Hazrat's Sandals - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

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I heard somewhere that there are three thumb rules to good storytelling... unfortunately, no one knows them.

I'm an anti-format person since childhood. Be it a coloring book or my monthly budget, I've always missed the boundaries. There is no harm in coloring an elephant's eyes little grey, in case you miss that little boundary of its oval-shaped eyes.

I may not know the thumb rules of storytelling, but I can tell you the kind of stories I enjoy. 

Firstly, they should be long enough to be in that zone for a while.

They should carry expressions.

And yes, they should not carry a particular format - A storyteller should not stick to the beginning, middle, or end, or anything hard and fast. He or she must feel free to tell a story, a story within a story, or a story within a story within a story... or maybe crossovers. Ahh! I'm listening to all of that.

Asif Sahab told this story to us on many walks - Sometimes individually - Sometimes as a story within a story (or within within, you got that)

And this story is too close to my heart.

So take a bellyful of breath, hold it to the count of five, and release it.

Shall we begin?

It was a foggy winter morning when a middle-aged man came to the khanqah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. Just like many other fariyadi and devotees, he was expecting something from Hazrat. The khanqah was filled with too many people that day. He was worried as the days were approaching and a lot of arrangements need to be made. His only daughter is about to get married. And like every responsible father, he had to take care of everything. His family was going through a major financial crisis at that time. He heard a lot about Hazrat and that he never send anyone empty-handed. 

He waited calmly in the queue, trying hard to control his shivering, partly from the spine-chilling weather, and partly from worries on his head.

When he entered the room, Hazrat smiled at him. The man offered him his respectful salam and sat near him. Hazrat's aura was such that he couldn't utter a word. He kept staring at his feet for a while. He had faith that Hazrat will understand his situation without him saying anything.

As other people were waiting outside, he stood up and went out of the room. He planned to stay at the khanqah that night, expecting that Hazrat may call him and offer some help for his daughter's marriage.

The night passed. Without any such luck, he decided to leave for his village early so that he could reach there before dusk. He went to Hazrat to ask for his permission. Hazrat gave his blessings, looking directly into his eyes as if he is reading something. The man tried to look somewhere else but couldn't. When he turned to leave Hazrat told him to stop.

"There is pair of sandals kept right next to the door. Keep them with yourself. May the Almighty be with you."

The man obeyed, though doubted his decision of coming to the Khanqah in the first place. 

Heavy rainfall greeted him in the afternoon and he couldn't cross even the city when the Sun started to set. He decided to spend the night in a Sarai (motel kind of structure).

He changed his clothes, made his bed, and kept Hazrat's sandals near his head. 

It was around midnight when he felt someone's presence near his head. It was too dark. He woke up with a thud. A man in his mid-forties was squatting near his head and weeping. He was wearing an embroidered angarakha, just like someone from the royal family wears.

'What happened sir, have I committed some horrifying mistake?' He asked.

'From where have you got these sandals, my dear friend?' The man who was weeping countered his question.

'I got this from Khanqah of Mehboob -E - Ilahi, Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. He gifted this to me himself.

'

'Can you give me these? I'm ready to pay any amount you want.' He stood up in a hurry and took out two moderate size cloth bags filled with gold coins. He handed over both bags to him, spilling a few coins on the ground. 

The man was numb. He felt like he is still in his deep slumber. That coins were enough even if he had to make arrangements for the marriage of ten more daughters. He watched that man keeping his head on the sandals, wiping them with his sleeves, keeping them on his head, and marching out of the Sarai.

He was still in a state of shock when he heard two young men talking.

"Wasn't he Amir Khusrow, The court poet in the darbar of the Sultan?"

"Call him Tooti -e-Hind Amir Khusrow."

The next morning when Hazrat woke up, he felt like a celebrated baarat, a musical procession heading towards his Khanqah. He saw that Khusrow is walking towards the Khanqah with Hazrat's sandals on his head. Hundreds of people were following him, singing praises of the Almighty. Some were dancing in all trance, some were weeping, and some were just filled with joy.

Khusrow bowed slowly towards Hazrat, one by one he slipped both his sandals on his holy feet and stood back up.

'Oh Turk, how much gold coins you bartered for my sandals?' Hazrat used to call Khusrow Turk lovingly.

'I just gave what all I had. If he asked for my life, I would have gladly given that too' He said with moist eyes, still looking at Hazrat's feet.

'Ahh! you got them at an extremely cheap price.'

Whenever this story ends, I try to notice other people's smiles. It's like a universal way of responding to that story - Reason? I'm not sure but the story might give the listeners a sense of bliss and contentment.

See, I just catch you smiling too. What a lovely smile you have.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

ps - I tried to recite this story a couple of months back. Though It's nothing like Asif Sahab tells us this story. He is just mind-blowing. If you still wish to listen you can click here. Thank You.

Trust - The first lesson of Sufism - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

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While taking walks with Asif Sahab, my favorite part is when everyone just sits down and allows themselves to engross completely in the story he is telling. It's fun watching grown-ups cupping their chins, their facial expressions almost dancing to the tunes of stories.

I have written too much about the last walk I attended. Trust me, my expressions are just the tip of a massive iceberg - It's so minute compared to what I actually feel.

The scenario is still the same. We all are sitting around Asif Sahab when he told us this story.

Wait. Don't forget to take a bellyful of breath, Sit back, and relax.

Shall we begin?

Once upon a time, there was a soldier who came to the small room where Hazrat Nizammudin Aulia was sitting against the wall. His right leg was folded, his thigh pressing his belly softly. He was staring at something with his eyes half closed. The soldier greeted him with his humble Salam and sat right in front of him. It was a hot afternoon. The scorching heat was making everything too uncomfortable. But Hazrat was smiling at him.

"Nizam Saheb, I have a humble request. You have never sent me back without listening to my fariyads, my requests. I'm not capable enough to offer you anything. With your blessings, my wife has conceived. I really don't know how to bid my thanks to you." He took out a little piece of cloth bundle from his pocket. The soft sound of the jingling of coins made the silent room animated for a second.

"Please accept these on my behalf. This is just a little gift that I would like to present every month."

Hazrat was just smiling, staring at something on his right. He closed his eyes for a while, humming an inaudible prayer. When he opened his eyes back, there was no one in the room, just a little bundle of shiny cloth kept near Hazrat's foot.

The much-awaited shower turned the whole environment melodious. It was a great opportunity for each Sufi to come out of their chamber and remember the Almighty together. The whole evening was lit with the 'Sama'. It was known to everyone that Hazrat enters into a trance state listening to all the poetic offerings other Sufis have to offer in the holy kingdom of the Almighty. He generally raises his right hand towards the sky, shivering at a phenomenal pace - Denoting a strong connection between him and the Almighty, as if he is holding his hand.

But that evening it was just not happening. Everyone was just waiting for it. And Hazrat was so upset with this. When your beloved denies holding your hand as he used to, that feeling is synonymous with death.

He closed his eyes and a vague image of that shiny bundle of cloth flashed right in front of his eyes. He called that soldier and returned him that bundle.

I was confused, unable to understand the correlation between the two events. How connection with the Almighty and that shiny bundle of coins connected, which will be coming right at his feet every month.

Asif Sahab then came to the rescue of my confusion.

A Sufi should not be dependent on any kind of regular source of income, in any form. It's actually a symbol of distrust toward the Almighty. The one who has sent you on this planet is capable enough to take care of you in every sense. He will take care of all the arrangements which are required for your well-being. You just need to trust him. 

And here I'm, spending so many sleepless nights, thinking about how will I manage in such a cruel world Blah! Blah! Blah!

How much do I need to accumulate for shady days Blah! Blah! Blah!

Trust - from now on I consider this as the first lesson of Sufism... and life as well.

The above story came to me like a bullet, hitting me so hard that I felt like some serious physical destruction. But I'm relieved and happy about that destruction.

With prayers and hope that you also face this kind of destruction.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

Picture Source - Praveen Sir's Facebook Profile

 

You know what, almost all my childhood stories started with 'Once there was a King'. And I always imagined Sultans and Badshahs - with a ghoul on his back or one with a magic carpet. But on the last walk I attended with Delhi Karavan, I understood a different meaning of true Kingship.

When I started attending walks with Delhi Karavan, my imagination started becoming more vivid. Slowly I could see different characters right in front of my eyes. I started sensing my imagination adding different colors to the characters - weaving garments with the magical threads as Asif Sahab provides more and more details.

Of all the walks I have attended, the last one was different. Though it's brutal to compare one walk with the other, the last one was closest to my heart. 

It was one dark summer evening that lightened my soul.

I'll keep all the details of the walk reserved for some other article, for now just imagine a group of about twenty-five people sitting in the courtyard of Khanquah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, With Asif Sahab sitting almost in the center. A candle is lit in front of him.

 Khanquah is a place where Sufis commence their holy practices of unification with the Almighty. They stay there and spend years and years with the sole motive of making a connection with the Almighty. And Hazrat was the Sun among the stars when we talk about Sufism in Hazrat-e-Dilli.

The place where I was sitting has watched centuries after centuries, the establishment and destruction of various Sultanates. But Asif Sahab made me imagine everything with stories containing high intrinsic values. I cross my heart and say that I could imagine Hazrat right in front of my eyes. Though no writer is capable enough to describe his personality in mere words. Some might also consider it as blasphemy. On the other side, I felt him so close to me that his details are so vivid in my mind that I couldn't stop myself from writing them.

I would request you to take a bellyful of breath before reading ahead. 

I imagine a dark evening. If you look at this place from a decent distance, you will see multiple oil lamps lit, flickering as the evening is a little windy. There are dozens of small chambers. In each chamber, a Sufi is sitting doing different holy practices. Some are reciting different names of the Almighty. Some are looking at the sky without blinking their eyes. Some are whispering something, inaudible to human ears, loud enough to reach the kingdom of the Almighty.

The rickety staircase was leading us above the structure. A wooden structure was erected there. There is a small room on the backside of the structure.

 Hazrat is sitting in the leftmost corner of the room.

A small earthen lamp was lit right in front of him. One could sense the heavenly fragrance of multiple incense sticks, but it is difficult to locate even one.

Hazrat has a lean frame as he is not much dependent on food. A Sufi doesn't crave food. Hunger can't make him its slave.

He has a pair of pretty long arms. If you see him standing, you can notice his hands reaching the level of his knees. His eyes are sinking deep into their sockets, making his cheekbones look higher. His jawline is sharp. His hair is long and matted. His beard is bushy, long, and unkempt. His lips are turning white, dry as the desert. He is wearing an oversized white kurta, which definitely has seen whiter days.

He remains silent most of the time. He is sitting with his back placed softly against the wall. His head is up, staring up toward the sky - as if he is having a silent conversation with the Almighty. Now his head has turned down as he is asking for mercy from the maker. Sometimes there is complete silence in the room, one could hear his own breath. Sometimes there are sounds of giggles and chattering. 

But  Hazrat is indifferent to any such noise. He remains in a meditative state most of the time.

All through the course of the day people visit him with their Fariyads, their requests. He smiles gently at everyone. He listens to everyone. Speaks only when it is more than necessary. He bestows his blessings, requesting the Almighty to give Fariyadi whatever he desires. He is 'Mehboob-e-Ilahi', the beloved of the Almighty.

I was busy imagining all that when something crossed by my sight. I was sitting behind Asif Sahab, facing the Khanqah. There was a shadow or something dark which crossed between us. I'm not sure whether it was something tangible or I was just imagining. I have mentioned before that  I have a quite vivid imagination, which turns wild sometimes. But I don't mind whirling upon stories I'm listening to. And my imagination makes it effortless for me.

As the walk ended, I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I just wanted to keep that feeling clenched tight in my fists, making sure it doesn't slip. Only then I can place them close to my heart.

It was more of a trance state - Intoxicated with... I don't know what. But with all that intoxication I turn socially awkward. I really can't help it. I just turn a little more silent. But it's worth it.

I'll take your leave with a little message. If you like what's written above, don't forget to give a big thumbs-up to Delhi Karvan and Asif Sahab. It would be even more lovely if you could come and attend any of their walks.

If you are offended by anything while reading this, I deeply apologize, as I'm solely responsible for it.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN