Fakirs I have met. My Grandpa was one too

When you were just four years old, the world seemed so big, yet so simple. Every evening, as the sun dipped low, you’d find your Dada sitting quietly in the corner of the room. The room, bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun, felt like a warm, cozy cocoon. Dada held his rosary, each bead slipping through his fingers like a gentle whisper.

You, with your tiny feet and curious eyes, would tiptoe over to him. He’d smile, that warm, knowing smile, and pat the space beside him. You’d climb up and sit close, your head resting on his knee, listening to the soft rustle of his prayer. The words were like music, a song you didn’t fully understand, but felt deep in your heart.

Sometimes, you’d peek up at his face, noticing the way his eyes were closed, his lips moving in a quiet chant. It was as if he was having a secret conversation with the stars, a special connection only he had. You felt safe, protected, as if Dada’s prayers wrapped around you like a soft blanket.

In the Sufi tradition, this was a time of Dhikr, a remembrance of the Divine. Dada’s simple act of sitting with his rosary was more than just a ritual. It was a way of staying connected, of grounding himself in the beauty and peace of the moment. Even as a child, you could feel that sense of peace, like a calm river flowing through the room.

As the evening turned to night, Dada would gently place his rosary down and scoop you into his arms. You’d cuddle close, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and strong, like the rhythm of his prayers. The world outside might be big and unknown, but in Dada’s presence, everything was right.

These moments with Dada, though simple, were filled with deep meaning. They planted a seed of spirituality in you, a connection to the Sufi way of life that has stayed with you, growing quietly with each passing day.