- This piece explores the ancient structure of the Mian Mir Dargah. It delves into the deeper realisation and implores an interpersonal debate within the tourist who must choose the path of life or the afterlife.
- By: Emaan Waqar
Two guests cannot be accommodated in one house (heart). There is always a choice. Just as the one made by Robert Frost. Whether its going to college, finding a partner, or settling down; there’s always going to be one at a certain time. So who are these guests and who is the ‘right’ one to choose?
Stepping into Hazrat Mian Mir’s shrine, you understand the deeper implications of this belief, and the answer to this question.
As you enter the holy site, you are met with the physical nature of the personified paths. Turn right to the shrine; a beacon of spirituality, inner peace, and contentment; or left towards the graveyard of lost souls; a cold hearth of forgotten stories. And the thin line between the two is just a grey carpet, like the Bridge of Siraat, with two guests to choose between: this world, or our soul.
The tenets of Hazrat Mian Mir’s beliefs lied upon the elimination of inner nafs (ego). To be completely detached from worldly respites and desires, while surrendering to tawakkul (Divine will), and muraqabah (contemplation). In his teachings, Mian Mir transcended the confines of any single belief, becoming a beacon of spiritual guidance not only for Muslims but also for seekers from across faiths- Sikhs, Hindus, and beyond. His influence was not confined to the boundaries of doctrinal teachings; rather, it flowed like an ethereal current, embodying the Sufi ideal of universal brotherhood. An influence that is still alive today, especially during the daily distribution of food (langar) at the shrine, where many are fed in the name of God, creating a place of familial union in a place of worship.
Well, that is what we read about his works anyway. But what of the actual shrine, and the cultural implications it has on individuals walking through the dargah.
Standing at a crossroads, one is never filled with more doubt in their entire lives. How, when one is clearly attracted to the beacon, end up at the cold hearth when they die. People spend their entire lives securing guests to attend their funerals calling them ‘friends’, running behind worldly pursuits, paying for more authority, and craving external validation. We buy respect when it is difficult to earn. All while forgetting to stop and catch their breath. That is what one experiences interpersonally when one visits the site. A place where time seems to stop and you’re allowed to reveal your true self without fear of judgement.
We yearn for remembrance. That is the tragic flaw of every human. The desire for our legacy to be carried on, to leave a mark on the world. But in a world of more than 8 billion people, it is humorous to think we can achieve everything. And the sooner this futile attempt is realised, the easier it is to take a step right and walk towards the beacon. Willingly turning towards the ‘road not taken’, ‘the one less travelled by, that makes all the difference.’ It begins to restore our faith in ourselves most importantly. What higher form of contentment may we achieve when we believe in ourselves?
As you get closer to the beacon you notice the hundreds of grievers at Mian Mir’s grave, as opposed to the deafening silence at the cold hearth, where the graves have been painted with colours of regret. Here lie flowers of every kind, every colour, negating every stench of death. Adorned with frescos all around, the shrine itself comes to life as you stare at it in deep contemplation. It represents a still garden, the place we long to be in: Heaven. With the vases among these frescos serving as the sustenance of all life that forms around them, the leaves and the flowers all coil around them, proving the cyclical nature of life. How death is an unavoidable part of it; inescapable and permanent. Walking around the shrine, it becomes a literal beacon as the light seeps out from the jaalis, welcoming all as a sanctuary.
As you look back to the road you left behind, the guest you chose to betray, you will notice a bystander; the trees. They have been there for decades, some during the life of Hazrat Mian Mir. Quiet, shy watchers who hear all but never speak. It could be fair to say that their wisdom may transcend that of the esteemed Sufi himself. These quiet wise souls who sustain life on earth may be better equipped to answer all these questions. However, they are not only the sustainers of all that is living, but also serve as a testament to those who lived before our time.
They are the constant grievers sitting at the cold hearth, promising to be there for those who have none. The everliving disciples of God.
Walking back towards the exit, you pass the Masjid where the devotees offer prayer, and you look back one last time; at the cold hearth, and the beacon. Watching the diyas (oil lamps) burn with fiery passion knowing they will die by daylight, is all we will ever be. We live for a fraction of a second in this universe, so choosing the right guest to enter our hearts, exhibits the life we appoint for ourselves. By laying close to those who made the right choice, does not allow us to follow suit on the same path.