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Nund Rishi: A Rosary of Hundred Beads by K. N. Dhar

“Kartal Phtrem ta garimas drati”
(I broke the sword and fashioned the sickles from its molten metal)
~ Shiekh Noor-Ud-Din

The book was first published in 1981. It opens with a short ‘Printer’s Note’’ by noted Kashmiri scholar M.Y. Taing. He writes,”Sheikh Noor-Ud-Din’s was an era of intense cultural clash. Islam had won its political victory but it had yet to overcome the spiritual and cultural resistance of Native streams. Its task was not made easy by the preachers of the new gospel, who came from alien lands and tried to bask in the sunshine of swords, out-sheathed by the Muslim victors of the land. This only compounded the sense of cultural shock. Noor-Ud-Din with his alchemy of synthesis challenged both and won a resounding moral triumph. He gave a distinct Kashmiri coating to Islamic doctrines. This was not a verbal gimmick.”
The note was written in 1981 while he was in Jammu. Nund Rishi’s sayings are now often read in the above given context: He basically came up with a distinct Kashmiri flavor of Islam.
Professor K.N. Dhar (it must be mentioned, Director of Shri Parmananda Research Institute Srinagar), the man behind this book of translation of Nund Rishi’s Shruks, in the ‘Synopsis’ to the translations, adds another, less mentioned, dimension to the context. He alludes to an old conflict within Islamic world, a question that strangely enough is still often asked, a conflict revolving around the questions whether Sufis were into free interpretation of Islamic tenants and whether that made them less Islamic and more of something else. He mentions Sufis (Shah Hamadan and his Son, and the Syeds) and their initial contribution to the spread of Islam in Kashmir through their missionary efforts that weren’t necessary so popular or effective in Kashmir. He mentions Sufi Syeds and their supposed aversion for Reshis (as documented by Dr. Mohibul Hassan and a claim apparently contested by K.N. Dhar). K.N. Dhar writes,”In this context, we should make it abundantly clear that Reshis of Kashmir derive their inspiration from the word of ‘Quran’ and the life of Prophet Mohammed. It has been wronly asserted that Reshi literature represents the amalgam of whole thinking on the terse subject of Divinity current in Kashmir from dawn of civilization. While going through the ‘Shruks’ of the originator of this Reshi Cult “Nund Rishi” the emphasis on tenets of Islam, reverence for Prophet Mohammed and also the attributes of a true Mussalman are the loudest. The language employed and approach made towards Divinity might have cut across the barriers of religions at times, but it is a common feature with all great religions and needs to be underwritten. Assimilation and in no way rejection forms their attitude to life. ”
K.N. Dhar wrote this on Shivratri of year 1981 while living in Srinagar.
And then begins the writer’s English rendering of Noornama , which seems at times seem like a simple but earnest man’s mediation on Death, Doomsday and hereafter, Hell and hence the need for man to behave proper, redemption. These rendering interestingly come with footnotes (with Hindi, Persian, Urdu, Sanskrit wordings) that make esoteric references to Koran, Shariat, Gita, Vedanta and its Yogic breathing exercises, Hindu concepts of light and so on.
Sample this:
At the appointed hour of bidding farewell to this feeting world, you will be torn between the obligation you owe to your own self and those to Super-Self; even if, belated realization of yoking yourself to spiritual pursuits, will dawn upon you, yet you would be lamenting your lot in leaving behind your loving wife and riches; through the sorcery of faulty perception. If you would opt for overcoming this embarrassment, the inner perennial effulgence of unerring comprehension is the ready-made ool for you – a sinless soul inherently-to groom your inborn innate faculties to reach up to that mental beautitued called self-consciousness.
The note with this one reads:
Herein explicit reference has been made to shaivistic Monism, wherein the ultimate object laid down for the realiser is to cultivate ‘Sat Prakash’ – unending and unquivering innate light – a synonym for self-consciousness. Herein yogic practice of controlling breath has been alluded to. Vedanta is at pains to exhort to the realiser the urgency of ‘Pranayama’ and through this physical and mental drill reach upto the tenth pinnacle of yogic excellence where self and super-self become one indissoluble whole.
Sitting in Ghaziabad, in middle of a power-cut, as I read these heavy worded lines in second edition of this book, printed at Delhi-6 in 2004, given to me as a gift by an uncle who I suspect is no friend of Islamists, I lament my inability to comprehend any of it. As each year passes, I am finding it more and more difficult to relate to these great Kashmiri concerns and their beautiful poetic motifs. But I also realize, as each year passes by I am drowning in more and more of these dead motifs.
“I was brought to life simply to rise above the temporal level, but my mind unbridled of course, was allured by the objects of sense. Behold! How a full baked experience of mine even got deceived? What I have, for sooth, gained by being born into this world”
I am told about things like: Hazrat Bal was seat of power for ‘Sher’ National Conference, Jamia Masjid was for ‘Bakra’ Moulvis and Nund Rishi’s Trar Sharif, giving an ironic twist to Nund Rishi’s sickle saying, was seat of power for ‘Marxist’ G.M. Sadiq.
I am drowning in mutilated motifs rendered long irrelevant. The stories are not linear, not anymore, that audience is gone, and we now read: even if sword was followed by sickle, sickle was broken and sword reformed, what if sword is broken and sickle remade, to hell with sickle, to hell with sword. Poet you are dead, irrelevant, your grave a block of cement, a shrine, rejoice, your words a line carved in quick lime, mourn, you are still revered.
“The soul is as fleeting as the body which enshrines it. This world is as ephemeral as the thoughts, which fashion it.
Such verses of mine demand un-divided contemplation, O Great Lord: do away with my sinful demeanor.”

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Old Photographs of Jammu

Map of Jammu City. Company Period Punjab. 1880-90 A.D.
First (Suspension) Bridge over River Tawi, Jammu. (1788 A.D.)
A Thirsty Special Train.
First Train to Jammu from Sailkot. 19th Cent. A.D.

Old Photograph of Raghunath Temple.
The Triumphal Arch in the Jammu Town.
Water Tank (Now Vanished) attached to Raghunath Mandir Jammu. 19th Century A.D.

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Ruins around Jammu

From the incredible collection of Man Mohan Munshi Ji.

Carving of Hanuman on a boulder in Dry river bed near Billawar (formerly Vallapura)
in Kathua District

Next six photographs are of temple ruins at Chediai (North of Tikri on Jammu-Srinagar Highway). Needless to say that the site is in need of restoration and preservation.

A channel for water erected on arches for a waterfall( now dry)
Statues of Lord Shiva and Parvati  mounted on Nandi and Garuda
Lord Kama (Hindu God of love ) mounted on peacock
Lord Vishnu and Brahama. And Vishnu as Matsya Avatar
Unidentified. [Right one is probably Krishna riding Kalia the serpent]
A  Pillar partly broken

Next set of photographs are of other places of interest around Jammu.

Temple of Sankpal (a local Deity) close to Sanna Sar
Temple at Cheni( architecture resembling to that of Kirmachi)
What is left of Basoli Palace cum fort
Riasi Fort recently renovated

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To the Library

While growing up, a visit to the public library was a monthly affair. My grandfather would take me with him to the library to borrow and return books. While he would pick his books, I would walk around its dark, cool alleys lined with rows of books, unordered, picking books that would interest me, reading a passage, picking torn, single, yellowed pages that usually lay at the bottom of the pile, or lay hurriedly buried between other books. Reading, with a feeling that I could easily spend my life there. Books, so many of them. What more can life offer, I would think. My grandfather would invariable pick on history, fiction – short stories and novels, Indian and non-Indian, essays – on politics and literature, poetry, theosophy, philosophy and religion. On a membership card which let him borrow at most three or four books, in any odd combination of these picks, any given month, a bunch of books would invariable find their way to me. While my grandfather would take notes in a diary, scribbling a line or a passage of his linking from a book (my father lamenting his father’s bad memory), I slowly mastered the ability to finish a month’s quota of books in a week and still be hungry for more, ready to goad him into visiting the dingy old library again.

Jammu is an old city. Or rather now a city of the old.

During last couple of years, on my in-frequent trips back to the city, going through his book shelf, I realized my grandfather’s pick had gone down to mostly books like ‘Vairagya Satakam’ by Bhartari and maybe a book on Kashmir. Checking the library card told me his trips to the library weren’t religiously regular anymore. 

Last week, on my most recent short trip to the city, he complained about watery eyes and blurred vision. Not to be outdone, I told him I have the same problem somedays. I am told on some days he forgets that he has already had lunch. I am told only on some days it is because of memory, rest of the time he is in fact hungry. Decade and a half of diabetes (which he has managed quite well with his active and clean lifestyle) and two operations for cerebral hemorrhage, second one just after a trip to Kashmir a couple of years ago, have taken a toll on his health.

Still. At Menzraat function of a cousin sister, pulling me aside, an uncle told me to accompany my grandfather to the banquet hall and have him eat something. So I slow walked with my grandfather to the hall, taking one step at a time, climbing stairs, him holding my hand. Inside, as I prepared to have a plate ready for him, I asked him what would he like to have. He smiled and took the thumb of his right hand to his mouth. Confused for a moment, I realized he was signing for booze. Signalling again, he asked, ‘Where are they drinking tonight?’ He wanted to know where were the men of the house drinking.  In a typical Kashmiri manner, most of the drink on such family events is done in private, away from the women and elders, probably in some corner room next to the kitchen. As I laughed my heart out, I walked my grandfather, a life long ‘almost teetotaller’, who was now in a celebratory mode looking to ‘wet his beak’, and led him straight to the lair of drinkers.

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This time I had the opportunity to re-visit the library with an Uncle, my Mamaji, who wanted me to check out some old photographs of Jammu that were shown in a recent exhibition at Kala Kendar of Jammu (apparently it had a surprisingly good response from the city dwellers) and that are now placed in the ‘Reference Section’ of the library. The last time I remember going out on such an outing with Mamaji on his Scooter, we were in Kashmir, I must have been seven and he took me to surprise trip to ‘Exhibition Ground’ where I got to see ‘maut ka kuan‘ and cocoons getting boiled for silk.

This trip wasn’t as dramatic but it was just as fun. My Mamaji had reference of someone, a reference always helps in such endeavors, but that someone had since been transferred to some other office. The new person in his seat, wasn’t in office, so to see (and possibly photograph the collection) instead we had to deal with two kindly looking aunties who (probably intimidated by a camera and beguiled by my ‘educated’ air)  kept asking if I hadn’t photographed their official desk that had a bunch of tiffin boxes, half-open, placed over newspapers. It was almost lunch time. I told them it is understandable. They thought I was from some cable channel or such. (Ah! My educated air!)

I told them the purpose of the visit. There were complications. In absence of  a senior officer they couldn’t let me photograph the collection. They had strict orders prohibiting it. In Jammu, photography is prohibited even in exhibitions. The reason, an old official one: if we let everyone have what we have, who will come to us. And so history remains in offices.

It told them I understood and dropped my camera next to a tiffin. As we discussed copyright issues, some how conversation took an interesting turn (actually you just have to say, ‘Look at west’ ). One of the women went to tell an anecdote that according to her summed up the issue: Tagore went to America, to its most famous library, and asked them to show him their most prized possession. They brought forth a book bound in golden (or something precious like that, she added in after thought). Tagore (that should be Vivekananda, was my early-thought) was expecting to see a Bible or something from the west, but he was astonished, and beaming with pride, to see The Bhagavad Gita. ‘We don’t care about out things,’ the woman added as she passed a big thickly bound catalogue of old images.

It was a collection photographs shot by lesser known Raj era photographers Herzog & Higgins and dated early 1920s. The collection has some incredible photographs of old Jammu – Mubarak Mandi, Raghunath temple, Tawi and some rare panoramic shot of Jammu city. Sadly, most of these panoramic shots are, for the sake of convince, cut into two in the pages of the book.

Another collection of old photographs included photographs of a royal marriage – Maharaja of Jammu & Kashmir on an invite to some other Kingdom (Kishangarh?). Kings shooting, riding elephants, stuff like that.

I was kind of disappointed that I couldn’t capture some of the incredible scenes I saw (those in the city must check it out). There were places I could recognize like the old secretariat at Mubarak Mandi, for sometime in early 90s, we lived in old area surrounding this place, view from Tawi river (although its sparseness was shocking), my father’s childhood favorite Ragunath Mandir ( but with a view an ancient water tank that is long gone).

I realize like most urban spaces in this region, Jammu too is essentially built upon an ancient tomb. A tomb not only whose last traces are getting fast buried but even the memory of which is fast fading, buried in forced apathy.

As I start to walk out of the library, one of the kindly women suggested that we should go to Kala Kendar where some of the old photographs are still on display. So my uncle kick stated his scooter and we were on our way to a building that all this time I believed to be a government hotel or a tourist center.

Ranbir Public Library, Kachi Chawni
The way to reference section
Inside

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Kiramchi Temples, Udhampur

Some beautiful photographs of the old temple sent-in by Man Mohan Munshi Ji.
He writes about these monuments:  located north of Udhampur town resembling architecture of Orissa temples. Besides other views it is believed that the said temples were erected by artisans from eastern India who accompanied Lataditya Mukipida on his return journey after conquering Eastern India.

 

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Arms of Clock

Come summer holidays and Sheebu, a bit to her displeasure, would watch her top ranking in the hierarchy of children go a notch down. In summer the cousins, or whoever we thought of as cousins, would arrive. Chotu, because of an eight month advantage, would be declared eldest and naturally would take upon herself to take of organizing activities. Chotu’s idea of fun activities was based around the game of ‘Teacher-Teacher’ which meant group reading of school text books and taxing mental exercises.

‘What’s the Time Now? Vinny, when will you learn to read the time? Badi sui kidhar hai? Choti sui kidhaar? Concentrate! When will you learn the difference between ponay gyarah and sawah gyarah?’
‘Chotu, I am confused. Ek hi sui dekh rahi hai!’
‘Gadhay, Barah baj gaye hai. Isliye.’

Even though silent Nidhi topped most of these activities, for obvious reasons, these games couldn’t hold our interest for long. Much to Sheebu’s delight, after a day or two, everyone would be back under her wing and back to games that involved chasing cats, going on adventures round the yard looking for kittens, puppies, roosters and ghosts, antagonizing our parents, chasing each other around the house for no reason, pulling each other’s legs, fueling our tiny egos, getting physically hurt, name calling, pukki-katti, in other words – raising hell. In summer, the old house, our one big heaven, would reverb with the sound of life, sound of children, our sound.

With summer arrived Goldie ‘The Biter’? Her arrival would make life easy for Megha ‘The Screamer’ as we now had someone better to pick on. Ironically, Megha was to become the victim of one of the best bites by Goldie, a memory of which she still carries on her shoulder.

With summer arrived Littu and her wild giggle that could be triggered easily even by silliest jokes. Tagging along would be her kid brother Nishu ‘The Sikh’, only five but already world renowned in Chattabal for his violent temper and a foul mouth, a side-effect, we kids believed, of spending too much time in Jammu. It was said that he once pulled the dangling Dejhoor of a teacher at M.DASS school so hard that the teacher’s ear got torn. But to us, hardly pint-sized, he seemed surprisingly harmless, except for the time when he broke my bat with two clean strokes on the cemented floor just because he felt like it, he amused us, and with his constant profane chant of ‘Mai’yava’, he was a source of some amusement even to the elders.

In summer would arrive little Rahul, who once gulped down a peg off a bottle of Selenium Sulfide Shampoo, probably because it smelled intoxicating and looked yummy too. Or was it Dettol? We realized little ones could be tricky to handle. It dawned on us quite early that little children, although occasionally fun, need constant attention, which inevitably means loss of fun for others. So often it happened that we kept the little ones outside the proverbial circle. They were just to watch from outside. Sometimes we even managed to push Megha outside the circle, convincing her she too was little. But in some games, like Ghar-Ghar, as no family is complete without babies, little ones would find themselves at the center of attention and these would be quibbling over who gets whom.

Besides Rahul, we had toddlers Neelu and Binnu. We all agreed, Neelu had all the potential to grab Megha’s title. Binnu was the quite one.

I write this after attending Binnu’s wedding at Jammu. This was the wedding of last and youngest of my ‘Born-in-Kashmir’ cousins.

Deepu (not to be called Chotu anymore) was there with her two year old girl who greets anyone she doesn’t like, which includes most people, with ‘Haat’ while lucky few people that she finds agreeable, get a ‘Bow-Bow’. Digging deep into the experience gained at handling kids as a kid, and applying the technique known as ‘Kid-you-are-now-an-Aeroplane-Now-Fly’, I got a ‘Bow-Bow Mamma’.

Sheebu came with her seven month old girl whose world right now revolves around only her mother. Though her baby in fascinated by colors (and I suspect her Mama’s wild hair), no technique stands a chance if she just wants her mother.

Nidhi is in US, her in-laws are on visit. She is saving up on holidays to be with Sheebu for her baby’s first birthday.

Goldie was there with her eight month old boy who appears quite calm most of the time even though his teething troubles should be about to start. May be he takes after his father, Honey, who as a kid didn’t think twice before giving away his best toy to me, a ‘Leo Mattel’ gun that threw discs.

Littu, married and settled in Bangalore, couldn’t attend as she was stuck with work, maybe saving up on holidays to be with her parents who she hasn’t seen for a year.

Nishu is saving on holidays to attend his best friend’s wedding. Around ponay gyarah or sawah gyarah at night, he rang-in on way back from work. He had had a long rough day, had his ear eaten by his boss for mistakes committed by someone else. We are in the same city but it has been a year since we met-up. Before the call died, we didn’t even promise each other to meet-up. We know how things are in the city. This knowing isn’t good I guess.

Rahul had all the plans made for attending the wedding. It all came to naught. He got Typhoid. I am yet to call him. Forgot.

Neelu was there. With Binnu marrying, now she is the only one amongst us who still lives in Jammu. She seemed happier this time around, back to old self, even occasionally cracking her nasty jokes.

As I write this, I realize there weren’t many summers like the one that I recall. I am not even sure if I recalled those kids correctly. In fact, there must have been only one summer -the last summer before the summer of our move, the summer we entered a strange black hole, no it can’t be a black hole, maybe we got gobbled by a strange space worm with no insipid point of singularity .

As space shrunk, somehow the distance between any given two points got larger and larger even as time itself moved faster and faster.

What else can explain this but a space worm? Are we still making our way inside its belly or have we been excreted? More importantly did ‘we’ get gobbled or did ‘I’ get gobbled? Are there multiple worms, one devouring another, like those easily explained in archetypal Sci-Fi movies? What if history is not a poetic river or a comforting ocean but an indifferent space worm?

No do not imagine an astronaut with a watch getting sucked inside this space worm. No do not dare imagine yourself inside this entity. Instead imagine Lalla, an experienced inside traveler, getting sucked into this space worm. Would she have written incredible ‘Vakhs’ about her journey outside? Could she have been devoured? Isn’t she traveling right now, being devoured? Would she mind it or would she see a beauty even in this journey? How bad were your days old lady? Do you know about nuclear fusion? It sure gave me sleepless nights as a kid. What is it that you said with a sigh, under hushed breath?

Keth chiy nendari-hatiy vudiy
Kencan vuden nesar peyi
Kenh chiy snan karith aputiy
Kenh chiy geh bazith ti akrayi

Some, though asleep, are yet awake,
While on some, apparently awake, slumber hath fallen.
Some, despite ablutions, are unclean,
While some, ‘mid household care, are actionless.*

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Vakh of Lal Ded translated by J.L.. Kaul.
Image: Sunset at Jammu.

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Amarnath Painting, mid 19th century


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Devotees in the Amarnath cave temple
Jammu, Pahari, mid 19th century
Collection: National Museum, New Delhi
Came across this incredible painting at a miniature art exhibition in Jammu.
There is a lot going on this painting: Gossains(?) drinking water dripping from the ceiling of the cave; women devotees, one of them even carrying a child in her arms. On closer look one can see a Dejhoor dangling from this woman's ear, a good indication that the lady depicted here is a Kashmiri Pandit woman in Pheran. And then outside all this delirious scene, one can see the Muslim Shepherds, one of them looking amused, and one of the looking outside the frame.
A true masterpiece.
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More from this collection to be posted soon. [Update: Posted here]