Last month, following the Visalat celebrations, a group of mureeds gathered at the Dargah of Hazrat Inayat Khan for a retreat. For eight days, we prayed, meditated, studied Sufi teachings, exerted ourselves in various disciplines, and hammered like blacksmiths on the stubborn material of our personalities. Then, the retreat concluded, most of the group went travelling though India, for there is much to appreciate and to learn from in this wide land.
Inevitably, such a tour must include a visit to the Taj Mahal in Agra, the royal tomb constructed in white marble by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Some consider it the most beautiful building in the world. Something like 20,000 artisans laboured on it for 11 years to complete the principal construction. The iconic dome reflected in the pools of the broad and peaceful gardens, the intricate delicacy of the carved marble, even the wide view over the Yamuna River, all contribute to an astonishing sense of harmony.
In vivid contrast, we might think of the tombs of most Sufi saints. One approaches the Dargah of Hazrat Nizaumuddin Auliya, for example, through a poor, noisy, congested urban village, sometimes picking one’s way around discarded refuse, and passing beggars with various ailments and deformities. Or if one visits the Dargah of Qutubuddin Bhaktiyar Kaki, in south Delhi, one arrives after a lengthy walk beside an open sewer.
The differences between the tombs of worldly kings and queens and those of spiritual ‘royalty’ can be very instructive to the thoughtful student. It is true that in the Taj Mahal there is inspiration and harmony, but the poor, the sick and the heartbroken do not go there for comfort. A dargah is not a place of worldly grandeur, but many people feel an unseen majesty that could never be expressed in builder’s stone. What is more, there is a strong tradition among Sufis that royalty (today, we might say ‘government’) and spirituality do not mix; Hazrat Nizamuddin refused to meet with kings, and when one ruler declared his intention to visit the saint regardless of his wishes, the Sufi noted that his room had two doors, implying that if the king came in one door, he would go out of the other.
Perhaps that is why there is often something repellent in the surroundings of a Dargah. It could be seen as a reminder that the world is only dust in comparison with the beauty of the spirit, and the sincere seeker must be willing to make some sacrifice to draw near to that beauty, or it could even serve as a protective veil, to turn aside the visitor who is not able to glimpse the gleam of Truth disguised by the mud. As it says in the Gayan,
All beauty is veiled by nature,
and the greater the beauty the more it is covered.