No one is as deeply rooted in our cultural traditions as the 16th century poet and mystic Shah Husain. He is an icon that is difficult to follow and yet easy to relate with because of his unique personality and praxis. Shah Husain is fondly called Madho Lal Husain, an expression of an intermingling of indigenous and Arabic nomenclatures. Why Madho? Madho was a Brahmin young man who lived across the river Ravi in the town of Shahdrah in Lahore. Shah Husain was so fond of him that people stopped distinguishing between the two and treated them as if they were one. Hence the name Madho Lal Husain. One can gauge the intensity of the relationship from the fact that Shah Husain took some of his friends to the town of Shahdrah across the river and showed them the place where he would like to be buried after his death. His body remained entombed there for thirteen years and when the river flood washed his grave, his remains were carried to present-day Baghbanpura as predicted by him. What the entire episode shows is that there had been a mélange of two different cultures which made Punjab the most happening place in the region.

Shah Husain owned Islamic tradition as much as he relished the indigenous ethos. People by tagging a poet and mystic with such an unusual name hinted at an emerging syncretic identity as a result of interaction between the Muslims of Arab extraction and locals.

In his poetry which introduced the genre of ‘Kafi’ Shah Husain calls himself ‘Julaha’, a weaver because his family was associated with textile manufacturing. “O, girls! Husain is a weaver, a weaver he is / He has no principal, nor profit is his /Neither he is spoken for, nor married /Neither knots tied nor credit carried / Neither a householder nor a voyager/ Neither a believer nor a denyer /He is what is (Trans; Muzaffar Ghaffaar)”, he declares.

In the caste hierarchy, a weaver is on the lower rung despite being a highly-skilled worker. Shah Husain was from a high caste; his father and mother both belonged to Kalas Rai and Dhudigotras respectively which were sub-castes of the Rajput tribe. Rajput tribe itself is an offshoot of Kshatriya, the traditional ruling class of ancient India. Now poet’s identification with the low caste, an oppressed and repressed segment of the populace, is an explicit rejection of caste hierarchy, the foundation on which post-Harappa society was built. “Action would be the measure of man, a mystic or a sweeper”, he says.

In his practice, Shah Husain was a ‘Malamti’, a self-negating mystic, who adopted self-deprecation as a way of life. You need sheer grit to appear to be much less than what you actually are in a society that prizes self-projection making your achievements look deceptively bigger. To fight the urges of his ego and get rid of self-righteousness and the delusion of grandeur he deliberately behaved in a way that invited censure. It’s reported by all historians interested in his life that despite being a highly qualified Muslim scholar he would shave his beard, don a red robe and sing and dance in the streets of the city to the chagrin of the clergy. And yet nobody would beat him in debate when it came to religious and theological issues. He was so protective about his unusual way of life that he would keep religious scholars, even the reputable ones who admired him, at bay to keep it unsullied by their shenanigans. Scholar and mystically inclined prince Dara Shikoh writes in his book ‘Hasnaatul Arefeen’ about an encounter with a famous religious scholar: “Abdul Hakeem said: I went to him and requested; accept me as your disciple. Husain replied; you want me to be a laughing stock of the city. You are a Mullah and useless for such a task.”

Dara Shikoh narrates another episode in his book. “Shaikh Husain Dhuda came to a gathering and saw a book and asked what book it was. The people replied that it was Diwan-e-Hafiz Shirazi. He opened the book and this ode popped up; Chashma e chammara eye gul e khund andurryab ke umeed e tu khusha aber awanedarad (O, blooming flower, approach the spring of my eyes/In the hope of seeing you they are brimming with sweet flowing waters). He tossed the book on the ground and said that Hafiz too died crying like old women”.

This happening provides us a clear clue about his vision of life premised on the concept of playfulness which has direct bearings on both his life and creative expression. In his practical life, it’s expressed in his singing and dancing in public space, and in his poetry, it runs as a recurrent theme. His favourite phrase is ‘Hassan Khedan’ a concept that is the polar opposite of the mystic concept of quietude and gloomy sobriety. ‘Laughing and playing’, in his view, is an inalienable human right that is organically linked to the pursuit of happiness. “Come friends, let us begin our dance” is the opening line of one of his lyrics. He much before Marx juxtaposes work with playfulness. The work in a class society alienates and playfulness connects. The former is a denial of self-realisation because of the appropriation process and the latter is self-objectification and fulfillment. “O, mother, let me play / Who else would take my turn? “says another verse. In yet another verse he says, “Laughing and playfulness is the boon to us granted by the Lord himself”.

He also uses the metaphors of Basant (the festival celebrating the arrival of spring) and kite-flying for his experience of the joy that life should be. It’s not without reason that his death anniversary is celebrated in spring with the lighting of lamps. The glow of lamps again signifies his passion for illumination, warmth, and cheerfulness. His unique vision has contemporary relevance; we can only fulfill our potential by freely engaging in delightful activities that are sharable. Creative pursuits enrich us and artistic expression affirms life that can have no goal higher than joy and happiness.

— soofi01@hotmail.comO