 If the peacock is the bird of paradise, then the India I know is paradise. A thousand mirrors shine from its tail. A thousand beauties are reflected in the mirrors. That's what Amir Khosrow said about the land of his birth. Poets, composers and singers rise from this land as naturally and as abundantly as grass. He said, how great is this land which produces men who deserve to be called men? If Pachan, Samkhurasani, Arab or Rumi comes here, he will not have to ask for anything. They will treat him as their own. As long as we can smell his fragrance, we shall stay here. That is what they are saying. The group of fair-faced Iranians who have travelled all the way from Tehran to join voices with the singers of India from the regions of Kashmir, Awadh and the city of Khosrow, Delhi. They look like brothers separated by geography, not time. In their music there is dialogue. When one begins, the other picks up, then the other. Bound in the same spiritual chain, they sing of love and beauty that is open to every human heart. Sufism has created its own art independent of the mosque and the court. Nurtured it through artisan guilds and khanakas, as can be seen in Sufi poetry, music and the sacred dance. Love to a Sufi is to feel God's presence in each and everything and embrace it in a spirit of submission and surrender. Amir Khosrow recognised this abundance even as a child and poured it out in song. Khosrow's solitariness came to an end when he found his peer in Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, a unique attachment of Peer Murshid that lasted 50 years till the end of their lives. Khosrow was away from Delhi and the saint died. Hearing the news he broke down in song, a farewell that occurs in every Sufi Dargah across India to this day. Unlike Khosrow, Rumi when separated from his great friend Shams did not stop writing. Going in search of him, he came to the realisation that what he was searching was in him. Why should I seek? I am the same as he. His essence speaks through me. I've been looking for myself. To constantly remember this divine love is the way of the Sufi. They call it the zikr. To receive zikr is like catching a seed scattered by the wind. And once the zikr is planted in the heart, takes root, grows and bears fruit, the language of love travels well and travels long routes.