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“Power of Prayer” from Wings of
Fire
A P J Abdul Kalam
I was born into a middle-class Tamil family in the island town
of Rameswaram in the erstwhile Madras state. My father, Jainulabdeen, had
neither much formal education nor much wealth; despite these disadvantages, he
possessed great innate wisdom and a true generosity of spirit. He had an ideal
helpmate in my mother, Ashiamma. I do not recall the exact number of people she
fed every day, but I am quite certain that far more outsiders ate with us than
all the members of our own family put together.
My parents were widely regarded as an ideal couple. My mother's
lineage was the more distinguished, one of her forebears having been bestowed
the title of 'Bahadur' by the British.
I was one of many children-a short boy with rather
undistinguished looks, born to tall and handsome parents. We lived in our
ancestral house, which was built in the middle of the 19th century. It was a
fairly large pucca house, made of limestone and brick, on the Mosque Street in
Rameswaram. My austere father used to avoid all inessential comforts and
luxuries. However, all necessities were provided for, in terms of food,
medicine or clothes. In fact, I would say mine was a very secure childhood,
both materially and emotionally.
I normally ate with my mother, sitting on the floor of the
kitchen. She would place a banana leaf before me, on which she then ladled rice
and aromatic sambhar, a variety of sharp, home-made pickles and a dollop of
fresh coconut chutney.
The famous Shiva temple, which made Rameswaram so sacred to
pilgrims, was about a ten-minute walk from our house. Our locality was
predominantly Muslim, but there were quite a few Hindu families too, living
amicably with their Muslim neighbours. There was a very old mosque in our
locality where my father would take me for evening prayers. I had not the
faintest idea of the meaning of the Arabic prayers chanted, but I was totally
convinced that they reached God. When my father came out of the mosque after the
prayers, people of different religions would be sitting outside, waiting for
him. Many of them offered bowls of water to my father who would dip his
fingertips in them and say a prayer. This water was then carried home for
invalids. I also remember people visiting our home to offer thanks after being
cured. My father always smiled and asked them to thank Allah, the benevolent
and merciful.
The high priest of Rameswaram temple, Pakshi Lakshmana Sastry,
was a very close friend of my father's. One of the most vivid memories of my
early childhood is of the two men, each in his traditional attire, discussing
spiritual matters. When I was old enough to ask questions, I asked my father
about the relevance of prayer. My father told me there was nothing mysterious
about prayer. Rather, prayer made possible a communion of the spirit between
people. "When you pray," he said, "you transcend your body and
become a part of the cosmos, which knows no division of wealth, age, caste, or
creed."
My father could convey complex spiritual concepts in very
simple, down- to-earth Tamil. He once told me, "In his own time, in his
own place, in what he really is, and in the stage he has reached good or
bad-every human being is a specific element within the whole of the manifest
divine Being. So why be afraid of difficulties, sufferings and problems? When
troubles come, try to understand the relevance of your sufferings. Adversity
always presents opportunities for introspection."
"Why don't you say this to the people who come to you for
help and advice?" I asked my father. He put his hands on my shoulders and
looked straight into my eyes. For quite some time he said nothing, as if he was
judging my capacity to comprehend his words. Then he answered in a low, deep
voice. His answer filled me with a strange energy and enthusiasm:
Whenever human beings find themselves alone, as a natural
reaction, they start looking for company. Whenever they are in trouble, they
look for someone to help them. Whenever they reach an impasse, they look to
someone to show them the way out. Every recurrent anguish, longing, and desire
finds its own special helper. For the people who come to me in distress, I am
but a go-between in their effort to propitiate demonic forces with prayers and
offerings. This is not a correct approach at all and should never be followed.
One must understand the difference between a fear-ridden vision of destiny and
the vision that enables us to seek the enemy of fulfilment within ourselves.
I remember my father starting his day at 4 a.m. by reading the
namaz before dawn. After the namaz, he used to walk down to a small coconut
grove we owned, about 4 miles from our home. He would return, with about a
dozen coconuts tied together thrown over his shoulder, and only then would he
have his breakfast. This remained his routine even when he was in his late
sixties.
I have throughout my life tried to emulate my father in my own world of science and technology. I have endeavoured to understand the fundamental truths revealed to me by my father, and feel convinced that there exists a divine power that can lift one up from confusion, misery, melancholy and failure, and guide one to one's true place. And once an individual severs his emotional and physical bondage, he is on the road to freedom, happiness and peace of mind.
