by M G Vassanji
Mahmud, who had already constructed a mosque during the long siege of the Pavagadh fort, decided to build a new capital at the base of the hill, which he called Mahmudabad. It was an opulent city, much of it now buried under and around the present-day squalid village of Champaner. Some impressive and intriguing structures remain. Through the efforts of an architect at the MS University in Baroda and a local trust, the area has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, creating some local excitement at the prospects of increased tourism, though not everyone is happy with the idea.
The Shehr-ki Masjid near the town entrance is a low, wide building without the traditional mosque courtyard. There are five arched entrances on the east side, corresponding to the five round domes, and two tall minarets flanking the centre doorway. No one else can be seen as we enter the site, except a very shy courting couple, whom we’ve disturbed. The mosque is an example of Indo-Saracenic architecture, a combination of traditional Indian and Islamic—or, as some would put it, Hindu and Muslim—styles. (The Indian style is indicated by detailed, especially floral, patterns; the Islamic style is starker. The arches in the two traditions are also different, the Islamic arch representing the “true” arch which has come down from Roman times.) All old mosques hit the unwary visitor by the profusion, indeed a forest, of stone pillars inside the prayer hall, emphasizing from the beginning a geometrical aesthetic. There are five mihrabs, niches, in the western wall, the direction of Mecca. Though the pillars are square and plain, the mihrabs, each situated between two pillars, are intricately adorned with carvings, the Indian contribution to the aesthetic. Above each niche is a carved pattern with a shape that could be the head of a cobra.
This was the people’s mosque, and once upon a time how it must have thronged with worshippers; after the prayers they would have flowed outside to the street with the well-being of those who had gone to remember their God. What confidence must have exuded here, and hubris, at this site now silent like so many others the triumphant sultans built.
On the far side of the town comes another city gate, which opens at a road crossing the main highway. Here stands the magnificent Jama Masjid, the main and largest mosque of the old city, with two tall minarets at the entrance and one at each corner. Here, every Friday, the grand khutba would have been delivered by the chief mullah, praising Mahmud, linking his name to God. There are seven mihrabs, and the high central dome rises above succeeding layers of pillars. Here, too, we come upon a couple courting. Our driver jokes that in the countryside they seem bolder than in the cities. All around us is a vast and dry brown plain, remnants of the old city wall visible, with mounds that could be sites for future archaeological diggings. Further up the road comes a talav, a small artificial lake beside which is a pavilion—the spot where apparently the ladies of the court came to bathe. Across the lake is where, my companion Raj Kumar tells me, the army could have camped. The pavilion is a ruin, partly excavated, the road rather thoughtlessly passing right through it. Next to the lake is a cube-shaped red-brick structure, across the road is the ruin of something more elaborate. Pieces of marble revealed by excavations indicate some sort of courtyard. A path leads up from here to the Khajuri Mosque, only a forest of pillars standing, and one elaborately carved column that could be the base of a minaret.
The modern village of Champaner itself contains a number of ruins, some of which evidently belong to mosques. There are also a few modern Hindu temples, and a Jain centre and dharamshala, guest house, for pilgrims who come to go up the Pavagadh hill, which has Jain temples along the way.
Champaner lies in the Panchmahal district of Gujarat, where the bloodiest incidents of the 2002 violence took place. Some Muslims lived here, but they were driven away during the violence and fled to nearby Halol. One of the town’s well-known residents is an extreme Hindu communalist, Prahlad Shastri by name. In a fiery speech, recorded on video, that he gave to a large public gathering after the Godhra train incident, eerie by its hateful tone and incitement, he calls upon the young men, calling them lions, to take “action.”
“They set a train compartment on fire. Why did they set it on fire? Because someone did not pay two rupees for tea. What is the price of fifty-eight Hindus’ lives? Two rupees!…I beg you, Hindu youth, the nation needs you! Your nation is your mother, and your mother is being raped every day. Rush to defend your mother if there is a drop of blood left in you. Many of you think you will get into trouble if you do all this. Well, you are already in trouble!” He proudly declares, “There are no Muslims in Pavagadh…all purged! [laughter and applause] When the collector asked me to let the Muslims resettle, I told him, ‘Go to Kashmir first! Let my twenty-three thousand Hindus of Kashmir first be allowed back…. Just try! [laughter and applause] ‘Hindus have beaten the Muslims, Hindus have beaten the Muslims, Hindus have beaten the Muslims…’ After fifty years we have our turn to bat. [laughter and applause]”
Mother India evidently does not embrace Muslims. Nor Sonia Gandhi, for if she wants to be a Christian, he adds, she has no right to live in this country.
And so we decide to pay Prahlad Shastri a visit. His house is a modest one, with a verandah in front; as we step into the front room we see a very tan, tight-bodied man in his late thirties, perhaps, attired in a saffron dhoti with a white shirt on top. He has a thin face and protruding ears, short-cropped hair, and an earnest look. There are two young men with him, in dhotis but bare-chested, and the room exudes a distinct and sweet perfume. On the front wall are prominently displayed photographs of Indian nationalist heroes: Vivekananda, Subhaschandra Bose, Bhagat Singh; no Gandhi. On other walls are photos of Shastri himself on the stage at various functions, or shaking hands with notables. Apparently a vain man, for as we sit on a mat against bolsters, he passes around an album of other similar pictures of himself. There is a TV in the room, and a display of electronics—tape recorder, phones.
Our excuse for wanting to see him is to ask his opinion about the recent “disturbances.”
Prahlad Shastri, in this private setting, comes across as an earnest, soft-spoken man, with an intense look in his eyes, reminding me of a student activist. He opens his mouth to reveal a rather crooked set of crowded teeth. He speaks about the goodness of all religions, and modesty in behaviour, condemns Western influence and politicians. He is worried about Champaner being declared a World Heritage site for what it would do to the livelihood and morality of the place. People come here, he says, to visit the pilgrimage site at the Kali temple of Pavagadh, not to see the medieval ruins and the mosque. And tourists come with their dubious morality, wearing immodest clothes. Muslims never lived here, in his memory, he says, which contradicts flatly what we have just been told by some of the townspeople, and what has been caught on video. But somewhat hesitantly, with a gleam in his eye, he suggests, Let’s assume they were not here and not talk about it.
There is an unmistakeable sense of homoeroticism in the perfumed air, the two handsome youths in dhoti hovering about their master.
And the recent violence?
Hindus are killed in Godhra, he says, their train compartment set on fire, and Muslims celebrate. It rains in Pakistan and they hold up umbrellas here; when their hearts are elsewhere, you can’t be surprised if some people are induced to commit acts of violence.
The idea of the beleaguered Muslim minority celebrating at such an atrocity is outlandish; but it is the familiar blood libel.
Prahlad Shastri is finally provoked when the issue comes to caste. All our discussion so far has been conducted with the most formal politeness. At his mention of Muslims we have not blinked. We are aware of the possibility of danger, are in the lion’s den, so to speak; all he has to do is accuse us of something, call a mob together.
Social interactions across caste lines are fine, he says, and they do happen. But intermarriage is wrong; castes should remain distinct, caste purity and identity are essential. That is our heritage. It is a sin to call the reformed Hindus who live in the West Hindus. Then, o
blivious of the contradiction, he adds, In twenty years the world will come to the Hindu way of life.
I must confess to a sense of voyeurism on my part at having desired such a meeting, to see what a real extreme communalist, who calmly explains mass murder, looks and speaks like. The man we have met is a picture of reasonableness, until you pay attention to his words, until you watch the video in which, in the heat of a public meeting, he lifts that mask—and what he reveals is frightening.
When I return to Baroda a year later, I discover that Prahlad Shastri hanged himself some months before from a tree near a Hanuman temple in Champaner.
The walk up Pavagadh to the Kalika Mata temple is a long one, of three miles. There used to exist a rope lift here, called Udan Khatola, to carry the pilgrims up in a few minutes, but it was broken in a recent accident. (According to newspaper reports, several people died in the mishap, for which the lift company conveniently blamed “outside agitators” but has been charged nevertheless with negligence.) The Bollywood classic Udan Khatola was filmed here, among the ruins, starring the legendary heartthrob Dilip Kumar. The hill is the only raised land mass for miles around. As we walk up we pass ruins of the old Chauhan Rajput fort. The path is well paved, and a festive atmosphere prevails: vendors on both sides aggressively calling out, selling coconuts to take up to the temple, as well as samosas, bhajias, gathias, tea, and soft drinks, and toys, music, and videos. Bhajans play loudly on the way, videos depict beautiful lissome girls dancing the garba to the accompaniment of folk songs, the movements evidently modulated by Bollywood and frankly erotic. Smaller shrines appear intermittently, offering extra blessing in advance of the main one awaiting at the top. An ancient granary is used as a urinal on the way by the men.
At one turn in the path we are trapped by a charismatic young sadhu seated at a stall, asking for merely a rupee to give us blessings. This is a well-rehearsed act, and we know it, yet foolishly we relent, if only out of curiosity. He is bearded, lean, and muscular, with the most intense, glistening eyes I have ever seen, and he sits erect, wearing only a white loin cloth. I want nothing from you, I have nothing, he says, but out of respect for the women folk, I would not possess even this (his loin cloth). He has us mesmerized. When he sings his incantations to Devi, “Jai Mata!” obediently we repeat after him. He takes our willing hands one by one, places limp flowers in them. Takes the flowers in his own hand, crushes them, then opens his palms and pours out red “sindoor” powder. Magic. He displays an empty hand, closes it into a fist: drops of water come trickling out. “Jai Mata!” I have nothing, I need nothing—but we are constructing an ashram nearby, we need ghee and other things. He snatches five hundred rupees from me, having seen it as I opened my wallet to search for suitable, smaller currency to give him.
The ruins we pass, witnesses of so much history, are of little interest to the pilgrims, who pass them by without as much as a pause; many of these worshippers are familiar with the route, having been here many times before, and the goal is the Mother at the top, who will provide blessings. The climb gets progressively steeper.
It takes one and a half hours of steady climbing before we reach a sheer rock, egg shaped, up which we climb via steep steps. The crowds are thicker now, people paused for rest on the way. We begin to get breathless. All around us is an open panorama, the falling hills, the open flat land for miles around. From here the Rajputs would have seen the massive army of Mahmud laying siege to them, realized there was no hope. At one of the sites here their royal women and children would have walked into the fire, before the men went down to fight their last battle. Among us, couples, kids, entire families, old folk, cripples. A couple pauses at each step to paint on it the auspicious swastika with red paste, and drop a few flower petals on it. All the way to the top. Giving thanks for what relief, or bringing what pain to be assuaged? I recall being told how my mother performed a similar act to give thanks for the birth of my sister, seven years after her wedding; she went up the steps of the prayer house, placing a coin at each step.
Finally we arrive at a place where the shoe stalls begin, at the base of what appears to be a rectangular stone block, with some construction on top. The climb here is the steepest; the crowd is even thicker now; and gets thicker still, until the way is so close-packed you have to push and are pushed. You find a toehold and push your way up to the next step. If you fail to close the space before you, someone else is there. One begins to understand vaguely why Indians don’t like to queue, or don’t believe in queuing; the idea is to push, push, push. There is total individuality here, there’s you and the Goddess at the top. No offence is taken by anyone. Push, push, push. But gently. Squeeze past someone, find the next toehold. A young woman, sixteen, maybe, tries to hold her purse behind her to prevent her bottom from getting touched, and she’s given the inch of space she needs, this is sacred space, after all. We are all barefoot, the steps are of stone, and wet, and one can imagine the stampedes that take place at shrines, where many lives are lost. If a rush were to begin now, a panic, there would be no hope of escape. There are iron railings at the sides of the steps to hold the crowd in and provide support, but there are those who climb up even these to get ahead of the rest.
And so what is the worship for? For gain, surely, or relief, which is also gain. Not for renunciation or selflessness. But not an unhappy or angry face is here in this crush. A visit to the temple is a joyous occasion.
To climb up about sixty steps takes us an hour.
And then we are at the door of a modest white building that is the Kalika Mata temple; we touch the icon at the lintel, ring the bell at the entrance, give twenty rupees to the priest inside, say Jai Mata! as asked. And leave.
There is a Sufi shrine atop the temple, and there are steps at the side leading up, a thin but steady stream of people choosing to take them. The Sufi’s name was Sadan Shah. When we get upstairs, however, we find a small domed structure that, an usher tells us, is a shrine to the Goddess, and someone tries to sell us Goddess charms called tawiz. It seems that the famous Sufi shrine was replaced during the recent violence.
When we reach ground level we inquire at the village about information regarding the Kalika temple and are directed to a local information office run by a volunteer who was previously a teacher. He is away on his motorbike fetching his granddaughter from school, but his son gives us a small booklet and tells us there was never a Sufi shrine on top of the Kalika temple. He tells a garbled story. The little structure on top was simply put there by the conquering sultan, Mahmud, to indicate his supremacy after he had been advised—beseeched—by a Muslim holy man—who might actually have been a Hindu—not to destroy the temple.
A proposal for the development of this World Heritage site produced by the Heritage Trust of Baroda suggests turning it into a recreational theme park following the American model, with facilities for hiking, yoga clubs, and the like. Essentially, putting it onto the world tourist map. Fast food would follow, one presumes. And so while the glory of the sultan’s city would receive world attention, the local colour and isolation of the pilgrimage site—a distinction of all such sites located across India on top of hills far away from the busyness of daily life, making the effort of the climb to see the Goddess part of the supplicant’s pleasure and satisfaction—would certainly be lost. And so, to be fair, the fears of Prahlad Shastri, it seems to me, were not entirely unfounded.
On the other hand, the Times of India recently reported that a stampede on the steps of the Kalika Mata temple on Pavagadh caused eleven deaths.
As we stroll back through the double gates of Champaner to the highway, juice, food, and tea stalls ply their trade by the roadside, buses drop off passengers. It is time to rest. We sit on rickety chairs provided for us at a tea stall, and a sadhu seated nearby accepts a treat from us. A small dark man with an amused look on his face, he is dressed in a white dhoti and has a long white beard. He is a Punjabi, he says, who stopped here some twenty years ago and decided to settle. He live
s close by in the woods and does not accept disciples, he tells us, twice. We have no intention of applying anyway. He lectures us on psychology (his word); that is, the concept that there is no limit to what a mind can do, and there is no understanding of it. Sages of the past could accomplish feats that seem impossible today. He illustrates his point with an example. Recently he was at the Kumbh Mela—the annual pilgrimage where millions gather on the banks of the Ganges—and there he had occasion to see the famous Electric Bawa, who from two wires emerging from his mouth can produce an electric current to light a bulb. Electricity simply from the body. That is the power of the trained mind. But the Bawa has been demonstrating these electrical feats for a long time, and his energy must be running out, the sadhu says. Raj Kumar, a university professor, agrees, though I can’t tell how seriously. We ask the sadhu about Prahlad Shastri and he flashes an enigmatic smile and says nothing.
We get up and Raj Kumar tells me there is a small shrine nearby that I must see. Must I, really? After the climb up Pavagadh and back, in all this blazing heat and dust? I have had enough, feel saturated with history and phenomena, the newness. All I want is to escape in order to reflect and write somewhere in a shady room with a drink at hand. Having already declined a visit to see a spiral step-well from Mahmud Begada’s time, apparently quite unique, I relent, only because the shrine Raj proposes to visit—a dargah, burial place of a holy man—might be of special interest to me. He knows my background, of course.
