Muslims begin almost everything with Bismillāh – from prayers to the simplest daily acts. In 16th-century Kashmir, the Sufi Baba Dawud Khaki asked what it really means to start in God’s name.
Every human act begins somewhere. A journey starts with the first step, a book with the first line, a conversation with the first word. Beginnings hold a peculiar weight. They are small in scale but decisive in direction, setting the course of what follows.
Among the most familiar phrases in the Muslim world is Bismillāh al-Raḥmān al-Raḥīm. It begins the recitation of the Qur’an, the setting out on a journey, or even the simple act of eating. Yet, as Baba Dawud Khaki reminds us in his Qasīda-yi Zarūriyya, familiarity can conceal depth. To say Bismillāh is to place every act under the Name that gathers all Names. This raises a question that has occupied scholars and saints for centuries. What sustains this transmission from one generation to another, and what blessing does it carry?
The matter is not confined to medieval commentary. It touches the way human beings cross thresholds. Every project, every gesture, every word has a beginning. We may step across it casually or we may mark it with intention. To begin with, the Basmala is to situate action within a divine horizon, to root a fleeting human effort in the everlasting Name of Allah. Khākī, the Kashmiri Sufi of the sixteenth century, pauses at this threshold and lingers with care. His attention ties him to a long tradition of scholarship while also offering insight for the present.
Khaki begins:
“In the Name of Allah, the One God Who forgives, I begin this book. Rahman and Rahim both indicate mercy, as Imam Qushayri and Khawaja Parsa have explained in their commentaries: they said this is the way of the people of verification, that the two names indicate unity of meaning. From the words of Jawhari too, this meaning is understood, though repetition is for emphasis.”
By invoking the ahl al-taḥqīq, the “people of verification,” Khaki points towards a mode of reading that belongs to the Sufi tradition. Language unfolds into spiritual precision, each word carrying resonance and weight.
Classical exegetes debated the relation between Raḥmān and Raḥīm. Zamakhshari, in al-Kashshāf, saw Raḥmān as referring to Allah’s all-encompassing mercy, while Raḥīm conveyed particular care for His servants. Linguists such as Jawhari understood the distinction as rhetorical, with repetition used for intensity. Khaki extends the discussion by asking what the Names disclose to the one who begins in them. For the Sufi, mercy shapes the atmosphere of faith and the texture of inner life. To invoke both Names is to immerse the beginning of an act in an ocean of compassion, nūr ūnʿalā nūr, light upon light.
Modern psychology also recognises the shaping power of beginnings. Athletes repeat gestures before competing, writers sharpen a pencil before drafting, and daily life is filled with rituals of entry that steady and orient behaviour. Khaki’s insistence that no act should start without remembrance shares something with this intuition. Yet his approach rests on a different foundation. Beginning is not a matter of control or focus but a way of placing oneself within a continuity larger than the self.
The hadiths known to Khaki reinforce this rhythm:
Every important matter not begun with Bismillah is cut off (without blessing)
Every important matter not begun with al-ḥamdu li-llāh is mutilated (incomplete).
The commentators resolved the tension by noting that both Bismillah and hamd serve the same purpose: they prevent the act from beginning in forgetfulness. Ibn Hajar, al-Nawawi, al-Qurtubi and al-Suyuti all underline that starting with remembrance anchors the work in blessing.
Modern psychology offers a striking parallel. Studies suggest that rituals performed before an action can lower anxiety, sharpen attention, and create a stronger sense of purpose – effects sometimes described in behavioural science as the “fresh start effect”. Neuroscientific research has also shown that repeated invocations activate brain networks tied to calm and intention. Khaki’s insistence on beginning with the Basmala works on both planes: devotionally, it invokes divine mercy; psychologically, it cultivates focus and steadiness.
This layered meaning becomes clearer in Khaki’s Wird ul-Murīdīn, where he begins with the Basmala and immediately follows with praise:
Shukr li’Llāhi hāl-i man har lahza nū tar shud ast
Shaykh-i shuyūkh Shaykh Ḥamza ta marā rāhbar shud ast
Thanks be to Allah, my state at every moment is renewed
For the Shaykh of Shaykhs, Shaykh Hamza, has become my guide
The reminder here extends beyond theology. To begin with, the Basmala is to acknowledge that words, projects, even breaths are not self-contained. In cultures that often value productivity for its own sake, this orientation opens a different horizon. Worth rests not in scale or speed but in the awareness of the One in whose Name an act is undertaken.
Beginnings, then, are not trivial thresholds. They shape the form of what follows. The simple act of writing Bismillah at the top of a page becomes theology in practice, mercy in invocation, light at the threshold of speech. Khaki’s careful unpacking of the Basmala shows that even the opening words of a text hold oceans of meaning.
The lesson of the Qasīda-yi Zarūriyya is that beginnings contain depth and gravity. To start with, Allah’s Name is to step into mercy, to set the course of what follows under a light that multiplies, nūr ūnʿalā nūr. Khaki’s meditations are also about the way human beings shape attention at thresholds, whether in scholarship, devotion, or daily life.
