The Shahada

We are back outside the gates of the dargah.  Karen is armed with a bag of samosas and another of bananas, determined this time to successfully feed the beggars.  Whether it is because she is inwardly prepared this time and therefore more circumspect or whether it is just the phase of the moon, she is more successful. This time, people politely wait to be offered food and when there is no more, neither are there any more people in line.

Once again, we have to ask directions to Ali Moosa's house in this Arabian Nights labyrinth of streets and alleyways, even though we were here only yesterday. We are welcomed this time by Ali Moosa, his wife Margaret and a visiting cousin, Meena, who is just about Karen's age.  They hit it off like soul sisters, unabashedly declaring their undying love for one another and exchanging spontaneous gifts of jewelry.

Meena places a moonstone ring on Karen's finger and their eyes are wet with tears but she will not accept Karen's new Tibetan mala in exchange.  She hands them back with sweetness and gentleness saying "I love you."  There is such openness between them that I am awestruck at the beauty and natural innocence of their encounter. 

The women disappear into one of the back rooms and reappear soon after with Karen decked out in a full length burgundy sari, looking every inch like a close relative, even to the bindi on her forehead.  They are smiling from ear to ear and Karen is completely transformed, apparently from the inside out.  I barely recognize her, am astounded by her new beauty.

As promised, Ali Moosa conducts me into the small bedroom and then excuses himself for about fifteen minutes while I wait alone, wondering what to expect.  Before departing he asks if I have a "rosary" and I show him my Tibetan mala which he studies briefly and then hands back.  When he returns he gives me a thin prayer book written in Urdu and presents me with a tasbih, or string of Molsem beads made of tan-colored plastic with a silky black tuft at the end.  He politely explains that my Buddhist mala will not work for the exercise he is about to give me.

I have been waiting all night for this moment and have mentally constructed it beforehand but now I find myself nervous and slightly defensive.  I am attempting to suppress a mixture of giddiness and uncomfortable self-consciousness.

He sits opposite me on the floor, legs crossed tailor-fashion and says he is going to teach me to pray "in the Sufi way."  He then asks me to pronounce with him the name "ALLAH" divided into two distinct syllables, the first syllable pitched higher and softer, the second more forceful and louder.  I can feel the weight of the word in my throat and mouth as I pronounce it. At the same time I am feeling foolish and thinking that here are two grown men chanting Allah back and forth as though they are playing a game of Ping-Pong.

Secondly, he shows me how to chant the name in the same way, but pitching the first syllable higher and the second much lower, accompanied by a movement of the head from the upright to the lower left, over the heart.  Next I am to hold the head gently down to the left, over the heart and listen carefully to the heart beat, pronouncing "Allah" with every beat, silently.  As he puts it, "let the heart speak Allah every beat.

I find it next to impossible to find my heartbeat in this way and I feel I am merely guessing at the rhythm but notice that I become more still and concentrated in trying.

The third section of the first "chapter" as he calls it, is to divide the syllables into inbreath and outbreath, thus: a quick, deep inbreath pronouncing the first syllable silently, hold breath and syllable in mind for as long as is comfortable and a slow, deep outbreath pronouncing the last syllable softly over the heart with a downward head movement.

The effort at getting this exercise technically right somehow helps me to deal with the giddiness but when I begin the head movement associated with chanting the low-pitched "hah" syllable over the heart I feel like I am going to begin to cry.  He seems to sense this and asks me to pronounce the syllable more forcefully which somehow stabilizes my emotions.

The fourth section is the famous Shahada used in most sufi zikr or prayers: La illaha il Allah, with an outbreath on "ha" and the second "il", deeply, gutturally pronounced, to involve the whole body from the diaphragm.

After carefully explaining how to pronounce this exercise, the correct pronunciation being very important, he demonstrates how to chant each phrase on my rosary, in a musical, rhythmic but forceful way.  While he talks however he is coughing and I am aware that his smoking habit has probably affected his breathing and that therefore he is using too much force.  Trying to imitate the intensity of his chanting and breathing is somehow hurting me and I resolve to try and find an inner balance here.

Then Ali Moosa asks me to please write the following in my notebook: "La illaha il Allah.  Mohammudur Rasool Allah."  The translation he gives is:
                    "Allah is God.
                     God is One.
                     He is alone.
                     Not any friend
                     Not any father
                     Not any mother.
                     Mohammad was a prophet
                     to God."

Finally, Ali Moosa shows me how to read the Fatiha from the little prayer book and suggests I keep the book on a high shelf, wrapped in a clean cloth, as one would a bible.  He says I must practice the above exercises faithfully every day at an appointed time, preferably just before sunrise after having washed hands and face and performed the wudu, the cleaning of the nostrils and mouth.

If possible, he suggests, the above exercise should be performed five times a day.  If practiced faithfully for six months, the exercises will calm, strengthen and clarify the mind, heart and lungs.  He says they are a good physical as well as religious exercise.

Afterwards, he requests that I call Karen in and he gives her some breathing exercises to do each morning but she says they make her dizzy.  He suggests that these will be good for her lungs and heart and that she should do them outdoors every morning with the children in tow and me too!

While he is talking to Karen I find myself wondering about the element of strictness and violence in Islam or what I have seen and know of it.  The idea of repeating the name of Mohammad in the second half of the shahada seems sheer pedagogy and I don't see why I should have to remind either God or myself that Mohammad was His prophet.  However, earlier on Ali Moosa made it clear to me that he was in no way attempting to "make me a Moslem" but simply letting me study the "best" of Islam for my own benefit as he hoped I would also study the best of Hinduism and Christianity, incorporating these into the study of self.

When Ali Moosa turns his attention back to me he suggests something else I am having difficulty with.  He says that I should attend church at least once a week -"it doesn't matter which one but some house of God" in order to physically act out the step of going towards God. I attempt to argue my case that I feel the church is a dead, dogmatic institution and that it took me years to separate myself from the claustrophobia induced in me around it but Ali Moosa does not rise to the bait and simply nods in agreement.

Soon we are sitting in the living room digesting another of Margaret's lovely rice pilafs and I broach the subject of having my fortune forecast, using the method he used for Karen when we first came to visit him. Even as I say this I am having difficulty getting it out because I am embarrassed to be asking and yet my curiosity has got the best of me. 

He lets me know that he is not really interested in doing any "future forecasts" for me and I try to swallow this. However, in an appropriate moment, Ali Moosa addresses my question saying, "One person may tell you this, another person may tell you another thing but the result is clearly confusion. What you must do are these exercises I have given to you before sunrise each day and you will be able to answer all your own questions, solve all your own problems."

I sense a convincing wisdom, pragmatism and brotherly caring in his voice as he addresses me and I can't help also feeling an inner assent.

So, after all, there are no magician's tricks, no shaktipats, no third eye openings but still what has happened is more than I imagined.  Perhaps the greatest miracles are often the things we take for granted. I remind myself not to be thankless for an evening whose worth I have absolutely no way of evaluating and if I am going to be critical, I tell myself, let me be gently so.

The next morning, although I am awake before sunrise, I tell myself I am not going to force my tired body out of bed to do dhikir, the exercise of remembering God. As I am lying there pondering the previous night's events, I also tell myself I am not about to trade in my Buddhist mala for a Moslem one, not just yet. There is something still not sitting right with me. After all, although I have been given the shahada I have not been told by Ali Moosa I am now a sufi or anything like that. I even tell myself that identifying myself with Islam in any way doesn't particularly appeal to me, not even for the purpose of study, for I am then, despite myself, being forced into the mold of bearing a specific traditional message.  The ego is doing its dance.

In my journal that day I write "...I do not feel deeply enough about Islam at present to take the dhikir immediately to my heart and just begin. I am reserved about it. After all, is it the promise of acquired spiritual strength that makes the disciple so earnestly pursue the way, and to what end?  Why should I want the specific "powers" suggested by Ali Moosa? I can't help but feel that this promise of his is like offering ice cream to a child." 

However, my thoughts, despite their skeptical bent, somehow turn back to the night of the impromptu sobhet with Ali Moosa and the young men and I can't deny that there is something else operative here that doesn't tally with my easy intellectual dissection of events.  Haven't I eagerly searched out this instruction and why now am I resisting so strongly?

I am clearly afraid to proceed any further but I can't put my finger on a the reason why.