From Blind Faith to Enlightenment                                  

Autobiography Episode: 1

Naeem Ashraf

I was born in 1964 in the Samahni Valley of Azad Kashmir. Upon coming of age, I found myself raised in a devout Muslim household. My grandfather, whom everyone affectionately addressed as Mian Ji, was a scholar of religion. He taught the Holy Qur’an and led the prayers at the local mosque. Yet, in matters of faith, he was a man of moderation—inclined, toward the quiet paths of mysticism.

Mian Ji held a deep affection for the verses of the renowned Punjabi Sufi poet, Mian Muhammad Bakhsh (1830–1907). In our home, Mian Muhammad Bakhsh’s poetic masterpiece, Saif-ul-Malook, was treasured like a sacred scripture, kept carefully wrapped in a decorative cloth cover. On special occasions, my grandfather would recite passages from Saif-ul-Malook in his resonant, melodious voice with immense passion. These occasions ranged from funeral gatherings to feasts hosted by the poet’s devoted admirers. His audience extended far beyond our village across the Samahni Valley; patrons would frequently invite him to their homes, requesting that he chant the verses of Saif-ul-Malook. Mian Ji would late into the night lose himself in chanting these stanzas. In an era when formal education was scarce, the villagers simply referred to Saif-ul-Malook as “The Book.” I often heard the local folk remark: “We are going to hear The Book from Mian Ji,” “We have invited Mian Ji to recite The Book,” or “Mian Ji will read The Book tonight.”

I recall accompanying my grandfather to a few of these gatherings as a child. In my early years, the verese of Mian Muhammad Bakhsh eluded me, yet the sound alone was enchanting. Lulled by Mian Ji’s sweet melodies and fascinated by the changing expressions on the faces of strangers, I would drift off to sleep. When I awoke the following morning, I would find myself tucked into my own bed at home. My mother would gently explain that I had been carried back in my sleep through the night.

This tender bond was cut short; I was not destined to enjoy my grandfather’s affection for long, as he passed away soon after. Yet, his likeness remains vividly etched in my memory. My most poignant memory of him is the moment of his departure—peering through a window, watching him slip away in his final agony. I was merely five years old. Though our time together spanned only a few short years, the verses of Saif-ul-Malook spoken by his lips found a permanent dwelling in my subconscious.

Years later, by the time I reached the eighth, ninth, and tenth grades, I had begun reading the simpler passages of Saif-ul-Malook on my own. Whenever its verses were rendered on the radio or tape recorder by Punjabi  singers like Inayat Hussain Bhatti or Shaukat Ali, I listened attentively, pondering their meaning. Though the full philosophical weight eluded me then, I grasped its essence surface deep. The true depth of Saif-ul-Malook unveiled itself only much later in my life, as I immersed myself in the works of various Urdu and English poets. Saif-ul-Malook is a rich compendium of Sufism, spirituality, and timeless wisdom. Consider, for instance, these few verses:

1. Sadā nā bāghē bulbul bōlē, sadā nā bāgh bahārāñ,

Sadā nā mā-pēu husn jawānī, sadā nā sohbat yārāñ.

(The nightingale does not sing in the garden forever, nor does the spring forever bloom. Neither do parents, youthful beauty, nor the company of friends endure eternally. Every blessing you possess today is fleeting, bounded by time. There lies a spiritual truth within this verse: one must not seek happiness in the external world but rather plunge into the depths of one’s own soul. Self-realization is an enduring joy; all else is transient.)

2.Bāgh bahārāñ tē gulzārāñ, bin yārāñ kis kārī,

Yār milan dukh jaan hazārāñ, shukar karāñ lakh wārī.

(Of what worth are blossoming gardens and lush meadows without the presence of true friends? When beloved companions gather, a thousand sorrows vanish in an instant, and my heart overflows with a hundred thousand thanksgivings to life.)

3.Nīchāñ dī āshnāī kōlōñ, faiż kisē naīñ pāyā,

Kikkar tē angūr chaṛhāyā, harr  guchhā zakhmāyā.

(No good ever comes from intimacy with the mean and  narrow-minded. It is as if one entagled a grape vine to climb a thorny acacia tree—every cluster of fruit would be bruised and torn. In the same way, ill company wounds the human soul.)

4.Khāsāñ dī gal āmāñ agē, naīeñ munāsib karnī,

Mīṭhī khīr pakā Muḥammad, kutiyañ agay dharnī.

(It is unwise to speak of subtle truths to those who cannot comprehend them; converse always according to your listener’s capacity. To share profound wisdom with the uninitiated is to waste energy—like cooking a rich, sweet pudding only to set it before a dog. The dog may eat it eagerly yet remains oblivious to its worth.)

5.Duniyā tē jehṛā kam nā āyā, ōkhē sōkhē vēḷē,

Us bē-faiżē sangī kōlōñ, behtar yār akēḷay.

(Better it is to walk through life alone than to lean upon a companion who abandons you in times of adversity. From an ungenerous friend, solitude is a far finer companion.)

My grandfather left behind five sons and two daughters; my father was his fourth son. My father was a man of quiet faith. His immediate elder brother, Mian Muhammad Sadiq, remained at home without formal employment, tending the fields and running  a small cloth store. He wore a closely trimmed beard dyed black. Whether out of sheer leisure or a desire to inherit Mian Ji’s spiritual mantle, my uncle transformed almost imperceptibly into a man of religious authority. Thus, following my grandfather’s passing, he seamlessly stepped into the role of village Imam without any formal appointment. Out of deep respect for Mian Ji’s cherished memory, the villagers readily accepted him as the rightful successor.

Uncle Muhammad Sadiq was a tall, imposing figure. Long tresses of hair fell about his head, which he dyed with henna, oiled with fragrant perfume, and parted neatly down the middle. He clad himself in a white tunic and loincloth , his head wrapped in a crisp white turban. His voice was booming and commanded immediate awe. He also dealt in amulets and talismans, prescribed folk remedies for the discreet ailments of young women, and occasionally performed exorcisms to cast out evil spirits. In childhood, every human mind constructs some image of the Divine; for me, that image was the face and form of my uncle. This visual impression of God remained etched in my mind for the next fifteen to twenty years.

My mother was a devoted homemaker—pious, diligent in her prayers and fasts, and remarkably generous in charity. The holy month of Ramadan brought with it a uniquely tranquil, spiritual atmosphere. I remember vividly how our family observed the fasts with religious fervor. I would insist on being awakened for the pre-dawn meal (Sehari), though I was too young to fast. I was warned sternly that breaking a fast prematurely was a grievous sin.

My uncle, Mian Muhammad Sadiq, led the nightly Tarawih prayers. Though he had not memorized the entire Qur’an, he had crammed short verse of holy Quran from the last part of The Book.  Reciting these repeatedly, he would culminate  the twenty cycles of Tarawih, along with the Isha prayer, within a short span of 90 minutes. For us the children, it was all a fun. We would perform our ablutions with great solemnity before taking our places in the very back row. Yet, after a few cycles of prayer, we would drop to the floor in giggles and whispered jokes—only to fall back into line just before the Imam turned his face to pronounce the closing salutations.

(To be continued)

About the Author: Naeem Ashraf is a published translator and interpreter of Urdu and Punjabi languages. Born in 1964, in Samahni Valley of  Kashmir, he attended the University of Engineering and Technology (UET) Lahore and the Virtual University (VU) of Pakistan, where he earned a bachelor’s in mechanical engineering and a master’s in business administration, respectively. Ashraf served in the Pakistan Army for 28 years, retiring as a Colonel in 2012. Following his military service, he dedicated himself to his lifelong passion for literature, focusing on fiction translation. Over the past decade, he has translated nine fiction and non-fiction books between English and Urdu. His work has been published by Sang-e-Meel Publications (Lahore) and is available via Amazon in the US and Canada. Ashraf also co-authored another  book Literary Love Letters.