He bade me welcome and showed me inside. The office was set up as a large open space with six computer terminals along the left side of the wall. On the opposite side was a long bookcase that was spilling over, and a separate cubicle at the far end, small but air-conditioned, which was the manager’s office. I had come with a recommendation from a Muslim journalist and activist who was both well-known and treated with suspicion for his liberal thinking, and was thus initially given a cool, distant reception. I spoke of my interest in Islam, and the young leader told me about his organisation. It was dedicated to social work and had orphanages and hospitals in the north-east of the country. In Mumbai their main duty was to supervise 10 young ‘ulama, scholars, who were experts on all religious questions, but in addition were to become competent in English and computer technology. They had been studying intensely for two years, spoke fluent English and had mastered word processing, as well as utilising the Internet. The organisation hoped that these young men would one day be in a position to write fluent, insightful articles in English to counteract the sparse, or false, information about Islam prevalent amongst members of the Indian public.
‘We have to take them a step further,’ the manager said. It took just a single meeting to decide: I would teach the young men writing skills and in return would gain a more profound understanding of Islam. It was a good deal, in the spirit of the Prophet (pbuh): practical, sensible and honourable.
‘You have to understand,’ Burhan, the office manager, said, ‘our interest in you is in how you can be of help to us. Let’s make an agreement – and what comes of it will depend on both sides.’
Then he asked to see my passport and my residency permit to make photocopies.
‘As an Islamic organisation,’ he explained, ‘we have to cover ourselves. We are under observation by the Indian secret service and they can question us at any time. We have to be ready to give them satisfactory answers. There is a lot of fear and distrust these days, and we have to tread cautiously.’
And so it was that we came together, 10 young men, who all went by the name of Qasmi, and myself, referred to as ‘Sir’ or ‘Respected Teacher’ for several months, until we were close enough that I could persuade them to call me ‘Ilias’ sometimes. We met three times a week. One of the men, an authority on the law, a mufti, became my personal teacher (although the others were always on hand to act as his assistants). After an hour, we swapped roles and I taught them in a narrow classroom with a low ceiling, which served as the library and common room.
The Kaaba
Many buildings are overwhelming to the eye, yet some, very few, overwhelm the mind. The Haram al-Sharif, the Grand Mosque at Mecca, with its numerous entrances and pillars, curves and alignments, corners and niches, all 130,000 square metres of it, is not only unfathomably large, but the ever-changing perspectives revealed to the pilgrim upon each visit also proclaim the immeasurability of God. The architecture is difficult to judge in and of itself, so closely do the pilgrims associate with the asymmetrical construction. The choreography of the rituals infuses the grey and white and green, and reaches up to the seven minarets and the seven domes. If architecture is substance filled with life, then the Haram is surely one of mankind’s most beautiful buildings.
The passageways, the arches, the domes, and the galleries are indeed imposing, but without the Kaaba, impressive despite the simplicity of its architecture, they would be without effect. The golden embroidery on the black material seems almost too ornamental, a distraction from the purity of the simple, cubically conceived idea. The symbol is constantly affirmed by the pilgrims who night and day circle this sun like planets, each of their steps charging the right-angled structure with human power. It is through this interaction that Bayt Allah, the House of God, and the Ummah, the community of believers, emerges. It is like the holy text: it requires the devotion and the morality of the reader to come to life. The revelation is poured into a human vessel, language, and is thus dependant on the power and the effect each one creates from it and lends it.
Because of the prescribed alignment towards the Kaaba, the Haram al-Sharif is the only mosque in the world that is round. Added to, and several times in its history rebuilt from scratch after being destroyed, it was massively and expensively expanded in the 1960s. It stands, however, on the same site where it has stood on for thousands of years.
Yet however new the building materials of modern Mecca are, the place itself is old enough to owe its existence to the Zamzam source, a vein of life in the merciless desert. The Kaaba was erected in accordance with the instructions of Ibrahim, according to the Qur’an. The sacred building from its very beginnings constituted a holy site – a pertinent one for the pre-Islamic pilgrimage. In the Kaaba a plethora of idols, projections of different cults, were housed, the most popular being Allat, Uzza and Manat. This pantheon was shaped by a pragmatic liberality: among the holy figures were both Venus and the Virgin Mary, testimony to a lively religious convergence. A trading metropolis formed around this site of pilgrimage – even during the days of the Prophet (pbuh) there was a vital urbanism. While the customs and code of behaviour were still influenced by the nomads, the way of life was urban, and the buildings made of solid clay. Mecca was rich, but its wealth was very unevenly distributed; Mecca was tolerant towards gods, but harsh towards women and orphans who had no rights.
Perhaps the transition from nomad to urban culture was as overhasty as the transition from Bedouin tents to concrete palaces which the Saudi Arabians rushed into a generation ago. The result, now as then, was a broken, unjust, and violent society, and the revelation of God to His Messenger with its revolutionary concepts must have had an explosive effect at this time of crisis. The Quraysh tribe, monopo-lists of the source of income that was the Kaaba, feared the new religion would rob them of their privileges. After his victory over Mecca, however, the Prophet (pbuh), a leader ever open to compromise, allowed the pilgrimage to the Kaaba to continue; retaining some of its traditional rituals such as the seven circles and the running between the hills of Safa and Marwah, he ushered the pilgrimage into a new age that became the Hajj.
On the next day I walked down the steps to the Zamzam well; it was sticky and damp, and very full. On the lower left side behind glass panelling was a high-tech pumping station. Some pilgrims were standing in front of it, but they weren’t interested in the pistons, they were, I discovered when I came alongside them, deep in prayer. There was an unintended comic aspect to this, as the holy Zamzam water was nowhere in sight, just a hi-tech installation of pipes, taps, containers and ventilators. Educated Muslims point out time and again that neither Zamzam water nor the Black Stone should be worshipped – that would be polytheism, animism – yet the scene of intense prayer to my left paid witness to a need to satisfy one’s own superstitions, the expression of an inability to live out the pure doctrine, that of a monotheism free of idols.
Companions
The majority of the men I was sharing the room with were well-off independent businessmen, partners in a firm exporting women’s wear, their friend, a toy importer, and an acquaintance of theirs who ran a courier service. They were all young, intent on being earnest, but not completely fulfilled by what the Hajj had to offer. Their conversations, when not centred around the complex demands of the rituals, were profane: they spoke about cricket and cars, told jokes. Two of them spent hours within the labyrinths of a game of dexterity on their Nokia phones. Like the majority of pilgrims, they were stretched by the demands imposed by having to live this religious life for several weeks. The guides demanded they spend their day in prayer and Qur’an recitation, warning them about superfluous or angry words. But the pilgrims were seized by a restlessness and often descended into chatter – it was too great a leap from hectic modern urbanite to a fakir renouncing the world. My roommates paid sincere lip service in their appreciation of iman, the right faith, but were content with their superficial knowledge of Islam, its legends and parables. They felt secure in their
ignorance for they adhered to the laws.
During the Hajj I didn’t see a single pilgrim reading a religious book. Lectures on the other hand, informative and stimulating, are part and parcel of the programme for organised groups. And the holy Qur’an, which many people open in the mosque or display on a small lectern after the common prayer is less read than recited, a sacred act in itself during which the believer reads the words out under his breath in one of seven reading styles. What is consumed in mass are the brochures with the obligatory prayers printed, particularly highly regarded for the translations they contain – and yet prayers themselves can disguise a lack of knowledge.
Abu Sufiyun, whose cigarettes I smoked when the need overcame me, became my superintendent, the one who corrected me. When his eyes were on me I felt he was measuring me up, checking whether I matched up to the religious ideals. Each of my failings or mistakes prompted a sermon. He was a law-abiding man who had never considered that laws can be expressions of meaning.
‘Laws are laws,’ he said. ‘Liking, or understanding them has nothing to do with it.’
Perhaps his strict manner was meant to compensate for an earlier lifestyle; up until a few years ago he had been a bon vivant who enjoyed himself excessively with his friends. He was well acquainted with the glamorous, rich playground Mumbai scene and paraded this knowledge with pride. It was as though, as an expression of former mistakes, it could serve as a backdrop to display his transformation with particular clarity. Now his full beard and other characteristics in his appearance bespoke this deep belief. The patches of rough skin on the instep of his left foot were the result of fervent prayer; in the correct sitting position – disregarded by plenty of believers for comfort’s sake – you put your weight on your left leg, the leg underneath, as the toes of the right foot are stretched out and slightly curled under.
‘Outward attributes,’ he informed me, when I voiced my doubts over their necessity, ‘strengthen one’s faith.’
The wild young things, the passionate mobile phone users, Nadiim, Salman and Shorab, would listen to him but seemed to favour the playing field of compromise. At the far end of the room an elderly gentleman with the blessed surname Ghalib had one of the beds, while his son, a purchase manager in a factory in Dubai, slept on the floor next to him. Mr Ghalib, a retired Air India engineer, had been a high-ranking trade union official who had attended congresses in Los Angeles and Frankfurt, and a certain attitude had stuck – a mixture of scepticism and stubbornness – that made him stand out from the others. His son, Amir, as his friends called him and I was allowed to after some lively discussions – had studied business management, and the other son was an engineer like his father. They were more highly educated than the average Indian Muslim family, and were torn by the conflict of those trying to reconcile faith and education.
His father had kept postponing the Hajj after his wife’s death, Amir told me, as though discussing a silly child. He had pushed his father, persisted on the case before eventually handing his brother the task of organising the Hajj, paying for everything and presenting their father with a fait accompli. He had travelled from Dubai to Mumbai to ensure his father would actually get on the plane. Relations were strained between him and the family; he hadn’t spoken to one of his brothers for years. The reason for this tension was two-fold: when Amir first went abroad he had earned a lot of money, ‘far too much money’, he said; it had been a burden for the family. He never gave the second reason but it apparently had something to do with Amir’s religious change; prayers and commandments hadn’t always been sacred to him – he must have been quite a loose cannon in college – the professors were frightened of him and would cross the corridor if they saw him coming. He had been a chain-smoker and had perhaps even dabbled in alcohol (it’s hard to glean everything from veiled references), until one day he underwent a transformation.
On Discipline and Form
Of the five pillars of Islam, the Hajj is usually listed last; in first place is the declaration of faith, followed by the obligation of prayer, five times a day. The declaration of faith – Laa ilaaha illallaahu Muhammadur rasuulullahi, [There is only one God and Muhammad is the Prophet of God] – is as simple and straightforward as the prayer is difficult – almost incomprehensibly so.
After testing the English of my new pupils in Mumbai using a text about al-Andalus (it was impressively good, and their enthusiasm was great), they in turn checked my knowledge of the rudiments of the prayer and found it so threadbare that they forced out laugher to cover up the embarrassment of the situation. They were exemplary indeed in their politeness and obliging ways from the very start: the teacher must not be placed in an awkward position, even if it is one of his own making.
Even my wazu, the ritual washing prior to any prayer, was pathetic. My hands and feet may have been clean enough after it; however it’s not the result that counts but rather the manner in which it is accomplished. We would sit in the Friday Mosque at the edge of the pool with its remarkably long red fish and dip our hand in letting our fingers glide through the water, which was cool even on the hottest day. Cleaning our fingers with careful deliberation, we would take a gulp of water, wash out our mouths, draw water up into our nose then blow it out into our left hand; then we scooped water up and raised it to our face. The face was washed three times, then the arms, also three times, from the elbow to the wrist – missing any of it meant endangering the efficacy of the prayer (once in the washroom of a shopping centre in Mecca, I forgot – hectic and distracted – to wash my right elbow, whereupon somebody poked me from behind and pointed out my mistake). After the arms, it was the head’s turn. The fingers, pressed together, follow the hair down to the neck, then the balls of the thumbs stroke the sides of the head up to the forehead. Next, the ears are washed after which the wazu concludes with a thorough scrubbing of the feet, the dirtiest body part in this country of heat and sandals.
Hygiene is certainly one important motive for wazu, but the compulsory washing also has a spiritual objective. With every washing I became more aware of the fact that the wazu also washes away the everyday; the various stages lead to a peacefulness; the wetness refreshes and revives, and finally you embark upon prayer in a content, collected state.
The prayer itself makes the wazu seem like an easy feat. There are books devoted solely to the salat, and they list the numerous mistakes that can be made. Posture is important, movements equally so, the speed at which it is performed is important as, of course, is one’s inner state. In the early weeks I was reprimanded for not holding my hands over my knees correctly (with fingers outstretched), and not placing them correctly on the floor (fingers pressed together and pointing forward), for not rolling my sleeves back down after washing, and not turning my arms away from my body while kneeling; for not bowing my head while standing and for looking up while sitting down. Hardly anything escaped my teachers, and after prayer I often had to stay on in the inner court afterwards. Shihabuddin, my personal teacher, was particularly observant and rigorous; he was of the opinion that you should first learn the laws of Islam before questioning their meaning. Since I tended to adopt the opposite approach, it meant that he sometimes had to be strict with me, which occasionally left me disappointed in him. He was of the conviction that discipline in faith is every bit as important as love.
One afternoon at ‘asr – we had arrived late for prayer – I helplessly copied everything that Shihabuddin did in the row in front. I gathered from his bemusement that I had made one mistake. I excused myself saying I had only followed his example. I needn’t imitate his mistakes, he said with a small smile, and explained the complicated reason for his omission and my confusion.
‘Do you have any further questions about your prayer?’ he asked me eventually.
‘No, no, the rest of it is clear,’ I answered quickly.
‘Nothing is ever clear as that in prayer,’ my teacher said.
More Prayers
Less and less often was I taken unawar
es by azaan. My inner prayer clock was set. As I wondered where to set myself down, geometry dispersed the throng. The flood of people petered out on the sloping piazza in front of the Grand Mosque. Rugs and mats were spread out, positions taken, and rows formed, as orderly as seedlings in a greenhouse. Everyone kept an equal distance from the person in front of them and from the sides. Once a man squeezed in between two pilgrims who were already rather tightly packed, and one of them pointed to a space in the row in front. But the newcomer stubbornly indicated the bare concrete there until the owner of the prayer rug finally yielded and went over to the space himself. He prayed on the road’s surface while the interloper used his clean, soft mat.
While the preparation for prayer is an impressive example of self-organisation, the prayer itself is an act of considerable social symbolism. Everyone bows down to God directly behind the soles of a fellow human, regardless of who is higher-born or better situated. The equality of all people is emphasised in common prayer. When a principle is so central to a ritual, when it is performed with no degree of compromise, how can it then be so totally ignored outside of prayer? Social abuses are a disgrace anywhere, but in Islamic countries they defile the holy order, deride the prayer and, alongside worldly failings, are an expression of religious transgression.
Mumbai to Mecca Page 3