Dancing with God

Client: Outpost Magazine

Publication date: September/October 1999

Text and Photography by Adnan R. Khan

TIME STOPS. The senses become saturated with the scent of ancient
traditions. Sufis step out of the dust and offer you a cup of tea,
just because your paths have crossed and the teapot's already on the
fire. Men ride into town on camel-back, park and disappear down
alleyways, into the shadows. Sehwan Sharif -- in this city, time is
a folded paper of events, eras layered one on top of the next and co-
existing as comfortably as lifelong friends. Sehwan Sharif
challenges you to try and give it context.

Ahmed reaches over and taps me on the shoulder, jarring me out of my
stupor. "These Sufis," he says in broken Urdu, pointing to the old
man sitting next to me, "they're great at tending to the soul, but
fires, now that's another story." The circle of men sitting around
the dwindling embers breaks into a chorus of laughter and I have to
endure a couple of stinging slaps on the back. Hazrat Ghulam
Mustafa, the object of Ahmed's joke, smiles to himself and sets to
work on another hash joint.

Eight a.m. on my third day in Pakistan and I've already managed to
break two of my cardinal rules of solo travel -- never get isolated
with strangers and always keep a clear head. Lucky for me these guys
are more inclined to discuss the nature of ecstatic love than the
value of my personal belongings.

The courtyard we are sitting in has a fully mature pipal tree at its
centre, nestled among the ancient buildings of Sehwan Sharif, the
oldest populated town in Sindh province. Here, the drama of the
outside world -- Pakistan's endless bickering with India, the
military coup, nuclear bombs -- has no meaning. Sehwan has endured
for over 2,500 years while other towns have crumbled before armies
or withered after a shift in the course of the Indus. For the people
of this region, life, like the alluvial river which is their
lifeline, is unchanging.

When I arrived in Sehwan, on the trail of Pakistan's Sufis -- the
mystics of Islam -- I had no clue what I'd find. Surrounded by
inhospitable desert, the town seemed an unlikely haven for these
wandering ascetics, except that it is home to one of the most
important Sufic monuments in Pakistan, the shrine of Lal Shabhaz
Qalandar. By some stroke of blind luck, I have ended up waiting for
my morning chai by a small cooking fire, chatting with an honoured
member of Sehwan's Qalandar order.

At 60, Mustafa looks aged and wizened, he but squats like a playful
child, deftly wielding a wooden staff. A subtle flip-and-twist of
the wrist and in a blur of motion he's brandishing the knotted pole
with both hands, ready to strike down his enemies. Fortunately for
me he's a pacifist, and I have a feeling he's never had any real
enemies, except maybe the single burning ember that's managed to
escape the growing pile of coals. Chuckling to himself, he gently
nudges it back into place.

"This man Ahmed," he says to me, shaking his head, "he still has a
long journey ahead of him. Let me tell you something; if you force
an ember to burn too quickly, it will die before the chai is ready,
a lesson Ahmed still needs to learn. Patience, now that is the only
true beauty in this world."

These are the first words Mustafa's spoken all morning. Ahmed, for
his part, rises to his feet, his arms extended in a gesture of
submission. "Aray bhai," he pleads, "if I have to wait any longer
for my tea, I'll end up sipping it with the Almighty Himself."

MUSTAFA TURNS OVER one of the logs and continues his work on the
joint. Qalandar Sufis are notorious for their liberal use of
hashish. For them, altered states of consciousness, whether drug-
induced or otherwise, bring them closer to the transcendent presence
of God. It's obvious that Mustafa has tested that theory with a
scientific persistence. Within seconds he's offering me a cup of tea
and a neatly rolled joint. I decline the latter but enthusiastically
take the tea, having rushed out early this morning to catch the
sunrise without my usual morning cup. Mustafa seems amused by my
choice.

"When I wake up," he remarks, as if reading my thoughts, "the first
thing I look for is my hashish. It's my way of freeing myself from
the attachments to this world."

Qalandaris take their rituals very seriously, which has on occasion
landed them in hot water with other, more conservative, Sufi
schools. Their belief system is founded on denying themselves the
safety of normal social restraints, which they believe are a form of
attachment to physical reality. By giving themselves over completely
to the ecstasy of creation, through ritual dancing, chanting and
self-immolation, they believe they are communing directly with the
essence of God. The more standard Islamic ritual practices, like
prayer and fasting, are in general subordinate to the transcendent
experience.

Though the Qalandaris have been characterized by other Sufi schools
as a fringe movement, Sufism in general has not fared well in
Pakistan's Islamic community. Modernization has rendered Sufi
practices obsolete, and at odds with the moderates of Sunni
Islam, the predominant Islamic sect. Sufi dervishes, devotees who
renounce all worldly possessions and practice trance-inducing
devotional exercises, are characterized by most Muslims as
charlatans and frauds. This is a harsh indictment considering the
role Sufis have played in the history of Islam.

The roots of Sufism trace back to the very beginnings of Muslim
expansion. Sufis were its principal proselytizers and the spiritual
advisors to kings. Mustafa talks fondly about the history of his
sect. In Sindh, he explains, the Syeds, thought to be descendants of
the Prophet Muhammad, were the first Arabian missionaries to begin
converting the local population. The truth is, of course, sketchy,
but without a doubt the Syeds have left an indelible mark in Sehwan.
I've counted two minor shrines thus far dedicated to Syed saints in
addition to the Qalandar shrine.

Mustafa's family has been here for as long as anyone can remember,
tending to the Qalandar shrine and the steady stream of devotees who
journey there in search of peace and blessings. "For centuries upon
centuries we've walked the same road to Qalandar," Mustafa says,
eyes gleaming with pride. "My father and his father and his before
that."

"That is true," jokes Ahmed, "but all roads in Sehwan lead to
Qalandar." He's not too far from the literal truth. The city crowds
arounds the monument like an overprotective mother. The buildings
here have been built and rebuilt over the centuries atop the rubble
of previous structures. Narrow laneways overflow one down to the
next, with colourful bazaars teeming with people and shrines at
every turn. The streets of Sehwan tumble down the hillside like dust-
filled tributaries, slithering serpents that meander between
mudbrick structures and empty into the torrent of activity at the
foot of the Qalandar shrine. Keeping one's bearings is a feat of
mental cartography.

As I try to remember the path I took to this courtyard, the group of
men begins to break up. Ahmed offers to walk me back to Qalandar,
but I explain that I'm not heading in that direction just yet. With
the sun still low on the horizon, I decide to take advantage of the
tolerable heat and wander about the streets a little longer.

"Then you must come tonight to the dhammal," he says. "Ghulam-bhai
will be drumming."

The offer is too good to refuse, so with a few words of thanks to
Mustafa, I venture back into the maze of the old city.

It's still early -- the sun's just starting to peek over the tops of
buildings -- but already I can feel the approach of another
sweltering day. Sindh's climate is unforgiving. On the train ride
from Karachi, I had caught a brief glimpse of the desert landscape
of the region. The dust settles into every pore, makes every breath
feel like swallowing sandpaper. The ultra-fine sand and loose soil
that covers every square centimetre of space is called wariasi. I've
been told you get used to it, like urban smog or rural manure.
Suffocating and annoyed, I suppose I haven't evolved to that point
yet.

IN THE EVENING, AFTER A SECOND BATH, I walk out again into the dusty
maelstrom and head toward the shrine. The street outside my hotel is
flooded, even though it hasn't rained once since I arrived. I was
told on one occasion that Sindh hasn't seen rain in over a year; on
another, three. In either case, the putrid pool I find myself
skirting precariously is an anomaly.

A local merchant tells me it's the plumbing. "Backs up all the
time," he says with a huge grin, revealing a set of rotting, paan-
stained teeth.

The streets are buzzing with pilgrims making their way to Qalandar.
Some walk solemnly alone, apparently absorbed in misery, others
travel in jovial groups as if out for an early evening jaunt, and
still others, apparently already possessed by the spirit of Allah,
chant Qu'ranic verses and yell "Ya Ali" at the top of their lungs as
they pass by. The feeling of reverence is contagious.

As I approach the shrine, the crowd thickens like soup boiling in
the dry desert heat. The street is lined with merchants, whose wares
range from richly ornamented Sindhi cloth to mounds of nuts and
dried fruits. Food stalls are abundant and the pungent odours of
pakoras, tikkas, and various curries battle with the wariasi for
aerial supremacy.

In the midst of the mayhem, I imagine the Persian general Skylax
sailing past Sehwan in the sixth century BC. And the coming of
Alexander the Great two centuries later, his armies following the
course of the Indus until forced by the punishing climate to turn
for home. The Indus plain has changed owners more times than a VW
van. The Harrapans, Persians, Greeks and Mauryans; the Guptas,
Mughals and British; all have shared in its development.

Like the Nile through Egypt, the Indus River brings Sindh all the
basic elements of survival. The history of the province is the
history of the Indus (the name Sindh is itself derived from the
indigenous name for the river), the great river whose whims have
turned entire empires into dust.

Sehwan particularly has been a fulcrum for the battles between
empires. Strategically situated at the crux between Upper and Lower
Sindh, the town and its fortifications have hosted various
conquering dynasties, guarding the passage along the Indus from
north to south and out to the Arabian Sea. In the eighth century AD,
Muhammad Ibn Qasim, taking advantage of the river's annual
inundation, invaded Sehwan and changed the face of Sindh forever.

The Muslim conquest paved the way for the culture and belief system
that has dominated the province ever since. With Sufis at the
forefront, Islam poured into Pakistan and quickly gained a solid
foothold in the local populations. The Sindhis, poor and oppressed
under Hindu rule, were quick to adopt this new caste-free religion
(though the zamindar system has now left them wondering if any
progress has been made). Continuing poverty is what makes
contemporary Sindhis so open to the Sufi way of life. Whereas the
formality of contemporary Islam, which dominates urban centres, has
little connection to the pastoral life of the Sindhi farmer, Sufism
offers an alternative. Like the pre-Islamic fetish cults, Sufism
infuses reality with the presence of God. In the soil, the trees,
the seeds and the river which are the Sindh people's livelihood, God
is ever-present. When pilgrims journey to Qalandar, they are coming
closer to Allah in their minds.

At the south entrance to the shrine, the courtyard is a solid mass
of humanity. The biting odour of spices gives way to the sweet smell
of burning incense. With the sun tucked away behind crowded
buildings, the ghostly glow of a few meagre tube lights lends the
scene an other-worldly hue.

I slowly make my way through the gathering like an earthworm
struggling through saturated mud, my camera safely tucked away under
my arms, and escape into the safe haven reserved for the ceremonial
drummers. Here, I'm greeted by Mustafa, who introduces me to his
fellow Sufi percussionists. Glancing down at my camera, he warns me
to be careful of what I shoot. "Especially the women," he says and
then guides me to a seat on a ledge just behind the drummers.

I couldn't imagine a better view. With the drummers themselves
seated on the ground, I have a direct line to the "dance floor,"
where it seems some pilgrims have already entered a mild state of
ecstasy, swaying from side to side and chanting silently to
themselves. Ahmed is with them, hands cupped in prayer, eyes open
but turned inwards. I'm surprised to see that some women are also a
part of the group, heads bowed and covered with brilliantly coloured
silk dhbuttas, praying furiously. Their intensity is palpable.

When the drumming begins, slowly at first, a chorus of "Ya Ali"
rises up from the crowd in reverence to Hazrat Ali, father-in-law of
the Prophet Muhammad. Feet drag along the dirt floor and the dancers
appear to move as one, swept away by the current of rhythm flowing
around them.

As the rhythm intensifies, the dancers move into their own personal
worlds, jumping and gesticulating wildly as if possessed by the
driving beat. They experience themselves as an extension of the
rhythm, no longer the bags of flesh and bone of their daily lives,
but atoms of the ephemeral moment sharing in the universal presence
of God. In this trance state, they are lost in the ecstasy of
creation, not of any single time or place, but the creativity which
is the timeless and placeless penumbra of the universe.

THE CURRENT OF ENERGY grows and begins to crash against my senses
like a tsunami. Forgetting Mustafa's warning, I reflexively power up
my Nikon and aim directly at the crowd. Having at least enough sense
to make sure there are no women in the frame, I fire a single shot,
but the flash partially jogs one of the female devotees out of her
trance.

We make eye contact, hers glowing red with anger, mine retreating
into darkness with fear. Her hair, peeking from the sides of a
dhbutta, is a mass of sweat-laden fibres, clinging to her face like
tentacles. I have only a split second to size her up before she lets
loose a piercing howl and charges.

There are times in life when you feel overwhelmed by a single
moment, when the senses are so aware that seconds cling to the mind
and refuse to pass at their normal pace. Majestic vistas, wondrous
monuments, mysterious phenomena -- all have a way of making time
stop dead in its tracks, as if to emphasize your own mortality. Fear
also has a way of doing this. Fear makes you recognize the fragility
of existence and your small place in it.

It's this fear that envelops me now. The subsequent events unfold
with a frame-by-frame precision: the woman pounces at my throat,
teeth bared and glistening; Mustafa and the drummer seated next to
him drop their sticks, leap to their feet and catch her by the arms -
- an inch before she can strike. They drag her kicking and screaming
back to the dancers, trying all the while to assure her that no harm
has been done. I've raised my arms as if someone's pointed a
Kalashnikov in my face. My camera quickly disappears into its bag.
Safe.

The other two drummers haven't missed a beat, and the dancers are
too absorbed to take any notice. My saviours deftly return to their
drums and pick up where they left off. The woman stands in one spot
for a moment, lolling her head from side to side, and then falls
back into her trance.

I ride out the remainder of the ceremony in a state of half-shock,
my heart out-racing the drumbeats, my hands securely wedged under my
ass. As the crowd breaks up, Mustafa comes over and asks if I'm
alright. "You must be careful not to photograph the women," he
says. "To them, it's a sign of vanity and they fear God will punish
them for it." I'm about to explain that she wasn't even in the shot,
but decide instead to nod my humble assent, thinking it better at
this point to keep my mouth shut. "Now, if you want some good
photos, go into the shrine. But remember, no women." I smile meekly
and wander back into the crowd. Mustafa shouts after me that he'll
meet me later at the tea stall outside the north entrance, and I
manage a pathetic wave in response.

Disoriented and wobbly, I meander my way through the crowd to the
shrine entrance, remove my shoes, and hand them over to a faqir
tending to the Marcosian horde of footwear. For a fleeting moment, I
wonder how I'll ever get them back, but then the holy man passes me
a numbered card and I start to feel better, reassured by the
normalcy of the transaction.

Entering the Qalandar shrine, squeezed (literally) through a doorway
serving thousands a day but no more than four feet wide, is like
stumbling into a scene from the Arabian Nights. The air is thick
with incense, and the smell of hashish is unmistakable. The domed
ceiling rises up a hundred feet overhead, crowning the square
structure like a pharaoh's pschent. At the shrine's centre, draped
in ornate cloth, sprinkled with fragrant flower petals and covered
by an intricately moulded silver canopy, rests the cenotaph of Lal
Shabhaz Qalandar, the patron saint of Sindh province.

Born in late 12th century Persia (Iran), Lal Shabhaz was revered for
his spiritual purity and knowledge. At the age of 20, already fully
initiated into the Qalandar order, he turned his back on his wealthy
and privileged life (he was the son of a princess), choosing rather
to travel throughout the Middle East, a wandering mystic spreading
the Sufi doctrines of love and compassion. Eventually, he arrived in
Sehwan and, legend has it, settled in the trunk of a tree. Pilgrims
from all corners of Pakistan and from every walk of life come to pay
homage at his shrine.

As at the Kaaba in Mecca, they circle the gravesite, sometimes for
hours on end, caressing the canopy, praying for solace or salvation
or, as Mustafa tells me later, just for the sake of praying. Others
sit at the perimeter, against walls or on the floor reading from the
Qu'ran either silently to themselves or out loud for the sake of the
illiterate. Scented oil lamps burn day and night with a constant
flow of hands dipping in for a blessed drop.

I spend hours in the shrine, soaking in the history, basking in the
spiritual energy, exploring the architecture. Built in 1356 under
the influence of Arabian monarchs, the shrine is a precursor to the
Taj Mahal, its massive golden dome flagged by four minarets, walls
decorated with Sindh kashi tiles and intricate mirror work. Over the
centuries, it's been expanded and modified by various rulers -- most
recently a set of gold-covered doors were donated by the former shah
of Iran, and Zulfikar Bhutto, Pakistan's most notorious prime
minister, built a new entranceway during his years in power. The
shrine complex stands out sharply in the centre of the old city,
Sehwan's version of the Florentine Duomo.

Later in the evening, sipping tea with Mustafa and Ahmed, I wonder
aloud how Sehwan has managed to preserve so much of its culture
despite being surrounded by such a constant flow of change. Ahmed
flies off on a nationalist tirade about purity and honour, strength
and perseverance (and something about virility which I don't quite
catch). Mustafa waits out the sermon and then offers a more succinct
response: "In Sehwan," he says, "people come from all over to find
themselves. Like you, travelling such a great distance. But for the
people of Sehwan, everything they need is already right here. For
us, the search is now over."

The next morning, I find myself back in the same courtyard, with the
same group of men, waiting for another cup of hot chai.

A young boy sweeps away wariasi from the stone floor with a straw
brush, the futility of the task somehow appropriate in this
environment. Later, I'll be leaving to continue my journey through
Pakistan, which has really only just begun. Someone offers me advice
on the Sufis at Moen jo daro, and Ahmed makes some crude jokes about
the lasciviousness of Lahore women, but Mustafa seems uninterested
in my destinations, or any destination for that matter. Like the
many Sufis before him who found peace in Sehwan, he is content to
tend to the homefire. For him, its embers are worlds enough to
explore.