Alternate reality

The one more comforting

I am a lawyer by profession. The very nature of my professional commitments entails interacting with people who are either in trouble with the law, or are embroiled in a dispute with fellow citizens. And more often than not, at stake is the life, liberty or the property of the individuals concerned. As a result, being a lawyer, especially in Pakistan, by its very definition, requires interacting with the ‘problems’ in our society. Most of the time, when the phone rings, at the other end is someone who wants to be “saved” from one thing or another. And over time, as a lawyer, it is easy to become convinced that the entire world is nothing but a collection of distressed people.

Thursday night, however, is my respite from this reality. Each Thursday, after the Isha prayers, I drive to a sanctum at the edge of the city. Leaving behind the murder trials, the kidnapping cases, the inheritance disputes, tax evasion claims and the defaulted bank loans, I drive out to the tomb of that 11th century Persian Sufi and scholar – Abul Hassan Ali Hajveri, or Daata Sahib. This final resting place of one of Islam’s greatest sufi saints, at the banks of the river Ravi, is more than simply a location on the map. It is a phenomenon. A sort of living and breathing sufi culture. A place that is 15 minutes, but a thousand lifetimes, away from the centre of the modern day metropolitan Lahore.

The tomb, known as Daata Darbar, is surrounded by several tiers of police security and barricading – almost as a stark reminder to every visitor that we live in troubled and explosive times, the reach of which extends to places of mysticism and peace. Entering the gate, one is greeted by a large and expansive marble-courtyard, resonating with verses of 12th century poetry. And just like that, by taking stepping into its domain, one seems to have left behind the humdrum of everyday modern life, into the realm of mystic inspiration.

The three-piece suits are suddenly replaced with muddy-green choghas. The Parada bags give way to worn-out tasbeehs. And the political lynching on the TV talk shows, disappear from the memory, making room for renditions of Saif-ul-Malook and Heer Waris Shah.

At the edge of the courtyard, on the far side, is the tomb of Daata Sb, flanked by devout followers and a heavy contingent of pigeons. You pay your respects there, and move further down towards the mosque built at the back. And this, for all intents and purposes, is where our everyday reality completes fades away.

Each Thursday, in the courtyard of this mosque behind the tomb (but still within the Daata Darbar complex), a group of ‘walis’ sit in what they call is a ‘mehfil’. More accurately, it is a ‘mehfil-e-zikr’. This is a group of ordinary people, who sit (for the most part, quietly) around a ‘peer’, and recite the name of Allah. In some parts of the courtyard, the mehfil and its zikr, is done out loud. But whatever the methods, the end goal – of achieving spiritual connection with the Creator – is the same.

Now I’ll be the first one to accept that I do not completely understand what this means. But, asking those who do, I have discovered that ‘zikr’ is the act of reciting Allah’s name, without actually saying it out. As explained by a sufi that I met at Data Daarbar, the idea is to sit quietly, and focus on the beating of the heart. And over time, you will realise that ‘dil zikr karta hai’.

If this sounds crazy to you, I understand. Initially, I did not believe it myself. The modern education and learning has taught us that such belief is a logical fallacy. But I have now come to discover that conceptions of the modern world stop at the shore of the spiritual domain. This is a function of faith, not logic. Much like the splitting of the moon, or that of the Red Sea.

Those who have joined in for the ‘zikr’ seem lost to the world, in a sort of trance that no drug or substance abuse could ever bring on. I have never experienced it myself, despite trying. When I inquired as to why I do not feel the trance, I was told that purification of the heart takes meditation, and time.

After a few hours in this alternate reality, I usually leave from the same gate that I entered from. And next to that gate, each Thursday, I see the same (old) braided-hair man sitting, staring intently at the Darbar. After the first few visits, I decided to approach this man and ask him why he sits there each week. And, reluctantly, he told me that he had been coming to Daata Darbar every Thursday for the past 54 years. He claimed to have never missed any Thursday, regardless of the weather, or how sick or unwell he may have been over the years. In conversation, I asked him what time he leaves from there. The old man paused for a moment, smiled, and said, “jab Daata keh dein chaley jao”.

Leaving Daata Darbar, each Thursday night, I get back into my air-conditioned automatic car, and drive home. On the drive back, before the everyday routine starts again from the following morning, I wonder – is Daata Durbar the alternate reality, or is it the one we are living in?

The writer is a lawyer based in Lahore. He has a Masters in Constitutional Law from Harvard Law School. He can be reached at: [email protected]