Gulshan Esther's Torn Veil
Excerpts from the book Torn Veil by Gulshan Esther.
I would not, in the ordinary course of events have wanted to come to England, that Spring of 1966. I, Gulshan Fatima, the youngest daughter of a Muslim Sayed family, descended from the prophet Mohammed through that other Fatima, his daughter, had always lived a quietly secluded life at home in the Punjab, Pakistan. Not only was this because I was brought up in purdah from the age of seven, according to the strict, orthodox Islamic code of the Shias, but also because I was a cripple, and unable even to leave my room without help. My face was veiled from men, other than permitted kinsfolk, like my father and two older brothers, and uncle. For the most part, during those first fourteen years of my feeble existence, the perimeter walls of our large garden in Jhang, about 250 miles from Lahore, were my boundaries.
It was Father who brought me to England-he who looked down on the English for worshipping three gods, instead of one God. He would not even let me learn the infidel language in my lessons with Razia, my teacher, for fear I should somehow become contaminated with error and drawn away from our faith. Yet he brought me, after spending large sums in a fruitless search for treatment at home, to seek the best medical advice. He did this out of kindness and concern for my future happiness, but how little we knew as we landed at Heathrow airport that early April day, of the trouble and sadness that waited round the corner for our family. Strange that I, the crippled child, the weakest of his five children, should have become in the end the strongest of all, and a rock to shatter all he held dear.
EXCERPT: "The Healing"
... For years I had read the Holy Quran devotedly and prayed regularly, but I had gradually lost all hope that my condition would change. Now, however, I began to believe that what was written about Jesus was true-that he did miracles, was alive-and that he could heal me.
"Oh Jesus, son of Mary, it says in the Holy Quran that you have raised the dead and healed the lepers and done miracles. So heal me too." As I prayed this prayer my hopes grew stronger. It was strange, because in years of Muslim praying I had never felt certain that I could be healed. I took my beads, which I had brought from Mecca and prayed a Bismillah after each prayer, and then I added after each prayer, "Oh Jesus, Son of Maryam, heal me."
Gradually, my praying changed until I was praying over and over between prayer times, on each bead, "Oh Jesus, Son of Maryam, heal me." The more I prayed, the more I was drawn to this shadowy, secondary figure in the Holy Quran, who had power that Mohammed himself never claimed. Where was it written that Mohammed healed the sick and raised the dead?
"If only I could talk to someone," I sighed, but there was no one. I went on praying therefore to this prophet Jesus, until there should be more light given.
I had awakened at 3 am as usual, and I was sitting up in my bed reading verses I now knew by heart. Even as I took in the words, my heart was saying its litany, "Oh Jesus, Son of Maryam, heal me." Then suddenly I stopped and I said aloud the thought that had been forcing itself into my brain:
"I've been doing this for so long and I'm still a cripple."
I could hear the slow movements of someone getting up to prepare the water for washing, before morning prayer. In a short time Aunty would be in to see me. Even as I was registering that, my thoughts were focusing in an urgent way on my problem. Why hadn't I been healed, though I'd prayed for three years?
"Look you are alive in heaven, and it says in the Holy Quran about you that you have healed people. You can heal me, and yet I'm still a cripple."
Why was there no answer, only this stony silence in the room, that mocked my prayers?
I said his name again, and pleaded my case, in despair. Still there was no answer. Then I cried out in a fever of pain, "If you are able to, heal me-otherwise tell me." I could go no further along this road.
What happened next is something that I find hard to put into words. I know that the whole room filled with light. At first I thought it was from my reading lamp beside the bed. Then I saw that its light looked dim. Perhaps it was the dawn? But it was too early for that. The light was growing, growing in brightness, until it surpassed the day. I covered myself with my shawl. I was so frightened.
Then the thought occurred to me that it might be the gardener, who had switched on the light outside to shine on the trees. He did this sometimes to prevent thieves when the mangos were ripe, or to see to the watering in the cool of the night.
I came out from my shawl to look. But the doors and windows were fast shut, with curtains and shutters drawn. I then became aware of figures in long robes, standing in the midst of the light, some feet from my bed. There were 12 figures in a row and the figure in the middle, the thirteenth, was larger and brighter than the others.
"Oh God," I cried and the perspiration broke out on my forehead. I bowed my head and I prayed. "Oh God, who are these people, and how have they come here when all the windows and doors are shut?"
Suddenly a voice said, "Get up. This is the path you have been seeking. I am Jesus, Son of Mary, to whom you have been praying, and now I am standing in front of you. You get up and come to me."
I started to weep. "Oh Jesus, I'm crippled. I can't get up."
He said "Stand up and come to me. I am Jesus."
When I hesitated he said it a second time. Then as I still doubted he said for the third time, "Stand up."
And I, Gulshan Fatima, who had been crippled on my bed for nineteen years, felt new strength flowing in to my wasted limbs. I put my foot on the ground and stood up. Then I ran a few paces and fell at the feet of the vision. I was bathing in the purest light and it was burning as bright as the sun and moon together. The light shone into my heart and into my mind and many things became clear to me at that moment.
Jesus put his hand on the top of my head and I saw a hole in his hand from which a ray of light struck down upon my garments, so that the green dress looked white.
He said: "I am Jesus. I am Immanuel. I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. I am alive, and I am soon coming. See, from today you are my witness. What you have seen now with your eyes you must take to my people. My people are your people, and you must remain faithful to take that to my people."
He said, "Now you have to keep this robe and your body spotless. Wherever you go I will be with you, and from today you must pray like this:
"Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory for ever and ever. Amen."
He made me repeat the prayer and it sank down into my heart and mind. It was in its beautiful simplicity, yet its profundity, so different from the prayers I had learned to say from my childhood up. It called God "Father"-that was a name that clutched at my heart, that filled its emptiness.
I wanted to remain there at the feet of Jesus, praying this new name of God-"Our Father" ... but the Jesus vision had more to say to me:
"Read in the Quran, I am alive and coming soon." This I had been taught and it gave me faith in what I was hearing.
Jesus said much more. I was so full of joy. It could not be described.
I looked at my arm and leg. There was flesh on them. My hand was not perfect, nevertheless it had strength, and was no longer withered and wasted.
"Why don't You make it all whole?" I asked.
The answer came lovingly:
"I want you to be my witness."
The figures were going up out of my sight and fading. I wanted Jesus to stay a little longer, and I cried out with sorrow.
Then the light went and I found myself alone, standing in the middle of the room, wearing a white garment, and with my eyes heavy from the dazzling light. Now even the lamp beside my bed hurt my eyes and my eyelids drooped heavily over them. I groped towards a chest of drawers which stood against the wall. In there I found a pair of sunglasses, which I wore in the garden. I put them on, and was able comfortably to open my eyes to see again.
I carefully shut the drawer, then turned and looked around my room. It was just the same as when I woke up. The clock still ticked on my bedside table, showing that it was almost 4 am. The door was firmly shut and the windows, with the curtains drawn tightly across, were closed against the cold. I had not imagined the scene; however, for I had the evidence in my body. I took a few steps, then a few more. I walked from wall to wall, up and down, up and down. My limbs were unmistakably healthy on the side that had been paralysed.
Oh, the joy I felt. "Father" I cried. "Our Father which art in heaven." It was a new and wonderful prayer.
