The Torn Veil The story of Sister Gulshan Esther Christs healing power breaks through to a Muslim girl. TO MECCA. I would not, in the ordinary course of events have wanted to come to England, that Spring of 1966. I, Gulshan Fatima, the youngest daughter of a Muslim Sayed family, descended from the prophet Mohammed through that other Fatima, his daughter, had always lived a quietly secluded life at home in the Punjab, Pakistan. Not only was this because I was brought up in purdah from the age of seven, according to the strict, orthodox Islamic code of the Shias, but also because I was a cripple, and unable even to leave my room without help. My face was veiled from men, other than permitted kinsfolk, like my father and two older brothers, and uncle. For the most part, during those first fourteen years of my feeble existence, the perimeter walls of our large garden in Jhang, about 250 miles from Lahore, were my boundaries. Wudu, the ritual *ablutions necessary before carrying or touching the holy book. He repeats the Bismillah and then glues the Holy Quran on a rail, a special x-shaped stand, touching the book only with his finger tips. He sits so that I, propped on a chair can also see. I too have performed Wudu, with the help of my maids. With his finger Father traces the sacred writings in the decorative Arabic script, and I, anxious to please, repeat after him the Fatiha, the Opening, words which bind together all Muslims, everywhere: Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Creation, The Compassionate, the Merciful, King of Judgement-day! You alone we worship, and to You alone we pray for help. Guide us to the straight path The path of those whom You have favored, Not of those who have incurred Your wrath, Nor of those who have gone astray. I am doing what every Muslim child brought up in an orthodox family does from early childhood—reading through the Holy Quran in Arabic. It was Father who brought me to England—he who looked down on the English for worshipping three gods, instead of one God. He would not even let me learn the infidel language in my lessons with Razia, my teacher, for fear I should somehow become contaminated with error and drawn away from our faith. Yet he brought me, after spending large sums in a fruitless search for treatment at home, to seek the best medical advice. He did this out of kindness and concern for my future happiness, but how little we knew as we landed at Heathrow airport that early April day, of the trouble and sadness that waited round the corner for our family. Strange that I, the crippled child, the weakest of his five children, should have become in the end the strongest of all, and a rock to shatter all he held dear. I have only to shut my eyes, even now in maturity, and a picture rises before me of my father, dear Aba-Jan, so tall and lean in his well-tailored, high-necked, black coat trimmed with the gold buttons, over the loose trousers, and on his head the white turban lined with blue silk. I see him, as so often in childhood, coming into my room to teach me my religion. I see him standing by my bed, opposite the picture of the House of God at Mecca, Islams holiest place, the Kaaba, erected it is said, by Abraham and repaired by Mohammed. Father takes down the Holy Quran from its high shelf, the highest place in the room, for nothing must be put on or above the Quran. He first of all kisses the green silk cover and recites the Bismillah i-Rahman-ir-Raheem. (I begin this in the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful.) Then he unwraps the green silk cover—he has first carefully performed Today we are reading from the Sura The Imrans: Allah! There is no God but Him, the Living, the Ever- existent One. He has revealed to you the Book with the truth, confirming the scriptures which preceded it: for He has already revealed the Torah and the Gospel for the guidance of men and the distinction between right and wrong. I am doing what every Muslim child brought up in an orthodox family does from early childhood—reading through the Holy Quran in Arabic. It can only really be understood in the Arabic in which it was written. We Muslims know that it cannot be translated, as if it were just any book, without losing some of its meaning, because it is sacred. When I shall have finished reading it through for the first time—around the age of seven, regarded as the age of discretion—there will be a feast to celebrate— we call it the ameen of the Holy Quran—and members of the family, friends and neighbors will be invited. In the central open courtyard of our bungalow, where the men sit separated from the women by a partition, the mullah will recite prayers to mark my arrival at this important new stage of life, and the women, sitting in their part of the courtyard, will hush their gossip to listen. My name, Gulshan, means in Urdu, the place of flowers, the garden.I was a sickly plant to bear such a name. We have reached the end of the Sura. Now comes my catechism. Father looks at me with a smile hovering about his lips: Well done little Beiti (daughter), he says. Now answer me these questions: Where is Allah? Shyly I repeat the lesson I know so well: Allah is everywhere. Does Allah know all the actions you do on earth? Yes, Allah knows all the actions I do on earth, both good and bad. He even knows my secret thoughts. What has Allah done for you? Allah has created me and all the world. He loves and cherishes me. He will reward me in heaven for all my good actions and punish me in hell for all my evil deeds. How can you win the love of Allah? I can win the love of Allah by complete submission to His will and obedience to His commands. How can you know the Will and Commands of Allah? I can know the Will and Commands of Allah from the Holy Quran and from the Traditions of our Prophet Mohammed (May peace and blessings of Allah be upon him). Very good, says Father. Now is there anything you want to know? Have you any questions? Yes Father, please tell me, why is Islam better than other religions? I ask him this not because I know anything about other religions but because I like to hear him explain our religion. Fathers answer is clear and definite: Gulshan, I want you always to remember this. Our religion is greater than any other because, first of all, the glory of God is Mohammed. There were many other prophets, but Mohammed brought Gods final message to mankind and there is no need of any prophet after him. Second, Mohammed is Gods Friend. He destroyed all the idols and converted all the people who worshipped the idols to Islam. Third, God gave the Quran to Mohammed, after all the other holy books. It is Gods last word and we must obey it. All other writings are incomplete. I listen. His words are writing themselves on the tablets of my mind and my heart. If there is time I ask him to tell me again about the picture in my room. What is it like to go on pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca, that magnet towards which every Muslim turns to pray five times daily? We turn too in our city, as the muezzin calls the azzan from the minaret of the mosque. The sound ricochets along the avenues, above the noise of traffic and of the bazaar, and enters our screened windows at dawn, noon, dusk and at night, calling the faithful to prayer with the first declaration of Islam: La ilaha ill Allah, Muhammad rasoolullah! There is no God but Allah: And Mohammed is the Prophet of God. Father explains it all to me. He has been twice on pilgrimage—once by himself and once with his wife, my mother. It is every Muslims duty to go at least once in his life—oftener if he is rich enough. To go on pilgrimage is the fifth of the basic Five Pillars of Islam, which unite millions of Muslims in many different countries and ensure the continuance of our faith. Will I go to Mecca, father? I ask. He laughs and stoops to kiss my forehead. You will, little Gulshan. When you are older and perhaps ... He does not finish the sentence, but I know what he wants to say ... When our prayers for you are answered. From these instruction periods I learn devotion to God, an attachment to my religion and its customs, fierce pride in my ancestral line from the Prophet Mohammed, through his son-in-law Ali, and an understanding of the dignity of my father, who is not only the head of our family but, as a descendant of the Prophet, is a Sayed and a Shah. He is also a Pir— religious leader, and a landlord with a large estate in the country and a commodious bungalow surrounded by gardens on the edge of our city. I begin to understand why we are so respected as a family, even by the mullah, or maulvi, who comes to ask questions of my father, religious questions, which he himself cannot answer. Looking back now I can trace a purpose in those captive years, when mind and spirit unfolded like the rosebuds in our well-watered garden, tended so lovingly by our gardeners. My name, Gulshan, means in Urdu, the place of flowers, the garden. I, a sickly plant to bear such a name, was tended in the same way by my father. He loved all of us—his two sons Safdar Shah and Alim Shah, and three daughters, Anis Bibi, Samina and me, but although I disappointed him in being born a female, and then when I was six months old, being left a weak cripple by typhoid, Father loved me as much, if not more than the others. Had not my mother given him a sacred charge on her deathbed to look after me? I beg you Shah-ji, do not marry again, for the sake of little Gulshan, she said with her dying breath. She wanted to protect me, since a step-mother and her children could reduce the *patrimony of a first wifes daughter, and could treat her unkindly if she were ailing and unmarried. He had promised her those many years ago and he had kept his word, in a land where a man might have up to four wives, according to the Quran, if he were rich enough to treat each one with equality and justice. Such was the undisturbed pattern of my life, until that visit to England when I was 14. It changed everything in subtle ways, setting in motion a chain of unintended consequences. I had no premonition of this of course as I waited in a London hotel room, on the third day of our visit, with Salima and Sema my maids. We waited for the verdict of the English specialist my father had heard of during the search for treatment in Pakistan, who would settle, once and for all, my future. If I could be cured of this sickness which had paralyzed my left side when I was an infant, then I should be free to marry my cousin, to whom I had been betrothed at three months, and who was now at home in Multan, Punjab, awaiting news of my recovery. And if not, my engagement would have to be broken, and my shame would be greater than if I had been married and then divorced by my husband. We heard the footsteps coming. Salima and Sema jumped up and arranged their long, scarf-like dupattas nervously. Salima pulled mine right down over my face, as I lay on the coverlet of my bed. I was shivering, but not from cold. I had to grit my teeth to stop them from chattering. The door opened and in walked my father with the doctor. Good morning said a pleasant, very polite voice. I could not see the face of this Dr. David, but he carried with him an air of authority and knowledge. Firm hands pushed up my long sleeve and tested a limp left arm and then my wasted leg. One minute passed and then the specialist straightened up. There is no medicine for this—only prayer said Dr. David to my father. There was no mistaking the quiet finality in his voice. Lying listening on my couch I heard the name of God used by the English doctor. I was puzzled. What could he know of God? I sensed from his kind and sympathetic manner that he was dashing our hopes of my recovery, and yet he had pointed to the way of prayer. My father walked to the door with him. When he came back he said, That was good for an Englishman, telling us to pray. Salima turned back my dupatta and helped me to sit up. Father, cant he make me better? I could not keep my voice from trembling. Tears were gathering behind my eyes. Father patted my lifeless hand. He said quickly: Theres only one way now. Let us knock on the heavenly door. We will go on to Mecca as we intended. God will hear our prayers, and we may yet return home with thanksgiving. He smiled at me, and I tried to smile back. My sorrow was equally his sorrow, but he wasnt in despair. There was renewed hope in his voice. Surely at the house of God or at the healing spring of Zamzam we would find our hearts desire? We stayed at the hotel for a few more days, while Father arranged for the flight through to Jeddah, the airport used by pilgrims to Mecca. He hadnt done so before, since he was awaiting the outcome of any treatment which might be recommended. He had planned this visit to fall just before the annual month of pilgrimage, so that after treatment we should be able to go to Mecca to give thanks. During those days of waiting, father went out to see friends in the Pakistani community or they came to see him. Ordinarily the women of those families would have visited me. But I felt the shame of my condition and was not accustomed to meeting strangers at home, so few of the ladies knocked at my door. Who would want to see withered limbs, with the skin turned black, wrinkled and hanging loose, and with whatever fingers there were sticking together with all the muscular strength of a piece of jelly? At an age when my peers were beginning to dream of the day when they would wear the red wedding dress, with the gold embroidery, and go jeweled, with a fine dowry to their husbands home, I was facing a lonely future, cut off from my own kind, a non-person, never to be a whole, proper woman, behind a veil of shame. We were on the second floor of the hotel, in a comfortable room next door to Fathers. It had thick carpets and its own bathroom. Apart from tending me, and washing our undies in the bathroom by hand, Salima and Sema, who slept in my room on a folding bed, sitting up in shifts to protect me and see to my needs, had little to do. But time passed quickly enough with my books, the five prayer times and with the ordinary details of washing, drying, eating, which always take longer when a person is disabled. At other times I listened to the entertaining gossip of my maids. They made occasional forays to the lobby downstairs, but were too frightened to go out alone. Most of the time they contented themselves with a view of the world outside the window, reporting to me what they saw. Their reactions were those of typical village girls of Pakistan, and they made me laugh: Oh see the beautiful city (This from Salima.) So many people are walking up and down and there are so many cars. Then there would be a cry from Sema. Oh the women have bare legs. Arent they ashamed? The men and women are walking together, holding hands. Theyre kissing. Oh theyre going straight to hell. We had been taught strict rules about dress and behavior from our childhood up. We covered ourselves modestly from neck to ankles with the shalwar kameeze of the Punjab—a loose tunic and trousers, gathered around the ankle. We wore round our necks a long fine, wide scarf or dopatta, which could cover our heads when necessary or be pulled right over our faces, and we also, when it was cold, wrapped ourselves in a shawl. If we had to go out then we wore the burka—a long impenetrable veil, covering us from head to toe, gathered into a headpiece, with a net- covered slit in front to see through. It rendered impossible any ordinary conversation in the street, and cut down the wearers ability to see and hear traffic. But at the time I am speaking of we never questioned the rules that governed our lives, and would indeed have been terrified to defy the conventions. In fact, we felt the veil a protection. We could look out (just) at the world, but it could not look at us. When we saw how women in London flaunted themselves in their immodest mini-skirts, ending well above the knee it was obvious to all three of us that it was the wickedest city in the world. In our country, and even more in our city, to talk to a man who was not of our immediate family, even to male servants, would have brought us into disrepute. The whole purpose of purdah, was, of course, the protection of family honor. Not the slightest whiff or stain of suspicion must attach itself to the daughters of a Muslim family. The penalties for indiscretion could be terrible. Three times a day food arrived, brought by a waiter with a trolley. The maids would take it from him at the door. Sometimes it would be accompanied by an English maid, and I would shut my eyes so as not to see her legs. yet be so different? They have freedom to do many things that we do not he said. They have the freedom to eat pork and drink stimulants. There is no distance between men and women. They live together without marrying, and when children grow up they do not respect their elders. But they are good people, very punctual and they have good principles. When they make a promise they keep it. Not like Asians. Father was an authority on this subject. He dealt with foreigners all the time in the exporting of the cotton he grew in Pakistan. We may differ in religion from them, but they are sympathetic people who will do things for you and theyre humane, he concluded. I pondered the contradictions of the Ingrez—a kind people, living in a gentle, green, country, fed by frequent rains, whose Book led to such freedom. Yet our Book was related to theirs. What was the key to this difference between us? It was too deep for a girl of 14—I dismissed the question from my mind, and gave myself up to anticipation of the Pilgrimage upon which we were embarking. It was many years before further enlightenment came, and when it did I would not be able to dismiss the question so lightly. Who would want to see withered limbs, with the skin turned black, wrinkled and hanging loose, and with whatever fingers there were sticking together with all the muscular strength of a piece of jelly? I was becoming very tired of the hotel food. Father ordered chicken for us every day, as that was halal, permitted flesh, slaughtered in the approved manner. Pork was haram, forbidden—even to say the name pig made ones mouth dirty, and even to this day I use the Punjabi word barla which means outsider, when talking about it, such is the force of early training. Any other kind of meat could also be suspected of having been cooked in lard. With the chicken came vegetables and rice, and ice cream for sweet. We drank Coca Cola, and had a supply of that in our room. I wished vainly for curry or kebabs, and for peaches or mangoes from our trees at home. Father helped to keep up my spirits by taking me on two or three short outings. Once I was shown around the hotel, and a couple of tines he took me, with the servants, for a ride around the neighborhood in a taxi. He explained to me why the Ingrez (English) were not like us: This is a Christian country he said. They believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God. Of course they are wrong, because God never married and how could He have a Son? Still they are the people of a Book just as we are. Muslim and Christian share the same Book. This puzzled me. How could they share our Book and The Hajj The beautiful white plane of the Pakistan International Airways sat like a bird on the airstrip. As I was lifted up the gangway, from my wheelchair, I felt a sense of liberation at leaving England. This visit had achieved something, in ending our uncertainty. Now there was only one hope and we were being drawn towards it at great speed. Bathed in diamond-clear light it lay in my dreams, a place unknown to me and yet well known—the holy city of Mecca, which every Muslim desires to see at least once in his or her life. I looked out of the window and gasped. We were in a brilliant world of sunshine and below us was a floor of softest billowy cotton clouds, like the stuffing for a brides mattress. On the plane we had seats in the first-class compartment, and once again I sat between my maids, with Sema acting as support for my weak left side, and Salima ready to fetch and carry. Father spread himself over two seats in front from where he continued my education in travel: Were now flying at 30,000 feet up in the air he said, when the plane stopped climbing. I looked out of the window and gasped. We were in a brilliant world of sunshine and below us was a floor of softest billowy cotton clouds, like the stuffing for a brides mattress. Salima and Sema looked out too—and gave muffled little screams: Look how much iron is flying through the air, they marveled in a mixture of Punjabi and Urdu words, overlaid with their heavy Jhang accent. I suppressed a smile—they were village girls to whom a great deal was happening. Suddenly the plane began to bounce up and down in the air, and I was frightened. Father explained that we had hit an air pocket: Dont worry. Everything is quite safe, he assured us. There were other pilgrims on the plane. I knew that like us they had in their luggage the white Ihram garments, which each pilgrim must wear for Hajj, the Pilgrimage. Once, Father had taken me to see a film about the Hajj. It was for religious people, who intended to go to Mecca during the month of Pilgrimage, and it showed all the customs in beautiful color. I had been taught the history of the birth of our religion in the deserts of Arabia. The landscape of these events was as familiar to me as the dear landscape of our own house and garden. The stewardess, who was dressed in green, with a token dopatta under her chin, brought a meal but I only picked at it. Salima looked at the barely touched food and she said softly: Bibi-ji, wont you eat to keep up your strength? I shook my head. Im not hungry. In fact I was feeling rather sick, partly from the bumping of the aircraft and partly from excitement at what lay ahead. I said nothing about my real feelings to her. How could I discuss with a servant the hopes and fears that flitted across my mind like the clouds chasing across the sky? At Abu Dhabi we changed planes and were joined by pilgrims from far-away places. I studied their costumes with interest, trying to discover where they came from. My teacher Razia had done well. I was able to identify people from Iran, Nigeria, China, Indonesia, Egypt ... all the world seemed to be moving towards the city of Mecca. There was a crackling on the loudspeaker. In two languages, English and Arabic, the hostess was telling us that we were approaching Jeddah and preparing to land. A sign lit up. We must fasten our seat belts said Father. We did. Salima helped me and Father checked to see that it was properly done. Out of the plane window I could see the desert, its *dun-colored dunes blown into crescent shapes by the harsh, hot winds; I could see mountains on the horizon, many miles away, and then a large city spread out below us, with tall buildings, and many streets. I could see trees and green gardens. See said Father, what water does to the desert. It is only a few years since they brought the piped water from the Wadi Fatima. I nodded. In my lessons Id learned how oil riches had brought many improvements to a people who had once been poor and backward, living in mud houses, if they were farmers, or bedouin tents, if they were nomads, all going without rain for years at a time. The Sheikh introduced me to all of his wives—Fatima, Zora, Rabia, Rukia ... right down the line. The plane touched down and there to meet us at the airport was my fathers old friend, the Sheikh, with his big Chevrolet car. This Sheikh had eight wives and eighteen children living at his huge villa. Thirteen of his children were daughters and five were young sons. I believe he had others who were married or studying abroad. He had his own oil well, which supported them all in luxury. In addition he was a landowner, breeding cattle and camels, sheep and goats. I had opportunity to see the workings of this large household, during the next few days, while we enjoyed the Sheikhs hospitality. The Sheikh introduced me to all of his wives— Fatima, Zora, Rabia, Rukia ... right down the line. I have no favorites he announced. All my wives are equal. I knew why he said this—because the Quran makes it plain that a man may marry more than one wife but he must treat all his wives equally well. The Prophet, of course, had several wives, but ordinary men, I was told, found it almost impossible to carry out his instruction about equality with impartiality. Polygamy was not therefore encouraged in our society—yet here it appeared to flourish, and everyone seemed on good terms with each other. The daughters of the household, the oldest of whom I took to be about 18, were introduced to me by a lady translator, Bilquis. They drifted into the female guest room, where I was established with my maids, to ask me about Pakistan: Do you have roads? Cities? What do you eat? What kind of vegetables do you grow? Do you have schools for girls? Do you wear that kind of dress all the time? I answered as best I could, and was pleased when they said they wished to go to Pakistan to see it all. I, in turn, asked about their lives: How do you live here? What do you do all day? The answer seemed to be very little. The Sheikh kept his wives and daughters at home. The daughters, who were well educated, seemed to do little but amuse themselves. They spent their days gossiping, watching TV and doing a little light reading in English and Arabic. Yet they seemed happy enough, with every wish met. If they wanted to go shopping, Bilquis went with them and handled the money while they chose whatever they wanted. As for the Sheikhs wives, apart from shopping trips (in shifts) or visits to the hospital with Bilquis, when they wrapped themselves in black burkas, either the full length or the Turkish kind, divided at the waist, their main object seemed to be to please the Sheikh. They sat about cross-legged on cushions wearing gold and silver embroidered kaftans. There were sofas around the walls in the huge marble-floored room, but they preferred the floor. Sometimes they dressed Western-style in elaborate and fashionable dresses ordered from England and America, putting on expensive jewelry. The air was heavy with perfume, sprayed by servants. In the evening, before bed, I was able to meet Father for a few minutes in the public room, to talk and compare notes. The Sheikh was 65, according to Father, but his smooth unwrinkled skin hid the years. He was a blend of old ways and new—he especially liked a social life and the company of other men, entertaining them at home both lavishly and generously. He enjoyed smoking and drinking black tea and listening to Arab music, which he had piped into every room, so that all could share his pleasure. This, I learned, was typically Arabic. All the facilities of the house must be shared with everyone, whether wanted or not. Meal times were interesting occasions, when a whole lamb was cooked and served to the household, divided between the mens dining room and the womens. The diners took off their shoes before treading on the colorful Persian carpets. They ate reclining on the thick cushions placed around a circle. A huge tray of spiced rice and steaming lamb was placed in the middle, and around it lay dishes of eggplant, rice, salad, flat sheets of bread and custards or halva. Everyone ate with their right hands only, rolling handfuls of rice into lumps and popping them in their mouths, and tearing off pieces of bread. I ate in my room. I could not balance on those cushions to eat under so many curious eyes. But the Sheikh was kindness itself, allowing me to do as I pleased. My room was full of comforts, such as a beautiful carpet, some green plants, a pretty shaded round window, a big mirror and a bathroom alcove, with a modern flush toilet. Hospitality is taken very seriously by the Arabs. It stems from tribal memories of the struggle to survive in the harsh desert, when ones life could depend on being given shelter by the bedouin. It used to be said that, in the old days, a sheikh would welcome a guest and entertain him for three days before asking even his name or his business. This sheikh maintained tradition, by making available to us all the facilities of his house, including a car and driver while we stayed with him. It meant that we were able to see something of the beautiful city of Jeddah. Father sat in the front with the white-robed driver, Qazi, while I peered through the curtained rear windows at the city. It was crowded with pilgrims, who poured off the ships in the harbor or who came with every flight into the new airport. Qazi, the driver, pointed out for us many contrasts between old and new—the ten-storey office building along King Abd al-Aziz Street where laden donkeys jostled the big American cars. We saw the suq, the street market, where one could buy everything from coffee beans to carpets—even holy water brought down from Mecca—and the shops selling Western merchandise. We saw the old city, with the magnificent, crumbling, tall stone merchants houses, adorned with latticed balconies, from which the women of the harem used to peer down at the street life, unseen by those below. In great contrast was the new low-cost housing built on the outskirts of the city. Hospitality is taken very seriously by the Arabs. It stems from tribal memories of the struggle to survive in the harsh desert, when ones life could depend on being given shelter by the bedouin. When there was no oil there was poverty and other problems, volunteered Qazi, But now we have oil we have good food and the children can learn. We stopped to see the oil being pumped out of the ground in one place. I did not like the smell of that. When we left the Sheikh to travel to Mecca we did so in comfort and style, as he insisted that we take his car and driver. Father thanked him with a little speech: You have shown us very warm generosity and friendship, to make our journey easy. The Sheikh would have done this for any visitor, but I knew that he did it especially for us, because he was an old family friend, and business acquaintance of my Fathers, with an interest in the purchase of the good breed of sheep and goats, for which our area was famous. We left very early in the morning, after prayers, for the drive to Mecca because we wanted to take time and see everything on the way. The new four-lane highway was very good, and fleets of taxis and buses rushed along, carrying an endless stream of pilgrims forward on the forty-five mile journey to Mecca. There were many on foot, stoically marching forward, prepared to endure what would become a baking plain when the sun rose higher. They did this not because they were poor, but because they were recalling the journey of Abraham, when he sought for sanctuary for Hagar and Ishmael. I wouldnt admit it, but I was almost glad to be crippled, so that I did not have to walk under the broiling sun in a cauldron of heat. I knew this was not the spirit of Hajj, which is one of total sacrifice and submission, so I said nothing. Qazi, the driver, pointed out the water taps along the way, and the electric lights strung on poles which lit the travelers: The King has done this. He comes himself with his ministers and the princes and opens the pilgrimage each year, and he has made many improvements to the facilities at the holy places. Fifteen miles from the city signs warned us Restricted area. Muslims only permitted. Some of the soldiers at the entry points had guns, and they were examining peoples passes. The driver spoke to the soldiers and we were allowed to take the car on. We made progress very slowly, climbing the hills, through a road cut into the rocks, past a mass of white- robed worshippers who were following the steps of Abraham after Sarah banished the serving-woman and her son. Our ears were filled with the sound of chanted prayers, verses of the Holy Quran, and the declaration: There is no God but Allah. Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah. Then we rounded a hill and the holy city, white and shining in the already baking morning sunshine, burst into view below us. The driver stopped the car and the pilgrims cry broke from our lips in a quite involuntary manner: Labbayka Allahumma Labbayka! Here I am, at Thy service. O Allah! Here I am at Thy service; Here I am at Thy service; There is no partner unto Thee; Here I am at Thy service; to Thee the glory, the riches and the sovereignty of the world. There is no partner to Thee. Mohammeds city, said Father. Just think, the Prophet preached in these streets. A strange feeling of calm settled on me. All worry about the future lifted. I felt at one with all these other pilgrims, seeking a power I could not see, as eternal and mysterious as the seven hills surrounding the city. The Water of Life The Hajji-Camp, or pilgrims rest, was some way from the Haram Mosque. Abdulla, the guide, who had been found for us by our friend, the Sheikh, welcomed us at the entrance. He and Father shook hands and embraced. Alhan Wa salan (Welcome) said Abdulla. And to you, said Father, with that easy acceptance of this Arab as a brother and equal, which was such a feature of Hajj. Please enter. Youre welcome in the Name of Allah said Abdullah. I have received his excellency, the Sheikhs letter. Ive arranged the rooms for you... There followed a discussion about lambs for the sacrifice. Father was ordering two for each person, even the maids, that was eight lambs. A little shiver of delight ran through me. The Feat of Sacrifice (Eid al Adha) in honor of the Patriarch Abrahams willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael, was the high point of the Pilgrimage. Father was making sure our prayers had special *efficacy, with the blood of so many lambs. Our rooms were all in lines, on one level. We had two rooms with bathrooms attached, very simply and plainly furnished, with charpais to sleep on. I thought with longing of my cotton-filled mattress on the palung at home. Latticed string with a hair mattress on top was not quite so restful, particularly as a paralyzed left side made turning over difficult. This, however, was all part of going on Pilgrimage. For days on end hundreds of thousands of people would be packed into the area of Mecca, squashing into the hotels and guest houses, camping in the open air. There would be little comfort about it, and no ostentatious display of wealth. The good would be lost if one voiced complaints, were arrogant and proud, or lost ones temper in the heat and the stressful conditions, so Father explained. When the muezzin called from the minarets of the mosque at sundown, everyone in Mecca stopped where they were, and turned toward the Kaaba. God is most great they prayed. An electric fan in the ceiling of our room moved the hot, thick air around, in a fruitless search for coolness. There were greenish curtains at the window, drawn to keep out the sun, which gave a slight feeling of being in a tank of fishes. In addition there were thin metal screens, through which I could see the distant outlines of the minarets of the Great Mosque, pointing upwards like fingers. Resting on my charpai, I heard the endless shuffling of the heelless leather sandals worn by the pilgrims. Their voices reached us in a babel of strange languages. Weaving through the texture of sound was the hypnotic chanting of verses from the Quran, and Allahu Akbar—God is Most Great. Excitement prickled through me. To be here was good, enough to live on for a life time. My maids felt that too: How lucky we are to be your servants, and to be on Hajj said Salima as she and Sema helped me take my second cool shower of the day. For them it was specially fortunate as many devout persons all over the world were at this moment longing to be here, but could not afford the time or outlay of money. The Hajj could take up to one month, if one visited all the holy places. Father found some of his merchant friends from Lahore, Rawalpindi, Peshawar and Karachi, but for once they were not all talking about the price of cotton and wheat. Oh no, here worldly matters dropped away and also all distinction of birth, national origin, achievements, work or status. In the huge eating-hall at the Hajji-Camp servants sat down to eat with their masters, all differences covered by the Ihram—the pilgrims dress. The men wore a simple unsewn cotton sheet wrapped round the lower half of the body, with another around the shoulders. All the women wore long white plain dresses, with head-coverings and white stockings, but went unveiled. In the steps of the Prophet people had the same value in Gods sight. Father told me, with an expression of deep seriousness: Once you wear the Ihram youve left your old life, and come into your new life. In a way it is your shroud. In this dress, if you die, youll go straight to heaven, non-stop. In the streets, as he went to prayer at the mosque, Father had met an old school friend: Attaullah is here. Hes a true Muslim—he gives alms to the poor in Pakistan. And Hes very religious. This is his third visit. The giving of a proportion of ones income for the relief of poverty, known as the zakat, or almsgiving, is the Third Pillar of Islam. The Fourth Pillar is the discipline of fasting from dawn to sunset during the ninth month of the lunar calendar, the month of Ramadan. It is after this that the poor-tax or zakat is given. Youre very religious too, Father, I thought, for you give alms and this is your third time also, and who but you has taught me to say prayers. I looked at his forhead. There clearly marked was the depression, called the mihrab, after the sacred arch of the niche pointing to Mecca in every mosque. This comes from repeated pressing of the forehead to the ground in prayer rituals. One has only to see this to know a man of prayer—and prayer is the Second Pillar of Islam. I didnt go out at all for the remainer of our first day, but stayed, praying, reading the Holy Quran and otherwise preparing myself for the following days visit to the Kaaba, which would be very tiring, in the heat, jostled by so many people. Salima and Sema brought food to my room and remained with me. There are so many people and yet its so peaceful said Salima, during the evening. The streets were packed with pilgrims, yet there was an air of tranquility. There was no frantic haste. To be in this place was Paradise—the fulfilment of all desire. When the muezzin called from the minarets of the mosque at sundown, everyone in Mecca stopped where they were, and turned toward the Kaaba, the potent symbol of unity for millions of Muslims in the four corners of the world. They stood upright, hands open on each side of the face: God is most great they prayed. The arms were lowered and the right hand placed over the left arm, above the waist for a woman, below for a man: All Glory be to Thee, O Allah! and Praise be to Thee; blessed is Thy Name and exalted Thy Majesty; and there is none worthy of worship besides Thee. There followed some other prayers, the Fatiha, some verses of the Quran, then Allahu Akbar. At this the worshippers bowed from the hips, hands on knees: How glorious is my Lord, the Great! They stood erect, hands at side: Allah has listened to him who has praised Him; Our Lord praise be to Thee. 10 Then saying Allahu Akbar they prostrated themselves: All glory be to my Lord, the Most High (three times.) Then they raised themselves and knelt in a sitting posture: O Allah! forgive me and have mercy upon me. They prostrated themselves again. This was one complete Rakat, which was to be followed by some repetitions of the movements and prayers. Was I really saying my prayers here at the centre of the world? As a sick person, I performed the sacred ritual, with the assistance of my maids, sitting, the arch, or mihrab, on my prayer mat pointing towards the Kaaba. Would I wake from this mystic dream in my own room at home, or was I really saying my prayers here at the centre of the world? Tingling anticipation shot through me, a heady excitement. To be here O God is enough, even if I cannot walk. To see with ones own eyes, the House of God, built by Abraham, was a gift that one could live on for the rest of ones days. Its true youve lived 14 years as a crippled person I told myself, but here, where faith is strongest, where so many prayers are centred, God will hear your familys prayers, and Mohammed will ask Him to heal you. When I thought of God no picture rose to mind, for how could one make a picture of the Eternal Being? He, though called by more than ninety-nine names in the Holy Quran, was still unknowable. There was nothing human to which He could be compared, so I had been taught. But my lips moved in the words of the long-cherished Fatiha: You alone we worship, and to You alone We pray for help. Guide us in the straight path, The path of those whom You have favored… To the Muslim, life is a road, and every individual is somewhere on that road between birth and death, creation and judgement. I too had entered on a Pilgrimage which, though I couldnt forsee the end, would last till the end of my days. Next morning we were all up before dawn, and, after prayers and early breakfast we started on the walk to the Kaaba. Father had arranged for me to be taken in a wheelchair, while my maids walked beside, and he strode in front. Many sick and elderly were being carried in this fashion. I sat propped up, enjoying the scene, which was one of great liveliness, as thousands of men and women of all ages and all nationalities together pressed towards the House of God. I had never before in my life seen so many people in one place, so determined on one object—not even in Lahore, or Rawalpindi, when Father took me there in his car, not even in london. TO BE CONTINUE......
Posted on: Sat, 23 Aug 2014 19:20:04 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015