Question
Peace be upon you, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings.
During our discussion regarding your deeply moving article, “A Luminous Minaret of Divine Love,” you mentioned that you had been unable to locate the letter of Mawlana Muḥammad Aḥmad Pratābgarhī Ṣāḥib which you had been searching for. In the same context, you also expressed regret that the two letters sent to you by the third Amīr of the Tablīghī Jamāʿat, Ḥaḍrat Mawlana Inʿām al-Ḥasan Kāndhlawī رحمه الله, had likewise not remained preserved with you.
This especially interested me, particularly because I noticed that you had even included translations of those letters in your seven-volume work al-Jāmiʿ al-Muʿīn.
If you could share some account of your meetings, observations, or memorable experiences with Ḥaḍrat Mawlana Inʿām al-Ḥasan Kāndhlawī رحمه الله, and also convey your reflections upon his personality, scholarly rank, spiritual influence, and noble qualities, I would be most grateful.
May Allah reward you abundantly.
Sulaymān Qāḍī, Batley
Answer
And peace be upon you, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings.
You have asked me regarding my impressions, observations, and recollections concerning Ḥaḍrat Mawlana Muḥammad Inʿām al-Ḥasan Kāndhlawī رحمه الله. The reality is that there are certain personalities about whom, when one lifts the pen to write, one feels that words — despite all their vastness — are narrow in scope, and that expression — despite all its power — is incapable of encompassing the greatness of such sanctified souls. Mawlana Inʿām al-Ḥasan رحمه الله was among those distinguished personalities whose lives were defined not by noise and fame, but by light and spiritual effect; whose silence itself was an eloquent address, whose supplication itself was a spiritual training, and whose gaze resembled a merciful rain sowing the seeds of taqwā and sincerity into the soil of hearts. Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel
In his outward and inward states, in his manner of sitting and rising, in his habits and conduct — indeed, even in his silence — he seemed like a living image of the pious predecessors of this Ummah. Upon seeing him, one felt as though simplicity itself had donned the robe of dignity, and humility had wrapped itself in a mantle of awe. Whoever sat in his gathering would at times feel as though he were seated beneath a vast, shaded tree whose roots were deeply embedded in the earth while its branches conversed with the expanses of the heavens; and at other times, it seemed as though a silent river were flowing — calm upon the surface, yet containing within its depths treasures of maʿrifah, concern for the Ummah, and attachment to Allah.
Ḥaḍrat Jī رحمه الله was a shining light of a scholarly, religious, and spiritual family. He was raised in the pure scholarly atmosphere of the town of Kāndhla. From his earliest years, signs of seriousness, quietness, and religiosity were apparent in his temperament. Under the shade of the great caller and spiritual mentor, Mawlana Muḥammad Ilyās Kāndhlawī رحمه الله, he studied ṣarf, naḥw, fiqh, and other Islamic sciences in Delhi. In 1352 AH he enrolled at مظاهر علوم سہارنپور, where he studied Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī with Mawlana Manẓūr Aḥmad Khān رحمه الله, and Jāmiʿ al-Tirmidhī with Shaykh Muḥammad Zakariyyā Kāndhlawī رحمه الله and Mawlana ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Kāmelpūrī رحمه الله. Thereafter, he completed the Ṣiḥāḥ Sittah and other major books of ḥadīth under Mawlana Muḥammad Ilyās رحمه الله, from whom he also received permission in sulūk and iḥsān. Thus, he was blessed both with the sanad of ḥadīth and with the light of inner spiritual rectification.
Yet his true greatness did not lie merely in chains of transmission, lessons, scholarly gatherings, or positions of leadership. Rather, it lay in the light of sincerity that radiated from his face, speech, movements, stillness, and supplications. He was among those elders in whose company a person gained more through spiritual state than through words. In his proximity one felt the dust of heedlessness gradually settling from the heart, just as leaves are washed clean and renewed after heavy rain, or as the cool morning breeze silently carries away the suffocation of the night.
His style of speaking was also remarkably unique and endearing. He neither favoured oratorical fervour nor verbal embellishment. His speech flowed from beginning to end in the same gentle, balanced, and deeply affecting tone. Every word seemed simple, natural, and heartfelt. There was no artificiality in his speech, yet such was its effect that the listener remained immersed in reflective silence long afterwards. His talks did not create commotion like stormy rhetoric; rather, they descended quietly into hearts like drops of dew. His supplications were usually lengthy, and their manner singularly moving and heart-softening. Great gatherings often concluded with his speech and duʿāʾ, and people would weep as though someone had opened the sealed doors of their hearts.
I had the honour of meeting him numerous times. I had opportunities to present myself in his service in Delhi, to sit in his gatherings in Lucknow, to attend his silent yet awe-inspiring majlis in Dewsbury, and to benefit from his speeches and supplications in Bangladesh. The remarkable thing was that his state felt the same everywhere. Neither global fame altered his temperament, nor did leadership and authority affect his simplicity. He resembled a lamp that burns and melts itself only to give light to others, or a cloud that breaks apart so that the earth of others may become verdant.
I still vividly remember that merely entering his gathering in Delhi would bring a strange tranquillity upon the heart. There was no outward formality in the gathering, yet the atmosphere felt as though mercy were descending behind veils of silence. People sat around him in circles, but he never made himself the centre. There was neither passionate oratory nor display of language in his speech; yet every sentence settled into the soil of the heart like soft rain entering thirsty earth, from which the greenery of sincerity would emerge much later.
His supplications possessed a particularly extraordinary effect. I participated many times in his lengthy duʿāʾs, and every time I felt that he was not merely supplicating, but standing before Allah carrying the pain of the entire Ummah within his chest. At times his voice would choke, at times pauses would overtake him, and at times words themselves would dissolve into tears. Listening to his duʿāʾ, one felt as though a broken heart were knocking at the door of Allah on behalf of all humanity. His tears were not merely emotional displays; they were luminous signs of grief for the Ummah, concern for the Hereafter, and a true relationship with Allah. There was in his duʿāʾ a deep spiritual burning — a burning that penetrated the depths of the heart and turned a person towards his Lord.
One meeting with him remains preserved in my heart as though engraved upon marble. When I was preparing to come to Oxford for the first time, I travelled to Delhi in Rajab 1411 AH and requested a meeting with him. Allah granted me the blessing of sitting with him privately. The room was silent, yet even that silence contained a spiritual majesty within it. There was no crowd, no formal conversation, no mention of worldly plans.
Ḥaḍrat Jī رحمه الله offered several pieces of advice with great affection. One counsel in particular became etched upon my heart:
“In the lands of the West, never become negligent regarding ṣalāh.”
Outwardly, these words were brief, yet within them dwelt an entire spiritual world. The manner in which he spoke about prayer did not feel like the counsel of a scholar alone; rather, it felt as though a compassionate spiritual guide were quietly placing the lamp of his own heart into another’s hands so that its light might not be extinguished amidst the darkness of estrangement in the West. There was in his gaze an extraordinary tenderness, concern, and care. Even today, when I remember that meeting, I feel those few moments were among the most precious moments of my life — moments whose effect the long distances of time have not diminished. Some meetings last hours yet fade from memory, while others last but moments yet remain shining upon the horizon of one’s life like the evening star. My private meeting with Mawlana Inʿām al-Ḥasan رحمه الله was among those unforgettable moments.
When I saw him in Dewsbury, even amidst thousands of people, a remarkable humility was apparent in his nature. He appeared less like the leader of a gathering and more like a dervish immersed in grief for the Ummah. His gaze generally remained lowered, his speech soft and full of spiritual warmth, and his face constantly reflected contemplation and absorption. Sitting near him brought to life before one’s eyes the entire tradition of the righteous — a tradition in which knowledge, remembrance, daʿwah, striving, sincerity, and annihilation in Allah are gathered within a single personality.
One prominent characteristic of Ḥaḍrat Jī رحمه الله was that he did not regard daʿwah merely as gatherings, travels, or organisational activity. Rather, he saw it as a means for the renewal of īmān, the rectification of deeds, and the strengthening of one’s relationship with Allah. In his view, the real work was to revive hearts. Perhaps this is why outward rhetoric was limited in his gatherings, while inward spiritual effect was immense. He influenced people not merely through words, but through his state.
There was in his personality an extraordinary balance. He was a muḥaddith, yet free from affectation; a spiritual mentor, yet distant from harshness; an amīr, yet astonishingly humble. His life resembled a silent ocean, tranquil upon the surface while concealing countless pearls of maʿrifah and sincerity within.
I included mention of him in my work al-Jāmiʿ al-Muʿīn with the feeling that in the contemporary era it is rare to witness such a comprehensive combination of sanad, daʿwah, tarbiyah, spirituality, and sincerity. His name belongs among those great elders who sought not to make themselves prominent, but rather to make the work of dīn prominent — and perhaps that sincerity itself was the true secret of his greatness.
He also wrote two letters to me, though sadly they did not remain preserved. Even today, when I think of him, the loss of those letters brings a gentle ache to the heart, for the letters of the righteous are not merely sheets of paper; rather, they are lamps of love, supplication, and spiritual connection whose light a person continues to feel in the heart for years.
May Allah fill the grave of Mawlana Muḥammad Inʿām al-Ḥasan Kāndhlawī رحمه الله with lights and mercies, raise his ranks, and grant us a true share of his sincerity, devotion solely for Allah, humility, connection with Allah, concern for the Hereafter, and pain for the Ummah. Āmīn.
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