Avatars of Vishnu circle Sultan Mohamed Shah (Aga Khan III) in red turban.
Notice Om above the imam's potrait.
Gujarati writing.
Top લાંબી ઇમામતના જોમાંઘારી - Bearer (responsible one) of the long immate
Bottom: નુરમોલાના સુલતાન મહમદશાહ - Noor Mowlana Sultan Mohamed Shah
Bottom margin. Courtesy: Ismailia Association, Bombay, 15-1-1957
Extract
Chapter 17
Picture Darshan and the Song
After
his morning chai, Dadabapa gathers all his grandchildren around him at Saheb’s
framed picture at the shop’s corner altar. A slim garland of stale marigold
roses and browned jasmine hangs on the picture that calls for veneration. Below
the wilted loop are a handful of mung, a silver coin and a burnt-out incense
stick in a peacock stand. A fresh tuberose. A broken tasbih. Some coins.
Dadabapa replaces yesterday’s incense stick and lights a new one on the
peacock’s head cast in silver on the incense holder. He lights another one
holding it between his two fingers as if it were a long sewing needle.
“Remember
life is a changing cycle of karma from yoog to yoog,” says Dadabapa measuring
his words as he looks at each one of us in the eye. Thus begins the morning
lesson, and the song.
“Satpanth
stories are in the four colours of the yoogs. Each has its own persona in red
or yellow, black or white.” I keep still, my eyes tightly closed. I thrill in
the expectation of the rass of darshan seeping into my body, the devotional
bliss in my ears, the magical picture in my eyes.
“I am
at your feet. I offer this my aarti dua today,” Dadabapa speaks to the picture.
Then he turns around and speaks to us. “Children! Sing with me! Let me hear
your voices loud!”
I open
my eyes gradually to the picture and my heart to the coming bliss. Dadabapa
draws incense smoke in circles around the picture in which all the ten avatars
of the creator as fish, beast and man stand before me. I look at each image,
my palms pressed before me, my chants following Dadabapa, line by line. Shamshu
mumbles by my side. He is impatient for his mind is elsewhere. Pictures of the
avatars sing back to me. My eyes fall on them pleading darshan. Awe fills me
when the chant of the fish-animal-human god avatar in the ten descriptions
becomes one prayer to our unison universe. Behind the children, Ma Gor Bai and
Kaki Bai auntie stand at a distance with their hands folded, eyes closed, all
singing together. My father stands in the opposite corner, also with his hands
folded, eyes closed and singing. Only Noordin Kaka uncle is not there. Even Hawa joins us.
I am
Vishnu’s machli avatar, the giant fish
I
saved the Vedas from heinous demon
Behold!
I am the Lord of the age
When he
comes to ‘I am’ in the end verse, Dadabapa raises his voice. Repeating after him, we would call out ‘I
am’ in a chorus, shouting at the top of our voices. He would smile aside
without looking at his grandchildren imitating him.
I am
Vishnu’s kurma avatar, the turtle
I
deliver life when oceans whirl
Behold!
I am the Lord of the age
Awe
grips me, so vast a divinity in the picture before me. So vast the story of Das
Avatar. So vast the creation.
