Muḥammad Akram Nadwī

Where Does the Water of the Gomti River Come From?

29 December 2025

If the distance between Mani Kalan and Jamdahan is measured, it is not very great. Yet in the early days of consciousness it felt like a journey of many miles. Those were times when the roads were unpaved, questions immature, and knowledge an unfamiliar thing. In winter the dew was heavy; our feet would be soaked in moisture and mud. In the rainy season, the mire would seize us firmly. At Ḍiyāʾ al-ʿUlūm, science was not taught, so it was hardly surprising that our knowledge was close to zero.

Every morning we would set off early for Mani Kalan and return in the evening. On rainy days a question would trouble us incessantly: where does the water in the clouds come from? We had no answer. By chance, we befriended a boy from another village, though his maternal home was in Jamdahan. He too began travelling with us daily. One day, when the question of the clouds’ water arose again, he told us that his grandfather had gone to the city of Jaunpur and had seen with his own eyes how the clouds descended and drank water from the Gomti River, and then poured that same water down in rain in all directions. He added that his grandfather had even broken off a piece of one of those clouds and brought it home, where it remained preserved to this day.

Having received an answer to our question, we were overjoyed, and a knot in our minds seemed to loosen. Yet a faint unease remained in my heart: why had my grandfather not gone to Jaunpur to witness this sight? And why had no piece of cloud come to our home?

When I began studying at the Maulana Azad Educational Centre, the first book of logic and philosophy came into my hands. The teacher explained that this universe is the name given to an unbroken chain of events and created things, and that this chain does not come to an end anywhere. The problem of infinite regress (tasalsul ghayr mutanāhī) is an ancient philosophical question. Muslim theologians, however, attempted to resolve it through the distinction between the possible (mumkin) and the Necessary Existent (wājib al-wujūd). According to them, the Necessary Existent is the source of all possibles, while He Himself has no source.

I raised an objection: the problem remains exactly where it was. Philosophers affirm an infinite chain of causes and effects, while the theologians, by introducing the term “Necessary,” have likewise declared the chain to be infinite. The sequence remains; only the terminology has changed. The teacher became annoyed and said that this was a frivolous question, and that he did not engage in frivolous debates. With that, the lesson ended for the day.

The problem of infinite regress was not resolved. During the discussion, however, I told my classmates that the clouds drink water from the Gomti River and then cause rain. After the lesson, a new question arose in my mind: where, then, does the Gomti River itself come from? One classmate replied that his brother studied at Nadwat al-ʿUlamāʾ, and according to him the Gomti flows past Nadwa. This meant that the Gomti comes from Lucknow. I asked: and where does it come from in Lucknow? Someone said that it must come from somewhere beyond Lucknow. Once again, we found ourselves caught in the grip of infinite regress.

One classmate declared that infinite regress is false. Outside Lucknow, he said, lives a sādhū who spits water from his mouth, and from there the Gomti River emerges. We asked: how do you know this? He replied: through reason. If the solution to the infinite chain of events and created things is the Necessary Existent, then my reason immediately decided that the solution to the Gomti’s chain must likewise be that very sādhū. We were satisfied with this answer, and the difficulty of infinite regress seemed resolved.

My admission to Nadwat al-ʿUlamāʾ followed, and with it my intellectual life entered a new phase. There I devoted myself, with full concentration, to acquiring the literary, empirical, and certain sciences, and I gradually grew weary of conjectures, mental speculations, and barren debates. Nadwa taught me that knowledge is not what merely occupies the mind, but what disciplines the intellect, gives direction to thought, and draws a person closer to reality.

The greatest distinction of Nadwa lies in the fact that its founders closed every door to intellectual indulgence masquerading as knowledge, and directed students towards sciences that are both beneficial and effective. Knowledge was not treated as idle amusement or as an intellectual stunt; rather, it was made a means for constructing life, refining thought, and cultivating certainty. Thus, as soon as one steps into Nadwa’s atmosphere, one senses that while there is freedom to ask questions, there is also responsibility to carry those questions through to their proper end.

For this reason, Nadwa led me out of the clamour of conjecture into the stillness of certainty, and taught me that the perfection of reason lies not in the abundance of questions, but in knowing where those questions ought to come to rest. There I learnt that philosophy, when it exceeds its bounds, scatters the mind; and that knowledge, when deprived of the balance of revelation, experience, and adab, remains mere supposition. Nadwa gave the name “knowledge” to precisely this balance, and declared it the capital of life.

When I came to , I befriended a young American Christian, whom I shall refer to here as David (this is not his real name). Our conversations were sometimes academic, sometimes light-hearted, and sometimes revolved simply around human wonder.

One day I narrated to David the entire story of the clouds and the Gomti River—the sādhū, infinite regress, and the mind’s temporary reassurance. He exclaimed in astonishment: how could you have been satisfied with such a narrative—that the source of the Gomti River is a sādhū’s mouth?

I replied: at that time we were novice students of philosophy. The problem of infinite regress was deeply unsettling for us. That answer gave us momentary relief, so we did not probe the existence of the sādhū further. Besides, we were children—how far could we go in such subtlety?

David smiled and said: but now you are grown up.

I replied: yes, and now I also know where the water of the Gomti River truly comes from. He listened attentively. I then presented to him the report cited by al-Dhahabī in Siyar Aʿlām al-Nubalāʾ, volume 11, page 539. Qāsim al-Maṭarriz relates that he once visited ʿAbbād b. Yaʿqūb al-Riwājanī in Kūfa. He was blind and would test his students. He asked me: tell me, who dug the sea? I replied: God did. He said: that is correct, but tell me—who dug it? I said: let the Shaykh tell me. He replied: ʿAlī (may God be pleased with him) dug it. He then asked: who caused water to flow in it? I replied: God did. He said: that too is correct, but tell me—who caused the water to flow? I said: let the Shaykh tell me. He replied: Ḥusayn (may God be pleased with him) caused it to flow. When I had finished hearing his ḥadīths and returned to him again, he repeated the same question: who dug the sea? I answered: Muʿāwiyah (may God be pleased with him) dug the sea, and ʿAmr b. al-ʿĀṣ (may God be pleased with him) caused water to flow in it. At this, I leapt up and ran, while he shouted after me: seize this wicked man, the enemy of God!

David immediately said: this is an open contradiction! In one place Ḥusayn, in another ʿAmr b. al-ʿĀṣ?

I replied: this is not contradiction—this is the very essence of philosophy and kalām. Just as one group claims that the universe rests upon an infinite chain of causes and events, while another claims that this chain comes to rest at the Necessary Existent—though in reality the chain continues, only a new name is given to it. The disagreement is not over reality, but over expression.

Here too, the reality is one; the names differ. In the Shīʿī expression, the river was made by ʿAlī and set flowing by Ḥusayn; in the Sunnī expression, it was made by Muʿāwiyah and set flowing by ʿAmr b. al-ʿĀṣ.

At this, David burst into laughter. I asked what amused him. He said: this reminds me of Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī’s remark—that some philosophical statements are such that if a person were to mutter them in his sleep, people would doubt his sanity.

I said: you have placed both philosophy and kalām in the same row! David replied seriously: that is precisely what Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī said: I tried the paths of kalām and philosophy, but they neither cured the disease of the heart nor quenched the thirst of the soul. The path that appeared closest to me was the path of the Qurʾān.

David then asked me, with great seriousness: when the Qurʾān itself introduces God, why do you not tell me how God introduces Himself in His Book—through what style and what arguments? As I listened, I sensed that this was not a casual question, but an intellectual demand. I replied: you have made a most apt, rational, and thought-provoking request. Its answer cannot be given in a passing conversation. In our next sitting, we shall pause, reflect, and speak at length on Qurʾānic tawḥīd, to see how the Qurʾān addresses the intellect in introducing God, and how it leads the human being out of conjecture to the frontier of certainty.

At that very moment, for the first time, I realised with complete clarity that the real problem was neither the clouds, nor the Gomti River, nor the puzzle of infinite regress. The real problem was that we had contented ourselves with names instead of realities, and remained entangled in terminology instead of meaning.

We had mistaken the cause for reality, and taken expression as a substitute for existence—whereas the path of knowledge lies beyond names, and the station of certainty stands above all expressions.

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Disclaimer: This article was translated by AI. Original post: https://t.me/DrAkramNadwi/8035