Reflections on Memories and Poetry
For those whose hearts are awake, the frontiers of time and space are never as unyielding as they appear to ordinary travellers. Love traverses distance by means of remembrance; companionship gathers the fleeting hours into a single moment; and spiritual affiliation draws a person close to those whose bond with him reaches back over many years. When a place is enlivened by the tenderness of teachers, the counsels of elders and the memories of friends, even the span of centuries can sometimes shrink into the twinkling of an eye. Such was our experience in Takiya Kalān: on one side were the meetings of the present day; on the other, luminous scenes from a bygone era; here stood the current generation of seekers of knowledge, and there arose the recollections of those illustrious elders who had contributed to our intellectual and spiritual formation.
The very thought of returning impressed upon us that some journeys do not conclude upon the road; they continue within the traveller himself. The body may come back from its destination, yet the heart remains suspended in a certain lane, a particular gathering, a familiar face, or upon the bank of a river. Hence, whenever a ghazal of Ḥāfiẓ is opened, it is possible that the margin of the Sī nadī will appear behind a verse; whenever the scholarly legacy of Nadwa is mentioned, the nobility of Maulānā Bilāl Ḥasanī and the prudent insight of Maulānā ʿAmmār Ḥasanī will come to mind; and whenever the fidelity of friendship is recalled, the affection of Jaʿfar Masʿūd Ḥasanī and his sons will be renewed in the heart.
The ghazals of Ḥāfiẓ are, in their own right, peerless; yet Takiya Kalān made us realise that poetry is not confined to the pages of a dīwān. Some poetry lies scattered in the courtyard of a masjid; some is hidden in the accent of a venerable shaykh; some resides in the remembrance of an old companion; and some lingers upon that riverbank where youth once spent its carefree days. The couplet of a book we interpret according to our taste, but the couplet of life inscribes its meaning directly upon our hearts.
If someone were to ask, “What manner of Takiya is this which caused even the ghazals of Ḥāfiẓ to slip, for a while, from your memory?” I would reply: it is that Takiya where the past is not a mere recollection but a radiance of the present; where knowledge is not a lesson alone but a fragrance of character; where friendship extends beyond the lifespan of one individual to become a bond of families and generations; and where the bank of the Sī nadī confronts one as a mirror of the life that has passed.
While departing from Takiya Kalān, we felt that some places are not merely seen with the eyes, they take up residence within the heart; some meetings, though gathered into the fold of time, become companionships that endure a lifetime; and some memories, though belonging to the past, continue to illumine the present. Takiya Kalān is, for us, precisely such a place: in the flowing of the Sī nadī we hear the echo of days gone by; in the stillness of the masjid we sense the prayers of the elders; and in the faces of the people of knowledge and love the entire civilisational tradition manifests itself.
Ḥāfiẓ-i Shīrāzī peopled his Shirāz with ghazals; we have settled Takiya Kalān within our memories. The only difference is this: when one reads the verses of Ḥāfiẓ, the image of Shirāz arises; whereas at the very mention of Takiya Kalān, many radiant pages of life open of their own accord. Would that Ḥāfiẓ too had spent a few moments upon the bank of the Sī nadī, had listened to the voice of his heart in the tranquillity of that masjid, and had witnessed the love in those faces whose light is not dimmed by the passage of time. Perhaps another ghazal would have been added to his dīwān, or perhaps he might have chosen to render that state into silence, making silence itself his verse.
When we took our leave of Takiya Kalān, the heart bore witness that, notwithstanding the excellence of a ghazal of Ḥāfiẓ, the charm of that Takiya is of another order altogether: there, life throbs in the form of poetry, memories exude the fragrance of a ghazal, and love is repeated in every hemistich like a refrain.
