The Sufi Tarot Card Reader

[Guest guest]

I think any seeker can identify with this story, and the ryhthmic

chanting will definitely raise the kundalini; finally, Sufi masters

definitely left their mark in kundalini yoga, as well as Sikhism.

Enjoy...

 

http://www.chowk.com/site/articles/index.php?id=13322

 

The Sufi Tarot Card Reader

Rakshanda Khan January 2, 2008

 

Tags: fate , society

He sat near the railings in the center of Camden Lock market, obscured

by two white lace curtains that provided shade not only to him, but

also a pair of velvet covered stools and a short round table. I wasn't

sure but he seemed to be playing with a pack of tarot cards.

 

Curious, I peeked

in and was met with a bright grin.

 

`Hello! Would you like a reading?' he asked, shuffling the cards with

a flourish, his round, bald head settling into his broad shoulders

with a friendly shrug. Like a turtle I thought, warming to him.

 

`Erm,…ok' I found myself replying. I was unemployed, after all. Time

stood still, aching to be dispensed with.

 

`Ooh,' he gasped as I sat down opposite him, `I must tell you. There

are spirits with you'

 

`Spirits?' I looked about me in fear.

 

`Yes' he replied bending his head towards me, `can you sometimes

intuit things?' His eyebrows wagged mischievously.

Yes, I thought, I can intuit that I am wasting my money here.

 

A short pat on his deck and a lavish spread later, my love life was

stripped of all its essential clothing. Blushing, I tried hastily, to

change the subject and took a wild guess.

 

This was Camden, after all.

 

`I don't suppose you could direct me towards some literature on

Kundalini Yoga?'

 

`O yes! I was a practicing Buddhist for many, many years!' he

exclaimed, launching enthusiastically into a long discourse on

Buddhism. I breathed a sigh of relief. Buddhism I can talk about, but

employment? My lackluster love life? Perhaps another day…

 

`I do find, however' the oracle pondered, `that Sufi Zikr is a far

more effective means of tapping into one's psychic self. I am a sufi

tarot reader', he presented a business card, `indoctrinated in the

arts by a Pakistani Sufi Master.

The man changed my life.'

 

I was intrigued. Every week I had been taking a bus to my friend

Laura's home. She was training to be a yoga instructor and gave free

lessons. I found meditation to be a great relief from unemployment

angst but somewhere, in those intense sessions, I had started feeling

the absence of God. Here was the ideal combination: my Islamic God and

the silent, introspective Buddha, both kneading my energies into a

calm balm to soothe nerves worn raw with fear and worry. I begged him

to direct me towards a center of learning and a week later found

myself hesitantly entering the doors of a converted church enquiring

after the next Zikr session.

 

It was ramadhan. I had found a job, but was also afflicted with a

feverish cold that had struck when the weather turned. I was

sniffling, my body ached, I had been on my feet all day, but some

undeterred curiosity dragged me onto bus after bus towards Seven

Sisters. The anticipation was immense, but the evening's worship was

to start with Iftar and Taraweeh. Zikr, itself, would not commence

until several hours after and was to bring the evening to a climax.

 

Warily, I found my way to a cafeteria. Here sat cloth covered women on

cloth covered tables. I could sense they could sense an intruder.

There I was in my jeans and flashy red jumper, my bare head standing

out in a crowd of modestly attired faces, muslimahs well versed in the

art of cover up. I sneezed and was graciously offered a piece of bread.

 

It was an uncomfortable meal. I escaped to the women's toilets with

tears in my eyes. What was I thinking? I didn't belong here. So many

perplexed pairs of eyes couldn't possibly be wrong. We had no common

ground, regardless of how generous they were with their food. Should I

stay or...(Flee! Flee! Flee! my mind hollered)

 

No! I had come all the way here, I must see it through. I shoved my

hands under a running tap to perform ablutions. Dear God, show me a sign.

 

`Don't judge this mosque by those people' a Hijabi lady spoke up. She

had been watching me from afar. `Everyone has their own understanding

of God. Are you muslim?'

 

Yes I am, born and bred. In need of a God I have abandoned for far too

many years and wrestling with fears and anxieties, chasing after empty

pleasures knowing full well their aftertaste. And O, did I mention I

was unemployed?

She is a convert, breeding a young family of muslim women. She has

fought her family for her beliefs and now they too have found her way

to be good. She is my sign.

 

Upstairs, in the prayer room, Taraweeh starts and I join a jamaat of

women. I am struck by the beauty of the room. I can easily visualize a

yesteryear when this very room featured an ornate altar and multiple

rows of wooden benches facing it. The walls are high and huge glass

windows in the gothic tradition welcome in a wispy layer of pale

silver moonlight that wrestles with the orange glow of the lanterns. A

large patchwork quilt hangs on a facing wall bearing the names of

Allah in brightly colored thread, lovingly created by some of the

women I am seated beside. There are wall hangings featuring Quranic

verse and a framed picture of the Kibla. This room has witnessed

centuries of prayer and performance within its stone walls and I

cannot imagine a more tranquil space for tonight's anxiously

anticipated Zikr.

 

Prayer starts and I painfully realize that this is my first Taraweeh

at a mosque and I am clueless as to the format. The prayers seem

different and once again, I feel doubt, a nagging fear that I am not

meant to be here. Then, gradually, a rhythm settles into my joints and

unfamiliar words settle onto a familiar tongue. I feel my aches and

pains melting away as I pray and bow and chant with a community I now,

somehow, feel a part of.

 

20 rakahs later, the room falls silent. Some one has extinguished the

lanterns and the moonlight no longer needs to compete for attention.

It settles, instead, just below the high ceiling, lending an eerie

glow to the many figures that have now assembled in front, the cloaked

Shaykhs conducting the Zikr and the men who have come to attend. The

room is still, I can almost feel it breathing, or perhaps those long

deep breaths are mine. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for magic. My

toes tingle as I hold my breath.

 

A voice starts chanting itself into a loud, heavy chorus, they are

chanting clipped, short words; the names of Allah. My eyes remain shut

as I join in, swaying to the tune of this heavenly chorus. It feels

pure and rich and resonates in harmony with some chord within my

person. I can feel my eyes tear up, tears i have no control over as

they cascade down my cheeks with shameless abandon. I am overwhelmed

with remorse. What is this feeling? It is immense and palpable and it

is as if my entire being is melting.

 

I leave the church in a daze.

 

Due to a series of unfortunate events, I could not revisit the mosque

and a month later found myself boarding a plane back to Pakistan.

 

Struggling with culture shock and the confusion of repatriation, I

sought Sufi friends, if only I could contain within my heart, the

series of cathartic emotions I had witnessed that fateful day. Within

the midst of chaos, they alone took on the mantle of guide and oracle.

Such intense sentiment must have SOME meaning.

 

What?

 

It must be relived!

 

So onwards I march, past a seaside mazaar, its colorful building

replete with flags and swarming with people pulling to itself with

some cosmic magnet the crippled, the psychic, the mad, the eccentric.

I witness soothsaying parrots, fortune tellers, palm readers, I read

tales of women being picked up and raped from outside its gates and it

perplexes me. In that entire stretch of land swarming with the occult

is a culture I do not understand.

 

Weeks later I find myself in a majlis. There are hymns and prayer and

songs of praise but I cannot feel God. It is as if he appears and

disappears at will, I chase after him and catch a fleeting glimpse.

Then the fight begins, the struggle to be cleaner of heart and purer

of spirit.

 

I wonder if my Sufi tarot friend had any idea of the yearning he would

unleash, or if he could sense my hungry spirit. Were he in Pakistan,

would he too be found practicing outside the mazaar of a deceased

saint? Despite my confusion I remain convinced. In the land of

mystics, teeming with saints and guides, I too shall find my path.

[Guest guest]

Thank you for posting " The Sufi Tarot Card Reader. " It made me smile.

I remember the first time I attended Zikr. I felt so light, bright and

uplifted and that feeling stayed with me for days and days. My life as

a Sufi blends so beautifully with Kundalini yoga. I can't imagine life

without either. I encourage anyone who hasn't attended a Zikr to try

it. You will be welcomed into the circle. My Sufi Spiritual Teacher

tells me he used to attend sadhana with his Sikh friends and then lead

a Zikr after. Now THAT must be an incredible experience!

Bless, Bless,

Reinette