Fables of faith

Kha-pi ke ghar main baithye aur gaiye bhajan
Kashi se jal, Prag se amrood leejiye...
(Refresh yourself by singing bhajans, and by getting water from Banaras and guavas from Allahabad)

I bet you have not heard of Abdur Rahman of Bijnor, a graduate of the M.A.O. College at Aligarh, and his comment that, besides the Divan-e Ghalib (Collection of Ghalib’s poetry), the Rig Veda was India’s revealed book. For some critics, this was blasphemy, pure and simple. Thanks to Jagjit and Chitra Singh, most of you have heard of Ghalib. But do you know what he wrote about Kashi or Banaras? This is not all. Long before Bijnori and Ghalib, a great Sufi by the name of Syed Abdur Razzaq (1836-1724), lived in a tiny village called Bansa, in the region called Awadh. Symbolising the ecumenical traditions in the self-contained world of the Sufis, he took part in Diwali celebrations and watched bakhtiyas perform the life of Krishna. He had visions of Ram and Lakshman; and Krishna would send his salam to him.

We know little about them, because they are remote from us in time. Let’s, therefore, begin with the more familiar figure of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. In October 1827, he set out for Kolkata. Part of the way he travelled by river; and the final stage, from Banaras to Kolkata, he did on horseback. He reached Kolkata on February 20, 1828 — near enough a whole year after he had set out from Delhi. Banaras particularly enchanted him; hence the long lyrical Persian poem of 108 couplets in its praise. It is entitled, ‘Chiragh-i dair’ (The Lamp of the Temple). The beauties of Banaras have ‘their coquetry in a rose garden intoxicated and brim-full of blandishments; their graceful walking embraces the hundred turmoils of Judgement Day!’ By contrast, Allahabad (Prayaga) was a ghost city, dull and uninspiring, its people unfriendly and inhospitable. Such was his revulsion that he decided not to touch Allahabad on his journey back home.

Our poet, having rented a haveli at Sarai Naurangabad, spent a month in the city of Shiva. From its alleged founding in the sixth century BC, it had grown to be one of northern India’s largest in early 19th century. The region, moreover, was one of the most densely populated on the subcontinent, more than twice as dense as any European country. Ghalib noticed the daily arrival of pilgrims seeking salvation, or taking part in seasonal fairs and eclipses. He enjoyed, as he sat down to write to friends, the paradise-like environment of natural beauty, the temple bells ringing, and the devotees walking hurriedly towards the Ganga. He felt invigorated by the salubrious climate, the forests along the river, the streams and waterways all through the city. His poetic description of the Ganga reveals, more than any other dimension, his patriotic revaluation of the country’s common cultural and religious heritage.

In another long Persian poem Ghalib argues that the special customs of a country must not be destroyed. Rejecting infidelity (rasm-i kufr) was all very well, but rejecting the Divine Bounty made little sense. ‘Negation without affirmation is nothing but error’; indeed, one cannot affirm God and deny his signs. Kashi was, thus, a ‘sign’ of God. Besides its all-India prominence as a centre for pilgrimage and worship, it was a microcosm of Indian life, customs and popular belief. It was indeed, so wrote Ghalib, the Kaaba of India. In his view, ‘if Ganga hadn’t rubbed its forehead at the feet of Banaras, it wouldn’t be pure. And if the sun hadn’t sailed through its nooks and corners, it wouldn’t be so bright.’

More than 30 years later Ghalib still remembered his stay with pleasure: ‘what praise is too high for Banaras? Where else is there a city to equal it? The days of my youth were almost over when I went there. Had I been young in those days I would have settled down there and never come back this way.’

Finally, it is instructive to turn to Shah Abdur Razzaq of Bansa, a site of piety and devotion, and to observe the triumph with which he brought back, from his forays into the neighbouring districts, the ‘Little Traditions’ into his worldview. He visited the Magh mela at Allahabad, interacted with the jogis and Bairagis, joined the theatrical performances featuring popular stories about Krishna and the gopis, and often went into a state of ecstasy listening to Kabir’s verses. In this dimension, the Hindu gods were also his friends and thereby the well wishers of all the disciples and followers among the Muslims as well. Two of his well-known disciples were Champat, the leader of the Bairagis from Awadh, Chaitram and Parasram. A disciple of Champat, in fact, experienced a vision of Krishna after Shah Abdur Razzaq recited some Hindi mantras. On another occasion, his miracle made it possible for Parasram to feed his guests at a feast he had organised. The final story is located somewhere in the Deccan. Here, walking through a dense forest, Shah Abdur Razzaq met Ram and Lakshman near a pool (without knowing their identity). They treated him as their guests, offered sweets to him, and left behind a lion and a bear for his protection. The next morning the two, leading a herd of cows and buffaloes, showed up and directed the Shah to the village. Later, when he returned to discover their identity, he found that they had disappeared. Their disappearance confirmed his belief that they were, in fact, the great Ram and Lakshman. Indeed, the Shah believed that the two had fully realised their essential oneness with the Divine Being in whose likeness they were made, being counterparts of the ontological Perfect Man of Sufis.

The historian’s task is not to speculate on what might have been. His duty is to show what happened and why. I have tried to do so. Some of the other key questions, ie, the causes for the erosion of composite values and the rise of religious-based identities, can barely be answered in this column. Yet, I share these stories with you, hoping that you will be sensitised to our plural heritage, and not be misled by the rhetoric of Hindu and Muslim fundamentalists. There is plenty for you to do. Please remember what Akbar Allahabadi (1846-1921) had to say: ‘I say the same to Hindus and the Muslims:/Be good, each, as your faith would have you be./The world’s a rod? Then you become as water./Clash like the waves, but still remain one sea.’

Earlier Columns