If the distance between Mani Kalan and Jamdahan were measured, it would not seem very great. But in the early days of our consciousness, this distance felt like it stretched for miles. It was a time when the roads were unpaved, questions were immature, and knowledge was an unfamiliar thing. In winter, dew was abundant and our feet would be soaked with moisture and mud; in the rainy season, the sludge would seize hold of us. Science was not taught at Zia-ul-Uloom, so it was hardly surprising that our knowledge was close to zero.Click Here To Follow Our WhatsApp Channel
Every morning we would set out for Mani Kalan and return in the evening. On rainy days, one question would torment us: Where does the water in the clouds come from? We had no answer. By chance, we befriended a boy from another village, though his maternal relatives lived in Jamdahan. He too began travelling with us daily. One day, when the question of the clouds’ water arose again, he told us that his grandfather had gone to the city of Jaunpur, where he had seen with his own eyes that the clouds descend lower and lower and drink water from the Gomti River, and then pour that same water down in all directions. He added that his grandfather had even broken off a piece of one of those clouds and taken it home, where it was still preserved.
Having found an answer to our question, we were immensely happy, as if a knot in our minds had been untied. Yet a small ache remained in the heart: why had my grandfather not gone to Jaunpur to witness this scene? And why had no piece of cloud come to our house?
When I began studying at Maulana Azad Educational Centre, the first book on logic and philosophy came into my hands. The teacher explained that the universe is the name of a continuous chain of events and created things, and that this chain does not come to an end anywhere. Infinite regress is an ancient philosophical problem. Muslim theologians, however, attempted to resolve it through the discussion of the possible and the Necessary Existent. According to them, the Necessary Existent is the source of all possible beings, and the Necessary Existent itself has no source.
I objected that the problem remained exactly where it was. Philosophers believe in an infinite chain of causes and effects, and theologians, by introducing the term “Necessary,” have merely declared the same chain to be infinite. The chain persists; only the terminology has changed. The teacher became upset and said that this was a pointless question, and since he did not engage in pointless debates, today’s lesson was over.
The problem of infinite regress remained unresolved, but during the discussion I told my classmates that clouds drink water from the Gomti River and then produce rain. After that day’s lesson, a new question arose in my mind: Where does the Gomti River itself come from? One classmate replied that his brother studied at Nadwa, and according to him the Gomti flows in front of Nadwa. This meant that the Gomti comes from Lucknow. I asked: Where does it come from in Lucknow? Someone said: from somewhere beyond Lucknow. And thus we were once again trapped in the jaws of infinite regress.
One classmate declared that infinite regress was false. Outside Lucknow, he said, lived a sadhu who spat water from his mouth, and from there the Gomti River emerged. We asked how he knew this. He replied: “Through reason. When the solution to the infinite chain of events and creations is the Necessary Existent, my reason immediately decided that the solution to the Gomti’s chain must also be that same sadhu.” We were satisfied with this answer, and the problem of regress was resolved—for the moment.
I was admitted to Nadwatul Ulama, and thus my intellectual life entered a new phase. Here, I devoted myself wholeheartedly to acquiring literary, empirical, and certain knowledge, and gradually became naturally averse to conjecture, speculation, and fruitless debates. Nadwa taught me that knowledge is not that which merely occupies the mind, but that which disciplines the intellect, gives direction to thought, and brings a person closer to reality.
The greatest distinction of Nadwa is that its founders closed all the doors to intellectual indulgence in the name of knowledge, and directed students’ attention toward disciplines that are both beneficial and effective. Knowledge here was not treated as mere amusement or intellectual acrobatics, but as a means for building life, refining thought, and cultivating certainty. As soon as one enters Nadwa’s atmosphere, one feels that there is freedom to ask questions—but also responsibility to carry those questions to their proper end.
This is why Nadwa led me out of the noise of conjecture into the silence of certainty, and taught me that the perfection of reason lies not in the abundance of questions, but in knowing where to stop. Here I learned that philosophy, when it exceeds its limits, scatters the mind, and that knowledge, if deprived of the balance between revelation, experience, and literature, remains mere supposition. Nadwa named this balance “knowledge” and declared it the true capital of life.
When I came to Oxford, I befriended an American Christian young man, whom I shall refer to here as David (not his real name). Our conversations were sometimes academic, sometimes light-hearted, and sometimes revolved simply around human wonder.
One day, I narrated to David the entire story of the clouds and the Gomti River—the sadhu, infinite regress, and the temporary comfort of reason. He said in astonishment, “It’s surprising that you were satisfied with the narrative that the source of the Gomti River is a sadhu’s mouth.”
I replied, “At the time, we were novice students of philosophy. The problem of infinite regress had made us restless. That answer gave us temporary relief, so we did not reflect further on the existence of the sadhu. Besides, we were children—how deeply could we really think?”
David smiled and said, “But now you are grown up.”
I replied, “Yes—and now I also know where the water of the Gomti actually comes from.” He listened intently. I then presented to him a narration recorded by Imam al-Dhahabi in Siyar A‘lam al-Nubala’, volume 11, page 539. Qasim al-Mutarriz relates that he visited ‘Abbad ibn Ya‘qub al-Rawajini in Kufa. He was blind and used to examine students. He asked me: “Tell me, who dug the sea?” I replied: “Allah.” He said: “That is correct—but tell me, who dug it?” I said: “Shaykh, you tell me.” He replied: “‘Ali dug it.” Then he asked: “Tell me, who caused the water to flow in it?” I replied: “Allah.” He said: “That too is correct—but tell me, who caused the water to flow?” I said: “Shaykh, you tell me.” He replied: “Husayn caused it to flow.”
After I had heard his hadiths, I returned to him again. He repeated the same question: “Who dug the sea?” I replied: “Mu‘awiyah dug the sea, and ‘Amr ibn al-‘As caused the water to flow in it.” As soon as I said this, I jumped up and ran away, while he shouted behind me: “Catch this sinner, this enemy of God!”
David immediately said, “That’s an obvious contradiction—sometimes Husayn, sometimes ‘Amr ibn al-‘As?”
I replied, “This is not a contradiction; this is the real story of philosophy and theology. Just as one group says the universe rests on an infinite chain of causes and events, while another says the chain ends at the Necessary Existent—when in reality the chain continues, only a new name is assigned to it. The disagreement is not over reality, but over expression.”
“Here too,” I continued, “the reality is one, but the names differ. In the Shi‘a expression, ‘Ali made the river and Husayn set it flowing; in the Sunni expression, Mu‘awiyah made it and ‘Amr ibn al-‘As set it flowing.”
Hearing this, David burst out laughing. I asked what amused him. He said, “It reminded me of Imam al-Ghazali’s remark—that some philosophical statements are such that if someone muttered them in his sleep, people would doubt his sanity.”
I said, “You’ve put philosophy and theology in the same row!” David replied seriously, “That is exactly what Imam Fakhr al-Din al-Razi said: I tested the paths of theology and philosophy, but they neither cured the disease of the heart nor quenched the thirst of the soul. The path closest to me was the path of the Qur’an.”
David then asked me, with great seriousness: “When the Qur’an itself introduces God, why don’t you tell me how God introduces Himself in His Book—what style He uses and what arguments He presents?” I realized that this was not a casual question, but a profound intellectual demand. So I replied, “You have made a most valid, reasonable, and thought-provoking request. Its answer cannot be given in a brief conversation. In our next meeting, we will reflect carefully and in detail on Qur’anic monotheism, to see how the Qur’an addresses reason to make God known, and how it leads human beings out of conjecture to the threshold of certainty.”
And at that very moment, I realized with complete clarity that the real issue had never been the clouds, nor the Gomti River, nor the puzzle of infinite regress. The real issue was that we had been satisfied with names instead of reality, and had remained entangled in terminology instead of meaning.
We had mistaken causes for reality, and made expressions stand in for existence—whereas the path of knowledge lies beyond names, and the destination of certainty transcends interpretations.
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