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WINGS OF FIRE An Autobiography © UNIVERSITIES PRESS (INDIA) PRIVATE LIMITED







                                       
I was born into a middle-class Tamil family in the island town of Rameswaram in the erstwhile Madras state. My father, Jainulabdeen, had neither much formal education nor much wealth;
despite these disadvantages, he possessed great innate wisdom and a
true generosity of spirit. He had an ideal helpmate in my mother,
Ashiamma. I do not recall the exact number of people she fed every
day, but I am quite certain that far more outsiders ate with us than all the
members of our own family put together.
My parents were widely regarded as an ideal couple. My mother’s
lineage was the more distinguished, one of her forebears having been
bestowed the title of ‘Bahadur’ by the British.
I was one of many children—a short boy with rather undistinguished
looks, born to tall and handsome parents. We lived in our ancestral house,
which was built in the middle of the 19th century. It was a fairly large
pucca house, made of limestone and brick, on the Mosque Street in
Rameswaram. My austere father used to avoid all inessential comforts
and luxuries. However, all necessities were provided for, in terms of
food, medicine or clothes. In fact, I would say mine was a very secure
childhood, both materially and emotionally.
I normally ate with my mother, sitting on the floor of the kitchen. She
would place a banana leaf before me, on which she then ladled rice and
aromatic sambhar, a variety of sharp, home-made pickles and a dollop
of fresh coconut chutney.

The famous Shiva temple, which made Rameswaram so sacred to
pilgrims, was about a ten-minute walk from our house. Our locality was
predominantly Muslim, but there were quite a few Hindu families too,
living amicably with their Muslim neighbours. There was a very old
mosque in our locality where my father would take me for evening
prayers. I had not the faintest idea of the meaning of the Arabic prayers
chanted, but I was totally convinced that they reached God. When my
father came out of the mosque after the prayers, people of different
religions would be sitting outside, waiting for him. Many of them offered
bowls of water to my father who would dip his fingertips in them and
say a prayer. This water was then carried home for invalids. I also
remember people visiting our home to offer thanks after being cured.
My father always smiled and asked them to thank Allah, the benevolent
and merciful.
The high priest of Rameswaram temple, Pakshi Lakshmana Sastry,
was a very close friend of my father’s. One of the most vivid memories
of my early childhood is of the two men, each in his traditional attire,
discussing spiritual matters. When I was old enough to ask questions, I
asked my father about the relevance of prayer. My father told me there
was nothing mysterious about prayer. Rather, prayer made possible a
communion of the spirit between people. “When you pray,” he said,
“you transcend your body and become a part of the cosmos, which
knows no division of wealth, age, caste, or creed.”
My father could convey complex spiritual concepts in very simple, down-
to-earth Tamil. He once told me, “In his own time, in his own place, in what
he really is, and in the stage he has reached—good or bad—every human
being is a specific element within the whole of the manifest divine Being. So
why be afraid of difficulties, sufferings and problems? When troubles come,
try to understand the relevance of your sufferings. Adversity always presents
opportunities for introspection.”
“Why don’t you say this to the people who come to you for help and
advice?” I asked my father. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked
straight into my eyes. For quite some time he said nothing, as if he was
judging my capacity to comprehend his words. Then he answered in a low,
deep voice. His answer filled me with a strange energy and enthusiasm:

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