Travelling to Balochistan was risky. The local English language dailies had quoted military commanders as saying there was no insurgency in the province, just a ‘few misled militants’. But there were rumours of a full-fledged insurgency in Awaran and other areas not far from our route. Members of the media were completely blocked from entering the province, and intimidated when they tried to write about the conflict there. A few months earlier, in April 2015, Sabeen Mahmud, a Karachi-based activist and the owner of a local community space called ‘The Second Floor’ (T2F), had been shot and killed while driving home after hosting a talk on the disappeared activists in Balochistan. She had invited two of the most prominent activists campaigning on the issue, Mama Qadeer and Farzana Baloch, to speak at T2F. In 2013, Qadeer and Baloch had led a march from Quetta, the capital of Balochistan, to the press club in Karachi, highlighting the grave issue of missing persons in Pakistan. Mahmud’s murder on the night of the talk, carried out by two gunmen at a traffic signal, sent a clear message to journalists and activists alike: Stay away from Balochistan.
The car encountered a checkpoint as soon as we entered Balochistan. Soldiers in fatigues were positioned on either side of the road. One approached at the window; Kumar rolled it halfway down. ‘We are on our way to Hingol,’ he said briskly. Apart from being a reliable off-road vehicle, the Hilux, in the land of VIP culture, gives the impression that someone important is inside, someone in a luxury SUV who might be offended for being stopped. And Kumar played the role perfectly, with his dismissive manner. The young soldier’s expression changed abruptly, and he nodded and waved us through.
Not long after crossing the checkpoint, we reached Hub, a dusty industrial town that served as a rest stop for travellers passing through. Now, because of Moharram, that important holy month in the Islamic calendar, there were buses carrying passengers to Iran for a month of religious observance. But the route was always heavy with the traffic of trucks carrying goods from Iran and Afghanistan. A major import from Iran was smuggled petrol.
From the main road, Hub looked like a nondescript commuter town. Small hotels dotted both sides of the road. At the end of the road was a squat structure, incongruously massive. The Jamiat-e-Ulema Islam (JUI) had built this large mosque some years ago. Nearby, next to the sign reading Mundra—the name of the road in Sanskrit or Hindi—the JUI had erected an identical name for the road, as the Arabic word ‘Seerat’, which they found to be more acceptable to their orthodox sensibilities. The JUI, presided over by Maulana Fazlur Rehman—who The Guardian had called ‘the West’s worst nightmare’— has been credited with creating the Taliban.
A short distance away, the JUI presence was even stronger. The walls along an entire stretch were full of graffiti praising Fazlur Rehman. Across the road was an old cemetery that contained the graves of Baloch fighters of the Kalamati tribe, said to have fought alongside Muhammad Bin Qasim. On a hill at the back of the cemetery, a massive sign on the face of a hill read ‘Jamia Qasim-Ul-Uloom’ (or the Congregation of the Students of Qasim), the name of a nearby madrassa. Muhammad bin Qasim was the Arab conqueror who had led the armies of Islam in the seventh century to the Lower Indus Valley and sown the first seeds of the faith in India, crossing the coastal belt from Balochistan to Sindh. The JUI clearly revered him. However, there were other stories that circulated about him. One was that he was no hero; that he had not only murdered Raja Dahir, the Hindu ruler of Sindh, but also raped the ruler’s daughters. However, the daughters retaliated, and with their guile, had bin Qasim killed by the Caliph in Baghdad. The daughters of Sindh triumphed over the conqueror.
On the other side of a low boundary wall, at the edge of the old cemetery, there was a relatively new row of graves. Though newer, they were poorly made and many were cracked and crumbling. We saw two men packing earth on a muddy grave. They were brothers who belonged to the local area, they told me. The grave was their father’s, and he had died two years ago. The brothers had dug his grave and buried him themselves. Since then, they came every year during Moharram to build on it. Last year they had added a tombstone, and this year they brought the thin bricks that would form the boundary. It was a stark contrast: the massive settlements of the JUI and the poverty being experienced by the people living in this place.
We wished the brothers luck after Kumar suggested we get back on the road. Minutes later, we were back on the highway again. Driving through Sonmiani, we passed a military firing range. ‘All the missile tests are carried out here,’ said Kumar, as we passed the barracks covered in barbed wire. I spotted a few people along the way, some houses perched fragilely next to the enormous military installations. A herd of goats slowed us down, and then a young camel passed us by.
Every so often the sea became visible from the highway, a glimpse of azure as rich as the expanse of sky above. Then, just as quickly, it dipped away behind the rocky landscape. In the town of Winder, Kumar stopped to pick up clay bowls of yogurt for the temple. A small boy selling boiled eggs arranged along the rim of an aluminum tray walked past as we waited, calling out with a voice that boomed improbably out of his skinny frame.
Across the road, a lone pilgrim sat on the pavement. He had an intense face, shining black eyes, a sharp nose on a weathered face, all of it framed by a thick, hennaed beard. He could have been wandering the coastline for months or thousands of years. He was a jogi, someone nearby said. The jogis were the oldest pilgrims to the Hinglaj, their journeys immortalized in the poetry of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai, which nearly every Pakistani knows. They belonged to a special community of mendicants who banded together and wandered the land in search of spiritual knowledge. Jogis were once respected and revered by the people, who offered them food and sometimes money in support of their lifestyle. Today, they get by by giving camel rides at the beach or touring the streets with trained monkeys.
Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai is one of the most famous pilgrims to the Hinglaj. According to local lore, his father, Shah Habib, once came across a group of jogis heading from Thatta to Hinglaj. The journey from Thatta to Hinglaj was arduous, a route that took days, even weeks, and passed through scorching deserts and dense jungles, with bandits along the way. Habib asked where they were headed. They told him they were headed to Hinglaj. Later, Shah Habib told his son Latif, ‘The jogis are dishonest, and dishonest is their quest.When enlightenment can be found within oneself, why do the jogis pretend to pilgrimage all the way to Hinglaj?’ Shah Latif listened to his father and responded, ‘They are honest, and honest is their quest, for, I, myself have been to meet the Mata.’ Indeed, the most stunning visual in Latif’s poetry is that of a jogi, his hair loose around his shoulders, standing on top of the mountain of Hinglaj. H.T. Sorley, a British colonial officer, enchanted with the life and work of Shah Latif, wrote that Latif was ‘contemplative and thoughtful, fond of loneliness and loved to wander by himself.’ Latif ‘found pleasure in passing time with holy men and fakirs in an effort to understand the ideals which they strove to interpret.’
Back on the highway, I watched the vistas passing outside the window. Here and there were cliffs with sandy slopes. The earth looked silvery pale. To our left were marshes and low trees, tamarisk and baboor; small, ancient trees with twined trunks, surrounded by the swirl of fine dust. When the pilgrims made the journey on foot, they were said to carry funeral shrouds with them, for the path ahead was long and arduous and the chances of coming back alive were slim. If they died on the way, it was not uncommon for their bodies to be buried—it had long been the case in Sindh and Balochistan that Hindus were buried and not cremated—and for a tomb to be erected at the site, so they too could be revered for their pilgrimage.
In the distance, beyond the marshy plains, I could see the silver peak of Chandar Goop, a barren volcano whose long, sloped face was dotted with human forms. ‘There are many pilgrims here,’ said Kumar, as we pulled in beside several parked buses in a sandy, makeshift lot. The first ritual on the pilgrimage was a climb up this dormant volcano for a
prayer to Shiv, the great ascetic god. There was a group setting off from their bus, barefoot men wrapped in white cloth on their way to join a much larger group, already on the summit. I sat in the car contemplating whether or not to go up. It was a blistering 40 degrees outside. ‘People are known to faint while climbing,’ Kumar said, ‘so on special festival occasions when there are large crowds, we arrange for ambulances.’
I hesitated, then decided to climb to the top.
The ground was mushy clay that gave little traction. Along the way, there were wooden pegs in the ground for every few steps, to support pilgrims. The going was slower than I had expected and we soon fell behind the group who had just set out. Halfway up, I began to feel lightheaded and had serious doubts about my decision, but my pride was at stake now. I pushed on. The group of pilgrims at the top, now about thirty people, were seated along the rim of the mouth of the volcano and smiling at us as we approached, seemingly amused at my struggle. I made it to the top and settled on a spot along the rim watching eruptions forming in the mud, looking uncannily like Shiv lingams.
The pilgrims performed a series of prayers and sang bhajans, Hindu devotional songs, covered head to toe with mud. They smeared their bodies with the sacred ash, and prayed to the clay forms to protect them as they traversed the last phase of their journey towards the temple. They had travelled three days and were finally ready to continue onwards to their destination, Hinglaj. We descended the volcano with them, and again I found myself falling behind the barefooted men, stumbling in my sneakers that were now full of ashy mud.
I climbed into the Hilux, feeling guilty as I tracked mud onto the pristine mats inside, despite Kumar’s assurance that they would be easy to clean. ‘We should get moving,’ he said. ‘It’s getting late. I didn’t think you would climb all the way to the top.’
We were soon on our way to Hinglaj, and our trusty vehicle quickly pulled out far ahead of the heavily loaded buses carrying pilgrims. Mountains of sand now gave way to sharp, stony hills. The foliage here was thicker. Hingol was an oasis, a lush patch of greenery on the coastal route of Balochistan. It is a landscape of mountains intertwined with gorges cut by the massive Hingol River, which we drove alongside as we made our way to the mountain where the temple was located.
‘There are giant crocodiles here,’ Kumar told us. I was reminded of more than a hundred crocodiles who lived in the sacral pond of the shrine of saint Manghu Pir; we had passed it on the outskirts of Karachi before crossing the two rivers taking us from Sindh into Balochistan. ‘They come out when the weather gets a bit cooler.’
From the river, the Hilux made its way across a massive bridge. Built very recently, the bridge had eased the passage for the pilgrims. Up until five or six years ago, I was told, there had been no bridge. The pilgrims often spent several days sleeping on the cliff, waiting for the water levels to go down before they could cross to the temple.
The bridge ended in a gravel parking lot at the base of a sloping hill where a number of buses were parked. I tried to spot the group of pilgrims we had met at Chandra Goop, but I couldn’t find them. Just below the entrance to the cave, a stretch of open ground on the slope was home to a small rest-stop built for weary travelers, complete with rooms to rent, a communal food area, and solar power for basic electricity needs. The atmosphere here was festive and relaxed.
Navratri, the Hindu nine-day moon celebration, had just ended. There were stalls of souvenirs: brightly illustrated depictions of the goddess alongside homemade potato cutlets. The area was strictly vegetarian. A group of us stopped on a large veranda where lentils, vegetable curry, and rice were served on banana leaves. After lunch, we made the short walk to the cave. A bright red banner depicting the many forms of Durga announced the entrance to the temple.
A man-made structure in the centre of the mountain housed the epicentre of the temple. Above the entrance were three brass bells. I stopped and rang all the bells before continuing inside behind the other pilgrims. The cave’s rough stone floor had been replaced by a smooth marble floor with the most ornate statue of Durga on a raised platform at the centre. Deeper inside, along a low ridge in the cave, was the place where the Durga was said to have made an appearance in all her fiery glory. There was a statue of her here too, and devotees offered prayers as they bowed before the goddess.
Upon entering the temple, the light dimmed and a cool dampness permeated the air. Despite the throngs milling about, there was a stillness to the atmosphere. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the change in light, I saw what looked like a wall of eyes. There were shallow indentations, where the rock face had been hollowed out by dripping water, each cavity roughly in the shape of an eye: Durga’s gaze.
The goddess whose statuette I had once stolen, years ago as a little girl, was now staring down at me, a grown woman, a powerful devi in all her glory in the majestic mountains of Hinglaj, Durga’s resting place.
There were devotees in various positions of prayer. A man with a handkerchief tied to his forehead, kneeled on the floor with his eyes closed. On the platform, young men and women were busy taking a group selfie with Durga. An elderly woman waiting her turn to pray told me she had come from Karachi. Her house in the city had been robbed one night and all the family belongings had been stolen. She had come not so much to ask for anything, as to seek solace at the temple. ‘It is so peaceful here. I am going to bring all my children with me next time,’ she said.
Kumar introduced me to Gopal Gire, the head priest responsible for management at the Hinglaj. Gire, an intense looking man with a sharp nose and gleaming eyes, had been serving at the temple for nine years. A former communist and aspiring actor, he had long refused to believe in Durga. ‘How can a woman riding a lion offer anyone protection?’ he would ask his friends. A subsequent series of personal tragedies, including the loss of two of his children, led Gire to find solace in faith. He became a bhakt, a devotee, and spent forty days and nights in prayer to the Mata, ending up at this temple. ‘These things happen suddenly. You discover one day that you have become a dervish,’ he said.
Beside Gire, under a low wall, were two perfectly round smooth stones. These were the twin faces of Durga. The faces had been painted in bright hues with lines for the mouth and eyes and nose. Her expression was serene, as she lay in perfect repose. I fought the urge to reach out and touch the stones. In a square basin below the stones, incense sticks were burned. The basin was full of ash. Some of the devotees brought water bottles and Gire poured some of the ash from the incense into the water as a blessing.
The legend goes that when Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai, the poet saint, arrived before Durga, he found two bowls of milk at her feet. The milk bowls were said to have been left there as offerings by the pilgrims. ‘Nani Maa,’ Latif said to Durga, calling her great mother or maternal grandmother. ‘Why don’t you drink the milk?’ Latif asked the goddess. ‘Why are you sleeping?’ Durga is said to have reached over and drunk the milk from each bowl and then reclined and lay on the floor of the cave,as she is seen there today, perfectly in repose. Durga then created an opening in the wall of the mountain. Latif entered, disappearing into the darkness. When he walked out again, he was back in his home, Thatta, two hundred miles away.
Latif’s Sindhi life is inextricably tied to the Balochistani Hinglaj. In making the pilgrimage, Latif had laid claim to the revered site, he had made the legend his own, and in turn Hinglaj had made Latif a part of its lore. I thanked Gire and exited the cave with a beautiful story to take home.
Outside, in the chasm between the mountains, countless pilgrims had tied tiny bits of brightly coloured cloth—their own stories now tied to the legend of the Hinglaj. A man dressed in white, walking with a young boy, caught my eye. He had a cloth tied around his head, and an impressive, rugged face with large eyes and a strong nose. His name was Babu Daagarzai Baloch, and he belonged to the Zikri tribe. He told me there was a long tradition in his family that when a son was born, the child was brought by the father to make an
offering of a special sweet prepared at home called roth. He had come to say his thanks to the goddess for a son. Baloch had known where to go based on a vivid childhood memory when his father brought him to see his Nani Pir—he called her the great mother saint.
SERPENT MOON
Ceremony by the Sea
By midnight, the men had prepared the pyre, stacking thin sticks in a neat pile in time for a dangerous ceremony, in this gritty city by the sea.
At the centre of the ceremony, a trial by fire held on 3 May 2016, was Masi Taaji, a woman in her forties. A local of the neighbourhood of Lyari—once a settlement called Mai Kolachi before this city became the city called Karachi—Taaji grew up amongst the community of women now gathered for maalid, a dance or dhamaal, held on the first Thursday of the auspicious sighting of the new moon. The dhamaal was a ritual of rythm, a search for truth from the very air. A part of the ceremony involved questions asked of the self, holding a stake driven in the ground facing a ritual fire. Taji was going to do all of this, in the presence of the entire community.
The settlement was now called Kalri, the word the residents said meant salty like the sea. Ithad once touched the shores of the Arabian Sea. In the backstreet, next to a mosque, the fishermen still came early in the morning for pre-Partition style daal with butter and chai sweetened with sugar molasses; served at the Malabari hotel, run by two brothers from the southern coastal area of what became India. The neighbourhood was rich and diverse, teeming with cultural influences spanning the ages and the seven seas.
Sita Under the Crescent Moon Page 2
