It was at this point that I abandoned the ritual. If one doesn’t question a tradition that remains the same in the face of change, then that tradition ends up losing its purpose. I shook the remaining 14 stones out of my kurta pocket as I made my way to the side and hurriedly moved off.
At the far end of the stoning, by the exit, so to speak, Sudanese traders were surrounded by Hajjis who had unintentionally sacrificed their sandals to the devil and now had to purchase a new pair. The market economy was booming in the shadow of the devil.
It was a long walk to Mecca, prolonged by the heat, and I, like everyone else, was thirsty. I spied an open truck nearby distributing juice cartons; it was like a scene from a drought crisis. A countless throng of Hajjis held up their hands as though volunteers were required, and everyone was shouting to draw attention to themselves. I positioned myself in the middle, motionless, and mute, and sought eye contact with one of the young men on the loading ramp. When he noticed me, a broad grin spread over his anxious face and he nodded over. He reached into a box, grabbed several cartons of juice and threw one of them straight at me, winking.
The 13th of Dhu al-Hijjah – The Day of the Final Tawaf
As I was going to depart the next day for Medina, I spent this, my last day in Mecca, from early morning to the late evening in the Great Mosque. I was free of all obligations and could indulge in its beauty like an art connoisseur. Every square metre of the mosque was full of ornamental detail – calligraphy, stucco, friezes, abstract patterns – it was as if the embellished walls and ceilings accompanied the pilgrims in their recitation of the Qur’an.
The basic principal was symmetry: It stimulated the senses, celebrating creation, its strict form reflecting a greater Truth. God had, as the Qur’an intimates on several occasions, shaped the world in perfect proportion. Symmetry is more than simply an aesthetic rule; it is a quality of godly creation. By applying the rules of symmetry and proportion to life, man is, so to speak, following in God’s footsteps – symmetry as virtue.
In the patterns and ornaments of Islam, in the small elements of equal size displayed to effect on cloth and marble, inscribed on the outer and inner walls and into the world beyond, there are a few basic principles: balance, repetition, alternation and similitude. None of the elements is overshadowed through perspective or positioning, none is endowed with a greater significance than the others, just as no man is superior to another. The motifs are repeated over and over, just as the prayers are. The microcosm is reflected in the macrocosm. The mystery of the beauty lies within the complex and intricate relationship between the equal parts.
In order to recognise the ornament as a whole, you have to step back to view the pattern from a distance. Creation is greater than the sum of its parts. Thus the ornament of the world represents both the divine order and one’s duty towards it. In all of its forms Islamic art is a eulogy and a song of praise that is able to communicate the immeasurability of God.
But to what effect and to what aim, I pondered, as I walked round the Kaaba one last time, as slowly as I possibly could, to consciously enjoy what was soon drawing to an end. The beauty encouraged contemplation, as I was aware of on this occasion and many others previously. It encouraged meditation, sharpening the senses so that an inner perception, a higher reality, could be experienced. Ibn Ishaq, the famous early biographer of the Prophet (pbuh), writes of the way Islam penetrated the hearts of those who listened attentively to the Qur’an when read, the same way splendid poetry and recitation penetrated all barriers of prejudice and fear. Beauty is a thief that steals in to relieve us of our cautious, short-sighted and narrow-minded existence.
The recitation of the Qur’an, contemplating ornaments and reading calligraphies are not intellectual experiences whereby the purpose is to gather information or guidance, rather, they are exercises in spiritual discipline. Discipline is often overlooked as a component of Islamic aesthetics. Yet discipline nourishes constancy, which in turn yields harmony and balance – both on the level of art and in one’s own existence. Discipline is diametrically opposed to the hypocrisy so forcefully condemned in the Qur’an – but it also begets tasks which can be difficult to fulfill. And if people lose sight of the ideal, they lose beauty. Like a mirror of eternal truth, the beauty of ornament reveals man’s failings.
Every believer is obliged to transform the larger truth to be of personal relevance, for God sees and hears everything, as is often ascertained in the Qur’an, whereas what man can perceive through his senses is limited. Thus the revelations of the Qur’an go through two refractions, as though through a prism: Firstly, Divine Truth is transmitted through the deficient vessel of language, which is human in its limitations. Secondly, the universal message must be understood by every person with their own unique idiosyncratic individuality, and all their personal slants and shortcomings. There is a deafness in your ears, the Qur’an says, and a veil lies between us and you. Through the process of tafsir (symbolic interpretation), man can search for a deeper, inner Truth. Tafsir literally means taking something back to its origin or roots. The Qur’an commands Muslims through its holy text to move from the outer (zahir) to the mysterious inner; the batin. By doing so, the imagination becomes the most powerful tool; with its help the symbols of beauty can be read and translated into a meaningful experience. Thus the congregation of believers can be perceived as an ornament, the greatest and most beautiful Islamic ornament of all.
Symmetry begins in oneself, in one’s own movements and dealings. At the end of the Tawaf al-Ifadha, the farewell tawaf, I prayed, lost in and consumed by the ornament of the Jamaat. But a little later, leaning against one of the pillars, I began to distance myself once more. My gaze drank in the kiswah one last time, the circling of the pilgrims, the glimmer of the lights, intent on providing my memory with food for sustenance. I felt a great reluctance to leave. The Grand Mosque was an overwhelming place with which I had developed my own personal relationship; it had become a home to me – in prayer, in thought, and above all, in the imagination.
In all my journeys never did I experience such a sense of peace as I did in Mecca.
Everything seems divided into pairs, taking on binary forms. Either you are at prayer or not at prayer. You are moving and conscious of that movement; or you are still and conscious of that stillness. You are in ihram, away from the usual norms, resembling everyone else in appearance; or conversely you are in ihlal, dressed according to your place of origin and personality. The days in Mecca pass with unusual clarity. The pilgrim lives in an uncompromising manner – impossible in everyday life. He samples a taste of the perfect religious life, a simple, ordered, motivated, pure life. He should, of course, apply this new perspective to his everyday life upon return – there are some who change their lives after the Hajj. Most, however, return to their normal life and the Hajj becomes a magical memory, like a wonderful spiritual holiday infused with happiness.
Journey to Medina
Although Hamidbhai had written down the name of the pick-up point, it still wasn’t easy to find the bus stop. It was the middle of the night and our vague directions added to the moroseness of our taxi driver. At night Mecca seemed like Los Angeles or Singapore, a network of highways, flyovers, junctions and crossroads; bleak, all washed in cold light. In front, Amir was trying to give directions to the taxi driver in broken Arabic. We had split from the group because, for different reasons, we didn’t want to spend two more weeks in Mecca. As Hamidbhai handed me my plane ticket, he made me promise to call before leaving Medina for Jeddah. I put the ticket away in a safe place without looking at it or discussing it in any detail. That was soon to prove a mistake. The taxi driver pulled up in the right lane and pointed to a parking lot on the other side. It would take another five minutes for the taxi to cross to that side, so we got out, clutching our luggage, in which 10-litre canisters of Zamzam water had been added, and climbed over the metal railing between the lanes, our only obstacle on the path to Medina.
An ho
ur later our bus departed. The uncomfortable seats made sleep all but impossible. We stopped at a mosque service area somewhere in the desert for the fajr prayer. Soon afterwards the landscape revealed what had been hinted at; dawn draped the jagged hills with its soft colours, it was beguiling. An hour later the spell was broken – hills of rusty red were our companions all the way to the second holy city.
In stark contrast to Mecca, Medina lies in a verdant south-facing plain, lush with date palms. At around 10 o’clock we drew up at the enormous bus station on the edge of town and were kept there for two hours, as though we were goods awaiting inspection at customs. There was no explanation, but we were well catered for with a further ration of milk, juice, biscuits and cakes.
The more restless among us paced up and down in front of the bus. The wait was unbearable for a dignified old gentleman who seemed worried and downcast – he had no time to waste and had to get to Jeddah airport that same evening. He was travelling with his unmarried daughter and his haste was provoked by a recent misfortune; he had been robbed of all his money. During the stoning of Satan someone had trodden on his damaged left foot, and in his pain he hadn’t noticed that his money belt – all pilgrims wear them under their ihram – had been snipped off from behind. It was only when he had got clear of the crowds after the stoning that he realised the belt was gone. It was a sad tale, but laced with unintentional humour for the man had been deputy chief of police in the northern Nigerian town of Kaduna before his retirement.
We waited in the shade of the bus, and the frustration of the Nigerian Hajji bubbled over.
‘What has our world come to,’ he complained, ‘when thieves are at large even in the house of God?’ (despite the draconian punishments!)
Even worse though, he lamented indignantly, he had seen, with his own eyes, how an attempted robbery during the tawaf had gone wrong; the knife had sliced through the pilgrim who had bled to death on the spot. But there were bad people outside Saudi Arabia, too. The man started to talk about Nigeria, about leaders provoked by some madness into using religion for their personal ends.
Young, unemployed men were encouraged to riot, they were bribed to set fire to shops and houses, to plunder. The escalating conflict was hailed as a religious struggle, and the whole world took this at face value. The conflict was fuelled by a small elite. Religion may have no influence on the immorality of politics, but can be greatly misused in the hands of politicians.
The deeply-felt pain of this serious man affected us all: he had travelled from a country of perpetual violence and disorder to a supposed oasis, only to encounter evil in the shrine itself.
After two restless hours we were transported to Medina and stopped in front of the National Adilla Establishment, an office, I surmised, where pilgrims went to have their papers inspected.
No-one on the bus knew what the next step in the procedure was. A Tunisian, on his third Hajj, said confidently that the bus would take us to our hotels. A young Saudi Arabian swept in, took note of our arrival and left. When he next appeared the only information he conveyed was that he spoke no English. The bus driver, fed up with our constant questions, rebelled; he clambered up on the roof and started throwing down our luggage, as other officials glanced our way but offered no answers. The Nigerian was bundled into a car by a member of his country’s local Hajj office and driven off. Amir and I took a taxi to our hotel. It was even more ideally situated than the one in Mecca – directly opposite the Grand Mosque! Once again the sight of the Haram al-Sharif reconciled us with human behaviour.
It is not obligatory to extend the pilgrimage to Medina, but there is one very good reason to: the Masjid an-Nabi, the Mosque of the Prophet (pbuh), where he himself is buried along with the first caliphs, Abu Bakr and Umar. The mosque is a flat spacious building with eight slender minarets. The delicately drawn arches, finished in pink and grey stone bear a certain resemblance to Romanesque architecture. The tomb of the Prophet (pbuh) is in the southern part, beneath the famous green dome. It is said that the Wahhabis tried to destroy this dome, deeming the Prophet (pbuh) a mortal man who should not be worshipped. But two of the workers fell from the ceiling, which was taken as a divine sign to leave the dome untouched.
Other cultural treasures were not saved by signs from heaven, however; the Qiblatayn Mosque had contained two qiblas – a monument of particular historical importance from the time when the Prophet (pbuh) had first directed prayer towards the north, in the direction of Jerusalem as the Jews did, before he shifted prayer towards Mecca in the second year of the Hijra. The Wahhabis, who treat history as their deadliest foe, built over this significant mark of the Prophet’s (pbuh) momentous change – for what should not be, cannot be.
A huge square stretched out from the mosque, vehicles from the Saudi Bin Laden Group constantly at work keeping it clean – they carefully navigated their way through the sobbing figures of the praying Hajjis. To the north an identical row of modern blocks had been built – uninspired concrete slabs whose latticed windows showed an obligatory reverence to tradition. Most of these buildings housed hotels: the Hilton, InterContinental and Sheraton. The quarter exudes the charm of Berlin’s new centre designed on a drawing-board. Old Medina was visible beyond, a sprawl of grey, faceless buildings sheltered by a bare mountain. To the east the old-fashioned bazaar began, the place where most Hajjis spent their time between prayers.
Since the days of the Prophet (pbuh), the inhabitants of Medina have been regarded as generally friendly, especially compared to Meccans – a fact all Muslims know whether they have been to the two towns or not. The atmosphere in Medina was certainly more relaxed, the interaction in the bazaar warmer. The manager of our hotel, grumpy and grim, was an exception. He perched by the entrance in his dirty tunic, smoking one cigarette after another, squinting at the world that continued to impose itself on him at considerable expense, with no show of the politeness or hospitality required. His demeanour had rubbed off on the staff, a collection of Saudi Arabian moaners seemingly unmoved by the sublime view and the festive occasion. The talkative, relaxed mood of the Hajjis disappeared the instant they entered – the lobby was quickly crossed – and picked up again only in the lift.
Amir and I shared the room with a certain Methusalem who had digestive problems. That may have deprived him of sleep, but obviously not of the ability to recite loudly from the Qur’an day and night. The next day, the old man woke us up at four o’clock in the morning with a mighty sura, as though we were in danger of missing the fajr prayer at five thirty. The first morning it happened I automatically washed, and hurried, still half sleep, to a yawningly empty mosque. The clock above the entrance read a quarter past four and the cleaners stared at me in astonishment.
The wave of people in front of the graves was so powerful that we were pushed past them like driftwood. Amir clung to the railing to utter his most important prayers, but I let myself drift. Later, we lay stretched out on the soft rug in the centre of the Grand Mosque.
‘If you recite the fourth kalima four times in the bazaar,’ Amir remarked unexpectedly, ‘you receive 125,000 good points. Do you know why? Because people in the bazaar are most easily distracted from their faith.’
He was silent for a while before his contemplative voice enlightened me further about my prayer account book:
‘Here, a prayer is worth about 1,000 everyday prayers. Our prayers in the Haram al-Sharif in Mecca are worth 100,000 times more, although it is easier to pray here than it is in everyday life. We ought to spend eight days in Medina to perform the sacred 40 prayers, but I don’t have time. A lousy excuse, isn’t it? A sheikh once told me the story of a man who had no time. He wanted to learn the Salat-u-Tasbiih – a complicated prayer in which the third kalima is spoken in four raqa’t, and the whole thing repeated 75 times. So this man asked his uncle to teach him the prayer. When he heard that it was made up of 75 repetitions he protested:
“But I can’t pray all that every day.”
“Alright,” th
e uncle conceded, “then once a week.”
“What, every week?”
“Alright,” the uncle placated, “if that seems too much for you, then pray just once a month.”
“Every month?”
“Alright, once a year.”
“Does it have to be every year?” asked the man with no time.
“Alright then,” said his uncle, “pray it at least once in your lifetime.”’
Since we weren’t travelling as part of a group, Amir and I had to take care of the official formalities ourselves. On the evening of our arrival we went, as advised, to the offices of the National Adilla Establishment. We were asked to come back the next day. The next morning the sky was unusually streaked, some clouds looked like fingerprints, others like torn leaves, as we strolled over again. We were told it was almost lunchtime and our question could only be dealt with afterwards. In the afternoon, a young man behind the counter tried to stall us off until the night prayer had been performed but we stood firm and frustrated, also under a time constraint since Amir had to fly from Jeddah Airport that night. It was brought to our attention that a lot of work had piled up and to illustrate this; a door was opened through which we saw a considerable pile of passports and papers – but also a man dozing, his head on his arms, and a group of officials arguing.
We spent four hours in that air-conditioned office. I learnt the signs on the doors off by heart, in which pride was expressed, in both Arabic and English, for the honour of taking care of the Hajjis, pledging that the welfare and comfort of the pilgrims came first. Anytime Amir or I went up to the counter we were brusquely told to be patient. Finally, an overweight young man called us over to fish our passports out of a plastic bag. My German passport would have stood out from the Indian ones by virtue of its colour, but all the passports were in wrapped in protective Cosmic Travel holders. We had to open almost every single one before finding our own. Afterwards we were told to take a seat again. Dismissed once more, we complained bitterly to the official and our noisy indignation took us straight to a number of superiors, one of them a tall man, his face long beneath the white head-covering and his apology genuine. He checked our passports and tickets carefully and discovered that Amir’s flight hadn’t been confirmed; he had to make his way to the Air India office with one of the officials and return with the confirmation in writing.
Mumbai to Mecca Page 9