My Asia Pacific CEO wanted me to step down from my current role in a leading Finance Multi-national. I have seen better days, huge profits for the Company’s India arm, distributed fat bonuses to thousands of employees, still he wanted me out. I didn’t sleep almost for a week now, had dark circles under my eyes, and ate frugally owing to a lost appetite. I seriously didn’t know what to do. My job has been everything in my life. Being a responsible husband to a Delhi based socialite, and a loving father to a beautiful teenage girl studying in a leading convent, I’ve been the quintessential MNC executive on the helm of Company’s affairs for last five years in India.
I’m an avid reader, I read whatever I lay me hands on, any book to blogpost to tweets to news clips. Had read about a 13th century Islamic scholar and Sufi saint, whose message of love and compassion still attracted thousands of people to his Delhi tomb every single day. I didn’t even remember the name of the author who wrote that post, it was three-four years back while I was travelling to Qatar, in flight. I Ubered by way to the nearest metro station, bought a ticket and boarded a train from MG Road, Gurgaon. My laptop & my dark jacket were still resting in my corner cabin of our plush Gurgaon office. The scholarly article had intrigued me then, and I forgot it totally for last three years due to my insane work pressure. Today I just felt like breaking free and visiting the place mentioned in the article. I got down at Jor Bagh and typed “Nizamuddin Dargah” on my ride hailing app. In less than twenty minutes I was dropped near a lane fragrant with roses, incense sticks, kebabs, raw meat and attars. I was almost tempted to open my GPS, but refrained from doing so for some unknown reason. That’s when I met him, the man must have been in his early seventies, a flowing white kurta-pajama & old leather slippers. Holding a stack of books closer to his chest. His flowing white beard matched his attire, completed with a warm smile and a firm hand shake. I was surprised to know that I have already confided in him about my introduction, my job and my long due plan to visit this place. He obviously knew the lanes, hidden by a maze of little alleyways, Nizamuddin’s resting place was about five hundred meters from the main road.
I was curious about his profession. He smiled away with a soft ‘I do a little bit of research & share with some people.’ He fed me two large local bakery made biscuits and a tall glass of sweet, milky tea before we entered the Dargah. I had tried to object but he somehow knew that I had skipped my lunch. I had dipped the biscuits in my tea and actually enjoyed the hot drink after a long time. I drank earl grey every day in my office in a large porcelain mug. I handed over my shoes to the shoekeeper at the Dargah entrance, and received a cardboard token in return. I had kept my socks on. While entering I noticed that people from all over India & abroad flocked to this island of tranquility to offer flowers, pray, read the Quran or simply sit in the courtyard to watch life pass by. I asked the man in a lowered voice, ‘but there are two Dargahs inside the compound, right?’ He signaled with his left hand lovingly, ‘this one belongs to Amir Khusro, the poet, the Turk.’ I asked him, ‘you come here daily?’ ‘Almost’ he replied. It was dark, I could notice that the dargah was beautifully decorated with flowers & lights. I remembered the article I had read earlier, the saint’s birthday was celebrated with the entire compound being washed with rose water, or something like that. The resident qawwals took their place on the old carpet, placed their instruments facing the grave. The strains of harmoniums filled the fragrant air. The man was glowing with happiness, he whispered in my ear, ‘Man kunto Maula is my favorite.’ I remembered the article, Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia had seen 13 rulers in Delhi during his time and he had never set foot in their courtyards because he detested visiting people in power positions for favors. Anyone who visited the Saint’s, used to have a meal before leaving. Voluntary contribution (futuh) used to pour in from the riches of the society, and those were used to feed the hungry. Suddenly I remembered to call home to say that I would be late. I called up my wife and texted my daughter. The qawwali was going on full fervor, I had never experienced something like this in my entire life. Transfixed, I entered the sanctum sanctorum, my head covered in a white handkerchief. I prayed for some time and left the courtyard and collected my shoes in exchange of the token. The gentleman was nowhere to be seen. I felt a little sad about not even asking him for his name and contact details. But I was beaming with a new confidence. I called up my boss and shared with him that I was going to start the small finance Company very soon after my resignation, which at one point in time of my career I had dreamed of. (To be contd…)
arunprakashray 