(Asrar-e-Khudi-14) Marhala Doyem: Zabt-e-Nafs

2. Self‐Control
Thy soul cares only for itself, like the camel:
It is self‐conceited, self‐governed, and self‐willed.
Be a man, get its halter into thine hand,
That thou mayst become a pearl albeit thou art a potterʹs vessel.
He that does not command himself
Becomes a receiver of commands from others.
When they moulded thee of clay,
Love and fear were mingled in thy making:
Fear of this world and of the world to come, fear of death,
Fear of all the pains of earth and heaven;
Love of riches and power, love of country,
Love of self and kindred and wife.
Man, in whom clay is mixed with water, is fond of ease,
Devoted to wickedness and enamoured of evil.
So long as thou hold’st the staff of “There is no god but He,”
Thou wilt break every spell of fear.
One to whom God is as the soul in his body,
His neck is not bowed before vanity.
Fear finds no way into his bosom,
heart is afraid of none but Allah.
Whoso dwells in the world of Negation
Is freed from the bonds of wife and child.
He withdraws his gaze from all except God
And lays the knife to the throat of his son.
Though single, he is like a host in onset:
Life is cheaper in his eyes than wind.
The profession of Faith is the shell, and prayer is the pearl within it:
The Moslem’s heart deems prayer a lesser pilgrimage.
In the Muslimʹs hand prayer is like a dagger
Killing sin and forwardness and wrong.
Fasting makes an assault upon hunger and thirst.
And breaches the citadel of sensuality.
The pilgrimage enlightens the soul of the Faithful:
It teaches separation from oneʹs home and
destroys attachment to oneʹs native land;
It is an act of devotion in which all feel themselves to be one,
It binds together the leaves of the book of religion.
Almsgiving causes love of riches to pass away
And makes equality familiar;
It fortifies the heart with righteousness,
It increases wealth and diminishes fondness for wealth.
All this is a means of strengthening thee:
Thou art impregnable, if thy Islam be strong.
Draw might from the litany “O Almighty One!”
That thou mayst ride the camel of thy body.

(Asrar-e-Khudi-13) Dar Biyan AynKe Tarbiat-e-Khudi...: Marhala Awal: Ita'at

Showing that the education of the self has three stages: obedience, self‐control, and divine vicegerency

1. Obedience
Service and toil are traits of the camel,
Patience and perseverance are ways of the camel.
Noiselessly he steps along the sandy track,
He is the ship of those who voyage in the desert.
Every thicket knows the print of his foot:
He eats seldom, sleeps little, and is inured to toil.
He carries rider, baggage, and litter:
He trots on and on to the journeyʹs end,
Rejoicing in his speed,
More patient in travel than his rider,
Thou, too, do not refuse the burden of Duty:
So wilt thou enjoy the best dwelling place, which is with God.
Endeavour to obey, O heedless one!
Liberty is the fruit of compulsion.
By obedience the man of no worth is made worthy;
By disobedience his fire is turned to ashes.
Whoso would master the sun and stars,
Let him make himself a prisoner of Law!
The air becomes fragrant when it is imprisoned in the flower‐bud;
The perfume becomes musk when it is confined in the ‐navel of the muskdeer.
The star moves towards its goal
With head bowed in surrender to a law.
The grass springs up in obedience to the law of growth:
When it abandons that, it is trodden underfoot.
To burn unceasingly is the law of the tulip.
And so the blood leaps in its veins
Drops of water become a sea by the law of union,
And grains of sand become a Sahara.
Since Law makes everything strong within,
Why dost thou neglect this source of strength?
O thou that art emancipated from the old Custom,
Adorn thy feet once more with the same fine silver chain!
Do not complain of the hardness of the Law,
Do not transgress the statutes of Muhammad (PBUH)!

(Asrar-e-Khudi-12) Dar Haqiqat Shair Wa Islah-e-Adabiat-e-Islamia

Concerning the true nature of poetry and reform of Islamic literature

’Tis the brand of desire makes the blood of man run warm,
By the lamp of desire this dust is enkindled.
By desire Lifeʹs cup is brimmed with wine,
So that Life leaps to its feet and marches briskly on.
Life is occupied with conquest alone,
And the one charm for conquest is desire.
Life is the hunter and desire the snare,
Desire is Love’s message to Beauty.
Wherefore doth desire swell continuously
The bass and treble of Lifeʹs song?
Whatsoever is good and fair and beautiful
Is our guide in the wilderness of seeking.
Its image becomes impressed on thine heart,
It creates desires in thine heart.
Beauty is the creator of desireʹs springtide,
Desire is nourished by the display of Beauty.
’Tis in the poetʹs breast that Beauty unveils,
’Tis from his Sinai that Beautyʹs beams arise.
By his look the fair is made fairer,
Through his enchantments Nature is more beloved.
From his lips the nightingale hath learned her song,
And his rouge hath brightened the cheek of the rose.
’Tis his passion burns in the heart of the moth,
’Tis he that lends glowing hues to love tales.
Sea and land are hidden within his water and clay,
A hundred new worlds are concealed in his heart.
Ere tulips blossomed in his brain
There was heard no note of joy or grief.
His music breathes oʹer us a wonderful enchantment,
His pen draws a mountain with a single hair.
His thoughts dwell with the moon and the stars,
He creates beauty and knows not what is ugly.
He is a Khizr, and amidst his darkness is the Fountain of Life:
All things that exist are made more living by his tears.
Heavily we go, like raw novices,
Stumbling on the way to the goal.
His nightingale hath played a tune
And laid a plot to beguile us.
That he may lead us into Lifeʹs Paradise,
And that Lifeʹs bow may become a full circle.
Caravans march at the sound of his bell
And follow the voice of his pipe;
When his zephyr blows in our garden,
It slowly steals into the tulips and roses.
His witchery makes Life develop itself

And become self‐questioning and impatient.
He invites the whole world to his table;
He lavishes his fire as though it were cheap as air.
Woe to a people that resigns itself to death
And whose poet turns away from the joy of living!
His mirror shows beauty as ugliness,
His honey leaves a hundred stings in the heart.
His kiss robs the rose of freshness,
He takes away from the nightingaleʹs heart the joy of flying.
The sinews are relaxed by his opium,
Thou payest for his song with the life.
He bereaves the cypress of delight in its beauty,
His cold breath makes a pheasant of the male falcon.
He is a fish. and from the breast upward a man,
Like the Sirens in the ocean.
With his song he enchants the pilot
And casts the ship to the bottom of the sea.
His melodies steal firmness from thine heart,
His magic persuades thee that death is life.
He takes from thy soul the desire of existence,
He extracts from thy mine the blushing ruby.
He dresses gain in the garb of loss,
He makes everything praiseworthy blameful,
He plunges thee in a sea of thought
And makes thee a stranger to action.
He is sick, and by his words our sickness is increased
The more his cup goes round, the more sick are they that quaff it.
There are no lightning rains in his April,
His garden is a mirage of colour and perfume.
His beauty hath no dealings with Truth,
There are none but flawed pearls in his sea.
Slumber he deemed sweeter than waking:
Our fire was quenched by his breath.
By the chant of his nightingale the heart was poisoned:
Under his heap of roses lurked a snake.
Beware of his decanter and cup!
Beware of his sparkling wine!
O thou whom his wine hath laid low
And who look’st to his glass for thy rising dawn,
O thou whose heart hath been chilled by his melodies,
Thou hast drunk deadly poison through the ear!
Thy way of life is a proof of thy degeneracy,
The strings of thine instrument are out of tune,
ʹTis pampered case hath made thee so wretched,
A disgrace to Islam throughout the world.
One can bind thee with the vein of a rose,
One can wound thee with a zephyr.
Love hath been put to shame by thy wailing,
His fair picture hath been fouled by thy brush.
Thy illness hath paled his cheek,
The coldness hath taken the glow from his fire.
He is heartsick from thy heart sicknesses,
And enfeebled by thy feeblenesses.
His cup is full of childish tears,
His house is furnished with distressful sighs.
He is a drunkard begging at tavern doors,
Stealing glimpses of beauty from lattices,
Unhappy, melancholy, injured,
Kicked well‐nigh to death by the warder;
Wasted like a reed by sorrows,
On his lips a store of complaints against Heaven.
Flattery and spite are the mettle of his mirror,
Helplessness his comrade of old;
A miserable base‐born underling
Without worth or hope or object,
Whose lamentations have sucked the marrow from thy soul
And driven off gentle sleep from thy neighboursʹ eyes.
Alas for a love whose fire is extinct,
A love that was born in the Holy Place and
died in the house of idols!
Oh, if thou hast the coin of poesy in thy purse,
Rub it on the touchstone of Life!
Clear‐seeing thought shows the way to action,
As the lightning‐flash precedes the thunder.

It behoves thee to meditate well concerning literature,
It behoves thee to go back to Arabia:
Thou must needs give thine heart to the Salma of Araby,
That the morn of the Hijaz may blossom from the night of Kurdistan.
Thou hast gathered roses from the garden of Persia
And seen the springtide of India and Iran:
Now taste a little of the heat of the desert,
Drink the old wine of the date!
Lay thine head for once on its hot breast.
Yield thy body awhile to its scorching wind!
For a long time thou hast turned about on a bed of silk:
Now accustom thyself to rough cotton!
For generations thou hast danced on tulips
And bathed thy cheek in dew, like the rose:
Now throw thyself on the burning sand
And plunge in to the fountain of Zamzam!
How long wilt thou fain lament like the nightingale?
How long make thine abode in gardens?
O thou whose auspicious snare would do honour to the Phoenix,
Build a nest on the high mountains,
A nest embosomed in lightning and thunder,
Loftier than eagle’s eye,
That thou mayst be fit for Life’s battle,
That thy body and soul may burn in Lifeʹs fire!

(Asrar-e-Khudi-11) Dar Ma'ani Aynke Aflatoon Yonani Ke Tasawwuf Wa Azbiyat...

To the effect that Plato, whose thought has deeply influenced the mysticism and literature of Islam, followed the sheepʹs doctrine, and that we must be on our guard against his theories

Plato, the prime ascetic and sage
Was one of that ancient flock of sheep.
His Pegasus went astray in the darkness of idealism
And dropped its shoe amidst the rocks of actuality.
He was so fascinated by the invisible
That he made hand, eye, and ear of no account.
“To die,” said he, “is the secret of Life:
The candle is glorified by being put out.”
He dominates our thinking,
His cup sends us to sleep and takes the sensible world away from us.
He is a sheep in manʹs clothing,
The soul of the Sufi bows to his authority.
He soared with his intellect to the highest heaven
And called the world of phenomena a myth.+’Twas his work to dissolve the structure of Life
And cut the bough of Lifeʹs fair tree asunder.
The thought of Plato regarded loss as profit,
His philosophy declared that being is not‐being.
His nature drowsed and created a dream
His mindʹs eye created a mirage.
Since he was without any taste for action,
His soul was enraptured by the nonexistent.
He disbelieved in the material universe
And became the creator of invisible Ideas.
Sweet is the world of phenomena to the living spirit,
Dear is the world of Ideas to the dead spirit:
Its gazelles have no grave of movement,
Its partridges are denied the pleasure of walking daintily.
Its dewdrops are unable to quiver,
Its birds have no breath in their breasts,
Its seed does not desire to grow,
Its moths do not know how to flutter.
Our recluse had no remedy but flight:
He could not endure the noise of this world.
He set his heart on the glow of a quenched flame
And depicted a word steeped in opium.
He spread his wings towards the sky
And never came down to his nest again.
His fantasy is sunk in the jar of heaven:
I know not whether it is the dregs or brick of the wine‐jar.
The peoples were poisoned by his intoxication:
He slumbered and took no delight in deeds.

(Asrar-e-Khudi-10) Hakayat Dareen Ma'ani Ke Masla-e-Khud Az Majhtara'at-e-Aqwam-e-Maghluba Bani-Nu Insan

A tale of which the moral is that negation of the self is a doctrine invented by the subject races of mankind in order that by this means they may sap and weaken the character of their rulers

Hast thou heard that in the time of old
The sheep dwelling in a certain pasture
So increased and multiplied
That they feared no enemy?
At last, from the malice of Fate,
Their breasts were smitten by a shaft of calamity.
The tigers sprang forth from the jungle
And rushed upon the sheepfold.
Conquest and dominion are signs of strength,
Victory is the manifestation of strength.
Those fierce tigers beat the drum of sovereignty,
They deprived the sheep of freedom.
For as much as tigers must have their prey,
That meadow was crimsoned with the blood of the sheep.
One of the sheep which was clever and acute,
Old in years, cunning as a weather‐beaten wolf,
Being grieved at the fate of his fellows
And sorely vexed by the violence of the tigers,
Made complaint of the course of Destiny
And sought by craft to restore the fortunes of his race.
The weak, in order to preserve themselves,
Seek device from skilled intelligence.
In slavery, for the sake of repelling harm,
The power of scheming becomes quickened.
And when the madness of revenge gains hold,
The mind of the slave meditates rebellion.
“Ours is a hard knot,ʹʹ said this sheep to himself,
“The ocean of our griefs hath no shore,
By force we sheep cannot escape from the tiger:
Our legs are silver, his paws are steel.
ʹTis not possible, however much one exhorts and counsels.
To create in a sheep the disposition of a wolf.
But to make the furious tiger a sheep – that is possible:
To make him unmindful of his nature – that is possible.”
He became as a prophet inspired,
And began to preach to the blood‐thirsty tigers.
He cried out, “O ye insolent liars,
Who wot not of a day of ill luck that shall continue for ever!
I am possessed of spiritual power,
I am an apostle sent by God for the tigers.
I come as a light for the eye that is dark,
I come to establish laws and give commandments.
Repent of your blameworthy deeds!
O plotters of evil, bethink yourselves of good
Lifeʹs solidity depends on self‐denial.
The spirit of the righteous is fed by fodder:
The vegetarian is pleasing unto God.
The sharpness of your teeth brings disgrace upon you
And makes the eye of your perception blind.
Paradise is for the weak alone,
Strength is but a means to perdition.
It is wicked to seek greatness and glory,
Penury is sweeter than princedom.
Lightning does not threaten the cornseed:
If the seed become a stack, it is unwise.
If you are sensible, you will be a mote of sand, not a Sahara,
So that you may enjoy the sunbeams.
O thou that delightest in the slaughter of sheep,
Slay thy self, and thou wilt have honour!
Life is rendered unstable
By violence, oppression, revenge, and exercise of power.
Though trodden underfoot, the grass grows up time after time
And washes the sleep of death from its eye again and again.
Forget thy self, if thou art wise!
If thou dost not forget thy self, thou art mad.
Close thine eyes, close thine ears, close thy lips,
That thy thought may reach the lofty sky!
This pasturage of the world is naught, naught:
O fool, do not torment thy phantom!
The tiger‐tribe was exhausted by hard struggles,
They had set their hearts on enjoyment of luxury.
This soporific advice pleased them,
In their stupidity they swallowed the charm of the sheep.
He that used to make sheep his prey
Now embraced a sheepʹs religion.
The tigers took kindly to a diet of fodder:
At length their tigerish nature was broken.
The fodder blunted their teeth
And put out the awful flashings of their eyes.
By degrees courage ebbed from their breasts,
The sheen departed from mirror.
That frenzy of uttermost exertion remained not,
That craving after action dwelt in their hearts no more.
They lost the power of ruling and the
resolution to be independent,
They lost reputation, prestige, and fortune.
Their paws that were as iron became strengthless;
Their souls died and their bodies became tombs.
Bodily strength diminished while spiritual fear increased;
Spiritual fear robbed them of courage.
Lack of courage produced a hundred diseases—
Poverty, pusillanimity, low mindedness.
The wakeful tiger was lulled to slumber by the sheepʹs charm
He called his decline Moral Culture.

(Asrar-e-Khudi-09) Dar Biyan Aynke Chun Khudi Az Ishq-o-Mohabbat Mohkam Mee-Garadd

Showing that when the self is strengthened by love it gains dominion over the outward and inward forces of the universe

When the self is made strong by Love
Its power rules the whole world.
The Heavenly Sage who adorned the sky with stars
Plucked these buds from the bough of the self.
Its hand becomes Godʹs hand,
The moon is split by its fingers.
It is the arbitrator in all the quarrels of the world,
Its command is obeyed by Darius and Jamshid.
I will tell thee a story of Bu Ali,
Whose name is renowned in India,
Him who sang of the ancient rose‐garden
And discoursed to us about the lovely rose:
The air of his fluttering skirt
Made a Paradise of this fire‐born country.
His young disciple went one day to the bazaar –
The wine of Bu Aliʹs discourse had turned his head.
The governor of the city was coming along on horseback,
His servant and staff‐bearer rode beside him.
The forerunner shouted, “O senseless one,
Do not get in the way of the governorʹs escort!”
But the dervish walked on with drooping head,
Sunk in the sea of his own thoughts.
The staff‐bearer, drunken with pride,
Broke his staff on the head of the dervish.
Who stepped painfully out of the governorʹs way.
Sad and sorry, with a heavy heart.
He came to Bu Ali and complained
And released the tears from his eyes.
Like lightning that falls on mountains,
The Shaykh poured forth a fiery torrent of speech.
He let loose from his soul a strange fire,
He gave an order to his secretary:
“Take thy pen and write a letter
From a dervish to a sultan!
Say, ʹThy governor has broken my servantʹs head;
He has cast burning coals on his own life.
Arrest this wicked governor,
Or else I will bestow thy kingdom on another.
The letter of the saint who had access to God
Caused the monarch to tremble in every limb.
His body was filled with aches,
He grew as pale as the evening sun.
He sought out a handcuff for the governor
And entreated Bu Ali to pardon this offence.
Khusrau, the sweet‐voiced eloquent poet,
Whose harmonies flow from the mind
And whose genius hath the soft brilliance of moonlight,
Was chosen to be the king’s ambassador.
When he entered Bu Ali’s presence and played his lute,
His song melted the fakir’s soul like glass.
One strain of Poesy bought the grace
Of a kingdom that was firm as a mountain.
Do not wound the heart of dervishes,
Do not throw thyself into burning fire!

(Asrar-e-Khudi-08) Dar Biyan Aynke Khudi Az Sawal Zaeef Mee Gardd

Showing that the self is weakened by asking

O thou who hast gathered taxes from lions,
Thy need hath caused thee to become a fox in disposition.
Thy maladies are the result of indigence:
This disease is the source of thy pain.
It is robbing thine high thoughts of their dignity
And putting out the light of thy noble imagination.
Quaff rosy wine from the jar of existence!
Snatch thy money from the purse of Time!
Like Omar, come down from thy camel!
Beware of incurring obligations, beware!
How long wilt thou sue for office
And ride like children on a reed?
A nature that fixes its gaze on the sky
Becomes debased by receiving benefits.
By asking, poverty is made more abject;
By begging, the beggar is made poorer.
Asking disintegrates the self
And deprives of illumination the Sinai bush of the self.
Do not scatter thy handful of dust;
Like the moon, scrape food from thine own side!
Albeit thou art poor and wretched
And overwhelmed by affliction,
Seek not thy daily bread from the bounty of another,
Seek not water from the fountain of the sun,
Lest thou be put to shame before the Prophet
On the Day when every soul shall be stricken with fear.
The moon gets sustenance from the table of the sun
And bears the brand of his bounty on her heart.
Pray God for courage! Wrestle with Fortune!
Do not sully the honour of the pure religion!
He who swept the rubbish of idols out of the Ka‘ba
Said that God loves a man that earns his living.
Woe to him that accepts bounty from anotherʹs table
And lets his neck be bent with benefits!
He hath consumed himself with the lightning
of the favours bestowed on him,
He hath sold his honour for a paltry coin.
Happy the man who thirsting in the sun
Does not crave of Khizr a cup of water!
His brow is not moist with the shame of beggary;
He is a man still, not a piece of clay,
That noble youth walks under heaven
With his head erect like the pine.
Are his hands empty? The more is he master of himself.
Do his fortunes languish? The more alert is he.
A whole ocean, if gained by begging is but a sea of fire;
Sweet is a little dew gathered by oneʹs own hand.
Be a man of honour, and like the bubble
Keep the cup inverted even in the midst of the sea!