Memories (Episode 4-B)

An English translation of “Yadein”, the autobiography of Hadhrat Mawlana Mufti Muhammad Taqi Usmani (dāmat barakātuhum), Vice President, Darul Uloom Karachi. Translation by Kaiser Nizamani.

Poetry and literature were very popular in our house. The compilation of my respected father’s (may Allah have mercy on him) poems has already been published in his “Kashkol”. My elder brother [Mawlana Muhammad Zaki Kaifi (may Allah have mercy on him)] was a recognized poet, and due to him, many poets would frequent our home. My two elder sisters, despite the fact that they never attended any school or madrasa, and their entire education was limited to what they learnt at home, possessed a very refined literary taste and would sometimes compose their own poems as well. Growing up in such an environment, I had already memorized several poems in those early years of my childhood. I would recite them in my lisping tongue and my family members would enjoy listening to them in my amusing accent. This was a period when Hindu-Muslim clashes had flared up in various parts of India. When one such clash took place in Garhmukteshwar, a poet of that area described this clash in a very heart-rending poem. I had memorized the following verses of that poem at that time, and still remember them:

کیا کیا ہوا موجودہ حکومت کے سہارے!
گنگا کے کنارے!
گھر جلتے تھے، اڑتے تھے ہواؤں میں شرارے
گنگا کے کنارے!
بوسے جنہیں ماں باپ دیا کرتے تھے سو بار
کرتے تھے جنہیں پیار!
کفار نے نیزے اُنہی رخساروں پہ مارے!
گنگا کے کنارے!

Translation:

What unfolded with the support of the current government,
On the banks of the Ganges!
Houses burned, sparks swirled in the air,
On the banks of the Ganges!
The little ones, whom parents would kiss a hundred times,
Whom they cherished!
The disbelievers drove spears into those very cheeks!
On the banks of the Ganges!

The youngest of the sisters, who is older than four brothers, and whom we used to call Chhoti Āpā, and with the grace of Allah Most High, is still alive, once recited this poem to me in a melodious tone. I liked it so much that I would not go to sleep until I had listened to it from her. She would thus recite this poem to me as a lullaby. Many years later, I composed a poem addressing her. The opening verse of that poem is as follows:

جھوٹی آپا! مری اس نظم کا عنواں تم ہو
تم ہو اس بزم کی تزیین کا ساماں تم ہو

Chhoti Aapa! You are the title of this poem of mine, you are
You are the grace that beautifies this assembly, you are

The last verse of this poem alludes to the lullaby:

لوریوں میں بھی مجھے درس دۓ ہیں تم نے
ہاں مری بہن، مری دوست، مری ماں تم ہو

You have taught me lessons even in lullabies
You are my sister, my friend, my mother, you are

Besides this, as the movement for the creation of Pakistan gained momentum in our town, the poets composed emotionally charged poems. Whenever I heard such a poem, I would repeat it in my lisping pronunciation, twisting and changing its words. The following poem of Mawlana Aamir Usmani (may Allah have mercy on him) was one such poem which was well-liked and gained much popularity at that time:

یا رنج و بلا کاخوف نہ کر، یا نام نہ لے آزادی کا!
گر دار و رسن کی تاب نہیں، الزام نہ لے آزادی کا

Either don’t fear pain and anguish or stop dreaming of freedom!
If you cannot bear the gallows, then do not blame freedom

The following was another one of his poems:

اگر لینی ہے آزادی تو مسلم لیگ میں آؤ
اخوت کا عَلم  لیکر جہانِ   کفر پر   چھاؤ

If you want to achieve freedom, come to Muslim League
Carrying the banner of brotherhood, overpower the world of disbelief

I would repeat such poems in my lisping pronunciation, not comprehending their meanings and often distorting their words, and my family members would entertain themselves with my recitation.

This was a time when the Independence Movement was at its peak across India, and demand for the establishment of Pakistan among Muslims was gaining momentum. To this end, rallies would often pass through the small road on the eastern side of our house. Since the participants of those rallies would mostly chant “Zindabad” (“long live”) for someone, whenever I heard the noise of a rally in the distance, I would inform my family members in my lisping utterance: “Jindabad are coming” (Zindabad are coming). Over time, I had memorized various chants and slogans of these rallies, such as: “We will take the bullet on our chest; we will make Pakistan”. My lisping rendition of these chants never failed to amuse my family members.

Aunt Amat al-Hannan’s Home School

In our neighbourhood, close to the previously mentioned Chowk, stood the house of an elderly lady from our extended family named Amat al-Hannan. We used to call her “aunt” as she was a cousin sister of my respected father (may Allah have mercy on him). Her house was not merely a house; it functioned as a school in which children of our extended family as well as others from far and wide would gather, and in which generations of families had received their elementary education. Officially, she used to teach the recitation of the Qur’an to girls and very small boys. However, in reality, she would teach girls everything they needed to know even for life after marriage through Bahishti Zewar. And this was not limited to mere theoretical knowledge, rather she would make sure the students put into practice what they learned. This was her main pursuit and passion, through which she instilled essential human morals and ethics in hundreds of boys and girls. From our eldest sister to myself, each one of us had studied under her.

I was not yet old enough to formally enroll in this school, but my parents would informally send me there with the Qā’idah Baghdādī; and so I began learning the Qā’idah Baghdādī in that home-based school, where respected Amat al-Hannan (may Allah have mercy on her) would diligently carry out her duties of teaching and nurturing the children in her resonant voice.

I recall all these memories, along with many others that would perhaps not be of interest or benefit to the readers. How old was I back then? I cannot say with certainty, but it was definitely less than four-and-a-half years because we had migrated from Deoband to Pakistan before I reached five. However, I do remember the marriage of my eldest brother respected Muhammad Zaki Kaifi (may Allah have mercy on him) which took place in 1946. I was certainly three years of age at that time. It follows then that all these recollections certainly took place when I was between the ages of three and four-and-a-half years. It astonishes me that today, I sometimes cannot recall events from just yesterday, while I remember these memories from that early age as if I am seeing them right now. This just shows how enduring and indelible childhood memories are. It is precisely for this reason that we are advised to do good actions in the presence of children and not to think: “These matters are beyond the comprehension of these innocently unaware children; what harm can come from doing them in front of them?”

On the other hand, it remains a source of regret in my heart that Deoband, even at that time, was home to eminent scholars and awliya of Allah. Yet, due to my young age, I have no recollection of visiting any of them. I do recall visiting Thana Bhawan with my parents one time, and this was my first journey by train as far as I can remember. However, at that time, I had no understanding of the significance of Thana Bhawan or the purpose behind our visit. Nevertheless, the other most beloved teacher of my respected father and guide after the passing of Hadhrat Hakīm al-Ummah (may Allah have mercy on him), Hadhrat Mawlana Sayyid Asghar Husain (may Allah have mercy on him) (who was famously known as Hadhrat Miyan Sahib) was alive at that time. And it is likely that my respected father would have had my Taḥnīk[1] performed by him. Sadly, I cannot recall seeing him, but I later saw him in a dream, and when I described his appearance to my older siblings, they confirmed that this was indeed how Hadhrat looked like. Similarly, great scholars such as Shaykh al-Islam Hadhrat Mawlana Sayyid Husain Ahmad Madani and Shaykh al-Adab Hadhrat Mawlana I’izāz Ali (may Allah have mercy on them both) resided in Deoband, but I could not attain the honour of meeting them due to my young age.

It was during those days, on the 27^th of Ramadan 1366 AH, corresponding to 14 August 1947, on the blessed night of the final Friday of Ramadan, that Pakistan was created. I was eight days short of turning four years old. I cannot recall events of that particular day, but since discussions about the creation of Pakistan were frequent in our household during those days, my childhood mind had imagined the construction of a colossal edifice, having a vast hall with a picture of the moon and stars drawn on its wall.

As soon as Pakistan came into existence, Hindu-Muslim riots erupted in various parts of the country. In East Punjab, a horrific wave of atrocities perpetrated by Sikhs against Muslims began. Since Saharanpur, which is a district of Uttar Pradesh (U.P.) of which Deoband is a town, was right next to East Punjab, there was a sizable Sikh population inhabiting this area. Their brutality had extended to our district as well, and they also enjoyed the support of Hindus. Their rallies chanting chauvinistic slogans would pass near our house. Since there was a Hindu population extending till far on the eastern side of our neighbourhood, known as Hindu Wara, we would hear rumours every night of potential attacks by Sikhs or Hindus. In view of this danger, young men from the area would take turns guarding various checkpoints in the neighbourhood. Due to these circumstances, my childhood mind had developed a fierce image especially of Sikhs, and the idea had become infused in my four-year-old mind that Sikhs are some dangerous beings. One night, upset with some action of my family members, I decided to socially boycott them by lying down in a corner near the eastern door of our house. From my point of view, this corner was dangerous for two reasons. Firstly, firewood would be stored there from which scorpions would sometimes emerge. Secondly, the door of our house that opened to the road leading to Hindu Wara, from where Sikh rallies would sometimes pass, was located at this corner, and the greatest threat of attack from them was from this direction. In spite of this, I, from my point of view, was taking on these two great dangers to highlight to my family members that something they had done was so intolerable that it had motivated me to stage such a serious and potentially perilous protest. Thus, when my siblings would take turns attempting to appease me and take me back home, I would respond with only one answer, which in my lisping tongue was: “Even if Sikhs come or a scorpion bites, I will not move an inch from here”[2]. Ultimately, when none of my siblings succeeded in ending this unyielding protest of mine, my respected father (may Allah have mercy on him) had to step in. He came, took me in his arms, kissed me and carried me back home. And apparently, my demands were acceded to thereafter.

(…to be continued)

[1] Translator: Tahnīk is the practice of a pious person chewing something sweet (preferably a date) until it becomes soft and suitable for a newborn to consume. It is then placed in the mouth of the newborn, mixed with a small amount of the pious person’s saliva.
[2] Translator: The sentence was said with a lisp in Urdu which cannot be captured in the translation