40 Days with God - And a Begining

The flight back to Mumbai was uneventful. We were returning back to our children after six weeks but strangely it didn’t feel as exciting as it had felt when we had boarded the flight to Jeddah or during our six week stay when we would at times count the weeks remaining for the return journey.

As the flight readied for take-off, I picked the newspaper lying in the seat pocket. It was our first contact with the outside world after six weeks.

At the Mumbai airport I immediately realized the difficulty in applying the seemingly simple lessons learnt during the pilgrimage.

Everyone had brought tons of baggage from Saudi to be gifted to relatives and friends but I knew it had little value since all those items were actually made in China or Indonesia or some such foreign country and thus had no connection to the holy land. There were only two things that came from the place – dates from Medina and the water from Zam Zam, the holy stream of Mecca. Even the dates of Medina are now imported and available in Mumbai, so it was Zam Zam that was available only when you visited Mecca.

I had thus been very finicky about packing as much water as I can (each Haji is legally allowed a can of 10 liters) and I had packed in small bottles along with the large can. The water cans, due to their fragility are deplaned separately and kept in a separate corner of the baggage collection section, from where you have to identify your can by the name written on it and collect it. I wasn’t worried about my baggage, my only concern was to ensure that my can (and my wife’s) came undamaged.

As I searched through the many water cans that were kept in the corner I could locate only my wife’s can. I read and re-read the names but couldn’t find mine. Probably there was a lot that was still being deplaned.

I went to the baggage belt to collect my regular baggage. As I loaded my trolley and wanted to rush back to the can section I was besieged by an old lady who had always relied on me during the pilgrimage. Her trolley with all her luggage had suddenly gone missing as she had gone to fetch the water can. She was desperate; had someone walked away with her trolley, would all her luggage be lost?

She requested me to help her find her trolley. I knew in my heart that I should help her – that was what right behavior demanded. But my own desperation at not being able to find my water can was gnawing at me. I reasoned to myself that the water was more precious than luggage so I gave her directions as to where she would find her trolley (I vaguely remembered where I had seen it), assured her no one would walk away with it and left her to locate it herself.

When I reached the can station, most of the cans had been collected and there were only a few left. Yet mine was not amongst them. My desperation began to grow into despair. Was I going to miss on the only real valuable thing one could bring from Mecca, something that was not available anywhere else?

And then I found a can with no name or number on it lying unclaimed in a corner. Pilgrims continued to come, identify their cans and collect them, but no one came to collect that unnamed can. And then I had a thought; should I pick that can since it purportedly didn’t belong to anyone because it had no name on it. Of course someone would have put it in the luggage with the hope of getting it through, but obviously it must be an additional can. If for any reason my can didn’t come, did I have the moral right to take the unnamed can?

I knew it wasn’t completely correct, yet as I couldn’t locate my own I began to make plans of taking that unnamed can. Probably, I tried to convince myself, I would wait till the end, wait for every can to be collected and even then if that can remained uncollected I felt I would have done enough diligence before picking it.

As I struggled with my moral dilemma I noticed my can in the middle of the few remaining ones. How had I missed it despite the many checks?

As I walked out with the luggage and the cans safely stacked on the trolley I realized how the slightest threat to something I valued, had diverted me from the task of helping an old lady and made me almost claim a possession which didn’t rightfully belong to me.

Had all my learning, all my days and nights of realizations faltered at the first test of faith? If I had complete faith in the Lord should I have not believed that I would get my can if He so desired and have the fortitude to help others in need?

The children ran to greet us and during the entire ride back home they kept talking incessantly. They had obviously missed us more than we did.

On the Santacruz flyover our taxi driver sharply cut past a car. The car driver honked angrily. As the taxi stopped at the Bandra signal, the car driver got out and assaulted our taxi driver. It seemed the car belonged to the local MLA and thus the driver felt insulted at being overtaken. Our taxi driver tried to put up a brave front but obviously smarted at being roughed up.

As the taxi gathered speed again my seven year old son vented his ire at the preposterousness of the car driver. I had sat passively during the entire incident. Should I have intervened in the matter, should I have stood up for the hapless taxi driver?

And I realized that putting learning into action was not going to be easy at all. That application also required the courage to act and that courage could only come from a firm belief in God and the merit of doing right.

And I also realized that while I had not been able to act as desired I had at least become acutely aware of the need to act. Was this awareness in itself a beginning, a precursor to action which would eventually follow?

We had arrived in Mumbai on Friday evening and I had the weekend to rest at home before joining work. There had never been an occasion when I had stayed away so long from mails. Even when I was on leave I had the constant impulse of checking my Blackberry and logging on to the laptop at the first available opportunity. An hour with an email felt like a disappointment.

However now I didn’t feel like opening my laptop even though I had been away for six weeks. Reluctantly on the Sunday night I reactivated the mail service on my mobile. And it was only on Monday in the office that I started to download my emails.

As I checked through them I realized that a week into my leave some gracious soul had sent me an email with a 12MB attachment post which my mailbox had closed and I had no mail for five full weeks. I suddenly felt a sense of huge relief. A month of all communication had been wiped off my mailbox. It was as if I had ceased to exist professionally for that one month and I didn’t feel the slightest disappointment, the smallest hint of insecurity at that thought.

Was this the beginning of what they call transformation?

{In the next episode - which will probably be the last we will try to recreate the algorithm, the grand design which makes a pilgrimage a source of purification}

40 Days with God – An End

How does one feel on reaching the destination, on achieving a cherished objective?

A philosopher has said that when you have achieved a goal there is nothing further to achieve, once you have reached the destination there is nowhere to go. What he obviously meant was that the journey to achievement was the source of fulfillment, the reaching to the destination a greater motivation than the destination itself.

What one felt in the days immediately after the Haj was a feeling of emptiness that comes with the relieving of responsibility, when you know that there is nothing left in your control. Like the lightness that comes after giving an important exam; you have done whatever you could, good or bad, right or wrong and it was now with the examiner to decide the grades.

For the past five weeks, day after day you had prepared for that one afternoon in Arafat, that one night in Muzdalifah, that one tawaaf of the Kaaba and the stoning of the devil – things that you will probably never do again in your life. And now that it was all over what remained was only the return journey back to the world.

And it was an infinitely sad thought. Of having to give up this life of submission and love, of closeness and affinity for a life of daily chores far away from this holy precinct.

Yet the world was the field of application and what good is all theory if not applied. And that was the biggest fear; could we go back to the rigmarole of the routine and still retain this same sense of love and divinity?

The one sign, the book says, that your Haj was accepted by Allah, that you had passed the exam, is that your life transforms after return. That it becomes easier to lead a righteous life as prescribed by the Quran and God. Would there be a change in my life once I return? And what would be that change or transformation that the books talk about?

And had I performed the Haj correctly enough to bring about that change? Had my Lord accepted my supplications?

The days immediately after Haj were of hope and despair – hope that sprang from a staunch belief in the boundless mercy of the Lord, that if my intent had been good His actions would be generous, and the despair that comes from the realization that there was always something which I could have done more – the nights when I wanted to go to Masjid-al-Haram but kept sleeping, the visit to Masjid-e-Namra on the afternoon of Arafat when it was just a walk away etc.

And there was one big fear; the fear of how I would be able to sustain this same sense of seeming purity on going back into the world, of whether I would be able to put into practice all the good things that I had learnt, the realizations that I had.

Would I be able to know the right and the wrong in any situation and then have the courage to do the right?

There was only one answer to this – to get the intent right. If I could be constantly aware of my intent and ensure that it remained pure, the actions that would emanate from it would be largely correct.

That is how a Haj, and any pilgrimage, which purifies your intent, has the ability to transform you.

The final ritual that remained before we undertook the trip back home was the tawaaf-ul-vida, the farewell circumambulation of the Kaaba. The transfer of pilgrims from Mecca to Medina had not yet started and Masjid-al-Haram was overflowing with people. The biggest anxiety you have as you take the seven rounds of that holy structure for one last time is that you don’t miss out on any dua, any prayer for self or for any person you know.  For you will never get this opportunity for a long time again.

As we finished the obligatory namaaz on completion of the tawaaf and stood for one last time in the physical presence of the Kaaba, I tried to keep my eyes open without blinking for as long as I can, with a childlike desire to capture that black stone structure in my eyes forever so that from tomorrow when I raise my hands to my ears at the start of a namaaz with the statement ‘…and my face towards the Kaaba’ I can picture the actual Kaaba in front of me like I would in Masjid-al-Haram.

The incessantly moving crowd didn’t allow the occasion to stand at still and take in all the glory for the one last time. There were other lovers, pilgrims who had come at later dates and needed their time with the beloved, like we had in the beginning. It was for us to say a quick good-bye and let them indulge in the privilege.

I quickly turned around and traced my steps back towards the exit not turning around to look again one last time as I had initially thought. The final adieu wasn’t emotional or sad, it was strangely fulfilling and complete, like the closing of a much worked upon task, like the finishing of an assiduously read book.

It was the last namaaz in a local mosque in Azizia before starting on our return journey which was far more sad and painful.

We had to leave before mid-night for Jeddah to catch an early morning flight back to Mumbai. Dinner was going to be served after namaaz-e-isha (the last of the five mandatory namaaz to be offered every day) and loading of luggage would start immediately afterwards. Hence the instructions were to quickly return from the prayers and finish the supper as early as possible so that things could be wound up in time.

As I raised my hands for the last time in the namaaz, the body felt heavy and leaden and every action seemed like an effort. And when I bowed for the last time in sajda (supplication) I didn’t want to get up, to distance the forehead from that holy land, to lose contact. And I cried and cried from the pain of partition not praying for anyone or anything just wanting to sit there and feel the presence, to capture forever the essence of having been to the holiest of all places for a Muslim.

After what seemed like a long time, when the mosque was all but deserted and the keeper had switched off most lights and when it seemed too late for the dinner I got up and left quietly.

It was my last namaaz at Mecca till destiny will take me back again.

[In the next episode we will see what it takes to put the theory at work, what happens when as they say 'the rubber meets the road'.]