Then he picked up from his desk his handwritten compilation of Buddhist mantras, and he began reading excerpts from its introduction in a singsong voice, as though he were reading out loud Sanskrit shlokas: ‘Boddhisatva said to Bhagvan Sachak, “O Agivesan! When I clenched my teeth, blocked my throat by pressing my uvula against my tongue, and tried to control my mind, suddenly my underarms started sweating. Just like a burly man would press down on a weakling’s head or shoulders, that’s how I pressed down on my mind. O Agivesan! Then I started meditating by holding my breath for long periods. I could hear the sound of breathing coming from my ears. It sounded like air being expelled sharply from an ironsmith’s bellows. O Agivesan! Then I started covering my ears with my hands. This made me feel as though a sword’s sharp point was piercing my forehead. But, O Agivesan, I didn’t stop meditating!”
‘ “O Agivesan! From meditating and fasting, my body grew weak. You could plainly see my joints through my skin. My hips lost weight and started looking like a camel’s foot. My spine started looking like a spindle. Like the beams of a dilapidated house show through the old structure, so too did my ribs. My eyes drew inward like stars reflected in a deep well. As the pieces of raw, bitter pumpkin dry out in the sun, so too did the skin on my head. When I put my hand on my stomach, I touched my spine. And when I put my hand on my back, I touched my stomach. I was all skin and bones. When I ran my hands over my body, my hair fell out.” ’
He’s No Friend of Mine! He’s No Friend of Mine!
After reading this, he paused for a moment. He closed his eyes. I assumed he had started meditating. After a while, he opened his eyes just so the lashes no longer touched. He was engrossed in the seventh step of meditation. He cupped his hands and said, ‘There’s one sort of thirst that a drop or two of water can quench. And there’s another sort that for however much water you drink, your thirst only grows worse. After every drop, it feels like there’re thorns digging into your tongue. It depends on the man. Some want sex, some want wealth, some want land. Some people have a thirst for knowledge and fame. Some want to lord it over people. Some get obsessed with women. But the biggest source of restlessness is the false thirst that people inflict upon themselves. It swallows rivers, clouds, and glaciers, and it still isn’t satisfied. It takes people from one river to another, from one mirage to another, but the thirst still isn’t quenched. Water! Water! Get me water! And slowly this unquenchable thirst melts humans and drinks them up. The Quran says, “When he left with his army, Taloot said, ‘God will test you with a river. Whoever drinks its water is no friend of mine. My friends are those who don’t fully quench their thirst. So if you want a handful, that’s fine.’ Aside from a small group, everyone drank to their heart’s content. So when Taloot and his close companions crossed the river and approached the enemy, his forces told him that they were too weak to meet Jaloot and his army in battle” (Surat Al-Baqarah 33). Everyone has a river like this. Whoever drinks its water won’t have enough courage to fight against evil. He’s no friend of mine! He’s no friend of mine! Victory and liberation are for those who wade through the river without drinking.’
This is why he was called Mullah Monk. The way he spoke was thornier than his matted hair, and his beliefs were more colourful. As he spoke on in his Sufi-like way, he looked like a sadhu. Suddenly his turban fell off and you saw a sadhu with matted hair springing free upon every word, every mantra. He had done his ablutions in aab-e-Zamzam, and yet he had smeared his body with ashes. Sometimes you would think he was one thing, sometimes you think he was something else. And sometimes you would feel as though you have wandered far into unknown lands:
With a tilak on his forehead, he sits in a temple
He renounced Islam a long time ago.
And sometimes he would make you feel as though Gautama Buddha renounced his deep meditative trance under the Bodhi tree to don the haji’s robes. Sometimes he jumped from topic to topic without making a point. He jumped like a locust from one thing to another, and then from that to yet another. One day I goaded him, ‘Maulana, many Muslim jurists think that the appropriate punishment for an apostate is death.’ He got my drift. He smiled. Then he said, ‘It’s something to think about. What point is there to crucify someone who has already committed suicide?’
Everyone’s Face Is My Face, Everyone’s Eyes Are My Eyes
Despite his warmhearted reception, I still felt that he was holding back. He had a sort of dervish-like indifference. With people, too. One day he said that being attached, whether to a thing or a person, is the real cause of sadness. People like that will never be able to breathe deeply; they will never achieve enlightenment. If people could harden their hearts and break from everything, then they would be freed from the endless circle of the emotions. Then they would never be happy or sad, never satisfied or disappointed. Ghalib writes in a Persian couplet,
Neither bliss nor loss stays in our heart for long
In our sieve, liquor and blood are the same
His spiritual attainment repudiated the famous line ‘his dispassion held neither wisdom nor pleasure.’ Two days before I was to leave for Pakistan, I teased him, ‘Maulana, you’ve lived here a long time. You have no ties except to the city itself. Come with me to Pakistan. All our friends, all our brothers, are there.’
He said, ‘Our ancestors are buried here.’
‘But you don’t even pray the fatiha above their graves, you don’t make offerings at their graves on Thursday nights either, so what’s the difference?’
Just then a spotted cat came into the room carrying a kitten in its mouth. A pigeon got scared and went to hide in the corner of its cage. Then a neighbour girl came in holding a caged myna in one hand, and her doll stuffed underneath her armpit. She said, ‘Neither of them has eaten since morning. They aren’t talking to me. Please give them some medicine.’ Mullah Aasi took the sick doll’s pulse, and he chirped and warbled to the bird. The bird answered. Mullah Aasi took a lemon drop from a box and gave it to the neighbour girl. She started to suck on it, and the doll seemed to feel better. He smiled.
We picked up the conversation from where it had been interrupted by the cat, the neighbour girl, and the bird. He said to me, ‘Here I share everyone’s pain. Who will need me there? Who’s as poor as me there? Here there are people even poorer than me.’
Those dear to me all have broken wings and are miserable
O, Compassionate One! It doesn’t suit me to be unlike them