With West Asia in the news every day, though for sad reasons, a related reverie comes to mind, one that engaged my thoughts, with one association leading to another. One day, I accompanied a friend and her mother to their old family jeweller before we went out to lunch. The jewellers themselves went back seven generations in the business. They were part of history, their ancestors apparently having been khazanchis or treasurers to the last Mughal king of Delhi, Bahadur Shah Zafar.
I wear a plain jade bangle and costume jewellery, but I admire fine craftsmanship wherever I see it without the least desire to own it. The polished young heir who attended to my friends noticed my gaze wandering to a few antique pieces on display and we had a brief conversation about their provenance. He brought out an antique ‘haldili’—a large, flat jade pendant inlaid with precious stones—hung on a chain, telling me it was worn next to the skin in Mughal times for the perceived healing properties of jade. He invited me to try it on, which I did for a few minutes, while he turned back to my friends.
His background made me think of the Khimjis of Oman, another old Indian business family with an interesting historical connection. Their presence out there goes back three centuries to when their Gujarati ancestors imported grain, tea and spices from India and exported dates, dry limes and frankincense from Oman. After the arrival of Ramdas Thackersey and his son Khimji Ramdas in 1870, the family business expanded enormously across the consumer, infrastructure and industrial sectors. The head of the family, the late Kanaksi Khimji, was granted Omani citizenship and given the title of Sheikh, becoming the only Hindu Sheikh in the world. The family reportedly runs Hindu community temples and has established schools in Mandvi, Kutch, from where they hail.
On my friend’s list of tasks for the Delhi jeweller was the rewiring of a pair of gold baalis, hooped earrings set with clusters of dainty Basra pearls. The name comes from the port city of Basra, which was the old trading centre and where Sindbad the sailor embarked. It lies in southern Iraq, along the Shatt al-Arab river, inland from the Persian Gulf. These natural pearls are harvested on the coasts of several countries around the Gulf, including Oman, the UAE, Qatar, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Iran.
Two other ‘Basra pearls’ came to mind when I saw those earrings—the early Sufis Hasan Basri and Rabia al-Basri.
The story goes that Hasan Basri (642-728 CE) was born in Medina and settled in Basra as a gem merchant before he converted to Sufism. He famously wrote to an Umayyad Caliph, “Make this world into a bridge over which you cross but do not build on”.
This ascetic thought, though attributed to Jesus, is inscribed on the Buland Darwaza, the entry to Fatehpur Sikri near Agra—“Isa, son of Mary, said: The world is a bridge; pass over it but build no houses upon it. He who hopes for a day may hope for eternity, but the world endures just an hour. Spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen.”
That was a curious choice of words by Akbar, who built Fatehpur Sikri as his grand new capital with his immense war booty at the height of his expansionism. The quotation became a self-fulfilling prophecy, as Fatehpur Sikri was abandoned after just 14 years due to a lack of water. The British made an administrative centre there between 1803 and 1850 and the Marquess of Hastings ordered the first repairs in 1815. It became a tourist spot after Independence, where the saying associated with Hasan Basri lingers ominously.
This Sufi code of ‘simple living and high thinking’ was famously embodied by the woman saint of Basra, Rabia al-Adwiya or Rabia al-Basri. Her name means ‘the fourth’ in Arabic, as she was her family’s fourth child. She is said to have lived between 714 or 718 and 801 CE.
Rabia’s parents were socially respected but very poor. Her father died when she was a little girl. A great famine afflicted Basra soon after, and the family was scattered. Rabia was kidnapped from a caravan by a bandit and sold as a slave for six dirhams.
The terrified child clung to the thought of God since no human being cared for her. She kept very quiet, fasted and prayed as much as she could between her exhausting household chores. One night, her owner woke up and saw her praying silently in the courtyard. It seemed to him that there was a great blaze of light around her, although all the lamps had been put out. He set her free, afraid of divine punishment if he did not.
Rabia moved to the wilderness with a broken pitcher and an old reed mat. Many people and a number of wild animals were drawn to her fearlessly. She transformed Sufism profoundly with her personal credo of ‘ishq’, that one should love God for God’s own sake, not out of fear. Rabia lived unmolested all her life, though not untaunted. Abashed by her austerity, some men scornfully said that no woman had ever been a prophet. Rabia retorted that ego and ‘self-worship’ were prominent male traits. She became a legend for her sincerity and staunchness…
“We’re done, let’s go,” said my friend, breaking the spell, and I abandoned my musings for a spot of lunch.
Renuka Narayanan | FAITHLINE | Senior journalist
(Views are personal)
(shebaba09@gmail.com)