SUFI LIGHT

In this book I will present Sufi teachings on meditation. Before I begin, however, I would like to tell you something of myself and of the circumstances into which I was brought into this world.

I was born into a somewhat illustrious Sufi family in Bannu, a small district in the Khyber–Pukhtunkhwa province of Pakistan. Bannu is one hundred and twenty miles from Peshawar, the provincial capital, and is inhabited by Bannuchi Pashtuns, who according to a legend trace their ancestry to Bani-Israel (Jews). Bannuchis are Sunni Muslims; however, the area has become a breeding ground for orthodox militancy and Taliban insurgency.

Bannu strategically borders South Waziristan and Afghanistan. The whole territory is rugged terrain. Bannuchis are a proud and brave people, and fighting has been an integral part of their culture and way of life for centuries. This is why they are famous as undefeatable warriors.

When I was six years old, we went to our native village, Kulachi, with my mother and other siblings during our summer vacation. One day, I was playing outside with the other children and wandered off to the nearest well. Because Kulachi is a dry, hot place with no running water, deep wells are dug to get to the underground water, which is still not drinkable due to its high mineral content and hardness. We used this water mostly for cleaning purposes, such as washing cloths and dishes. There was no electricity in our village at that time, so the well was operated by the circular motion of an ox journeying eternally to nowhere, trudging around and around to rotate the large wooden wheel over the well. The wheel was fastened to a belt made of ropes descending to the very bottom of the chasm, to which large earthen buckets were attached. As the wheel rotated, it sent down the belt, along with the buckets, into the well water would the containers come up filled to their brims. The water then poured into a wooden gutter leading to a large tank.

I was following the ox—which like a bovine moon orbiting a black hole—was circling along on its journey, and just for fun was dipping a stick into the buckets. At one point I became lulled into a distracted state, perhaps by the hypnotic repetitiveness of the environment, and was standing by the very edge of the well, not knowing that the ox was coming up right behind me. Because the ox was walking in a confined space, and perhaps more than a little bored, and I was in its way, the animal gently nudged me forward with its horns. I lost my balance and fell headlong into the darkness.

With my head plunging downward and my feet in close pursuit—as if I were diving into a pool from a height—I should have hit the water soon. Miraculously, however, I stopped—with the top of my head barely an inch above the water. Somehow, my left hand had become tangled in the rope belt while my body was still hanging upside down. I could see the surface of the dark water, which was more than twenty feet deep, just below the crown of my head. I knew that if I fell into the water, the chances of my survival would be almost zero. I would have drowned, pulled deeper by the water’s undercurrent, and never been found. Yet, there I hung, floating upside down in the air above the water, holding onto the rope with my left hand.

As soon as I disappeared into the well, all the children present became frightened. They began screaming and running away. At that very moment my mother’s uncle, Jahangir, was ambling along. One of the children ran up to him and told him of my fate. He rushed to the rim, peered down, and beheld my topsy-turvy dangling. “Hold on,” he shouted, “I’m coming down!” He was trying to reassure me so that I did not panic. On the contrary, I was quite calm and was not at all frightened. My mind was absolutely blank and my heart was unruffled and fearless.

Uncle Jahangir cautiously descended by placing one foot on the rope belt and the other on the side wall of the well, which had steps carved on the inside for workers to go down for repairs and emergencies. He slowly loomed into view, seized ahold of my foot with one hand, and hoisted me upwards as he struggled his way back to ground level.

In the meanwhile other passersby arrived to help, and soon I was out—back on terra firma. By that time the news had grapevined to my mother and family members, who were all gathered around, crying and sobbing. My mother prostrated to God and thanked Him for my safety. We all walked home with my Uncle Jahangir, and my rescue was celebrated with love and joy. The news of my fall into the well soon spread like wildfire through the rest of the village. Everybody considered it a miracle for me to be alive after a twenty-five-foot freefall into that dark place. I believe, I was saved by Divine grace. Perhaps, I thought, I was not destined to die in the well water but instead to be drowned, later, in the deep ocean of Divine oneness.

That early experience serves as a metaphor for everything of any real significance that has happened in my life since that time. It seems that God had asked me in very physical terms, “In this life, Little Boy, are you going to plunge blindly into the dark currents of material existence or somehow float magically above them?”

The following chapters are my answer.

What you will find in the following pages is neither an exhaustive and scholarly history of Sufism nor a collection of Sufi thought. Today a vast trove of literature is available on these subjects, both in the East and in the West. World-renowned scholars have penned profound expositions on Sufi metaphysics. Translations of classical Sufi works are now readily available in various languages. Excellent in-depth analyses of Sufi traditions have been written.

Of course, such writings have long been available in the East. During the last few decades in the West, authorities on Islam have written extensively on Sufi teachings. In this regard the names of Annmarie Schimmel, Seyyed Hossain Nasr, William Chittick, Frithjof Schuon, Titus Burhhardt, Martin Lings, Carl Ernst, Kabir Helminski, Robert Frager, and many more stand out. These authors have presented to Western seekers the inner teachings of Sufism and its basic tenets in a contemporary and scholarly manner. However, most of these wonderful works are concerned mainly with theoretical aspects of Sufi doctrine—with metaphysics, with teachings, and with historical accounts. There is no doubt that these scholars have performed a great service to the cause and popularity of Sufism and have enlightened many hearts seeking truth. I personally congratulate these authors from the bottom of my heart on their selfless efforts and dedication.

In no way am I trying to proclaim myself an authority on spirituality or, for that matter, a Sufi master. Neither can I speak for the efficacy of Buddhist, Jewish, Christian or other methods of meditation that center on Divine Names in their respective languages and lead their followers to a Divine and luminous silence. This short treatise is not meant for experts on these subjects, but is simply an attempt to interpret the Divine Name, Allah, in a radically different perspective—as it was taught to me as a boy in a small town isolated from Western influences and ways of thinking. Thus, I concern myself herein mainly with the practical teachings of Sufism as my grandfather and father imparted them to me. Necessarily, then, I leave aside complex philosophical doctrines for some other time.

By practical teachings I mean, I have made a humble effort to shed light on the most useful aspects of Sufi teachings. It is my hope that this book will serve as a manual that will guide the wayfarer on the spiritual journey into the presence of the Divine Essence.

The main object of this book is to discuss and explain the simplest ways to achieve the r