Revival From Below

by Brannon D Ingram

  Tayyib’s argument also positions Deoband against its rivals, both the Ahl-i Hadith, who dismissed the entire edifice of Islamic law, and the Barelvis, who typify the devotional “excess” (tafrit) that Deobandis shun. In assimilating Deoband to Sunni Islam itself, Tayyib is not just maneuvering rhetorically against the Barelvis, who also call themselves the Ahl-i Sunna wa-l Jama‘a; in fact, he sees in this phrase a convergence of the diachronic and synchronic—of transmitted norm (sunna) and imagined community (jama‘a)—one that signifies Deoband as a living tradition, anchored in time and space.

  Tayyib begins his discussion of the centrality of Sufism to the Deoband school with the standard conceit that we have seen throughout this book: Sufism is, in its very essence, a matter of personal character and inner purification, and cannot be separated theoretically or practically from the Shari‘a:

  The Deobandis believe that perfecting one’s ethics [takmil-i akhlaq] and purifying one’s self by taking initiation and being in the presence of Sufi masters are beneficial and necessary forms of spiritual guidance. However, the Sufi path [tariqa] is not a path different from the Shari‘a, which is transmitted from one heart to the next. The Sufi path is simply the internal and ethical dimension of the Shari‘a, the path of reforming the heart [islah-i qalb], principles of which are firmly established by the Qur’an and Sunna.13

  Sufis go astray, Tayyib submits, when they forget the stipulations of the Shari‘a and become mired in “excessive” practices:

  In the view of the Deobandi maslak, the holy saints among the esteemed Sufis are like the spirit [ruh] coursing through the Ummah from which it derives its inner life [batini hayat], which is the very root of life. Thus the Deobandi maslak understands that love and respect for the saints is vital to preserving faith [iman], but extremism [ghuluw] in love for them or in certain beliefs must not result in their deification. It understands that honoring the saints is a moral duty, but this does not mean worshipping them, prostrating toward or circumambulating their graves, taking oaths on them, or making sacrifices for them.14

  Rather than objects of worship, the Sufi saints are the most perfect embodiments of a certain disposition (mizaj) that one can attain only in their presence. It is a disposition that one acquires not only through reading texts (though texts certainly contain a wealth of knowledge that can guide one toward perfected piety) but also through person-to-person relationships: “The Deobandi maslak . . . neither idolizes people, nor regards mere religious education as sufficient in and of itself; neither people, nor books, nor pure intellection is sufficient on its own, nor reliance solely on the words and deeds of persons.”15 Similarly, elsewhere Tayyib describes the maslak as “a collection of principles, rules, narratives, and biographies. These are transmitted through texts, but texts must involve the lived companionship of the righteous. Only then can one cultivate the maslak.”16

  But whereas Thanvi made certain reluctant concessions to an increasingly bibliocentric economy of knowledge, Tayyib seems to envision a more equal complementarity between books and bodies. Indeed, in the twentieth century, Deobandi tradition increasingly became stitched together in large part—one could argue primarily—through networks of texts and their readers. But can books replace bodies in channeling the maslak? Tayyib engaged this question in the last book he wrote, published posthumously.17 By that point, the Deoband movement had reached an extent probably unimaginable even to Thanvi’s generation, let alone Gangohi’s and Nanautvi’s. Tayyib still envisioned the global Deobandi network as a movement whose ultimate fount is the thought of Ahmad Sirhindi and Shah Wali Allah as channeled through Nanautvi and Gangohi. But he posited three forms of “connection” (silsila, a term usually used to describe Sufi initiatic lineages) to that original fount of inspiration that compelled Deobandi ‘ulama across the globe—teaching, preaching, and writing:

  The ‘ulama of Deoband comprise not only the circles of instruction and teaching, preaching and proselytization, the giving of fatwas and issuing of legal decrees, and the writing and editing of texts connected to the Dar al-‘Ulum Deoband, but also comprise all the ‘ulama whose thought originates with Ahmad Sirhindi and Shah Wali Allah and who adopt the taste and disposition [zawq o mashrab] of Muhammad Qasim Nanautvi and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi. . . . The ‘ulama of madrasas in Bengal and Assam, or the hundreds of madrasas in other parts of India that are connected through teaching [ta‘limi silsila] . . . those that are connected through preaching [tablighi silsila], spreading out across the countries of the world, or connected through writing [tasnifi silsila], whether they are in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America—all are, properly called, “Deobandi ‘ulama.”18

  But one can discern a subtle shift toward the importance of texts for the coherence of the movement. In the preface to that book, the contemporary Pakistani Deobandi scholar Muhammad Taqi ‘Usmani continues, like Tayyib, to comprehend the maslak in terms of the delicate interrelationship between books and bodies. But there is a new emphasis on books in mediating that tradition across space:

  Look into the authenticated books [mustanad kitab] on the beliefs of the Ahl-i Sunna wa-l Jama‘a and you will find the beliefs [‘aqa’id] of the Deobandi ‘ulama. Study the authenticated books that are taught on Hanafi law and the principles of jurisprudence, and there, too, you will find the legal track [fiqhi maslak] of the Deobandi ‘ulama. Research the authenticated and sound [musallam] books on ethics [akhlaq] and goodness [ihsan], and especially their chapters on Sufism and purification of character, and there you will find the very origin of the Deobandi ‘ulama. . . . To know their maslak, study the authenticated books of detailed Qur’an commentaries, the sound commentaries on Hadith, Hanafi law, belief and theology, Sufism, and ethics—which all the ‘ulama of the Ummah regard as well authenticated and trustworthy.19

  ‘Usmani then puts a slight new inflection on the dynamic of textual and embodied knowledge, introducing a new term for one who can speak for Deobandi tradition: an “interpreter” (tarjuman). ‘Usmani defines the true “interpreter” of Deobandi tradition as much by what he is not as what he is. A madrasa student will experience some of the spiritual effulgence (faiz) that permeates the madrasa, but unless he masters the textual tradition, he cannot be called an “interpreter” of it. He still contends, conversely, that one may study all the books of the tradition, but unless one has spent time in the companionship (suhbat) of its living embodiments, in that case, too, one cannot be an “interpreter.”20

  There are other ways in which ‘Usmani accentuates the bibliocentric over the anthropocentric: he has called for Sufi texts to be taught in Deobandi seminaries. To put this into context, it is necessary to briefly explain why they are not part of the curriculum already. Tayyib’s explanation was that the disposition (mizaj) of Sufism permeates the madrasa by virtue of the Sufi bodies that dwell there. Sufism is in the madrasa but is not of it. It is not a formal part of the madrasa curriculum, but it pervades madrasa studies on an informal level. There is, simply put, no need for Sufi texts. Besides, as we have seen, Deobandis have urged students to take up Sufi training only after they have completed their studies. Thanvi, for his part, suggested that Sufi lodges (khanqahs) should be attached to seminaries in order to obviate the illicit Sufi practices that, he believed, arise in stand-alone Sufi lodges.21

  There are historical reasons for the absence of Sufi texts in the seminary curriculum that predate Deoband. The curriculum Shah Wali Allah taught at Delhi’s Madrasa Rahimiyya included Sufi texts. In fact, the “chief attention in [Madrasa Rahimiyya] was given to mystic literature.”22 When Mulla Nizam al-Din created the Nizami syllabus, he removed Sufi texts in order to emphasize “training capable administrators for Muslim states rather than specialists in ‘religion,’” according to Francis Robinson.23 Even though Deobandis largely retreated from serving as government functionaries, as we saw in chapter 1, Sufi texts did not reappear in the curriculum, in part because Deobandi seminaries treated training in Qur’an, Hadith, and law (fiqh) as a prerequi
site for taking Sufi initiations—first the madrasa, then the khanqah.

  ‘Usmani, by contrast, has called for a return of Sufi texts to the madrasa curriculum, submitting that Sufism was not part of the Deobandi syllabus for a simple reason: the moral nurturing that comes from the presence of a Sufi master was once easy to obtain, but the moral decadence of the present day has thoroughly compromised the ability to gain this nurturing through the companionship (suhbat) of a Sufi alone. Hence he calls for reintroducing Sufi texts to madrasa syllabi:

  Sufism and ethics [akhlaq] were not included in madrasa course work because the very environment of the madrasa trained one in ethics and the Sufi path, and for anything else attachment to a Sufi master would be sufficient. Nowadays it seems necessary that books on Sufism and ethics should be included in the foundations of madrasa course work. To this end, select parts from Ghazali’s Bidaya al-hidaya, Arba‘in, and Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din, Suhrawardi’s ‘Awarif al-ma‘arif, Thanvi’s Al-Takashshuf, and so on can be incorporated at different levels of course work.24

  Among the most necessary reforms, ‘Usmani submits that “every madrasa [should] make Sufism and moral excellence [ihsan] part of the curriculum. . . . The teachers and administration of every madrasa should establish a spiritual link with a Sufi shaykh for the purpose of reform and training.”25 He further recommends reading groups to study the lives of Deoband’s great Sufi-scholars:

  Teachers and students should be required to meet together even once a week to study the sayings and lives of the great elders of the religion [din], especially the great ‘ulama of Deoband. In this way, Hazrat Thanvi’s Arvah-i salasa [a collection of stories of saints], Tazkirat al-Rashid [the biography of Gangohi], Hayat-i Qasimi [a biography of Nanautvi], Tazkirat al-Khalil [the biography of Saharanpuri], Hayat-i Shaykh al-Hind [the biography of Mahmud Hasan], Ashraf al-savanih [a biography of Thanvi], and Aap biti [the autobiography of Muhammad Zakariyya Kandhlavi] should be studied collectively to yield their benefits.26

  ‘Usmani’s call to reincorporate classic Sufi texts and the biographies of Deoband’s founding figures into madrasa curricula reveals an anxiety about whether Deoband’s traditional approach to teaching Sufism—by “example” rather than by text—is effective. But it also points to a new consciousness about the roles that these principal “interpreters” of Deobandi tradition have played in defining it.

  ‘Usmani is not the only mid- or late-twentieth-century Deobandi to lament the separation of Sufism and the seminary. For Muhammad Shafi‘ (d. 1976), the overspecialization of both ‘ulama and Sufis has led each group to neglect the other:

  On one side, the ‘ulama began to neglect remembrance of God [zikrullah] and pondering the afterlife. Love for God and the Messenger, which is a requirement of perfect faith [iman-i kamil], too began to decline. On the other side, the Sufis became ignorant of the religious sciences, and their care for the Sunna and Shari‘a began to diminish. The madrasa and the khanqah became rivals heaping blame upon one another. The madrasa regarded knowledge of a few legal questions to be height of understanding, the khanqahs a few litanies and supererogatory prayers. The madrasa lost touch with internal matters [a‘mal-i batin], the khanqah with the Shari‘a and Sunna, such that Sufism became a few customs [rusum] with no basis in the law and prophetic model.27

  For Shafi‘, the Dar al-‘Ulum Deoband was founded to fill this gap between the legal and the mystical—a “fusion of the madrasa and the khanqah.” To convey this point, Shafi‘ relates how Mahmud Hasan commemorated the construction of the first mosque on Dar al-‘Ulum Deoband’s campus by penning a Persian chronogram, “I saw a khanqah in this madrasa” (dar madrasa khanqah didam), corresponding to the year 1910, when the mosque was finished.28

  In some sense, this new emphasis on Sufi texts and the biographies of prominent Deobandis is an attempt to articulate a Deobandi imaginary that can function independently of the madrasa and khanqah. It is, put differently, a means of recuperating the affective dimension of a maslak increasingly mediated by texts. This mediation, of course, does not replace bodies. Tayyib, ‘Usmani, and other mid- and late-twentieth-century Deobandis still consider experiencing the companionship of other pious bodies the sine qua non for acquiring the shared “temperament” (mizaj) and the “taste” (mazaq) that define what it is to be a “Deobandi.” These teacher–student and master–disciple relationships overlap and work interchangeably in the formation of pious selves. ‘Usmani explains that the maslak of Deoband is a “feeling” that one ascertains not through rational deliberation, but only through the companionship (suhbat) of other scholarly and saintly bodies. It can be “felt” (mahsus) but “not easily described,” just as “one can smell a rose, but cannot readily describe the scent. . . . In the same way, the ‘temperament’ and ‘taste’ of their companionship can be grasped but cannot be logically articulated [mantiqi ta‘bir na mumkin hai].”29 Similarly, Deoband’s very origins in the Wali Allah tradition cannot be grasped through “rational thought or deliberation, or through intellectual investigation. It is, rather, inspirational [ilhami].”30

  I want to suggest—in simultaneously situating the maslak as a “temperament” that one acquires through physical proximity to other bodies and as a concept that subsists prior to or beneath logic or cognition—that Tayyib, ‘Usmani, and others are attempting to disabuse Deoband’s critics of the notion that the maslak is a rote list of beliefs, as it has sometimes been described. And there is good reason for such a move. The fact is that, as many Deobandi scholars are willing to concede, there is little difference between the Deobandi and Barelvi maslaks if approached through the lens of discursive tradition or “belief” alone. In one of the most widely read Deobandi polemics on Deobandi–Barelvi difference, Muhammad Yusuf Ludhianvi states that there are few, if any, substantial differences between Deobandis and Barelvis in terms of “belief.” Both are Hanafi in law and Ash‘ari or Maturidi in theology, and both affiliate with the same Sufi orders: Qadiri, Chishti, Suhrawardi, and Naqshbandi.31 But in saying they are nearly identical, it is the “nearly” that concerns these scholars. For the Deobandis, the Barelvi scholars’ insistence on what Deobandis see as a near deification of the Prophet Muhammad, ascribing to him suprahuman knowledge and omnipresence, is the crux of what distinguishes the two. As Pierre Bourdieu pronounced in Distinction: “Social identity lies in difference, and difference is asserted against what is closest, which represents the greatest threat.”32 But it is precisely this relative lack of difference in terms of belief that leads Deobandi scholars to explain the maslak in affective language. Not only is the maslak configured through the presence of scholarly and saintly bodies; those bodies must be the right ones—in other words, properly reformed bodies. Not just any body will do. In other words, it is this affective language that helps to articulate how difference works in a way that explicitly cannot be reduced to mere belief. It is this unstated, even emotional, bond between Deobandi bodies that makes the network cohere internally and differentiates it externally. The theorists of the Deoband movement, then, sought to narrate a tradition at the intersection of books and bodies, at the nexus of real and imagined companionship. The global “interpreter” of the Deoband movement is what Constance Furey calls “the relational subject, formed and enacted through sustained affiliations and intense encounters.”33 This theorizing was an effort, I submit, to offset the centrifugal forces of Deoband’s own disparate geography with the centripetal forces of shared affect.

  MOBILIZING DEOBANDI BODIES: THE TABLIGHI JAMA‘AT AND DEOBAND’S GLOBAL EXPANSION

  Just before departing for his second Hajj in 1925, Muhammad Ilyas, who would soon establish the Tablighi Jama‘at, traveled just south of Delhi to a region called Mewat. He went to establish a number of Qur’anic schools for the Meos, the traditional inhabitants of the area. The Meos had long been regarded by the north Indian ‘ulama as, at best, nominally Muslim. Ilyas hoped these schools would counteract the efforts of Hindu activists to “reconvert” the Meos. He
was soon disappointed. The ‘ulama who taught in these schools could reach only a fraction of the Meo population. According to Ilyas’s biographer, Abu al-Hasan ‘Ali Nadvi, Ilyas began to think of the Meos as sheep (bheron) and the local ‘ulama as their often ineffectual shepherds (chupan). The problem, Ilyas said, is that when the shepherd herds the sheep from one direction, they wander off in the other. When the shepherd herds them from the other direction, they wander off yet again.34 At this point, he had something of an epiphany: what if it were possible to teach the sheep not to wander? But this question begged another: if the sheep are taught to herd themselves, as it were, what becomes of the shepherd?