Nadwa’s Lentils

It is often said that whoever has not lived in the hostel of Nadwa cannot truly be a Nadwi. At first glance, this sentence appears to be a cheerful exaggeration, yet within it lies a very subtle thread of truth. The hostel life at Nadwa was not merely a story of teaching, learning, books, and pens. It also contained a kind of discipline and spiritual training (riyāḍah). The most prominent symbol of that training was the bowl that would appear before the student every afternoon, as though testing his perseverance—the very dish that the people of Nadwa remembered with a certain spiritual dignity as “Nadwa’s lentils.”

Some people even counted this simple and silent meal among the marvels of Nadwa. Their reasoning was that whoever could spend his days of study contentedly eating Nadwa’s lentils would not have the doors of spiritual knowledge closed to him for long. Thus, these lentils were not merely something to satisfy hunger; rather, they were a practical school of patience and endurance, where every morsel taught the student a new lesson in contentment and a fresh meaning of steadfastness. These lentils were the first step of the journey of studenthood—one without which reaching the destination of true Nadwiyyah was difficult.

The condition of Nadwa’s lentils used to be described somewhat like this:

Arhar lentils—tasteless and bland,
In which absolutely no scent of ghee could be found.

In gatherings of cuisine, these lentils appeared like a quiet dervish—simple, unpretentious, and indifferent to worldly adornments. Sometimes, when one looked into the bowl, it felt as though a faint and weary fragment of cloud had descended to earth, leaving all its colours behind in the sky. There was no sharpness of spices, no intoxicating aroma; it seemed less like a meal and more like a brief treatise on asceticism and contentment that had to be opened and read every day.

These lentils were not a dish for evening banquets but the destiny of the afternoon. As students returned from their morning lessons and gathered around the dining cloth, their faces carried both hope and apprehension: hope that perhaps today the lentils might display a new splendour, and apprehension that the same ancient simplicity might appear again in all its dignity. Most often the latter happened—the bowl would arrive and seem to smile silently, like a Sufi dervish looking upon the colours of the world with serene detachment.

The strange spectacle was that we would joke about these lentils and yet live by them at the same time. Our tongues were full of satire, but our hands still reached for the same bowl. If one day the lentils happened to be slightly thicker than usual, students would look at each other as though travellers lost in a desert had suddenly glimpsed real water. And if occasionally even the faintest trace of salt could be detected, the event would be narrated with such grandeur as though a great revolution in history had occurred.

Once, during my student days, I had the opportunity to visit Aligarh Muslim University. When I saw the lentils served there, I understood a new philosophy. They were so thin that it seemed as if a canal had lost its way and taken refuge in a plate. Seeing this sight suddenly reminded me of those same simple and quiet lentils of Nadwa. At that moment the heart admitted that what we had long regarded as a hardship was in fact also a blessing—because at least there remained some suspicion that what we were eating was actually lentils.

However much Nadwa’s lentils and bread may be criticised, the truth is that a strange affection was attached to them. Years of companionship had turned them into more than just food; they had become a permanent symbol of our student memories. Sometimes it even felt as though they were not only nourishment but also medicine.

Indeed, some connoisseurs of wit considered them superior even to the powders of Galen and the celebrated namak-e-Sulaimani—for those medicines may correct the stomach, but Nadwa’s lentils correct the temperament and grant the wealth of patience that even great philosophies fail to provide.

Once a dear acquaintance came to Nadwa intending to enrol. At noon he ate the lentils and bread. He could not stay even a single day; he soon departed. Seeing this scene, it felt as though Nadwa’s lentils had silently delivered their verdict. It was as though they too were like a dervish master: the door is open for everyone, but a place in the gathering is granted only to those who have the courage to bear the burden of its companionship. Nadwa’s lentils were truly “مضنون به لغير أهله” — something withheld from those unworthy of it.

Thus it may be said that Nadwa’s lentils were not merely a meal but an امتحان (a test)—a test taken neither with pen nor with speech, but with patience and the stomach alike. Whoever remained steadfast in this examination did not remain merely a student; he truly became a Nadwi.

⸻

Photo from Mohammad Akram