Memories (Episode 16-b)

In this far-flung location, the idea of a regular electricity connection was out of the question. But may Allah shower His mercies upon Hadhrat Mawlana Nur Ahmad. In the early days, he somehow managed to procure a small generator and had it installed there. It was such a generator that, when it ran, the bulbs would flicker—the brightness constantly shifting between dim and bright every moment. However, the generator’s din remained perfectly steady. In that wilderness, the generator was considered a great blessing, and its true value was realized when, only a few weeks later, it reached the end of its natural life and became irreparable. And the wilderness returned to its original state.

We had a lantern in our room, for which kerosene oil would be obtained by queuing up. The responsibility of cleaning its glass chimney and replacing its old wick after it had burned out was assigned to me. We would sit around this lantern and study. When my brother and I ended up in separate takrar (revision) groups, we acquired another lantern. We would each take our lantern to the classroom and revise our lessons there. However, in the mosque, a large gas lamp would be lit, and students would gather around it. In this way, the need for light during study and takrar was fulfilled collectively.

In the morning, each student would receive one roti from the kitchen for breakfast, and we had to heat the tea or milk ourselves. We had given up tea and instead ate the roti with milk. Even buffalo milk was not available. Cow’s milk had to be brought from a village a kilometre away. Either the late Hakim Musharraf Husayn or I would carry out this service of bringing the milk. It took quite a while to become accustomed to its taste. For heating the milk at breakfast or during lunch and dinner, there was an old kerosene oil stove. The burner of this stove would frequently stop working, and considerable effort was required to get it to light.

The geographic location of the madrasa was such that toward the west, for miles, there was nothing but desert, and in that direction—up to the sea—there was neither any settlement, nor any building, nor any tree. While there were some wild shrubs among the sand dunes, they too were covered in sand. Since the direction of the wind in the madrasa was generally from the west, it would, even under normal circumstances, bring particles of sand along with it. But in the summer, at times, sandstorms would blow that would continue for several days, during which nothing could be seen beyond a yard, and a thick layer of sand would settle on everything in the room—even on the bedding.

To the south as well, for about a mile, there was desert—but here and there, rows of wild trees could be seen. And after a mile of forest, the settlement of Landhi Colony Number Six began, which at that time was only just beginning to be populated.

But toward the east of the madrasa, after walking some distance, there was a date orchard, and beyond that as well, a series of gardens stretched far into the distance. To the north as well, after crossing a desert, fields and orchards began. And to the northeast was the village known as Sharafi Goth. It began with a small, thatched-roof restaurant, which was known by the name of its owner as “Shidal Hotel.” After that were a few houses, among which was the well from which our water used to come.

The usual method of getting to Dar al-ʿUlum from the city was to take Bus Number 47 from Lea Market. This bus would reach Landhi via Drigh Road and Malir, and after passing through the entire Landhi Colony, would drop passengers at Landhi Number Six. This bus also passed by Lasbela House, but it stopped at many different stops, and in the end would halt for quite a long time at Malir. As such, traveling by it to reach Landhi Number Six would take two to three hours. From there, our approximately one-and-a-half-mile walk would begin, during which we would have to pass through the southern forest of the madrasa. In this way, it was not unusual for it to take three to four hours to reach the madrasa. And if it started to rain while passing through the forest, there was no place to take shelter. It so happened once that as we were walking through this forest, rain came down, and we were soaked from head to toe. Not only were the clothes we were wearing completely drenched, but even the clothes in our bags, which we had brought for the coming week, were soaked through as well. May Allah Most High shower His mercies upon Hadhrat Mawlana Shams al-Haq—he saw us from the rear window of his domed room, soaked as we were, and called us inside his room and arranged some dry clothes for us temporarily.

The second way to reach Sharafi Goth was that twice a day, Bus Number 52 would depart from Lea Market. It would go via Kala Pull and Korangi Road to Chakra Goth (where Korangi Number One is located nowadays), and from there it would take a dirt road and drop passengers right inside Sharafi Goth. If ever we managed to catch this bus, it was nothing short of an unexpected blessing, because it would take less time and involve much less walking. But to board it, it was necessary to reach Lea Market at a fixed time. If the specific time of reaching Lea Market was missed, the bus would depart, and then the same Bus Number 47 would become the inevitable option, and the journey would become even longer.

After arriving at Dar al-ʿUlum, our connection with the entire city would be completely cut off, because there was no telephone anywhere nearby. Just two or three days after we had arrived, Hakim Musharraf Husayn (may Allah have mercy on him) was afflicted with influenza. The fever was so high that he lost awareness. There was no reliable medical treatment available nearby. Therefore, it was decided to inform his family and send him home. But there was no way to inform the household. Finally, Bhai Sahib (Hadhrat Mufti Muhammad Rafiʿ[1], Allah grant him a long life) borrowed a bicycle, had me sit behind him, and cycling through the wilderness, reached a police station near Babar Market and called home. Then a vehicle was called from there, and he was sent home.

Mawlana Abdur Rahman Faizabadi (may Allah have mercy on him) was in the class one year senior to us, and was supposed to be part of the Dawrat al-Hadith class that year. However, Hadhrat Mawlana Nur Ahmad (may Allah have mercy on him) had sent him here from the time when no one lived here except a watchman and some goats. Furthermore, he entrusted all kinds of administrative duties to him and also got him married to a Burmese lady. May Allah Most High bestow His special grace upon both husband and wife. During that extremely difficult phase of Dar al-ʿUlum, they took upon themselves such services of the entire Dar al-ʿUlum that only a true homemaker could perform. From supervising the construction to fulfilling every kind of need of the students and teachers, they took care of everything. Whenever anyone faced any problem, they would turn to none other than Mawlana Abdur Rahman (may Allah have mercy on him). His only assistant was a watchman whose real name—we discovered much later—was Abdul Aziz, but everyone used to call him “Lala.” He was a cheerful Pathan and had friendly relations with all the students. He had a habit of speaking very fast, but he would guard even the smallest belonging of Dar al-ʿUlum just as a homeowner guards her home.

When we initially arrived here, Mawlana Abdur Rahman (may Allah have mercy on him) sensed that since we were accustomed to home-cooked food, we might not be able to cope with the madrasa’s kitchen meals. Therefore, with his wife’s consent, he proposed to our respected father (may Allah have mercy on him) that our meals be prepared in his home. Our respected father (may Allah have mercy on him) accepted the offer on the condition that he would bear the expenses himself. Thus, may Allah Most High grant both husband and wife the best of rewards, for some time our food came from their home. However, despite their sincerity, taking this service from them on a continuous basis weighed on our hearts. Therefore, after some time, our respected father (may Allah have mercy on him) discontinued this arrangement and said to us: “Alhamdulillah, I can afford to hire a cook and have your meals prepared separately. But my heart wishes that you eat the same food that the other students eat, so that you may attain the true taste of student life and its blessings.” We accepted this change gladly and began buying food from the madrasa’s kitchen.

At that time, the kitchen was a garage-like room located to the southeast of Dar al-ʿUlum. It had no door, and the roof was made of tin sheets. To its north was a clay oven (tandur), and right beside it were one or two stoves on which firewood or coal would be burned to cook the curry. The daily menu was such that every afternoon chana dal (split chickpeas) was cooked, and every evening a watery curry. But such was the skill of Mahmud the cook that from that very thin curry would rise such a rich, earthy aroma that still lingers in my mind to this day. Since the kitchen had no door, it was common for sand blown from outside to mix into the roti, or the dal, or the curry. Respected Mawlana Mujibur Rahman Momin Shahi (may Allah preserve him), who now resides in Dhaka, was the manager of the kitchen. May Allah Most High grant him success in both worlds. He used to manage the kitchen with great frugality and, in those days—when obtaining essential items in this remote desert was an extremely difficult task—he would fulfil his responsibilities with great diligence. However, of course, he could neither control the sand-laden winds, nor could he prepare meals beyond the budget.

Our respected mother (may Allah have mercy on her) used to send us some ghee every week. The benefit of this was that we would fry our roti in it for breakfast, and for as long as it lasted, we would add ghee to the chana dal at lunch. Hadhrat Mawlana Shams al-Haq (may Allah have mercy on him), who was young at the time and lived in the room adjacent to ours, once taught us this trick: break the roti into small pieces, fry them in ghee, and then put them into the dal and heat it—this would make it twice as delicious. So whenever we had the opportunity to prepare it, this would be our special, high-class meal. And when we happened to visit the green chili fields, we would, with the owner’s permission, pick a few fresh chilies and add them to the dal to add flavour to it.

After having lived a royal lifestyle at home, adapting ourselves to this wilderness and detaching from the luxurious urban environment to live in a hard-working rural setting was nothing short of a mujahada (spiritual struggle) for us. I was around fourteen years old at the time, and before this, I had never had to live away from my large, bustling household of parents and siblings. That is why, in the beginning, there were days when I would secretly cry. But Allah Most High has created human nature in such a way that when a person firmly resolves to endure hardship, it gradually becomes a habit, and the hardship itself lessens. It was clear to us that in order to improve our studies, we had to endure this hardship at any cost. So we mentally prepared ourselves fully. Gradually, we integrated ourselves into this environment to such an extent that we began to find new paths of comfort and enjoyment within it. And at least in my own case, I can say this without fear of contradiction: that though I remain ignorant even today, had I not undergone those few hardships at that time, I would certainly have been far more ignorant than I am now.

We spent the first few months in that same Room Number 16 of the student hostel. Later, one of the supporters of Dar al-ʿUlum, the late Haji Kabir al-Din, who was a businessman from East Pakistan, had a small two-room house constructed near the classrooms and donated it to Dar al-ʿUlum. His intention was also that whenever he came to Karachi, he could stay there. It was he who offered us to move into one of those rooms. Accordingly, we moved there. This small house was isolated from all other buildings. During the day, because it was near the classrooms, the sense of isolation was not felt much—but at night, deep silence would envelop the surroundings. However, on its northern side there was a dirt path, along which a camel cart would occasionally pass, and the sound of the bells tied around the camel’s neck would sometimes be heard. Apart from that, especially on cold winter nights, jackals would besiege our house, and their howling would continue for long periods. Still, the house was relatively spacious, so it was more comfortable. And the greatest convenience was that it had a private bathroom located just outside the rooms, so we did not need to use the shared bathrooms. Later, when our paternal cousin, respected Mawlana Khurshid ʿAlam (may Allah have mercy on him), graduated from Deoband and was appointed as a teacher here, one of the rooms was given to him. During the day it would serve as his classroom, and during other times as his residence. And in the other room, the two of us brothers along with Mawlana Ḥakim Musharraf Ḥusayn (may Allah have mercy on him) resided. Since the house was close to the classrooms, a number of teachers would sometimes come by to rest there between lessons.

In rural life, alongside certain hardships, there are also some advantages that are not attainable in city life. As I have mentioned earlier, the location of Dar al-ʿUlum was such that to its west, up to the sea, lay a bleak and barren desert. But to its east, there was a vast and dense palm grove, and beyond it a large and beautiful orchard of various fruits, in which sapodilla, guava, lemon, and other trees were planted in a well-ordered fashion. This was known as the garden of Pir Bakhsh. In addition, to the north of Dar al-ʿUlum, for nearly a kilometre, there were fields of chilies and various vegetables, behind which was Sharafi Goth. And beyond the Goth was a government-run farm for breeding bulls, which is still known as Cattle Farm. There, high-breed bulls were raised and bred, and various scientific experiments were also conducted. This Cattle Farm had a vast area of land, and on its southern side were flourishing fields of animal fodder, stretching across many miles, extending all the way to the area where Shah Faisal Colony is now situated. Such natural sights were not to be found in city life. Thus, after a full day of study, we would relish the enjoyment of these sceneries in various ways after ʿAsr prayer.

I have mentioned my nephew Hakim Musharraf Husayn (may Allah have mercy on him) several times. He was two years older than me, but I was his maternal uncle and a year ahead of him in studies. In this way, our difference of age and relationship balanced each other out, and as a result, he was my only friend who had been with me in everything—from childhood games and recreation to madrasa life. After ʿAsr, the two of us would leave the madrasa and head first to the Goth, where there was a thatched-hut-style restaurant known as “Shidal Hotel,” named after its owner Shidal. We would have tea there, and then go off into the fields and orchards. The guavas in those orchards were especially fragrant and delicious, and the orchard owners would allow us to pluck and eat them ourselves for eight annas per kilogram. Where could such enjoyment be found in the city? After spending this post-ʿAsr time in those verdant fields, we would return to the madrasa, light the lantern, and study the next day’s lessons until ʿIshaʾ without any interruptions. After ʿIshaʾ, we would heat up the food we had purchased from the madrasa kitchen, using a stove. It was usually a thin curry, so thin it was almost like water—which had the advantage that if it spilled onto our clothes (as it often did with me), the stain could be washed out with little difficulty. With hunger gnawing at us, we had grown to enjoy this curry along with tanduri nan bought before ʿAsr. Soon after, it would be time for takrar, which would continue under the glow of the lantern late into the night.

When we first arrived at Dar al-ʿUlum, our classmates formed a volleyball team. We would play after ʿAsr, and Hadhrat Mawlana Shams al-Haq and Hadhrat Mawlana Khurshid ʿAlam (may Allah have mercy on them both) would also join the students. Hadhrat Mufti Rashid Ahmad (may Allah have mercy on him) said, “If you were to play Banot instead of volleyball, then I will also join you.”

“Banot” was a sport played with sticks that involved the impressive display of skill in wielding a stick and using it to fend off an opponent. A person skilled in Banot and trained in the art of stick-fighting could, single-handedly, take on even a large crowd. This sport was taught at Dar al-ʿUlum Deoband, where official instructors were appointed for it. Hadhrat Mufti Sahib (may Allah have mercy on him) had learnt this art there, and all four of my elder brothers had also practiced it during their time at Deoband. Our elder brother, respected Muhammad Zaki Kaifi (may Allah have mercy on him), was even considered a fairly accomplished expert in it. Thus, on Hadhrat’s encouragement, we also practiced Banot for some time after ʿAsr.

While living in Nanakwarah, we had also received training in civil defence and basic first aid. As a result, we had developed a desire to undertake formal military training as well. When we presented this request to our respected father (may Allah have mercy on him), he arranged for the services of a retired military instructor. To the best of my recollection, this training began on 10 August 1958, after ʿAsr. He started by teaching us how to march in parade, and then conducted practical training in various techniques for subduing an enemy. He taught us how to scale buildings and walls — including while carrying an injured person over the shoulder. Toward the end, we were trained in the use of mock rifles as well. However, this training continued only for a short time before it came to an end.

That year, we were to study Mulla Hasan, Tasrih, and Siraji under Hadhrat Mawlana Mufti Rashid Ahmad (may Allah have mercy on him); Hidayah Akhirayn and Maybadhi under Hadhrat Mawlana Salimullah Khan (may Allah preserve him); Tawdih under Hadhrat Mawlana Akbar Ali (may Allah have mercy on him); Sharh ʿAqaʾid and Husun Ḥamidiyyah under Hadhrat Mawlana Qari Riʿayatullah (may Allah have mercy on him); and Diwan Hamasah under Hadhrat Mawlana Muhammad Idris Merathi (may Allah have mercy on him).

All of these respected teachers, MashaAllah, were such that each one surpassed the other in knowledge, virtue, and captivating teaching style. The beauty of their lessons brought charm even to this hardship-filled life of the desert.

I have already mentioned Hadhrat Mawlana Mufti Rashid Ahmad (may Allah have mercy on him) in Nuqush-e-Raftagan. In truth, we are deeply indebted to him. That year, we had three lessons with him: one was Mulla Hasan, the second Siraji, and the third Tasrih.

As I have already stated, I did not have much affinity with the books of logic (mantiq) that came after Sharh Tahdhib. But Hadhrat’s method of teaching was such that even those became interesting. Previously, I was not in the habit of preparing for the lessons of mantiq beforehand, but with Mulla Hasan, I began doing so — I would study it in advance, attend the class with interest, and revise the lesson afterwards. In this way, the weakness I used to feel in mantiq was largely remedied.

The second book was Siraji, a renowned work in the science of inheritance (ʿilm al-mirath). Hadhrat (may Allah have mercy on him) had himself written a book on inheritance titled Tashil al-Mirath, in which he had explained the rulings of inheritance in a simplified manner. He had also proposed a method for calculating the portions of inheritance based on arithmetic principles that differed from the classical method. Instead of teaching Siraji directly, Hadhrat began by teaching us the science of inheritance based on Tashil al-Mirath, and he had us practice extensively — to the point that we were able to solve lengthy and complex succession problems with ease. Later, studying Siraji became easy for us.

The third important lesson with Hadhrat was Tasrih. Along with his mastery of fiqh, Hadhrat also had particular expertise in astronomy and mathematics, and we greatly benefited from this during the lessons of Tasrih. Hadhrat even taught us, on his own initiative, a portion of Khulasat al-Hisab, and he also taught us how to use the astrolabe (asturlab), the sine quadrant (arbaʿah mujibah), and the graduated quadrant (arbaʿah muqantarah) (these were ancient instruments used in astronomy and geography). Tasrih discusses Ptolemaic astronomy, which Hadhrat would explain using a physical sphere, and along with that, he would also acquaint us with the modern Pythagorean theories and findings in astronomy.

The teacher of teachers, Hadhrat Mawlana Salimullah Khan (may Allah have mercy on him), was in the prime of his youth at the time. He was a student of Shaykh al-Islam Hadhrat Mawlana Husayn Ahmad Madani (may Allah have mercy on him), and after rendering many years of teaching service at my second Shaykh Hadhrat Mawlana Masihullah Khan’s (may Allah have mercy on him) madrasa, Miftah al-ʿUlum in Jalalabad, he had come to Pakistan with the intention of permanent settlement. That year, two of our books—Hidayah Akhirayn and Maybadhi—were assigned to him. As far as I recall, on the day that lessons commenced, our lesson of Maybadhi was scheduled with him in the evening, so our first class with him was Maybadhi. By nature, I never had much interest in mantiq (logic) and philosophy, and only studied the required books of mantiq. As for philosophy, this was the first and last book I ever studied. But may Allah Most High envelop him in His special mercy in both worlds—he taught the very first lesson with such brilliance that a deep affinity was formed with both the book and the teacher. Contrary to my earlier disposition, I studied Maybadhi the entire year with great dedication and interest. The second lesson we studied with him was Hidayah Akhirayn, and that too, by the grace of Allah, went excellently. Hadhrat (may Allah have mercy on him) had studied Hidayah Akhirayn under Shaykh al-Adab wa al-Fiqh Mawlana ʿIzaz ʿAli (may Allah have mercy on him), and for this reason, he had a great zeal for emulating his Shaykh in the classroom. Thus, he would always arrive on time for the first lesson in the morning and teach continuously for two hours, such that his cheerful face and captivating manner of speech would leave us so deeply engaged and uplifted that we would not feel any fatigue.

Our third teacher that year was Hadhrat Mawlana Akbar Ali (may Allah have mercy on him). He was a highly capable and well-liked teacher at Mazahir al-ʿUlum Saharanpur, one held especially dear by Shaykh al-Hadith Hadhrat Mawlana Muhammad Zakariyya (may Allah have mercy on him), and a regular attendee of the gatherings of Hakim al-Ummah Hadhrat Thanwi (may Allah have mercy on him). It was our good fortune that he chose to move to Pakistan and accepted the responsibility of teaching at Dar al-ʿUlum. A hallmark of his teaching style was his ability to explain even the most difficult topics with such clarity and simplicity that they did not place much strain on the student’s mind. His speech was so well-structured and captivating that if it were transcribed word for word, it could be published as an elegant composition with little to no editing. That year, the book assigned to him was Tawdih, on the principles of jurisprudence, and he taught it in such a simple way that we never even realized that it was supposed to be a difficult book. Later on, when I had to teach Tawdih myself, I came to realize that the book is not nearly as easy as we had once thought it to be. May Allah Almighty have boundless mercy on him.

That same year, it was our good fortune that there was yet another priceless addition to the faculty of Dar al-ʿUlum. Hadhrat Mawlana Muhammad Idris Merathi (may Allah have mercy on him) was, at the time, running an educational institute in Jacob Line under the name Idarah Sharqiyyah, where students were prepared for the exams in Eastern languages (such as Fadil al-ʿArabi, Fadil al-Farsi, Fadil al-Urdu, etc.). However, it was his wish to teach at a madrasa offering the Dars-e-Nizami curriculum. That year, he expressed his desire to teach some lessons at Dar al-ʿUlum without compensation.

As I have mentioned before, at that time, traveling from the city to the new Dar al-ʿUlum campus was quite an ordeal. Yet Hadhrat would make this great sacrifice daily, coming from the city to Landhi bus stop and then walking nearly a mile to reach the Dar al-ʿUlum. He was accustomed to tea and pan to the point of near-dependence, and as these things were difficult to obtain in that wilderness, he would bring along his own supply each day. That year, one of our texts, Diwan Hamasah, was assigned to him. The dedication with which he taught that book remains one of the most delightful memories of our student life. He would explain the poetry of Hamasah in such a manner that not only would the meanings of Arabic idioms and proverbs be clearly understood, but the entire tribal and cultural backdrop of the pre-Islamic era and the early days of Islam would come vividly alive before our eyes.

That year, the system of takrar (lesson review) was such that, instead of forming one large group, students were paired off in twos. Among our classmates, we developed a special bond with two Burmese students—primarily because they used to cook exceptionally delicious fish. They had invited us over once or twice, and we found their food so delicious that when some time had passed without it, we would ourselves request them to host us again.

One of them was Mawlana Muhibbullah (may Allah have mercy on him), and the other was Mawlana Mufti ʿAbdullah (may Allah preserve him), who is currently a teacher of the Dawrat al-Hadith class at Dar al-ʿUlum and also the supervisor of the Takhassus fi al-Iftaʾ (specialization in issuing legal verdicts). Mawlana Muhibbullah was paired with my elder brother, Hadhrat Mufti Muhammad Rafiʿ (may Allah preserve him), while Mufti ʿAbdullah had to put up with me.

Perhaps out of deference to me, he said, “You conduct the takrar,” and I accepted without any hesitation. After ʿIshaʾ, I would take a small, flickering lantern and go to the edge of an under-construction circular room situated between the classrooms. Mawlana would also come there, and I would conduct the review of all the books. From my experience with Burmese students, I always found that those among them who were intelligent and gifted were extraordinarily so. Mawlana (may Allah preserve him) would silently listen to my review sessions and never speak a word. May Allah forgive me—this led me to a mistaken assumption that perhaps he did not have full command over the lessons. One day, due to some reason, I could not attend the class of Maybadhi. That day’s topic was the discussion on “Burhan Sullami,” which was considered particularly challenging. I tried to understand it afterward through self-study, but I could not make sense of it. When the time for takrar came, I said to Mawlana ʿAbdullah: “I was not able to attend today’s class, and I could not understand this lesson well enough from self-study to conduct the takrar. So you do it today.” Because of his reserved nature and my mistaken impression, I feared he might excuse himself or feel hesitant. But to my pleasant surprise, Mawlana immediately agreed. And when he conducted the takrar, his brilliance fully came to light. He explained that fairly complex topic in such a clear and captivating manner that all the areas I had previously failed to grasp became completely clear to me. The happiness I felt that day from his review remains a vivid memory to this day. May Allah Most High protect him with ʿafiyah and grant him continual elevation in ranks. The affection that was established for him during those days of takrar has only continued to grow ever since. Along with his knowledge, I have always found his devotion to worship, his asceticism (zuhd), his piety (taqwa), and his lofty resolve to be deeply admirable.

A reflection of that determination is that he memorized the Noble Qurʾan during the very same year in which he was studying Dawrat al-Ḥadith. Even now, he is not only a teacher of hadith at Dar al-ʿUlum, but is also among the most esteemed members of the Dar al-Iftaʾ. The responsibility for overseeing the takhassus program lies with him.

And so, our academic year came to a close. My marks in the annual examination were as follows: