In a recent post in the series ‘The Art of Personality,’ Hazrat Inayat Khan speaks about the importance of dignity.  It is a quality that is difficult to describe, for it is not dependent upon specific forms of behaviour; it is neither solemnity nor stiffness nor silence, but as Hazrat Inayat says, it is a weight to the personality that helps to keep us steady through the storms  of life.  Without that weight we are like a scrap of paper blown hither and thither as the wind chooses.  It is sometimes lacking in the young, who may display more energy than wisdom, and–sometimes, but not always!–more developed as we grow older. Perhaps this is why we may occasionally refer to someone, of whatever age, as an ‘old soul.’  When we meet someone who manifests dignity, an observant person will feel it immediately.  It is related to what could be called ‘presence,’ although it is not exactly the same.

Regrettably, it is not a characteristic that has much currency in the present culture. It is difficult to develop dignity when we are overwhelmed by agitation and superficial sensation. The world today appears to promote self-abandonment, as if the scrap of paper would say, “Let me fly around! The more wind the better!” But that is to neglect the precious opportunity that comes from life in this world. To take advantage of that gift, we must exercise our will, which may mean setting a course upwind, and with no weight in the keel, a sailor has no hope of reaching his goal.

To gain an insight into this quality, we might consider this passage from “Pages in the Life of a Sufi”, the memoir by Musharaff Moulamia Khan, the younger brother of Hazrat Inayat Khan.

My father, Rahmat Khan, disliked any western habit [of softness and luxury] introduced into our simple Indian life.  “Simple and dignified,” were the two words of praise he used.

As a youth this must have impressed me very much, though I was very lively and naughty and often needed to be corrected.  There comes to my mind a memory of something my family used to tell me later, which had happened when I was about nine years old. One day among my shchoolmates there was talk about the newly made merry-go-round in the public park in Baroda, and the boys of the school wanted very much to go and see it.  As I had been there sometimes with my father, whose friend was the guardian of the park, I told them that they could come with me and I would show it to them. So this was decided and we all went there; but on our arrival we noticed that the gate was locked so we could not enter.

This made me feel very embarrassed because I had invited all the boys to go there. Then remembering the friend of my father, we went to his house, and I explained the situation to him. “But,” he said, “the gate is locked because the closing hour is past.” But I had promised the boys that they would see it, so what could I do?  I thought for a moment and explained to my father’s friend that I had promised these young friends to see the park, and I said, “I beg you to open the gate and let us go in, for the sake of my dignity.” “Oh,” the guardian said, “What do you say? For the sake of your dignity? Who are you, young man, that I must do this for the sake of your dignity?” Then I told him who I was and that I had been in the park with my fathers and that on that occasion he had been so kind to me that he would certainly understand my situation.  Then he said, “But certainly, I now understand everything, and you are a real son of your father who is a great friend of mine; come along.” And this kind man went with us and opened the gate. Later he told this to my father and the members of the family, and they were greatly amused, and at the same time very happy that the ideal of dignity had taken root in this little child.