(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Syed Majid Gilani

Some memories never leave. They wait in the air like the first call to prayer before dawn, in the scent of burning oil lamps, or in the steady hum of a scooter on a Kashmiri winter morning.

Every 11th day of the Islamic month, Gyarhvi Sharif, carries that sound and fragrance for me. It brings back the pulse of my father's faith and the innocence of my own beginnings.

ADVERTISEMENT

My father, Syed Iftikhar Gilani, believed that faith should travel, through streets, lives, and generations.

On those mornings, he would polish his silver-grey Vijay Super Lambretta until it gleamed. I would climb up in front of him, my hands gripping the handle, as he kicked the engine to life.

The sound filled our lane, rising above the chatter of neighbours and the cawing of crows.

The ride to Khanyar felt like a small pilgrimage.

Srinagar in those days smelled of wood smoke and fresh bread. Men walked briskly with prayer caps tilted to one side, and women arranged flowers in brass vases for the home shrines.

As we crossed Fateh Kadal bridge, the wind grew sharper. My father wrapped his pheran tighter and said,“Faith is a journey, not a habit.”

I didn't understand him then. I only cared about the taste of nadir munji he had bought from a street vendor, the crisp lotus stems seasoned with salt and chili.

At the Dastgeer Sahib Shrine, the world seemed to slow. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, their palms raised. The air carried the soft hum of Darood Sharif, the murmur of Qur'anic verses, and the rustle of prayer beads.

I watched my father close his eyes. His face glowed in the lamplight. When he bowed, I bowed too, not because I knew what he was saying, but because I could feel his peace.

After Khanyar, he would take me to the Naqshband Sahib Shrine at Khwaja Bazar. The streets there felt older, narrower, filled with shopkeepers who whispered their own prayers between sales.

Our final stop was the Khanqah of Shah-e-Hamdan, its wooden façade glowing in the afternoon sun.

That circuit of shrines, traced faithfully each Gyarhvi Sharif, became our family's map of devotion.

Years later, I came to understand what my father was teaching without words. He followed the path of Hazrat Ghousul Azam Sheikh Syed Abdul Qadir Gilani (R.A.), the saint whose name we invoked every month.

The founder of the Qadriyah order preached self-purification, sincerity, and service to others. His teachings, gathered in works like Ghunyat-ut-Talibin and Futuh

Ghaib, call the believer to cleanse the heart before seeking heaven.

His message took deep root in the valley. Even today, on Gyarhvi Sharif, Kashmir turns into a field of devotion.

At Dastgeer Sahib, men chant Azkaar in measured words, women offer plates of rice for charity, and the sound of Qur'an recitation spills into the alleys.

The spiritual energy gathers like mist, soft yet firm. For a few hours, Srinagar seems to breathe as one body of faith.

My father said that faith was never meant to be loud. It needed to be lived.“A believer's worth,” he told me once,“lies in how he treats another human being.”

He gave without record, prayed without display, and carried his devotion into daily life. He fixed a neighbour's roof without being asked. He refused to speak ill of anyone, even those who wronged him.

MENAFN04112025000215011059ID1110290509