Listen to the audio version of this article featuring audio extracts of the poems mentioned in the text: Podcast Ep 32 KHAYAL DIARIES | Divine Love & Sufi Poetry of Punjab by Abduallah Sattar
The experience of wonder is a beautifully inexplicable phenomenon. Wonder arrests us in a way that no other emotion truly can. What is the secret behind the veil of wonder? Why do grown men and women – intellectually sound and emotionally grounded – seem to drown in this ecstasy?
It is because wonder, though finite itself, ultimately points to the infinite.
I grew up in Rawalpindi in the Punjab. Punjab, (literally ‘Five Rivers’) has been a cultivating ground of Divine devotion for over a 1000 years. Muslim sufis have traversed the land and promulgated the message of Divine Oneness for centuries. Some, like Alī al-Hujwīrī (d. 1072 CE/464 AH) are famously known for writing multiple treatises on tasawwuf, purification of the heart.
The Sufis preached ‘Ishq, above all else as the summation of Divine Reality. Ishq is derived from the root word ʿašaq, which means to ‘cleave onto’ or ‘cling to.’ It sheds light on the state of the ‘āshiq, the one who has drowned in the sea of Ishq. The sufis did just that; they clung on to the path of Allah and His Beloved ﷺ. Indeed, the patron saint of Kasur and the son of Punjab, Bulleh Shah said:
“Tariqat is my mother,
Shariat is my foster-mother-
This is how I have known truth”
It would be difficult to capture the full impact Sufi saints and poets have had on the Punjab, or the Indian Subcontinent at large, in a short article such as this, but to say that they fundamentally changed the spiritual landscape of the region, would not be an overstatement.
Sufi poets were able to bring the love of God and the Prophet ﷺto the hearts and homes of thousands of devotees. Punjab is an agrarian land, with an oral culture of folklore. The Sufis were able to synthesize the deep philosophical messages of Islam with mystic poetry and present these concepts to the masses in a way that resonated with them. Folklore and symbolism were key. Take for instance the ethereally poetic tales of Heer-Ranjha or Sohni-Mahiwal. Exoterically, these fables were about temporal love between two lovers (Ishq-e-Majazi). Esoterically, however, they spoke of deeper realities: Divine Love (Ishq-e-Haqiqi).
Punjabi Sufi poetry often extolled the virtues of finding a guide, a Shaykh – to ensure that one does not drown in the currents of the dunya. The story of Sohni-Mahiwal is actually an allegorical account of the dangers of not finding a guide and/or clinging to the path.
It goes like this: Sohni and her beloved, Mahiwal, were separated physically, with the river Chenab cutting through them and acting as a cruel barrier. Sohni would use a clay pot (garha) as a boat to cross the river and get to the other side. One day, certain acquaintances of Sohni replaced her baked clay pot with an unbaked one – out of pure envy. She subsequently drowned and died in the deep currents of the Chenab, her love forever etched on vessels of Punjab’s heart.
The symbolism is explicit; Sohni is the seeker, her beloved is The Beloved (God) and the treacherous, tumultuous river is the dunya. The pot symbolizes the Law, the Path and the Shaykh- the conduit. One cannot expect to cross the river of deception with a weak conduit.
Sohni laments to the pot: “how could you betray me like this?” and the pot replies:
“Main garha, main khur jana, meinoun hath na lawaein-
Pharh palra Pakkay Murshid da, jerha tenoun paar langaway.”
“I am but a pot, unbaked and fragile, do not dare to touch me!
Grab onto a true Shaykh, one that shall help you cross.“
Many other Sufi shayukh (scholars) of Punjab emphasized this point. Sultan Bahu (d. 1691 CE) a Qadiri sufi saint from southern Punjab is famously known to have penned the following lines:
“The guide planted the seed of God’s love within me
He watered my veins with negation and affirmation
Blossoming, the plant of His love spread its fragrance through me
Long live my perfect guide, Bahu, who has planted this within me.”
Here, Sultan Bahu is referring to his Shaykh and how he helped foster the love of Allah within him. The negation and affirmation has to do with the Shahada: There is no god (negation) but God (affirmation). Such were the ways of these mystics, by which they spread the beauty of God’s message.
Sufi poetry also adapted to the dialectal diversity of Punjab. Sultan Bahu’s poetry has Seraiki influences- a dialect of Punjabi spoken in south Punjab. Others, such as Mian Muhammad Baksh (d. 1907 CE) were influenced by the Pahari/Potoharidialect of northern Punjab and Kashmir. The dialect diversified, yet the message remained the same: Ishq.
Mian Muhammad Baksh penned a famous poem, Saif-ul-Maluk. The gripping beauty of this poem cannot be done justice in this short essay, however I must quote one of my favorite lines:
“Ik gunah mera maa-pe waikhan
dewan des Nikalan
lakh gunah mera Allah waikhay
parday pawan aala.”
“A single sin of mine, do my parents witness
and they exile me from my lands
a thousand sins does my Allah witness
the Veiler of all sins.”
It is no wonder that to this day these four simple lines move the masses to tears. The power of the words in Punjabi is not only related to the content; the tonality, the delivery and the sentiment tug at the most rusty strings of the heart.
Growing up in a Sufi household, I was no stranger to the world of poetic expressions of Divine love. My maternal village in central Punjab is the resting place of my great-great grandfather who was a sufi shaykh in pre-Partition India. I always frequented the Samaa’ sessions in my early years. Samaa is derived from the word ’istimā which means ‘to listen.’ In South Asia it usually involves a group of devoted performers who sing devotional poetry, celebrating the love of Allah, His Messenger ﷺ, the Sahaba, and the Awliya– the saints.
These invoked in me that deep spiritual longing. That Ishq. That Wonder.
I moved away from Pakistan to attend university. I returned after four years for a short visit. As expected, being back brought with it a kaleidoscope of emotions. However, what I truly craved (and had craved during those four long years away) was that feeling of wonder. I wished once again to become that young child I once was – who had surrendered his mind, heart and soul to Divine Love.
I knew just the way to do this.
Islamabad is a beautiful city. Nestled right at the foothills of the magnificent Himalayas, it is a quiet town- bureaucratic, urban and serene. It might be the last place one looks at for spiritual sustenance.
Right at its outskirts however, in a small town called Golra, there is a mosque. This mosque is adjacent to the shrine of Pir Meher Ali Shah, a sufi mystic from late 19th century India. He was a Shaykh of the Chishti tariqah (founded by Khawaja Moinuddin Chishti). Pir Meher Ali Shah was not only a mystic, he was also a great poet. In one of his ecstatic spiritual states, he penned the following ethereal couplet, as an ode to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ:
“Aj sik mitraan dee vadheri ay
kyoon dilri udaas ghaneri ay
loon loon vich shawq changeri ay
aj nainaan laiyaan kyon jhariyaan!“
“Why is the yearning for the Beloved ﷺ especially strong today?
Why is my heart sadder today than ever before?
Why does longing penetrate every tissue of mine?
And why are the eyes shedding tears like the rains of monsoon?“
“Subhan Allah! Maa ajmalaka
maa ahsanaka, maa akmalaka“
“Glory be to Allah! There is no one more beautiful than thee!
No one more excellent than thee, no one more perfect!“
“Kithay mihr ali kithay teri sanaa
gustaakh akheen kithay jaa ariyaan!“
“Who is (the humble) Meher Ali to chant thy praises;
How (presumptuous and) impudent his eyes are to aspire to the heights of thy love!“
One humid day, I paid a visit to the mosque in Golra. After reciting Fatiha for the soul of Pir Meher Ali Shah, I sat in the courtyard of the shrine with the warm marble beneath me and a cool breeze brushing through my hair. I saw children playing, elders praying and people captured in this state of wonder. A short while later, it was time for Maghrib prayers. As I assumed my position as part of the congregation and the Imam started the prayer, something beautifully bizarre happened. It started raining. Pouring. By the time the prayers had concluded, every worshipper was drenched. No one complained.
Ass we got up and went for cover, I heard a Punjabi voice from the crowd:
“Ae vi Rehmat houndi ae,”
“This (the Rain) is a blessing too!”
Moved by the experience, I left the shrine behind me to return home. With salawat on my lips I prayed for the soul of Pir Meher Ali Shah and all the Awliya of Allah- those who spread the message of Divine love throughout the Punjab and beyond; those who spread Wonder.
God have mercy on them all.
