After my father passed away in October 2009, I told my mother that I would take her to perform the annual Muslim pilgrimage, the Hajj, in Makkah.
My parents had been married for over 40 years, and my Hajj proposition was at least one way I thought would help my mother overcome her sorrow.
Unfortunately certain professional commitments have kept me from keeping my word, but I do still plan to hon*our it.
Nevertheless, since I usually read up on anything that even slightly interests me, from hefty histories to comic books to fur*ni*ture bro*chures; I de*ci*ded to do some read*ing on Hajj as well soon af*ter I told my moth*er I’d be tak*ing her to Makkah.
Of course, I did the usu*al thing by first talk*ing to the ar*my of rel*a*tives who have per*formed the Hajj on mul*ti*ple oc*ca*sions, but what I was real*ly look*ing for was some*thing that didn’t read like a man*ual or wasn’t stuf*fed with clichéd hy*per*boles about the hal*lowed ex*pe*ri*ence and event.
Well, I did get my hands on a cou*ple of books that I quick*ly dev*oured, but it was on*ly by chance that I stum*bled upon a book on the sub*ject that left me great*ly in*trigued. I found it at a sec*ond-hand book store. It was ly*ing just be*hind an old book on Stalin that I had orig*i*nal*ly picked up from the shelf.
It looked real*ly old and was called Labbaik (I am pres*ent). I picked it up and blew away that ir*ri*tat*ing, ubiq*ui*tous Karachi dust from its crum*bling cov*er. The book was in Urdu and just had the ti*tle and the au*thor’s name on it.
It was auth*ored by one Mumtaz Mufti. I didn’t know who the gen*tle*man was but lat*er dis*cov*ered that he was a re*spec*ted short-story writ*er who had been in*flu*enced by fa*mous psy*chol*o*gist, Sigmund Freud, but from the 1960s on*wards had be*come an ar*dent ad*mir*er of Sufism un*der the guid*ance of an*oth*er fa*mous Urdu writ*er, Qudrat Ullah Shahab.
The book was first pub*lish*ed in 1975 and in fact what I had in my hands was a 1975 pa*per*back ed*i*tion. The book is about Mufti’s maid*en trip to Makkah to per*form Hajj.
What ex*ci*ted me the most about this dis*cov*ery was that a learned Pakistani Muslim was re*lat*ing his ex*pe*ri*ence about the aus*pi*cious pil*grim*age and that too dur*ing a time when Pakistan’s so*ci*ety was quite dif*fer*ent in mat*ters of spi*ri*tu*al*i*ty.
This got me read*ing the book the mo*ment I bought it (for Rs150) and brought it home.
Mufti had writ*ten this book when mat*ters of the faith in Pakistan had not been com*plete*ly sub*jec*ted to var*i*ous so*cial and po*lit*i*cal com*pli*ca*tions.
And what a read it turned out to be. Mufti writes that in 1965 he was sud*den*ly over*whelmed by the long*ing to per*form the Hajj. This sur*prised him be*cause he was not a very ob*serv*ant Muslim. To him mere rit*ual had noth*ing to do with spi*ri*tu*al*i*ty but he now con*sid*ered the Hajj to be more about spi*ri*tu*al self-dis*cov*ery than rit*uals.
So off he went to Makkah on a PIA flight. With him were many com*mon Pakistani men and wom*en on the plane all go*ing to Makkah to per*form the Hajj. Also on the flight was a group of cler*ics.
Mufti writes that the com*mon folk (and he) were fil*led with joy but the cler*ics were all stern-faced, as if lack*ing souls. ‘They have noth*ing in com*mon with us,’ he grum*bles.
But over the next few days in Makkah, Mufti’s joy even*tu*al*ly evap*o*rates and he is fil*led with a strange awk*ward*ness and angst. He finds the streets of the holy city echo*ing with cha*os where some*one is al*ways try*ing to sell some*thing or the oth*er.
In Mina (where the pil*grims go to hurl stones at Satan, who is de*pic*ted by three an*cient walls), Mufti is struck with an un*bear*a*ble feel*ing of anxi*ety and vul*ner*a*bil*i*ty, over*awed by a sense of dread. He doesn’t like the peo*ple of Mina. He be*lieves they have been liv*ing un*der the shad*ow of the dev*il for too long.
After com*plet*ing the rit*ual, he set*tles in the of*fice of his tour guide. Here he bumps in*to an ac*quaint*ance of his who had trav*el*led to Makkah with his wife to per*form the Hajj. The man be*gins to com*plain (to the guide) that a lady who had be*frien*ded his wife on the trip can now be seen with a man.
‘We don’t know who the man is,’ says the com*plai*nant. ‘Can you change our room and give us an*oth*er room, away from the one where the lady is stay*ing? She is de*stroy*ing the sanc*ti*ty of our vis*it.’
Hearing this, Mufti sees the com*mon Pakistani whom he had prais*ed on the plane for be*ing full of joy and soul, now turn*ing in*to a stern-faced and soul*less cler*ic.
‘Let it be, broth*er,’ Mufti tells the rest*less man. ‘Why are you for*sak*ing the joy of Hajj for some*thing you are not sure of?’
Whereas much of the book is about how Mufti first dif*fer*en*ti*ates be*tween the com*mon Muslims and the soul*less cler*ics, and then points out how com*mon peo*ple too have the ca*paci*ty to mu*tate in*to be*com*ing like judg*men*tal cler*ics, in the fi*nal chap*ters Mufti is left emo*tion*al*ly rav*aged when he re*al*ises that he too is not im*mune from the traits he is lam*bast*ing.
This re*al*i*sa*tion is most pain*ful and takes place in a mos*que in Makkah where he had gone to of*fer pray*ers. While pray*ing he be*gins to hear voi*ces criti*cis*ing him at the way he looks and prac*ti*ces his faith. He turns around but can’t fig*ure out where the voi*ces are com*ing from.
It soon tran*spires that the voi*ces are emit*ting from his own head, criti*cis*ing him and even com*plain*ing how bad he smel*led. He tries to ig*nore them, but is left feel*ing so agi*ta*ted that he gets up and runs away. The judge had be*come the judged.
One of the voi*ces had com*plained how Mufti had the au*dac*i*ty to en*ter the mos*que while smell*ing so bad. Mufti writes that he be*gan to ac*tual*ly be able to smell him*self and was re*pulsed.
Back in Pakistan he re*lates the ep*i*sode to his men*tor, Qudrat Ullah Shahab, and stretch*es one of his hands to*wards Shahab, ask*ing him to smell it. But Shahab could not smell any*thing.
Mufti sug*gests that the smell was sym*bol*ic of the stench of hy*poc*risy that he smel*led on oth*ers but was now him*self en*gul*fed by. And that mo*ral judge*ments made by a mere mor*tal like him pla*gue the hu*man soul with some*thing that the per*son in ques*tion will not like and will hide from, or worse, be re*pulsed by for the rest of his life.