Chapter 5
"Why should we praise God when he makes miserable things? Why should a blind man, or a lame man be thankful to Him?" I asked.
"When a painter paints a broken pot, he is admired for painting the pot as it should look. Not the way he thinks it might look pretty," the gentlemen replied. "Similarly, when God makes someone blind, look at the perfection of His action."
I started to think upon what he just had said.
I had come to this gentleman's place through a friend. He was a Pir. In farsi, Pir means an old man. Under the sufi tradition, Pir refers to the teacher, or the guide. Before you make someone your Pir, you had to pledge upon his hand. My friend had pledged on this Pir's hand. Now my friend was his Mureed.
I had never believed in Pir's or Mureed's. I had always thought that God was an equal-opportunity deity. He listened to all of us, and helped all of us. We didn't need a Pir to show us the path. It was all wrong.
I was still not convinced. I had read the story of Mansour a few days ago, and I had a lot of questions. Mansour Hallaj was cut to pieces by the people of Baghdad. His crime was his speech. He had started to proclaim that he was the truth, or God. Mansour kept saying "An-al Haq" all through his punishment, until he died. They say, every drop of his blood kept saying that until it was all burnt.
My friend and I had a lot of arguements about this concept as we left Pir Sahab's house. My father was an anti-pir type of a person. He never believed in any Pir's. And neither did I.
It was almost night now. We were walking back from my friend's Pir's house to Chittian Hattian. We passed through the narrow streets of Moti Bazaar. Moti Bazaar was famous for its shops. The night before Eid, it would be full of women. My group of friends would always make plans to go to the Moti Bazaar on that night. We would just go their and check out girls. "Look at that yaar, what a piece!" one would whisper in my ear, and the other one would say, "This one is really tight man!" Another said, "You know what guys, we should open a bangles shop here. So when girls will come, we will say, Baji, please sit here. Baji, give me your hand." We would laugh and just come back home. I don't know what we got from this excercise. Maybe it was some sort of a relief.
Lately, the police had decided to patrol that area during the holiday season. The women had actually complained. "You don't know yaar! These aunties have become very tricky. They would start crying for help even if you didn't do anything. Just to get you a beating from the police." My friend told me. The whole idea of a guy being beaten up by a police havaldaar in the heart of Moti Bazaar amused me a lot. And of course, no matter how corrupt our police was, for some reason they still cared for women. I found it very strange.
As we entered Chittian Hattian, the shops were closing. People had left the mosque after the last prayer meeting. There was a scrap metal shop there. They had big chests made up of steel. People must have sold them to these scrap metal buyers. These chests would become beds for the young kids who worked at these shops. These young children had come from far-off lands to earn bread for their families back home. Most of them were Pathan kids not older than 12. They wore dirty shalwaar kamiz's and their faces would always be under a layer of dust. At day time, I used to see these kids do hard labor, which I never thought I could do. And at night, they would get inside one of these big chests, and close the cover, just like they were going into a coffin. These were their bedrooms.
"When a painter paints a broken pot, he is admired for painting the pot as it should look. Not the way he thinks it might look pretty," the gentlemen replied. "Similarly, when God makes someone blind, look at the perfection of His action."
I started to think upon what he just had said.
I had come to this gentleman's place through a friend. He was a Pir. In farsi, Pir means an old man. Under the sufi tradition, Pir refers to the teacher, or the guide. Before you make someone your Pir, you had to pledge upon his hand. My friend had pledged on this Pir's hand. Now my friend was his Mureed.
I had never believed in Pir's or Mureed's. I had always thought that God was an equal-opportunity deity. He listened to all of us, and helped all of us. We didn't need a Pir to show us the path. It was all wrong.
I was still not convinced. I had read the story of Mansour a few days ago, and I had a lot of questions. Mansour Hallaj was cut to pieces by the people of Baghdad. His crime was his speech. He had started to proclaim that he was the truth, or God. Mansour kept saying "An-al Haq" all through his punishment, until he died. They say, every drop of his blood kept saying that until it was all burnt.
My friend and I had a lot of arguements about this concept as we left Pir Sahab's house. My father was an anti-pir type of a person. He never believed in any Pir's. And neither did I.
It was almost night now. We were walking back from my friend's Pir's house to Chittian Hattian. We passed through the narrow streets of Moti Bazaar. Moti Bazaar was famous for its shops. The night before Eid, it would be full of women. My group of friends would always make plans to go to the Moti Bazaar on that night. We would just go their and check out girls. "Look at that yaar, what a piece!" one would whisper in my ear, and the other one would say, "This one is really tight man!" Another said, "You know what guys, we should open a bangles shop here. So when girls will come, we will say, Baji, please sit here. Baji, give me your hand." We would laugh and just come back home. I don't know what we got from this excercise. Maybe it was some sort of a relief.
Lately, the police had decided to patrol that area during the holiday season. The women had actually complained. "You don't know yaar! These aunties have become very tricky. They would start crying for help even if you didn't do anything. Just to get you a beating from the police." My friend told me. The whole idea of a guy being beaten up by a police havaldaar in the heart of Moti Bazaar amused me a lot. And of course, no matter how corrupt our police was, for some reason they still cared for women. I found it very strange.
As we entered Chittian Hattian, the shops were closing. People had left the mosque after the last prayer meeting. There was a scrap metal shop there. They had big chests made up of steel. People must have sold them to these scrap metal buyers. These chests would become beds for the young kids who worked at these shops. These young children had come from far-off lands to earn bread for their families back home. Most of them were Pathan kids not older than 12. They wore dirty shalwaar kamiz's and their faces would always be under a layer of dust. At day time, I used to see these kids do hard labor, which I never thought I could do. And at night, they would get inside one of these big chests, and close the cover, just like they were going into a coffin. These were their bedrooms.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home