremist Muslims. Sirhindi and Shah Inayat, discussed by Buehler and Bovin respectively, also had political goals.

Notes *

The synopsis of this chapter was presented at the annual conference of American Academy of Religion in Atlanta, Georgia, on November 1, 2010.

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 177 For details, Annemarie Schimmel, And Muhammad Is His Messenger: The Veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1985), 32. 2 Arthur F Buehler, Sufi heirs of the Prophet: the Indian Naqshbandiyya and the rise of the mediating sufi shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 148. 3 Max Weber, The Theory of Social and Economic Organizations, trans., A.M. Henderson and T. Parsons ( New York: Oxford University Press, 1947), 153. 4 For details, see Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1998). 5 Paul L. Heck (ed.), Sufism and Politics: The Power of Spirituality (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, 2007), 3. 6 Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, 3 vols (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1974), 2:207. 7 Charles Lindholm, “Prophets and Pirs: Charismatic Islam in the Middle East and South Asia,” in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (eds.) Embodying Charisma: Modernity, Locality and the Performance of Emotion in Sufi Cults, 209–33 (London: Routledge, 1998), 218. 8 Maneeza Hossain, Broken Pendulum: Bangladesh’s Swing to Radicalism (Washington, D.C.: Hudson Institute, 2007), 19. 9 Sarwar Alam, “Sufi Pluralism in Bangladesh: The Case of Maizbhandariyya Tariqa.” In Journal of South Asian and Middle Eastern Studies, vol. xxxiv, no. 1: 28-45, Fall, 2010, 29. 10 Peter Bertocci, J. (2002). “Form and Variation in Maizbhandari Sufism.” Paper presented at the conference, “The Work of the Imaginaire in South Asian Islam,” North Carolina State University, April 12-14, 2002 available at http://www.docstoc.com/docs/18727779/form-and-variation-in-maijbhandari-sufism, retrieved July 23 2011. 11 Abdul Karim, Social History of the Muslims in Bengal (Down to A. D. 1538), second edition (Chittagong, Bangladesh: Baitush Sharaf Islamic Research Institute, 1985), 185. 12 For details, see Eaton, Richard M. The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier: 12041760 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993). 13 Syed Murtaza Ali, Saints of East Pakistan (Dacca, East Pakistan: Oxford University Press, 1971), 1. 14 For detail, see Tofael Ahmed, Jugey Jugey Bangladesh [Bangladesh in Different Eras] (Dhaka, Bangladesh: Nawroze Kitabistan, 1992), 38–9; Syed Ali Ahsan, Bangla Sahitter Itihas: Adi Parbo [History of Bengali Literature: Ancient Phase] (Dhaka, Bangladesh: Shilpataru Prakashani, 1998), 6, 17; Ali 1971, 1. 15 For details, see Muhammad Enamul Haq, A History of Sufi-ism in Bengal (Dhaka, Bangladesh: Asiatic Society of Bangladesh, 1975, 204–34. 16 Haq, 12, 165; Abdul Karim, Social History of the Muslims in Bengal (Down to A. D. 1538), second edition (Chittagong, Bangladesh: Baitush Sharaf Islamic Research Institute, 1985), 124; Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of California Press, 1975), 351. 17 Karim 1985, 46. 1

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Niharranjan Ray, Bangalir Itihas: Adi Parbo [History of Bengalis: Ancient Phase] (Calcutta, India: Book Emporium, 1949), corresponding Bengali calendar year was 1356 (corresponding Bengali calendar year was 1356), 288–9, 520–1, 603–5. 19 For example, see Sarah F. D Ansari, Sufi saints and state power. The pīrs of Sind, 1843–1947 (Lahore, Vanguard Books LMT, 1992). 20 For the Wahhabi influence in the countryside, see Kart Gardner, “Women and Islamic Revivalism in a Bangladeshi Community,” in P. Jeffery and A. Basu, eds., Approaching Gender: Women’s Activism and Politicized Religion in South Asia, 203–20 (New York: Routledge, 1998), 203–20. 21 Ali Riaz, Islamist Militancy in Bangladesh: A Complex Web (New York: Routledge, 2008), 103. 22 Bhuian Md. Monoar Kabir, Politics and Development of the Jama’at-e-Islami Bangladesh (Delhi: South Asian Publishers, 2006), 37. 23 Ibid, 37. 24 See Ali Riaz, God willing: the politics of Islamism in Bangladesh (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004), 160 (footnote 12). 25 Kabir 2006, 10. 26 The Daily Star, January 2, 2009 (accessed October 8, 2010). 27 The Daily Star, September 1, 2005 (accessed October 10, 2010). 28 Lintner, Bertil. Bangladesh Extremist Islamist Consolidation. New Delhi, Faultlines, Vol 14, July 2003 available at http://asiapacificms.com/papers/pdf/faultlines_ bangladesh.pdf retrieved July 26 2011. 29 In protest of passing the 15th amendment bill that excludes the phrase “Absolute Faith and Trust in Allah” from the Constitution on June 30, 2011, the ICM declared a day-long strike in Dhaka on July 3 and across the country on July 10. For details, see “Twelve parties call hartal for July 10-11” Daily Star July 1, 2011. http://www.thedailystar.net/newDesign/print_news.php?nid  192388 (accessed August 3, 2011). 30 Far Eastern Economic Review, April 7, 1983. 31 The Daily Star, December 1, 2005 (accessed October 8, 2010). 32 Kabir 2006, 10. 33 The Daily Star, January 2, 2009 (accessed October 8, 2010). 34 Sayyid Delaor Husayn Maizbhandari, Velayet-e-Mutlaka, eighth edition (Chittagong, Bangladesh: Anjuman-e-Mottabe’in-e-Gaus-e-Maizbhandari, 2001), 81. 35 The Daily Star, January 2, 2009 (accessed October 8, 2010). 36 For details, see The Daily Star, June 30, 2010 “Jamaat trio held on court order” available at http://www.thedailystar.net/newDesign/news-details.php?nid   144739 (accessed August 3, 2011). 37 Cornell 1999, 207. 38 Ahmet T Karamustafa, “Preface.” Knowledge of God in Classical Sufism: Foundations of Islamic Mystical Theology, trans. & ed. John Renard (New York: Paulist Press, 2004), xi. 39 For details, see, Muhammad Qasim Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam: Custodians of Change (NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002). 40 For details, see, Muinuddin Ahmad Khan, History of the Faraidi Movement in Bengal (1818–1906) (Karachi: Pakistan Historical Society, 1965). 18

The Establishment of Political Parties by Sufi Masters in Modern Bangladesh 179 Sufia M. Uddin, Constructing Bangladesh: Religion, Ethnicity and Language in an Islamic Nation (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press 2006), 54-8. For a general discussion on the difference between Arabian Wahhabis and Ahl-i Hadīth, see Khaled A. El Fadl, The Great Theft: Wrestling Islam from the Extremist (New York: HarperCollins, 2005), 89–91. 42 Fazlur Rahman, Islam (New York: Anchor Books, 1966), 250, and also Khan 1965. 43 For details, see Mohammad Rashiduzzaman, “Islam, Muslim Identity and Nationalism in Bangladesh,” Journal of South Asia and Middle Eastern Studies Vol.XVIII, no.1: 36–48, Fall 1994, 36–60. 44 For details, see Peter J. Bertocci, “Islam and Social Construction of the Bangladesh Countryside.” In R. Ahmed (ed.) Understanding the Bengal Muslims: Interpretative Essays, 71-85 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001). 45 Robert Rozehnal, Islamic Sufism Unbound: Politics and Piety in Twenty-First Century Pakistan (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), and also Ansari 1992. 46 Karim 1985, 160. 47 Haq 1975, 287; see also Bennett’s second chapter in this book. 48 For details, see Rafiuddin Ahmed, The Bengal Muslims 1871–1906: A Quest for Identity, Second Edition (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1996). 49 For details, see Burton S. Cohn, An Anthropologist Among the Historians and Other Essays (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1987) and also Peter van der Veer, Van Der Veer, Peter. Religious Nationalism: Hindus and Muslims in India (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1994). 50 See Syed S. “Islam in Bangladesh: A Dichotomy of Bengali and Muslim Identities,” in Islam Quarterly, 4, 3: 221–36, 1997, and also Kabir 1990, 118–36. 51 Bruce Vaughn, Islamist Extremism in Bangladesh (Washington, DC: Library of Congress, 2007) available at http://www.dtic.mil/cgi-bin/GetTRDoc?AD  ADA4648 32&Location  U2&doc  GetTRDoc.pdf retrieved July 26 2011. 52 Buehler 1998, xv. 53 For details, see The Daily Star, October 18, 2005 (accessed July 10, 2010). The former Prime Minister and BNP-leader Begum Khaleda Zia denied the existence of militancy again at public rally on May 19, 2010 (The Daily Ittefaq May 20, 2010). 54 These included Mufti Shahidul Islam of Narail, Maulana Habibur Rahman of Sylhet, Muhammad Habibur Rahman of Mymensingh, and Maulana Tafazzal Haque of Sunamgonj district. For details see The Daily Star (December 27, 2006). 55 http://www.thedailystar.net2005/11/17/d51117011914.htm (accessed July 24, 2011). 56 Turkey is probably an exception where the Prime Minister Recep Tayyib Erdogan (since 2002) and one of his predecessors Necmettin Erbakan (1996–7) are the followers of the Naqshbandi tradition. But they neither established any political parties based on Sufi ideals nor were they Sufi masters themselves. For details, see Buehler 1998, 13. 57 For details, see Kabir 1999. 58 Riaz 2004, 5. 59 For a glimpse, see “Judiciary dwarfs police in TIB graft report: South Asian News Agency, December 25, 2010 at http://www.sananews.net/english/2010/12/25/ judiciary-dwarfs-police-in-tib-graft-report/ (accessed August 3, 2011). 41

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For a detailed discussion on governmentality, see Michel Foucault, Power, ed., James D. Faubion, trans., Robert Hurley and others (New York: the New Press, 2000), 201–22. 61 Tazeen M. Murshid, The Sacred and the Secular: Bengal Muslim Discourses,1871–1977 (Calcutta, India: Oxford University Press, 1995), 370. 62 Riaz 2008, 30. 63 Ibid, 45. 64 A.M.M. Shawkat Ali, Forces of Terrorism in Bangladesh (Dhaka, Bangladesh: The University Press, 2006), 41. 65 Riaz 2008, 61. 66 Riaz 2004, 5. 60

Chapter 11

The Transformation and Development of South Asian Sufis in Britain Ron Geaves

In the British Muslim diaspora, Sufism has always played a significant role, not only with regard to its numerical significance but also due to its high-profile participation in the contested narratives that arise out of the Muslim communities with a focus on what constitutes the normative form of Islam. However, Sufism itself is difficult to define in the British context. Notions of Sufism range from Orientalist understandings of Islamic mysticism, more often found among “New Age” appropriations to varied interpretations of Sufi allegiance found among Muslim migrants and their descendents where the label “Sufism” itself is contested and tassawuf’, “traditional Islam,” or “ahl as-Sunna wa Jama’at” is preferred.1 The former group are not as prominent in Britain as in the USA, where Marcia Hermansen is able to speak of Sufism as “theirs” and “ours” signifying respectively Muslim penetration of the USA through migration or convert esoteric appropriations.2 Yet it was Sufi traditions with their sophisticated metaphysics, ethical disciplines, music, and above all, poetry and mystical experiences that attracted the Romantic vein of Orientalism in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and while the Muslim world came to terms with European modernity, Sufism was perceived as the least compatible with modernism and even to blame for the backwardness found in Muslim nations. In contrast, some Western orientalists embraced the poetry and mystical experiences as one of the cultural heights of Eastern achievement and the pinnacle of Muslim civilization. From such orientalist translations of Sufi mystical writings and visits from prominent Eastern esoterics and Sufis to the West arose an appropriation that divorced Sufism from Islam and provided the foundations for a form of universal mysticism associated with Muslim traditions but rarely with Islam.3 In the late twentieth century such discourses and practices were likely to become assimilated into the “pick and mix” of spiritual and psychotherapeutic bundles that form the “New Age.” Significant figures in the historical process of appropriating Sufism from the mainstream of Islam and transferring its teachings to perennial philosophy where elements could then be cherry-picked for the New Age phenomena in the second half of the twentieth century were Idris Shāh (1924–96), Hazrat Ināyat Khan (1882–1927), Georges Gurdjieff (1866–1949),

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and Irina Tweedie (1907–99).4 A reverse trend in which British “truth-­seekers” return back to Islam after engaging with Sufism in non-Muslim forms can be found in the conversion processes of the Haqqani Naqshbandis.5 The arrival of Muslim economic migrants after World War II, responding to Britain’s demands for a manufacturing labor force in certain industries brought with it a number of prominent South Asian Muslims whose allegiance was to Sufism and, in addition, large numbers of rural Muslims from Pakistan and later Bangladesh who originated from either Mirpur or Sylhet, both regional strongholds of a traditional Islam with close links to Sufism. Prominent among these are Pīr Marouf, Sufi Abdullah, and Pīr Wahhab Siddiqui. Pīr Marouf of the Qādiri tariqa and Sufi Abdullah of the Naqshbandiya both arrived in 1961 and went on to establish themselves respectively in Bradford and Birmingham. Pīr Marouf was to draw upon traditional support for Sufism in the rural districts of Mirpur and flourished in Bradford where such communities had transmigrated. Using this population as a secure base for his activities he created one of the first national organizations, Jami’at-i Tabligh ul-Islam, to represent the South Asian allegiance to Sufism. Around eight mosques and six schools represent the fruits of his activities in Bradford.6 Pīr Wahhab Siddiqi arrived in Britain in 1972 and established a strong base centerd on a mosque in Coventry. He also established his own national organization to represent South Asian Sufi allegiance, the International Muslim Organization. Pīr Wahhab Siddiqui focused his attention on education and since his death in 1994 his sons have endeavored to develop the property purchased by their father outside Nuneaton and turn it into a thriving dar ul-‘ulūm to produce the future ‘ulama that will represent the brand of Islam-appropriated Sufis as “traditional.” The grounds of the school are unique in that they contain the mazār (tomb-shrine) of Pīr Wahhab Siddiqui, the only such location in Britain. Sufi Abdullah, similar to Pīr Marouf, was employed for many years as a night shift factory worker alongside other Pakistani migrant workers. Beginning from a Qur’ān school for children of his fellow workers based in his home, he went on to establish one of the most powerful centers of Sufism in Britain with its headquarters in Birmingham. Such figures as Pīr Wahhab Siddiqi in Coventry, Pīr Marouf in Bradford, and Sufi Abdullah in Birmingham were to become significant regional leaders with considerable skills in micro-politics. In addition to building mosques and schools they represented the Muslim community in local Council issues such as racism, education, and housing, along with the traditional role expected of a pīr to lead a tariqa. In the activities of these three South Asian shaikhs, it is possible to discern a number of characteristics that were to become central in the relocation of Sufism to Britain. While creating the various structures to introduce and preserve Sufi beliefs and practices in Britain, it was important to establish Sufism within the spectrum of Islamic tradition. To a large degree the contestation over what represents legitimate Islamic belief and practice had been raging for

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a century in India and had continued unabated in Pakistan and Bangladesh. Drawing upon Talal Asad’s theorizing of Islamic notions of tradition, the shaikhs were involved in an intense struggle to create a “discursive Islamic tradition,” that is, “a tradition of Muslim discourse that addresses itself to conceptions of an Islamic past and future, with reference to a particular Islamic practice in the present.”7 In this struggle, drawing upon interpretations of the Qur’ān and Hadīth and the behavior of exemplary figures in Islamic history, the shaikhs engaged in an ongoing polemical contestation to demonstrate that Sufism was both normative and “correct.” Regardless of their individual narratives for authenticity that emphasized hagiographical miracle stories and biographies of illustrious ancestors, chains of authority, and connections to shrine centers in the place of origin, it became essential to find a common discourse of legitimacy. Initially the South Asian shaikhs and their respective ‘ulama gathered around the common identity of Barelvi. As this failed to convince younger generations of British Muslims who were either ignorant of historic contestations in South Asia or considered it an irrelevance, the British Sufis moved to the label of Ahl as Sunna wa-Jama’at. In more recent years this has been modified to “traditional Islam.” This chapter will address these transformations and place them in the wider framework of a protracted struggle to develop “discursive traditions” that can claim both Islamic legitimacy and authenticity. To this extent Britain’s Sufism is a microcosm of struggles taking place across the Muslim world, and the strength of Sufism in Britain reflects not only the historic strength of the tradition in the places where Britain’s Muslims originated but the reawakening of Muslims to the Sufi option across the Muslim majority world. Further migrations, both economic and as a result of political turmoil in parts of the Muslim world in the last twenty years, have seen the transplantation of several prominent Sufi turuk including various offshoots of the Naqshbandis, Chīshtīs, Qādiris, Mevlevis, Alawis, Shadhilis, and Tijanis to join those already here of South Asian origin. Britain’s Muslim presence has been transformed by the arrival of these various populations, yet still predominantly remains originating from Pakistan and Bangladesh, but also today from Malaysia, Turkish Cyprus, Iran, Yemen, as well as North, West, and East Africa. These are all places where, either historically or as a living faith tradition, Sufism is significant. Slow to organize itself in the British Muslim diaspora, this significant presence of Sufis or Sufi-influenced Muslims remains largely marginalized in the representation of Islam at all levels. A part of the problem is that Sufism has been separated from the mainstream of Muslim belief and practice, both by the orientalist emphasis on mysticism and the critique of Sufi teachings and practices by both Islamic modernists and the Islamic revivalist movements of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The situation has not been helped by definitions of the term “Sufism” by Western scholars who tend to focus on suf, the Arabic for wool, the material of the traditional Sufi garb, and consequently

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further remove its moorings at the heart of Islamic spirituality. Muslims who practice the disciplines associated with Sufism are more likely to refer to safā meaning purity, or to trace their origins to the Ahl al-Suffa, the People of the Bench or Porch, picked out in the Qur’ān from among the original Companions of the Prophet Muhammad as particularly pious and devoted to the remembrance of Allah. It is believed that these poor but very devout Companions were offered shelter in the entrance to Muhammad’s quarters in the first mosque built in Medina. From this favored position they were said to remember Allah day and night, remaining in constant prayer. These pious companions of the Prophet who remembered God day and night constitute the exemplar for Sufism to the present day. Those who define themselves as Sufis from within Islam practice tasawwuf, translated as cleansing of the heart or purification of the ego, through the constant remembrance of Allah, achieved through inward or spoken repetition of His divine Names. However, the primary reason for the recollection of Allah’s names is to maintain God as the primary focus of the individual’s life. The term tasawwuf is derived from the Arabic word safā, and hence someone who attempts to purify their inner being by following ilm al-tasawwuf (the path of self-purification) is regarded as a Sufi. However, for tens of thousands involved in such practices, the term Sufi divorces them from their primary identity as Muslims and they prefer not to be identified as such. There are also countless millions in the Muslim world who revere the Sufis of the past and seek the baraka (blessings) and istigraha (intercession) that it is believed they can bestow on the supplicant. These Muslims will attend the graves of Allah’s auliya (friends of God) on occasions and have a piety which holds Muhammad in an especially elevated position in a divine cosmology. The patterns of migration have brought many such Muslims into Britain, where they have established their own mosque networks and provided the support for Britain’s living Sufi leaders. These Muslims are likely to remain angry with a Sufism that has been cut away from Islam; however, it is also true that Sufism remains one of the main conduits for conversion for Westerners in both Europe and North America. There are a handful of Sufi teachers who have utilized this popularity of Sufism among British truth-seekers and used it as a bridge to conversion. Foremost among them is the Haqqani Naqshbandis and their highly charismatic leader, Shaikh Nazim.8 Muslims who have allegiance to Sufism in Britain are easily recognized with a discerning eye. They may not necessarily belong to one of the turuk, living under the guidance of a traditional Sufi master (shaikh, pīr). A mosque that is sympathetic to Sufism usually has the Arabic inscriptions of ˜Ya Allah’ and ‘Ya Muhammad’ to the right and left of the qibla. The Muslims who use the mosque are likely to practice shafaa (intercessionary prayers) or istighatha (spiritual assistance) in which Muhammad’s name is invoked. Mawlid (the Prophet’s birthday) is celebrated along with street processions and dhikr (the ­remembrance

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of Allah’s names is acknowledged as central in Muslim devotion even if not actually practiced. Celebrations of urs (the death day of deceased Sufis) take place annually and many will visit the graves of well-known Sufis seeking blessings and intercession. Finally Muhammad is perceived as more than the bringer of revelation and exemplar. The Prophet of Islam is regarded as the ultimate mystic and unique in creation, the first manifestation of God’s light.9 However, do not always expect them to identify themselves as Sufis, as they may prefer to call themselves traditional Muslims or Ahl as-Sunna wa Jama’at, a self-chosen title that distinguishes them as the authentic or correct Sunni Muslims. This latter term is highly contested and requires some explanation. To understand the insistence to label themselves as Ahl as-Sunna wa Jama’at, it is necessary to go back to the nineteenth century and the origins of the Barelvi movement in India. It is argued that the Barelvi tradition originating in the organizational ability of Ahmad Reza Khan Barelvi (1856–1921) to defend and justify as normative the mediatory custom-laden South Asian Islam that is closely linked to the inspiration, leadership, and intercession of Sufis, both living and deceased. It is this movement that remains the dominant group among British South Asian Muslims.10 The efforts of Ahmad Reza Khan to establish a movement that could counteract the reformers of Deoband and those influenced by them such as the Muslim missionary movement, Tabligh-i Jamaat and the more hardline anti-Sufi Ahl-i Hadīth, resulted to some degree in the institutionalization of diverse Sufi movements and their allies and gave a common voice to counter a successful critique.11 The struggle to claim the mantle of being the normative form of Islam, the Ahl-as Sunna wa-Jama’at, or traditional Sunni Muslims, would lead many of the pīrs into a political and religious conflict further complicated by the various positions taken by these competing movements toward the struggle for Indian Independence and the creation of Pakistan.12 Although not all Sufis of the subcontinent were to affiliate or identify themselves as Barelvis, many of the dominant turuk were to do so, especially those such as the Indian Naqshbandis and others who considered themselves to belong to the more moderate forms of Sufism that abided by the Hanafi fiqh (jurisprudence). Not only did these movements relocate themselves in Britain with the mass migration of South Asians in the 1960s and 1970s, but they also brought with them existing rivalries, strategies, leadership patterns, worldviews, beliefs, and practices which were all replicated in British mosques throughout the second half of the twentieth century. Thus the shaikhs and pīrs entering Britain among the economic migrants were not only charismatic leaders renowned for their piety and links to established turuk, accepting bai'at (the formal vow of allegiance) from individuals in traditional Sufi manner but also significant leaders of the Barelvi tradition keen to establish powerful centers in the new location and compete for the hearts and minds of British Muslims, challenging and fighting their old rivals, all now labeled under the pejorative

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label of Wahhabi, a useful counter-strategy as the policy makers and media of Western Europe and North America came to realize the significance of the original Saudi Arabian Wahhabi restoration of a puritanical Islam in the nineteenth century and its modern revival, the Salafi movement, in anti-Western discourses and violent religious extremism.13 These various roles of the South Asian Sufi pīrs in Britain were to complicate the traditional role of the charismatic Sufi shaikh based on spiritual authority. The British pīrs were brought into the arena of community politics, competing claims of leadership, representation of their respective communities to the civic frameworks of British society, in addition to their spiritual leadership of the tariqa.14 The dominance of Muslims of South Asian origin in the British context has perpetuated a custom-laden Sufism with its roots in the subcontinent and continued historic rivalries between turuk and with other Islamic movements that have been historical competitors in the highly contested religious environment of colonial India. The subcontinent Sufis, with their custom-laden version of Islam focused on the intercession of saints and the Prophet, shrines, baraka (the power to bless), powers, miracles, and the performance of dhikr maintained within the pīr/murīd relationship, had never been able to organize themselves nationally in Britain in spite of their apparent numerical superiority. Even so, the arrival of a number of charismatic Sufi pīrs and shaikhs from the subcontinent provided the impetus for greater cohesion as they formed powerful groups of Sufis able to construct mosques and produce promotional literature to counter the reformist movements. However, the traditional loyalty of each group of murīds to their own shaikh counteracted this push toward a stronger and more assertive national identity. The establishment of turuk from around the Muslim world has shifted the discourses of opposition. The South Asian grouping of ‘barelvi’ became problematic in the context of global Islamic discourses. It remains open to the criticism of being a South Asian sectarian affiliation and thus loses legitimacy to the more internationalized voice of the Wahabbi-related opposition. ‘Ahl as Sunna wa Jama’at’ provided a solution but led into a deeply contested realm where all Sunnis claimed the title as normative. Young British Muslims with little knowledge of how the contested domains within Islam had arisen historically were more inclined to be drawn toward the Wahhabi/Salafi voices which benefited from better organization, more financial resources, and considerably more articulated expressions of Islamic doctrine (aqida). In recent years the turuk have provided a series of organizational structures to Sufi adherents and capitalized on the strong empathy with the teachings of traditional Islam among British Muslim populations. The term “traditional Islam” is used to distinguish a brand of Islam that acknowledges 1400 years of tradition as authoritative alongside the teachings of the Qu’ran and Sunna and recognizes the contribution of Sufi spirituality, the legal interpretations of the ‘ulama, and the four schools of law. This label of traditional Islam has been harnessed by

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Sufis and Sufi sympathizers in opposition to the neo-orthodoxies that have been vociferous critics of Sufism. The identification with traditional Islam has turned the tables on the opposition. Instead of competing for the same label, Sufis and their sympathizers can now lay claim to be the adherents of a form of Islam that predates the Wahhabi-style revival by nearly a thousand years. Thus the opponents of Sufism can be assigned a place in history as neo-orthodoxies that have tried to usurp the form of Sunni Islam that evolved from the Prophetic period and the Caliphate. In one stroke it became the turn of the Wahhabi/Salafi revivalists to be accused of introducing bid'a (innovation) into the Muslim religious arena. Thus, in recent years the representatives of the turuk have been able to provide a unifying Islamic discourse based on practice and belief and drawing upon the traditional loyalty of the above populations to the leadership of pīrs and shaikhs rather than the ‘ulama but also to discover a successful discourse that is able to recruit from the younger generations of British Muslims. The main contributory reason for the inability of the Sufi turuk to attract the young British-born generations, at least, up to the end of the twentieth century, was that Sufism in Britain remained associated with ethnic identity, a means of maintaining traditions and customs tightly bound with localities in the place of origin. Thus Sufism has functioned not so much as a transmission of spirituality within Islam or a voice for correct aqida, but as a boundary mechanism primarily concerned with the transmission of cultural and religious traditions often rooted in a specific regional heritage. Sometimes these traditions are duplicated so effectively in the diaspora situation, providing a mirror image of village customs and practices, that I have preferred to use the term “cultural binary fission” to describe the process of reproduction. The term “binary fission” is borrowed from biology and refers to the most basic reproductive method known to nature, where ameba simply divide their cells and split in two to ­create a duplicate of themselves. I am not arguing that the attempt is fully successful as there will always be transformations that take place in a new environment, and some of these will be explored, but that the turuk have primarily functioned as attempts to duplicate the cultural forms of the locality of origin.15 This has been in opposition to the dominant trend in Britain since the 1980s; to find an Islam that is stripped of cultural baggage and able to find itself living alongside British cultural norms, where they were not antithetical to Islamic values. This trend known as British Islam to its supporters was more likely to draw upon the culture/religion dichotomy more commonly found among those who drew upon Sayyid Qutb or Maulana Mawdudi for inspiration. Although far more politically moderate than such advocates of an Islamic state, these new organizations derived from the narratives of British Islam and able to work alongside Britain’s government, remained sceptical of the Sufi presence in Britain. The turn of the century shows signs of significant change. The British Sufi scene now demonstrates marked attempts to carve out a new cultural and

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r­ eligious space that creatively interacts with the new environment of Britain. The turuk have become more aware of the need to draw upon the transnational and transcultural nature of globalized memberships and to articulate the narratives of tasawwuf and traditional Islamic sciences in an intellectual environment, addressing both Muslims and non-Muslims. The World Wide Web is an essential aspect of this globalization. Websites such as www.masud.co.uk and www.deenport.com are typical of a genre that represents Sufi-orientated Islam. Others examples are the Deen-Intensive Foundation at www.deen-intensive.com; The Nawawi Foundation at www.nawawi.org; The Zaytuna Institute at www.zaytuna. org; Ibn Abbas Institute at www.ibnabbas.org; and representing prominent individuals, www.sunnipath.com and www.zaidshakir.com. The online presence of traditional Muslim tasawwuf does not advertise itself as Sufism or even rally behind the epithet of ahl as-Sunna wa Jama’at, but rather prefers to speak of itself as representing traditional Islam. Sufism in Britain is beginning to go transglobal and escape the confines of ethnicity and locality. The World Wide Web is an essential aspect of this globalization. Epitomizing the new Sufism are websites such as www.masud.co.uk and www.deenport.com.16 The online presence of traditional Muslim tasawwuf does not advertise itself as Sufism but rather prefers to speak of itself as representing traditional Islam and the teachings of the four schools of law (fiqh). The websites originate in Spain, Britain, and North America and address themselves specifically to Muslims in the West. There is an implicit but not explicit critique of Wahhabism and Salafism. For example, Imam Zaid Shakir, born in Berkeley, California, states on his website that “it is our desire to see Muslims, especially here in the West, avoid the historical tendencies that have resulted in fragmentation and the loss of influence of our Ummah by benefiting from our wealthy heritage.”17 The site is advertised as “able to present you with a wealth of information mined from classical sources of our enduring tradition.”18 The key to interpreting the allegiance of the site lies in the acknowledgment of tradition as an oblique critique of the Wahhabis and Salafis who are often critical of isnaad and ijaza, preferring direct interpretation of original sacred sources. Tradition refers to the four founders of the schools of law, Al-Ghazali, and various other “sober” Sufis acceptable to the wider Muslim world.19 The two websites selected above address themselves to British Muslims and are the vehicles of dissemination for the views of Shaikh Abdul-Hakim Murad and Shaikh Nuh Ha Nim Keller. The latter is a high-profile American convert educated in philosophy and Arabic at the University of California, UCLA, and a shaikh in the Shadhili tariqa. He describes himself as a specialist in Islamic law, especially the traditional sciences of Hadīth and Shafi’i and Hanafi fiqh, which he studied in Syria and Jordan.20 He is the author of books on tasawwuf and classical jurisprudence.21 Shaikh Abdul-Hakim Murad describes himself as a commentator on Islam in Britain. The websites function as online information sources to resolve questions posed by young Muslims that arise from living in a

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non-Muslim environment. The answers provide erudite explanations based on classical fiqh. Most of the websites are owned by educated young Western Muslims with allegiance to traditional Islam and Sufism and skilled in the traditional Islamic sciences. A common feature of the websites is the emphasis on fiqh. This “fiqhsation” echoes and competes with the scripturalist approach used so successfully by the Wahhabi and Salafi groups and manifests a gentler but nonetheless equally conviction-orientated version of islamicization that avoids politicization. In other respects, the websites demonstrate a continuity with the earlier strategies adopted by the traditional turuk and their supporters. The articles on the website, although written in a style that demonstrates both familiarity with English language and scholarly modes of writing echo well-trodden themes that could be heard in any sermon delivered by traditional South Asian Sufi-friendly imams in British mosques or delivered in conferences wherever such groups and their sympathizers gather. Typical articles in the genre are “Who are the ahl al-Sunna?”, a direct attack on Al-Albani, the renowned Salafi leader. Other articles are on tasawwuf and shari’a by Shafiq ur-Rahman22; The Meaning of Tasawwuf by Shaikh Shahidullah Faridi,23 an article on Abdul Qādir al-Jaylani (Jīlānī) is considered by most turuk to be the greatest of all Sufis, the Qutb, written by Abdul Aziz Ahmed.24 As mentioned above, all of these themes are common themes in polemical writing aimed toward traditional Sufi opponents but on the websites they also function as pedagogical material for young supporters of tasawwuf and recruitment devices for the uncommitted. The websites provide a means for the traditional supporters of Sufi-orientated Islam to narrow the gap on their rivals who have been previously able to more effectively mobilize in Britain and elsewhere in the Muslim diaspora spaces, but more significantly they demonstrate the international or global identity now attached to the supporters of such forms of Muslim tradition. The online shaikhs are not guardians of tomb-shrines, successors to hereditary lineages descended from long-deceased auliya, first-generation pīrs and shaikhs who have formed bastions of support around mosques built in various British cities and commandeered as territory; nor are they those who visit from places of origin to preach and collect funds and return home. Although commanding support of young British Muslims attracted to their teachings and seeking both tradition and spirituality, such support transcends regional or ethnic loyalties. Most of the online shaikhs are trained and educated in the Middle East, especially Damascus, and are unlikely to have connections with Pakistan, Bangladesh, or the cultures of places from which the families of British Muslims originate. The influential presence of the online shaikhs may well lead to the demise of cultural binary fission and to the emergence of a transglobal Sufism that will differ from historic precedents in that it will not be tariqa-dominated around the influence of one significant charismatic figure but rather will find tariqa and

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shaikh/murīd relations sublimated to serve the cause of “traditional Islam.” Even where tariqa loyalty is maintained, the opening up of Sufi possibilities through the increased knowledge of global activities, transglobal Sufi movements, and their charismatic leaders gleaned through modern communication systems will have a direct impact on the leadership exerted by South Asian Sufi shaikhs. Increasingly young British Muslims of South Asian descent have made contact with several varieties of Islamic discourses prevalent in Britain in the course of their search for Islamic authenticity. They have heard the Wahhabi/Salafi-inspired narratives that condemn Sufism and judged them against the ethnicdominated turuk of South Asia. In this context, such forms of Sufism may lose their traditional extended family-based loyalties. Figures are appearing who are able to communicate fluently in English and are sometimes members of academia. They often bypass the world of the mosque and do not demonstrate their loyalty to tariqa and shaikh even when they are themselves murīds but nevertheless Sufism influences their worldview. They are not exponents of an Islam imbedded in local traditions and are often fluent in their understanding and use of fiqh. The new Sufis are as scriptural as their old adversaries, able to utilize the Qur’ān and Hadīth to great effect to put across their message on the issues that matter to them. Ethnicity is transcended to discover a common cause in either a universal consciousness of ummah or the ideology belonging to the Ahl as-Sunna wa-Jama’at. For the young British Muslims of South Asian origin the inspiration is as likely to come from their generation of shaikhs originating in Syria or Yemen who travel a preaching circuit in Europe and North America or from high-profile Western converts as it is from the South Asian elders in the turuk who are still perceived to pull up drawbridges of isolation in their respective spiritual fiefdoms of Coventry, Birmingham, Bradford, or Manchester. Tasawwuf in Britain is beginning to go transglobal and escape the confines of ethnicity and locality. Today’s South Asian-origin Sufis are just as likely to belong to turuk that originate elsewhere as their place of origin, seeking their training in Damascus, Yemen, Cairo, North Africa, or Granada. Indeed this process of international traveling resonant of historical journeying for “truth” found historically in Sufism provides an opportunity for either tariqa-less Sufis to emerge or multiple loyalties in which different spiritual lessons are learned at the feet of several guides. New Sufis in Britain are not so much adherents of new forms of Sufism but old Sufism repackaged. If, on the one hand divergence has continued, on the other hand, there are indications of a shift toward convergence among young British Muslims and their leaders. Significantly this convergence refocuses awareness on the spirituality of Sufism as opposed to its role as a carrier of ethnic or cultural identity. The appearance of summer camps demonstrates the ability of some Sufi movements to imitate the successful strategies of their rivals to recruit from the second- and third-generation British Muslims. The Idāra Minhaj ul-Qur’ān, a Qādiri-based movement (see Phillipon and Hermansen in this

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book) has developed organizational structures that compare with the ­tight-knit movements found among the Wahhabi reformers. These borrowed structures appearing in a Sufi movement require a reassessment of the traditional organization of a tariqa and may provide a model for future movements that is more appealing to young Muslims. In addition, the Idāra Minhaj ul-Qur’ān has not only borrowed the organizational form but also some of the rhetoric of the twentieth-century Islamic revivalist movements, yet this has been achieved without compromising traditional Muslim Sufi-influenced belief and practice.25 On the whole, Sufis were not prone to such forms of primitive Islam but they were open to criticisms of cultural accretion as long as they were unable to discern where tradition and ethnicity separated. On the other hand, they retained an inner piety and aura of spirituality that appeared to be absent from the more politicized reform movements. Recent voices are emerging that appear to take account of these factors and are prepared to draw upon the new reform rhetoric of moderation, citizenship, and participation in Western democracies but also realize the value of Muslim piety and spirituality. I have pointed out that Sufism is enjoying new popularity among the Muslim communities in Britain where it was already a significant part of the South Asian presence in the country. This results from a combination of conscious strategies of already existent Sufi groups to regroup against radical reform movements in the struggle to maintain the loyalty of the younger generations and the realization among the leaders of Sufi movements that they can utilize the government’s search for allies in the war against religious extremism to reposition themselves as the historic voice of moderate Islam. However, it should be noted that it is not only in the West that Sufism is enjoying a renaissance. The revival of Islam across the Muslim world does not only relate to Islamist radical movements but has also witnessed a regeneration of traditional Islam that includes the devotional piety of Sufism. It is not safe to analyze these trends as merely reactions against modernity or secularism represented by Western-influenced elites or even a searching for Islamic commitment that offers a more acceptable choice than the discredited jihadists and their allies. John Voll argues that we need to understand the popularity of Sufism in the Muslim world in the light of a growing literature on “post-materialist values in late- or post-modern societies.” He argues that such movements springing up in the Muslim world are not so much part of resistance to secularization and the processes of modernization but “reflect a shift in what people really want out of life.”26 Such processes can also be seen in changes to Western spirituality in the late twentieth and twentyfirst centuries and will include both second- and third-generation Muslims in Britain while also providing homes for converts to Islam.27 This chapter and several others in this book show how Sufis adapt and change, often against the backdrop of criticism from some other Muslims about what is and what is not acceptable practice and belief. Leaving open the issue of whether this is a reaction against modernity or creative adaptation to deal with the day-to-day

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c­ hallenges of contemporary life (as aspects of Philippon’s and Werbner’s research suggests), Sufism’s popularity attests to its attraction across some radically different contexts, ranging from South Asia to Europe, North America, and beyond.

Notes The terminology used is part of the highly contested intra-Islamic engagement to claim the mantle of legitimacy. There is a time progression that can be traced here in the British context. As explained later, since the advent and influence of prominent British converts drawing upon website resources there has been a shift to “traditional Islam.” However, it should be noted that the shaikhs of the high-profile Haqqani Naqshbandis have begun to use “classical Islam” or even “true Islam” to describe Sufi allegiance; see Simon Stjermholm, Lovers of Muhammad. Lund Studies in History of Religions, Volume 29, (Lund: Lund University, 2011), 221ff. 2 Hermansen, Marcia , ‘Global Sufism: Theirs and Ours’ in Sufis in Western Society, 26-45 Ron Geaves, Markus Dressler, Gritt Klinkhammer (eds) (London: ­Routledge Sufi Series, 2009). 3 For a study of contestation within Islam which demonstrates how Sufis were blamed for the decline of Muslim civilization, see Elizabeth Sirriyeh, Sufis and Anti-Sufis: The Defence, Rethinking and Rejection of Sufism in the Modern World (Richmond: Curzon Press, 2001). For an account of the appropriation of Sufism into “mysticism that removed it from the heart of Islam,” see Gritt Klinkhammer, The Emergence of Transethnic Sufism in Germany: From Mysticism to Authenticity’ in Sufis in Western Society,130–46 Ron Geaves, Markus Dressler, Gritt Klinkhammer (eds) (London: Routledge Sufi Series, 2009). 4 The first three are well known and their lives and teachings have been well documented (for Khan, see Hermansen’s chapter in this book). Mark Sedgwick has written extensively on the appropriation of Sufism from the Muslim world to become part of perennial philosophy and located in European romanticism and orientalism (see for example Mark Sedgwick, ‘European Neo-Sufi Movements in the Interwar Period’ in Islam in Interwar Europe: Networks, Status, Challenges, 183–215 in Nathalie Clayer and Eric Germain (eds) (London: Hurst, 2008). Ron Geaves has written introductions to Hazrat Inayat Khan and Idris Shah in the context of Britain (see Ron Geaves, Sufis of Britain. Cardiff: Cardiff Academic Press, 2000). Geaves prefers to call such forms of esoteric Western Sufism “universal Sufism.” Hermansen, in this book, uses “universalist.” Sedgwick prefers “neoSufism” as he argues that not all Western “neo-Sufis” are universalists. However, he admits that “neo-Sufism” is also confusing as it is also used for new forms of Islamic-centerd Sufism that arose in the Arab world in the eighteenth century (see Sedgwick, ‘The Reception of Sufi and Neo-Sufi Literature’ in Sufis in Western Society, 180–97 Ron Geaves, Markus Dressler, Gritt Klinkhammer (eds) (­London: Routledge Sufi Series, 2009), 193 Notes 4. Perhaps the least well known is Irina Tweedie who was born in Russia in 1907. After the death of her husband in 1954

1







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she traveled to India where she met an eclectic Naqshbandi Sufi Master. Her experiences with him became the book Daughter of Fire: A Diary of a Spiritual Training with a Sufi Master reprinted by the Golden Sufi Center in  1995. After his death in 1966, she returned to England and brought his teachings to the West. Irina Tweedie died in London in August 1999. Her work is continued through The Golden Sufi Center in California. 5 See Stjermholm, Simon, op.cit. 6 Geaves, 2000, 94–7. Pīr Marouf’s life and activities can be found in more detail in Philip Lewis, Islamic Britain: Religion, Politics and Identity Among British Muslims (London: IB Tauris, 2002), 81–9. For an insider view the website of his tariqa can be found at http://qadri-nausahi.com. Pnina Werbner has written extensively on Sufi Abdullah in 2003 and 2006 (see Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love: The Anthropology of a Global Sufi Cult (London: Hurst, 2003) and “Seekers on the Path: Different ways of being a Sufi in Britain” in Sufism in the West, 127–41 Jamal Malik and John Hinnells (eds) (London: Routledge, 2006). See also Geaves, 2000, 117–25 and also Ron Geaves, ‘Cult, Charisma, Community: The Arrival of Sufi Pīrs and Their Impact on Muslims in Britain’, Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs, Vol. 16:2: 169–92, 1996. Geaves has also written extensively about Pīr Wahhab Siddiqui and his successors in Geaves, 2000, 125–33; Geaves ‘Continuity and Transformation in a Naqshbandi tariqa in Britain: The Changing Relationship between mazār (shrine) and Dār al-'Ulūm (seminary) revisited’ in Sufism Today: Heritage and Tradition in the Global Community, 65–82 Catharina Raudvere and Leif Stenburg (eds) (London: IB Tauris, 2009). 7 Talal Asad, The Idea of an Anthropology of Islam (Washington DC: Georgetown University Press, 1986), 14f. 8 As previously noted, Simon Stjermholm has recently published a monograph on the Haqqani Naqshbandis. Previous works include Geaves, 2000, 145–56; Tayfun Atay, Naqshbandi Sufis in a Western Setting. (University of London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 1994) and ‘The Significance of the Other in Islam: Reflections on the Discourse of a Naqshbandi Circle of Turkish Origin in London’. The Muslim World, 89 (3–4: 455–77, 1999; Mustafa Draper, Towards a Postmodern Sufism: Eclecticism, Appropriation and Adaptation in a Naqshbandiya and a Qadiriya Tariqa in the UK (Birmingham: University of Birmingham, 2002); Jørgen Nielsen, ‘Transnational Islam and the Integration of Islam in Europe’ in Muslim Networks and Transnational Communities in and across Europe, Stefano Allievi & Jorgen Nielsen (eds). Leiden: Brill, 2003); Jørgen Nielsen, Mustafa Draper, Galina Yemelianova (2006) ‘Transnational Sufism: The Haqqaniya’ in Sufism in the West, 103–14, Jamal Malik and John Hinnells (eds) (London: Routledge, 2006). The Haqqani presence in the New Age milieu is explored in Mustaf Draper, ‘From Celts to Kaaba: Sufism in Glastonbury,’ 144–56 in Sufism in Europe and North America, David Westerlund (ed) (London: Routledge, 2004). 9 See Geaves, 2000, 21–48. Other works that provide detailed and fascinating insights into the beliefs and practices of Sufis as a lived religion are: Annemarie Schimmel, And Muhammad is His Messenger: The Veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1985); Constance Padwick, Muslim Devotions: A study of Prayer Manuals in Common Use (Oxford: Oneworld, 2nd ed. 1996).

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The Barelwi movement (also discussed in this book) has been written about by a number of scholars including, Barbara Daly Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India (1860-1900) (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1982); Jamal Malik (1998) Colonisation of Islam: Dissolution of Traditional Institutions in Pakistan (Delhi: Manohar, 1998); Usha Sanyal, Ahmad Riza Khan Barelwi (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005); Ron Geaves, 2002  Comp: Please tag Author query: Geaves 2002 is missing in the Bibliography.  ; and Pnina Werbner, 2003. 11 Deoband Dār al-'Ulūm was founded in 1867 in North-East India with the intention to train ‘ulema who would be dedicated to the cause of reforming Islam through purifying the faith from cultural accretions along the lines initiated by Shah Wali-allah (1702–63). The members have never considered themselves as an educational institution but rather a school of thought within South Asian Islam representing a form of orthodoxy. In  1967, there were nearly 6,000 Deobandi schools in the subcontinent. Tabligh-i Jama’at was founded in 1920 by a Deobandi graduate, Muhammad Ilyas. Unlike Deoband, Ilyas did not feel that it was necessary to belong to the professional ‘ulema to reform Islam and instead created a grassroots movement that has gone on to become a worldwide Muslim missionary organization. 12 See Catherina Raudvere, Catharina, and Leif Stenberg, Sufism today: heritage and tradition in the global community (London: I.B. Tauris. 2009), 3–4. 13 It has to be understood that Sufis will define a host of Islamic revivalist movements as Wahhabi or Salafi, including the Muslim Brotherhood, Hamas, Deoband, Jama’at-Islami, Ahl-i Hadīth, Tabligh-i Jama’at, Hizbi ut-Tahrir, the Muslim Council of Britain, and The Islamic Foundation in Leicester. These organizations may have little to do with each other and arise in diverse circumstances and historic periods. Some commonality can be found between them as contemporary Islamic movements or organizations concerned with missionary activity and the reform of Islam. It has to be understood that such labeling does not necessarily correlate with the historic Wahhabi movement arising out of the teachings and activities of Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1699–1792) or modern-day versions of Salafism that might base themselves on the ideals of al-Wahhab, for example the al-Albani, Ibn Uthayin, or Mashhur al-Salman. 14 For a detailed ethnographic account of a South Asian first-generation Sufi’s struggle with micro-politics and regional community leadership, see Pnina Werbner’s study of “Maulana Sahib” in Imagined Diasporas Among Manchester Muslims: The Public Performance of Pakistani Transnational Identity Politics. World Anthropology Series (Oxford: James Currey Publishers, 2002). 15 See Geaves, ‘Tradition, Innovation, and Authenication: Replicating the Ahl asSunna wa-Jama’at in Britain’, Comparative Islamic Studies, 1, 1: 1–20 June, 2005 and ‘Learning the Lessons from the Neo-Revivalist and Wahhabi Movements: The Counterattack of the new Sufi Movements in the UK’ in Sufism in the West, 142–59 in Jamal Malik and John Hinnells (eds), (London: Routledge, 2006) and more recently ‘A Case of Cultural Binary Fission or Transglobal Sufism? The ­Transmigration of Sufism to Britain’ in Sufis in Western Society, 97–112 Ron Geaves, Markus Dressler, Gritt Klinkhammer (eds) (London: Routledge Sufi Series, 2009). 10

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The two websites used as examples are typical of a genre that represents Sufiorientated Islam. Others examples are the Deen-Intensive Foundation at www. deen-intensive.com; The Nawawi Foundation at www.nawawi.org; The Zaytuna Institute at www.zaytuna.org; Ibn Abbas Institute at www.ibnabbas.org; and representing various individuals, www.sunnipath.com and www.zaidshakir.com. 17 At the time of writing, this information was available at www.zaidshakir.com. However, the site was not available when checked during editing August 4, 2011. 18 Previously available at www.zaidshakir.com. 19 Previously available at www.zaidshakir.com. 20 The biographical information is available at http://www.masud.co.uk/ISLAM/ nuh/, accessed August 4, 2011. 21 His English translation of Umdat al-Salik (the Reliance of the Traveller), 1991, by Sunna Books was certified by al-Azhar, the first book on Islamic jurisprudence in a European language to achieve such a distinction. He is also the translator of The Sunni Path: A Handbook of Islamic Belief and Tariqa Notes (A Handbook of the Shadhilli path of tasawwuf), http://www.masud.co.uk/ISLAM/nuh/, p.1. Accessed August 4, 2011. 22 http://www.masud.co.uk/ISLAM/misc/shafiqur.htm accessed August 4. 23 http://www.masud.co.uk/ISLAM/misc/faridi.htm, accessed August 4, 2011. 24 www.deenport.com/lessons, accessed August 4, 2011. 25 I have described these developments in Geaves, 2005 and Geaves, 2006. 26 John Voll, Contemporary Sufism and Current Social Theory’ in Sufism and the Modern in Islam, 296–8 in Marin van Bruinessen and Julia Day Howell (eds), (London: IB Tauris, 2007). 27 Indeed the literature on conversion to Islam bears this out. See Kevin Brice, ‘A Minority within a Minority: Report on Converts to Islam in the United Kingdom’, FaithMatters.org, 2011 available at http://faith-matters.org/images/stories/fmreports/a-minority-within-a-minority-a-report-on-converts-to-islam-in-the-uk.pdf accessed August 4, 2011; Sophie Gilliat-Ray (2010) points out that studies on conversion such as Ali Köse, Conversion to Islam: a study of native British converts (London: Kegan Paul, 1996)) and Kate Zebiri, British Muslim converts: choosing alternative lives (Oxford: Oneworld, 2008) consistently point out that British converts choose their path to Islam through a process of disillusionment over Western moral and attitudes and careful study of Islamic texts and doctrines, Sophie Gilliat-Ray, Muslims in Britain: An Introduction, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 118, a process not dissimilar for Muslim reverts. 16

Chapter 12

Rishīwaer: Kashmir, the Garden of the Saints Charles M. Ramsey

Kashmiri Muslims trace their conversion to Islam through a rich tapestry of ­Buddhist mercenaries,1 Hindu mendicants,2 and Sufi missionaries. But none of these compares to the pivotal influence of the indigenous Rishī order. Kashmir’s mass transition to Islam hinged on Nund Rishī, later sainted as Shaikh Noor ud-Dīn Walī (from here written as Nooruddīn), and his ability to lead a broad social movement that consolidated tenth-century Shaivic thought and spiritual practice3 with the more newly arrived Islam of the rulers. A study of the Rishī order illuminates the spread of Islam in the Kashmir valley, the social transition that followed, and the seminal continuance that endures. Although Muslim merchants and missionaries had plied the valley for centuries, Islam established a lasting foothold when Rinchana (ca. 1320 CE), the ethnically Ladakhi ruler of Kashmir, converted to Islam under the guidance of the Suhrawardī saint, Sayyid Sharaf ud-Dīn.4 Pressed between his Buddhist courtiers and the Hindu populous, the king made a vow that when he awoke the next morning he would choose a new religious path. At dawn he observed the saint’s namaz and took this as a divine signpost for his destiny. As historian, ­Chitralekha Zutshi succinctly describes the time: “Suffice it to say that this was a period of social and political turmoil as a new dynasty was established and a new religion came to be propagated with much fervor, particularly among the ruling classes.”5 The Constantine shift brought patronage to the Persian-speaking Sufis and Kashmir embarked on a gradual process of Islamic acculturation.6 Readers will recognize similarities between this process and that described by Bennett and Alam elsewhere in this book, writing about what is now Bangladesh. Initially limited to their mlecchamohalla (outcaste area) in Srinagar, the Muslim influence expanded in 1384 with the arrival of Shah ‘Alī Muhammad Hamdan and his seven hundred-member entourage.7 Immortalized in Kashmiri memory as the founding influence, Amīr-e-Kabīr as he is reverently known, established the first kanqah (teaching center) and spent much of his time in the valley ­providing da’wa to the people and guidance to the politically savvy, yet morally lax, court.8 The Kubravī and Suhrawardī orders grew extensively and their legacy of shrines became centers for the Central Asian Sufis and their descendents. During this

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period a small yet powerful Muslim presence in court had begun to spread its influence into the deeper reaches of the valley. However, it would be an insufficient explanation to attribute the broad religious shift only to the arrival of the Sufi missionaries. There were also stirrings of dissonance in the predominantly Hindu populace with the Brahmanic temple system. The sentiment is best read in the cherished verse (vākh) of Kashmir’s best-loved Shaivic poetess, Lal Ded, which in the colloquial means “Grandmother Lal”; more literally “Lal the Womb.”9 In this way, Lal Ded is a form of the Mother Goddess so prevalent in Indian religion. Unable to pursue her yogni aspirations within the domestic constraints of her time, Lal Ded became a wandering semi-nude mendicant along the shores of the Jhelum.10 In her verse she attacks the “parasitic forms of organised religion that have attached themselves to the spiritual quest and choked it: arid scholarship, soulless ritualism, fetished austerity, and animal sacrifice.”11 One can hear the free and subversive tones: It covers you shame, keeps you from shivering Grass and water are all the food it asks. Who taught you, priest-man, To feed this breathing thing to your thing of stone?12 Kashmir Shaivism is about the transmutation of the outward observances into visualizations through experiments in consciousness and the extinction of lower appetites. In this observance the idol is replaced by a mental image and sacrifice by the extinction of lower appetites, readily translatable as nafs. Nooruddīn was born (ca. 1378 CE) into this milieu of transition. He was the son of a poor villager who attended meals (langar) and prayer at the nearby khānqāh of the Kubravī Simnanī in Anantnag.13 The underlying narrative of the Kashmiri transition to Islam is that Lal Ded was Nooruddīn’s first nurse, or surrogate mother. Legend aside, it is certain that his understanding of Islam was nourished from the best of Lal Ded’s Shaivic thought. As Noorudīn remarks in one of his popular verses: “That Lalla of Padmanpore who had drunk to her fill the nectar, she was an avatar of ours. O God, grant me the same spiritual power.”14 Revered as the patron saint of Kashmir, Shaikh Noor ud-Dīn Walī established the Rishī silsilah, a line quite unlike any other.15 For starters, he did not ascribe to the spiritual authority of traditional Sufi orders, though he had ample invitation from the leading Kubravī and Suhrawardī saints of the time. Instead of joining the existing orders, he drew an unexpected lineage: The first Rishī is Muhammad, And the second is Uways of Qārna, The third Rishī is Zalka,

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Whereas the fourth is Plas Rishī, Fifth in the order is Miran Rishī, Sixth the Ruma; I, the seventh, have been ignored by all. Who am I, O I, but I, to be Rishī?16 The appeal to authority through Muhammad and Uways is not surprising. Uways of Qārna held deep devotion and sympathy for the prophet and is symbolic for those who encounter him through spiritual means rather than physical lineage. The other four names, however, are local and demonstrate Nooruddīn’s ascription to indigenous Hindu and Buddhist predecessors. Consequently, while embracing Islam the Rishīs circumvent the traditional orders and their ‘adab (ways or culture) and appeal directly to the original “spirit” of Islam as personified in the prophet. The circumvention is further seen in the forms practiced by Nooruddīn’s followers. As Kashmiri historian Rafiqi notes, the Rishīs’ spiritual practices were almost identical to those of the Hindu sanyāsis. “All they (Rishīs) seem to have added to the Nātha framework was the name of Allah or huwa.”17 Avoiding the forms, language, and rules of the other orders, the Rishīs established an indigenous manner of practicing Islam. Mosques were not built, namaz was not greatly emphasized, and pilgrimages to Mecca hardly mentioned. The order maintained most of the pre-Islamic forms including vegetarianism, celibacy, and the relinquishing of all property and familial responsibility.18 The initiated adorned a simple frock and were known for doing voluntary acts of kindness such as planting fruit trees and community gardens from which the poor could gather food. Like a lotus nourished in the local waters, Nooruddīn expressed the message of Islam in a form familiar to his people. Chanted in the vernacular Kashmiri and steeped in common metaphors—kitchens, fields, and farms—his message freely employed the terms known to the common man.19 Analogous to Rumi’s appeal in Persian, Nooruddīn’s verse became revered as the Kosher Quran—the Kashmiri Quran.20 With the great skill and affection of a potter molding clay, he worked the meaning of the Quran and the teachings of the prophet into the Kashmiri consciousness. Nooruddīn explains: Kneading the kalma with clay and sand, Revolved the word on the stick, Struck the stick upon the wheel of time, I formulated the images of the kalma.21 And again: I uttered the kalma, Experienced the kalma,

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Converted myself into the kalma, The kalma permeated into every fiber of my being, I reached the abode of the abodeless with the kalma.22 By the fifteenth century, the handful of Rishīs had swelled into a traveling band of teachers, active in service and persuasive in explaining the tenants of Islam.23 The order grew extensively, their shrines too many to count, and Kashmir became known as Rishīwaer, the garden of the saints. However, the young order was not without its critics. To the Perso-centric Muslim community who ruled at court, these forms were aberrant; and many did not consider the Rishīs to be orthodox.24 Bennett describes a similar attitude toward Bengali language and acculturated Islam by Bengal’s Farsi-speaking aristocracy. This posed a dilemma: because the majority of the Kashmiri population, rural farmers, revered Rishīs as their spiritual leaders, the courtiers depended on their support for political gain.25 By the sixteenth century, the Suhrawardīs succeeded in absorbing much of the Rishī influence. The Nūrnama, the oldest collection of Nooruddīn’s poems and hagiography compiled by Daud Kakhi Suhrawardi, narrates the confluence of the orders as a meal hosted by the exalted pīr, Shaikh Hamza Makhdoom. Although both orders by this time were quite indigenous, vegetarianism remained a point of contention. Initially, Harde Rishī refused to partake of the meat, but once he understood the spiritual nourishment gained by submitting to this great master, he ran to the kitchen and licked the pot.26 From this phase onward, Rishīs constructed mosques and led communal prayers, while continuing service to the poor.27 The Suhrawardis, on the other hand, authenticated Rishī thought as orthodox. Khaki writes: Shaikh Nūr ud-Dīn of Kaimuh, The Prophet filled his breasts with his light (Nūr-i-Muhammadi), The Prophet will himself condescend to offer prayers at his grave; Such news has reached as far as Medina.28 Despite this facile unity, one can trace an uneasy tension between the urban missionary Suhrawardis and the rural ascetic Rishīs.29 Although the Suhrawardis (Makhdoomis) did not ignore piety and ethical values, they were avid politicians.30 Perhaps at no time was this more evident than in the Sunni–Shia struggle for hegemony in the sixteenth century during the reign of the last Kashmiri king, Yusuf Shah Chak. The period of Chak’s rule was a time of flourishing for Kashmiri culture, but the ruler was an avid Shia patron. In response to this rising Shia leverage, communal leaders appealed to the Delhi Mughals in 1586 to wrestle control of the valley. The Rishīs, however, less concerned by the Sunni– Shia differences, emphasized solidarity through local governance, and warned of the consequences of inviting foreign rule.31 This ancient distinction between

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Suhrawardi and Rishī, now seen as urban and rural, continues to cast its shadow on the economic, political, and spiritual divide in present-day Kashmir.32 Today, the Surhwardis continue in prominence with large urban shrines, a vibrant Sufi following, and political influence. But what has happened to the Rishīs? Modern Rishī mutawalli families seem assimilated into mainstream society; and the bastion Rishī shrines, Aishmuqam and Chrar-e-Sharif, appear undifferentiated from the myriad of other dargāhs in the valley. One wonders whether any of their ancient ascetic norms have survived. Where are the practicing Rishīs and what remains of the order?

In search of the Rishīs According to Sameer Siddiqui, Professor of Islamic Studies at the Islamic University of Awantipora, the Rishī community is active, but not in the strength it once held. He noted that in the fifteenth century, over two thousand Rishī mendicants wandered the valley, celibate, mendicant, vegetarian, and in consciousness of God in himself (fanā’ fil-haqiqa). Now there are only about fifteen. “Don’t expect a lengthy conversation though,” he cautioned. “People who go to this type of person—one at this spiritual state—experience a blessing. Sometimes he will not utter a word; he will just look into your eyes, or breathe on you or onto a stone for you to take along. But the person feels and experiences blessing from having the encounter with him,” he explained. Later on the road toward Bam ud-Dīn, the oldest Rishī shrine, he pointed to a man walking quietly in the morning chill. “This man was a college professor, but once his wife passed, he took to the forest. No one has seen him eat in eight years, and when he is at the shrine he never sits or lays down to rest.” He is a Rishī: one of that ideal type, the fully accomplished. Countless others draw inspiration from these living saints and come to them for petitions or to experience a transcendent encounter with the divine. The shrine at Bam ud-Dīn is a living testimony to the Shaivic legacy. Bhuma Sidh, a revered Hindu sanyasi, harkened to Nūr ud-Dīn’s message and spiritual presence from inside the mandir (temple) and became his first convert. Although the exterior is indistinguishable from other local shrines, with a pitched wooden-shingled roof and a lone fleche steeple, what one finds in the interior is unexpected: the saint entombed in his mandir. The wooden Muslim shrine is literally constructed over the ancient Hindu temple. Just behind the site is a pathway up to Bam ud-Dīn’s meditation cave where Sufis for centuries have gathered for dhikr, meditation, and teaching. Inside the chamber are large hewn steps that lead up to a podium and granite lintel. On the large steps that served as seats for the congregants are two lingam statues, Shaivic phallus symbols. Though some Muslims have demanded their removal, the Rishī leaders have allowed them to stay as silent reminders of the shared heritage and

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­ niversal message. As there is an Archeology Society placard outside, one might u assume the cave to be an ancient relic; but quite the contrary, the cave is still in use and many endured the Ramadan fast there only weeks before. Another striking difference from other local tarīqas is the Rishī wilderness pilgrimage. Though surrounded by deep forests and towering mountains, Kashmiris are seldom described as intrepid naturalists. Whether due to the pursuit of solitude and austerity, or to enduring Shaivic monism that understood deity to be present in creation, the Rishīs cultivate a nature-appreciating spirituality. As one participant stated, the purpose is to battle the nafs (ego, or self-interest). The pilgrimage allows initiates to taste the Rishī ideal and to live in abandonment for short periods. Time is allotted for solitude and meditation, but also for ecstatic singing and dancing. As Noorudīn said long ago: The nafs has disturbed me greatly, the nafs has ruined me entirely. It is the nafs that makes us destroy others. The nafs is the slave of the devil. To serve the nafs is to thrust ashes into one’s own eyes. How then can one expect to see? The nafs is just like a rebellious calf, which should be tied up. It should be threatened with the stick of fasting.33 In the spirit of the early Rishīs, the group spends great amounts of time meditating in the forest, but retains the ideal of returning to communities to teach and serve. A visit to Aishmuqam, the first Rishī shrine constructed, illuminates the order’s ongoing role in society. Set upon a hill, square and layered, the edifice is reminiscent of a Buddhist monastery, and fulfills the traditional purpose as a haven where one might come close to God. Supplicants travel in a steady flow to the shrine in search of comfort and intercession. Scraps of cloth with the petitions of the faithful are tied to every free space of the lattice. Just at the bottom of the rough granite steps from the upper building is a large flagstone courtyard where lie the graves of the sajjāda nishīn, the spiritual heirs to the pīr. Large cedar doors guard the passage into Zain ud-Dīn Rishī’s original meditation cave. A brass plate hanging by thin chains crosses the door and each person kisses it in reverence upon crossing the threshold. As one moves further into the recess he/she has to crouch down until nearly prone before crawling into the crypt. Unlike other shrines in the valley, women are allowed into the sanctum and a line of supplicants stream through the recess. The shrine has a mosque that also serves as a meeting hall. Built as a gift by Sheikh Hamza Makhdoom at the time when the two orders became more closely associated, the building is made of traditional adobe with a large carvedwood pillar in the center. On the side of the hall, small low doors, less than 3 feet high, open into cells used for extended times of fasting and isolation. The annual ‘urs draws large crowds and the festival is crowned by an evening lantern procession called zool. This is yet another example of the continued

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importance and vitality of these annual celebrations, attested elsewhere in this book. Reminiscent of the Hindu festival of Dushera, the festival narrates Zain ud-Dīn’s exorcism of the demons from the area. The procession winds up the path to the shrine and dhikr emanates from the loud speakers until the call to prayer at dawn. Thus with its holy graves, peaceful verandas, and festivals, the shrine is a local haven for those seeking solace. A closer look at Aishmuqam testifies the Rishī’s innovative manner of guidance and service to the community. As an example, on ‘āshūrā, the tenth day of muharram, Kashmir was under curfew due to Sunni–Shia violence. The date is marked with processions of Shia men who flagellate themselves with chains and sharp knives in mourning for the deaths at Karbala. In defiance of the curfew, similar to many Shia neighborhoods, a crowd of young men wearing black headbands labeled Hussein stood outside the entrance to the shrine. Identical to their Shia counterparts, the Rishīs had erected a large tent that was decorated with the names of the Imams. However, instead of the violent self-flagellation, the Rishīs had organized a blood drive. Hospitals in the valley suffer chronic shortages to the extent that there is a vibrant black market for blood. The Rishīs transformed a time of intercommunity tension into one of solidarity, and a time of waste into an example of social service. The creative response was part of an ongoing effort to overcome the ancient Sunni–Shia hostility, and to proactively care for the needs of the community. Sufi Islam sometimes builds bridges across religions but also between different expressions and schools of Islam. The order has initiated efforts to establish a hospital to serve that rural area. If successful, it will be one of the first Muslim charity hospitals in Kashmir. While other orders pursue the corridors of power or mystical detachment, Rishīs seek to garner spiritual strength and apply it for the common good.

Walī-Allahs and Allah-walles Though vehemently resisted for decades, the Islamic reformist influence in Kashmir has increased to the level that it threatens the survival of the Rishī order. British India’s Islamic reform movements were slow to take root in the valley, and much of the traditional shrine-centered social structure and economy continued well into the twentieth century.34 Of the various reformist groups, the two most noted are the Ahl-i Hadīth and the indigenous Allahwalle.35 In Kashmir the group is broadly known as Shafi, whereas the gardenvariety Sunnis, including the Sufis, follow the Hanafi school of jurisprudence.36 Though steadily gaining ground, the Ahl-i Hadīth37 are eyed suspiciously as a foreign import, and do not have the strength of the Tabligh-i Jamaat-influenced Allah-walle, who are also Hanafi. Thus to understand the differences it is more profitable to examine the Allah-walle and their challenge to the Rishīs and to other Sufi orders.38

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The common-man’s definition of the Allah-wale is simply that “they say our fathers were wrong.” What is meant is that the reformists disapprove of the veneration of saints, the Walī-Allah, and the intercessory efficacy of their shrines. As Francis Robinson so clearly stated: “Whereas their forefathers saw the resting places of the sainted dead as inviting havens of spiritual warmth where they might come close to God, they (reformists) tended to see them as homes of mumbo-jumbo and of parasites who lived off the gullible.”39 Thus the spiritual boundary among the majority Sunni community of Kashmir is that of the traditional Walī-Allah and the reformist Allah-walle. The disagreements between the camps are extensive. There is a fundamental difference between their opposing understandings of the nature of spiritual knowledge. The Sufi claim that the Allah-walle preach a blind following of ritual, without comprehension or appreciation of the inner meaning. The teaching is formulaic and external, rather than internally transformative. As one contributor said, “without Sufism, one cannot practice shari’a. Shari’a is like a button, but the teachings of a master, the Sufi way, is the buttonhole. The button is rendered useless—only for show—without it. The Allah-walle see a wall, but we Sufis see what is behind the wall.” For those who follow the Walī-Allah there is great importance on the inner meaning and experiential understanding. The Allahwalle can be characterized as having an objectivist perspective that sees knowledge as a commodity that has a defined content and is independent of the person who uses it or their purposes. The Walī-Allah, however, have an intersubjective perspective that views knowledge as a result of interactive relationships. This means that the teacher–student interaction shapes meaning. Hence knowledge is constantly being constructed through dialogue and improvisation, interpreted and redefined. This type of knowledge can be characterized as “knowing by doing,” or passing from “chest to chest,” and is considered to be inseparable from the activity and the values of those who produce it.40 The difference in perceiving knowledge further complicates efforts for dialogue and mutual understanding. There is also a marked difference in message. The Walī-Allah magnify the love of God, whereas the Allah-walle message emphasizes the fear of God. The former believe the purpose of the shari’a is to enable people to please God, as opposed to merely averting hell. Noor ud-Dīn’s verse if often quoted: With narrow-minded selfish interest, For petty desire of paradise, And for dreadful awe of hell, They worship Thee, My Lord.41 The story of Rabia of Basri, one of the great early mystics, is also widely recounted by the Sufis. She was seen walking into the forest carrying water and a torch. When asked where she was going, she replied that she was off to put out the

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fires of hell and to set heaven on fire. The story is popularly held to mean that one should not be contemplating heaven and hell, as these are for Allah to decide; instead she should pay attention to right living in awareness of God’s presence. The Allah-walle, however, emphasize God as the judge who is pleased with those who have right knowledge. The enemy is jahiliat, or ignorance, and the goal is to provide information so that meritorious deeds (swab) can be performed and acculturated in preparation for Judgment Day. The battle line for the two parties is the acceptability of intercession in Islam. The Allah-walle oppose saint veneration and argue that the blasphemous practice is heretical innovation (bid’at). They argue that the Quran allows for no intercessors and that praying to the saint is the equivalent of elevating a human to be equal with God. The faithful should follow their interpretation of the Quran and return to the original and rightly guided way of the original Ummah. They believe that additions in interpretation or practice from that golden age are but harmful degradation. The Walī-Allah, on the other hand, hold that creative innovation, when it doesn’t oppose the tenets of Islam, should be discovered. An example of this can be seen in the Rishī response to Ashura. The reconciliatory stance to the Shia as seen in the blood drive is an adjustment deemed beneficial to the community. Their position is in line with the early Rishīnama that states: “In sharia every innovation (bid’at’) is not objectionable; thus when you observe any good and acceptable innovation, don’t raise a hue and cry against it.”42 The debate portrays not only the difference in opinion, but also indicates a progression in the theology. Up to the eighteenth century the visiting of saints and their graves was unquestioned and tantamount to performing the Hajj. The blessing of the saints was equated to the tawaf of the Ka’aba. Mir Shams al-Dīn’ Iraqi stated: “Any Muslims who would circumambulate my khānqāh seven times, it would mean that he has made circumambulation of Ka’aba.” Kubravī Shaikh Ya’qub Sarfī (b. 1521) related the same to the khānqāh of Sayyid ‘Alī Hamdanī: “Everyone is blessed by visiting his hujrah (lodging), his khānqāh is the Ka‘ba of Kashmir.”43 The Dastur al Salikīn notes: “His (pir’s) body is the manifestation of truth. His pious soul is (the manifestation) of Allah’s secret.”44 The centrality of the shrines in local piety was such that it was believed that if Kashmiris were denied saint worship they would be distanced from Islam itself.45 Consequently, both the Allah-wale and the Walī-Allah vehemently contest that the other is bringing harmful innovation (bid’at):46 the former from the original message of Islam to the early ummah; the latter from the Islam carried to their forefathers in Kashmir. South Asian history is replete with examples of this debate. As one scholar noted: “The extraordinary thing is that though the present form of Sufism is made up of elements many of which contradict the teachings of the Qur’ān it has found an abiding place in Islam and is integrally related to it.”47 Consequently, the debate itself is less noteworthy than the significance of the time in which the debate is occurring.

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The present competition for orthodoxy is indicative of broader theological and socio-economic transitions in Kashmiri society. Ishaq Khan argued that Kashmir is progressing toward an Islamic ideal and will continue to gradually relinquish “un-Islamic” practices and beliefs.48 In this view, Rishī-influenced Kashmiris have maintained degrees of Hinduism in belief and practice, and are gradually progressing to become orthodox Muslims.49 However, it is important to note that the quest for orthodoxy does not regard merely a set of opinions but a relationship of power that can be used to exclude, correct, or undermine.50 As Peter Berger noted: “[I]deas don’t succeed in history because of their inherent truthfulness, but rather because of their connection to very powerful institutions and interests.”51 Although there is a marked history of tension between Rishīs and other views, never before has there been such a determined move to see the order eliminated. According to one Rishī leader, Ahl-i Hadīth mosques are constructed opposite the shrines in a formulaic effort to correct and intimidate those who attend. Such construction in Bam ud-Dīn signals a change in the Wāqf leadership and deeply concerns the community elders who foresee conflict ahead. Sufi orders such as the Merak Shah have arranged activist groups—adorned with bright green turbans—that visit mosques preaching the value of Sufism and resistance to the reformists. Although the Rishīs have not responded in such a public way, the leaders understand that the youth must be equipped to respond to the challenges of their detractors if the order is to survive. In response to the militant agitation that has wreaked the very fabric of Kashmiri society, the Rishī spirit has kept aflame the “beacon of light, of sanity and inclusiveness, in stark contrast to the fanatic and narrow-minded Islam that a section of the Mullahs and political leaders have been propagating.”52 The order played a vital role in the spread of Islam in Kashmir and provided stability in the social transitions that followed. Despite growing pressure to comply with a subjective orthodoxy, the order has continued to offer a distinctively indigenous spirituality characterized by innovative responses to modern challenges.

Notes 1

The exact boundaries of Kashmir and the very definition of being Kashmiri are a heated debate. This research focuses on Sufism in the Kashmir valley (India), not what is known as Greater Kashmir which includes areas that each have their own variegated history. Thom Wolf, “The Mahayana Moment: Tipping Point Buddhism,” in Buddhism and the 21st Century, ed. Bhalchandra Mungerkar(New Delhi: Government of India and Nava Nalanda Mahavihara University, 2009). On the religious interactions of Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and Christians in that

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period, see Louis Massignon, The Passion of al-Hallaj, Eng. tr. from the French by Herbert Masson, Vol 1 entitled, The Life of al-Hallaj, 1994, 178–80. 2 F.M. Hassnain, Kashmir Shaivaism (Srinagar: Director of Archives, Research & Publication Department, Jammu & Kashmir Government, 1962), 1–8. Reminiscent of the mendicant Hindu sage who wanders the forest, the Rishī silsillah reveals a spiritual continuity with the pre-Islamic era. Some of India’s most ancient ruins, possibly from the Vedic period, are found in Kashmir. The area was a leading center of Buddhism, even hosting the fourth international Buddhist council in the second century in the reign of Emperor Kanishka. Following the decline of the Gandhara civilization in nearby Taxila, there was a shift from Buddhism to Shaivism in the ninth century. 3 Prem Nath Bazaz, “The Story of Trika Shastra,” in The Sufis and Rishīs of Kashmir (HU: The Sufi Way, A Journal of the Rumi Foundation, India), vol. 3, October 2008, 16–21. Kashmiri Shaivism, known in as Trika Shastra, is characterized by absolute monism, and was developed in the ninth century by Vasugupta. Abdul Qaiyum Rafiqi, Sufism in Kashmir, 2003 ed. (Sydney: Goodword Media, 1976), 160–1. Rishī comes from the Sanskrit meaning a singer of hymns, or a sage. G.N. Gauhar, Kashmir Mystic Thought (Srinagar: Gulshan Books, 2008), viii. 4 Muhammad Ashraf Wani, Islam in Kashmir (Srinagar: Oriental Publishing House, 2004), 54–6. 5 Chitralekha Zutshi, Languages of Belonging: Islam, Regional Identity, and the Making of Kashmir (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2003), 20; Wani, 126. 6 M. Ishaq Khan, Kashmir’s Transition to Islam: The Role of Muslim Rishīs, 2005 ed. (Srinagar: Gulshan Books, 2005), 22–32. 7 Shah-e-Hamdan is credited with being the one who brought Islam to Kashmir and also of having introduced the handicraft industry that continues to be a staple of the local economy. His impact is also perceived in the continued recitation of the Aurad-ul-Fatiha, an extended Arabic prayer that is recited in unison before namaz throughout Kashmir. 8 A.Q. Rafiqi, Letters of Mir Saiyid Ali Hamadani (Srinagar: Gulshan Books, 2007), 47–89. F.M. Hassnain, Shah Hamadan of Kashmir (Srinagar: Gulshan Books, 2001), 69–85. Further research could help better understand the syllabus of religious education in the period. Adab al-Murīdin and ‘Awarif al-Ma’arif provided an ideological basis for the organization of mystical life in, and were the primary literary instruments for, popularizing Sufi practices in Kashmir. 9 Ranjit Hoskote, I, Lalla: The Poems of Lal Ded (New Delhi: Penguin Books, 2011), x. 10 Zutshi, 18–20. 11 Hoskote, xx. 12 Ibid. 13 Gauhar, 48–9. 14 Shafi Ahmad Qadri, Kashmiri Sufism (Srinagar: Gulshan Books, 2002), 75–81. Their poetry, so similar in style and theme, is the corpus for the belief in Kashmiryat, a cultural narrative that understands Kashmiri spirituality to be free from dogmatic religious boundaries.

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Though little is known beyond hagiography about their lives, Lal Ded and Nund Rishi stand unmatched as the cultural pillars of Kashmir. 16 Khan, 45; Gauhar, 72. 17 Rafiqi, Sufism in Kashmir, 168–79. 18 Ibid, 164. 19 Bruce Lawrence, The Qur’an: A Biography (New York: Grove Press, 2006), 119–29. G.N. Gauhar, Kashmir Mystic Thought (Srinagar: Gulshan Books, 2009), 221. Although some have argued that the early Rishīs were out of contact or influence from the broader world, there is evidence to the contrary. Royal emissaries and even the leading scholars of the day came to meet with Noorudīn and his followers. The hagiography indicates that they were pursued, but did not respond to the invitation to come under their guidance or patronage. There are numerous early references in Noorudīn’s poetry to Mansoor al-Hallaj and Rumi. “Who has separated me form Mansoor? He and myself pursued the same goal; He slipped in saying ‘I’, But blessed was he when ‘I’ became grace.” Gauhar, Kashmir Mystic Thought, 162. See also A. Schimmel, “Mystic Impact of Hallaj” in Hafeez Malik, ed., Poet Philosopher of Pakistan, (New York: Columbia 1971). 20 G.N. Gauhar, Sheikh Noor-Ud-Din Wali (New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 1988), 54. 21 Gauhar, Kashmir Mystic Thought, 75. 22 Khan, 74–5. Nund Rishī’s poetry was gathered and compiled in the Nurnama and Rishīnama. 23 Wani, 68. 24 Khan, 83; Mir Hamadan, the son Syed Ali Hamadan, urged Noorudīn to eat meat and conform to Sunna. The ascetic practices were considered repugnant to his Kubravi followers. The extravagant meat orgy called wazwam, a meal now mandatory at any respectable social function, is an interesting indicator of the turn away from vegetarianism. 25 Rafiqi, 168. The Kubravis also went to great lengths to connect the Rishīs with their order. 26 Wani, 147. 27 Ibid., 74. 28 Ibid., 75. 29 Eds. Carl Ernst and Richard C. Martin, Rethinking Islamic Studies: From Orientalism to Cosmopolitanism, ed. Frederick M. Denny, Studies in Comparative Religion (Columbia: The University of South Carolina Press, 2010), 159–78. David Gilmarti noted: “Sufi saints have continued to provide lenses through which we can examine the tensions inherent in the constitution of political authority within the Islamic tradition as it has changed over time.” 30 Rafiqi, Sufism in Kashmir, 247. 31 Ibid., 260–5. According to interviews, it is commonly held that many Rishīs died in the battle defending Yusuf Shah Chak. It should also be noted that Rishīs traditionally carry a weapon, be it a small knife, bow and arrow, or sword, on their persons at all times. 32 Zutshi, 129. The urban shrines benefited from Mughal rule, and further extended their influence through commerce during the Dogra and Sikh raj: “as in other areas of the Indian subcontinent, where shrines were repositories of landed 15

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wealth and social capital, the patronage of shrines was a clear means of exercising religious and political authority. The mutawalli, or custodians of the shrine, were appointed by donors, and over time served to ensure that the family had access to its revenues, including lands and donations.” Francis Robinson, The ‘Ulama of Farangi Mahall and Islamic Culture in South Asia (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2001), 11. For more on city and village differences, and ashraf Persian culture, see Imtiaz Ahmad, “The Ashraf-Aijaf Dichotomy in Muslim Social Structure in India,” Indian Economic and Social History Review, 1966, 268–78. 33 Qadri, 235. 34 Barbara Daly Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband 1860–1900 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004). 35 Yoginder Sikand, “Popular Sufism and Scripturalist Islam in Kashmir” http:// www.indianmuslims.info/articles/yoginder_sikand/popular_sufism_and_scripturalist_islam_in_kashmir.html (accessed November 6, 2010). 36 Barbara Daly Metcalf, “”Traditionalist” Islamic Activism: Deoband, Tablighis, and Talibs,” Social Science Research Council (accessed March 1, 2011); Robinson, 36. Kevin A. Reinhart, “Like the difference between heaven and earth: Hanafi and Shafi’s discussions of fard and wajib in theology and usul,” in Bernard G. Weiss (ed.), Studies in Islamic Legal Theory (Leiden, 2002), 205–34. See Bennett’s second chapter, FN 16 for a brief note on some of the differences between the Sunni legal schools. 37 Wani, 236–8; Zutshi, 45. There has been a concerted effort by the Ahl-i Hadīth to place people in academic and media postings that exert great influence on the youth. The cadre draws heavily from the growing middle class who have less financial ties to the shrine assets than do the wealthy who trace their lineage to a Sufi saint and his shrine. Though surely there was a spiritual dimension to this affiliation, there was also, as Zutshi notes, a sense of secure investment, as the shrines and their social capital, and consistent revenues from land and donations, were outside the control of changing monarchical control. 38 Lassen, Soren Christian, and van Skyhawk, (eds.), “Wahabis and Anti-Wahhabis: The Learned Discourse on Sufism in Contemporary South Asia” in Sufi ­Traditions and New Departures: Recent Scholarship on Continuity and Change in South Asian Sufism (Islamabad: Taxila Institute of Asian Civilizations, 2008), 82–110. 39 Robinson, 38. 40 J S Duguid and P Brown, “Knowledge and Organization: A Social Practice Perspective,” Organization Science 2, no. 1 (2001); Peter L Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1967), 49–61. 41 Gauhar, Kashmir Mystic Thought, 226. 42 Wani, 248. Quote from Suhrawardi Makhdumi Baba Daud Khaki’s (Qasida­Lamiyya) compiled in the Rishīnama, one of the earliest sources of Rishī thought and hagiography. 43 Wani, 250. 44 Ibid, 251. 45 Ghulam Mohiuddin Hundu, “Takrir Dilpazir Dar Islahe Qaum” (Speech for the Good of the Qaum), Amritsar 1906, in Zutshi, 155.

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Sadia Dehlvi, Sufism: The Heart of Islam (New Delhi: Harper Collins Publishers 2009), 135–53; Zutshi, 150–1. Sikand, 135. Ahl-i Hadīth claim that “the other groups who simply claim to be Muslim are not real Muslims at all. They have distorted Islam beyond recognition.” The Deobandis and Barelvis continue to issue fatwas in response claiming that the Ahl-i Hadīth are nothing less than allies of the devil. Perhaps it would be wise to temper the debate with Abdullahi An-Na’im’s observation that “every orthodox perception that believers take for granted today began as a heresy from the perspective of some other doctrine and may well continue to be considered heretical by some believers. Richard C. Martin and Abbas Barzegar, “Formations of Orthodoxy: Authority, Power, and Networks in Muslim Societies,” in Rethinking Islamic Studies: From Orientalism to Cosmopolitanism, ed. eds. Carl Ernst and Richard C. Martin, Studies in Comparative Religion (Columbia: The University of South Carolina Press, 2010), 179–202. 47 John A. Subhan, Sufism: Its Saints and Shrines: An introduction to the Study of Sufism with Special Reference to India and Pakistan (Lucknow: Lucknow Publishing House, 1960), 331. 48 Khan, 23–32. 49 Ibid., 2. 50 Talal Asad, “The Idea of an Anthropology of Islam,” ed. Georgetown University Center for Contemporary Arab Studies (Washington D.C.: 1986); Tim Winter, The Cambridge Companion to Classical Islamic Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge ­University Press, 2008). 51 James Davison Hunter, To Change the World, “The Trinity Forum Briefing” Vol. 3, No. 2, p.3, 2002. 52 Karan Singh, The Sufis and Rishīs of Kashmir, 1. 46

Chapter 13

Bangladeshi Sufism – An Interfaith Bridge Clinton Bennett

Sufis in Bangladesh fused an exogenous religion with a deeply rooted, ­preexisting, inclusive strand of endogenous spiritual tradition. This predisposes Bengali Muslims to build bridges between themselves and non-Muslims, not barriers. Traditionally, Bengal1 has been a place where people of various faiths peacefully coexist. Bangladeshis follow various faiths (of which Islam is the largest) but share a common culture and language. Affirmation of human solidarity and human values is a distinctive feature of Bengali literature. Beginning with the history of how Sufi Muslims planted Islam in Bengal (expanding the discussion in Chapter 1 of this book), I argue that, despite episodes of communitarian violence and the 1947 split from Hindu-majority West Bengal, most Bangladeshis prefer an inclusive form of Islam. Many Muslims enjoy friendships with Hindus. Although less common today, some non-Muslims visit Sufi shrines and some Muslims attend Hindu festivals. Recent evidence that inclusive Islam in Bangladesh remains healthy will be cited. Briefly referring to Bangladesh’s progress toward gender equality, this chapter links this with Sufi Islam. A counter trend toward a more conservative, Arab-flavored, less Sufi-friendly Islam (Islamism) has a level of support.2 On the one hand, in Bangladesh this type of reform does not express the same level of hostility toward Sufism as it does elsewhere. On the other hand, this negatively impacts relations between Muslims and non-Muslims. Yet despite alarmist commentary and regrettable incidents of violence against non-Muslims, Islamism is unlikely to win widespread support or succeed in fundamentally changing the ethos of Bangladeshi society. One popular expression of reform, Tabligh-i Jamaat (TJ), focuses exclusively on inner renewal; it does not foment hatred of non-Muslims. Founded in Bengal, this is now a global, apolitical movement. Beginning with a discussion of sources, among issues that emerge as especially significant are the nature of conversion, the idea that there is a normative Islam from which some versions are deviant, and the relationship between culture and religion. Islam in Bangladesh is still relatively under-researched. This author’s own ideas have changed over almost twenty-five years of engagement with the subject. Analysis draws on fieldwork, relevant literature, and published research. I conclude that Bengali-flavored Islam, due to resonance with certain aspects of indigenous culture, brings to the fore important principles and potentialities in the Qur’ān that cultural

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f­ actors in Arab space may hinder. Having gifted Islam to South Asia, Arab space might learn lessons from there. The existence of a single, pure version of Islam is critiqued. Iran, of course, also contributed to the way that Islam developed in Bangladesh, especially through Sufi thought.

The sources Before my first exposure to Islam in Bangladesh, I conducted some research among expatriate Bangladeshis in Birmingham – 1978–9. I was writing a short dissertation for a University of Birmingham qualification.3 I worked in Bangladesh from late 1979 until mid 1982. Subsequently, I returned several times to visit relatives by marriage and to carry out research. For over ten years, I lived in a neighborhood in England where a majority of residents were Bangladeshi. Groundbreaking research on Bangladeshi Islam published since 1982 represents a significant contribution to understanding Islam as a variegated tradition able to adapt to different cultural contexts. The relationship between Islam, culture, and locality is one area of scholarship that has benefited from this research, raising questions about the very existence of Islam as a “closed, selfcontained essence.”4 The year after my return to the UK from Bangladesh, Asim Roy’s now classic The Islamic Syncretistic Tradition in Bengal appeared. Despite use of the word “syncretistic” in his title, Roy’s work challenged the notion of a rarified, pure, and orthodox Islam against which Bangladeshi Islam could be judged deviant. He also challenged the claim that people had converted in what is now Bangladesh at swords’ point or from dissatisfaction with caste Hinduism. In 1992, U. A. B. Razia Akter Banu’s Islam in Bangladesh presented the results of substantial fieldwork. Her main focus was on Islam’s social-economic role. However, she also researched how influential Sufi Islam remains and the degree to which Bangladeshis elevate Bengali over Islamic identity, regarding non-Muslims as equally Bangladeshi. Richard M Eaton’s The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier appeared a year later. Building on Roy, Eaton convincingly demonstrates how Islam spread in East Bengal mainly through activities of peaceful Sufi teachers linked with extending agricultural space, as Roy also argued. Like Roy, Eaton argues that what enabled Islam to flourish in Bengali was its ability to adapt and absorb rather than to displace indigenous culture. Finally, I draw on Sufia M. Uddin’s Constructing Bangladesh (2006), which, as well as exploring how Sufis and later cultural mediators spread Islam in Bangladesh, also looks at the impact of modernism and reform in shaping what it means to be a citizen of Bangladesh. Uddin combined textual with fieldwork research. Roy and Eaton also reject the claim that Muslims in Bengal have mainly descended from migrants, and that no mass conversion of local people actually occurred. My own observations are combined with these and other published sources as cited.

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Origins of Bengali Islam Almost all discussions of Islam in Bangladesh describe Sufism as popular and firmly embedded in the religious and cultural landscape. Any visitor will see Sufi shrines and centers alive and vibrant with activity, showing little sign of decline despite a degree of hostility toward Sufism from reformists. In Birmingham, the largest Bangladeshi mosque is affiliated to Jama’at-i-Islam (JI), known as an anti-Sufi movement.5 Interviewing community members in 1979, I found them reluctant to speak about Sufism. At the time, this disappointed me and I went to Bangladesh prepared to find that Sufism was no longer widespread, perhaps replaced by reformist Islam. Here I use reformist to refer to the movement that in India began with the teaching of Shāh Walī Allah (d. 1762), who called for adherence to a pure Islam in contrast to what he saw as the syncretistic, Hinduized Islam of India.6 Some would say that of East Bengal in particular. Many blamed loss of Muslim power in India on Islam’s alleged corruption. In Bengal, Sayyid Ahmed (d. 1831) championed Shāh Walī Allah’s ideas. A member of three Sufi orders, Walī Allah was not as hostile as his Arab counterpart, Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahhab (d. 1787), with whom he shared several teachers. Both wanted a monolithic Islam. Walī Allah believed that closer identification between Indian Muslims and Muslims in the Middle East would help strengthen Islam. Arab Muslims were superior and all Muslims should emulate their Islam. Here is the idea that an Islam that is more similar to Arab Islam is more authentic. Yet while al-Wahhab and his ideological heirs demonstrate almost total dislike of Sufism, Shāh Walī wanted to “reform Sufi practices,” not to eradicate Sufism. Most reform movements and individual reformers in the Subcontinent fall short of an outright rejection of Sufism. The Deoband movement (founded in  1867) and its offshoot, TJ (founded by Muhammad Ilyas in  1926), can be identified as “reformist Sufi.” Both demand adherence to Islam’s external aspects, represented by sharī‘a and condemn certain Sufi practices, including pilgrimage to shrines, saint veneration, and prayers to God through human mediation but embrace Sufi emphasis on inner intent and spiritual development.7 Founders of Deoband were members of Sufi orders and many teachers acted and act as Sufi guides.8 Deoband graduates often join Islamist organizations but the movement per se is politically the quietest. Its founders, who opted for noncooperation with the British, aspired for autonomy within the larger political order of India, whether under Britain or as an independent state. TJ bans members from discussing politics, which can detract from spiritual growth. Ilyas was as anxious as other reformers to jettison nonIslamic practices. However, effectively he functioned both “as an ´alim” and as a Sufi guide. An initiate of the Chīshtī order, he used Sufi terms in his teaching.9 Today, TJ may be the largest Muslim movement. Its annual convention (near Dhaka) of about three million people is the second largest Muslim gathering in the world, actually described by one writer as being organized by Sufis.10 It was

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while persisting in asking about Sufism in my 1979 research that a respondent drew my attention to TJ. Although TJ has no political affiliation, members “typically support the Awami League (AL),” with its commitment to secularism and Bengali nationalism, in contrast to the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) which construes Bangladeshi identity in more Islamic terms.11 Werbner’s work suggests that Muslims in the Subcontinent are not confronted, unlike elsewhere, with a stark choice between legal and Sufi Islam, since many ‘ulama are also Sufi, reformed or traditional.12 Sufi Islam is far from extinct or moribund in Bangladesh today, even if it is impossible to estimate the actual number of adherents. Reluctance to identify openly as Sufi in the Diaspora context could be related to JI control of the mosque. JI might want to minimize the degree to which Bangladeshi Islam is seen as deviant. During the Pakistan period, this was a common perception: West Pakistan’s Islam was closer to the ideal, that is, more Arabic; East Pakistan’s was corrupt.13 How did this notion of a corrupt, less pure, less Arab Bengali Islam develop? Did so-called Hindu elements creep in over time? Did Sufi Islam, denounced as syncretistic (indeed often described as syncretistic per se) establish itself after substantial numbers had converted, or before? Was Sufi Islam the main agent in spreading Islam in Bengal? The old idea that it was the sword that spread Islam is not entirely incompatible with Sufi involvement, since some legends depict Sufis as warriors who destroyed Temples to rebuild Mosques over their ruins.14 Before my first tour in Bangladesh I had thought that mass conversion to Islam resulted in the main from Sufi preaching, influenced here by Thomas Arnold’s The Preaching of Islam (1896). I also assumed, probably for no very sound reason, that conversion or substantial conversion preceded conquest, which took place in 1204 by Muhammad Bakhtiyar of the Delhi Sultanate. However, Eaton shows that prior to the Muslim conquest, there is little or no evidence of local conversion although there is evidence of Muslims having settled in Bengal; Mas‘ūdi (d. 956) “mentions Muslims – evidently long-distance maritime merchants – ­living there in the tenth century.” Abbasid coins discovered from the Chandra period (825–1035) evidence how Bengal was economically linked with the Arab world at this time.15 However, if the Muslim population of Bengal resulted mainly from cross-sea migration, it likely that a majority would follow Shafi’i, then ­dominant in southern and western Arabia and later in east Africa. In fact, Hanafi dominates.16 I had thought that Sufi traders and ­missionaries, traveling east, proselytized before the armies arrived. Eaton, though, dates the earliest evidence of Sufi presence in Bengal to 1221, “seventeen years after” the conquest. An inscription in Birbhum District records construction of a Sufi lodge. Soon after the Muslim conquest, we find numerous stories of Sufi saints arriving in Bengal, including women.17 Conquest brought settlers, of course, but almost exclusively to the towns and cities. In contrast, the mass of Muslims in Bengal live in rural areas, where Muslim rule was weak.18

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Muslims in Bangladesh tend to push back Islam’s arrival in the region, suggesting that “the masses of Bengali Muslims originated in the very distant past,” but Eaton says that this proposition finds no support in the primary material.19 Rather, in his view, comparatively small numbers initially identified themselves with Sufi teachers. According to Roy, these early disciples of Sufi teachers knew little about Islam, continued to know more Hindu stories, and to read or recite the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, both available in Bengali. At this time, high-caste Hindus regarded Bengali as a bastard child of Sanskrit, fit only for “demons and women.”20 This is an interesting parallel with Ashrāf Muslim attitudes toward Bengali; they preferred Arabic and Persian (and, later, Urdu). Ashrāf refers to those Muslims in India who claimed noble descent, which indicated foreign ancestry. Some Muslims of pure Bengali descent would claim Ashrāf status, since this was regarded as a better Islamic pedigree; thus: The first year I was a Sheikh, the second year a Khan. This year if the price of grain is low I’ll become a Sayyid.21 It was much later, according to Eaton, that descendants of the early converts became better informed about Islam. This was the work of Roy’s “cultural mediators” who began to write in Bengali for their benefit in the sixteenth century, three hundred years or so after the Muslim conquest. He also argues that mass conversion took place as late as the Mughal period, which began in 1557. This was preceded by the Delhi Sultanate (1204–1342), followed by independent Bengali dynasties and a short period of Afghan–Pashtun rule. Of course, if most Muslims in Bengal are of foreign descent, the conversion by the sword theory becomes redundant. Eaton also dismisses what he calls the “social liberation theory” of conversion, that mass conversion expressed dissatisfaction with caste Hinduism by low castes or outcastes. Firstly, caste Hinduism was weak in the East, where the majority of Muslims converted. In fact, bhakti Hinduism, in which neither gender nor caste is very significant, became popular in the East. My wife and I observed a woman devotee bathing a murti in a Temple in Cox’ Bazaar, a task normally reserved for male Brahmans. In her village, she sang and I spoke during worship in a Krishna Temple, invited by a Hindu relative. Second, there is no evidence that Islam was presented as socially equalizing. What was emphasized was monotheism as opposed to Hinduism’s alleged polytheism. Another related theory is that many converts were Buddhists, who embraced Islam due to Hindu animosity. Bengal’s Pala dynasty (750–1174) was Buddhist. The Sena (1070–1230) promoted Brahmanism, so arguably Hinduism itself was barely established when Islam arrived, at least, when Muslims first entered Bengal. I subscribed to this theory in my 1979 dissertation, even speculating that since Hinduism was not firmly established when Islam arrived, Islam itself stood on thin ground, and so could be displaced by Christianity! Roy dismissed the idea that alienated Buddhists converted en masse due to the fact that,

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although Hindu–Buddhist antipathy did occur, “the history of Bengal provides countless incidents of a contrary nature, creating a general impression of harmony and understanding between” Hindus and Buddhists. Some converts were Buddhist but the idea of a “total Buddhist estrangement as a backdrop to largescale conversion … is … highly dubious.”22 I am arguing that mass conversion took place later rather than earlier, mainly during the Moghul period. Alam’s chapter in this book, “Encountering the Unholy,” suggests that conversion took place earlier. We agree, however, that conversion was not at “swords’ point” or directly caused by conquest. Eaton, whose research drew heavily on Mughal records, catalogues the number of known new mosques constructed before and during Mughal rule. Between 1200 and 1450 there were 17 (combining statistics for ordinary and congregational mosques). The short period from 1450 to 1500 saw 61 built. After 1500, although some years saw more new mosques than others, the average is much higher. Interestingly, Eaton also gives statistics for Temple construction, which similarly increased: between 1570 and 1640 there were 18; between 1640 and 1660 there were as many as 20. The period 1680–1700 saw 23 and 1720–40 saw 52. This indicates that Hinduism remained a vital presence. Vaishnavites were most numerous, followed by Shaivites, with worship of the goddess increasing in popularity toward the end of the period surveyed (1760).23

Sufis and conversion to Islam Roy, Banu, and Uddin all describe how Sufis attracted followers, initially quasi converts, through deliberate identification with the land, its people, and popular beliefs. Anyone who has spent time in Bangladesh knows of how its people love their land, its texture, color, seasons, flora, fauna, rivers, canals, and even its odors. My mother-in-law delighted in teaching me plant names when I visited the family’s village home. Although I speak fluent Bengali, I did not spend time learning such words, since my language training was to equip me to teach theology and pastor a congregation. Banu questioned 2086 people regarding what they most valued about their country. Among her variables were “agricultural products, mineral wealth, river resources, fertility of land, and national beauty,” which she labeled “national resources.” Another set included “tolerance of people.” According to her analyses, most respondents expressed “primordial loyalty to the land itself (47%).” Only 13.6% prioritized Islam. Uddin points out that the National Anthem, penned by a Hindu, and the national flag both celebrate the bond between land and people. The land is “mother, affectionate, nurturing and loving.” Does the mother goddess, popular among Bengali Hindus, live on in this imagery? Perhaps intuitively aware of the bond between people and land in Bengal, those Sufis who arrived primarily settled in rural areas. They then found ways of

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identifying themselves with the symbols and geography of the region. Some identified with sacred trees, sitting under them or using a branch to perform rituals. Some identified with local Hindu and Buddhist deities or spirits, which were subsequently pīrified. Pīrs, some historical, some fictitious, became “as ubiquitous as their numbers were legion.”24 Identification with the snake-­ goddess manasa, with crocodiles and even with fish, attracted followers, assuring them protection from attack or a healthy catch. One pīr arrived in Khulna riding on two crocodiles. I lived in Khulna during 1981 and saw many crocodiles while traveling in the nearby Sunderbans.25 Another pīr arrived on a “huge fish.”26 Famously, Shāh Jalal Mujarrad (d/ 1346) was given a “clump of soil” by his Yemeni teacher, who instructed him to settle when he “found a place whose soil exactly corresponded to it. 27 Among Hindu–Buddhist objects that became pīrified were the guardian spirit of water (Pīr-Badar), Panch-Pīr (linked with fertility), and manasa (the snake-goddess). Leading the deforestation of the Deltaic frontier, the pīrs extended agricultural space, to their followers’ economic benefit. Later, pīrs were integrated (as zamindars) into the Mughal landgrant taxation system, which helped finance their lodges and enhanced their spiritual authority.28 Their own lodges and shrines substituted for Hindu and Buddhist centers, becoming places of learning, refuge, and visitation. Numerous stories about pīrs’ abilities to heal, prevent snake bites, bestow favors and fertility indicate their popularity. Of course, miracles and supernatural or paranormal abilities are generally attributed to Sufi masters.29 Stories of pīrs destroying or building on the ruins of earlier sacred places appear in literature but there is actually no evidence that this happened.30 Certainly, they settled and built in or near existing sacred spaces but rarely if ever replaced an actual building.31 Followers cannot at this stage necessarily be described as converts, remaining “ill-grounded in and indifferent to Islamic tradition.”32 Rather, they occupied a world in which rigid distinctions between religions or paths did not exist. Eaton suggests that they did not regard religions as closed, self-contained systems to which loyalty must be exclusive; Bengalis could “pick and choose” from “an array of reputed instruments – a holy man here, a holy river there – in order to tap superhuman power.”33 The pioneer Sufis succeeded in embedding Islam in the local culture by appropriating powers and images, metaphors, and symbols from the existing culture. Partly, this was essential to communicate their ideas and beliefs. Some argue that this process was purely strategic, not indicative of any theological openness toward Hindu thought or acceptance of Hinduism as authentic.34 However, while some literature clearly depicted Islam as superior to Hinduism, interest in yoga and in Hindu philosophy, sometimes in their own terms, suggests that Sufis saw value and spiritual resources in this material. Here perennial philosophy and notions of the universality of truth found in Iranian Sufi thought can be detected. Banu says that Sufi stress on God’s immanence enabled them to find God “throughout the universe.”35 The pīrs were especially attracted by and

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interested in ideas about the human body as a microcosm of the universe.36 The first and most popular Bengali work on the nath tradition (medieval yoga school with Tantric aspects) was by a Muslim, Shaikh Faiz Allah.37 Yet distinctions were maintained. For example, gurus were regarded as incarnate deities, pīrs were always seen as those who enjoyed “mystic communion with the deity,”38 and over time Arabic (or more usually Persian) vocabulary was used more extensively in Bengali in preference to Sanskrit terms used earlier.39 Some pīrs had Hindu followers. Some Gurus had Muslim followers. The Baul tradition – Muslim and Hindu itinerant poets who sing in praise of Vishnu – evidences this unifying current. In one area of West Bengal, a caste group identified itself as both Hindu and Muslim, observing many Hindu rites, burying their dead (according to Muslim tradition) and using two names, one Hindu and one Muslim.40 This produced Muslim Bengali, a deliberate effort to “Islamize Bengali,” on which I concentrated during my language study, which is why I did not learn many words associated with flora. Iran’s influence continues, since most words preferred over Hindu-related equivalents are Farsi, such as khoda for God, and namaz for prayer, although everyday words such as bagan (garden), deri (late), and shosta (cheap) are also Farsi.

Roy’s “cultural mediators” Meanwhile, early Muslim rulers patronized Arabic and Persian literature and Bengali Hindu scholarship but had little interest in supporting Muslims who wrote in Bengali, which they considered inferior and un-Islamic.41 On the other hand, they also accommodated Hindus in administrative positions, perpetuating a tradition of tolerance or coexistence. Eaton says that “a significant share of government patronage was extended to Hindus.”42 This continued under the Mughals, who consolidated their rule by incorporating twelve traditional rulers, including Hindus, within their system as revenue collectors or agents (jagirdars).43 The Mughals also “refused to promote the conversion of Bengalis to Islam” even when they did forcibly convert people elsewhere.44 De facto, politics was kept separate from religion.45 It was during the Mughal period that a genre of Bengali literature evolved communicating Islamic teaching to the masses using language, symbols, and concepts with which they were already familiar, drawn from Hinduism. There is not enough space here to explore this literature in detail. Some was described in chapter one. Roy (1983) contains detailed analysis.46 Beginning with a pioneer such as Syed Abdus Sultan, author of Nabi bamsa, the aim was to locate Islam in Bengal within Muslim history. However, it also succeeded in rooting Islam in the soil. “The angel Gabriel gives Adam a plow and Eve fire,” which links the beginning of human life with the land, with farming, so central to Bangladeshi identity. Bringing “dense forest under cultivation” is the purpose of life.47 As mentioned in chapter one, Muhammad was

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presented as an avatar. Words were chosen with care. Brahman was at times used for Allah but since Brahman is unqualified and Allah knowable, isvar was preferred. On the other hand, the notion of the light of Muhammad as God’s instrument in creation meant that Allah could be seen as Brahman, nur-al-Muhammadiya as the creator, or Isvar (Ishore). Reference in Nabi bamsa to the Trimurti of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva deliberately located these within the wider history of prophecy, perhaps regarding these as among the 124,000 prophets mentioned by Muhammad, of whom only 25 are named in the Qur’ān. Sultan explicitly recognized Krishna as a prophet. Preaching monotheism, Krishna was angry when he saw people worshipping his image.48 This fostered the “claim that Islam was the heir, not only to Judaism and Christianity, but also to the religious traditions of pre-Muslim Bengal.”49 Sultan “even understood the four Vedas as successive revelations send down by God … each given to a different ‘great person’.”50 Instead of repudiating pre-Muslim beliefs, this “connected Islam with Bengal’s socio-religious path.”51 Islamic heroes were easily comparable with Hindu counterparts, thus Ali was like Karna in generosity, Brahma in power, and Yama as “exterminator.”52 Fatimah was comparable with and yet more virtuous than Kali. Islam was presented as superior to the earlier traditions, thus Muhammad’s birth caused consternation among the Gods. Indra’s throne fell over, and its canopy shattered. Muhamamd’s arch opponent, Abu Jahl, was “king of the Hindus” who worshipped Brahma.53 These cultural mediators were largely outside ashrāf circles, although some were ashrāf or petty-ashrāf. Over time, although hostility toward Bengali as a medium for Islamic communication continued into the twentieth century, more ashrāf began to speak and write Bengali. While Islamic literature in Bengali rarely benefitted from government patronage, local landowners, including some Hindus, did support this literature. Uddin refers to prefaces of Bengali works crediting local patrons with support, which in her view also indicates the strong link “between the petty religious class” – Roy’s cultural mediators – and the land.54 In fact, she says, “religious affiliation was inconsequential” in arrangements between local patrons and the poets and authors who wrote in Bengali.55 Not all contributors to the first wave of cultural mediation were Sufis but Uddin says that book prefaces often “indicate that their authors were Sufis.”56 Eaton shows how, over time, architecture was also acculturated so that mosques began to resemble Buddhist and Hindu shrines. This allowed them to blend into the countryside.57 In contrast, most Churches in Bangladesh look European and exotic.

The impact of reformed Islam The upsurge of reform, with its agenda of purifying Islam of Hindu elements, saw a second wave of Islamic literature in Bengali. This set out to universalize

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Islamic practice, positing a monolithic, unchanging, and immutable Arab-­ flavored norm. This was actually very similar to Islam as described by Orientalist scholars, for whom it was the same everywhere and at all times.58 Numerous publications following the introduction of the printing press with Bengali script and debates all “aimed to make less educated rural Muslims more conscious of their membership in a larger Muslim community” and condemned what was described as ‘“Hindu” accretion.59 Very hostile toward Hinduism, this did fuel communitarian violence. Under the British,60 Hindus and Muslims were increasingly dealt with as separate communities, with competing interests. Uddin suggests that the very concept of “nation and religious communities as fixed categories” developed in India “through interaction with missionaries and British administration.”61 The idea that Muslims and Hindus were separate nations had some support from pioneer modernist thinkers in Islam. Sir Sayyid Ahmed Khan (1817–98) has been attributed with sowing the seeds for the idea of Pakistan as a Muslim state, partitioned from India. He believed that Muslims and Hindu interests were different, so each community should pursue these.62 Buehler’s chapter in this book traces an even earlier origin of what became known as the “two nation theory” to the Sufi, Ahmad Farūqi Sirhindī (d. 1624). On the other hand, Sir Sayyid wanted a secular state, arguing that Muhammad’s religion, not his political leadership, which was circumstantial, is prescriptive.63 Khan, though, chose cooperation with the British as the best strategy to improve the welfare of Indian Muslims. Others, such as the Deoband movement, chose noncooperation. Some chose confrontation, which they expressed vocally or through actual rebellion.64 The first wave of Islamic literature in Bengali set out to build bridges between Islam and Bengal’s pre-Muslim culture. The second wave wanted to construct barriers. To some extent, this literature succeeded. Roy went so far as to state that what he called syncretistic Hinduism has more or less yielded to “the heterogenic model of classical Islam,” widening the hiatus that already existed between the exogenous Islam and the indigenous Bengali culture and deepening the crises of Bengali identity.”65 However, I argue later that the so-called syncretistic tradition, which I prefer to describe as a current of spiritual openness, has survived, even if its flow is weaker.

Inclusive Islam in contemporary Bangladesh Before describing reasons for claiming that inclusive Islam is healthy in Bangladesh, it is appropriate to identify contrary indicators. Reformist anti-Hindu rhetoric did negatively impact Hindu–Muslim relations in Bengal. This negativity was exasperated by the British-imposed partition of Bengal in 1905, almost certainly intended to “inflame Hindu–Muslim tensions.”66 This gave Muslims in East Bengal, where they dominated the new legislature, a taste of power. The Muslim League was founded there in  1906 specifically to represent Muslim

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interests. Hindus throughout India protested Bengal’s partition, giving the selfrule movement new impetus. The song Bande Mataram (“I bow to thee, mother”) set to music by Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941) became the “informal anthem of the nationalist movement.” Secret terrorist organizations began to operate, for whom Bengal as their motherland was epitomized by the goddess Kali, “goddess of power and destruction, to whom they dedicated their weapons.”67 After partition was rescinded in 1912, the British yielded to Muslim League demands for separate electorates, which gave Muslims in Bengal a majority of seats in the reunited province.68 Although initial proposals for a separate Muslim state excluded Bengal, based on the assumption that Muslims there would prefer to remain in the same state as their Hindu neighbors, circumstances combined to propel East Bengal into Pakistan, as Pakistan’s Eastern province, in 1947.69 This can be represented as Islam-trumping culture and Hindu–Muslim harmony, although leading Bengali members of the Muslim League had supported the latter. East Pakistan’s subsequent estrangement from West Pakistan, partly due to efforts to suppress Bengali but also due to economic oppression, led to independence as Bangladesh in 1971. This can be credited to a reversal of Islam’s earlier triumph by a resurgent culture and reassertion of Hindu–Muslim harmony. However, constitutional changes in  1979 and 1988, which abandoned Bangladesh’s original secularism in favor of Islamic identity, appear to confirm what Roy says about how “the heterogenic model of classical Islam” displaced inclusive Islam.70 In 1992 following the Babri Masjid incident in India and in 2001 after BNP victory, there were increased reports of anti-Hindu violence.71 Yet the ballot box has failed to give Islamists power to destroy inclusive Islam; only the bullet and brutality could bring Islamists to power. Thus, “the overwhelming majority of Bangladeshis likely will continue to resist the imposition of an Islamist vision.”72 Even when anti-Hindu propaganda was rampant, not everyone favored Hindu–Muslim separation. In fact, during the Bengali Renaissance – the early nineteenth century to early twentieth century – when many Bengalis led Hindu reform and some led Muslim modernism, a great deal of creative exchange took place.73 Muslim, Hindu, and Christian Bengalis occupied the same intellectual world. Sufi thought influenced Rabindranath Tagore, the Hindu reformer and poet. Nazrul Islam (1899–1976), a Muslim, looked on Tagore as a mentor. He drew as much on Hindu as on Islamic imagery. Both wrote for humanity. Both subscribed to universal values. Neither pitted Hindu against Muslim. Today, members for all religious communities sing their songs. Efforts to ban Tagore’s songs during the Pakistan period instead led to their increased popularity, especially on Bengali New Year (still regarded as non-Islamic by Islamists in Bangladesh).74 Such an intimate bond developed between Bengalis of all creeds and their language that their earlier denunciations of Bengali seem incredible. Pakistanis saw many aspects of Bangladeshi culture

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as non-­Islamic, several concerning women’s conduct, such as women’s ­preference for the sari over shalwar kameez, the popularity of wearing the teep, the scarcity of women wearing chador, and the fact that they marched in political rallies.75 Incidentally, Bengali Muslim women were publishing, running businesses, and speaking in the public arena in the late nineteenth century.76 Remarkably, Girish Chandra Sen (1836–1910), a Hindu, first translated the Qur’ān into Bengali. He believed that all religions are “similar at their core.” His lifelong study of Islam produced a translation and commentary that remains “widely available in Bangladesh’s markets although other early translations written by Muslims” are not.77 Bengali Muslim modernist, a Shi’a, Sayyid Ameer ‘Alī (1849–1928) stressed reason and shared humanity. His The Spirit of Islam (1891) is replete with positive references to Sufi Islam, embraced by the greatest Muslim “intellects of the east.”78 He supported separate electorates but “stood for Hindu–Muslim unity,” believing that better relations could be “cemented” if leaders were willing to compromise.79 The 1961, Pakistani Constitutional Report cited Ameer ‘Alī “profusely in its argument for absolute judicial equality and equality in human rights between Muslims and non-Muslims.”80 Even as the prospect of partition loomed in  1947, Bengal’s Muslims, led by chief minister, Huseyn Suhrawardy (1892–1963) preferred independence for Bengal, or taking the united province into Pakistan, which was actually how they voted. East Bengal ended up as part of Pakistan because the Hindu members of the Assembly voted, in a separate session, for partition. The British ruled that a vote for partition by either caucus would override any alternative.81 Despite popularity of the “two nation theory” elsewhere in India, it was never really dominant in Bengal. The Muslim League, which adopted the “two nation” goal in 1940, did not win enough seats to form its own administration in Bengal until 1946. Muslims voted for alternative parties. Abandonment of secularism in  1979 and the founding of a more Islam-oriented political party in opposition to the AL, which had broken from the Muslim League in 1949 and led the language and independence struggle, does signify consciousness of the role of Islamic values in Muslim-majority Bangladesh.82 Pragmatically, the constitutional change helped attract aid from oil-rich Arab Muslim states. The BNP is interested in better relations with the Muslim world, accusing the AL of compromising Bangladeshi sovereignty through various treaties with India. However, the two parties have alternated in power since 1991. The AL achieved an absolute majority in 2008, so it cannot be argued that pro-Islamic identity has replaced AL-supported, more inclusive identity. Most non-Muslims support AL. The Islamist JI did comparatively well in 2001 but lost 16 seats in 2008. No other Islamist party has succeeded in winning more than 2 or 3 seats. Former President Hussain Muhammad Ershad’s Jatya Party (27 seats) is Islamist in rhetoric yet, currently allied with the secularist, inclusive AL, it is not anti-minority. A Christian serves in the cabinet, elected by an overwhelmingly Muslim constituency. Since independence,

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­ indus have held up to 12 seats and several cabinet posts. Currently, there are H 4 Hindus in parliament, with 1 Cabinet seat.83 Although Bangladesh is no longer officially secular, a predominantly secular ethos prevails. This has historical precedent, since previous Muslim rulers kept politics and religion apart.84 Sufi Islam, based on Banu’s research, represents approximately 49%. Her research showed that a very small number today participate in “syncretistic” acts such as offering “votive donations to Hindu pīrs” or to “supernatural powers” (6.5%) but 47.4% of urban dwellers reported friendly relations with Hindus. A total of 14.6% of rural respondents and 18.3% of urban respondents actually attend Hindu pujas. Purist or homogeneous Islam is more visible in contemporary Bangladesh. When I carried out interviews in the late 1990s, several respondents said that “some pīrs are rogues” but others “sincere”; their task is to point people to “The Pīr” who is Muhammad, a view similar to Sayyid Ahmad Khan’s.85 Some Sufi shrines “post signs indicating correct decorum,” which excludes “asking for the saint’s assistance” and venerating the saint “in any way.”86 However, visitors still include Hindus, who are welcome.87 Alam’s chapter in this book, on the Maizbhandariyya Sufi Order, informs us that it admits non-Muslim members. Politicians visit shrines “around the country” before elections. “Dormitories, airplanes and office building” bear saints’ names.88 Some ‘urs (death anniversary of saints) attract large numbers, including one in Chittagong, which significantly, says Uddin, uses a “Bengali rather than an Islamic calendar date.”89 Women as well as men perform dhikr, singing at shrines, celebrations, and weddings. Some women earn their living as devotional singers.90 All communities celebrate New Year. There are exceptions. The popular Naqshbandi Pīr Artrashi, of whom Ershad is a follower, founded a political party, the Zaker, in  1989 with the express aim of rallying Muslims against a supposed Hindu threat.91 The AL’s pro-India foreign policy represents “Hindu” subversion. Zaker has had no electoral success. Artrashi’s hostility toward non-Muslims does not represent all Naqshbandi. Werbner’s work describes a Naqshbandi pīr – based in Pakistan – whose attitude toward nonMuslims was open, welcoming, and inclusive.92 Second-term Prime Minister, AL leader Shaikh Hasina has visited the Sufi shrine at Ajmer, where Hindus and Muslims still mix and mingle. Her maxim of “love of all and malice to none”93 resembles the Sufi motto sulḥ-i-kull (peace with all). Khaleda Zia, her rival, also a two-term Prime Minister, projects a more reformist Muslim image, yet heads an avowedly Islam-oriented party.94 All major political parties except JI have nominated women candidates. The JI, allied with BNP, did accept two reserved women’s seats in 1991 and actively campaigns for women’s votes. There is a case for linking the prominent role played by these women to the Sufi tradition of female teachers, perhaps also rooted in ancient Bengali notions of female divinity as power (shakti).95 It also builds on women’s contribution to the Bengali renaissance and freedom struggle, in which they marched and several fought. The tendency to reduce Hasina and Khaleda’s careers to

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special circumstances (both are relatives of dead male leaders) ignores the fact that other women, unrelated to former leaders, have gained important posts. Women’s representation, too, has consistently risen.96 Gender legislation in Bangladesh has improved women’s rights in many areas, although levels of domestic violence remain regrettably high.97

Conclusion Islam’s rootedness in Bengal, refusing to displace or destroy preexisting religion, tapping into its inclusive and soil-loving ethos, becoming part of the tapestry of the land, entering its history and myth, demonstrates ability to adapt to local contexts. Uddin suggests that reformists really preach a “Middle East-informed Islam,” not a global Islam.98 When Bangladesh separated from Pakistan, it did not repudiate Islam but employed an oppressive version that condemned inclusive spirituality. Islam is singular in values, obligatory practices, and theological belief. It is also variegated in how it expresses itself in different localities. Sufi Islam around the world may represent an alternative global phenomenon to the Orientalist and Islamist macro-Islam, as Werbner has argued.99 Sufi Islam in Bangladesh and elsewhere makes local space sacred, contradicting the claim that only Arabia is holy, that everywhere else is barren, waiting for Islam to colonize the ground, so that history itself can begin. In this view, Islam enters new space to displace everything pre-Islamic, all preexisting culture, history, religion, and values.100 Did aspects of Bengal’s ancient inclusive spiritual tradition resonate with certain Qur’ānic potentialities for tolerance, openness, and affirmation of human solidarity, such as might be extrapolated from Q30: 22 and 49: 13?101 Have aspects of culture in Arab space hindered the development of the Qur’ān’s potential in some areas, for example, attitudes toward non-Muslims and women’s rights? Can South Asia help Arab Islam rediscover some of the Qur’ān’s most profound affirmations?

Notes I use Bengal to refer to the historical region and sometimes kingdom or sultanate of India. I use East Bengal to refer to the geographical east of that region, roughly corresponding to what became East Pakistan in  1947 and Bangladesh in 1971. East Bengal was also briefly separate from West Bengal between 1905 and 1911. West Bengal, after 1947, became a state within the Republic of India. 2 Islamism refers to movements espousing what is also known as “political Islam.” Islamists have explicitly political goals, unlike some reformists and revivalists (see footnote 6).

1



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Clinton Bennett, Islam in Bangladesh, a survey of its historical, constitutional and experiential dimensions as part requirement for the Certificate in the Study of Islam (unpublished thesis, University of Birmingham, 1979). 4 Richard M Eaton, The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier: 1204–1760 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993), 129. 5 Jama’at-i-Islam was founded by Abu Ala Mawdudi (1903–79) in India in 1941 as a reformist religious–political organization. It is usually described as Islamist. In Pakistan, JI initially opposed the government as un-Islamic, then collaborated with Zia al-Haq’s Islamization program (members held important posts) but later criticized him for not holding elections. In Pakistan, the organization has won seats in Parliament ranging from as few as 3 in 1993 to 53 in 2003. During the Bangladeshi War of Independence, JI remained loyal to Pakistan and was banned until 1979. It won 10 seats in 1986, 18 in 1991 and in 2001 (when it was awarded 2 cabinet posts under the Bangladesh National Party government), but only 2 in 2008. The party is allied with BNP, which is Islam-oriented but not Islamist. Mawdudi’s family descended from a Chīshtī sheikh but he denounced Sufism for lack of interest in political engagement, declaring that Sufis violated “true Islam” and were comparable with atheists and polytheists; see Roxanne Leslie Euben and Muhammad Qasim Zaman Princeton readings in Islamist thought: texts and contexts from al-Banna to Bin Laden (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 81. 6 A reformer is a muslih. Like the word islahi (reformist) this is derived from salih (upright) and islah (reform). Those whose aim is to restore a supposed past ideal practiced by Muhammad and the first three generations of Muslims (Salafiyun, for example, al-Wahhab and his heirs) and progressives who think that Islam can achieve yet unrealized potential can both be called reformers. I will use reformer to describe champions of a restored Islam, modernist for champions of progress. Revivalist may be a more accurate term for the former. Islamists are often revivalists, although some advocate political structures that are dissimilar to those previously found in Islamic societies. Progressives may also support the notion of an Islamic political order but perceive this differently from Islamists. Progressives usually embrace gender and Muslim–non-Muslim equality, for example, and do not insist on such penalties as amputation or stoning. 7 In fact, although some Sufi practices in the Subcontinent associated with visiting shrines have Hindu elements, neither visitation per se nor intercession though pīrs is of specific Hindu or Buddhist origin. They are encountered wherever Sufism flourishes. 8 Martin van Bruinessen and Julia Day Howell, Sufism and the “modern” in Islam (London: I.B. Tauris, 2007), 130. 9 Bruinessen and Howell, 133. 10 Richard D Lewis, When Cultures Collide: Leading Across Cultures: a Major New Edition of the Global Guide (Boston: Nicholas Brealey International, 2005), 447. On the Deobandi and TJ, see Barbara D. Metcalf, “‘Traditionalist’ Islamic Activity: Deoband, Tablihjis and Talibs” (NY: Social Science Research Council, nd) available at http://essays.ssrc.org/sept11/essays/metcalf.htm (accessed August 4, 2011). 3

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Sufia M. Uddin, Constructing Bangladesh: Religion, Ethnicity and Language in an Islamic Nation (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press 2006), 162. See also Uddin, 117–53 on the two competing concepts of national identity, Bengali (stressing loyalty to land and language) and Bangladeshi (stressing Islamic aspects). The first also stresses what Bangladeshis have in common with Hindus in West Bengal. Uddin says that “sentiment over the question of the partition of Bengal” still haunts people on both sides of the border, commenting that many Hindus in the West proudly proclaim having their “roots in Bangladesh,” 184. 12 Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love: The Anthropology of a Global Sufi Order (Bloomington, IA: Indiana University Press, 2003), 28. 13 Uddin, 176 comments on how a Bangladeshi exposed while overseas or on the hajj to what some see as “pure Islam” might then regard the Islam of Bangladesh as “backward, full of superstition and improper.” 14 Eaton regards these stories as apocryphal, revised later to conform to ideas about how Muslims should act vis-à-vis idolatry; see Eaton, 71–7; 212–13. U. A. B Razia Akter Banu Islam in Bangladesh (Leiden: E J Brill, 1992) refers to “warrior-saints” but does not dispute that some combined preaching with conquest; see 14–15. Ramsey refers to sword-wielding Sufis, too, in this book’s conclusion. 15 Eaton, 129–30. 16 With Hanbali and Maliki, these are two of the four main Sunni schools of jurisprudence. Hanafi is often described as the most liberal, allowing more scope for personal opinion or reasoning, conscience, notions of fairness, and equity. Hanbali, the only school recognized by al-Wahhab, relied mainly on Qur’ān and hadīth, discouraged “reasoning” but also left large areas to local custom (where no specific precedent could be cited). 17 For women saints, see Uddin, 36, 143–4. 18 Eaton, 116 points out that the largest Muslim populations in both Bengal and Punjab “took place along the political fringe.” It was the 1872 census that first alerted the British to the Muslim majority in East Bengal. They had thought that Hindus predominated. They were also surprised that most lived in rural areas, while Dhaka, for centuries a center of Muslim power, had only a small Muslim majority; see Asim Roy, The Islamic Syncretistic Tradition in Bengal (NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 20–1; Eaton, 120. 19 Eaton, 130. 20 Roy, 79. 21 Eaton, 315. See Roy, 61–2. Discovering foreign ancestry, people used titles to which they had no actual claim, including Saiyed (Syed or Sayyid) denoting descent from Muhammad, a cherished designation in much of the Muslim world. See Arthur Buehler’s chapter in this book on Ashrāf society and Ahmad, Imtiaz, “The Ashrāf–Ajlāf Dichotomy in Muslim Social Structure in India,” Indian Economic & Social History Review 3: 268–78, 1966. 22 Roy, 34. Buddhism, too, still exists in Bangladesh, admittedly close to the Burmese border, which might explain its survival. On the other hand, it shows that Buddhists have resisted converting to Islam over many centuries. 23 See Eaton’s tables 1 and 3, (pages 67 and 184). 11

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Roy, 51. Uddin, 37. 26 Banu, 13; Uddin, 37. Fish are integral to Bangladeshi diet, inseparable from national culture. 27 Eaton, 212–13. 28 See Eaton, 211–12, 256 who notes how what began as charismatic authority over time became routinized as “proprietary rights over land” were acquired, referring to Max Weber’s theory of authority. 29 Such stories can be dismissed as incredulous, even as evidence that “they” are less rational than “us” or regarded as testimony of disciples’ esteem for and belief in their pīr; see my discussion, drawing on anthropologist Michael Gilsenan in Clinton Bennett, Studying Islam: The Critical Issues (London: Continuum, 2010), 104–5. 30 Eaton, 73. 31 Banu, 15 refers to one lodge “built on top of a Hindu Temple,” to two “located on ancient sacred mounds,” and to one where Buddhist relics have been ­discovered. 32 Roy, 41. 33 Eaton, 281. 34 Uddin, 33. 35 Banu, 15. 36 Roy, 104. 37 Roy, 104. 38 Roy, 159–60 although Guru and Pīr were also used interchangeably. 39 Uddin, 34. 40 J. J. Burman, Hindu–Muslim Syncretic Shrines and Communities (New Delhi: Mittal Publications, 2002), 14. 41 See Uddin, 30 and Roy, 67. Roy says that patronage was “confined to the Hindu writers on Hindu themes”. Uddin says that on occasion rulers sponsored writing in Bengali on Islamic topics. 42 Eaton, 259. 43 Eaton, 154. 44 See Eaton, xxv, 134, 178. Aurangzeb did impose the jizya (tax on non-Muslims), which no previous Muslim ruler in Bengal had levied. Uddin says that “throughout history” Bengal’s “Muslim rulers demonstrated little interest in converting … people to Islam,” 21. The Mughals were mainly interested in “high productivity yields in the eastern delta,” which opened up the possibility of expanding arable space, 22. 45 “The ruling class in Bengal maintained a clear separation between matters of religion and matters of state,” Eaton, 176. 46 Some felt they had to apologize for writing in Bengali. Such was the “deep-seated” Ashrāf prejudice against this that Roy praises their “moral courage” in defying the “crushing weight of power and tradition,” 67, 76. One cultural mediator dismissed criticism by arguing that God is able to understand all languages and that those who had “no liking for the language and the learning of their country” had best leave it, 78. Writing as late as 1927, one author expressed humiliation 24 25

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that Muslims were still speaking Bengali and “amused himself with the notional exigency of 25 million Muslims in Bengal emigrating in search of a land where Bengali was not spoken and where sharif status was consequently assured,” 67. 47 Uddin, 36. 48 Roy, 97. 49 Eaton, 286. 50 Eaton, 288. 51 Eaton, 289. 52 Roy, 92. 53 Roy, 90. 54 Uddin, 37. 55 Uddin, 38. 56 Uddin, 37. 57 Eaton, 60–1. The nativist style typically had one dome with “octagonal corner towers,” and made “exclusive use of brick” and “extensive terra-cotta ornamentation” showing Buddhist influence and also that of the “familiar thatched bamboo hut found everywhere” in Bengal. 58 Roy, 5, compares the Orientalist and Islamist “macro-vision” of Islam as equally “monolithic.” 59 Uddin, 64. 60 In Bengal, British rule began in 1757, initially as a revenue collector (jagir) for the Mughals and continued until independence and partition in 1947. 61 Uddin, 85. 62 Khan “stopped short of advocating a separate state” but he did call for a “separate status”; Stephen P Cohen, The Idea of Pakistan (Washington, D.C., Brookings Institution Press, 2004), 25. 63 Khan was “particular in drawing a distinction between affairs purely religious and worldly in matters of traditions.” It is obligatory for Muslims to follow traditions of the prophet “which refer to religious injunctions” but “in social, economic and cultural affairs” Muslims “are free to adopt” according to circumstances provided they do so in conformity with Islam’s “spiritual values.” Cultural, economic, and social affairs cannot be “determined by the standards as they existed in early Islam.” B. A. Dar, Religious Thought of Sayyid Ahmed Khan (Lahore: Zarreen Art Press, 1971), 268–9. This is the opposite of Islamist insistence on din wa dawla (unity of religion and state). 64 Khan argued that India under the British was a “place of safety or peace,” not Daral-Harb (Place of War) and that Muslims owed the British their loyalty; see Dar, 78. Others chose revolt – many Muslims supported the 1857 anti-British revolt. Members of the Tariqah-i-Muhammadiya declared jihad and campaigned in the North West Frontier; see Uddin, 54–5. Muslims were duty-bound to migrate from India to Muslim-controlled territory, from where they could oppose the British and reclaim India as Dar-al-Islam (Islamic territory). 65 Roy, 253. 66 James J. Novak, Bangladesh: reflections on the water (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1993), 87. Novak says that until this point, “though there had been friction… neither Hindu nor Muslim Bengalis thought of themselves as a separate nation.”

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Barbara Daly Metcalf, and Thomas R. Metcalf. A Concise History of India. (Cambridge Concise Histories. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 155. 68 In the 1932 communitarian allocation of seats, Europeans were awarded 25, Hindus 80 (of which 10 were for untouchables), and Muslims 119 (constituting 54% of the population); see M. J Akbar, The shade of swords: jihad and the conflict between Islam and Christianity (London: Routledge, 2002), 181. 69 The original proposal for Pakistan excluded Bengal, hence the acronym Punjab Afghan province Kashmir Sindh Baluchistan suggested by Rahmat Ali in 1933. 70 Constitutional Amendment Five replaced “secularism” in the 1972 Constitution with “belief in Almighty Allah” and spoke of Bangladesh seeking solidarity with Muslim states. The 8th Amendment (1988) declared that Islam was the state r­ eligion. 71 Temples were destroyed, homes burned, women raped. In addition to targeting Hindus, Islamists also attached secular organizations and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). The latter are perceived as foreign efforts to undermine Muslim values, especially vis-à-vis women’s freedom and rights. See Julie Chernov-Hwang Peaceful Islamist mobilization in the Muslim world: what went right (New York: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2009) 49. The Babri Masjid in Ayodhia was destroyed in 1992 by Hindus, allegedly because it was built on Ram’s birthplace (Ram is an incarnation of Vishnu). 72 Uddin, 185. 73 Hindu reformers, as did Muslim, reacted to Christian criticism, presenting a version of Hinduism devoid of what Christians found objectionable. However, whether “reformer” is an appropriate term is debatable, since some argue that socalled classical Hinduism was also to a degree an Orientalist construct. If Hinduism was only homogenized by colonial discourse, then representing such reforms as that of the Brahmo Samaj (of which Girish Chandra Sen was a member) “falls into the trap of seeing pre-colonial” Indian religions “through colonial spectacles,” Richard King, Orientalism and Religion: postcolonial theory, India and the “mystic east” (London: Routledge, 1999), 106. See also Uddin, 195 FN 16. 74 See Uddin, 134–6. Initial plans to more or less ban Bengali were eventually abandoned, due to the strength of opposition. Urdu was declared the official language of Pakistan in  1952. An alternative was to Arabize Bengali, introducing Arabic script, which met with little success. See Uddin, 125. 75 Uddin says that Tagore’s songs “and his religious tolerance became symbols of Bengali national consciousness,” 135. The teep is a red dot worn on the forehead, regarded as Hindu. In post-independence Bangladesh, the shalwar kameez has become more common, partly because women prefer wearing this while working in industry, where it is considered appropriate dress. See Elora Shehabuddin, Reshaping the holy: democracy, development, and Muslim women in Bangladesh (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), 64, 188. 76 The first book by a Muslim Bengali woman was published in 1876; Sonia Nishat Amin, The world of Muslim women in colonial Bengal, 1876-1939 (Leiden: Brill, 1996). 77 Uddin, 89. Sen used non-Arabic words for God, choosing to emphasize universal aspects. He made extensive use of Muslim commentary (mainly in Farsi); see Uddin, 95. 67

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Syed Ameer Ali, The Spirit of Islam (NY: Cosimo, 2010), 457. His references to Hinduism are not entirely positive, though. He describes Manu’s “denunciation” of women as “fanatical,” xxix. 79 Syed Ameer Ali and Shan Muhammad, The Right Hon’ble Syed Ameer Ali: political writings. (New Delhi: Ashish Publishing House, 1989), xii. 80 Nikki R. Keddie, Scholars, saints, and sufis: Muslim religious institutions in the Middle East since 1500. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), 265. 81 On the partition issue, June 20, 1947, the whole chamber of the Bengal Assembly voted 126 to 90 against a united province in India. The Muslim delegates then voted by 106 to 35 for the whole province to cede to Pakistan. The Hindu delegates voted 58 to 21 for partition, with West Bengal ceding to India. See Sumantra Bose, Bosnia after Dayton: nationalist partition and international intervention (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 195. Lord Mountbatten, the last British viceroy, had favored an independent Bengal. In the end he ruled this out, saying it would lead to other regions wanting separate statehood as well; see Mushirul Hasan, Legacy of a divided nation: India’s Muslims since independence (London: Hurst, 1997), 311. 82 Uddin, 133, reminds us that Bangladesh has “more than sixty ethnic minorities,” so Bangladeshi (literally people who live in Bangladesh, as opposed to bideshi or foreigners) might be more appropriate than Bengali. 83 Fluctuation in the number of Hindus elected and their present lower number (12 in  1972 was the highest number) can be interpreted as a sign of increasing marginalization; see Ali Riaz, God willing: the politics of Islamism in Bangladesh (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004), 1–2. The-AL nominated 14 in 2008. Analysis would need to consider many variables. However, there were pamphlets circulating asking Muslims to withdraw support from non-Muslim candidates. Five still won. See Election Bulletin  2008 (Dhaka: Bangladesh Hindu–Buddhist–Christian Unity Council, 2008), 1. 84 Bengal’s sultans, says Eaton, developed a “stable, mainly secular modus vivendi with Bengali society and culture” through a “mutually satisfactory patron–client” system “in which the state systematically patronized the culture of the subject population,” 69. 85 Clinton Bennett, In Search of Muhammad (London: Cassell, 1998), 199. Writing about the relationship between Pīr and disciples, Khan concluded that “the Prophet is the one valid Pīr” thus “organized Sufi life must be strictly directed to following the Prophet alone,” K. S. Bharathi, Encyclopaedia of Eminent Thinkers (New Delhi: Concept Pub. Co, 1998), 41–2. 86 Uddin, 148. 87 Uddin, 149. 88 Uddin, 148. 89 Uddin, 148. 90 Lisa I Knight, Contradictory lives: Baul women in India and Bangladesh (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 20. 91 Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu, Embodying charisma modernity, locality, and performance of emotion in Sufi cult (London: Routledge, 2002), 48. Ershad, however, appointed his sister-in-law, Mumta Wahab, to a deputy minister’s post. During the 78

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1986 election, women won non-reserved seats for the first time. Alam’s chapter “Encountering the Unholy” in this book offers an alternative description of Zaker as a more secular-oriented party, and more accommodationist in opposition to Islamist politics. 92 Pīr Zindapīr, who died in 1999, believed in Islam’s tolerant, unifying, and universal spirit. All people are God’s children. He respected everyone for their common humanity, Werbner, 2003, 92–3. Buehler on another Naqshbandi saint, Sirhindi, in this book says that he espoused a “live and let live” philosophy toward other religions although he is also reputed to have compared Hindus with dogs and was accused of fomenting Hindu–Muslim hostility. 93 Cited in Sirajuddina Ahameda, Sheikh Hasina, Prime Minister of Bangladesh (New Delhi: UNS Publishers, 1998), 255. 94 See Anwara Begum, “Asian Women Leaders: A Comparative Study of the Images of Khaleda Zia and Sheikh Hasina of Bangladesh,” Asian Profile  34, 3: 265–89, 2006 for a detailed analysis of how each woman projects an image consistent with their ideas about nationalism. Khaleda projects herself as belonging yet “not belonging to the land” like an Ashrāf noblewoman or Nawab’s wife. Her single-color silk saris symbolize a purer Muslim heritage. She moves among the people yet maintains a certain distance. Hasina wears cotton saris, patterned with “rural scenes, angular ferns, wild flowers, birds in flight, fish Bangladeshis like to eat” and even Bengali letters (279), all celebrating “secular, linguistic, Bengali nationalism.” 95 The only known Hindu rebellion against the Dhaka Sultanate was waged in the name of the goddess Chandi; Eaton, 109. 96 The percentage of women in parliament was 13% in 2001 to 18.6% today (64 out of 345 with 45 reserved seats). The current percentage of women in the US Congress is 16.8%; see Women in National Parliaments, Inter-Parliamentary Union data at http://www.ipu.org/wmn-e/classif.htm. 97 One source cites 200 “acid attacks” per annum, commenting that statistics are “hard to come by, “Domestic Violence Against Women and Girls,” UNICEF: Florence, Innocenti Digest, No 6 June 2000, 7. 98 Uddin, 182. 99 See Werbner, 2003, 289 and her contribution to this book. 100 See V. J Naupaul, Among the Non-Believers: An Islamic Journey (London: Peter Smith, 1998), 311, 318, who sees all non-Arab space as necessarily “barren” waiting for faith and history to begin. No continuity with preexisting culture or history can be tolerated; sacred space is “elsewhere,” that is, in Arabia. In contrast, Werbner argues that Sufi shrines transfer sanctity. Linked by initiation with a distant Pīr, and through his silsilah with Muhammad, sanctity becomes transferrable. In her 2003 book she describes how one of Zindapīr’s deputies built a mosque in Birmingham, which became the center of the symbolic universe for his followers, purified and sacralized by the saint’s “divine blessing” and presence. I lived ­opposite this mosque, and observed how a plot of vacant land in inner-city Birmingham was transformed. I recently revisited this neighborhood. The Mosque is now part of what Werbner describes as a “sacred spatial network” that stretches across the globe, 49. She distanced herself from Clifford Geertz’s view that “global religions are necessarily embedded in the taken-for-granteds of local cultural milieu” in

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favor of seeing Sufism as a “global … movement which everywhere fabulates the possibility (if not the actualization) of human perfection,” 289. 101 I am indebted to the ideas of Muslim scholars who argue that what are eternal are the Qur’ān’s principles and values, not their implementation during Muhammad’s life. Accommodation had to be made with existing circumstances and with people’s willingness to fully embrace God’s ideal. As Muhammad Iqbal (1877– 1938) argued, the completeness of the Qur’ānic revelation and of Muhammad’s mission is “potential” rather than “realized.” Humanity can progress “onward to receive ever-fresh illuminations from an Infinite Reality” which appears every moment in “new glory.” Muslims must not be captive to their “past history”; see Muhammad Iqbal, The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1930), 123, 151, 163.

Chapter 14

A Garden Amidst the Flames: The Categorical Imperative of Sufi Wisdom Hugh van Skyhawk

Since the murder of Benazir Bhutto in Liaquat Bagh on December 27, 2007, again and again death has cast its fearsome shadow over the promised land of the Indian Muslims. Media reports of target killings, suicide bombings, beheadings, and death and destruction by intercontinental remote control roll over us every day like garish billboards advertising: irreligious deeds in the name of religion, brutality and barbarism in the name of democracy, national dishonor in the name of political expediency, all beamed out in high definition, all available for replay at the push of a button day or night. Caught in the vise‐grips of enemies whose names and faces they will never know, the people, the sovereigns of the democratic state, take to the streets in the futile rage of a wounded beast, throwing stones, smashing car windows, burning tires, and bashing the heads of their fellow countrymen whose duty it is to keep public order. But pictures of blood‐splattered casualties can also distract attention from the all-important fact that victims of terrorist attacks are often martyrs of the Idea of Pakistan, Quaid‐i‐Azam Muhammad ‘Ali Jinnah’s vision of Pakistan as the homeland of the Indian Muslims in which every citizen, regardless of his personal faith, is an equal shareholder in the state and has equal freedoms of religion and expression. This social contract of Pakistan has been underwritten again and again in the blood of these martyrs of humanity, the defenders of the vision of a nation any man could be proud of. In the days following the assassination of Shahbaz Bhatti on March 2, 2011, it seemed that the 26 shots that Mumtāz Qādiri had fired killing Salman Tasīr on January 4 might truly have “sent Pakistan over the edge” as one Washington Post reporter put it. I read the sūra al-Hijr and contemplated its chilling implications for a mankind that was clearly on the path of error: Iblīs said: “In the manner in which You led me to error, I will make things on earth seem attractive to them and lead all of them to error, except those of Your servants You have singled out for Yourself”…

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(Allah said:) “Surely, Hell is the promised place for all of them. … As for the God‐fearing, they shall be amid gardens and springs. They will be told: ‘Enter it in peace and security.’ And we shall purge their breasts of all traces of rancor; and they shall be seated on couches facing one another as brothers.” al Qur’ān, sūra 15, 40–5 But two events of recent days may be seen as cause for hope for the normalization of human relations in Pakistan: The leader of the Jami’at ul-Ulema i Islam, Maulana Fazl-ur-Rehman, took a brave position when he publicly stated that “abuses or aberrations” of the blasphemy law could indeed be discussed in the National Assembly,1 and Shaykh-ul-Islam Hazrat Mufti Muhammad Idris Usmani of the Jamia Islamia2 was no less courageous when he issued a fatwa condemning lawlessness regardless of one’s religious motivations. While both men have undoubtedly placed themselves in great danger—two attempts on Maulana Fazl-ur-Rehman’s life were made on two consecutive days, killing 19 of the Maulana’s followers—their courage may, after all, bring Pakistan back from the brink of chaos. While considering the deeper historical and cultural layers of Pakistan set against the background of Maulana Fazl-ur-Rehman’s and Mufti Muhammad Idris Usmani’s Islamic course correctives, I come to the conclusion that the nine centuries of compassion for one’s fellow man that are immediately associated with the names of Mu‘īn ud-Dīn Chīshtī (d. 1236/633), Farīd ud-Dīn Ganji-Shakar (d. 1265), Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya (d. 1325/725), Nasīr ud-Dīn Chirāg-i-Dihlī (1276–1356/757), Hazrat Banda Nawāz Gīsūdirāz (1321/721– 1422/825), Shah Abdul Latīf of Bhit (d. 1754), Bulhe Shah (d. 1752), and countless other noble men who had the courage to reach out to their fellow man, regardless of his religion, caste, or ethnic origin—this common bedrock of universal ethics in the cultures of South Asia cannot be destroyed by the bombs and bullets of the misguided faithful, nor by the cynicism of hardened target killers, the arrogance of drone bomber imperialism, or the machinations of shamelessly corrupt political leaders. On February 13, 2009, one of the most beloved pīrs of Pakistan, Pīr Nasir ud-Dīn Nasīr, died at Golra Sharif near Islamabad. Less than two hours later the roads leading to Golra Sharif had to be closed because of the cars of thousands of his followers who were trying to reach Golra in time to be present at Nasīr ud-Dīn Nasīr’s namāz-i-jināza (funeral prayers). Nonetheless, only twelve days later, it was possible for the BBC correspondent Barbara Plett to market her report “Can Sufism Counter the Taliban” in which Sufis and their cults are presented in terms of Western stereotypes of hashish-smoking and dancing dervishes with little or no political significance rather than as beloved and holy teachers of ethics and morals.3 To know the values of a people one must probe more deeply than is possible in daily journalism. If the national outrage against the Taliban for publicly

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­ hipping a seventeen-year-old girl made the Taliban press spokesmen seem to w lose their self-confident voices for a few days,4 the destruction of any major Sufi shrine, such as Bābā Farīd at Pākpattan, Datta Ganj Baksh in Lahore, or Lal Shabaz Qalandar at Sehwan Sharif, might well prove to be their undoing. Whoever has experienced the joy and merriment of a wedding in Punjab or Sindh with music and dance or the ‘urs of a great pīr, which itself is seen as a wedding to the Almighty, and is also celebrated with music and dance, will know that the great majority of the people of Pakistan would never accept the Taliban idea of an Islamic society of rigid laws forbidding the joys of life and all-encompassing systems of intimidation and brutal punishments to enforce them.5 This year the 1014th ‘urs of Hazarat Tabl-i-Ālam Bādshāh Nathar Walī (d. 1079/474) will be celebrated in Tiruchirappalli in Tamil Nadu, India. For more than one millennium the shrine of Nathar Walī has been a place of interreligious dialogue between Hindus, Muslims, and Christians. While a thousand years of Sufi traditions in the Subcontinent may not have resulted in the production of significant contributions to the metaphysics of tassawuf, Sufis of the Subcontinent have, without doubt, helped to shape the largest multireligious culture in the world. Not by hashhish smoking or ecstatic dancing but by the fusion of Divine Love to words and feelings that can be understood by all have the Sufis of the Subcontinent become the teachers of all, whether Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Parsi, or tribals. The indomitable strength of Sufism lies in its readiness for dialogue with and unconditional esteem for the other. There are good reasons for trusting these deeper ethical values of Pakistani society, for they are the same collective values that underlie the one institution in Pakistan that survives all crises and functions when all else fails: the family. The thoughts that follow are the temporary harvest of my ongoing search for this heart of hearts of Pakistan: O people! Behold! We have created you from a male and a female and have made you into nations and tribes so that you might come to know one another. Verily, the noblest of you in the sight of Allah is the one who is most deeply conscious of Him. Behold! Allah is all-knowing, all-aware. [al-Qur’ān, 49:13] In  1165/560, one of the most enlightened religious thinkers of all time was born in Murcia in the Muslim Almohad Empire of southern Spain and North Africa. As a young man ‘Abū ‘Abdullāh Muhammad ibn ‘Alī ibn Muhammad ibn al-‘Arabī al-Hātimī al-òā’ī, who was later to be accorded the honorific titles “Reviver of Religion” and “al-Shaikh al-Akbar,” was deeply conscious of the immanence of Allah in all things and, above all, of Allah as the Source of the three religions of Ibrahim: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. According to pious

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tradition, as a young man he would keep vigil at night in a cemetery listening for messages from the hereafter. One night the young ibn al-‘Arabī was blessed with visions of Moses, Jesus Christ, and Muhammad (Peace and Prayers be upon Them!). Later in life in the Futūhāt al-Makkiyyah, ibn al-‘Arabī wrote: There is no knowledge except that taken from God, for He alone is the Knower. ... The prophets, in spite of their great number and the long periods of time which separate them, had no disagreement in knowledge of God, since they took it from God.6 Though ibn ‘Arabī left al-Andalus in 1200/595 at the age of thirty-five never to return, his mature thought and teachings would always reveal their roots in that Golden Age of Muslim Spain in which the mystics and thinkers of the three religions that acknowledge Ibrahim as the prophet of God interacted freely and shared their visions of the One God and His Creation. Long before there was a terminology to describe what we today know as ‘Inter-Faith Dialogue’ ibn ‘Arabī’s mystical vision “Everything Is He” (hama ūst) found expression in a perception of a world filled with dialogue with and appreciation of the faiths of others: O marvel! A garden amidst the flames! My heart is capable of every form, A cloister of the monk, a temple for idols, A pasture for gazelles, the votary’s Ka’ba, The tables of the Torah, the Koran. Love is the creed I hold: wherever turn His camels, love is still my creed and faith. Tarjumān al-Ashwāq (“The Interpretation of Divine Love”)7 Even for the casual observer it is obvious that for ibn ‘Arabī, Allah is understood to be free of confinement in human constructions such as “church,” “monastery,” “temple,” “Ka’ba,” or of confinement to any one of His Holy Revelations. Both the Torah and the Holy Qur’ān are the Word of God in ibn ‘Arabī’s view. Moreover, he engaged in interfaith dialogue as a learner and not a converter, celebrating as fully as possible the different paths to God. In both attitudes ibn ‘Arabī, were he to be alive today, would easily find himself at home in the interfaith dialogue of present-day liberal Protestantism and the “centered set” as opposed to the “bounded set” theology of the emerging Christian churches. While the ontological monism implied in ibn ‘Arabī’s vision of the divine as “Everything Is He” was (and is) rejected by the majority of the orthodox Sunni ulema, his influence on medieval Sufi thought is beyond estimation. If only to explain, modify, or correct the apparent pantheism in the great Shaikh’s vision,

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by the first half of the fourteenth century every Sufi from al-Andalus to Hindustan had at least heard of, if not seriously studied, ibn ‘Arabī’s Fusūs al-hikam (“Bezels of Wisdom”) and Futūhāt al-Makkiyyah (“The Meccan Revelations”). Though the first explicit references to ibn ‘Arabī’s doctrines of the Oneness of Being (wahdat al-wujūd) appear suddenly en masse in the writings of the Sufis of the Subcontinent in the latter half of the fourteenth century,8 there is evidence to suggest that even as early as Hazrat Mu‘īn ud-Dīn Chīshtī of Ajmer (d. 1236/633), who was a contemporary of ibn ‘Arabī, a doctrine very similar to ibn ‘Arabī’s unity of being was the centerpiece of Chīshtī teachings in the Indian Subcontinent. As the late Khaliq Ahmad Nizami (1925–97) noted: The firm faith in the unity of being (wahdat al-wujūd) provided the necessary ideological support to Mu’īn ud-Dīn’s mystical mission to bring about the emotional integration of the people amongst whom he lived.9 Aziz Ahmad also affirms that the sheet-anchor of the Chishtī order was the doctrine of wahdat al-wujūd which explains the influence on it of ibn al-‘Arabī’s almost pantheistic ideas.10 And Sayyid Athar Abbas Rizvi concurs that the devotional approach of Shaikh Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya regarding the doctrine of wujūd was not basically different from the speculative one of Ibn ‘Arabī.11 While, with Hazrat Banda Nawāz Gīsūdirāz (1321/721–1422/825), the Áalīfa of Hazrat Nasīr ud-Dīn Chirāg-i-Dihlī (1276–1356/757), a major reinterpretation of Chīshtī mystical teachings with regard to ibn al-‘Arabī’s wahdat al-wujūd appears to take place, the doctrine of the Unity of Being is revised to the Unity of Witnessing (wahdat al-shuhūd),12 at the same time, the intra- and interreligious dialogue surrounding the mystical perception that “All is He!” becomes even more intense among the mystics—both Hindu and Muslim—of the Indian Subcontinent, producing diverse effects. On the one hand, as a counterreaction, there is an enormous production of literature on Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) beginning from the latter half of the fourteenth century,13 while, on the other hand, there is an even more determined outreach by Muslim mystics, especially those who came to India from Iran in the sixteenth century, to join in dialogue with their Hindu brethren, who had reached similar levels of mystical experience through the ontological monism of advaita-vedānta and the devotional path of bhakti.14

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Beginning with the famous 108 sayings of Hazrat Mu ‘īn ud-Dīn Chīshtī in the thirteenth century one can effortlessly place corresponding teachings from the bhakti tradition next to the words of the great Shaikh: He indeed is a true devotee, blessed with the love of Allah, who is gifted with the following three attributes: (1) River-like charity, i.e. his sense of charity has no limits and is equally beneficial to all the creatures of Allah who approach him, (2) sun-like affection, i.e. his affection may be extended indiscriminately to all like sunlight and (3) Earth-like hospitality, i.e. his loving embrace may be open to all like that of the earth.15 For Shaikh Mu ‘īn ud-Dīn Chīshtī the highest form of devotion (tā ‘at) was to redress the misery of those in distress, to fufill the needs of the helpless and to feed the hungry.16 Already in the early fourteenth century we hear Shaikh Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya voice the mature statement of Chīshtī’s mystical doctrines with regard to nonMuslims: Sansār har pūje kul ko jagāt sarāhe May the whole world worship (Allah)! May all praise (Him)! Makke men koī hūn he Kāśī ko koī chāhe One seeks Him in Mecca, another desires Him in Kāśī. Duniyā men apne pī ke payyāri parūn na kāhe I have found my Beloved in the world. Should I not bow down before Him? Har qaum rāst rāhe dīne wa qiblagāhe Every nation has its faith and the direction of its qibla. Man qiblā rāst kardam bar simt-e-kajkulāhe But I keep my eye on the tilted cap of the Beloved. Kajkulā ‘ajabe! O wondrous Wearer of the Tilted Cap!17 By emphasizing that Allah abides only in the heart of man, abides equally in the hearts of all men, and is equally absent in the various houses that men build for Him, such as the masjid, church, or temple, the Sufis at once made a powerful statement of the equality of all true believers in God and, conversely, that all forms of exoteric religion and the places in which they are practiced are equally ineffectual in bringing one nearer to God. This central tenet of Sufism remains

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the chief source of contention between the orthodox ‘ulama and the followers of the Sufi Way of the Heart up to this day. In the oldest surviving lines of poetry in Deccani Urdu the great Chīshtīyya Hazrat Banda Nawāz Gīsūdirāz, despite his criticism of ibn al-‘Arabī’s doctrine of the Unity of Being (wahdat al-wujūd), leaves no doubt that he too shares this core value of Chīshtī mystical doctrine: ‘Allaha ko dekhya so mainca ‘Allaha nahin milaya kahinca lokana batae kahī ke kakinca unhe milaya yahin ke yahinca. When I looked for Allah I could not find Him anywhere. When the people said ‘He’s out there somewhere’, I found Him here and here only.18 But it is in the poetry of Bulhe Shah (d. 1754) that the presence of Allah in man is underlined in vivid metaphors taken from the everyday life of the rural Punjab of the eighteenth century: The Muslims are afraid of cremating the dead body And the Hindus are afraid of burying it. But they quarrel about small points And miss the One who lives within.19 Or In this dark and slippery world Men’s eyes are turned outward So that they cannot see the One within. Here one is called “Ram Das” And another is called “Fateh Muhammad”. But when you see Who is within both You see neither “Ram Das” nor “Fateh Muhammad” But only the One without a second. Or Men tire themselves reading the Vedas and the Qur’ān, Their foreheads are worn thin by rubbing on stones. But they will never see Allah in Mecca nor in any other place because Allah is within man. He sits concealed in my own heart.20

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But …in his innumerable forms Allah is a Sunni here and a Shia there. He has matted locks here And is clean-shaven there. He reveals Himself here And conceals Himself there. He Himself is the mullah and the qazi, He Himself is the talīb. Here He is Rumi, there He is Shami, Here the maula (Master), there the banda (Slave). Here He is among the distinguished There among the commoners. Here He is in the masjid, there He is in the mandir.21 Though Allah is present in all beings and in each man’s heart, only a pīr or a guru can teach the seeker the special vision required to perceive Him. Knowing how to spin thread on the spinning wheel is a beloved metaphor throughout the Subcontinent for treading the path of divine love properly. Especially in the final years of human life the spiritual friend guides the seeker on to the union with the Beloved, lest the thread break on the spinning wheel and the soul leave behind the body as a corpse. As the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (1948–97) once sang (and thrilled us to the marrow): Bulhe Shah pleased the Friend with bells on his ankles; Ranjha got jog by getting his ears split to put on earrings; Everyone has to find a way to meet the Friend, whatever the cost. (...) I will not go to any other door, nor will I return empty-handed. O Beloved! Put a new thread on my spinning wheel...22 In the course of time the poetry of the Sufi pīrs, both of the great and famous and of the humble and only locally known, expressed in images and metaphors of everyday life, especially rural life, became familiar idioms of devotional hymns, qawwalī, which spoke and still speak to the spiritually minded millions of the Subcontinent regardless of their religious communities, castes, regional languages, or political boundaries. In the hymns of the most beloved devotional singers or qawwals, such as the late Ghulam Farid Sabri (1930–94) and Maqbul Ahmad Sabri (1941–), Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, and Aziz Miyan (1942–2000), the sublime invitations to spiritual dialogue sung in the twelfth century in the poetry of ibn al-‘Arabī and

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Shaikh Mu‘īn ud-Dīn Chīshtī, reechoed in the thirteenth century by Shaikh Farīd ud-Dīn Ganj-i-shakar (d. 1235) and in the fourteenth century by Shaikh Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya and Amir Khusrau (d. 1325), reaffirmed in the early fifteenth century by Hazrat Banda Nawāz Gīsūdirāz, and then woven into deeply moving threads of everyday life in the rural Punjab of the eighteenth century by Bulhe Shah (d. 1754) and Shah Abdul Latīf of Bhit (d. 1752), these sublime words still call the seeker of whatever religion he may be to seek God in his own heart and see God in the heart of his neighbor, be guided by a benevolent master, the Friend, and be ever conscious of Him, on Whom all creation depends equally from second to second and from eternity to eternity: Jahan vo hāī, vahan dil hāī. Jahan dil hāī, vahan sab kuch hāī. Pehle maqāme pīr samajhne ki zarurat hāī. Tu merī dīvāngī par Yeh hush vāle behas farmāīe: āchā! merī dīvāngī par Yeh hush vāle behas farmāīe. Lekin magar pehle inhein dīvāna bane ki zarurat hāī. merī dīvāngī par Yeh hush vāle behas farmāīe magar pehle inhein dīvāna bane ki zarurat hāī. Iske bāwujud bhi yeh Muslim, Yeh Muslim, Muslim yeh hi Kehte hāī ka: Masjid māīn ā! Hindu yeh he kehte hāī: Mandar āchā! Sikhun kā yeh da’wah ke: Gurdār āchā! Aur ‘Esāī yeh kehte hāī ke: Girjā ā! Phir Ka’ba, Qalisā, Gurdār vo Gangā In sāre bākharon se mujhe mañlab kīā māīn to dīvānī, Khvājā ki dīvānī. Khvājā ki dīvānī, dīvānī Khvājā ki dīvānī māīn to dīvānī, Khvājā ki dīvānī māīn to dīvānī, Khvājā ki dīvānī23 Where He is, the heart is. Where the heart is, there’s everything. But first you must understand the spiritual level of the pīr. “You are my Beloved, you are my Beloved.” Those who know this say “Yes!”

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Again, “You are my Beloved.” Those who know this say “Yes!” Those who know this say again “Yes!” But first you must be mad about Him. Those who know this say again: “You are my Beloved.” But first you must be mad about Him. But, later, these Muslims, these same Muslims These Muslims say: “Come to the masjid!” The Hindus say: “The mandar is good!” The Sikhs say: “The gurdwāra is good!” And the Christians say: “Come to the church!” Again, the Ka’ba, the Cross, the Gurdwāra, and the Gangā. What’s the use of all these places for me? I am crazy, crazy about Khwāja. I am crazy, crazy about Khwāja. (repeated four times). And no less do we feel the love for one’s neighbor in the exhortations of the poet-laureate of the Muslims of India, Mirzā Ghalib Asadullāh24 (1797–1869): A true heart and steadfastness are the roots of faith. If the Brahman should die in the idol house So bury him in the Ka’ba anyway.25 And If I have moved to the Ka’ba, Don’t censure me! Have I forgotten the people of the fire-temple And their claim upon my society?26 Not only does God dwell in the heart of man, it is He Himself Who gives man faith and unconditionally accepts that faith. The highest possible moral position is reached when a person realizes this and, no longer depending upon himself alone, takes the leap to faith27 implied in Christ’s great teaching: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all The law and all the prophets. (The Gospel of St. Matthew, XXXII, 34–40)

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Conclusion A strong current runs through Sufism in South Asia that recognizes truths in all religions. Many Sufis understand faith as God’s gift. It is not a human work, derived from or mediated exclusively through, membership of one religious tradition. Several chapters in this book draw attention to this current of openness and social inclusion, which remains vibrant despite counter trends from some Muslims.

Notes Raja Asghar, “Fazl says misuse of blasphemy law can be discussed,” Dawn, March 5, 2011, http://www.dawn.com/2011/03/05/fazl-says-misuse-of-blasphemy-lawcan-be-­discussed.html, accessed August 4, 2011; and Issam Ahmed, “Pakistan attacks reveal widening split between religious parties and militants,” Christian Science Monitor, March 31, 2011, “http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Asia-Pacific/2011/0331/Pakistan-attacksreveal-widening-split-between-religious-parties-and-militants accessed August 4, 2011. 2 Sarah Khan, “Fatwa of Shaykh ul-Islam Mufti Muhammad Idris Usmani about Malik Mumtaz Qadri and his supporter,” Let us build Pakistan, January 5, 2011, http://criticalppp.com/archives/36283 accessed August 4, 2011. 3 Barbara Plett, “Can Sufi Islam counter the Taleban?” BBC News, http://news. bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/south_asia/7896943.stm. Published: 2009/02/24 05:55:03 GMT. Accessed August 4, 2011. 4 Declan Walsh, “Video of Girl’s Flogging as Taliban hand out justice,” The Guardian, April 2, 2009, http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/apr/02/taliban-pakistan-justice-women-flogging accessed August 4, 2011. 5 Hugh van Skyhawk, “The Wine Cup of Love and the Message of Peace: Sufi Poetry and Civil Courage”, 173–85 in Journal of Asian Civilizations (Islamabad), Vol. XXXII, No. 1 (July 2009), pp. 184f. 6 Futūhāt al-Makkiyyah, II. 290. Translated by W. Chittick in: The Sufi Path of Knowledge (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1989). 7 Tarjumān al-Ashwāq (Madras: Theoso Publishing House, 1911), poem XI. 8 Syed Shah Khusro Hussaini, Sayyid Muhammad al-husaynī-i-Gīsūdirāz: On Sufism (Delhi: Idarah-i-Adabiyat-i-Dellim, 1983), 10. 9 Nizami, K. A., “Chishtiyya”, in The Encyclopedia of Islam (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1965), 50–6. 10 Aziz Ahmad, An Intellectual History of Islam in India (published in the series: Islamic Surveys, vol. 7, Edinburgh: University Press, 1969), 38. 11 Sayid Athar Abbas Rizvi, Muslim Revivalist Movements in Northern India in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, (Agra: Agra University1965), 43 and 54. 12 Hussaini, op. cit., p. 9. Also see S. S. Khusro Hussaini, “Shuhud vs. Wujud. A Study of Gisudiraz”, 323–39 in Islamic Culture (Hyderabad), vol. LIX, no. 4 (October 1985). 1

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Hussaini, op. cit., p. 10. Cf. Hugh van Skyhawk, “Ethical Implications of the Mahāvākyas in the Literature of the Cānd Bodhale Circle”, 285–94 in Bhakti in Current Research, 2001–2003, 285–94, Horstmann, Monika (ed.) (published as vol. XLIV, South Asian Studies, Delhi; Manohar, 2006). 15 Mirza Wahiduddin Begg, The Holy Biography of Khwaja Muinuddin Chisti (Tucson: The Chisti Sufi Mission of America and The Hague: East-West Publications Fonds, 1977), 139f. 16 Hussaini, op. cit., p. 7. 17 Cf. Regula Burckhardt Qureshi, Sufi Music of India and Pakistan: Sound, Context and Meaning in qawwali, Cambridge Studies in Ethnomusicology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 42; and Hugh van Skyhawk, “Der muslimische Beitrag zur religioesen Dichtung Marāñhī-sprechender Hindus”, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenlaendischen Gesellschaft , 87–99 (ZDMG), Band 153, Heft 1 (2003), 98f. I remain grateful to the late Professor Dr. h.c. mult. Annemarie Schimmel (1922–2003) for informing me that these famous verses attributed to Shaikh Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya (first stanza) and Amīr Khusrau (second stanza) were actually completed spontaneously in the second stanza by Shaikh Nizām ud-Dīn Auliya’s friend ÿasan Sijzī Dihlawī (d. 1328 a.D.) and that the reference to the “tilted cap” refers to the Prophet Muhammad (Peace and Prayers be upon Him!), who, according to a ḥadīth, had on his mirāj seen Allah (s.w.t.) as a beautiful youth wearing a tilted cap (personal communication, 2001). 18 That is, in the heart. Gesu Daraz’s perception of God being ‘here and now’ can also be found in sura 2, åyat 109 of the Holy Qur´an: ‘Whithersoever ye turn there is the Face of God’, while the impossibility of seeing Allah is declared in sura 6, ayat 103. ‘Sights do not reach Him.’ Similar mystical expressions of the immanence and immediacy of God can be found in Mir Dard (1721–85): ‘The veil on our Friend’s Face that’s we ourselves: We opened our eyes, and no veil was left.’ And in Shah ‘Abdu’l Latīf of Bhit (1689–1752): ‘One castle and a hundred doors, and windows numberless: Wherever you may look, o friend, there you will see His Face.’ Translations from XE “Annemarie Schimmel” Annemarie Schimmel, Pain and Grace. A Study of Two Mystical Writers of Eighteenth-Century Muslim India; published in the series: Studies in the History of Religions/Supplements to Numen, vol. XXXVI, Leiden [E.J. Brill], 1976, p. V. 19 Quoted by J. S. Grewal, “The Sufi Beliefs and Attitudes in India,” 24–38 in Asghar Ali Engineer ed. Sufism and Communal Harmony (Jaipur: Printwell, 1991), 30f. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid. 22 Engineer, op. cit., p. 33. On the development of Sufi folk poetry in the Indian Subcontinent out of Arabic and Persian sources of Islamic tradition, see Ali S Asani, “Sufi Poetry in the Folk Tradition of Indo-Pakistan”, Religion and Literature, vol. 20: 81–94 (Spring 1988). 23 My transcription and translation of Ghulam Farid Sabri, and Maqbool Ahmad Sabri, “Khvājā ki dīvānī”, from the album Legends, vol. 4, Karachi 1999. 24 Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, A History of Sufism in India, vol. 2, (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1983), 457. 13 14

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Rafia Sultana, Bhakti-Cult and Urdu Poets (Hyderabad: Cooperative Press, no date given), 11. 26 Ibid. 27 On the necessity of a “leap to faith,” see Søren Kierkegaard, The Concept of Anxiety, translated and edited by Thomte (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980 original 1844). 25

Chapter 15

South Asian Sufism in America Marcia Hermansen

South Asian Sufism has a long and variegated history and presence in America. Some of the complexity of the topic should be indicated at the outset. One dimension is that South Asia extends beyond India and Pakistan to include Sufi trends from Sri Lanka and even Fiji. Further, America extends beyond the United States, and although I know little of Mexican developments, Canada, which has received so many South Asian immigrants, has been and continues to be a center for Sufi movements. How we define Sufism also needs to be ­elaborated. The strictest definition might limit the discussion to initiatory Sufi orders that have a discrete identity and inculcate some form of exercises and guidance toward individual development along with collective spiritual practice. Beyond that, however, we find South Asian influences both among universalist groups that invoke the name Sufi with minimal reference to Islamic identity or ­practice, and within South Asian post-tariqa movements such as Deobandism, Barelvism, and Tablighi Jama’at that may have little or no scope for initiation or individual Sufi practice alongside collective activities. In the United States, three types of Sufi movements emerged over the twentieth century. One strand of movements, more universalistic in outlook, invoked Sufism and some aspects of Muslim tradition, but did not demand formal conversion to Islam of their adherents. The earliest, most well known, and successful of these movements was that brought by the Indian Chishti Sufi, Hazrat Inayat Khan (d. 1927). Other universalist Sufi movements include branches or offshoots of the Inayat Khan movement such as the Sufi Movement, the Sufi Islamiyat Ruhaniyat Society, and the Dances of Universal Peace (Samuel Lewis) that are more remotely connected to South Asia. The Society for Sufi Studies (Idries and Omar Ali Shah) also included a South Asian element, for while Idries Shah claimed royal Afghan blood, he was born in Shimla, India, and his father and grandfather were born in British India as well. A second type of South Asian Sufi movement, while substantially recruiting among Americans, has a grounding in the Islamic shari’a (ritual law) and ­understands being Muslim as essential to spiritual progress within the Sufi tradition. In one of my early papers on the subject I termed such movements “hybrids.”1 Most of the leaders of these movements have been immigrants from Muslim societies. Notable among South Asian movements of this type is the

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Bawa Muhaiyaddeen Fellowship, established by a Sinhalese teacher, Guru Bawa (d. 1986). Even in this case there remains some ambiguity about the shari’a orientation since a substantial proportion of Bawa’s pupils see his teachings as universal, rather than specifically Islamic. I can think of no other South Asian hybrid Sufi movement, although South Asian immigrants and their children have joined other non-South Asian hybrid movements, in particular the Naqshbandi–Haqqani Order led by the Cypriot, Shaikh Nazim, and directed in the West by Shaikh Hisham Kabbani, who is of Lebanese origin. Finally, in a category that I term “transplants,” I place Sufi groups influenced by South Asian tariqa Sufism. Such groups have included pockets of immigrants from Muslim societies, particularly found in larger urban centers such as New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, who follow Sufism in ways very similar to practices in their home societies. The specifically South Asian emphasis of this volume leads me for the first time to include consideration of what might be termed “post-tariqa” or “quasi-tariqa” movements that are very South Asian, while being somewhat removed from the Sufism of the traditional orders. Here I would include varieties of Islamic practice, interpretation, and spirituality that emerged in India in more recent centuries, especially since the late 1800s, such as those associated with the Deoband madrasa system and with the movement known as Barelvism initiated by Reza Khan of Bareli (1856–1921). These forms are especially influential today in certain areas of the United States and Canada and have found a strong following among Muslim youth of South Asian background. While they make many accommodations and adjustments to the modern, in some cases by using technology or social media, they have little attraction for Americans and therefore they may also be considered transplanted forms of South Asian Sufism.

Early South Asian Universalist Sufism in America – the Inayat Khan movement Hazrat Inayat Khan was born in Baroda (Varodhera), India, in 1882 into a family of prominent classical Indian musicians. As a young man he frequented Indian courtly society and became a Sufi disciple of the Hyderabadi Chishti, Abu Hashim Madani (d. 1907). His teacher instructed him that his mission lay far to the West and Inayat Khan first embarked on a career bringing classical Hindustani music to America in 1910. In the aftermath of the World Parliament of Religions in Chicago in 1893 and through the activities of groups such as the Theosophical Society, he found the West ready to receive Eastern spirituality of a certain type. Inayat Khan is said to have realized that his Western audiences in many cases needed spiritual instruction from him more than musical edification. He therefore reoriented his

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a­ ctivities and to a great extent sacrificed his music in order to better serve what he perceived as the spiritual needs of the West.2 Inayat Khan traveled throughout the United States, Western Europe, and Russia, giving lectures and musical performances after which he would often hold informal talks with potential disciples, conferring formal initiation into the Sufi Order upon all those who requested it.3 Circles of disciples, or murids as they were called, were established in England, France, Switzerland, and the United States. In  1915 the Sufi Order of the West was registered in London under the “Rules and Regulations of the Sufi Order,”4 and in 1923 the International Headquarters of the Sufi Movement was legally instituted in Geneva.5 In the United States, Inayat Khan’s first disciple, and later head of the American branch of the Sufi Order, was a woman, Ada Martin (known as Rabia Martin). Another early American disciple was Samuel Lewis, who was to become a seminal figure in the development of the American Sufism in the 1960s. In 1914 Inayat Khan married an American woman, Ora Ray Baker, who had initially been his student in music.6 Inayat Khan’s career as a Sufi master was cut short by his death during a return visit to India at the age of forty-four. By this time he had initiated a number of European and American disciples into Sufism and given copious teachings and lectures. Most of his published works are based on transcripts of the talks made by disciples. His teachings explored the common spiritual themes of various world religions and he did not require his followers to formally accept Islam or to practice the Islamic shari’a. In Inayat Khan’s Sufi order there were many elements of South Asian Sufi practice and cultural sensibility. Terms such as murshid, dhikr, or wazīfa are used. The Chishti-Nizami silsila is published as being his spiritual lineage. Certain elements also draw on the eclectic spirituality and ideas of mastery in movements such as Theosophy, which also had a strong Indian influence. The image of India as pluralistic and deeply spiritual is conveyed in his writings. Themes from other world regions and religions are embodied in the weekly practice know as universal worship, where edifying passages are read from a range of scriptures. One joined the order through a process of initiation with the murshid or his representative and received individual concentrations and wazīfas in periodic interviews, progressing through 12 grades or levels. Certain teachings and practices were only introduced at the higher stages. Inayat Khan’s son and successor, Vilayat Khan (1916–2004), grew up in Europe but spent time in India after World War II studying with both Hindu teachers and a Sufi in the Kalimi-Chishti lineage in Hyderabad. Vilayat Khan’s teaching was eclectic, incorporating some Sufi practices based on the breathing techniques, as well as tantric-style exercises based on chakra visualization, and later on Christian and alchemical symbolism.7 In this Order, the South Asian Sufi tradition of commemorating the death anniversary or ‘urs of Inayat Khan is preserved and Khan was interred in a shrine near the Nizamuddin Dargāh in

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Delhi, built on land donated by the famous Indian Sufi, Khwaja Hasan Nizami, who had known him personally.8 European and American murīds of the movement who came to India for the ‘urs were exposed to Indian Sufi practices such as listening to qawwālī music and this also kept a certain South Asian flavor within the Order. Vilayat Khan’s son and successor, Zia Inayat Khan (b. 1972), the current head of the order, was especially attracted to his South Asian heritage and spent extensive time in Baroda (Varodhera) and Hyderabad learning Urdu and Persian so as to undertake deeper study of the sources of the Chishti Sufi tradition. He married an Indian woman from his circle of relatives, further deepening his personal connection to India. Among the current following of the Sufi Order International,9 however, the Islamic or South Asian influence seems to be less than it was during Vilayat Khan’s leadership in the late 1960s and 1970s. This may be due to the fact that the post-baby boom generation has a less romantic view of South Asian and Indian spirituality, while inexpensive overland travel to India has become increasingly difficult, if not impossible, since the Iranian Revolution and the invasion of Afghanistan in the late 1970s, not to mention the current overt and covert wars along the route.

Samuel Lewis and the Sufi Ruhaniyat Samuel Leonard Lewis (d. 1970) was born in San Francisco on October 18, 1896, to Jacob Lewis, a vice-president of the Levi Strauss Company, and the former Harriet Rothschild, of the international banking family. His Sufi name was Ahmed Murad Chishti.10 He was an early student of Inayat Khan who also followed Zen and Yogic paths and teachers.11 His “Sufism” was transmitted to a smaller circle of disciples in San Francisco during the 1960s.12 He developed, in particular, practices of “spiritual” movement and “Sufi dancing” utilizing circle and round dances in group settings accompanied by the chanting of litanies drawn from various religious traditions, including the Islamic profession of faith. This is still carried on in many parts of the West in the form of the Dances of Universal Peace.13 The disciples that Lewis passed on to Inayat Khan’s son, Vilayat Khan, infused the latter’s group with new leadership and energy in the early 1970s. Many of “Sufi Sam’s’” disciples chose to constitute a distinct group called the Sufi Islamia Ruhaniat Society.14 Members of this group share in the annual ‘urs of Inayat Khan held every February in the Nizamuddin area of New Delhi, India. The current leader, Shabda Kahn, is an accomplished musician in the Indian tradition. Later in life Lewis maintained a correspondence and spiritual connection with the Pakistani Sufi, Barakat Ali (d. 1997), based near Faisalabad, with whom he had taken initiation. Despite dropping the term “Islamiyat” from their title, the group is interested in some elements of Islamic Sufi practice, for example, reciting the divine names of Allah with proper pronunciation, as evidenced by a website providing MP3 sound files to accompany a forthcoming book on reciting the wazīfas.15

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The International Sufi Movement This group in the Inayat Khan [Inayati] lineage has had rather more influence in Europe, Canada, Australia,16 and New Zealand, although there are some activities in the United States. This branch did not accept the succession going to Inayat Khan’s son, Vilayat, but focused more on relatives Mahboob Khan, Ali Khan, and Musharaff Khan.17 The current leader is Inayat Khan’s son, Hidayat, who was born in 1917 and trained as a European classical musician. In 1988, Hidayat Inayat Khan assumed the role of Representative-General of the International Sufi Movement and Pīro-Murshid of its Inner School. He divides his time between Holland and CHART OF THE INAYAT KHAN (INAYATI) LINEAGES ‘Inayat Khan’s selected sub-lineages (leadership dates in bold) Muinuddin Chishti (d. 1236 Ajmer) [After 600 years of successors] ‘Inayat Khan (1882–1927/1910–1927) The Sufi Movement/ The Sufi Order in the West

Mahbub Khan (1927–1948) (‘Inayat Khan’s brother)

Samuel Lewis (1923–1971) aka Ahmad Murad Chishti

Muhammad Ali Khan (1948–1958) ‘Inayat Khan’s uncle

Muinuddin Jablonsky (1971–2001)

Musharraf Khan (1958–1967) ‘Inayat Khan’s brother

Sufi Islamia Ruhaniat Society renamed Sufi Ruhaniat International in 2002 by current leader, Shabda Kahn

Fazl ‘Inayat Khan (1967–1977) (‘Inayat Khan’s grandson)

Dances of Universal Peace

Hidayat ‘Inayat Khan (1977–present) (‘Inayat Khan’s son)

Vilayat Khan (1916–2004/1956–2004) (‘Ināyat Khan’s son) Zia ‘Inayat Khan (2004–present) (Vilayat Khan’s son)

The International Sufi Movement

The Sufi Order

  Chart Based on Art Buehler “Modes of Sufi Transmission to New Zealand”, 101.

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­Germany, and travels extensively, giving classes and lectures on Sufism.18 In the United States the main representative is Rabia Perez. In a 2010 article, she described the leadership of the movement as “under a collaborative pīr. It offers a bold change in how we will address leadership in the world.”19 The same article describes Inayat Khan’s teachings as “synthesized Sufi practices, extracted from four Sufi turuk, the Chishti, Naqshbandi, Qādiri and Suhrawardi lineages.”20 In addition, she says, “[h]e developed what we now call the Five Activities of the Star, the Esoteric school, the Universal Worship Activity, the Healing Activity, the Sister/Brotherhood Activity and the Zirat (Ecological Symbology) Activity.”21 These latter elements are also part of Sufi Order activities.

The Golden Sufi Centre Although they trace their lineage to an Indian branch of the Naqshbandi Sufi Order, I would classify the Golden Sufi Centre as a “universalist” Sufi movement. This group was inspired by the teaching and writings of a female teacher from Britain, Irena Tweedie (d. 1999),22 who traveled to India in  1961 and became the disciple of a Hindu Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi called “Bhai Sahib.” Tweedie chronicled the process of her instruction in her book Chasm of Fire, first published in 1985, and since 1986 available in an expanded version as Daughter of Fire.23 Once the book was published, she began to give lectures at the Theosophical society in London and started a small meditation group. Her followers later expanded to Germany and Switzerland. She first visited the United States in the role of a spiritual teacher in 1985 and again in 1987 when she came to the Bay Area accompanied by fifty disciples from London. She appointed Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee as her successor before her retirement in  1992.24 On her instructions he started a group in Inverness, Marin County, California, and since 1991 has resided for long periods in the United States where he writes articles and books and occasionally gives seminars on spirituality and Jungian dream interpretation. In an article, Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee describes the meditation process of the tariqa using Sanskrit terms such as dhyana and samadhi and indicating their compatibility with Jungian psychological understandings of the transformative process. He lists the practices of the group as primarily consisting of meditation, dreamwork, discussion, and ultimately the relationship with the teacher, known as suhbat.25 He further characterizes the Naqshbandi Sufi path as the most introverted one,26 indicating the challenge of such a practice in “extroverted” American culture. For example, “solitude in the crowd,” a traditional Naqshbandi teaching, is described as a spiritual process that primarily takes place in inner worlds beyond the conscious mind, a dimension that is often difficult for Americans who expect fast and tangible results.27

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As of 1994 there were an estimated 500–600 members of this movement in Germany and Switzerland, 300 in England, and 200 in the United States.28 In the United States, a website notice as of 2011 lists Golden Sufi meditation groups in northern California, Los Angeles, Seattle, Boulder, Minnesota, Chicago, North Carolina, New York City, Boston, New Hampshire, and Vancouver, B.C.29

Guru Bawa Muhaiyuddeen: A Sufi saint from Sri Lanka The Bawa Muhaiyaddeen Fellowship was founded by a Singhalese teacher, Guru Muhammad Raheem Bawa Muhaiyaddeen, who first came to the United States in 1971. He gradually gathered a group of Western disciples at his Fellowship in Philadelphia, which is particularly remarkable since he was already quite elderly and never learned to speak more than rudimentary English.30 Bawa’s public career began in Sri Lanka during the 1940s when he emerged from the jungles and was approached by some pilgrims to local shrines who recognized him as a holy man and requested spiritual instruction from him. He founded an ashram in Jaffna, primarily a Hindu area, and was later invited to teach in Colombo by visiting Muslim businessmen. In 1955 he laid the foundation for a mosque in Mankumban, but the building was only fully constructed during the 1970s with material assistance form American followers. He, apparently, regularly used teaching stories from Hindu sources as well as stories of the Prophets (Qisās al-Anbiya) and other Muslim/ Sufi traditions.31 Bawa came to America at the invitation of a group of spiritual seekers with whom he had corresponded. His early circle in the United States was comprised of black and white Americans from both Christian and Jewish backgrounds. As this circle grew, disciples purchased a former Synagogue in the Overbrook area of Philadelphia that remains the central focus of the Bawa Muhaiyadeen Fellowship. Webb suggests that the early circle did not recognize the distinctive Sufi and Islamic elements of Bawa’s early teachings, despite their clear presence. He was rather perceived as a South Asian guru who imparted no formal practices or exclusive religious identity. In fact, the Sufi content of some of these early teachings has been documented by Gisela Webb as including the light of Muhammad (Nūr Muhammadī), the inner Qur’ān, letter symbolism of the Alif and Mīm, and the role of the Sufi saints of the past including Abd al-Qadir Jilani, among other elements.32 One may characterize a gradualism in Bawa’s introducing Islamic and Sufi elements of practice into his teachings during the period between 1971 and 1986 including the ritual prayers (salat), performance of silent and vocal dhikr, and finally, in 1984, the construction of a mosque. His tariqa affiliation is primarily Qadiriyya and this is written above the entrance to the mosque.

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Construction of the mosque element defined the group as Islamic, and this identification alienated some members who then left the group, while the Sufi aspects were not acceptable to some local non-Sufi Muslims who considered the movement to be heretical. The mosque did position the group more explicitly as part of the interfaith movement in Philadelphia, since it was no longer seen as an isolated cult but rather as representative of Islam. It also positioned the Fellowship as part of the international Muslim community and attracted more Muslims of immigrant Muslim background, both South Asians and others, to consider the teachings of Bawa. Currently there are three orientations among those involved with the ­Fellowship – a universalist group who do not see the teachings of Bawa as restricted to any one religious or cultural form; a group who come for the external practices of Islam associated with the mosque and Islamic functions and holidays; and a group following both external Islam and the Sufi elements of Bawa’s teachings. In fact, the eventual splitting of followers of hybrid Sufi groups into universalist- and shari’a-oriented branches is fairly typical in the West. Bawa did not appoint a successor and the community continues to publish archived material drawn from his teachings. Two Imams were appointed by Bawa to lead the Friday prayers. In addition to Friday prayer activities, there are Sunday sessions focusing on Bawa’s teachings, Friday and early morning dhikr sessions, as well as children’s and other meetings. There is also a school for the children of Fellowship members. A farm in Unionville Pennsylvania was acquired to serve three functions: a residential and instructional site, a burial ground for Muslims, and the place for Bawa’s shrine (mazār), which is the first large structure of its type in the United States. The mazār is a concrete manifestation of South Asia Sufi custom in the United States and an annual ‘urs is held there. At many other times it is visited by pilgrims from around the United States. During some periods of Bawa’s leadership, disciples would follow him back and forth to Sri Lanka and reside there for extended periods33 and a handful of disciples even studied Tamil, so as to work more directly on his teachings. Writing in  2003, Webb states that the membership of the Fellowship has remained fairly steady at about 1,000, with several small branches in other cities and even in Canada. Numbers involved in the mosque activities would be even greater.34 While the group of followers is diverse and therefore does not take a collective stand on political and cultural issues, many individuals involved in the Fellowship have been inspired to undertake creative, spiritual, and progressive activities – contributing extensively to these sorts of currents within the broader American Muslim community in the United States. Here I might mention Coleman Barks, well-known translator of Rumi’s poetry and Sufi feminist scholar, Zohara Symmons.

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Hakim Moinuddin Chishti and the Chishti Order of ­America Another smaller example of hybrid Chishti practice under an American shaikh is the Chishti Order of America, founded in 1972 by Hakim G. M. Chishti. At first the group was known as the Chishti Sufi Mission, an affiliate of the Chishti Sufi Mission Society of India in Ajmer. Hakim was a student of Mirza Wahiduddin Begg who was a senior Sufi teacher in Ajmer during the 1970s. When Begg died in 1979, Hakim was granted his succession, a fact confirmed in a ceremony in Ajmer in 1980. At the same time, the Chishti Sufi mission was renamed the Chishti Order of America. Hakim Moinuddin has authored several books on traditional Sufi healing35 and studied and promoted unani medicine and aromatherapy. He studied Persian at the University of Arizona and traveled on a Fulbright to Afghanistan to study with traditional shaikhs and healers there. He claims a Chishti Sabiri lineage and was also associated with a Pakistan Shaikh, Syed Safdar ‘Alī Chishti of Lahore. This group features one of the first born-in-America Muslim Sufi shaikhs and although small in numbers, may represent South Asia Sufi influence through its promotion of unani healing, which is typical of South Asian ethno-medical cultural practice.

Transplants and local forms of South Asian Sufism in ­America The small South Asian immigrant groups in local American contexts are too diverse and numerous to be comprehensively documented and described in the course of this chapter. They constitute expressions of Sufism in America where one would find the most South Asian diversity in language, nationality, tariqa affiliation, and practice. Since the transplants are so closely linked to immigration patterns, I will briefly summarize that element. Literature on South Asian immigration identifies two major waves of immigration to the United States. The first wave during the first half of the twentieth century was limited and consisted primarily of agriculturalists and working-class immigrants from the state of Punjab. The second wave following immigration changes since the Luce-Celler Act of 1946 brought in more diverse groups, and Lyndon Johnson’s Hart-Cellar Act of 1965 further opened the door for immigration based on skills and education. Not only were South Asians immigrants originating from postcolonial nations like Bangladesh, India, Nepal, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, the community also consisted of individuals belonging to the wider South Asian diaspora spread across the world. The selectivity of American immigration standards initially insured that immigrants would generally have high

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levels of education and skills required to rapidly advance in American society. Family reunification gateways to immigration eventually resulted in some immigrants coming without strong language skills or professional training. While some degree of illegal South Asian Muslim immigration also takes place, many illegal South Asian Muslim immigrants fled after 9/11. Historically and today, the West Coast and specifically the San Francisco Bay area is a rich center of South Asian Sufi immigrant populations and Sufi diversity. Among Sufis there, I encountered a small community of Fijian Rifa’i Sufis in San Jose who showed me tapes of their practices of testing faith and states of consciousness through sticking small skewers in their facial skin during a Rabita ceremony. Several academic colleagues in New Zealand have described similar groups of Fijian immigrant Sufis in their country.36 Afghan immigrants in Walnut Creek, CA, the Washington, DC area, and in Chicago also include small, tariqa-based circles of transplanted Sufis. I came across the website of one such group while researching this article.37 In Chicago, the large Hyderabadi immigrant population includes Sufi initiates from diverse turuk. Few continue traditional Sufi practices, and individual spiritual guidance is almost completely missing. What do persist are collective dhikr circles that may be held in basement mosques or in private homes. There is a strong overlap with the South Asian Barelvi population that holds broader sessions incorporating devotional practices such as celebrating the Prophet’s Birthday (milad), ceremonial viewing of a beard hair of the Prophet (mu’i mubarak), and recitation of the Qasida Burda (The Poem of the Mantle) accompanied by drums and processed flags. In New Jersey, Chicago, and perhaps some other cities, activities such as a public processions of green banners and chants of “Marhaba Ya Mustafa” may accompany the occasion of the Prophet’s Birthday. The disciples of Muhammad Afzal al-Din Nizami (d. 2007), a Hyderabadi Chishti shaikh, continue his lineage with monthly dhikr sessions, an annual ‘urs including ceremonies at the Rosehill cemetery where he is interred, and periodic Qawwālī sessions.38 Meanwhile a circle of South Asian Qadaris meets every Monday evening to perform a dhikr in the basement of the Elmdale (Hamidiyya) mosque in North Chicago. Dr. Abd al-Sattar Khan, a retired Arabic professor from Usmania University, who resides above the Elmdale mosque, is a shaikh and khalifa in the Naqshbandi lineage of Abdullah Shah Sahib (d. 1964) from Hyderabad.

Baji, a Pakistani Sufi shaikha in America Baji Tayyibah is a contemporary Pakistani Sufi shaikha who lives in Philadelphia. Since she has followers who are both Pakistani and American, her group could be considered in some ways hybrid, but the limited extent of her circle leads me

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to locate her among transplants. Baji’s family came to Pakistan from Agra in India and she speaks Urdu interspersed with English. She is a teacher in the Indian-based Chishti order (founded by Moinuddin Chishti, d. 1326), although her master held several lines of tariqa affiliation. Baji characterizes the path of Chishtis thus: “Small effort, big results. There are no complicated litanies and obligations to do every day. In spiritual seeking, there is the way of difficulty and the way of ease. We must take the way of ease.” Before he passed away, Baji’s teacher gave the succession of the order to Baji and her brother jointly. When asked by researcher Barbara von Schlegell whether one of them had more power than the other, she replied: “No. We are both ‘zeroes’.” In Peshawar the brother leads the men in their rituals and prayers, while Baji holds separate ceremonies for women. But in the United States she also has male disciples, including the adolescents and unmarried men of the group. Baji herself, who is perhaps forty years old, is not married. When asked about this, Baji was insistent that this celibacy is not Islamically acceptable; the reason she never married is that she performed istikhara (a prayer made to God to answer a specific question, made right before sleep) after every marriage proposal that came her way, but God never gave His consent to any of her suitors. Baji’s master, Mawla ‘Abd al-Rahim Chishti, was Pashtun but he insisted on women’s education and advancement. Baji says: “He wanted women to excel both in din and dunya (religion and the world).” The shaikh worked hard to convince husbands to allow their female family members to attend his Sufi ­gatherings. Every week, Baji cooks for hundreds of people; she owns and operates an Indian food business in the center of Philadelphia and she provides the donated meals at a local mosque.39

South Asian post-tariqa Sufi movements: Deobandis, Barelvis, and Tablighi Jama’at In discussing Deobandis, the Tablighi Jama’at, and Barelvis in relation to South Asian Sufi influences in America, the first issue to be addressed is whether these movements are, in fact, Sufi at all. There is disagreement on this issue arising from the fact that each of these groups stresses collective behavior and practice rather than individual spiritual training and initiation in a tariqa. For this reason they may be termed “post-tariqa” forms of Sufism. The Deoband madrasa was founded in 1867 in northern India by scholars in the lineage of Shah Wali Allah (d. 1762), a Naqshbandi Sufi scholar who himself combined scholarly, reformist, and Sufi elements in his thought and

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­ ractice. Deoband has been known for inculcating a rigorous madrasa training p along with Sufi-like attachment of students to their instructors as spiritual guides, and in fact these guides may have been members of Sufi turuk. Among the more famous Deobandi scholars have been Ashraf ‘Alī Thanvi, a Chishti and Hajji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, a Chishti Sabiri. Among Indian Deobandis one finds lines of both Chishti and Naqshbandi influences, along with the idea of a spiritualizing of the madrasa experience. More recently Deoband has been named as a source of Taliban training, although this is not characteristic of Deobandis more generally. In America, Deobandi ulema are increasingly influential since their institutions such as madrasas and fatwa boards are the most active in inculcating Islamic learning and practices in South Asian Muslim immigrant communities. In a few instances there are strands of what I term “Deobandi Tasawwuf.” An example of this is a group directed by Shaikh Hussain Abdul Sattar in Chicago. Abdul Sattar is a practicing physician trained in the United States and the khalifa of a Pakistan Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi, Shaikh Zulfiqar Ahmad.40 This is perhaps the only Deobandi group in North America that is openly “Sufi.” The group holds open lessons and a dhikr session every Sunday that are podcast from the Islamic Center of Chicago.41 In areas with significant South Asian Muslim populations I would generally place Deobandism as having a conservative influence – an alternative to the Salafi-Saudi trend that may be more resonant with South Asians. As an attitude and practice, Deobandism is fairly compatible with most strands of the United States Islam except for the rival South Asian Barelvis who offer little resistance. Part of its success in having a growing influence is through the madrasa institutions in the West that train young imams fluent in English who are capable of providing leadership due to their authority in Islamic law. In some senses we could see such influences as moving away from South Asian cultural Islamic practices toward a more transnational circulation of authority through mastery of fiqh. In this fiqh-privileging arena, the Hanafi school (madhhab) seems to be dominant, and of course this legal school is the most popular one among South Asians. Among youth in America who are primarily of South Asian background, currents that are primarily “fiqhi,” as opposed to Sufi, are represented by White Thread Press42 and Sunni Forum.43 The trend is clearly Hanafi Deobandi, although the Sunni Path accepts content from other Sunni legal schools as sufficiently “traditional.”

Tablighi Deobandis Another current in American Deobandism is what I term a Deobandi–Tablighi synthesis. The Tablighi Jama’at was founded in India in the 1920s by Maulana Muhammad Ilyas, a Deobandi scholar influenced by Sufism who was inspired to

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try to preach to the Muslim masses who were either uninformed or lax about their religion. Referred to by several contributors in this book, the Tablighis have been the subject of extensive scholarly interest as a global movement involving large numbers of Muslims transnationally, although the predominant constituency is South Asian. Over time I would observe that they have become ever less Sufi and more Deobandi in outlook. Many customs of the Tablighis do reflect their South Asian Sufi origins such as a preference for simplicity and maintaining proper comportment (adab). Unlike many of the other groups mentioned in this chapter, Tablighis eschew electronic and even print media, although they are not averse to traveling internationally by air – they often prefer to act locally and perform their missionizing tours around neighborhoods on foot. French scholar, Marc Garborieau, reviews conflicting scholarly opinions as to the Sufi nature of Tablighi Jama’at.”44 While some scholars have emphasized the Sufi origins of the movement in the life of Muhammad Ilyas, others put more stress on its critique of popular Sufi ritual and exclude it from the fold of tasawwuf. Garborieau states that the Tablighis have done away with all the external practices which characterized traditional Chishtiyya religiosity. Not only do they shun mystical audition, sama‘, which in Nizamuddin takes the shape of qawwālī singing; but they also prohibit the visit of the tombs in the dargāh complex, and the celebration of annual festivals which are either the Islamic death anniversaries of Nizamuddin, of the Indo-Persian poet Amir Khusrau (1253–1325) and of the Prophet Muhammad, or festivities of Hindu origin like basant in honour of the Spring.45 In contrast to Sufis, Garborieau characterizes Tablighis as “outward looking and collective,” “more concerned with building power than with self-improvement,” and having “lost all esoteric character and only interested in reform.”46 While Garborieau’s view is perhaps excessively harsh on Tablighis, it does appear that the overwhelming majority of Tablighis and Tablighi Deobandis can barely be considered Sufis at this point.

Sufi Barelvis Considering Barelvism47 as a manifestation of South Asian Sufism in America clearly fits in terms of its being South Asian. This interpretation and practice of Islam is typically South Asian and was given intellectual form by Reza Khan Barelvi, an early twentieth-century scholar. Barelvis promote and defend Islamic Sufi practices and attitudes such as veneration of the great saints (auliya) of the past and maintaining a devotional relationship with the Prophet Muhammad. On specific matters of practice and doctrine they have come into conflict with

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Deobandi and other views, at times leading to rather severe arguments and mutual condemnations.48 Individuals may be initiates of Sufi Orders as part of their Barelvi commitment or their Sufism may be more collective and diffuse. Scholars such as Pnina Werbner and Ronald Geaves (both contributors to this volume) have looked at the British South Asian Barelvi community, noting the overlap and occasional conflict between the authority of learned maulvis and of charismatic pīrs within that community. Institutionally, madrasas and mazārs are institutional centers for these varied forms of authority in England.49 In the case of the American landscape, there are perhaps fewer and less concentrated Barelvi populations and therefore this dynamic has not arisen. Two Barelvi-oriented madrasas are Al-Nur Masjid in Houston, Texas, and Dar al-‘Ulum Azizia in Dallas. In the following sections will mention a few other Barelvi organizations in America.

The Naqshbandiyya Foundation for Islamic Education The Naqshbandiyya Foundation for Islamic Education was founded by Barelvioriented Sufis from Pakistan, specifically murīd of Jama’at Ali Shah (d. 1955), a Naqshbandi, studied by Arthur Buehler),50 and organizers have tried to have an impact in the United States by organizing milad conferences (celebrations of the birth of the Prophet Muhammad), and at one point gathering ulema of the “Ahl-i sunna wa l-Jama’a” (Barelvi) orientation to try to form some kind of North American umbrella organization. That the group envisioned a broad Sufi–Barelvi consensus is evident from their website which links both Western and Muslim World Sufi Orders and the sites of Ahl-i Sunnat associations in various countries.51 Here a form of contemporary South Asian Sufism–­Barelvi-ism was being exported to the United States through immigrant networks, and attempts were made to cooperate with three local groups: American (Muslim) academics sympathetic to Sufism; American Sufi Orders, including at one point the Helveti-Jerrahis, Naqshbandi-Haqqanis, the Guru Bawa Fellowship, and some others; and Barelvi ‘ulama of South Asian origin. Several Milad al-Nabi conferences were held in Chicago (1993–5) that attempted to combine all three constituencies,52 and branches in several other American cities continue to host smaller events.53 I would characterize this effort as one based on the efforts of a handful of immigrant Muslim professionals. The main target of this initiative was to influence the Muslim community in North America toward more inclusion of the Barelvi element. However, most Muslim institutions, mosques, the Islamic ­Society of North America (ISNA), and so on rejected these manifestations of Sufism, and the Barelvis were not ultimately able to organize themselves in the United States at the national level.54 The ‘ulama didn’t achieve consensus among ­themselves, while the Sufi groups often were not very Barelvi in style, and had

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different concerns. For example, the divergent interests of American convert Sufis included a focus on Sufism as a source of personal development, promoting their respective charismatic shaikhs,55 identifying with classical “high” tradition Sufism, and nostalgia for the great Sufi past. At the same time in Pakistan, India, and even in Britain, one finds successful Barelvi madrasas and networks, in some cases even political parties – but of course these have emerged in ethnically more homogeneous “local” settings.56 Therefore we may question whether the problem with organized Barelvis taking hold in the United States is the paucity of a certain “class” of South Asian immigrants? We may also view it as attributable to elements in the American larger culture. Alternatively its failure may have occurred as a result of factors specific to the Muslim subculture in the United States; for example, the fact that most community organizations were already controlled by anti-Sufi ­Islamists.

Islamic Studies and Research Association (ISRA) An offshoot of Barelvi-organized milad activities that has become an independent site for Sufi activities is the Islamic Studies and Research Association (ISRA). This is said to have had its origin in a “think tank” established in 1987 formed by South Asian Muslim professionals. Since 1998 the group has gathered ulema and Sufi teachers across ethnicities and turuk, every year in North Carolina for a milad conference. The organization’s current mandate extends beyond milads or specifically South Asian-style activities to “introducing true tasawwuf (Sufism).”

Cary Mosque, North Carolina A Sufi-oriented mosque where teachings and practices are imparted is located in Cary, North Carolina.57 The teacher is a young graduate of the Jamia Arabia Ziaul ‘Ulum, Varanasi, India, and the Jamia Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya in New Delhi, Mufti Manzarul Islam. The founders of the mosque are disciples of Shaikh Ali Akhter Ali, a khalifa of Sufi Barkat Ali of Pakistan. While the mufti is of Indian origin and has written extensively on Ahmed Raza Kahn, the mosque also has many members with strong links to Pakistani Deobandi ‘ulama such as Asif Qasmi (Toronto) and Taqi Usmani (Pakistan).58

Minhaj ul-Qur’an Other manifestations of organized Barelvi groups in America are the Pakistani movement Minhaj ul-Qur’an, which is under the guidance of Maulana Tahir ul-Qadri (b. 1951), a Barelvi scholar who relocated to Toronto from Pakistan

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in 2005. (See Phillippon’s chapter in this volume.) Qadri is a community leader, intellectual, author, and the founder of a network of educational and charitable institutions in Pakistan. He issued a prominent fatwa against terrorism in 2010, and some say his relocation in Toronto is to avoid the dangerous environment of reprisals in contemporary Pakistan.

Davat-e Islami Davat-e Islami constitutes another sort of Barelvi movement founded by the Pakistani Maulana, Abu Bilal Ilyas Qadiri.59 Its reach is exclusively within the immigrant community and primarily to Pakistanis. A strong online presence is developing, including the ability to connect through Facebook and tweet. Downloads include Ghaus-e Azam (Abdul Qadir Jilani) wallpaper for your computer60 and aspirants can also become murīds online.61 In Chicago, for example, Dawat-i Islami has founded its own mosque and engaged in some public activities such as a milad parade on Devon Avenue.

South Asian Sufism in Canada According to one source, Sufism was first brought to Canada by Maulana Abdul Alim Siddiqui, a Barelvi scholar, who spoke in Edmonton and Toronto during a tour he made in 1939.62 In Toronto, one of the early tariqa Sufi teachers was the Chishti shaikh, Dr. Mirza Qadeer Baiq of Ajmer, India, who was a professor in the Islamic Studies Department of the University of Toronto from the late 1960s until his death in 1988.63 He was the deputy (khalifa) of the Guderi Shahi branch of the Chishti Order of Ajmer, India.64 He founded organizations such as the Society for the Understanding of the Finite and Infinite (SUFI), later known as the Sufi Circle of Toronto. Among his followers were both South Asian immigrants and Canadians who accepted Islam. Branches of South Asian Qadiri and Naqshbandi orders have also operated in Toronto. Among universalist Sufis, the first branch of Inayat Khan’s Sufi Order in the West began activities in Toronto in 1973. In Montreal, followers of this group, under the leadership of a French-Canadian, Jean-Pierre (Junayd) Gallien, began holding public meetings and teaching sessions in 1974. In western Canada, the Sufi teaching of Hazrat Inayat Khan was first introduced by his student, Shamcher Bryn Beorse, in the early 1970s. Beorse was living near Seattle at the time, and made contact through mail with a seeker in ­Edmonton named Carol Sill. After meeting Shamcher in person, and with his encouragement, Carol began to hold meetings, and a number of disciples (murīds) were initiated. Centers were subsequently started in Calgary and then in Banff. The Sufi seekers in western Canada were for a time associated with the Sufi Order, and had some contact with Sufi Order teachers Junayd Gallien, Anna

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Paloheimo, and Shahabuddin David Less. Pīr Vilayat also visited Calgary in those years. However, before his death in 1980, Shamcher Beorse introduced the small group to Hazrat Inayat Khan’s younger son, Hidayat Inayat Khan, and under his guidance they joined the International Sufi Movement in the early 1980s. Within the Sufi Movement, the first National Representative for Canada was Carol Sill. The Sufi Movement in Canada has centers in Edmonton, Calgary, Banff, Salmon Arm, Vancouver, Victoria, and Toronto, with a membership of approximately one hundred in the mid-1990s. A Canadian, Nawab Pasnak, edited the International Sufi Movement Magazine Caravanserai, published twice yearly from Sufi Movement Headquarters in The Hague for a time. Apart from local center activities, the Sufi Movement in Canada traditionally held a yearly camp, under the direction of Pir-o-Murshid Hidayat Inayat Khan, in the Rocky Mountains near Banff. In Vancouver both the Sufi Order and the Sufi Movements are active.65 In terms of post-tariqa South Asian Sufism Canada, there are four Deobandi madrasas in Canada. The first one is Al-Rashid Islamic Institute in Cornwall, Ontario. The second madrasa is Mufti Majid’s madrasa, Jamiatul ‘Ulum al Islamiyyah in Ajax, very close to Toronto. The third madrasa is Darul ‘Ulum in Bowmanville, Ontario, which is also very close to Toronto. The fourth one is in Kelowna, British Columbia, about five hours by car from Vancouver. As in the United States, Tablighi and Barelvi activities are also engaged in by South Asian immigrant Muslims.66 An article by Siddiq Osman Noormuhammad mentions a number of these activities taking place in Toronto including qawwālī singing, viewing of the Prophet’s beard hair, and dhikr sessions.

Conclusions Due to the South Asian focus of this chapter, I initially wish to comment on a romanticized idea of “India” evident in the teachings of Inayat Khan and Samuel Lewis. This image is also that of a religiously pluralistic India, evident in the stories and motifs that each Sufi leader prominently incorporated in his teachings, invoking examples from both Islamic and Hindu traditions. I have a sense that these ideas of India resonated differently between areas of the West that shared the linkages of the British Empire and the circulation of colonial administrators and ex-Raj families, and those that did not. This may explain why the Sufi Movement has been more prominent in Canada, Australia and New Zealand while the Sufi Order International was more influential in the United States. This romanticized idea of India overlooks periodic episodes of communal tensions and even violence. However, as several chapters in this book show, Sufism in South Asia has been a vehicle for building bridges across faiths and different expressions of Islam, countering other tendencies towards hostility and fragmentation. Universalist Sufism as it has developed in North America demonstrates the vitality and adaptability of Sufism in attempting to meet

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c­ ontemporary challenges, while illustrating the bias toward inclusivism in how India in represented among certain movements. The association of India with the mysterious East may also have played into the reception or appropriation of some Sufi claims or motifs among AfricanAmerican Islamic and proto-Islamic movements. Figures such as the Ahmadi missionary, Mufti Muhammad Sadiq, who preached in America during the 1920s. while not tariqa Sufi teachers, imparted some elements of South Asian spirituality in their teachings.67 A further concluding observation that I will make regards gender. Among the universalist Sufi movements, female participation and leadership began early and reaches high levels. In these groups restrictions on women in matters such as dress codes are often seen as cultural and outmoded. What does remain in both the Inayati and Golden Sufi lines is a sense of the “feminine” as a distinct category that needs to be appreciated and, to an extent, nurtured and protected in an extroverted Western culture that is by nature dismissive of it.68 This attitude is typical of traditionalist Sufism more generally.69 Hybrid and transplanted South Asian Sufi movements negotiate gender roles and behaviors much as other South Asian Muslim groups in the diaspora. It is clear that in America, as elsewhere in the West, the constituencies and interests of South Asian inspired Sufi movements can vary greatly. In South Asia itself, the shift from Sufi practice as an individual spiritual training imparted through an instructor Shaykh (shaykh tarbiyya) to a movement clustered around a Shaykh who embodies and conveys the charisma of a Sufi Order (shaykh tariqa), has been discussed by Arthur Buehler.70 This lack of attention to and competency for personal guidance among South Asian Sufi Orders was naturally also imported to the West. The Inayati movements attempted to retain a process of individual guidance and training by a shaykh, but faced the quandary that once any movement expanded beyond a smaller circle, the leader could not be available to provide such spiritual training on an individual basis. Attempts to institute deputyship and local leaders, most of whom were Western trainees, have only had a limited success and contributed to these groups becoming ever less Islamic and South Asian over time. The transplanted practices of specific South Asian tariqas as well as the larger post-tariqa constellations of Sufi inspired movements seem on the whole to have dropped the element of individual spiritual transformation and the personal training that leads to this, both in South Asia and the West. Among the Sufi Orders imported to the West from India, the Chishti tariqa seem to have come first to arrive and to have the greatest propensity to universalize and adapt. Its Indian origin and influences led the Chishtiyya to build conceptual bridges, even in South Asia, for example, by incorporating Hindu practices, terms, and spiritual motifs. Therefore the Chishti tariqa was the most distinctively South Asian Sufi Order and the most porous to cultural and religious diversity, and this continues to be the case in the West. The extent to

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which the performative elements of Chishti practice such as sama (Qawwali) can persist in the West is subject to factors such as the number of South Asian immigrants in a locality and the availability of specialists/performers. At the same time, among South Asian immigrants to North America other group performances such as recitation of the Qasida Burda may take on revitalized forms and broader practice in the diaspora, but these broader forms are primarily devotional rather than explicitly Sufi. In response to my inquiries about South Asian Sufi influences in America, one respondent answered that, “there is no difference between the Barelvi practice of Sufism and Arabic practices of Sufism”. This may disclose a current perception and possibly an aspiration to the ideal of an authentic trans-cultural Sufism. At the same time it may signal an Arabo-normative perception of Islam that is increasingly confronting local articulations and practices.

Notes Marcia Hermansen, “In the Garden of American Sufi Movements: Hybrids and Perennials.” In New Trends and Developments in the World of Islam, 155–78, Peter B. Clarke (ed.) (London: Luzac Oriental, 1997). 2 Inayat Khan, The Mysticism of Music and Sound (Tishery: Element, 1991), prologue. 3 James Jervis, “The Sufi Order in the West,” In Peter Clark, ed. New Trends and Developments in the World of Islam, 211–60 (London: (Luzac Oriental Press, 1997), 214–15. 4 Ibid., 215. Jervis also discusses the problems associated with determining the exact date of the so-called London constitution (249 n.33). 5 Elizabeth de Jong-Keesing, Inayat Khan (The Hague: East-West Publications 1974), 209. 6 Ibid, 106–7. 7 Various mediations of Pīr Vilayat Khan in audio or video are available at http:// www.universel.net/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 8 Marcia Hermansen, “Common Themes, Uncommon Contexts: The Sufi ­Movements of Khwaja Hasan Nizami (1878–1955) and Hazrat Inayat Khan (1882–1927)” In A Pearl in Wine: Essays on the Life, Music and Sufism of Hazrat Inayat Khan, Zia Inayat Khan (ed.) (New Lebanon, NY: Omega, 2001), 323–53. 9 The name was modified from “Sufi Order in the West” in 1956. 10 Wali Ali Meyer, “Murshid Samuel L. Lewis”, http://www.marinsufis.com/­murshid. php Accessed August 4, 2011. 11 Many of his writings are now archived online http://murshidsam.org/Papers1. html. Accessed August 4, 2011. 12 A unique resource for Lewis’ activities and teaching style is the diary of one of his closest disciples, Mansur Johnson, Murshid: A Personal Memoir of Life with American Sufi Samuel Lewis (Seattle WA: PeaceWorks Publications, 2006). Photos of Lewis and his disciples may be found at http://www.mansurjohnson.com/node/6 and http:// www.sonic.net/%7Efatima/oldphotos1/oldphotos1.htm Accessed August 4, 2011. 13 http://www.dancesofuniversalpeace.org/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 1

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The group dropped the word “Islamiyat” from its name some years ago. Links between the Sufi Order and the Ruhaniyat continue and both fell victim to the 2009 financial scandal perpetrated by Bernie Madoff that notably scammed many Jewish charities as well; see Beth Healy, “Madoff scheme took in members of religious group,” The Boston Globe August 27, 2009 http://www.boston.com/business/articles/2009/08/27/madoff_scheme_took_in_members_of_religious_ group/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 15 http://physiciansoftheheart.com/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 16 On this lineage in Australia, see Celia A. Genn, “The Development of a Modern Western Sufism” in Sufism and the ‘Modern’ in Islam, 257–77, Martin van Bruinessen and Julia Day Howell (eds.) (London: I. B. Taurus, 2007). 17 Discussion of this branch in Europe is beyond the scope of this chapter. A study of the lives and leadership roles of these figures is Karin Jironet, Sufi Mysticism in the West: Life and Leadership of Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Brothers 1927–1967 (Leuven: Peeters, 2009). 18 http://www.sufimovement.org/repgen.htm Accessed August 4, 2011. 19 http://www.sufimovement.org/teach_m_rabia.htm Accessed August 4, 2011. 20 A discussion of Inayat Khan being a representative of “four-school” Sufism is offered in Carl W. Ernst and Bruce Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of Love (London: ­Palgrave, 2002), 142–3. 21 Ibid. 22 On Tweedie and female leadership, see the article by Sara Sviri, “Documentation and Experiences of a Modern Naqshbandi Sufi”, 77–89 in Women as Teachers and Disciples in Traditional and New Religion, ed. Elizabeth Puttick and Peter B. Clarke (ed) (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1994). 23 Irena Tweedie, Chasm of Fire: A Woman’s Experience of Liberation through the Teachings of a Sufi Master (Tisbury: Element, 1979) and Daughter of Fire (Nevada City, CA: Blue Dolphin, 1986). 24 Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, The Lover and the Serpent: Dreamwork Within a Sufi Tradition (Rockport, MA: Element Books, 1991), The Call and the Echo: Sufi Dreamwork and the Psychology of the Beloved (Putney, VT: Threshold, 1991), Sufism: The Transformation of the Heart (Inverness, CA: Golden Sufi Center, 1995). Awakening the World: A Global Dimension to Spiritual Practice (Inverness, CA: Golden Sufi Center, 2006). 25 Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, “Neither of the East nor of the West: The Journey of the Nashbadiyya-Mujaddidiyya from India to America”, 12. Available online http:// goldensufi.org/article_eastwest.html Accessed August 4, 2011. 26 Ibid, 14. 27 Ibid, 15. 28 The information about the Golden Sufis in the 1990s is based on their publications and on an interview with Michael Eccles at the International Association of Sufism Conference in San Rafael, March 26, 1994. 29 http://www.goldensufi.org/about.html Accessed August 4, 2011. 30 The Fellowship has smaller branches in Iowa, Boston, Connecticut, Vermont, and Sacramento. 31 Gisela Webb, “Third-Wave Sufism in America and the Bawa Muhaiyadeen Fellowship” Sufism in the West, 86–102 Jamal Malik and John Hinnells (eds) New York: Routledge, 2006), 92. 14

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Ibid, 94. Maryam Kabeer Faye, Journey Through 10,000 Veils: The Alchemy of Transformation on the Sufi Path (Clifton, NJ: Tughra Books, 2009), 121–55. 34 Webb, “Third-Wave Sufism,” 99. 35 Hakim Moinuddin Chishti, The Book of Sufi Healing (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions International, 1991). 36 Arthur Buehler, “Modes of Sufi Transmission to New Zealand” in New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies 8, 2: 97–109 (December 2006), 100. 37 http://www.afghansufi.com/ourteacher.html Accessed August 4, 2011. 38 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v1PxycSH6Vy0 Accessed August 4, 2011. 39 I owe this material and these quotations to an unpublished article by Barbara von Schlegell, who interviewed Baji in 2008. 40 http://www.tasawwuf.org/ and his publications at http://www.faqirpublications. com/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 41 www.sacredlearning.org Accessed August 4, 2011. One can download a “rabita” form from this site in order to keep track of the extra devotional and Sufi practices performed every week. 42 http://www.whitethreadpress.com/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 43 http://www.sunniforum.com/forum/forum.php Accessed August 4, 2011. 44 Marc Garborieau, “What is left of Sufism in Tablîghî Jamâ‘at?” In Archives de sciences sociales des religions. 135: 53–72, 2006. Available at http://assr.revues. org/3731 Accessed August 4, 2011. 45 Garborieau, para 38 [online]. 46 Ibid, para 42 [online]. 47 The terms Barelvi and Barelvism are not usually self-descriptions. Barelvis call themselves “ahl-i sunna wa’l jama’a” – the people of the Sunna and the community indicating that they see themselves as the center of mainstream Islam, not as a sectarian or distinct movement. 48 Usha Sanyal, “Are Wahhabis Kafirs? Ahmad Riza Khan Barelwi and His Sword of the Haramayn.” In Islamic Legal Interpretation: Muftis and Their Fatwas, 204–13, Muhammad Khalid Masud, Brinkley Messick, and David S. Powers (eds) (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1996). 49 Ronald Geaves, “Continuity and Transformation in a Naqshbandi tariqa in Britain: The Changing Relationship between Mazār (shrine) and dar al-ulum (seminary) revisited.” In Sufism Today: Heritage and Tradition in the Global Community, 65–82, Catharina Raudvere and Leif Stenburg (eds) (London: IB Tauris, 2009). 66 Pnina Werbner, Pilgrims of Love (London: Hurst, 2003), 257. 50 Arthur F. Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: the Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998). 51 http://www.nfie.com/links.htm Accessed August, 2011. 52 Publications arising from these conferences are contained in two journal issues of Sufi Illuminations. 53 While NFIE continues sporadically only at the local level, an offshoot of Islamic Studies and Research Association (ISRA) has a similar style of networking, and has hosted twelve annual conferences with a regional appeal, but clearly now is attempting to have a global reach through social media such as Youtube. http:// www.israinternational.com/ Accessed august 4, 2011. 32 33

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In fact, a later organization, ISRA, tries to draw on many of the same networks. While localized in the south-east of the United States, the movement has tried to enter the Chicago area through a network of Pakistani Punjabi businessmen. This seems to have met with little enthusiasm from the persons who were initially gathered from the Chicago businessman’s contacts in the Pakistani Business Association (ethnic and professional networks) but who have less interest in Barelvi spirituality or American Sufism, although sympathetic to Islamic activities in a more general sense. 55 In particular Naqshbandi-Haqqanis who at one point threatened to pull out of the event if their Shaikh Hisham was not given top billing. 56 See Ron Geaves, Sufis of Britain (Cardiff: Cardiff Academic Press, 2000) on Barelvis. 57 http://www.carymasjid.org/ Accessed August 4, 2011. 58 Private e-mail communication from Maulana Manzurul Islam, March 28, 2011. 59 http://www.dawateislami.net/home.do Accessed August 4, 2011. 60 http://www.dawateislami.net/html/banners/ghous-ul-azam-wallpaper. php?IslamicWallPaper5 Accessed August 4, 2011. 61 http://www.dawateislami.net/mureed Accessed August 4, 2011. 62 Siddiq Osman Noormuhammad, “The Sufi Tradition in Toronto” in The Message International (#6, Aug. 1995):42. 63 From biography at http://muslim-canada.org/sufi/drbaig.htm Accessed ­December 21, 2006, not available August 4, 2011. 64 The Guderi Shahi Order is one of the few orders mentioned in an article by N. Landman, “Sufi Orders in the Netherlands: Their Role in the Institutionalization of Islam” as appealing to Dutch converts to Islam. P. S. van Koningsveld and W. A. R. Shadid, eds. The Integration of Islam and Hinduism in Western Europe (Kampen, The Netherlands: Kok Pharos, 1991), 26–39. 65 I am indebted to Nawab Pasnak for information on Sufi activities in Western Canada. 66 On Tabligh in Canada, see Rory Dickson, “The Tablighi Jama’at in Southwestern Ontario: making Muslim identities and networks in Canadian urban spaces” in Contemporary Islam 3, 2: 99–112, 2009; and Shaheen H. Azmi, “A movement or a Jama’at? Tablighi Jama’at in Canada” in Travellers in Faith, 229–39, Muhammad Khalid Masud (ed.) (Leiden, Brill, 2000). 67 Individual cases of African Americans influenced by Sufi motifs in the 1940s and 50s are being traced Patrick Bowen, forthcoming. 68 Marcia, Hermansen “Two Sufis on Molding the New Muslim Woman: Khwaja Hasan Nizami (1878–1955) and Hazrat Inayat Khan (1882–1927) in Barbara ­Metcalf ed. Islam in South Asia in Practice (Princeton, 2009), 326–38. and Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, “Neither of the East”, 20–2 69 Sachiko Murata. The Tao of Islam: A Sourcebook on Gender Relationships in Islamic Thought. (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1992). 70 Arthur F. Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: the Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998). 54

Chapter 16

Sufis and Social Activism: A Chīshtī Response to Communal Strife in India Today Kelly Pemberton

10/11/07: Ajmer bombing and its aftermath Following the bomb blasts that rocked the shrine of renowned Sufi master Mu’in al-Dīn Chīshtī in Ajmer, Rajasthan, on the last day of Ramadan, October 11, 2007, initial police investigation and media reports cast blame upon Pakistan-based militant Islamic groups Lashkar-e Toiba and Harkat ul-Jihad-i Islami. Citing a growth in militant Islamic movements across the border, analysts surmised that the strike was designed to stir up communal strife in this largely peaceful city, which draws pilgrims from all faiths to honor and venerate the thirteenth-century Chīshtī master. This narrative, linking across-the-border Muslim extremism with communalist forces in India, is a familiar one, as Alex Keefe points out in his blog, Jugaad.1 Despite a frequent lack of evidence for Lashkar involvement, the Indian authorities routinely pursue “foreign involvement” in such cases of terrorist activity at religious sites. Soon after the blast, reports surfaced of the detention and questioning of Bangladeshi pilgrims who had come to visit the shrine. By April 2010, the police investigation netted several suspects and a new narrative of the forces and motivation behind the bombs: Hindu militants, among whom are individuals allegedly connected with the right-wing Hindutva outfits Rashtriya Swayam Sevak (RSS) and the Abhinav Bharat Sangathan, had set off the bombs in order to deter Hindu pilgrims from visiting the shrine. This narrative was corroborated by one of the prime suspects, Aseemanand, who added that two of the men involved are connected to the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), or Pakistani intelligence. As ongoing investigations have revealed, the Ajmer bombing was not an isolated incident, but part of a series of terrorist activities committed by right-wing Hindu groups, including the Malegaon blasts (Sept 8, 2006),the Samjhauta Express bombing (Feb 18, 2007), the Mecca masjid blasts in Hyderabad (May 18, 2007), the Thane cinema blast (June 4, 2008), which coincided with the screening of the film Jodhaa Akhbar, and a series of other bombings which took place in 2008 and 2009.2

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Since the Ajmer blasts, Chīshtī Sufis, particularly the Ajmer-based Chīshtīs who witnessed the bombing and its aftermath, have stepped up their efforts to foster intercommunal harmony among Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, and others in India. While these efforts may be seen as a new response to increasing militancy from right-wing Hindu groups, in fact, they are neither new nor simply a reaction to this trend. Rather, they point to twin phenomena which few scholars have observed among Chīshtī Sufis and other Sufi orders since the 1990s: a shift toward interfaith activism, and an emphasis on universalizing narratives that, while liberally drawing upon elements of Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī’s life, de-emphasize the particulars of Islamic authenticity3 in favor of discourses that promote the vision of a community of shared faith in the divine. These twin modalities of religious activism and discursive production underscore the ways in which narratives of the past are being mobilized in service of the aims of the present. As I will demonstrate, the Chīshtī Sufis of Ajmer are currently engaged in interfaith and anticommunalist missions that suggest more than just a shared understanding of their activities as representatives of Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī. Instead, I argue, these roles require them to mobilize the symbolic and cultural capital of the “idioms” of Sufism, particularly Chīshtī Sufism, but they also reflect strategic aims. Namely, some of the social and economic transformations that have made India a regional powerhouse have also enabled Sufi groups to actively increase the numbers of their “clients” and to acquire enhanced symbolic capital for themselves globally as promoters of communal harmony.

Sufis and social activism: Crafting public meaning The connections between Sufi practice and social activism have been amply evaluated in academic studies.4 Building on such prior research, recent studies of Sufism in the South Asian Subcontinent have also begun to highlight the roles that Sufis play as social actors seeking to “craft” public meaning.5 Social activism among Sufis, in general, has translated in an increasing number of ways since the mid twentieth century: using modern technologies and media (such as demotic literature, cassettes and CDs, the internet, social networking sites, blogs, and discussion forums) to communicate and market the messages of the Sufi orders, attracting new adherents and associates, particularly among South Asian expatriates and Westerners6; promoting messages of “universal humanistic” import over sectarian worldviews through relationships of sacred exchange7 sponsoring ritual events that emphasize a shared community of faith8; promulgating alternative messages of community in contrast to narrow visions of national identity9; and transmitting scripturalist, Shari`a-focused ideas

AQ: Please check the Shortened Running Head.

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of reform to Arab Middle Eastern audiences.10 For Chīshtī Sufis in particular, such activities signal both continuity with past traditions of openness to nonMuslims and strategic efforts to reinscribe Chīshtī traditions of public engagement in the service of anticommunalism, a term which I use here to signal efforts to counter the messages of intolerance and exclusivity promoted by both the Hindu right and Islamic extremists. This chapter follows the aforementioned studies in linking new forms of social activism with the messages of common faith and communal harmony being promoted by the Chīshtī Sufis in India who are directly connected with the shrine of Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī in Ajmer, Rajasthan. In particular, I look at two such groups: the Gudri Shah Chīshtīs and the Syedzadgan khadims (hereditary servants) of the Ajmer shrine.11 Both have actively initiated and supported efforts to counteract communal strife in India today through programs of engagement (e.g., concerts for peace; conferences; interfaith activities; and school programs inaugurated by the Sufi Saint School, founded by the current pīr o murshid of the Gudri Shah order); interaction with other anticommunalist groups through various forums (e.g., conferences and symposia); the publication of demotic literature that espouses social activism as a means of fighting intolerance; and the promotion of messages of peace and anticommunalism on their websites and through targeted mailing. Because of their ongoing efforts to promulgate interfaith relations and communal harmony, I suggest that these Sufi groups can be characterized as “social change movements.” In recent decades, their work mediating the power of shaikh Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī, hosting pilgrims to his shrine, and guiding the spiritual development of their murīds, or disciples, has demonstrated a “set of opinions and beliefs… which represents preferences for changing some elements of the social structure and/or reward distribution of a society.”12 This includes the normalization of relations between Hindus and Muslims in the Subcontinent and beyond, the destabilization of extremist elements, the mobilization of idioms of Sufism13 for projects fostering cross-border or cross-cultural communication, and an idealization of the past (particularly the narratives centered on the life and socio-spiritual work of Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī in India) as a key to finding solutions to the dilemmas of the present. These characteristic features of social change movements as theorized in the past decade – an orientation toward social change goals; “imagined solidarities” among actors with “partially shared” interests14; a focus on shaping meanings within culture and society15; the strategic production of knowledge that is conceived of as useful for society at large16; and the use of multiple “frames” to craft a narrative of Chīshtī engagement in the world17 – bear some features in common with Islamic “religious activism” that constitutes “extraordinary” activities aimed at bringing about social change.18

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Social movement theory While the Gudri Shah order and the Syedzadgan khadims are the focus of my study, I will also connect the particular examples of their discourses and activities to broader trends in social activism among Sufis of the Subcontinent, particularly as they have indicated countermovements against recent incidents of communal strife and Islamic extremism. For that task, I draw upon social movement theory to explain some of the dynamics of activism among the Chīshtī groups included in this study. As seen in Quintan Wiktorowicz’s 2004 study, Islamic Activism: a Social Movement Theory Approach, social movement theory has moved away from its earlier structuralist framework to address instrumentalist concerns: why social mobilization happens, what forms it takes, and how it effects social change.19 Following Wiktorowicz, I argue that Islamic activism – in this case, forms of activism that are exemplary of twentieth- and twenty-firstcentury Chīshtī Sufi approaches – is not always triggered by structural constraints, although it is responsive to socioeconomic and (geo)political trends. In that regard, one must consider the impact of the expansion of the Indian Sufi orders, particularly by and among nonresident Indians (NRIs), into Western European, American, and Australian lands; ongoing incidents of communal violence, in which Muslims are disproportionately affected, the influence of the 2006 Sachar Committee Report upon the Government of India’s (GOI) (as yet inadequate) efforts to bring Indian Muslims more into the socioeconomic and cultural mainstream of Indian society20; the scattered efforts of Muslim clerics to denounce extremist violence, and the growth of anticommunal movements in the Indian Subcontinent more generally, particularly in the aftermath of 9/11 and the Mumbai blasts of November 26, 2008 (also known as 26/11). These events in particular underscore the importance of political and sociocultural contexts in the emergence of social movements. What I aim to demonstrate is how social activism among the Sufi groups in my survey is, first, introspectively a response to the public faces of Islam. In particular, it draws upon narratives from Chīshtī sacred history to respond to stereotypes of Muslims as backward, intolerant, and preoccupied with the past as a remedy for the disappointments of the present.21 Second, it comes in the wake of calls from a diverse array of groups in the Subcontinent to counteract the growing waves of communalism and anti-Muslim sentiment, many of which have made conscious efforts to engage the Sufi orders in this mission. Thus, social activism among the Chīshtī groups in my survey is collaborative, mobilizing the resources of multiple partners in order to bring about (what is intended to be) lasting social change. Third, it coincides with an influx of wealth into the orders, and the expansion of their sphere of influence, both within and outside the ­Subcontinent.

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Chīshtī responses to communal strife That the picture of Islamic activism among Chīshtī Sufis in Ajmer is more complex than the causal linkages between structural strains and social mobilization would suggest – because structures and systems are neither inherently balanced nor stable, but remain dynamic and responsive, and because not all structural strains produce or energize social movements – has been demonstrated by several studies.22 In the case of India, communalism and communal violence has long been within the ambit of a number of social and political movements, and remains germane to discussions of political enfranchisement, minority rights, Hindutva, and more recently, post-9/11 Islamic extremism. However, considering the long history of Chīshtī engagement with others, particularly Hindus; the Chīshtī (indeed, Sufi) paradigm of responsibility for the poor and disenfranchised; the expansionist and entrepreneurial activities of the orders both within and outside the Subcontinent since the late nineteenth century, including their mobilization of new media; the growth of anticommunal movements in India more generally, and their efforts to engage the Sufi orders; and the Chīshtīs’ long history of anticommunal activism, understood as an integral part of their spiritual “duties,” I believe that the Chīshtī response to communal strife in India today signals less a reaction to the crisis of conscience generated in the aftermath of the bomb blasts of 2007 than (1) a continuation of extant forms of social activism among the Chīshtī Sufis, and (2) a response to social and economic transformations since the 1980s (including economic liberalization policies) that have expanded the Indian economy, its middle classes, and its global influence, and that have facilitated the process of (3) outreach to Muslims and non-Muslims outside of the Subcontinent. In this sense, Chīshtī social activism may be understood as part of a broader, decades-long trend in the Indo-Pakistani Subcontinent – particularly among artists, musicians, and the nongovernmental organization (NGO) community – to bridge the divide between Hindus, Muslims, and others. For Chīshtīs, the aims of such activism include interfaith alliances as well as the desire to spread the influence of the orders. To this extent, such activism is neither a particularly new nor a primarily Chīshtī phenomenon, as evidence from studies of other leading Sufi orders attest.23 The activist stance assumed by Chīshtī and other Sufi orders also challenges the “interiorization” theses of Islamic reform, suggesting that a concern with the internal mechanisms of spiritual development does not always signal a disconnect with the external, and particularly the sociopolitical exigencies of the age. Rather, the drive for spiritual development is often connected to the push for social and political reforms. Through the strategic mobilization of external resources (e.g., recruits, funds, musical and prayer assemblies, programs, literature, websites) and its marriage with the internal aims of the orders as representatives of faith (here understood as a

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spiritual quest for the moral refinement of the individual), the anticommunalist activities of Ajmer Chīshtī groups exemplify the dynamic interface between spiritual and social activism, and personal and political transformation.

The language of engagement: Mobilizing the sacred past These connections are reflected in the language of engagement in which Chīshtī groups use to highlight their objectives of communal harmony; within this language is an emphasis on a shared community of faith. On the website for Haji S.M. Hameed Chishty, one of the Syedzadgan khadims (servants) at the Mu’in ud-Dīn dargāh, an emphasis on the essential unity of religions is prominent. Under the heading “Truth Always Prevails,” a subsection of the narrative about Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī’s (Gharib Nawaz) “Arrival and Preaching,” the author recalls the divine truths revealed in the words and deeds of the exemplars of various faiths: Again and again through all successive ages, the apostles of God have successfully fought and defeated the forces of evil. Prophet David succeeded in overthrowing Goliath. Prophet Abraham survived the torture of a huge fire made by Namrood to destroy him but it turned into a garden of fragrant flowers and Namrood himself was destroyed by a gnat. Shree Ramchandra, the exiled but dutiful son of Raja Dashratha secured a mighty victory over Ravana the demon king of Ceylon, in righteous cause. In spite of all torture, the Holy Christ and his religion did survive even after his crucifixion and the Holy Prophet gave noble lessons of Christianity to the world. Prophet Mohammed was tormented by Abu Jehal and Abu Lehab with superior forces but he succeeded triumphantly in the end with his grand religious mission. The whole history of the world is replete with such illuminating and noble examples of the success of “Truth” against evil and repeats itself again and again.24 On this same page, Mu’in ud-Dīn’s mission is also presented in terms that emphasize the essentially humanistic and universal agenda of his travel to India: It is a historic fact that Hazrat Khawaja Moinuddin Chishty was the greatest preacher and founder of Islam in India. It was he who laid the real foundation of Islam in India by his peaceful mission and unparalleled forbearance. He brought the message of “Universal Love and Peace” and paved the way for his succeeding Khalifas for the peaceful propagation of Islam in this country without any compulsion whatsoever in the true spirit of the Holy Qur’ān which says, “Let there be no compulsion in religion. Wilt thou compel men to become believers? No soul can believe but by the persuasion of God.” Khawaja Moinuddin followed this dictum throughout his mission. Before his arrival,

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Muslims in India were in a most negligible minority. His piety and sympathetic preaching made a profound impression upon all he came across.25 This language may also be found in websites belonging to other khadims, including that of Salman Chishty: He chose the way of non-compulsion in the true spirit of holy Qur’ān he says: “Let there be no compulsion in religion, will thou compel men to become believers? No soul can believe but by the persuasion of Allah.” Khwaja Moinuddin Chishty (R.A.) followed this dictum strictly throughout his mission. It is because of this reason that he is popularly known as “Gharib Nawaz” which means the one who shows kindness to the poor. This was later reinforced by succeeding Chīshtīa Sufis, who became religious pioneers in national integration in the country. They fulfilled the objective of bringing together various castes, communities and races, elevating the humanity from the morass of materialistic concerns, which is the bane of mankind even today.26 It is also prominent in the descriptions of the saint posted on the website of the Gudri Shah Chīshtī order in Ajmer: Hazrat Khwaja Moin Uddin Hasan Chīshtī came to India as the harbinger of peace and humanism and as an ambassador of unity and goodwill. He ultimately came to be identified as the Spiritual Sovereign of India.27 Echoing the information contained in hagiographic narratives of the saint, these descriptions of Mu’in ud-Dīn’s mission highlight the universal and nonspecific character of the saint’s migration to India. Two of the major sources for Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī’s life, the Siyar al-Arifin and the Akhbar al-Akhyar, describe the shaikh’s initial arrival in Ajmer in similarly innocuous terms. After 20  years, his service came to an end and Khwaja Usman Haruni (his pīr o murshid) honored him with khilaifat (permission to become a spiritual guide). In the time of the reign of King Pithura (Prithvi Raj), he came to Ajmer and remained occupied with the worship of God. 28 When the crowd of ordinary and distinguished [people] surrounding him had become too large, [Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī] departed from Delhi to the city of Ajmer. Although the splendor of Islam had already been established in this sacred place, only one league separated a large number of unfortunate unbelievers from that place.29 Although the language used by the Chīshtī Sufis of Ajmer today to craft a new narrative of interfaith activism and communal harmony often embellishes the information relayed in the hagiographic and didactic literature important to Chīshtī Sufism, it is neither “imagined” nor invented. The hagiographic literature

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is replete with examples of non-Muslims (particularly Zoroastrians and Hindus) converting to Islam after their encounter with the saint, usually “immediately” after witnessing or experiencing a miraculous event in his or her presence, or being trumped by his or her powers over al-ghaib (the unseen world). The uses of such stories to memorialize or enhance the reputation of Sufi shaikhs (and, thus, help in the process of institutionalizing their orders) have been well analyzed.30 While in these narratives Islam is unequivocally depicted as the superior faith, the saint’s encounter with non-Muslims can hardly be described as proselytizing. Rather, the spiritual perspicacity of shaikhs to recognize divine truths, in whatever form they may appear, and to convey them to others, serves as a beacon call to Islam for non-Muslims. Jamali’s Siyar ul-Arifin relates the following anecdote about the Chīshtī shaikh Hamid al-Dīn Nagauri, a disciple of Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī: Hazrat Shaikh Nizam al-din related that there was a Hindu in Ajmer who was in mourning. Hazrat Shaikh (Hamid al-din Nagauri) always said, concerning him, that this man is good and one of God’s saints. People were astonished that Hazrat would call a non-believer a saint. Afterwards, that Hindu became Muslim and was among the saints of God.31 The language of interfaith outreach used by the khadims of the Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī shrine and the Gudri Shah Chīshtīs recalls hagiographies and oral traditions32 about the saint’s travels to the Subcontinent to craft a narrative that addresses present-day concerns over communal strife. It seeks to recast the saint as both a peaceful missionary of Islam and a model of interfaith activism for his spiritual successors. Yet there is little information about his life to suggest that intercommunal harmony as such was a particular concern of his, or that his encounters with non-Muslims in the Subcontinent were much different than they were for many other shaikhs and cultural mediators33: they interacted with the local population as “sources” of authority (both spiritual and material)34 and as guides in matters both practical and spiritual; they spread the idioms of Islam and Sufism both intentionally and as a matter of course, and after their deaths they came to be regarded by many, regardless of religious community or social class, as powerful mediators between humans and the divine realms. If there is anything that is emphasized in the known hagiographic literature on Mu’in ud-Dīn’s life, it is that he understood his spiritual mission to pivot on three causes: the spread of knowledge about the divine, the uplift of the (spiritually and materially) poor, and the fight against injustice.

Engaging others The documentation of these tripartite aims of Mu’in ud-Dīn’s spiritual mission to India provides a framework for the early Chīshtīs’ engagement with the local

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environment. More to the point, however, literary output also suggests ways in which they sought to engage non-Muslim traditions and practices. Notably, the translation of texts served as a medium by which metaphysical knowledge and insights into the divine could be deepened, or conveyed to others. In some cases, these projects constituted attempts to translate Islamic concepts into terms that non-Muslims could understand, as in the Jñana sagara, by the eighteenth-century Sufi Ali Raja of Bengal.35 In others, they suggested the interests of Sufis in validating the truths of Islam through the lenses of other sacred texts, as in the translation of the Bhagavad Gita by `Abd al-Rahman Chīshtī (d.1683) (Vassie 1999, 375–6) or Ghawth ‘Ali Shah Qalandar Qadiri’s (d. 1880) explanation of yogic practice, included in Gul Hasan Qadiri’s Tazkirat-i ghawthiyya.36 They conveyed the desire of Sufis to demonstrate the essential unity of metaphysical concepts in religions, as in the translation of 50 Upanisads, the Bhagavad Gita, the Yoga Vaisishtha, and several other sacred texts of Hinduism by the Mughal prince and Qadiri Sufi Dara Shikoh (d. 1659) (Nasr 1972, 141). Finally, they testified to the importance of essentially Indian ideas in Sufi thought and praxis, as in the translations and retranslations of the Sanskrit work on yoga, Amrit Kund (including a translation by the sixteenth-century Shattari shaikh, Muhammad Ghaus of Gwalior), and its widespread circulation within Sufi ­circles.37 In part to emphasize the essentially Indian character of Chīshtī Sufism in Ajmer,38 the Syedzadgan khadims and the Gudri Shah Chīshtīs employ a discourse of communal harmony that connects their active involvement in the local community with their spiritual duties as representatives of the shaikh. One example of such involvement was recently recorded in the Times of India, Jaipur edition. It’s a living example of reconciliation between two communities. The khadims of the Dargāh of Khwaja Garib Nawaz Chīshtī lent a helping hand to reconstruct an age-old Shiva temple, barely 400 meters from the main shrine in Ajmer. On the left of the main Nizam Gate, tucked in a corner, lay the ruins of a centuries-old temple of Shri Pipaleshwar Mahadev till last year. However, now a magnificent temple stands at the site, built by the labour of both Hindus and Muslims. … The locals had wanted to repair the temple but the costs were too high. … Soon, the news of rebuilding the temple reached the khadims. “It was unanimously decided that since we are here for the service of the Khwaja, it would only be right on our part to pitch in for the construction of the temple,” says Sayeed Ibrahim Fakre, former member of state minority commission. The khadims along with some minority organisations generously contributed to rebuild the temple. “For us every place of worship is to be respected,” says Munover Chīshtī, assistant secretary of Anjuman Yadgaar.39

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The Gudri Shah Chīshtīs have also made their mark locally, not just as representatives of the shaikh and mediators of his power, but as champions of the poor. Their role as such is best exemplified by the founding of the Sufi Saint School by the fifth and current pīr in 1990. The school offers an accredited educational program for children from nursery school to grade 8, regardless of religious or sectarian background. It particularly caters to the needs of lower-middle class and poor families, and has promoted a message of communal harmony and social uplift since its inception, as the school’s website makes clear in its introduction, adopting the sobriquet “Peace Maker Sufi Saint School.” The school’s stated mission is the promotion of communal harmony and universal brotherhood, a message that it incorporates in the prayer recited by all students each morning: From these thorns, this poor one may be saved forever. Every moment may be passed in Your remembrance. In your remembrance, this heart may be engaged forever. This is a desire, a request, a longing and a wish: In the hearts, the lamp of knowledge may be illumined forever. Poverty will go away from this world, everywhere there will be peace all around. Conductor! Every house from the happiness may be filled forever. Every race and sect will live together in this world. Of fruits and flowers gardens will be loaded forever. The Jew, Sikh, Christian, Hindu, Muslim and Zoroaster, Together under the blue canopy will live forever.40 … The prayer draws upon stock symbols of Sufism: (spiritual and material) poverty, which is one of the early stations of spiritual illumination that the mystic seeker obtains41; dhikr (remembrance), a ritualized method of imprinting the qualities of the divine on the seeker’s heart; and the lamp of mystical illumination (ma`rifa) which reveals the secrets of divine unity (tawhid), including the essential unity of God’s creation. As an institution that aims to promote the cause of communal harmony, the Sufi Saint School has also become the host of a number of events that bring it into close collaboration with individuals, including Indian and foreign disciples and associates of the current and former Gudri Shah pīrs, as well as other groups, local and international, that share similar ideals. One such event is the “Annual Function for World Peace,” which took place this year in February. Students perform dances and plays with the themes of integration and tolerance, and the event features performances by local and international musicians. In the past few years, the event has become a venue for reaching out to other groups (especially NGOs and volunteer associations) that are working against communalism, extremism, and intolerance.

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An objective of the school since its inception, building alliances with groups that are working to combat communal strife, has become more feasible in recent years as the anticommunalist movement in India has grown. The school has received funding from donors, lenders, and the Indian government, and consequently expanded its outreach efforts. A group with which the school has recently formed an alliance is Friends without Borders, an all-volunteer global movement and collaboration of different groups and individuals around the globe. The group has launched a campaign to promote cross-border communications across national boundaries. One of their campaigns, “Aman ki Asha,” has been to open the lines of communication between young Indian and Pakistani students (including students at the Sufi Saint School), by having them write letters of friendship to each other, thereby combating the conditioning that has left previous generations perpetually suspicious of the “enemy” across the border. Such activities are increasingly common among Chīshtī Sufis, as among other Sufi groups in India. They reflect, on the one hand, the expansion of the order’s sphere of influence beyond its regional and national borders and, on the other, they exemplify the ways in which some orders have been able to mobilize the symbolic and cultural capital of Sufism as a welcoming, peace-loving, and openminded tradition that is actively invested in the spiritual and material uplift of society at large. In this way, the Ajmer Chīshtīs have sought to make a lasting impact on social relationships beyond their own circles of disciples.

Expanding Sufi circles globally The activities of the Syedzadgan khadims and the Gudri Shah Chīshtīs of Ajmer demonstrate some features common to social activist movements today. First, they are introspective, mobilizing the past to craft a narrative of interfaith activism that draws upon the spiritual mission of the saint at whose shrine they serve, and that recasts them as promoters of communal harmony. Second, their work is increasingly collaborative: both the Syedzadgan khadims and the Gudri Shah Chīshtīs have increasingly sought out alliances with other groups – both Indian and foreign – in order to achieve their aims of fostering communal harmony and combating intolerance. Finally, these two groups have benefited from the influx of wealth into the local economy through the tourist trade, as well as from the rise of India as a global economic power more generally. The expansion of the orders outside the borders of India has been taking place since the late nineteenth century, with European travelers and residents becoming disciples of Sufi shaikhs and some shaikhs taking advantage of innovations in transportation and communication to travel outside of the country, both to strengthen alliances with existing disciples and to form new relationships of sacred exchange with prospective disciples and other Sufi orders. The activities of such “traveling” shaikhs first amplified in the context of the

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I­ ndependence movement, which ended British occupation of the country in 1946.42 From the late 1960s, the orders expanded further with travelers and spiritual seekers from Western Europe, Australia, and the Americas coming into contact with them. Several of these people became close disciples and, claiming spiritual descent (e.g., as khalīfas) from their pīr,43 established their own circles and centers of Sufi activity in their home countries, where they nowadays observe major commemorative events when unable to travel abroad. In particular, the Chīshtī orders in India have long welcomed foreign visitors, and many do not require those seeking to become disciples to convert to Islam, which has also attracted many disciples from the West. These are not the only factors that have enabled the Gudri Shah and Syedzadgan Chīshtī orders to expand their sphere of influence. With the availability of new forms of media, particularly social networking sites and blogs, the publication of books and articles on the shrine and its servants by Indian and foreign researchers, continued media attention, particularly during the time of the ‘urs festival, and the promotion of travel to the shrine by the Rajasthan tourism board, along with the influx of wealth into the orders since the 1990s, these groups have been able to increase their activities and expand their outreach even further than before.44 On this last point, in particular, it is worth mentioning that India’s growing economy, and the rise of its middle class (which form a large portion of the pilgrim traffic each year), has also affected the fortunes of the Gudri Shahs and Syedzsadgan khadims in several ways. One, pilgrims donate money for the upkeep of the shrine, and they also give nazrana, or pious offerings, to the pīrs in order that they may carry out their spiritual work. Two, increased pilgrim traffic has also meant an increase in sales of items at the dargāh bazaar that surround the shrine. Three, some of the Syedzadgan khadims have also expanded beyond their usual income-generating activities to offer advertising space to local and international businesses on their websites. Finally, although most khadims derive a relatively modest income from their work at the shrine, a few have earned enough income from such sources as remittances from family members working in the Gulf countries to be able to send their children to the United Kingdom and the United States for higher education. Travel abroad to the Gulf and Europe has enabled them to further expand their circle of associates, disciples, and affiliates and, as a result, the shrine’s reputation as a harbor of peace and communal harmony has spread outwardly, into new networks around the globe.

Notes 1

Alex Keefe, “Interpreting Ajmer, Part 1,” Jugaad, entry posted October 11, 2007, http://jugaadoo.blogspot.com/2007/10/interpreting-ajmer-part-1.html (accessed July 15, 2011).

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The Malegaon blasts were a series of bombs that took place in a Muslim cemetery in the town on Malegaon in Maharashtra, during the time of the Muslim holiday Shab-e Barat. The Samjhauta Express train connects New Delhi, India, with Lahore, Pakistan. The Mecca masjid is located in the old city in Hyderabad, capital of Andhra Pradesh. The film “Jodhaa Akhbar” depicts the relationship between the Mughal emperor Akbar and his Hindu Rajput wife. 3 This sense of “authenticity” often references Islamic Shari’a as a “normative” standard for the belief and practice of Muslims. Shari’a itself is a slippery term that is used in parlance to refer to one or more of the following: fiqh (Islamic substantive law), Islamic jurisprudence, or a set of moral-ethical injunctions enshrined in the foundational texts of the tradition, particularly the Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad’s sunna. See Geaves and Hermansen in this book on some Sufi movements in diaspora that stress universal values and do not insist on Muslim identity. Also see references elsewhere in this volume to Sufi shaikhs who accept non-Muslim disciples, for example, in Alam’s first chapter. 4 By social activism I mean activities (particularly those outside of the usual quotidian fare) designed to bring about sustained social change. 5 See Rob Rozehnal, Islamic Sufism Unbound: Politics and Piety in Twenty-First Century Pakistan (New York and Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007); Marica Hermansen, “A Twentieth Century Sufi Views Hinduism: the Case of Khwaja Hasan Nizami (1879–1955).” Journal of Comparative Islamic Studies 4, 1–2: 157–79 (2008); Itzchak Weisman, The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (Oxon and New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis, 2007); Peter Manuel, “North Indian Sufi Popular Music in the Age of Hindu and Muslim Fundamentalism,” Ethnomusicology 52, 3: 378–400 (2008). 6 Carl W Ernst and Bruce B. Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of Love: The Chīshtī Order in South Asia and Beyond (New (York and Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2002), 139–40. 7 Kelly Pemberton, “Ritual, Reform, and Economies of Meaning at a South Asia Sufi Shrine.” In Shared Idioms, Sacred Symbols, and the Articulation of Identities in South Asia, 166–87, edited by Kelly Pemberton and Michael Nijhawan (New York and Abdingdon: Routledge Books, 2009). 8 Qamar ul Huda, “Khwâja Mu’in ud-Din Chīshtī‘s Death Festival: Competing Authorities over Sacred Space.” Journal of Ritual Studies 17, 1: 67–78 (2003). 9 Rozehnal 2007, 228. 10 See Itzhak Weismann, “Sufi Fundamentalism between India and the Middle East.” In Sufism and the Modern in Islam, 115–28 edited by Martin Van Bruinessen and Julia Day Howell, 115–28 (New York, I.B. Tauris, 2007). 11 The Gudri Shah Chīshtīs came to the region in the 1800s and have an “Uwaysi nisbat,” or spiritual link made in the physical absence of the saint, with Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī. The Syedzadgan khadims have descended from a cousin and disciple of Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī, Khwaja Syed Fakhr ud-Dīn Gurdezi, through his three sons: Khwaja Syed Masood, Khwaja Syed Mehboob Bahlol, and Khwaja Syed Ibrahim. 12 John D. McCarthy and Mayer N. Zald, “Resource Mobilization and Social Movements: A Partial Theory,” American Journal of Sociology 82, 6: 1212–41 (1977), 1217–18. 2

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In India, in particular, Sufism and Sufis have acquired enormous symbolic and cultural capital over the past few decades as crusaders against intercommunal violence, Islamic and Hindu extremism, and social injustice. While the “romanticization” of Sufism by (particularly Western) scholars has been amply (and justifiably) criticized, little has been written about how Sufis are perceived by ordinary people in the Subcontinent, and about how they perceive themselves as spiritual, cultural, and moral ambassadors of social justice. 14 Asef Bayet, “Islamism and Social Movement Theory,” Third World Quarterly 26, 6: 891–908 (2005), 902. 15 Cihan Tuğal, “Transforming Everyday Life: Islamism and Social Movement Theory” Theory and Society 38, 5: 423–58 (2009), 425. The theoretical turn toward culture and society, and a preference for constructivist approaches, in recent studies of social movements has been rightly criticized for neglecting the role of the state in shaping cultural and social meanings. Although I, too, lean toward a constructivist hermeneutic, I aim to avoid this neglect by foregrounding certain structural aspects of Chīshtī social activism, particularly the importance of spiritual hierarchies within the orders, the importance of certain foundational-canonical elements of faith in Mu’in ud-Dīn Chīshtī’s message and mission, and the presence of political and social movement actors in the narratives of shared faith, anticommunalism, and activism articulated by the Chīshtī Sufis in my study. 16 Casas-Cortés, Maria Isabel, Michal Osterweil, and Dana E. Powell, “Blurring Boundaries: Recognizing Knowledge-Practices in the Study of Social Movements” Anthropological Quarterly 81, 1: 17–58 (2008), 28. 17 Richard Foley, “The Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya, Islamic Sainthood, and Religion in Modern Times,” Journal of World History 19, 4: 521–45 (2008), 532–3. 18 Bayet 2005, 893–4. 19 Quintan Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism: a Social Movement Theory Approach (Bloomington, IN: University of Indiana Press, 2004). Here, my implication is undeniably materialist in nature. I address this potential imbalance by calling attention to the interrelation between material concerns (and conditions) and “platforms” for action as they are articulated within the two groups under survey. Although this brings me uncomfortably close to the type of older, outdated models for “collective action” that dominated the field of social movement theory in the 1970s and 1980s, I believe that the importance of the centralization of power and authority in the Gudri Shah order and the hierarchicalization of the same in the khadim community can be instructive for looking at platforms of action and how these translate into guidance for disciples (murīds), clients, and loosely affiliated associates of these two groups. 20 Wiktorowicz 2004, 4. In particular, there is a marked emphasis in the report on bringing the status of Indian Muslims into greater conformity with UN-derived human development indicators. See, for example, p. 2 in Prime Minister’s High Level Committee, Cabinet Secretariat, “Social, Economic, and Educational Status of the Muslims of India: a Report.” Delhi: Government of India, 2006. There is a version available online at http://zakatindia.org/Files/Sachar%20Report%20 (Full).pdf accessed August 7, 2011. 13

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As the Moroccan sociologist Fatima Mernissi asked in her 1987 text, The Veil and the Male Elite, “Why is there this desire to turn our attention to the dead past when the only battle that is important to us at the moment is that of the future?” See Fatima Mernissi, The Veil and the Male Elite: a Feminist Interpretation of Women’s Rights in Islam (Reading, MA: Perseus Books, 1991), 17. 22 See Wiktorowicz 2004; Mellissa Y Lerner, “Connecting the Actual with the Virtual: The Internet and Social Movement Theory in the Muslim World – The Cases of Iran and Egypt,” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 30, 4: 555–74 (2010); Laura Huey, “A Social Movement for Privacy/Against Surveillance? Some Difficulties in Engendering Mass Resistance in a Land of Twitter and Tweets,” Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law 42: 699–709 (2010); and Tuğal, 2009. 23 See Foley, 2008; Qamar ul-Huda, Qamar ul “Memory, Performance, and Poetic Peacemaking in Qawwali.” Muslim World 97: 678–700 (2007): 678–700; Muhammad Hisham Kabbani, Classical Islam and the Naqshbandi Sufi Tradition (Fenton, MI: Islamic Supreme Council of America, 2004); Amir Hussain, “Interfaith Movements,” in Encyclopedia of Muslim-American History, vol. 1: 264–6. Curtis IV, Edward E. (ed). New York: Infobase Publishing, 2010; Jamal Malik and John Hinnells, Sufism in the West. Abingdon, UK; New York: Routledge, 2006. 24 http://www.dargahajmer.com/g_arrival.htm, accessed August 7, 2011. 25 Ibid. 26 http://kgn786.com/HTML/missonofkhwaja.htm, accessed August 7, 2011. 27 http://www.sufiajmer.org/tasaurdu.html, accessed August 7, 2011. 28 Abdul Haq Muhaddis Dihlawi, Akhbar ul-Akhya, Urdu translation from the ­original Persian by Maulana Iqbal al-din Ahmad (Karachi: Dar ul-Isha’at, 1963), 50–1. 29 Hamid bin Fazl ullah Jamali, Siyar al-arifin. Urdu translation from the original Persian by Muhammad Ayoub Qadiri (Lahore: Markazi Urdu Board, 1976), 14. A league is roughly 3.75 miles. 30 See Winand M Callewaert, and Rupert Snell (eds) According to Tradition: Hagiographical Writing in India (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1994); Marcia Hermansen and Bruce B. Lawrence, “Indo-Persian Tazkiras as Memorative Occasions” in Beyond Turk and Hindu: Rethinking Religious Identities in Islamicate South Asia, 149–75, David Gilmartin and Bruce B. Lawrence (eds) (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000), 152; and Ernst and Lawrence 2002, 80. 31 Jamali 1976, 16. 32 Here I refer to oral traditions preserved within the families of the khadims, which are passed down among them and shared with their “clients.” These sometime contradict the narratives found in hagiographic accounts of the saint, but more often they “fill in” details of the saint’s life and work that have not been recorded in writing (at least not to historians’ current knowledge). 33 That there historically existed a range of cultural mediators in the Subcontinent who professed Islam (including ‘ulama) is now well known among scholars of Islam in South Asia. The Bengal context provides some of the richest examples of the diversity of this cohort. For further information, see studies by Rafiuddin Ahmed, The Bengal Muslims 1871–1906, A Quest for Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996); Asim Roy, The Islamic Syncretistic Tradition in Bengal (­Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983); and Richard M. Eaton, the Rise of Islam and 21

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the Bengal Frontier, 1204–1760 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993). 34 For an explanation of how the concept of a “source” works in one local context, see Kelly Pemberton, Women Mystics and Sufi Shrines in India (Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 2010), 145. 35 Eaton, 276. 36 Carl W Ernst, “Situating Sufism and Yoga.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 3, no. 15, iss.1: 15–43 (2005), 26. 37 The Amrit Kund is believed to have been translated by the thirteenth-century chief Qazi of Lakhnauti (and Sufi adept), Rukn al-Dīn Samarqandi (d. 1218) (Nabi Hadi, Dictionary of Indo-Persian Literature (Delhi: Indira Gandhi National Center for the Arts and Abhinav Publications 1995), 519–20) or by a Brahmin convert to Islam (Eaton, Rise, 78–9). 38 Communalist rhetoric often depicts Indian Muslims as Pakistan sympathizers or, worse, agents of Paksitan’s spy agency, ISI. For a discussion of this rhetoric and its widespread influence in India, see Huma Dar, “Can a Muslim Be an Indian and Not a Traitor or Terrorist?” in Shared Idioms, Sacred Symbols, and the Articulation of Identities in South Asia, edited by Kelly Pemberton and Michael Nijhawan, 96–114 (New York and Abdingdon, Oxon, UK: Routledge Books, 2009). 39 Khitiz Gaur, “Muslims help rebuild centuries-old Shiva temple in Ajmer.” The Times of India, Jaipur. Online edition October 2, 2010. http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2010-10-02/jaipur/28244275_1_shiva-temple-temple-premises-main-shrine#ixzz11D1YkDB8 accessed August 7, 2011. 40 http://sufi-mystic.net/text3.htm, Sufi Saint School, Ajmeer, accessed August 7, 2011. 41 Stations are the stages of spiritual progress on the path toward God that the mystic seeker strives to ascend. There are several different schema that describe these stations; among the most authoritative are those found in al-Qushayri’s (d. 1072) Risala fi ilm al-tasawwuf. 42 Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: the Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh. (Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 195–6. 43 A khalīfa is the representative or deputy of a shaikh, who is appointed by the latter to pass on his spiritual teachings to others. In many cases khalīfas are able to make their own disciples. In this way, the orders have branched out further than in the past, often without fracturing as a result of disputes over succession. 44 One indication of the growing popularity of the Mu’in ud-Dīn dargāh is the increase in pilgrim traffic each year for the death anniversary (‘urs) of the saint. In 2005, the number of pilgrims was reported to be between 250,000 and 300,000. See Marina Montanaro, “Succor to Distressed Hearts,” Sufi News and Sufism World Report, entry posted June 30, 2009, http://sufinews.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_ archive.html (accessed August 1, 2011). In 2011, reports stated that almost one million people attended the ‘urs. Staff, “Urs of Khawaja Moinuddin Chīshtī concludes,” Daily the Pak Banker, June 10, 2011.

Conclusion: South Asian Sufis, Devotion, ­Deviation, and Destiny Charles M. Ramsey

I vividly remember the book’s inception. The journey began when I happened upon a copy of John Subhan’s Sufism: Its Saints and Shrines, an older manuscript—published in 1938—the yellowed-page and tattered-cover sort of treasure a scholar dreams of stumblimg across. Though it was hardly the Sinaticus, the descriptive opening lines captured my imagination.1 Subhan drew me into the energy, mystery, and passion of a dhikr in Lahore. “Tonight is Thursday night. … Come let us visit some shrines and see for ourselves what strange religious rites are practised almost at our very doors.” It was a window into the world of South Asian Sufism in pre-partition India. As I turned the pages I could feel the pulsating and ecstatic drums from the Madhu Lal Hussain dargāh and was awakened to the continuity of these ancient rituals so vibrant in South Asia. It was fascinating also to read in the introduction—by the Raja Maharaj Singh of Lucknow no less—the manner in which Sufism brought people together into dialogue. As the Maharaja explained, there is something from the “happy blendings” that yield a valued commodity: “It is that one finds practically nothing of that communal hatred, known as fanaticism, in mystics whether Hindu, Christian, or Muslim.”2 But is this still true today? While many of Subhan’s descriptions remain extant, the practice and structure of Sufism in its many forms, like the very communities where it is lived, is far from static. Like a fine Persian carpet that changes hues when seen from different angles, Sufism defies simple definition. As Ronald Geaves noted, the very label “Sufism” has a contested significance ranging from “Traditional Islam” to “New Age” spiritualism. And after a millenia of interaction with cultures, personalities, and schools of thought it is a challenge to separate the varied and mutual influence of Neo-Platonist, Eastern Christianity, and Vedanta. It is from this intricate history that we set out to encounter contemporary Sufism in South Asia: the way it is practiced (devotion), the way it is changing (deviation), and its future, as well as its impact on our futures (destiny).

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Devotion The love and devotion for Allah, the Prophet, and the pīrs endures among South Asian Muslims. The research emphasized that traditional tarīqas such as the Chīshtīyya, Qādiriyya, Suhrawardiyya, and Naqshbandiyya continue to be vibrantly active and in no peril of disappearing, despite the concerted efforts of their opponents. Furthermore, the current devotion was found to be surprisingly consistent with the founders’ teaching, and the link to the traditional orders remains strong. The devotion to the ziārat/dargāh and the associated pīr lineage as the locus of the divine continues to be a central theme. At the shrine the devotee encounters a living pīr or his successors, the sajjada nishin. They experience his spiritual power through touch or by his blowing verses and blessings upon them. They may also have contact with the spirit of the pīr, living or dead. This is experienced through meditation, or visualization of his countenance (tassāwur-eshaikh), by measured breathing exercises, or dhikr—for some out loud and for others in silence—and in the ecstacy of music and dance. Hafeez-ur-Rehman described how light or power comes through the hand of the pīr during the oath of allegiance (bai'at) and that strengthens the devotee to overcome the nafs (ego or base desires) and move from the perceived forms (majaz) to the sublime reality(haqiqat). This training relationship, a process where one matures through stages of spiritual adeptness, continues in the thousands of dargāhs that dot the subcontinent. As Valdinoci observed, the pīr need not physically present as the devotee can draw from his/her creative imagination (tasāwwur-i shaikh) to strengthen the pīr–murīd bond and receive aid for the journey of faith. Devotion at the shrines continues to be a place of intercommunal interaction. Perhaps it is a human commonality, but certainly deep in the Indian psyche is a marked and pervading reliance on intercession (safārish). In a society deeply divided by class, with the lingering remnants of the caste system, the sacred space of the shrine has a leveling effect where for a brief hiatus social and theological distinctions are exchanged for a common humanity in need of assistance from one who cares and is able to help. For a brief time Hindus, Muslims, and Christians, rich and poor, are united in their devotion to the Almighty embodied in the life, lineage, and even tomb of the pīr. Although some pīrs such as the Chishtis at Golra Sharif require one to recite the kalma before embarking on a more formal allegiance (bai'at), others such as in Jhok or Ajmer do not. These believe the baraka is for everyone and that the shrine, and Sufism itself, is beyond religion. As Permberton describes, some proactively draw from the narratives on the life and socio-spiritual work of great pīrs such as Mu‘īn ud-Dīn Chīshtī in efforts to normalize relations between Hindus and Muslims and to destabilize extremist or “communal” elements. In this manner Sufi idioms, literature, and music are used to foster

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c­ ross-border or cross-cultural communication as a means to finding solutions to present tensions and dilemmas. Uzma Rehman deftly described the psychological and cathartic healing and peace (sakūn) experienced by devotees at the ziarat. Although many shrines do not allow women into the tomb area of the saint, the ziarat continues to be a place of sanctity and devotion for women. One is much more likely to see women at a shrine than in a mosque. As Werbner observed, the paramount occasion for such experience occurs a the ‘urs, a festive time of commemoration and remembrance of the wali’s spiritual marriage. Similar to a family wedding, they dye their hands with henna and adorn their best embroidered suits. Binding and reinforing their devotion and domestic roles, the women work together clearing and cleaning after the meals (langar) and caring for the guests. They stay up late into the night passionately singing heart-stirring milad and na’t to the Prophet and qasidas for the pīr. Those familiar with the strength and beauty of South Asian women, and the unrestrained delight of a typical wedding would understand that without the ladies it would hardly be much of a celebration. The verandas and separate zanana quarters provide a means for the women to be away from the home and participate in the sanctioned community experience. Just as Islam offers guidance for all areas of life, din and dunya, Hafeez-urRehman explained how devotion to a pīr continues among many traditional families as an expectation, or legitimizing necessity, and as a means of social or spiritual capital among the pīr-bhai (brotherhood). The pīr–murīd relationship is the bedrock of spiritual authority, which extends from the religious into all spheres of life. On the one hand, the shrine helps to merge “different segments of local society” while on the other hand it also reinforces social exclusion. In this manner belonging to the silsila creates a bond between the adherents and creates the added benefits of spiritual and social capital. Michel Boivin observed how the communitas from the shrine economy can validate and continue political power. One need not look far to see examples of this in business and politics. Yousaf Raza Gilani, the current Prime Minister of Pakistan, shrewdly mobilized support from the Qadriyya mutawalli families of Multan and even Sindh through the marriage of his son into the family of the kingmaker, Pīr Pagara Shah Mardan Shah II. The shrine network continues to operate as an ecomomic nervous system throughout South Asia. Thus, devotion clearly offers benefits not only in the thereafter, but also in the here and now.

Deviation Despite the continuity of Sufi devotion, there are clearly changes, or deviations, as well. As a caveat, let me note that it is a challenge to classify or interpret accurately these deviations as we are dealing with a specific slice of time. It is also

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important to recall that historically there are rhythms of adjustment along the spectrum of belief and practice in Islam. As Bennett noted in the introduction, there are internally corrective efforts to reconcile external aspects with the inner, more esoteric, Sufi Islam. There have been waves of reformation and seemingly constant debate—sometimes outright conflict—between the ‘ulama and pīrs, though it is notable that in South Asia they have often managed ways to accommodate differences. As Pnina Werbner observed, followers have not been compelled to choose between saint and ‘ulama, or shrine and mosque; the two exist in symbiotic relation within the same movement. This has fostered the continued vitality of Islam as a mystical and intellectual movement on the ­subcontinent. As described in the research, there are shifts occuring in this generation that are worthy of careful attention. First, as Ronald Geaves and Marcia Hermansen have described, Subhan’s “strange religious rites” are indeed practiced at our very doors, be they in Bradford (UK), Berkeley (USA), or Ba (Fiji). With the waves of immigration and ongoing da’wa efforts, Sufism, traditional and variant, has become an international phenomenon. The two-way chain of resources and relationships continue to strengthen and cross-pollinate the ongoing development of those in the diaspora as well as in the traditional venues of the subcontinent. The demand for imams countinues to outpace the supply, and many madrassas, such as the Dar ul-Ulum Deoband, have added English and computer classes to help prepare students to work abroad. Financial resources, on the other hand, are often supplied by devotees living in the diaspora. Thus an ongoing exchange and readjustment continues across continents. Perhaps the minority experience of Muslims in India can illuminate possibilities for the Muslims of Europe and North America. Indian Muslims have explored the means of developing a community that is at once part of the national identity yet distinct enough to fulfill their own sense of Islamic fidelity.3 I find it impossible to overemphasize the importance of the context and of the time period of this research. There have been unprecedented and overarching changes in the subcontinent over the past 150 years that have left little untouched. Muhammad Qasim Zaman argues that the greatest rupture in the history of Islam was brought about by the impact of Western modernity.4 This is particularly interesting if one concurs with Bruce Lawrence’s conclusion that the Islamist movement is a product of modernist thought.5 Thus we are studying Sufism in the wake of phenomenally large changes in the educational and sociopolitical fabric of South Asia. Perhaps the most notable change is the rise of influence of the Barelvi and Deobandi movements. Hermansen terms these as “post-tarīqa” or “quasi-tarīqa” movements that are very South Asian, while being somewhat removed from the Sufism of the traditional orders. Although the Deobandi, and even the Tablighi Jamaat (TJ) have Sufi roots, and many of the founders were associated with a tarīqa, they are increasingly considered to be opponents to Sufism and even

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theological allies to the wahhabis.6 Similarly to the nuanced rhetoric through which Mawdudi adjusted the Jamaat Islami’s anti-Sufi rhetoric in order to appease local sensibilities (Barelvi) in Pakistan, many see the Deobandi movement as gradually shifting their message toward opposition of the traditional tarīqas and their shrine-centered systems of authority as described by Rehman, Alam, and ur-Rehman. Conversely, according to Werbner, the existence of Barelvi ‘ulama in South Asia has meant that the belief in saints and shrines and in Islamic mystical ideas more generally has continued to flourish. Barelvis promote Sufi practices and attitudes such as veneration of the saints (auliya), the inclusion of music and drums, and belief in a devotional relationship with the Prophet. It was noted that individuals may be initiates of tarīqas as part of their Barelvi commitment or their Sufism may be more of an affinity, and collective or diffuse. While the Barelvi tend to be numerically larger, the Deobandi madrassa system is producing more leaders and they oversee a larger number of mosques.7 Despite the deep economic and political veins of Sufi-affiliated communities in traditional South Asian societies, as Alam, Bennett, and Boivin described, this generation is poised to see the ever-widening influence—perhaps even the tipping point— of the reformist movements. The prominence of these post-tarīqa movements sheds light on the contested destiny of South Asian Sufism. As one Kashmiri practicioner confided in quoting Bushanji, an eleventh-century mystic, “[t]oday tassawuf is a name without a reality but formerly it was a reality without a name. … That is to say formerly the practice was known and the pretence unknown but now the pretence is known and the practice unknown.” Traditionally for most South Asians to be Muslim meant to be Sufi. His statement helps voice the heated discussion raging regarding whose practice is more authentically Islamic, or who is guilty of commiting the sin of innovation (bid'a). ­Reminisent of the Protestant Reformation in northern Europe some 500 years ago, reformers in South Asia draw heavily from the newly literate urban middle class who are distrustful of the devotional superstitions of the shrines. The reformers appeal to the text alone for authority and claim to be guiding the community back to the messenger’s original intent. Slower to respond, and often on the defensive, the pro-Sufi argue that the Prophet himself was the first among their number and that the way of his companions and their own fathers could not be misguided. A nuanced observation of the debate reveals a deviation in the very perception of change. As noted in my chapter on Kashmir, earlier generations of Sufis, though grounded in tradition, were expansive in thought and creatively sought common ground among the peoples of South Asia. For Baba Daud Khaki (Qasida- Lamiyya) the definition of bid'a was not limited to heretical innovation, but included innovation as a positive adaptation of metaphors, idioms, and practices for one’s spiritual growth and for the diffusion of Islam. Might there be resources yet to be mined or rediscovered from this trove?

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Destiny This leads us to question the future of Sufism in South Asia. As previously noted, the research from this book predicts that the traditional tarīqas will continue to be a vital source of guidance and influence in the Muslim community. But is there a broader destiny for Sufism on the subcontinent and on the global stage? As many are asking: Is Sufism a peaceful missionary force that would help Islam be more pallatable to the West? The research noted that the more universalist and nontraditional (read non-Islamic) form of Sufism has found ready inroads in the West. However, it was also noted that as the path, or organizational expression, drew devotees toward a traditional Islamic affiliation there tends to be a withdrawl. People drawn to this expression of “New Age” Sufism see this as extra-religious or not directly associated with being a Muslim. It was also noted that the “post-tarīqa” expression, more commonly popular among the immigrant and diaspora communities, has not found a broader reception than that of other mosques or da’wa organizations. Another question raised is whether Sufism is a force that can diffuse fanaticism or religiously sanctioned violence. Soon after receiving Subhan’s book I attended a conference in Islamabad that gathered over 100 pīrs, sajjāda nishīn, and Sufi writers to register their protest against the targeted violence of ziarats.8 Between 2008 and 2010 14 shrines were bombed, including some of the most prominent and best-loved ones in Pakistan such as Baba Rehman in Peshawar, Bābā Farīd at Pākpattan, and Datta Ganj Baksh in Lahore. The message of the conference can be summarized by a quote from a leading political activist: “The Sufi message can defeat terrorism and intolerance. Writers should use their pens to reacquaint the new generation with our ‘golden traditions’.”9 This is reflective of Zidane Meriboute’s description of Sufi Islam as “liberal, rational, enlightened and tolerant” and as the “only way in which Islam will be able to co-exist in the West.”10 Though other contributors may disagree, I argue that the expectation for Sufism to counteract the trends of Islamist agendas is sure to be disappointing. Let me first interject that there are plenty of examples of Sufi warriors involved in military campaigns and revolts so one should guard against seeing them as pacifists and the antidote to war. Kashmir, for example, continues to be heavily influenced by traditional tarīqas yet has experienced twenty years of militancy and has vehemently resisted political solutions. Furthermore, Meriboute’s attempt to cast Sufi Islam as better conditioned toward liberal democracy needs to be considered more carefully. Akbar Ahmed presents a more nuanced understanding of the global picture and argues that this role is a better fit for the integrative (Aligarh) effort that seeks to engage and synthesize modernist values such as democracy and women’s rights.11 There is little in the literature from South Asia that makes Sufis seem pro-West or pro-Democracy. The view of Sufis as better conditioned toward democracy is perhaps more accurately a

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description of their perceived compliance with current regimes or disinterest in the Islamist project of a renewed “caliphate.” Although there has been both direct and tacit support of political parties, it is not clear whether the lack of more aggressive involvement is a result of otherworldly concerns, or the sense that the current options, though far from optimal, are better than the alternative presented by regimes with more resolute positions, such as has been the fate in both Iran’s Islamic Democracy and Turkey’s Secular Democracy. Both of these regimes have been intolerant of organized Sufi organizations. Nevertheless, there is an element from Sufism that I believe if rediscovered and strengthened would prove a worthy legacy from the “golden traditions.” I describe it as the element of wonder. The quest for knowledge, experience, and learning was part and parcel of the journey of faith for the wandering faqirs. There was a reverence for the unknown and an amazement at the limitlessness of the divine that was refreshingly creative. More than in any other facet of Islam the Sufis have a bias toward inclusivism, a higher threshhold for divergent points of view, and an expectancy for learning. As ‘Alī bin ‘Uthman al-Jullabi (990–1077 CE), more affectionately known as Data Baksh Sahib, confided from Lahore in the oldest Persian treatise on Sufism, “[t]he disagreement of divines is a mercy.” This attitude continues among practicioners today. Sufis are generally more able to listen—without the burdern to agree or ­submit—and consider with openness new ideas and possibilities. This orientation stands in stark contrast to the logic Irshad Manji warns against: “Unity equals uniformity. Debate equals division. Division equals heresy.”12

Conclusion These remarks have sought to assess from the chapters in the book conclusions regarding Sufism in South Asia. These have been considered from the broad categories of devotion, deviance, and destiny. As to destiny, it was noted that Sufism has not necessarily proven to be more successful than other Islamic expressions as an avenue for the spread of Islam in the West. Nor does the book surmise that Sufism will be the bulwark against Islamist expansion in South Asia, or the means by which democracies in the region can be strengthened. Never static, there were changes observed. Some of these are in practice, such as decreased frequency of devotional music, or the use of the creative imagination and media to envision the pīr who is geographically distant. Another prominent change is the importance of the Barelvi‘ulama as a communal expression of Sufism instead of, or in addition to, personal connection or commitment to a shrine or guide. Finally, in both individual and communcal practice, Sufism continues to be a vibrant part of South Asian Islam. The devotion continues to reflect many of the traditional and ancient practices and to expound the formative principles and philosophical formulations of the founders. Like the lush

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meadows along the Indus and Ganga, South Asia is an unparalleled place of spiritual fecundity. The fertile soil of faith, worked consistently for over a millennia, has yielded rich diversity of expression, textured with practical faith and deep spiritual insight.

Notes AQ1:The year is missing in the Bibliography.

Simon Broughton, “Sufi Soul, the Mystic Music of Islam,” (UK: Riverboat/ World Music Network, 2008). This film offers a tremendous visual tour of Sufi musical devotion around the world.. 2 John A. Subhan, Sufism: Its Saints and Shrines, second ed. (Lucknow: Lucknow Publishing House, 1960), iii. On a personal note, it was wonderful to see the author’s acknowledgment of his “revered friend and counselor” L. Bevan Jones, Principal of the Henry Martin Institute School of Islamics, Lahore. The guidance and deep insight from Jones’ writing continues to inspire many explorers such as myself and my mentor Clinton Bennett who jointly saw the potential for this book. 3 Amartya Sen, The Argumentative Indian: Writings on Indian History, Culture, and Identity (London: Penguin, 2005), 311–13. 4 Muhammad Qasim Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam: Custodians of Change (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002; Karachi; Oxford University Press, 2004). 5 Ibid., 8. 6 William Dalrymple, Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India (London: Bloomsbury, 2009), 133–40. 7 Owen Bennett Jones, Pakistan: Eye of the Storm, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale Nota Bene, 2003), 9–11. 8 International Sufism Conference, October 13, 2010, organized by the Inter-faith Peace and Harmony Committee, Ministry of the Interior (GOP), Islamabad, Pakistan. 9 Faryal Talpur, PPP Women Wing’s President, Pakistan, quoted in The ExpressTribune, February 5, 2011. 10 Meriboute, Zidane Islam’s Fateful Path. (London: I. B Taurus, 2009), 13. 11 Akbar Ahmed, Journey Into Islam: The Crisis of Globalization (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution), 2008. 12 Irshad Manji, Allah, Liberty, and Love (New Delhi: Simon & Schuster, 2011), 46. 1

AQ1:Subhan 1960 is missing in the Bibliography.

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Index

Abu Bakr, 1st caliph  8, 17, 45, 57n. 4, 146, 148, 153 adab (etiqutte)  54, 57–8, 58n. 18, 101, 120, 199, 259 Afghanistan  20, 250, 255 Aga Khan  25n. 3, 27n. 45 Ahl-i Hadīth  170, 179n. 41, 185, 194, 203, 206, 209n. 37, 210nn. 46, 66–7 Ahmed, Akbar  290, 292n. 11 Ajmer (shrine)  12, 223, 237, 251, 255, 262, 265–84 Akbar, emperor  9, 130, 143, 145, 149–52, 281n. 2 Alam, Muzaffar  154–5, 161nn. 63, 68, 72, 162nn.  84, 87, 91 Alam, Sarwar  5–6, 8–11, 156, 177n. 9, 197, 216, 223, 231n. 91, 281, 289 Ali ibn Abu Talib  8, 26–7n. 42, 146, 219 Ali, Syed Ameer  4, 230nn. 78–9 Aligagh Muslim University/Aligharh school  145, 154, 159n. 28, 170, 290 Allah  24, 28–9n. 80, 33, 37–8, 45, 48, 57n. 13, 67, 71, 73, 75, 85, 87–8, 97, 130–1, 133, 184–5, 199, 205, 219, 235–6, 238–40, 224nn. 17–18, 250, 275, 286 aqida (creed)  72, 186–7 Artrashi, pir  167, 172, 223 Aryan Invasion Theory  15–16, 25n. 4 ashrafs  5, 149–53, 160n. 54, 209n. 34, 258 Australia  251, 265, 266n. 16, 272, 280 Awami League (AL)  10, 167, 175, 214 Azad, Abu l Kalam  142–4, 158n. 11

bai’at (oath)  44–7, 51, 53–6, 57n. 4, 59n. 33, 87, 103, 117, 185, 286 Bangladesh  1–2, 4, 8–10, 17, 21–2, 27n.  52, 28n. 68, 63–4, 77n. 8, 80n. 61, 123–40, 163–80, 189, 197, 211–32, 255, 269 Bangladesh National Party (BNP)  9–10, 167–9, 172–3, 175–6, 179n.  53, 214, 221–3, 225n. 5 Bangladesh Tariqah Federation  164, 166, 168, 173 Banu, U.A. B Razia Akter  212, 216–17, 223, 226n. 14, 227nn. 26, 31–2 baqa (union)  23, 107, 130, 133 Muhammad Bakhtiyar  18, 214 Shaikh Baqibillah  142, 146, 148, 154–5, 160nn. 46, 51, 162nn. 86, 88, 90 baraka (blessing)  6, 61–2, 64–8, 71–4, 76, 77n. 2, 78n. 16, 79n. 30, 88–9, 112, 118, 134, 184, 186, 286 Barelvis  7, 67, 83–93, 111–14, 116–17, 119, 183, 185–6, 210n. 46, 247–8, 256–64, 267n. 47, 268nn. 54, 56, 288–9, 291 Basu, Helene  78nn. 1, 14, 23, 64, 79n. 44, 81n. 66, 89n. 61, 93n. 4, 108n. 22, 177n. 7, 239n. 91 Bayet, Ashaf  3, 282n. 14 Bengali, language  171, 200, 215, 218–20, 226n. 11 Bennett, Clinton  7, 19, 63–4, 77n. 10, 156, 165, 179n. 47, 197, 200, 209n. 36, 225n. 3, 227n. 25, 230n. 85, 288–9, 292n. 2 Berger, Peter  73, 206, 209n. 40

314

Index

Bhagavad-Gita  25, 125, 277 bhakti (Hindu devotional ­worship)  23, 215, 237–8, 244n. 14, 245n. 2 Bhutto, Benazir  8, 11, 233 bid’a (innovation)  4, 10, 187 bin Laden, Osama  8, 114 Birmingham  7, 86, 182, 190, 212–13, 231n. 100, Brahman  23, 25, 219, 242 Britain, Sufism in  7, 86, 180–96, 212–13, 231n. 100 Boivin, Michel  6–7, 9, 56, 107n. 5, 283n. 33, 284nn. 35, 37 Buehler, Arthur F  2, 7, 9, 11, 36–7, 41n. 14, 96, 137n. 3, 177n. 2, 179nn. 52, 56, 220, 226n. 21, 231n. 92, 251, 260, 263, 267nn. 36, 66, 268n. 67, 284n. 42 Canada, Sufism in  8, 12, 247–8, 251, 254, 262–5 Christianity/Christians  5, 7, 23, 58n. 27, 61, 66, 75–6, 125, 128, 221–2, 229n. 73, 230n. 83, 235–6, 249, 253, 278, 285 Chīshtī (order)  21, 30, 45, 47, 67, 85–6, 151, 243n. 9, 251, 270–3, 275, 280, 286, 289 Cornell, Vincent J  107n. 3, 136, 178n. 37 cultural mediators  22, 28n. 64, 212, 215, 218–19, 276, 283n. 33 Dar-al-Harb (house of war)  8, 228n. 24 Delehaye, Hippoltye  3, 124–5, 136–8, 139n. 8 Delhi, Sultanate of  18, 214–15, 224n. 1 Deoband/Deobandis  7–8, 12, 67, 96n. 1, 111, 113, 115, 166, 170, 172, 185, 194nn. 11, 13, 210n. 46, 213, 220, 225n. 10, 247–8, 257–63, 288–9 dhikr (remembrance)  8, 35, 54, 87–9, 103, 113, 119, 124, 127, 133, 136, 184, 186, 201, 203, 223,

249, 252, 254, 256, 258, 263, 278, 285–6 djinn (spirits)  53, 68 du’a/intercession  46, 51–2, 54, 88–9, 103, 120, 136, 184–6, 202, 205, 225n. 7, 286 Eaton, Richard  17–18, 22, 24n. 1, 26nn. 21, 23, 34–5, 40, 28nn. 54, 56–9, 63, 65–9, 71–5, 77–8, 29n. 38, 56n. 2, 107n. 1, 139n. 16, 165, 177n. 12, 182, 212, 214–19, 225nn. 4, 14–15, 18–19, 21, 23, 227n. 27–8, 30, 33, 42–4, 228n. 49–51, 57, 230n. 84, 231n. 95, 283n. 33, 284nn. 35, 37 eids (festivals)  105, 115 Esposito, John L  144, 158n. 24 Egypt  9–10, 110, 179n. 56, 291 Ernst, Carl  121n. 1, 154, 162n. 79, 208n. 29, 210n. 46, 266n. 20, 281n. 6, 283n. 30, 284n. 36 Ershad, Hussain Mohammed  166–8, 172, 174, 222–3, 230n. 91 fanā (passing away)  23, 38, 96, 201 faqirs (voluntary state of poverty)  96, 104–5, 291, Farsi  5, 15–29, 200, 218, 229n. 77 Fatimah (Muhammad’s daughter)  24, 219 Friedmann, Yohanan  142, 147–8, 151, 157nn. 2–3, 5–6, 158nn. 10, 26, 159n. 32, 160nn. 47, 50, 52, 161n. 64, 162n. 76, Gaboreíeau, Marc  78n. 12, 259, 267n. 41 Gandhi, Rajmohun  23, 28nn. 62, 79 Geaves, Ron  7, 10, 114, 176, 192nn. 3–4, 193nn. 6, 8–9, 194nn. 10, 15, 195n. 25 , 260, 267n. 49, 268n. 50, 281n. 3, 285, 288 Geertz, Clifford  231n. 100 Ghamkol Sharif (shrine)  7, 83–93 Al-Ghazali  9, 45, 132, 188

Index Golra Sharif (shrine)  6, 46, 50–4, 234, 286 Guru Muhammad Raheem Bawa Muhaiyaddeen  248, 253–4, 260, 267n. 31 Hajj (annual pilgrimage)  67, 170, 205, 226n. 13 Al-Hallaj, Mansur/Mansoor  96–7, 130, 207n. 1, 208n. 19 Heck, Paul  163, 177n. 5 Heerrernan, Thomas J  125, 135–6, Hermansen, Marcia  2, 5–8, 11–12, 114, 181, 190, 192nn. 2, 4, 265nn. 1, 8, 268n. 68, 281nn. 3, 5, 283n. 30, 288 Hinduism  9, 15, 17, 21, 23, 108n. 13, 144, 165, 206, 212, 215–18, 220, 225–6, 229n. 73, 230n. 78, 277 Hindu-Muslim relations  9, 15, 21–4, 25n. 3, 61, 63, 68, 76, 98, 106, 151, 171, 197, 201, 211, 214–15, 217–23, 225n. 7, 228n. 66, 231n. 92, 235, 237, 249, 253, 264–5, 269–71, 276, 278, 281n. 2, 282n. 13, 285 Hindutva  269, 273 Hyderabad, India  5–7, 11, 27n. 49, 31–42, 95, 107, 108n. 14 Hyderabad, Sindh  95, 98, 107 Ibn Arabi  6, 12, 125, 129, 144, 153, 158nn. 22–3, 162n. 78, 164, 236–7 Ibn Battuta  22, 28n. 71 ijtihad (mental striving)  50, 114, 286 Ilyas, Muhammad  194n. 11, 213, 258–9 Inayat Khan  247–53, 262–4 India  1–2, 4–5, 9, 11–12, 15–42, 74, 78n. 12, 79n. 34, 80n. 67, 81n. 77, 98, 105, 108nn. 14, 24, 111, 120, 137, 141–5, 148–52, 155, 156n. 1, 157n. 3, 159n. 28, 160nn. 53, 57, 165, 167, 170–1, 178n. 18, 183, 185–6, 193, 194nn. 10–11, 198, 203, 206n. 1,

315

207nn. 2–3, 208–9n. 32, 213, 215, 220–3, 224n. 1, 225n. 5, 228n. 64, 229n. 73, 230n. 81, 235, 237, 242, 243n. 11, 244n. 22, 247–50, 252, 255, 257–8, 261–2, 264, 266n. 25, 269–84, 285–6, 288 interfaith dialogue/openness  4, 11–12, 17, 75, 168, 211–32, 236, 254, 270–1, 273, 275–6, 279 Iqbal, Muhammad  4, 9, 44, 57nn. 5, 16, 142–4, 157nn. 4, 9, 150nn. 12, 17–18, 232n. 101 Iran  2, 5, 13n. 5, 15–29, 115, 128, 183, 212, 218, 237, 283n. 27, 291 islah (reform)  4, 225–6 Islam, Nazrul  221 Ul-Islam, Sayyid Muhammad Amir  124, 128–31, 134 Islamists  1, 7–8, 113, 115, 121, 134, 164, 166–7, 173–6, 191, 213, 221–2, 224–6, 228nn. 58, 63, 229n. 9, 261, 288, 290–1 Jama’at-I-Islami (Jama’at-e-Islami)  113, 166–8, 172–3, 175, 194n. 13, 213–14, 222–3, 225n. 5, 289 Jerusalem  17, 19, 26n. 36 Jesus Christ  66, 236, 242, 274 Jhok Shairif shrine  7, 67, 95–110, 162n. 92, 286 jihad (striving)  45, 57n. 4, 114, 228n. 64 Jilani, Abdul Qadir  41n. 17, 45, 47, 103, 129–30, 160n. 46, 262 Jinnah, Muhammad Ali  11, 25n. 31, 42, 233 Jizya (tax)  145, 149, 151, 227n. 44 Kali (Hindu goddess)  24, 29n. 86, 78n. 15, 219, 221 Kashmir  10, 40, 86, 197–210, 229n. 69, 289–90 Keys, Charles F  64, 68, 71, 73, 78n. 13 Khan, Ahmed Reza Khan  111–12, 185, 248, 259 Khan, Dominique-Sila  61, 72, 76, 77n. 3

316

Index

Khan, Sir Sayyid Ahmed  220, 223, 228n. 62–4, 230n. 85 Khomeini, Ayotollah Ruhullah  128, 166 Lawrence, Bruce  208n. 19, 266n. 29, 281n. 6, 283n. 30, 288 Lewis, Samuel Leonard  250–1, 264, 265nn. 10, 12 Lindholm, Charles  79n. 44, 163, 175, 177n. 7 lingam  10, 201 Manasa (snake deity)  21, 217 Martin, Richard C  160n. 53, 161n. 63, 208n. 39, 210n. 46 Mawdudi, Abul A’la  113, 187, 225n. 5, 289 Mecca  19, 156, 170, 172, 199, 237–9, 269, 281n. 2 mehndi  89–90 Meriboute, Zidane  1, 13n. 1, 290, 292n. 10 Metcalf, Barbara  58n. 18, 93n. 1, 194n. 10, 209nn. 34, 36, 225n. 10, 229n. 67, 268n. 68 milad (prophet’s birthday)  87, 113, 256, 260–2, 287 Muhammad, prophet  6, 9, 20, 24, 27n. 43, 150, 218–20, 223, 225n. 6, 226n. 21, 231n. 100, 232n. 101, 236, 244 Muharram (Shi’a memorial)  72, 80n. 64, 101–2, 106, 203–35, Muinuddin Chīshtī  45, 47, 234, 237–8, 241, 251, 257, 269, 271, 274 Mughal Empire/emperors  19–21, 130, 141–2, 145–50, 152, 161n. 69, 208n. 32, 215–18 Mujaddid (renewer)  9, 48, 57n. 10, 117, 119, 277, 281n. 2 MUQ (Minh ā j-ul Quran)  7–8, 10, 12, 110–22, 190–1, 262 Muslim League  25, 142–3, 166, 220–2, 275 nafs (ego)  23, 47–8, 54, 57n. 17, 120, 150, 198, 202

Naipaul, Vidiadhar Surajprasad  26n. 37 Naqshbandi/Naqshbandiyya  5, 7–9, 12, 36, 42n. 24, 67, 85–6, 96, 112, 115, 147–62, 179n. 56, 182–5, 192n. 1, 193nn. 4, 6, 8, 223, 231n. 92, 248, 252, 256–8, 260, 262, 268n. 55, 286 New Zealand  251, 256, 265, 267n. 36 nur (light)  27n. 43, 219 Olsen, Alexandra H  125, 139n. 10 Organization of Islamic Cooperation  171, 174 Pakistan  1–2, 4, 7–9, 11–12, 15, 18, 24–5, 43–60, 74, 76, 77n. 8, 83–5, 88, 95–109, 111–22, 142–4, 157, 165, 171–2, 182–3, 185, 189, 214, 220–4, 225n. 5, 229nn. 69, 74, 230n. 81, 233–5, 247, 255, 257, 260–1, 269, 281n. 2, 284n. 38, 287, 289–90 Pakistan Awami Tehreek (PAT)  8–9, 115–17 Permberton, Kelly  11–13, 64, 76n. 19, 96, 102, 105–6, 145, 200, 203, 205 Phillipon, Alex  5–6, 8–9, 65, 86, 107nn. 5, 12, 156, 176, 190, 262, 287, 289 pīr-murīd (master-disciple relationship)  5, 7–8, 10, 35, 40, 44, 46–52, 54, 56, 57nn. 9–10, 18, 58nn. 26, 28, 59n. 33, 62, 77n. 5, 104, 107, 117, 124, 155, 172, 186, 190, 204, 263, 271, 282, 286–7 Ul-Qadri, Tahir  8, 86, 111–22, 267 Fatwa  8, 114, 262 Qadiri/Qadiriyya  86, 96, 262, 277 Qur’an  4, 11, 19–20, 23, 41n. 4, 45, 52–4, 85, 115, 118, 120, 150, 152, 169, 199, 281n. 3, 205, 224 Qutb, Sayyid  187 United States, Sufism in  181, 247–62, 288

Index ‘urs (anniversary celebration)  7, 34–5, 41n. 16, 52, 67, 72, 80n. 53n. 64, 83–93, 105, 185, 202, 223, 235, 249–50, 254, 256, 280, 284n. 44, 287 Ramsey, Charles M  5, 10–13, 40, 226n. 14 Rashtriya Swayam Sevak (RSS)  269 Rasul, Gholam Mhd.  124, 131–5, 138n. 4 Hafeez-ur-Rehman Chaudhry  6, 11, 286–7, 289 Rehman, Uzma  5–7, 11, 287, 289 Rhinehart, robin  137, 140nn. 23, 26 Riaz, Ali  139n. 17, 175, 178nn. 20, 24, 58, 189nn. 62, 65–6, 230n. 83 Rizvi, Athat Abbas  145, 159nn. 28, 30, 162n. 84 Robinson, Francis  204, 209n. 32 Roy, Asim  212, 215–16, 218–21, 226nn. 18, 20, 22, 227nn. 24, 32, 36–8, 41, 46, 228nn. 48, 52–3, 58, 65, 283n. 33 Roy, Oliver  112, 121n. 5 Rozehnal, Robert  13n. 2, 36, 42n. 20, 137, 139n. 22 Rumi  1, 5, 20, 23, 45–6, 67n. 16, 58n. 23, 119–20, 132, 199, 208n. 19, 240, 254 Sagar, Krishna Chandra  16, 25nn. 8, 20 salik/salikun  57n. 13, 124 sama (Sufi ceremony)  35, 101, 103–5, 107, 113, 120, 259, 264 samadhi  23, 252 Sanskrit  16, 21, 23–4, 207n. 3, 215, 218, 252, 277 Saudi Arabia  2, 118, 166, 186, 258 Sayyid Zia al-Haqq  8, 123–40 Sayyid Pair Warris Shah  6, 57n. 9, 62–80 sayyids  62, 86, 97–8, 148 Schimmel, Annemarie  27nn. 50–1, 65, 77nn. 8, 10, 78n. 20, 97,

317

107nn. 6, 9, 108n. 18, 162n. 92, 177nn. 1, 16, 193n. 9, 208n. 19, 244nn. 17–18 Shah Latif  62, 57n.  9, 62–80, 96, 104–5 Shah Wali Allah  9, 194n. 11, 213, 147 Shariat (Islamic law)  47, 67, 98, 167–8, 173, 189, 204–5, 248, 254, 270, 281n. 3 Sheikh Hasina  223, 231n. 94 Sheikh Mujibur Rahman  127–8, 171 Shi’a  21, 26n. 47, 27nn. 43, 45, 96, 102, 105–6, 145, 200, 203, 205 shirk  36–7, 42n. 19 silsilah  8, 62, 198, 231n. 100 Sindh  16–17, 24, 27n. 49, 57n. 11, 63, 70, 76, 95–109, 229n. 69, 235, 287 Sen, Girish Chandra  222, 229n. 73 Sikder, Jamal Ahmad  124–35, 138n. 4 Ahmad Sirhindi  7, 9, 96, 147–62, 176, 231n. 92 Subhan, John  210n. 47, 285, 288, 290, 292n. 2, Sulḥ-i-kull (peace with all)  152, 223 Sufi Abdullah  182, 193n. 6 Sufi political parties  8–9, 115–16, 163–80, 223, 261, 273, 282n. 15, 287, 289–91 Sufism, meaning of term  10, 183–4 Sunnah  4, 6, 54–5 Sunni schools of law  185, 188, 203, 209n. 96, 226n. 16, 258 Sri Lanka  2, 247, 253–5 Tablighi Jama’at (TJ)  8, 12, 170, 173, 185, 203, 209n. 26, 211, 213–14, 225n. 10, 247, 257–9, 263, 268n. 66, 288 Tagore, Rabindranath  221, 229n. 75 Taliban  8, 11, 111, 116, 234–5, 243n. 4, 258 Tambiah, Stanley J  135, 139n. 14 taqlid (imitation)  4, 114, 170 taqwa (god-consciousness)  22, 45 tariqah/turuk (sufi orders)  1–2, 10, 85, 96, 117, 123–6, 129, 135, 182–91, 202, 247–8, 252–7, 262–4