Tasawwuf Aur Shayari

Because Sufism took the form of an organized movement and a codified belief system in the history of the Islamic world—despite harboring countless doctrinal differences—one feels a certain hesitation in treating it as entirely synonymous with the English word mysticism. However, when we examine its fundamental beliefs, its way of life, and its modes of thought and feeling, we arrive at the conclusion that:

Bahar range ke khwahi jama me-posh

Man andaz-e-qadat ra me-shinasam

[Wear a garment of whatever color you desire

I recognize the measure of your stature]

At this point, we find no difference in the metaphorical meanings of Sufism and mysticism that would make it difficult to consider them synonymous.

Undoubtedly, every word has its own specific history, and its meaning cannot be articulated in isolation from that history or its social and emotional associations. For this reason, I would not want to completely ignore the history of Sufism or the tale of its triumphs and defeats. However, since my subject is not a historical outline of the Sufi movement, but rather the mutual relationship between Sufism and poetry, I am compelled to focus on that universal mode of thought, feeling, and living which has been—and remains—common to both the East and the West, irrespective of specific religions.

Unlike the scientific mode of thought—which is empirical, logical, and analytical—the Sufi mode of thought is intuitive and inspirational. In the world of Sufism, reality is not perceived through the external senses or the mind's power of reasoning, but through a kind of inner vision:

Gah meri nigah-e-tez cheer gayi dil-e-wujud

[Sometimes my piercing gaze tore through the heart of existence]

The Sufi's knowledge is one of vision, observation, and divine manifestations. Like a flash of lightning in the dark night of intellectual inadequacy or doubt, it strikes and reveals the ultimate reality to them:

Dosh waqt-e-sahar az ghussa najatam dadand

Wa andar aan zulmat-e-shab aab-e-hayatam dadand

[Last night at dawn, they freed me from anguish

And in that darkness of the night, they gave me the water of life]

Be-khud az shasha-e-partaw-e-zatam kardand

Bada az jam-e-tajalli ba-sifatam dadand

[They made me lose myself in the brilliance of the reflection of the Essence

They gave me wine from the cup of manifestation of attributes]

This knowledge is not rooted in the duality of the observer and the observed, but in the unity of being. Here, the vision of the Truth (and by Truth, I mean the Supreme or Ultimate Reality, not the material reality of objects) is the vision of the self, and the realization of the self is the realization of the Truth. Thus, when Mir Taqi Mir says:

Kab se lari theen aankhein darwaza-e-haram se

Parda utha toh lariyan aankhein hamari hum se

[For so long, my eyes were fixed upon the door of the sanctuary

When the veil was lifted, my eyes met my own]

...he is pointing to this very unity of being. Furthermore, he alludes to the omnipresence of the Divine Essence in this couplet:

Biz-zaat hai jahan mein woh maujood har jagah

Hai deed chashm-e-dil ke khule, ain zaat ka

[In essence, He is present everywhere in the world

The vision of the exact Essence occurs only when the eye of the heart opens]

However, this vision of the Truth depends on the opening of the eye of the heart, not the physical eye. This knowledge possessed by Sufis and mystically inclined poets is entirely internal; it belongs to the realm of dreams, self-transcendence, meditation, and spiritual revelation. Some have described this knowledge as supra-sensory and supra-rational. Yet, since the distinction between high and low is merely relative—just as from the surface of the moon, the earth appears to be in the sky—I consider it an internal knowledge drawn from the abyss of the mind, the unconscious, or the depths of the psyche. It is an esoteric knowledge of that melody played upon the instrument of nature, composed through the various veils of the moon and stars, the surging of the river, the consciousness of the wind, the circulation of blood, the waves of color and fragrance, the manifestation of the beloved's stature, the laughter of life, and the flood of tears. However, because Sufis consider physical existence to be a veil over true Being—

Hai mushtamil namud-e-suwar par wujud-e-bahr

[The existence of the ocean consists in the manifestation of its forms]

—this is not an objective knowledge, but rather an individual's feeling and experience of the inner unity underlying all phenomena. What is the source of this feeling? Is it the external or internal senses, the unconscious, or the unseen? I have already alluded to this. And is this not the exact same mode of thought and feeling possessed by the poet?

Aate hain ghayb se yeh mazameen khayal mein

Ghalib sareer-e-khama nawa-e-sarosh hai

[These themes come into my mind from the unseen

O Ghalib, the scratching of the pen is the voice of an angel]

Ghalib further explains this unseen and this voice of an angel in the following Persian verses:

Ae zauq-e-nawa sanji bazam ba-kharosh aawar

Ghogha-e-shabe khooni bar-bangah-e-hosh aawar

[O passion for melody, bring me to a roar once again

Bring the tumult of a bloody night to the threshold of consciousness]

Gar khud na jahad az sar az deeda faro baram

Dil khoon kun wa aan khoon ra dar-seena ba-josh aawar

[If it does not spring from the head, I will pour it from the eyes

Turn the heart to blood, and bring that blood to a boil within the chest]

And is the poet's gnosis not a journey of passion, traversed in a state of ecstasy? This rhythmic footfall, this dance of sound, this melody murmuring beneath the words—which constitutes the voice of poetry—and this mysterious dialogue of symbols, signs, and metaphors—which constitutes the speech of poetry—do they not resemble the spiritual states and discourses of the Sufis? It is the exact same mode of thought and feeling: the act of witnessing reality embodied in a realm of profound yearning, and being swept into ecstasy. This is what they both share. The Sufi perceives reality through the inner eye, while the poet perceives it through the eye of imagination. When a Sufi becomes a poet, or a poet becomes a Sufi, these two gazes converge upon a single point.

It is widely held that poetry is not an acquired skill, but a gift of nature. Similarly, the Sufi describes their passion for divine love not as something acquired, but as something innate. The truth is that until the Sufi attains the rhythm and imagination of the poet, and the poet attains the love of the Sufi, neither the Sufi nor the poet is truly complete.

Now, you might say: Look, he too has fallen prey to some optical illusion. How can he reconcile his earlier assertion—that the secret of human greatness lies in the freedom to master the laws of nature and achieve one's goals—with all this talk of spiritual states and discourses, mystical revelations, divine absorption, and intuition? Do not worry.

Masti mein chhor dair ko kaabe chala tha main

Laghzish bari hui thi wa-lekin sambhal gaya

[In a state of intoxication, I left the temple and set out for the Kaaba

It was a great stumble, but I regained my balance]

The knowledge of material realities, through which humanity masters the laws of nature, is a supreme good and the distinguishing mark of our humanity. The history of human consciousness reveals that the flight of our imagination, the freedom of our thought, the breadth and perceptiveness of our vision, and the abundance of our capacity for sacrifice and love are all indebted to the axe of human endeavor, the knowledge of the material world, the conquest of nature, and our myriad inventions. To remain alienated from this, or to view it with contempt, is a degradation of humanity, for:

Muflisi sab bahaar khoti hai

Mard ka aitbaar khoti hai

[Poverty strips away all the bloom of spring

It strips away a man's credibility]

And that philosophy of life which—by viewing the world and the dream of existence as ephemeral—promotes the renunciation of desire and the negation of the self, stands in opposition to both the fundamental principles of life and the majesty of humankind. But pause for a moment of reflection, for:

Ho bhi jata hai jurm aadam se

[Sometimes, man does commit an error]

It is true that desire is not inherently evil, such that one should be taught to renounce it. However, when the fulfillment of one person's desire murders the desire of another, or when it is achieved over the graveyard of another's aspirations, then that longing and its pursuit no longer belong to a human being, but to a beast. There was an era when humanity lacked the material resources to cloak its bestiality in the garments of humanity, or to acquaint itself with the supreme empathy of realizing that the desire of one heart is the desire of every heart. In such times, the emergence of the negative philosophy of renouncing desire was a testament to human morality, not a refutation of it. It is a law of nature that when there is no remedy for grief, one's hand inevitably tears at one's own collar, and the wrath of the dervish falls only upon the dervish himself.

This struggle against the self, this revelation of the inner being, this detachment of abstraction, and this freedom of thought and will—as the poetic line goes:

mar gaye mar gaye peh nahin to nahin

[We may have died, we may have died, but if we say no, it remains no]

—was a profound manifestation not merely of human dignity and virtue, but of man's inner strength. It proved that through willpower and freedom of thought, a human being is invincible. Coercion does not come from nature alone; it also comes from fellow human beings. The Sufi annihilated his own ego, yet he never sacrificed his freedom of thought at the feet of any tyrant or oppressor. His victory over his own self was the ultimate symbol of his intellectual freedom. If today, this moral philosophy of the Sufis clashes with Nietzsche's philosophy of power, Nietzsche's concept of the ego, and Bergson's blind life force, it does not mean that the Sufi philosophy lacks its own majesty and grandeur.

However, before I recount the tale of their high resolve, moral courage, and steadfastness, and before I extract a word of wisdom from their tragic narrative, I would like to set the stage by presenting a contemporary idea that has rendered their tragedy seemingly meaningless today.

The idea that man is an evolved animal is not exclusively Darwin's discovery. An unscientific version of this theory has existed since the time of the Greek philosophers, and it is even mentioned by Rumi. Despite this, an iron line was drawn between man and animal—a line that was insurmountable. That iron line was the freedom of consciousness and will, which the Sufis interpreted as the essence of divinity and the intellect of intellects. In other words, they posited a qualitative difference between man and animal, not merely a quantitative one. However, in the light of Darwin's philosophy of the struggle for survival, many nineteenth-century thinkers—perhaps to justify and validate the bloodthirsty nature of capitalism—erased this qualitative difference between man and animal, maintaining only a quantitative distinction.

This idea gained further momentum from the mechanical materialism of eighteenth-century thinkers, who attempted to analyze consciousness on a chemical level and dissolve it into mere matter. In any case, when the philosophy of Progress was developed by Spencer upon this concept of man, the present was declared inherently superior to the past in every aspect. Consequently, the present was left to its own devices, free from any kind of critical scrutiny or refinement. This was because, according to this philosophy of progress, human consciousness and will were utterly helpless in the face of time.

This Western philosophy left a profound impact on our lives during the era of colonial subjugation. Following Macaulay's philosophy of progress—which equated progress solely with the accumulation of national wealth, completely ignoring the nature of interpersonal relationships—we legitimized the capitalist principle of usury and embraced sheer opportunism. We began to view any criticism or rejection of this system as a violation of the etiquette of British servitude and contrary to the practical wisdom of the time. However, when a universal desire for freedom against Western subjugation eventually emerged—a profound intellectual manifestation of which is found in Iqbal's poetry—the blind imitation of the West and the dominance of Lord Macaulay's leadership began to wane. Alongside this, a critical perspective toward Western knowledge developed, accompanied by a moral drive to reform capitalism.

In Allama Iqbal's poetry, national ethics and the secrets of selflessness (Rumuz-e-Bekhudi) carved out their place through this very sentiment. His emulation of Rumi is an assertion of this same virtuous spirit: that self-love must be beautifully harmonized with the love for others, and evolution must be deeply connected with human morality. In this regard, however, Iqbal placed such immense emphasis on the freedom of the inner self that one sometimes feels that, much like the Sufis, he too considers the borrowed material world and time to be unreal, and that the only true reality is the Ego (Khudi):

Ik tu hai keh haq hai is jahan mein

Baqi hai namood-e-seemiyaee

[Only you are the truth in this world;

The rest is but a magical illusion]

Yet, the bitter realities of life dictate that the world is a harsh taskmaster, and the steed of time is incredibly headstrong. We cannot burden it with our every desire. It restricts its rider's freedom of choice. This does not render man entirely helpless; rather, it teaches him that the conquest of nature lies in obeying the laws of nature, not in turning away from them or in relying on the magical illusions of superstition. Time is not merely a process of change and alteration; it is also an evolution (development), and nothing in the universe is exempt from this process. There is no doubt that the evolution of the unconscious world is unconscious, while the evolution of the conscious world is conscious. Man can influence his social evolution by exercising his inner freedom, but this does not mean he should ignore the external realities of social evolution or turn his back on its evolutionary principles.

In isolation, man is utterly helpless. He achieves freedom only through participation with others. Therefore, the remedy for life's pains and sufferings is only possible through a collective mode of existence. The first and foremost problem of collective life is fulfilling the basic necessities of existence, and increasing moments of comfort, ease, and leisure so that man can devote maximum time to intellectual pursuits. The need for the aid of science and technology in this endeavor is as clear as the midday sun. The second greatest and most important problem of his life is not merely the relationship between the individual and the collective—since the collective encompasses every individual—but also the cultivation of beauty and harmony in the diverse relationships between one individual and another. And this is the most complex problem of all. This is because every human being in the assembly of humanity, endowed with consciousness and freedom of will—even if that freedom is a gift of collective participation—is an end in himself.

This means that the self-actualization or personal evolution of every individual is conditional upon the self-actualization and evolution of all individuals. Society is merely a means to achieve this goal, not an end in itself. Therefore, from this perspective, neither state absolutism nor national absolutism—which is Hegel's theory—is correct, as they give rise to a new form of state coercion. On the contrary, the foundation of society must be based on free participation. If man has not yet learned this, or if the free competition of the capitalist system has molded his nature into its own principles to such an extent that today he is unable to distinguish between individuality and individualism, it does not mean that his nature cannot be reformed through external and internal means. However, this free participation of man should be restricted to matters of public interest or the common wealth. Every effort must be made to ensure that its shadow does not fall upon the inner sanctum of his personal self, where he remains solitary and unique.

Self-actualization does not lie merely in acquiring the comforts of life, such that a person should remain perpetually consumed and striving for them alone. Human beings also possess a profound desire to discover and express their uniqueness and individuality. This is a realm where no one else can be a partner; here, one seeks solitude. This solitude is not attained simply through affluence and leisure; it requires the spaciousness of detachment and a heart free from worldly desires. When a person reaches this stage, they naturally discard many desires, viewing them as trivial as the dirt on one's hands. Respect for human dignity stems from the sanctity of this inner sanctuary, where the individual remains unique, detached, and free. This is a great moral legacy of our Sufis: let alone oppression and exploitation, they could not even tolerate the slightest stain of human degradation. The realization that when a human being's eyes are lowered under the weight of humiliation, the very pillars of the Divine Throne tremble and bow, represents the highest pinnacle of moral sensibility:

Ilahi kaise hote hain jinhein hai bandagi khwahish

Hamein toh sharm daaman-geer hoti hai khuda hote

[O Lord, what kind of people are those who desire to be slaves?

I would feel ashamed even if I were to become God.]

This is precisely why the noble Sufis, rather than emphasizing the relationship between Creator and creation or Master and slave, laid the foundation for the relationship between the Lover and the Beloved. They sought to cultivate this very bond among human beings, for love (ishq) is the ultimate medium for both self-actualization and self-individuation. In love, a person does not merely lose themselves; they also find themselves. Love is not only union but also separation—moment by moment with me, yet every instant fleeing from me.

Whether it be the Sufis or poets with a Sufi disposition, I have repeatedly offered my deepest tributes to this ideal and to their purity of thought. If anyone believes that, given the current state of human nature, this ideal is distant and unattainable, I would suggest they broaden their understanding of human nature. First, they must not strip human nature of the principles of change and evolution. Second, they must not forget that human consciousness can influence even its own inherent limitations. The human being who has altered the course of the winds, defied the earth's gravity, and split the heart of the atom, is certainly capable of influencing their own nature—provided that, alongside external transformations, they also attain self-awareness.

Self-awareness has various degrees. While some find solace in the thought that nature itself prepares us for death and that, ultimately, we must surrender our body and soul to it, there are certain impassioned souls who find delight in the very turmoil of this awareness: the realization that continuity belongs to life, not to annihilation! This continuity in the human realm differs fundamentally from that in the animal kingdom. In the animal world, continuity is entirely biological; in the human world, it is not merely biological but also cultural and civilizational. What we call the endurance of life is not indebted to the mythical Fountain of Life, nor to the eternal life of Khidr. Rather, it is defined by the dance of a flame, the lingering trail of a galaxy—no matter how ephemeral it may be.

Life is not merely a leap from one darkness into another; rather, it lies in holding the standard of humanity high, immortalizing one's footprints across its diverse endeavors, and leaving behind a trail of light. When someone lives with such courage, they begin to comprehend the madness of a martyr on the path of love, a martyr of the quest—regardless of what the ultimate outcome may be:

Haasil na poochh mashhad-e-ulfat ka bul-hawas

Yaan phal har ik darakht ka halq-e-bureeda tha

[Do not ask about the harvest of the battlefield of love, O lustful one;

Here, the fruit of every tree was a severed throat.]

This is the tale of the pure and courageous souls: one was sent to the gallows, another was flayed alive.

In the self-indulgence of the modern age and its worship of the Golden Calf, this may seem meaningless. Yet, whenever and wherever there is a discourse on the freedom of consciousness, the freedom of thought, and the fearlessness to proclaim the truth, those pure-hearted dervishes will emerge from the womb of the past, raising their severed heads like banners. They will be seen illuminating our path of life with their moral courage, their unwavering resolve, their wilderness-wandering madness, their sincerity, and their deep compassion.

The poet Mushafi writes, Poetry and dervishhood walk shoulder to shoulder. This is not merely because their modes of thought and feeling are similar, but also because the pursuit of truth, the speaking of truth, the path of love, and deep compassion are shared between them. Both continue to kindle the lamp of their consciousness and imagination with the blood of their worldly desires.

However, this tale of the pure and courageous belongs to an era when the dervish was genuinely fearless in proclaiming the truth—when he would reject royal decrees and take pride in his connection with the common people. It does not belong to the era when he began to view good and evil as mere relative concepts, adopted political silence, and, dismissing the world as a mere snare of the imagination, began to spin his own web of worldly wealth and illusion. From that point onward, not only did the moral fortitude of Sufism vanish from the dervishes, but the decline of the Sufi movement itself began. It is no wonder, then, that Sheikh Ali Hazin spoke the absolute truth when he remarked, Sufism is excellent for composing poetry—for since that time, Sufism has survived almost entirely through poetry.

I now wish to return to the opening section of my essay, where I stated that the poet's mode of thought and feeling parallels that of the Sufis. I feel that I did not elaborate on this point as thoroughly as I should have. In the Sufi mode of thought and feeling, I have highlighted the importance of intuition, flashes of divine illumination, spiritual observation, meditation, fervent longing, and ecstatic intoxication. Keeping the psychology of poetic creation in mind, I have sought these very elements within the poet. In this context, I have linked one end of intuition to the imagination, and the other to the unconscious—which is what generates intellectual depth, symbolic imagery, ecstasy, and passion.

There is no doubt that composing poetry is a conscious act. Molding an image into the logic of thought and language, and binding passion to the discipline of rhythm—both are conscious processes. It is true that much verse is composed entirely in the light of reason and logic, but such works are classified merely as versification, not true poetry. Not every rhymed or metered text is poetry. For a work to be called poetry, it must possess imaginative creativity; it is on this very basis that the act of poetic creation is distinguished from mere craftsmanship or verbal ornamentation. Poetry sprouts from the dark depths of the unconscious. The more powerful the feeling or emotion, the deeper the roots from which it grows, bringing with it its latent power and the potential organic unity of form and meaning. It undoubtedly flourishes under the sunlight of consciousness, for it is consciousness that resolves the contradictions between image and thought, the specific and the universal, the tangible and the rational. It is consciousness that determines the pauses of silence and the duration of rhythm amidst the repetition of sound, and it is consciousness that adorns the poem with various meters.

The function of consciousness extends even further. It critiques both aesthetic taste and expression. It does not merely prune and polish words, but also corrects the proportion and balance between the part and the whole. However, acknowledging these functions does not refute the reality that the intoxication, ecstasy, emotion, and the beauty of suggestion—created through the use of metaphors and symbols in poetry—are ultimately gifts of the unconscious world. Every poem is rooted in the dark soil of the unconscious. This is what is termed the unseen (ghaib), and the voice of the angel (nawa-e-sarosh) is the very emotion that draws it out from the realm of the unconscious. When one attempts to strip poetry of these elements, viewing them as barriers to meaning, the verse may become clear and transparent, but it is then reduced to mere rhythmic speech rather than true poetry. This is because it loses the creativity, nuance, depth, and expansiveness that imagination, the unconscious, and emotion collectively generate.

In the realm of poetry, these two principles—creation and ornamentation, spontaneous inspiration (amad) and deliberate effort (awurd)—are known by various names. Some have termed one romantic and the other classical. Nietzsche designated the creative or romantic principle as Dionysian, and the classical principle of craftsmanship and clarity as Apollonian. He attributed the greatness of Greek verse tragedies to the synthesis of these two principles.

However, in our tradition, we have the ghazal—a delightfully rebellious genre of poetry that has few parallels in Western literature. If we consider the psychology of its creation, we must concede that, whether in terms of musicality, symbolism, or unity of effect, it leans far more toward the Dionysian principle than the Apollonian. In the vocabulary of our Sufi poets, it is nurtured by the unseen (ghaib); in modern terms, it is fed by the invaluable treasures of the unconscious and the emotional turbulence concealed within the surging blood of humanity. In the Arabic language, the word for poet originally referred to a soothsayer who brought tidings from the unseen, not to an engineer or a physicist. Before delivering any such revelation, the poet would plunge into a state akin to a deep creative dive, or a Sufi’s meditation (muraqaba) and spiritual ecstasy (hal).

A poet’s consciousness encompasses not only the waking world but also the realm of dreams and self-transcendence (bekhudi). For this reason, poetry has been described as an act of dream-weaving. Yet, because it is an act of dream-weaving rather than a mere dream, the poet remains awake within his dream and dream-laden in his wakefulness. He perceives the reflection of the sun in the moon, and the radiance of the intellect within the lantern of sensory experience. His task is not to describe the isolated realities of scattered fragments, but to thread them together into a cohesive unity. Since human intellect occasionally falls prey to self-interest, the poet largely accomplishes this mission through emotions, which refuse to be subjugated by vested interests. In the grand assembly of humanity, unity is fundamentally rooted in emotion, not intellect. The truth of human feeling is undeniable, whereas the verdicts of the intellect are often open to dispute. Furthermore, the language of emotion consists of ambiguous concepts, imaginative imagery, and symbolism.

Imagination is undoubtedly a creator, but it does not conjure forms out of nothingness. Its repository of knowledge is the realm of the unconscious or the buried treasures of memory. From this world, the poet not only draws forth extraordinary associations, similes, and allegories, but he also forges an internal unity within his own experiences, as well as an internal unity between his inner self and all the phenomena of the universe. There is no doubt that this knowledge is subjective and emotional, and cannot be classified alongside empirical sciences governed by external metrics. Nevertheless, it possesses such a brilliance of imagination, nobility of spirit, and tenderness of heart that it simply cannot be ignored. When a hand reaches out for a flower amidst a hail of bullets, when a dagger halts just above a jugular vein, when lightning turns away from a fragile nest, and when an axe recoils from a living branch, the sphere of human emotion instinctively expands to embrace a cosmic unity. It compels one to realize that existence is not an abstract concept but a deeply felt reality, and the comprehension of its unity can indeed be attained through sensory and emotional experience.

If the heartless intellect of the modern age—which has purchased the secret of conquering nature at the cost of human degradation—views the realm of emotion as a threat to the pursuit of wealth, a violation of the laws of capital, and sees imagination as the adversary of reason, then this inflicts harm not merely upon poetry, but upon humanity itself. For human life remains fundamentally incomplete without the nobility of emotion, the flourishing of feelings, and the calling of the imagination.

Our lives are nurtured not only by the blinding, dominant light of the sun, but also by the moon—a celestial body whose gravitational pull stirs a turbulent ebb and flow not just in the oceans, but within human blood itself. This wildness of the heart, this madness of love, which stirs up so much dust along the path, stems from this very pale-faced moon. It is worth remembering that the words lunatic and luna share the same root. Just as moonlight is gentle rather than overpowering, reflected rather than direct, the light of poetic intuition is similarly reflected rather than direct; it is a source of quiet joy rather than a blinding glare.

Hai farogh-e-mah-e-taban se faragh-e-kulli

Dil jale partaw-e-rukh se tere mahtab mein hain

- Mir

[We are entirely indifferent to the glow of the radiant moon,

For we, the heart-scorched, bask in the moonlight reflecting from your face.]

Is it any wonder, then, that some people refer to the poet, the lover, and the Sufi as moon-struck? They trace the fiery heat of their lamentations back to this very moon, gazing up at it with unblinking devotion.

Finally, I will mention one more connection between poetry and Sufism, which perhaps outweighs all the others. In Sufi circles, sama (spiritual audition) is regarded as a means of attaining divine proximity, and the core element of sama is music. As Ghalib says:

Jaan kyun nikalne lagti hai tan se dam-e-samaa

Kya woh sada samayi hai chang-o-rubab mein

[Why does the soul threaten to leave the body during the sama?

Has His voice infused itself into the harp and the lute?]

This very music is also the soul of poetry—not merely because it is the language of emotion and a paradise for the ears, but because music is the most subtle, sensory science for perceiving cosmic connections. It is a felt mathematics, and mathematics is the key to comprehending reality, as it allows us to understand the mutual relationships between scattered fragments. This is precisely why the Western mystic philosopher Pythagoras laid the foundation of his mysticism upon mathematics. It is, of course, another matter entirely that whether it was Pythagoras or Kant, the Sufi or the rationalist, all of them, in their quest and yearning to behold the Absolute Witness (Shahid-e-Mutlaq), could only walk a few paces before collapsing in exhaustion.

Haan ahl-e-talab kaun sune ta'na-e-nayaft

Dekha ke woh milta nahin, apne hi ko kho aaye

[O seekers, who could bear the taunt of returning empty-handed?

Seeing that He could not be found, they lost their own selves instead.]

And then, in this exhaustion of yearning, what myriad sanctuaries did humanity not carve out for itself!

Dair-o-haram aaina-e-takrar-e-tamanna

Wamandagi-e-shauq tarashe hai panahein

[The temple and the mosque are but mirrors to the repetition of desire,

It is the exhaustion of yearning that carves out these sanctuaries.]

But as far as the quest for this dazzling, sight-consuming spectacle is concerned—the essence of all manifestation and thought, the meaning of eternity, the continuum of existence, and the veil over the secret of being—the passion for its vision or the desire for its comprehension is eternal. The very expanse of intellectual life stems from the journey of this passion, which sometimes treads the path of love under an anthropomorphic, personified mode of thought, and at other times, free from such constraints, strides along the path of reason.

This zeal for the journey will never diminish out of weariness. It would not be surprising if the boons of science and the discoveries of modern psychology open up entirely new avenues for this voyage.

Because Sufism took the form of an organized movement and a codified belief system in the history of the Islamic world—despite harboring countless doctrinal differences—one feels a certain hesitation in treating it as entirely synonymous with the English word mysticism. However, when we examine its fundamental beliefs, its way of life, and its modes of thought and feeling, we arrive at the conclusion that:

Bahar range ke khwahi jama me-posh

Man andaz-e-qadat ra me-shinasam

[Wear a garment of whatever color you desire

I recognize the measure of your stature]

At this point, we find no difference in the metaphorical meanings of Sufism and mysticism that would make it difficult to consider them synonymous.

Undoubtedly, every word has its own specific history, and its meaning cannot be articulated in isolation from that history or its social and emotional associations. For this reason, I would not want to completely ignore the history of Sufism or the tale of its triumphs and defeats. However, since my subject is not a historical outline of the Sufi movement, but rather the mutual relationship between Sufism and poetry, I am compelled to focus on that universal mode of thought, feeling, and living which has been—and remains—common to both the East and the West, irrespective of specific religions.

Unlike the scientific mode of thought—which is empirical, logical, and analytical—the Sufi mode of thought is intuitive and inspirational. In the world of Sufism, reality is not perceived through the external senses or the mind's power of reasoning, but through a kind of inner vision:

Gah meri nigah-e-tez cheer gayi dil-e-wujud

[Sometimes my piercing gaze tore through the heart of existence]

The Sufi's knowledge is one of vision, observation, and divine manifestations. Like a flash of lightning in the dark night of intellectual inadequacy or doubt, it strikes and reveals the ultimate reality to them:

Dosh waqt-e-sahar az ghussa najatam dadand

Wa andar aan zulmat-e-shab aab-e-hayatam dadand

[Last night at dawn, they freed me from anguish

And in that darkness of the night, they gave me the water of life]

Be-khud az shasha-e-partaw-e-zatam kardand

Bada az jam-e-tajalli ba-sifatam dadand

[They made me lose myself in the brilliance of the reflection of the Essence

They gave me wine from the cup of manifestation of attributes]

This knowledge is not rooted in the duality of the observer and the observed, but in the unity of being. Here, the vision of the Truth (and by Truth, I mean the Supreme or Ultimate Reality, not the material reality of objects) is the vision of the self, and the realization of the self is the realization of the Truth. Thus, when Mir Taqi Mir says:

Kab se lari theen aankhein darwaza-e-haram se

Parda utha toh lariyan aankhein hamari hum se

[For so long, my eyes were fixed upon the door of the sanctuary

When the veil was lifted, my eyes met my own]

...he is pointing to this very unity of being. Furthermore, he alludes to the omnipresence of the Divine Essence in this couplet:

Biz-zaat hai jahan mein woh maujood har jagah

Hai deed chashm-e-dil ke khule, ain zaat ka

[In essence, He is present everywhere in the world

The vision of the exact Essence occurs only when the eye of the heart opens]

However, this vision of the Truth depends on the opening of the eye of the heart, not the physical eye. This knowledge possessed by Sufis and mystically inclined poets is entirely internal; it belongs to the realm of dreams, self-transcendence, meditation, and spiritual revelation. Some have described this knowledge as supra-sensory and supra-rational. Yet, since the distinction between high and low is merely relative—just as from the surface of the moon, the earth appears to be in the sky—I consider it an internal knowledge drawn from the abyss of the mind, the unconscious, or the depths of the psyche. It is an esoteric knowledge of that melody played upon the instrument of nature, composed through the various veils of the moon and stars, the surging of the river, the consciousness of the wind, the circulation of blood, the waves of color and fragrance, the manifestation of the beloved's stature, the laughter of life, and the flood of tears. However, because Sufis consider physical existence to be a veil over true Being—

Hai mushtamil namud-e-suwar par wujud-e-bahr

[The existence of the ocean consists in the manifestation of its forms]

—this is not an objective knowledge, but rather an individual's feeling and experience of the inner unity underlying all phenomena. What is the source of this feeling? Is it the external or internal senses, the unconscious, or the unseen? I have already alluded to this. And is this not the exact same mode of thought and feeling possessed by the poet?

Aate hain ghayb se yeh mazameen khayal mein

Ghalib sareer-e-khama nawa-e-sarosh hai

[These themes come into my mind from the unseen

O Ghalib, the scratching of the pen is the voice of an angel]

Ghalib further explains this unseen and this voice of an angel in the following Persian verses:

Ae zauq-e-nawa sanji bazam ba-kharosh aawar

Ghogha-e-shabe khooni bar-bangah-e-hosh aawar

[O passion for melody, bring me to a roar once again

Bring the tumult of a bloody night to the threshold of consciousness]

Gar khud na jahad az sar az deeda faro baram

Dil khoon kun wa aan khoon ra dar-seena ba-josh aawar

[If it does not spring from the head, I will pour it from the eyes

Turn the heart to blood, and bring that blood to a boil within the chest]

And is the poet's gnosis not a journey of passion, traversed in a state of ecstasy? This rhythmic footfall, this dance of sound, this melody murmuring beneath the words—which constitutes the voice of poetry—and this mysterious dialogue of symbols, signs, and metaphors—which constitutes the speech of poetry—do they not resemble the spiritual states and discourses of the Sufis? It is the exact same mode of thought and feeling: the act of witnessing reality embodied in a realm of profound yearning, and being swept into ecstasy. This is what they both share. The Sufi perceives reality through the inner eye, while the poet perceives it through the eye of imagination. When a Sufi becomes a poet, or a poet becomes a Sufi, these two gazes converge upon a single point.

It is widely held that poetry is not an acquired skill, but a gift of nature. Similarly, the Sufi describes their passion for divine love not as something acquired, but as something innate. The truth is that until the Sufi attains the rhythm and imagination of the poet, and the poet attains the love of the Sufi, neither the Sufi nor the poet is truly complete.

Now, you might say: Look, he too has fallen prey to some optical illusion. How can he reconcile his earlier assertion—that the secret of human greatness lies in the freedom to master the laws of nature and achieve one's goals—with all this talk of spiritual states and discourses, mystical revelations, divine absorption, and intuition? Do not worry.

Masti mein chhor dair ko kaabe chala tha main

Laghzish bari hui thi wa-lekin sambhal gaya

[In a state of intoxication, I left the temple and set out for the Kaaba

It was a great stumble, but I regained my balance]

The knowledge of material realities, through which humanity masters the laws of nature, is a supreme good and the distinguishing mark of our humanity. The history of human consciousness reveals that the flight of our imagination, the freedom of our thought, the breadth and perceptiveness of our vision, and the abundance of our capacity for sacrifice and love are all indebted to the axe of human endeavor, the knowledge of the material world, the conquest of nature, and our myriad inventions. To remain alienated from this, or to view it with contempt, is a degradation of humanity, for:

Muflisi sab bahaar khoti hai

Mard ka aitbaar khoti hai

[Poverty strips away all the bloom of spring

It strips away a man's credibility]

And that philosophy of life which—by viewing the world and the dream of existence as ephemeral—promotes the renunciation of desire and the negation of the self, stands in opposition to both the fundamental principles of life and the majesty of humankind. But pause for a moment of reflection, for:

Ho bhi jata hai jurm aadam se

[Sometimes, man does commit an error]

It is true that desire is not inherently evil, such that one should be taught to renounce it. However, when the fulfillment of one person's desire murders the desire of another, or when it is achieved over the graveyard of another's aspirations, then that longing and its pursuit no longer belong to a human being, but to a beast. There was an era when humanity lacked the material resources to cloak its bestiality in the garments of humanity, or to acquaint itself with the supreme empathy of realizing that the desire of one heart is the desire of every heart. In such times, the emergence of the negative philosophy of renouncing desire was a testament to human morality, not a refutation of it. It is a law of nature that when there is no remedy for grief, one's hand inevitably tears at one's own collar, and the wrath of the dervish falls only upon the dervish himself.

This struggle against the self, this revelation of the inner being, this detachment of abstraction, and this freedom of thought and will—as the poetic line goes:

mar gaye mar gaye peh nahin to nahin

[We may have died, we may have died, but if we say no, it remains no]

—was a profound manifestation not merely of human dignity and virtue, but of man's inner strength. It proved that through willpower and freedom of thought, a human being is invincible. Coercion does not come from nature alone; it also comes from fellow human beings. The Sufi annihilated his own ego, yet he never sacrificed his freedom of thought at the feet of any tyrant or oppressor. His victory over his own self was the ultimate symbol of his intellectual freedom. If today, this moral philosophy of the Sufis clashes with Nietzsche's philosophy of power, Nietzsche's concept of the ego, and Bergson's blind life force, it does not mean that the Sufi philosophy lacks its own majesty and grandeur.

However, before I recount the tale of their high resolve, moral courage, and steadfastness, and before I extract a word of wisdom from their tragic narrative, I would like to set the stage by presenting a contemporary idea that has rendered their tragedy seemingly meaningless today.

The idea that man is an evolved animal is not exclusively Darwin's discovery. An unscientific version of this theory has existed since the time of the Greek philosophers, and it is even mentioned by Rumi. Despite this, an iron line was drawn between man and animal—a line that was insurmountable. That iron line was the freedom of consciousness and will, which the Sufis interpreted as the essence of divinity and the intellect of intellects. In other words, they posited a qualitative difference between man and animal, not merely a quantitative one. However, in the light of Darwin's philosophy of the struggle for survival, many nineteenth-century thinkers—perhaps to justify and validate the bloodthirsty nature of capitalism—erased this qualitative difference between man and animal, maintaining only a quantitative distinction.

This idea gained further momentum from the mechanical materialism of eighteenth-century thinkers, who attempted to analyze consciousness on a chemical level and dissolve it into mere matter. In any case, when the philosophy of Progress was developed by Spencer upon this concept of man, the present was declared inherently superior to the past in every aspect. Consequently, the present was left to its own devices, free from any kind of critical scrutiny or refinement. This was because, according to this philosophy of progress, human consciousness and will were utterly helpless in the face of time.

This Western philosophy left a profound impact on our lives during the era of colonial subjugation. Following Macaulay's philosophy of progress—which equated progress solely with the accumulation of national wealth, completely ignoring the nature of interpersonal relationships—we legitimized the capitalist principle of usury and embraced sheer opportunism. We began to view any criticism or rejection of this system as a violation of the etiquette of British servitude and contrary to the practical wisdom of the time. However, when a universal desire for freedom against Western subjugation eventually emerged—a profound intellectual manifestation of which is found in Iqbal's poetry—the blind imitation of the West and the dominance of Lord Macaulay's leadership began to wane. Alongside this, a critical perspective toward Western knowledge developed, accompanied by a moral drive to reform capitalism.