دی گفت طبیب از سر حسرت چو مرا دید
هیهات که رنجِ تو از سرِ قانون شفا رفت
Upon observing my distressing condition the doctors uttered in despair;
Your state (in love) is beyond any possibilities of cure.
– Hafez Shirazi

At the age of eight, I endured excruciating, relentless pain in my abdomen. Those years are etched in my memory as a cacophony of screams, tears, and convulsions while I writhed on the bed, tormented by the pain inside me.

My parents, witnessing my anguish, consulted several doctors in Karachi. One of them proposed the possibility of a twisted knot in my intestines, obstructing the natural flow of digestion and inflicting unbearable pain; however, nothing like that showed up in the reports. As the pain mercilessly intensified, a doctor prescribed a restrictive diet, allowing me to consume nothing but clear soup and toast, in the hope that it might provide temporary relief until a definitive diagnosis was made. For about six months, I dutifully consumed nothing else; yet, the pain kept worsening.

The specialists in Karachi, their brows furrowed with grave concern, grappled with the confounding enigma that was my condition. They probed and prodded, inserting enema tubes, and conducting X-rays repeatedly, but their efforts proved futile. Amidst the searing pain, I screamed and wailed. Finally, in a desperate final gambit, a specialist prescribed potent penicillin antibiotics. For thirty days, I endured the piercing sting of the penicillin injections. My body withered away, my strength evaporated, and I was reduced to a hollow shell of my former self. The school became a distant memory as it was eclipsed by the consuming pain that relentlessly gnawed at me.

Desperate to find an answer, my parents took me to Europe when I reached the age of nine. The doctors suspected tuberculosis and I underwent multiple tests in London, Germany, and Switzerland. Yet, to everyone’s astonishment, the results came back clear, providing no tangible medical solution to my distressing state.

Dejected and filled with dimming hopes, we returned home, the pain clinging to me like an indomitable specter. From enemas to penicillin, from one hospital to another, we endured an interminable cycle of agony and despair for another year. My parents spared no effort in their quest to alleviate my pain, yet their hearts broke when a family doctor informed them that the medicines I was consuming would start affecting my other sensory abilities.

The tender faces of my parents, once adorned with smiles, now wore a shroud of gloom and desolation. I was on the cusp of turning ten, and any semblance of improvement in my condition seemed an elusive dream. Doctors had resignedly counseled my parents to prepare for the worst, urging them to brace themselves for surgery, a desperate measure in the face of uncertainty.

Then, a ray of hope pierced the darkness that engulfed our lives. Syedna Taher Saifuddin RA graced Karachi with his presence that year, and we were blessed to host a zyafat at my kaka, Fakhruddin Bhai Valika’s home. Clutching onto the remnants of hope and with tears streaming down her face, my mother placed me before the revered presence of Syedna Taher Saifuddin RA, crying out, “moula mari dikri ne 2 waras si pait ma ghanu dard che, doctors ne khabar nathi parti ke su thai che, aim kahe che ke operation kari ne pait kholi ne dekhse, Moula mari dikri nu pait kai kabaat (cupboard) to nathi, ke kholi ne dekhse, hawe mein aap na paase awi chu, aap mane farmawo mein su karu, mein ghani mushkil ma chu”.

Attentively, Taher Saifuddin Moula RA listened to my mother’s anguished plea, his face adorned with a serene smile. And then, with calm authority, he spoke, “aik kilo mudh (honey) aney aik kilo kalonji lai ne ridge house par awjo”.

The following day, carrying one-liter honey and one-kilo black cumin we made our way to the ridge house. There, Syedna Taher Saifuddin RA blessed me with his nazar mubarak, his eyes filled with compassion, pronounced shifa, and stated: “roz ehne fajare, nahaar-mu, saat dana kalonji aney shehed na apjo, 2 waras tak aapjo, aney bani sake to zindagi bhar aapjo”.

Overwhelmed, my mother responded, her voice trembling: “Moula shifa nu shehed to khatam thai jase”. With a beaming smile, Taher Saifuddin Moula RA replied: “shifa ni kalonji che ne, ye rehse”.

Today, at the age of seventy-six, I stand as a testament to that lofty, miraculous, and fatherly presence of Syedna Taher Saifuddin RA; I have never felt any chronic pain in my abdomen from that fateful day to date. Although we never found out about the problem, my parents knew where to seek the answer.

Mulla Ruqaiyyah Bai Millwala

Houston, USA

In the means of shukr and zikr, anyone who is willing to share his/her’s acquaintance, incident, or any experience with Moulana Muqaddas RA or Moulana Mufaddal Saifuddin TUS can mail it to dm@tazkerat.org & md@tazkerat.org