Tantrika (34 page)

Another Sufi tale about Shibli underscored to me the true nature of goodness. The tale recounted how Shibli the Sufi after his death appeared to someone in a dream. In this dream God asked Shibli whether he knew why God had chosen to show him forgiveness. Shibli listed all of his prayers and good deeds. “But the Lord told me, ‘Not for all this have I forgiven you!'”

Shibli asked, “But then why?”

God said, “Do you remember that winter night in Baghdad when it was snowing and you saw a tiny kitten shivering on a wall, and you took it and put it under your fur coat?”

“Yes! I remember that,” Shibli responded.

“Now, because you had pity on that poor little cat, I have mercy on you.”

My baby led me to discover more about my lineage. I knew Shibli Nomani, my ancestor, descended from the Hindu Rajput nobility through which our family converted to Islam. Learning more about my baby's namesake, I discovered that he was inspired by a seventh century Muslim scholar named Imam Abu Hanifa Nu'man ibn Thabit. He founded the Hanafi
madhab,
or school of jurisprudence in Arabic, in the city of Kufa in Iraq. The Hanafi
madhab
spread in India where my ancestor Shibli Nomani took the name Nu'man because of his deep respect for the teachings and life of Abu Hanifa. I learned several a
madhab
divided Islam.

I knew Islam was not practiced in a singular way, but my personal inquiries allowed me to meander in a history that helped me understand that the Muslims who wanted to stone women in the modern day for
zina
weren't part of my Islam, and they weren't part of everybody's Islam. I called Pakistan again, not as a broken woman, but as a journalist to discover more about the work of the women's moment fighting to protect women, throw out the Hudood Ordinances, and get identity cards for children born to mothers not married. A human rights lawyer in Pakistan, Asma Jehangir, and her brave sisterhood of women activists and advocates had challenged judges in Pakistan that wanted to punish women where pregnancy was a part of their guilt: “The women's movement isn't quiet,” she said. In Rabat, my intellectual mentor Fatima Mernissi told me the Qur'an says God created humans and gave them free expression. “It's fantastic. You responded to God's will by expressing yourself,” she said, telling me about the women in Morocco who expressed themselves to defend single Muslim mothers, pushing DNA praternity testing and empowerment of women, training them in one Casablanca organization, Association Solidarite Feminine, to earn a living.

Scholars told me that the Hanafi
madhab
was one of four schools of law, practicing Islam as a more rationalist school of thinking with credence to scholars to settle issues of debate. It allowed for an embrace of
Sufi mysticism and a school known as Wahhabi sprang up in opposition. It believed in a strict adherence to the word of the Qu'ran and gained steed with the Saud family, making it the ruling principle in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was said that Shibli Nomani wandered with missionaries in an effort to understand other religions and opposed Wahhabi thinking at the turn of the twentieth century. But recent years have seen the spread of Wahhabi Islam, as well as another orthodox school called Deobandi, the growth fueled by financing from patrons in Saudi Arabia. Their momentum helped script the Hudood Ordinances that made my return to Pakistan as an unwed mother a potential for arrest. The rigid practice of Islam separated me from many of my own relatives, but I realized for the first time that I didn't have to have a guilt trip about it.

Most dramatically, it created the divide that was to set Danny's killers and their allies against me. It divided those who defined Islam in the name of al-Qaeda, Osama bin Laden, and hatred from those who sought to live peaceful lives. With knowledge, I was liberated from the boundaries some Muslims tried to put around Islam. In my inquiries about Tantra, I had heard much about the importance of finding a teacher with a lineage. My twenty-first century newborn made me realize that I had my own lineage through a brave Sufi convert born a Hindu Rajput, Shivraj Singh, and a progressive Muslim scholar, Shibli Nomani. They set me on a path of inquiry that I had just undergone with the strength of all the women who had preceded me and surrounded me.

When I drew my breath in deep to give my baby life on the day of his birth, I was, of course, nothing less or more than a woman fighting for her baby.

In one moment of sheer epiphany, as I beckoned Shibli into this world, I knew surrender. An unborn child superseded my ego. Without explanation, I knew unconditional love. All of the experiences, experiments, and adventures of the last years, all of the anguish, the joys, and the reflections converged at that one moment to dedicate my being to only one purpose, my baby's life, for he was my manifestation of divine love. I had met him without even having seen him.

As I write, country music spilling out of Safiyyah's bedroom next door, Samir bringing me a chocolate wrapped in gold paper, my baby
nuzzles asleep against my breast, the delicate scent of his mother's milk upon his breath, his belly rising and falling with his every breath. He clutches one of my mother's fine black hairs, always taking a souvenir when he lies in her arms.

My shadow kisses him.

My Blessed Sangha

A parakeet, a calico, and an aunt named Rashida. They are part of the
sangha
that is the spiritual, intellectual, and inspired community who created this book.

My mother, Sajida Nomani, and father, Mohammad Zafar Alam Nomani, loved me, read my manuscript, and still loved me. My brother, Mustafa Nomani, shared with me his clarity even when I was too feeble to understand it. My sister-in-law, Azeem Nomani, always cheered me to stay strong. Ah, my gurus, Safiyyah and Samir. You welcomed me into your sacred childhoods so I could know my own.

I am grateful to the beautiful people in Morgantown who have prepared me for
samsara,
the worldly life, and helped me also forget it. First, the children for their beauty, wisdom, and grace: Spencer Lindsay, Tali and Tasha Soccorsi, Dayshia and Daniel Johnson, Ryan Bell, Breanna Woods, Natasha Nickles, Neha Gupta, Gary and Emily Scopel, Kate Blobaum, Youseph, Adam, and Heba Kassar; and all of their parents for letting their children hang out with me even when I brought them home late. The teachers, parents, and staff at North Elementary School and Suncrest Middle School; Jeanne DeVincent for worrying about me while I was on the road in emails with type in more colors than I knew existed.
The Dominion Post
for starting my publishing career with a letter-to-the-editor. Morgantown High journalism teacher, Earl Straight, who let me put my first interviews in print in the
Red and Blue Journal.
The elders, the Yusuffs, the Majumdars, the Sinhas, and all the immigrant families that made Morgantown a melting pot. The customers of my mother's boutique, Ain's International, and the erstwhile Louiga Audia for praying for me while I was on the road.

The Nomani family, far and wide, when I thought I was so different you reminded me with your hospitality and kinetic energy that it is from
the same cloth that we are cut. The Ansari family and all extensions, you enveloped me in your quiet grace and gave my soul a place to rest. Rachel, Lucy, and Esther Ansari, my companions in this life's
safar,
Arabic for spiritual journey. To all those who opened their doors to me and made me feel at home in this world.

To fly as a
dakini
you have to have a strong home base from which to soar. The
Wall Street Journal
gave me that. I'm grateful to Paul Steiger for his leadership and support and to the editors who pushed me, each in special ways, Byron Calame, Joanne Lipman, Rich Regis, Jonathan Dahl, and Tim Schellhardt. John Koten, my Chicago bureau chief, who recognized how much I was doing to prove my parents' migration right, Alan Murray, my second Washington bureau chief, who pegged me an enigma before I got on the radar of Pakistani intelligence agents, Al Hunt, my first Washington bureau chief, who bought a Coke for me during a dark moment and told me, “Get well. Your job will be waiting.” Greg Hill, my San Francisco bureau chief, the first to tell me to: Write about that which you know. And Mary Nese and Cathy Reynolds, who always helped me sign the papers that set me free.

There are
hudud
everywhere. You don't simply have to live in a harem to know boundaries. The special family of friends I've made at the
Wall Street Journal
are all breakers of
hudud.
I am so grateful to them for always cheering me on. Nancy Keates, my Gemini twin. Tina Duff for her friendship. Ken Wells for showing the unorthodox can succeed. Dan Kelly who was as crazy as me to travel to Shanghai, China, for a party. Marcus Brauchli for throwing the party. Dan Costello and his brother Sean Costello for being chaperones in my life. Vicki Parker who cheered me as an enigma. Laurie McGinley for showing me the grace of professional generosity. And all my dear friends, Robert Frank, Phil Kuntz, Holly Neumann, Kemba Dunham, Bridget O'Brian, Tom Herman, Charlie Gasparino, Nik Doegun, Charlie McCoy, Liz McDonald, Kim Strassel, Ron Shafer, David Rogers, Jill Abramson, Peter Waldman, Marilyn Chase, Mary Lu Carnevale, Rachel Kessler, Michelle Higgins, Laurie Campos, and Liz Yeh. Jeff Bailey, an early teacher in the craft of daily journalism, who showed me Old School is the best school. Finally
Rochelle Sharpe who taught me to end sentences with a punchy word, wow!

My
dakini
friends, Sumita Ashrafi, who wrote this book with me as teens, Pam Norick for infinite wisdom and compassion, and Vasia Deliyianni for her global vision. We once thought it was a big deal to call ourselves women of the nineties. Lynn Hoverman because I was wrong. I didn't have enough friends when I met you. Mark Kukis for making me laugh so hard in Pakistan. And my friends Nancy Snow, Ellyce Johnson, Chiyo Kobayashi, Dariush Ashrafi, and Larry Paul, for teaching me about friendship even if I wasn't cool enough to hang out with the McCroskey twins at Suncrest Junior High.

I've been lucky to have had gems passed to me. At the 1981 Ball State University high school journalism workshop, Bruce Watterson told us that it was important to talk to everybody, principals or janitors. After September 11, 2001, my friend Kerry Lauerman told me my voice, too, had worth and sent me to Pakistan for Salon. Salon's chief David Talbot for trusting Kerry's judgment. Salon editor Joan Walsh and Salon readers for being so appreciative.

In my new incarnation, I am indebted to my compassionate agent Kris Dahl for conceiving of the vision that became this book and supporting me so unflinchingly while it was being realized. My editor Liz Perle who taught me by trusting me. Liz Farrell for spreading the word. Jud Laghi for being so kind. And, finally, all of the inspired people at HarperSanFrancisco and HarperCollins who were so kind to this first-time author, Anne Connolly, Tom Ward. Eric Brandt, my new editor, for caring enough to ask me, “Are you happy with us?” Chris Hafner for staying calm amidst my panic. Calla Devlin for caring about the message. Any errors on these pages are mine to claim, but I am so appreciative to Islamic scholar Alan Godlas for scouring my manuscript and telling me about intellectual truths in history, language, religion, and culture I couldn't have even imagined. And I am so grateful to my kindred spirit, my cousin-aunt Shehla Anjum, who knew not only Latif Manzil and my culture, but also the past perfect tense, making this book and life so much richer.

The year 2002 was the hardest in my life. I thank John Bussey and Steve LeVine who brought humanity to our war in the trenches in Karachi. And all those friends from Karachi who must go unnamed, I thank you. My dear new friends in Paris who cared for me when my child was unborn, Anne Robin, Marc Albert, Frederique Lambert, Satchi Van Neyenhoff, “Ben” Benguezzou, Marie de Banville, Aurélie Ducasse, Ouhid Essid, and all those who allowed me to join with them in prayer.

Finally, a gratitude deeper than I could ever express goes to my dear friend Danny Pearl whose absence I don't believe even as I write. You saved my life in so many ways, and you blessed me Danny by leaving me with the friendship of your dear wife Mariane whose gifts to me touch my soul.

I am indebted to everyone, named and unnamed, including you dear reader, who gave me strength so that I could deliver my greatest package, my son Shibli, who waited six days so I could meet my editor's deadline. My lion cub Shibli, I am indebted to you for giving me the inspiration to not only write but to live.

It's said that no intersections are without purpose. May you dear readers be blessed in your life as I have been in mine, with a
sangha
that helps you fly.