Sultan Ghiasuddin Balban’s eldest son, Prince Mohammed, was killed fighting the Mongols. The mighty sultan who had ruled Hindustan for twenty-two years with an iron hand wept like a woman. He would not eat or sleep or attend to the affairs of the state. He fell ill but would not allow the royal physician to feel his pulse. In a few days he was reduced to a skeleton—and died.
There were many claimants to the throne. They slew each other; I cannot even recall their names. Then Jalaluddin Firoze of the tribe of Khiljis, an old man with one foot in the grave, took his seat on the throne of Delhi. His sons could not wait for him to die. Many of them came under the influence of a false guru called Siddi Maula.
Siddi Maula had a hospice of his own where he ran a
langar
in which confections, the like of which were only cooked in the royal kitchen, were served to the rich and the powerful. The Siddi also had an army of followers to sing his praises. They reeled off the names of the
omarah
and princes of royal blood who paid homage to Siddi. They said Siddi Maula did not care a cowrie shell for worldly wealth or power and had even turned down the post of chief
qazi
. They said that the daughters of noble houses were eager to marry him but he would not have any of them.
‘Ya Allah
! What kind of
dervish
is this?’ I asked myself: ‘One foot in God’s boat and the other in the courts of kings! Maybe he is one of those who wear the cloak of humility to cover designs of power!’
I saw Siddi Maula and at once knew he was not fit to kiss the dust of the feet of my
peer
, Nizamuddin. He was a rascally looking fellow with a glossy black beard and moustaches that curled up like scorpion tails. He assumed the airs of an aristocrat and was forever sniffing at a perfumed swab of cotton. Although he was a young man, he had developed a paunch. Even a blind man could see that this Siddi did not believe in fasting or overcoming his
nafs
(desires). He was so busy giving counsel to the rich that he had little time left for the poor. He was a proud man. Of the proud, Mustatraf has said:
Tell this fool whose arrogance makes his neck veins swell!
Pride corrupts religion, weakens the mind, destroys
reputations. So take heed!
It is truly said that a country cannot have two kings any more than a scabbard hold two swords. In Delhi we had the Khilji, Jalaluddin Firoze. And we had Siddi Maula who was known to be conspiring with one of the sultan’s sons to overthrow the sultan. It had to be one or the other.
How the old sultan outwitted the
dervish
is quite a story. He got some people to lodge a report that the
dervish
had promised to help a faction inimical to the sultan and had in turn been promised the hand of a young, beautiful princess. No sooner did this charge reach the sultan than he ordered the arrest of Siddi Maula. I was in the
kotwali
when Siddi Maula and a score of his followers were brought in handcuffs. Their feet were in irons. I knew blood would flow and Siddi Maula would curse anyone who sided with his enemies. Why risk the anger of a
dervish
even a false one! I wrote a petition to the
Kotwal
Sahib begging leave for three days as my bowels had suddenly become loose and the
hakeem
had advised rest.
I learnt of what passed with Siddi Maula from the clerks who came to enquire about my health.
Kotwal
Sahib had tried to extort a confession from Siddi Maula. He had him beaten, his testicles squeezed, red hot chillies pushed up his anus, his mouth filled with shit and urine. But Siddi Maula had refused to speak. The sultan was very angry. ‘Make him and his followers walk through fire. If they come out alive, I will believe they are innocent and let them go,’ he said. The next day a huge funeral pyre was prepared near village Baharpur not far from Mehrauli. I could not miss this sight as Siddi Maula was reputed to be able to perform miracles.
The sultan came to watch the spectacle. The pyre was set on fire. Just as the Siddi and his followers were being pushed towards it, the sultan lost his nerve. He sent for the
ulema
and asked them if an ordeal by fire had the sanction of the holy law. The
ulema
shook their heads. ‘It is the nature of fire to burn,’ they said. The sultan cancelled the order and returned to his palace. Siddi Maula and his men were flogged back to the
kotwali.
The sultan turned his wrath on the
Kotwal
Sahib. ‘If you can’t make him talk, send him to us. We will make him open his vile mouth.’
Despite Ram Dulari’s remonstrations that I should stay at home I joined a party of clerks going to Shahr-i-Nau—the new city going up in the vicinity of the Qasr-i-hazaar Sutoon, the palace of a thousand pillars.
Siddi Maula and his gang were already present in the Hall of Public Audience when the sultan took his seat. The sultan was in a very bad mood. The way he talked showed clearly that his mind was as infirm as his body, ‘Confess your crimes,’ he roared, ‘or we will have your tongue torn out of your mouth.’ And if he confessed he was to have his head cut off.
‘Bring the impostor near us,’ he commanded. Siddi Maula was brought forward. The old sultan stepped down from his throne. ‘Son of Satan! You call yourself a saint and meddle in the affairs of kings!’ he shouted as he slapped the
dervish
across the face. Siddi did not flinch. Although his face was black with bruises and his eyes were almost closed because of the swelling around them, the ends of his moustache were still curled up and his mien was as defiant as ever. The sultan hit him again and screamed, ‘Speak, you fruit of fornication!’ Siddi spoke in a clear and powerful voice everyone could hear. ‘Jalaluddin, listen to the words of Siddi Maula, the
dervish
of Allah!’ he said as if he was speaking to a slave. ‘Allah will punish you for laying hands on His servant. At the hands of your own kinsmen will you die. Your carcass will burn in the fires of hell.’ Suddenly Siddi Maula spat out a blob of phlegm and blood which covered the sultan’s face and snow-white beard.
The old sultan began to rave like a maniac: ‘
Moozi
(blackguard), bastard, son of a pig!’ He turned to his courtiers and abused them, ‘Cowards! You allow your ruler to be insulted by this dog!’ In the hall there was a party of
dervishes
of an order known to hate Siddi Maula. They pounced on Siddi and belaboured him till he was reduced to a bloody mess. They dragged him out into the open where he lay like a sack—alive or dead—I do not know. Then an elephant was brought to crush Siddi Maula’s head under its foot. His skull burst like a coconut spilling blood and butter-like fat. My knees buckled under me; I could not stop my body from shaking. I sat down where I was and began to pray. It took me an hour to recover. My friends helped me get home.
What a terrible day it was! When Siddi Maula was taken to Shahr-i-Nau, it was a bright, sunny morning. No sooner was he dead than the sky turned as black as charcoal. A vast cloud of locusts descended on the city. Every tree and every bush became a beehive of crawling, hopping, flying insects. Within a matter of moments the trees were leafless, bushes turned to brambles.
Then followed the worst sand-storm I have ever known. It came like the charge of a phalanx of black elephants smashing walls, uprooting trees, blinding man and beast alike. It was so dark that one could not tell when the sun set and the night came on. ‘It is the curse of Siddi Maula,’ said Ram Dulari to me as we lay huddled together with Kamal between us.
What Siddi Maula had prophesied came to pass. Sultan Jalaluddin Firoze was murdered by his own nephew, Alauddin Khilji, who was also his son-in-law. I do not know whether the deceased sultan roasted in the fires of hell but we certainly had a foretaste of
gehennum
. The summer’s heat turned Delhi into an oven. The sun’s rays were so fierce that every day twenty or thirty people died of stroke. There was no rain. Wells dried up. Cattle began to die of thirst. Crops withered. There was no flour or rice or lentils in the bazaars. We had to get provisions at an exorbitant price from distant villages. The city was full of starving beggars dying in the streets. Hindus prayed to their gods. Muslims prayed to Allah. We prayed for the return of our Khwaja Sahib.
Our prayers were answered. One morning a
dervish
returning from the Punjab informed us that the Khwaja Sahib was only two days march from Mehrauli. That afternoon there was a meeting of the citizens at the mausoleum of Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki to arrange a suitable reception for him.
When the great day came, citizens in their hundreds poured out of the city gates to welcome the saint.
The Khwaja Sahib looked pale and tired. That was not surprising as he had walked barefoot over hundreds of
kos
of hot, dusty roads. But he had a smile and a blessing for everyone who got close enough to kiss the hem of his cloak or touch his feet. The
dervishes
had to make a cordon to protect him from the surging crowd. The bazaars were decorated with arches with banners saying
Khush Amdeed
(welcome). Women crowded on the roof-tops showered rose-petals on him. Men smothered him in garlands. A huge procession led by parties of
qawwals
wound its way through the main bazaar of Mehrauli to the mausoleum of Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki. The Khwaja Sahib begged to be left alone. He went down into one of the cells in the basement of Auliya Masjid and bolted the door from the inside.
At night we heard the rumble of clouds. Mehrauli which had not had a drop of rain during the monsoon season had a heavy shower in autumn. May the mouths of unbelievers be stuffed with dung!
The following Thursday, I took Kamal and Ram Dulari to have
darshan
of the Khwaja Sahib. Such a crowd I had never witnessed at Ghiaspur! It was very hot and my throat was parched. The Khwaja Sahib’s words were like nectar cooled in mountain streams of paradise.
There is only one God though we call Him by different names. There are innumerable ways of approaching Him. Let everyone follow the way he thinks best for him. His path may lead to the mosque or the tabernacle, to a temple full of idols or to a solitary cave in the wilderness. What path you take is not important; what is important is the manner in which you tread it. If you have no love in your heart then the best path will lead you into the maze of deception.’ He told us of an incident from the life of the Prophet Musa. Musa heard a poor shepherd praying: ‘Where art Thou that I may serve Thee? I will mend Thy boots, comb Thy hair, give Thee milk from my goats.’ Musa reprimanded the shepherd for so speaking to God. God in His turn reprimanded Musa. ‘Thou hast driven away one of my true servants.’
It was again to the Prophet Musa that Allah conveyed the essence of true religion. The Almighty said. ‘I was sick, and you did not come to see me. I was hungry, and you did not give me food.’ Musa asked ‘My God, can you also be sick and hungry?’ God replied ‘My servant so-and-so was sick, and my servant so-and-so was hungry. If you had visited one and fed the other, you would have found me with them.’
The Khwaja Sahib made us memorize some Sufi catechisms:
Who is the wisest of wise men?
One who rejects the world.
Who is the saintliest of all saints?
One who refuses to change with changing circumstances.
Who is the richest of rich men?
One who is content.
Who is the neediest of the needy?
One who has no contentment.
How to be content? I asked myself. The Khwaja Sahib heard the question I had asked only in my heart. ‘Reduce your wants to the barest minimum, conquer your
nafs
.’
By the time we came out, the sun had gone behind the walls of the hospice. Kamal had fallen asleep in my lap.
Ekkawallas
were clamouring to get back to Mehrauli.
These were dangerous times. We had to pass through villages inhabited by Jats and Gujars who were notorious robbers. We formed a party of ten or twelve
ekkas
; two dozen men armed with swords and spears rode on either side. We reached Mehrauli without any untoward incident.
It had been a long day. I put Kamal to bed. Ram Dulari brought me a tumbler of milk which I was in the habit of drinking before retiring. I drew her on my lap. She protested: ‘All day you hear sermons on controlling your passions: but as soon as it gets dark you want to do this.’
‘Aree
! How stupid can you be! All day you hear sermons about love; but by the evening you forget everything you heard.’
‘The Khwaja Sahib did not mean this kind of love,’ she replied. ‘Hasn’t he often said, “If you want to approach God, you must first conquer your desires.” Is this how you overcome your
nafs
?’ she asked pressing her bottom on my middle. ‘You will never achieve union with God this way,’ she giggled.
‘Let us first achieve union between ourselves; we can bother about union with the Almighty later,’ I replied.
*
The days went by. Our
Kotwal
Sahib became too old to work. He was permitted to retire and go to Mecca. His son-in-law was appointed in his place.
The new
Kotwal
was a bigot. He spoke very disparagingly of the Hindus. He became a great favourite of Sultan Alauddin Khilji who, as I said before, was the late sultan’s nephew, son-in-law and assassin.
Sultan Alauddin Khilji set about despoiling the Hindu kingdoms of the south. His General, Malik Kafur, extended his dominions right up to the seas. He brought thousands of slaves, hundreds of elephants, camels and bullocks carts loaded with gold, silver and precious stones to Delhi. Hindu women were given away to Muslims as rewards for service. Many Hindu temples were destroyed. The sultan paid no heed to the Khwaja Sahib’s advice that conquests of the sword were shortlived.
The atmosphere changed so much that even Hindus like me, who had adopted Muslim ways, found life irksome. I did my job, drew my wage and kept my mouth shut. If some Mussalman needled me too much, I sought shelter at Ghiaspur. Not even the mighty sultan who assumed the title
Sikandar-i-Sani
(Alexander the Second) and proclaimed Delhi as
Dar-ul-Khilafa
(Seat of the Caliphate), who had defeated and massacred Mongol invaders by the thousands, who had raised a new city Siri and an enormous
madrasa
beside the Hauz-i-Alai and who planned to raise another Qutub Minar twice as high as the first, dared to raise his eyebrows in front of our Khwaja Sahib. Once when he expressed a wish to visit Ghiaspur, the Khwaja Sahib replied, ‘We will have nothing to do with kings. If the sultan enters our hospice by one door, we will leave by another.’