The Almighty does not lay on us a burden greater than we have the capacity to bear. As Rumi told us, grief is worth more than the empires of the world because it makes you call on God. The world is made for a believer but man is not made for the world. As an inscription on Buland Darwaza tells us, “The world is a Bridge, pass over it, but build no houses upon it. He who hopes for a day, may hope for eternity; but the World endures but an hour. Spend it in prayer for the rest is unseen.”
Doing much the same was the peerless Nizamuddin Auliya, the man who famously told Ghayasuddin Tughlaq, “Hunuz Dilli door ast.” (Sir, Delhi is still far.) Tughlaq, then on his way back to the Capital from a military campaign, never reached Delhi. The man who was building castles could not negotiate a simple bridge! Such was the power of prognostication of the sufi. No wonder, the world celebrates every word of Nizamuddin.
Then there was his disciple, the celebrated poet Amir Khusrau. Mere mortals celebrate his qauls, his qawwalis. They talk of his Persian work for the discerning, the Hindavi work for the masses. His skill on the sitar, his irrepressible wit and the like. Of course, they talk of his faith, his trust, his bond with Nizamuddin. Few, very few, close their eyes and soak in the ambience of Nizamuddin’s khanqah, the ‘sama’ when even the sufi was lost in spiritual ecstasy.
What is sama? As Khwaja Ahmed Nizami puts it in the foreword of Jashn-e-Khusrau , ‘sama’ is that spiritual moment when the faithful are immersed in remembrance of the Almighty. Of course, it had to adhere to three conditions set by Nizamuddin — it had to be at an appropriate time (zaman) so as not to clash with any prayer time, had to have an apt place (makan) and ikhwan, an appropriate gathering of people in a similar spiritual state.
Change of form
Nizamuddin’s beloved disciple Amir Khusrau did more than his bit to bring about such a zaman, such a makan and ikhwan for sama to build. His qawwalis held the faithful in thrall, and gave a nice dimension to communion. Today he lays buried next to Nizamuddin in New Delhi, a perfect example of being together in life and death. His qawwalis though live on.
And as this coffee table book shows, the form may have changed, but the spirit remains the same. At times even the context of the qawwali might have changed completely with the yearning for divine love being swapped for love of a mortal being. Yet, qawwali lives on, in the lanes and bylanes of Nizamuddin basti, the dargah, the khanqah — spelled khanaqah in the book.
And this Aga Khan Trust for Culture venture gives you glimpses of what was, what is, what could have been. The contributors never fully open a door, they just leave it ajar. You get a sneak view. You stand besotted. You want more. That never comes though.
The light comes through the translations of Khusrau’s kalam and some insightful works of Saleem Kidwai, Sunil Sharma, Paul Losensky and Yunus Jaffery. They have a cohesion not easily attained otherwise. For instance, anybody who thought sufi qawwalis could be independent of Bollywood is in for an eye opener here as the authors tell us that popular raunchy song, “Choli ke peeche” from Subhash Ghai’s film Khalnayak is played at shrines with the word ‘choli’ being replaced by ‘chadar’, the adornment on the sheikh’s grave. Very similar to what happens to songs at the time of Navratras!
Qawwali in cinema
Incidentally, the book, in a nice little detour of sorts, throws light on qawwali in Hindi cinema, how it changed contours, how the muqabla qawwali became popular, and music directors like Naushad, Ravi and Roshan mastered the art. But, Sharma, very interestingly traces the beginnings of such competitive qawwalis to Khusrau’s works.
In fact, Sharma’s sparkling essay illuminates the book. His approach is simple, his expression erudite. Even when he talks of the well known, “Bahut kathin hai dagar panghat ki”, you can discern that here is a master craftsman at work. The view does not change when he talks of Khusrau’s Persian-Hindavi works. Quietly, without tall claims, he reminds the world that the lyrics “Zi hal-e-miskin makun taghaful” were Khusrau’s and not any modern day composer having a faint dalliance with the language.
In fact, the book in such parts does a terrific job of bringing Khusrau closer to the new generation. There is a straight laced style easy to follow, yet there are sections where Khusrau’s approach is dissected threadbare. For instance, we are told that he was able to develop full powers as a narrative poet drawing on the Indian storehouse of stories.
A society that today often reminds us of Babur and suffers from amnesia when it comes to Malik Mohammed Jayasi, would do well to remember Khusrau’s kalam, some of which was remarkably similar to Somadeva’s Kathasaritsagara . Indeed, his best known poem Ishqiya is a fine evidence of the union of Hindu-Muslim traditions in India.
It is in such parts we get riveting glimpses of the man, the muse. The closed-door part comes when the book talks of six concerts. None of them is offered the depth each one deserves. More like skimming the surface than diving deep to get pearls.
The aim is simply to ride the waves. Ditto for the inevitable section called Project Brief. It belongs to a bureaucrat’s diary. As do the initial few pages from the sponsor and director of the programme.
Quite self-congratulatory in words and essence, this greatly reduces the worth of an otherwise fine effort. And a book that talks of the divine for a while proves that man may not be made for this world but he is not above these worldly considerations! More is the grief! Time to take recourse to The Eternal One.
JASHN-E-KHUSRAU — A Collection: Shakeel Hossain, Irfan Zubari; Roli Books, M-75, Greater Kailash Market 2, New Delhi-110048. Rs. 1995.
