Interview of Shaikh Shabbir M. Qutubali Ameen, Toronto, by Mudar Patherya
 
Teheran, February 1979. It is the kind of month that comes but once in a lifetime. The month the modern Islamic political history transformed.
 
My family saw this revolution first-hand. Two months later we proceeded to Karbala; from there my wife left for India and I returned to Teheran. Not for long. As expatriates started trooping out of Iran, my employer MML (now KPMG) asked me to conclude the remaining audit assignments and exit to Thomson McLintock, London.
 
So on 10th September 1979 (18th Ramadan), I took a Japan Air Lines flight to Karachi to Bombay. As I reboarded during the Karachi stopover at an unearthly 1230am I saw something that got me suddenly wide awake: sitting in First Class just ten feet away was Syedna Mohammed Burhanuddin Saheb with Bu Saheba. Just the two of them. Alone.
 
My instant internal prompting: Present myself to Huzurala with a mumbled introduction.
My second prompting: Escape (suited-booted, clean shaven, no topi).
 
Option one prevailed.
 
I extracted a well-wiped handkerchief, covered my head, produced some obscure currency, dropped to the floor and extended a tentative hand. Huzurala’s first reaction on seeing this unusual response: “Bhai, tamey kaun chho? Tame yahan si aa plane ma besa chho?”
 
I narrated my recent history in a breathless sentence: Ayatollah, Shah of Iran, chaos, flight of capital, JAL flight. Strange spectacle: one suited passenger at the knees of another, half-blocking the aisle, with a handkerchief barely covering his head, launched on an animated geo-political commentary of the region.
 
Huzurala was concerned. “Iran ma kitla mumineen rahey chhe? Koi ne kai takleef to natthi thayi? Sagla amaan ma chhe? Hamna kahaan chhe?”
 
Thereafter, with karam, ehsaan and shafaqat, he asked in a soft voice if I would open the cabin bag locker him, give him his topi and put his paagdi in its place. This done, Huzurala asked me to pick the hafti from his bag and give it to him.
 
The fingers trembled, the eyes misted. I must have repeated “London jaaoon chhu, career waastey.” Huzurala responded, “Saifee Mahal aavi ne raza lejo”.
 
In Bombay, it took me two months to arrange my British work permit and visa. I booked to fly to London on 1st December 1979. With three days left for the flight, I finally decided to go to Saifee Mahal to seek Huzurala’s raza mubarak. Tragedy: could not enter Saifee Mahal. Second day: could not enter Saifee Mahal. Third day (day of my flight): managed to enter Saifee Mahal.
 
Minutes before the bethak ended, the late miyasaheb Shaikh Yusufbhai Rampurawala took me by hand into the presence of Huzurala (surrounded by hundreds of mumineen). Someone was yelling ‘Maula, bawaji ni tabeeyat achhci nathi, shifaa thaayi.’ Another was pleading ‘Bachcha exam ma pass thaayi, dua karo Maula!’ A third from a different direction would be petitioning ‘Bairo haamela chhey! Naam ni araz!’
 
I waited for a lull. But before I could utter a single word, Huzurala suddenly turned in my direction and before I could even jog his memory about a JAL flight in September, about how a clean shaven adna moomin had collapsed on his feet and about how he had asked me to come to Saifee Mahal, Huzurala said emphatically, “Tamne London java ni raza chhe!”
 
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