Can
we imagine waiting for two decades to fulfill a cherished dream?
In
today’s generation of instant gratification it sounds almost like a fable. One
of the rituals at Haj is to greet as many people as you can, so after every namaaz (congregation prayers) as a practice
most people greet pilgrims sitting on either side. It is then you realize what
it is to become a ‘citizen of the world’ because your neighbor may be from any
part of the world, any strata of society, any age group.
I
met a Turkish tour guide, a Morocco businessman, an Afghani who wanted to know
about T20 World Cup underway in India at that time, a Dutch IT contractor who
was a former Tech Mahindra ITPian migrated a few years ago, a Pakistani from a
village in Baluchistan where it was common practice to find letters on your
front door seeking money for being ‘protected’ and an old Bangladeshi who had
waited for 20 years to retire so that he could utilize the retirement money to
make the pilgrimage.
How does one feel on achieving a
purpose one has patiently waited more than two decades for?
It was humbling to see the devotion in his eyes. Could we ever achieve that
depth of feeling? Do the ‘haves’ realize what the ‘have not’s’ have?
It
was also interesting to note that countries and regions have cultures and
behaviors which make them distinct and identifiable. After a couple of weeks it
became an interesting activity to look at a group and identify their country.
And it went beyond dress and physical features. It extended to their demeanor,
their public behavior. Not wanting to hurt any patriotic sentiments, it was
clear how the Indonesians were so disciplined and organized, the Turks almost
invariably wore the same light green color and when there would be time limit
for certain rituals you could guess who would be the people rushing and jumping
queues to get a glimpse.
A
Pakistani lady was surprised to hear my wife talk about the comfortable and
secure life we live in India. She thought, as did many Pakistani’s we met, that
Muslims here were a harassed lot. It was obvious that they lived a life of
strife there. When I asked a Pakistani which city he lived in, he instinctively
replied “Bomb blast” before correcting himself to say Karachi. It was funny and
tragic at the same time.
Do
we value the things we have got, things we are so accustomed to that we take it
for granted?
The
first week at Makkah had been understandably more intense – the experience was
new, the sights were new and there were a lot more tears and opening up as
realizations started coming to the fore. The second week was more of
reflection, of internalizing and knowing oneself better which led to a
heightened sense of self-awareness and mindfulness.
This
self-awareness though can be disturbing especially when the first thing it
throws up is a lot of internal dirt which we had so conveniently camouflaged
with our seemingly good intents. I like being a trainer and a writer, but I
realized in those moments of self-awareness that it was primarily because it
gave me an opportunity to be liked and praised. That my love for interaction
was in fact my love for popularity and appreciation.
There
is no doubt that all actions, to be pure, have to be performed with the sole
intent of pleasing God. Could any of my ‘good’ deeds then stand up for scrutiny,
because they were performed principally with the intent of making me look good. I do receive a lot of
appreciation both for my training and my writing. Have I then already received
my reward from the universe? How could I expect a higher reward from God? Why should I expect it?
As
I sat in the mataaf (the open area
encircling the Kaaba) one evening in our final week in Makkah these thoughts
made me misty and fearful. I had come here seeking acquiescence from my God and
the reward of becoming pure. But all I had to show were deeds done out of a
unfailing desire to seek credit, when all the prophets and great people that I
had been reading about lately were people who had led lives of hardship and
sacrifice with no desire for acclaim. It left me completely hopeless and
ashamed. For all the things I had, I was a pauper in deeds.
As
I raised my hands for the dua
(supplication) at the end of the last prayers for the night in this state of
hollowness, a strange thought came to my mind. Why shouldn't I seek both from God? Why shouldn't he pardon my
transgressions and still consider me amongst the pious? I felt like the
stubborn child who knows he doesn't deserve a toy, yet is confident his parents
will grant him one if only he persists.
The
Quran says that Allah is many times more merciful than a mother. So shouldn't I
expect to be shown mercy? Shouldn't I have a ‘right’ to be pardoned no matter
how conceited my intents were? If my mother can then why can’t Allah?
And
I demanded and pleaded in the same moment. There were no words because I didn't know what to say, how to express. Just a torrent of tears which flowed
automatically as I stared besieged at the abode of God. I didn't want to leave
the place, didn't want to go to the hotel or home or anywhere, just stand there
and do whatever I could – beg, plead, threaten Allah to pardon and forgive me.
I
don’t think I have ever cried that long in my life. Finally I turned around and
left, slowly and unwillingly.
The
street outside was largely empty as most pilgrims had returned to their hotels
for the night and the temperature had turned slightly mild. It was as if I was
returning from my Tawaaf-ul-vidat
(the farewell circumambulation of the Kaaba) which was still a few weeks away.
And it felt strangely liberating. I felt light and happy as I walked back to
the hotel; the lightness of a person who knows not the result, but knows that
he made a worthwhile attempt.
That
night in the hotel room I indulged in some light banter, even cracked a joke
with my roommate – the first time I had felt like that since I left Mumbai. We
were soon to leave for our 2 week sojourn to Medina before we could return back
to Makkah for the actual Haj rituals. Medina was the town where Prophet
Muhammad had migrated to after the tribal warlords at Makkah had made it
difficult for him to practice Islam.
The stage was set for the next phase of experience.
