IN QUEST OF THE MIND

Religion has multiple “uses”. One resorts to it for peace, to delve into the mystery of life, to cure illness, to tide over the rigours of living, to create an atmosphere of good will or simply to escape.

This past Friday an intrepid group of four left the humdrum of the city to embark on what turned out to be a mini pilgrimage. There were two Hindus, a Muslim and a half and half. The half and half being of religion, neither of food nor dairy products nor alcohol.

We drove for three long hours over a stretch of good quality road, shimmering in the mid-morning haze. Paddy fields swayed on either side, running the spectrum of green colours, shades and hues; a sight for sore eyes for most, for yours truly they triggered depression. We prefer the dirt of the city, with chewing gum, spit, ‘paan’ effluences, and unmentionables sticking to the sole of one’s shoes.

Bombay Road takes one to remote corners of the country. We were not going beyond the confines of West Midnapore in West Bengal.

The drive was ideal, no incessant conversation, no background music, just delectable bites of chocolate cake, noodles with soybean and potatoes, and Rajasthani ‘mathi’. For those not ‘culinary-ly’ inclined, ‘mathi’ is a crisp made from flour, with sprinklings of ajwain (carom seeds), and deep fried in ghee. It tastes best when coupled with ‘achar’.

The loose expanse of rusticity, interspersed with umpteen small temples, many dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god, and chunky trucks, gave way to the cramp of Midnapore town.

The circuit house was an oasis in the mess of urbanity. A single-storeyed building, with cavernous rooms and high ceilings supported by rafters, a jewel of British architecture set amidst sprawling grounds.  We would have to leisurely explore it later in the afternoon.

We are very proudly half and half, and that meant both sides of the coin would have to be satisfied.

The drive through the town was short but hectic. We arrived at ‘bot tola’. The Kali temple here is well known. It was post lunch, Goddess Kali was fed up and fulfilled. It was time for her afternoon siesta, but in the midst of the marketplace, with her devotees craning their necks through the grilled door to catch a glimpse of her, sleeping in the shindig was out of the question, she’s a lady after all, so she pulled her white sari with a red ‘paar’ (border) over her face and transported herself to la-la land with Hypnos watching over her. A ‘do not disturb, wait till the evening’ sign over the gate. That was the end of the that. One doesn’t dare disturb the goddess’s forty winks.

I marvelled at her small frame. “Eto chhoto” (so small), I commented. The guide from the circuit house sprang to her defence, ‘khub jagroto” (very powerful). We don’t doubt that.

We had to find a Goddess Kali who did not favour an afternoon nap. We were lucky, close by in another temple, clad in a beautiful sari, she was wide awake, watching her nosy devotees peering at her.

Jora Masjid, or the twin mosques, is one of the major religious sites in the town. It is of particular significance to our family.

Over a 100 years ago, one of the great Sufi saints of Bengal, Hazrat Syed Shah Murshed Ali Al Quaderi, or Mowla Pak as he is known, instructed one of his disciples to wait in the lane as two gentleman were going to pass by his house, they were to be escorted upstairs as he wanted to see them. The two gentlemen were my great-grandfathers, Syed Abdus Salek and Syed Abdus Malik, both district magistrates in the British era; the former of Midnapore, the latter of Balasore.

The rest is history. Mowla Pak conferred the title of ‘Murshed’ on my grandfather, Syed Manzur Murshed. ‘Murshed’ means ‘pir’ (spiritual leader) and our names in their entirety mean those who follow or seek the ‘pir’. Regrettably, many have pilfered the name, needless to say, it is not authentic.

Mowla Pak’s son, Hazrat Syed Shah Irshad Ali Al Quaderi, or Huzur Pak as he is known, was very close to my grandparents, and father, whom he called ‘bhai’. Two of Bengal’s well known physicians, Dr. Sailen Sen and Dr. Sushovan Roy, were ardent disciples of Huzur Pak.

A special train runs from Bangladesh each year bringing pilgrims for the annual religious observance.

Miracles are credited to Mowla Pak and Huzur Pak. In fact, Huzur Pak had told my grandmother that my father would occupy the same administrative chair that my grandfather did at a time when my father was at his wayward best, without a career in sight. Both during their tenure were district magistrates of Alipore and Howrah.

Mowla Pak and Huzur Pak are laid to rest in the family burial ground in the precincts of Jora Masjid.

We spent about an hour at the ‘mazar sharif’. There was so much to think of sitting by the side of Mowla Pak and Huzur Pak, so much to pray for, so much to thank them for.

The sun was at its zenith, but we didn’t feel the heat. Faith is such.

With great difficulty we tore ourselves away from Jora Masjid. We would come again.

Our guide mentioned a certain well whose waters have miraculous powers. We later learned it was called ‘Fakir Kua’. The water in the well remains at a constant level throughout the year. It is believed to have healing properties. Each of us filled a bottle with water taking care that the drops did not fall on our feet.

The ‘mazar’ of the ‘pir baba’, Chandan Shahid Rehmatullah is by the side of the well.

There is no end to faith and no end to belief for the faithful and the believer.

Our day’s trip to Midnapore was winding down, but not before we paid our respects to a ‘pir baba’ whose ‘mazar’ is in the grounds of the circuit house. We could not get his name, it sounded like ‘Akrosh’, and the staff in the circuit house could not give us historical details.

The ‘mazar’ was quiet and peaceful, with a magnetic aura. A large tree with powerful, knotty roots grew over his resting place, surrounded by a low wall. Two hefty stray dogs rested against the wall, as though protecting the ‘mazar’, and seeking ‘baba’s’ blessings. The fragrance of incense hung in the air, small horses made of mud were piled high by the side. We were given to understand that those whose wishes were fulfilled brought one such mud horse.

Hindus and Muslims alike worship at the ‘mazar’.

The lunch at the circuit house was a simple Bengali fare of rice, ‘daal’, fries, a potato and vegetable hash, ‘chhana dalna’ (cottage cheese in gravy), and fish for the meaty kind.

We were told that the circuit house was for VVIPs, many chief ministers having crossed its venerable threshold. The new building in another part of the grounds was for others.

Really? We VVIPs? But we is ‘umble a la Uriah Heep. Nevertheless, we were very grateful for their hospitality.

My father later told me that he was the district magistrate of Midnapore early in his career.

The shadows were lengthening as we drove away. Each of us engrossed in our own thoughts. We would return another day.

Hindu temples, Muslim ‘mazars’, they are for everyone, then why do we speak of religious divide?

At night, as I took  my medicines with the water from the well that we had collected earlier in the day, I thought to myself that it is possible to believe in religions we are not born into, but for the mind to rise to those elevated levels it has to be freed from the confines of rigidity, selfishness, fundamentalism, and communalism. A daunting task, but easy to practise if the mind is willing and believes that all religions are the same. In most, it is not.