The Life of a Sufi

PART ONE

Immaculate Foundation

CHAPTER ONE

The Warrior Saint

Shocked, Mirza Muhammad Qasim, ruler of Multan, hurriedly summoned his war council. Only two hours earlier he had received news of the advance of Raja of Amarkot, Balver Singh’s army toward the city. His scouts had reported that the raja’s army—consisting of twenty thousand horsemen, fifty thousand cavalry, two hundred war elephants, and numerous cannons of different sizes—was rapidly approaching. The raja was threatening to destroy the city and put its people to the sword. The city walls built to protect its residents against such an overwhelming force were not a practical solution. The Raja of Amarkot, allied with the ruler of Gujrat and a few other neighboring states, had declared their rebellion against the Moghul Emperor Shah Jahan, in Agra.

Multan was the alliance’s first target to consolidate and strengthen their position. It also seemed an easy task to crush the ruler of Multan and take over his territory, along with his rich treasuries overflowing with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and gold coins. Apparently they were striking at the weakest ally of the Moghul Empire. This was absolutely necessary to support and finance their rebel forces. The raja was advancing from the northeast at the head of his army, and at his pace could reach the city in less than two days.

The war council assembled in the darbar (reception hall of a palace), which, fuller than normal, was stuffy and oppressive. As the ruler of Multan reclined on his golden throne, his commander in chief, Afzal Beg, his viziers, and other trusted counselors were standing below and concurring with each other. Panic etched their faces.

Afzal Beg stood up, cleared his throat, and addressed the ruler. Majesty, you have heard the news. The Raja of Amarkot is advancing toward Multan with a powerful, well-armed force. He has declared war against us. As you know, Raja Balver Singh is a battle-tested warrior, and has gathered the support of Gujratis and other states as well. Our scouts have reported that an advance party of ten thousand horsemen, consisting of Rajput fighters, is rapidly approaching, followed by an even larger army with two hundred war elephants not far behind. Even if we launched a surprise attack, we could not even think of falling upon the enemy in the open. As a matter of fact, our forces are outnumbered. We command only two thousand horsemen and twenty-thousand-foot soldiers. We should stay inside the city walls, fortify our positions, and wait for reinforcements to arrive from Lahore and Agra. I have already sent my dispatches for immediate help from the Emperor Shah Jahan.

The chief minister, Abdullah Wakil, stood, his face taut with anger. Our walls will not be able to withstand the onslaught of the cannons and the overwhelming army of the raja. Moreover, it would take at least two weeks for reinforcements to arrive. We should negotiate with the raja to buy some time, or enter a truce.

Furious, the ruler of Multan got up and began pacing back and forth. His eyes flashed with anger, and his right hand gripped the hilt of his diamond-and-emerald-studded sword. The darbar fell into silence. At that moment a young commander, Bazaid Muhammad, stood up. A determined warrior, he was tall and muscular, with a well-built body, a sunburned face, and a thick, majestic-looking beard.

You are all cowards! We must strike now before the raja’s forces reach our city. If we are quick, we can intercept and stop them.

His words seemed to stir the air of the darbar and gave much-needed hope and encouragement to the ruler of Multan.

Afzal Beg objected, saying, But this is extremely dangerous. If we are defeated, we will lose everything. The city has strong defenses, and we have able commanders. Hopefully that will give us time for the arrival of Moghul reinforcements. It is better to negotiate and wait for help. We need assistance to battle a full-scale invasion.

The second in command, Haider Ali Khan, could not contain himself and shouted, Bazaid Muhammad is right! An attack on the enemy is our best defense. I am certain that under the command of Bazaid Muhammad, we can cut down the enemy riders before they come close to the city.

The ruler, Mirza Muhammad Qasim, by now had made up his mind. He raised his hand. Every eye was upon him. That is enough. I cannot think of surrendering or abandoning the city. We must attack the raja’s forces and crush them like insects under our feet.

He glided toward Bazaid, looked at him with a self-satisfied expression, and said, I give you command of this attack. Do not disappoint us. The future of Multan is now in your hands. May God be with you.

Other commanders and counselors approached Bazaid, affirming their readiness to fight bravely alongside him. Suddenly the darbar hall was filled with their voices, all shouting, Allah-o-Akbar (God is Great).

Bazaid had joined the Muslim army in Multan two years ago. He was an impressive figure, regal and charismatic in the eyes of all who saw him, Muslims and Hindus alike. He was of a stature and countenance well fitted to his personality. Broad shoulders and with stout legs, he was built for horsemanship. His face, light in complexion, was tranquil and serene, giving the impression of dignity and bravery. His neatly trimmed black moustache and glorious beard accentuated his masculinity.

The morning sun glinted golden on the breastplate of the most awe-inspiring warrior, Bazaid. Within an hour of the meeting in the darbar, he had assembled the bravest of his horsemen, two thousand strong, and they were ready for combat. He briefed his commanders on his plan to launch the offensive outside Multan. He arrayed two groups of five hundred horsemen, one to attack from the right flank and the other from the left. A central column of riders, with him at the head, would attack the main body of the advancing force. The remaining five hundred horsemen were to be positioned behind, to launch a fresh attack once the forward force had combed through the enemy lines. The cavalry of twenty thousand soldiers would follow the advance party.

Over the course of time, Bazaid had trained his fighters vigorously in the art of swordsmanship, ax fighting, spear throwing, and bow and arrow. He had held monthly contests to train them to shoot arrows while riding at full speed and to hit moving targets, to simulate actual fighting. His riders had become so experienced in archery that they could fire thirty arrows a minute on horseback, while holding the reins in their mouths.

He grouped the horsemen into units of one hundred each and appointed a commander. Each unit was further subdivided into units of ten riders, with a lead rider, so they could fight cohesively around an axis and stay together, avoiding chaos and disorder.

It was a clear morning. Bazaid looked forward to surveying the battlefield. It was already getting hot. He knew that within a few hours, with the sun at its peak, the heat would be so great that it would make fighting almost impossible. He saw a cloud of dust on the horizon that he presumed to be a large body of troops on the move. It was clear to him that it was enemy forces approaching quickly, and he was ready to meet them head on.

The enemy was confident of his superior numbers and had arrayed his riders on the hillocks in three parts: left flank, right flank, and a main force in the middle.

Surging with excitement, Bazaid kicked his white stallion forward, the horse breaking into a gallop. Just half a mile away from the front line of enemy riders, he craved the taste of battle and the thrill of not knowing what the outcome would be. Suddenly, on the horizon he saw a knight with a flag and shining armor, atop a black stallion. Then another one appeared, then many more, and soon there were thousands of riders arrayed and ready for combat. To him, there seemed to be more than ten thousand as they came galloping down from the high ground. The raja’s son, Uday Singh, advancing in the lead, commanded the riders.

Bazaid signaled his warriors. As soon as they received his signal, they attacked with lightning speed, raising a dust storm amid the noise of the galloping horses. The cloud of dust swirled like a tornado, covering the blazing sun and diminishing its splendor.

Bazaid, a holy warrior unmatched in power, bravery, and speed by any other fighter in the entire Moghul army, scrutinized the entire situation knowing that he had placed his riders under the able command of his trusted comrades. Haider, Hussain, Sohrab, Ali, and Akbar each led a section of one hundred fighters that Bazaid himself had specially trained for lightning attacks. They were not only superb swordsmen but excellent archers and experts in spear fighting as well. As soon as the enemy riders were in sight, Bazaid and his force attacked the oncoming enemy head on. His horsemen, armed with bows and arrows, were excellent marksmen. Each rider stood up in the stirrups, holding the reins in his teeth. Each pulled an arrow from the back, notched it, pulled back, and fired with such precision that, in an instant, ninety of the enemy horsemen toppled to the ground. Each one shot at least ten arrows in rapid succession, resulting in one third of the enemy fighters dismounting. Bazaid’s forces closed in, taking out their spears and impaling their targets, cutting through their armor to skewer the enemy riders and eliminate all within range.

Bazaid saw the mount of one of the charging rider crash to the ground. Two arrows protruded from its neck. As it fell, it catapulted its rider into the dust. Simultaneously, another enemy fighter slipped from his saddle, with an arrow stuck in his eye. One of the Rajputs swerved his horse into the path of Bazaid’s white stallion in an attempt to unsaddle him. Bazaid reacted quickly. Pulling hard on the reins, he managed to turn the mount. At the same time he delivered a strong backslash with his sword that cut through the knee of his opponent, making him fall from the saddle. The fallen fighter attempted to stand, but his knees would take no weight, and he collapsed and was trampled by the hooves of the oncoming horses. As Bazaid looked around, he saw the fighting had intensified. Clouds of choking dust swirled all around him, and the sour stench of human and animal sweat filled his nostrils. Danger and unpredictability always thrilled him. It would take him only an instant to react even if attacked from behind unexpectedly.

Bazaid once again charged into the mass of enemy horsemen. He attacked a rider with his blade but saw his sword glance off the rider’s breastplate. With the next strike, he inflicted a deep cut into the upper arm of the enemy rider. Soon he was on the other side of the melee. He turned back and kicked his white stallion forward into the middle of the turmoil, striking vigorously to the left and right as he did so. He was young and strong, and the warrior blood of his ancestors flowed in his veins.

A tall and heavy-built fighter mounted on a chestnut-colored horse charged toward Bazaid, spear extended in front of him. Catching him at the last moment, Bazaid deflected the spear with his steel. Simultaneously, Bazaid drew his lance swiftly with his left hand and plunged it deep into the man’s left flank, toppling him to the ground, where he sprawled in the dust.

As the result of his warriors’ onslaught, the enemy forces were slowly giving way, turning their horses and attempting to flee.

It was then, however, that the second wave of Bazaid’s fighters unleashed their might as the first group combed through the enemy front lines and started returning to regroup. While their horses galloped, the warriors stood in their stirrups and fired volleys of arrows toward their moving targets.

Out of nowhere, a tall and muscular warrior attacked Bazaid with his sword, striking his breastplate and almost knocking him down. It was none other than Uday Singh, the son of the Raja of Amarkot. Seeing the fate of his Rajput fighters, he was furious. As Bazaid struggled to control himself, Uday Singh rode at him again. Bazaid swung his sword at his Sing’s head, and the enemy’s blade hissed through the air just above it. With a quick slash of his sword, Bazaid severed Singh’s head. Although Bazaid’s face was spattered with the bright red blood of the enemy, he could not but be impressed by Uday Singh’s raw courage.

Spinning around Bazaid surveyed the enemy’s position and saw it disintegrating. Most of the horsemen were galloping away in a panic. His heart was filled with a warrior spirit. He felt a rush of excitement as he always did in battle, but at the same time, he felt a greater sense of responsibility than ever before. With the blood of battle thumping in his eardrums, he gazed out to the glittering horizon, shielding his eyes.

Multani troops under the command of Bahram Khan had begun their march with great speed toward the battlefield. The cavalry armor glittered from afar, and their swords—with a tremulous motion—sent forth rays of light. It was a marvelous scene to behold the troops surging over the plains like waves at sea. Soon the two opposing forces met face to face. The enemy, though, was unsettled by the disorderly retreat and shameful defeat of their mounted fighters.

Bazaid ordered another wave of attack. At his command the riders took their reins in their teeth and, standing in their stirrups, loosened off volleys of arrows toward their enemies. Many foot soldiers fell as the result of the attack, and many more were cut down in the heated onslaught. Bazaid turned his horse toward the enemy position, sword in his right hand. He was now well into the enemy’s column, cutting and slashing as he rode. Soon he emerged on the other side, pulling up his panting horse as his loyal fighters gathered around him. He charged back into the enemy line. Within moments he was on the Rajput commander, slashing his face. As the Rajput fell, blood gushed from his wounds, and the hooves of the attacking column trampled him.

Suddenly, at the prescribed hour to perform his ritual prayers, Bazaid dismounted in the middle of the mayhem of battle. He was a man of extraordinary courage and believed that man’s destiny was already written by God. His followers saw him not as a spiritual warrior but as an image of perfection and power. As he prayed, the two forces engaged in literally blistering heat. The skin of the warriors burned under the hot metal of the armor. The fighting was intense.

The raja’s war elephants were causing much havoc. Two hundred of the big beasts were swaying violently. Archers sitting in the howdahs (carriages positioned on the backs of elephants) were shooting arrows at Bazaid’s riders. Luckily, the Multani army had been able to transport smaller cannons to the front lines. The army had a total of fifteen lightweight cannons positioned in groups of five in three different locations. Muslim gunners loaded the cannons and touched lighted tapers to the firing holes. Fifteen loud explosions followed in rapid succession, with a deafening noise that filled the area with white smoke and obscured the vision. When the smoke had cleared, ten of the enemy elephants had been hit. Five of them lay on the ground. Two of them had gashes in the belly, from which their intestines were protruding. The other three were badly wounded and ran away in panic, crushing enemy soldiers in their path.

To Bazaid’s right rode Haider, a young commander who shouted Allah-o-Akbar as he brought his sword down with all his might, splitting a Rajput helmet and the skull beneath it. Directly in front of him, Bazaid saw one of his riders holding a spear charge one of the raja’s largest gray war elephants. Holding the reins in one hand, he swerved his horse, and with full force plunged the spear deep into the elephant’s eye. As blood gushed from its wound, the beast jerked in pain, turning violently and running backward. Bazaid stood in his stirrups and shouted to his riders to fire arrows toward the archers in the howdahs. Almost immediately arrows began to rain on the archers sitting in howdahs on tops of the remaining elephants. Many of them fell, arms flailing into the dust. One of the mahouts was shot in the throat and fell from the neck of his beast, sprawling on the ground. Bazaid’s riders constantly lapped around the enemy, pouring volley after volley into their ranks. The arrows they fired from the powerful bows pierced enemy armor, slicing into flesh and bone.

Bazaid heard the second round of cannon shots. Once again, thick smoke obscured everything. He saw many elephants being hit, collapsing, and shedding their howdahs and archers head first to the ground. More enraged elephants began to turn around and charge backward, trampling whatever lay in their path. Horses and elephants trampled the fallen, the dead, and the wounded.

Glancing over his shoulder, Bazaid again surveyed the battlefield. The glare from the orange disk of sun had lost all its intensity. He gathered his riders, almost five hundred of strong, and put them in motion galloping quickly toward the enemy’s falling defenses. The raja’s disorganized forces were disintegrating rapidly. In a last push, Bazaid’s men steadily crushed the remaining enemy positions. As Bazaid’s battle-hardened warriors advanced, enemy fighters fell one by one, opening the way to the rear. They fought with full force and, displaying expert swordsmanship, slashed with their swords left and right.

The enemy attack had lost all momentum. Panic had spread throughout the already frightened enemy ranks, and within a short time, the whole army was fleeing like dark clouds blown before a strong wind. Horsemen fell back, foot soldiers abandoned their positions, throwing their weapons and running for the rear. Soon the battlefield was still. The victory was complete.

Bazaid took in the scene. As his soldiers searched for fallen comrades and tending the wounded, he spotted a young Rajput lying on the ground, blood oozing from his neck. Bazaid dismounted, wrapped his scarf around the young man’s neck wound, gave him water from his own water bottle to drink, and said, Save your life. Go home to your family.

The battlefield was littered with bodies of soldiers, many still wounded and alive, moaning and crying for help. Corpses of horses and elephants were scattered all over, already emitting a foul smell. Green flies buzzed around the protruding intestines of the animals.

The cavalry commander, Bahram Khan, rode up to Bazaid and said, You have achieved a great victory today. May God’s celestial light shine upon you.

What are our losses? Bazaid inquired with sadness.

We lost two thousand comrades, and another three thousand are wounded. The enemy losses were five times that. We have more than five thousand captives, answered Bahram Khan. ‘What is their fate?"

Keep them for a few more hours and then release them to go to their homes, but make them take an oath not to take arms against Muslims in the future, Bazaid replied with determination.

They had captured a good-size booty comprised of ten thousand horses, one hundred elephants, and a cache of arms, including long-barreled muskets, swords, spears, battle-axes, and arrows. They also had taken into their possession chests full of gold coins and jewels.

The sun, still an orange disk, colored the sky. The orderly procession of triumphant soldiers marched back in great pomp, accompanied by blowing trumpets and beating kettledrums. How proud Bazaid felt to ride at the head of his warriors, in shining armor and mounted on his favorite white steed. Behind him fluttered a black-and-white-striped banner sporting a crescent. He was immediately followed by those fighters who had distinguished themselves in the battle.

Multan and its citizens were getting ready to welcome its hero and brave sons. Crowds of people gathered outside the city walls along the path of the returning soldiers. The people, eager for a glimpse of their savior, came out in such huge numbers that soldiers had to hold them back with their spear shafts. The jubilant crowds held marigold garlands, flowers, and bottles of rosewater to sprinkle on the returning fighters. The city gates were covered with cloths of gold, and the walls were decorated with velvet and brocade curtains. Thousands of diyas (oil lamps) were lit around the perimeter of the city. Hundreds of tall candles burned along the streets, and candelabras were ablaze on tall buildings.

Women and children stood on rooftops, waving to cheer on their soldiers. The welcome celebration ended with a magnificent display of fireworks, exploding bright colors, and sparks pouring like rain. It was as if golden and green stars had exploded into the dark sky. Flashes of red, yellow, and orange blossomed in the night sky, followed by bursts of silver fire turning into purple and pink clouds.

When Bazaid finally reached home, he was exhausted, and his muscles still ached from the daylong battle. He lay down on a charpoy (rope-strung bed) and looked up at the sky, where stars now lit the soft darkness. He gazed into the infinite mystery of the stars. Is everything somehow predestined by God? How much of a man’s destiny rests in his own hands and how much is predestined? These questions subsided in his heart as he prostrated on the ground and thanked God for his boundless mercy. He was full of joy for being alive and victorious.

CHAPTER TWO

Power and Glory

News of the great victory of the Muslim forces in Multan sent waves of shock and awe to the neighboring hostile kingdoms. However, it was welcome news in Agra, the capital of the Moghul Empire. It brought both relief and a sense of great joy to Shah Jahan, Emperor of India. As an emperor, he had been battling his enemies since a young age. It had been two days earlier that the ruler of Multan had made an urgent plea for military help from him. Forces from the Lahore and Agra forts, consisting of thirty-thousand riders and fifty-thousand cavalry, had been readying themselves for the march to Multan to repulse the invaders.

Shah Jahan was impressed by the bravery and lightning attack of Commander Bazaid Muhammad and his fighters, who, despite the small size of their force, had inflicted heavy losses on the enemy, the likes of which had never been seen before. This had been a battle of epic proportions, in turbulent times. It further strengthened the glorious Moghul dynasty and Shah Jahan’s rule over two thirds of the Indian subcontinent.

Shah Jahan was a courageous, ruthless, and supremely confident ruler, a descendent of the legendary Moghul warriors Genghis Khan and Timurlaine. He had been the fifth Moghul emperor to inherit an empire that stretched a thousand miles across India with all its wealth, glory, and magnificence.

Moghul history had been one full of violent battles, brutality, treachery, and dynastic rivalries. It had been a tale of overwhelming passions, emotions, tragedy, and murder. The high point of the empire’s glory also had become a tipping point in Moghul fortunes. In fact, the greatest blow to the empire had come from within. The seeds of its destruction had been sowed by the birth of sons, because, according to Moghul custom, any one of the sons who was brave and ambitious could claim the throne for himself. Therefore, rebellion, treachery, disloyalty, and murder were the normal behavior between brothers and sons as they fought for their share of the kingdom. During his lifetime each one of the emperors had seen ups and downs. There had been constant battles between brothers and between sons and fathers.

India had been mother to many highly developed civilizations in the history of mankind, dating back to 3000 BC. The legendary ruler Ashoka established a vast empire that stretched from the Khyber Pass to Assam and from the foothills of the Himalayas to the plains of Deccan (Mayssor). He had been a mighty king, but brutally ruled his people by raising and collecting taxes on everything. He considered everything in his dominion to be his God-given right. After his death, the great empire slowly disintegrated and was divided into a patchwork of regional kingdoms.

In the wider world, India had become famous for its exotic wealth of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and spices. It was rich in natural resources and was singularly the only source of diamonds until the eighteenth century. Therefore, it had been the target of invaders throughout its history. Alexander, in 326 BC, had invaded India, crossed the river Indus, and reached the present-day Punjab. Here the epic battle between the Indian ruler Porus and Greek fighters took place. Even though Porus’s army consisted of hundreds of war elephants and a vast cavalry, he was defeated by the battle-hardened and militarily skilled Greeks. Turkish and Afghan armies constantly had invaded India for booty and plunder around AD 1000. They had established kingdoms over much of the subcontinent, and as a result enriched Indian culture with Islamic traditions, art, and architecture.

The Great Moghul invader Genghis Khan had advanced up to the banks of the Indus River, stopped there, and returned to his own homeland. In 1398, King Timur had crossed the Indus River over a bridge of boats, and plundered and pillaged whatever came his way, all the way to the capital of the Delhi sultanate. He butchered its residents and burned the entire capital, leaving heaps of carcasses. The death and destruction were on a scale that it is said that nothing stirred, not even a bird, for two months.

Timur, however, spared architects, craftsmen, and stone masons. He collected them from the territories he conquered and took them to Samarqand to beautify and build his capital. Moghuls were lovers of structures such as architecture, and gardens. They erected magnificent buildings, domed mosques and tombs, and lush, resplendent gardens. Timur, with the help of the skilled artisans he had brought with him from his conquests, built a splendid, blue-domed mausoleum for himself, which to this day is a landmark of his glorious past. Before leaving India, Timur established a new kingdom, the Sayyids dynasty, to represent him.

With the pretext that the Sultanate of Delhi had been established and belonged to Timur, Babur, the great-great-grandson of Timur, attacked India to reclaim its throne for himself. Babur became king of Ferghana at the age of twelve, when his father suddenly died from an accidental fall. Ferghana was a small state near Samarqand in central Asia. Rulers in the neighboring states of Uzbekistan and Afghanistan were engaged in battles most of their lives, to expand their territories. Most of the fighters traced their lineage to either Genghis Khan or Timurlane. Babur inherited blood from both. His mother was a direct descendent of Genghis Khan, known as the Oceanic Warrior because he plundered more than half of the known world, from sea to sea. Babur inherited his warrior spirit from Timur on his father’s side. Behind their conquests and adventures, Moghul emperors always had the backing of powerful women. In his early years, Babur had been guided by his intelligent and shrewd Moghul grandmother.

At the behest of his grandmother, a civil war soon erupted in Samarqand. Babur took advantage of this opportunity, attacked the city, and captured it without much resistance. For him, Samarqand embodied the glory of his