Nine Lives(46)

One of the most famous chapters of his great verse collection, the Risalo, is the Sur Ramkali, in which he reflects on the three footloose years he spent wandering the deserts with these yogis, visiting both Hindu and Muslim pilgrimage sites. For Latif, there is no distinction between the two different faiths; the divisions, as he sees them, are between the bigoted and orthodox, on one hand, and itinerant free-thinking mystics on the other. It is these that Latif wishes to be back among:

Yogis are many, but I love these wandering sadhus.

Smeared with dust, they eat little,

Never saving a grain in their begging bowls.

No food in their packs, they carry only hunger,

No desire to eat have they,

Thirst they pour and drink.


These ascetics have conquered their desires.

In their wilderness they found the destination

For which they searched so long.

On the path of truth,

They found it lay within.


Hearing the call,

Before the birth of Islam,

They severed all ties,

And became one with their guru, Gorakhnath.


Now, sitting by the side of the road, I look for them.

Remembering these sanyasis, tears well up.

They were so very kind to me.

They radiated brightness.

Yogis are many, but it is these wandering sadhus that I love,

Says Latif.



A few years ago, while making a documentary on Sufi music, I visited the tomb of Shah Abdul Latif during its annual ’Urs. The wild and ecstatic night-long celebrations marking the anniversary of the saint’s death were almost a compendium of everything of which Islamic puritans most disapprove: loud Sufi music and love poetry was being sung in each courtyard, men were dancing with women, hashish was being smoked, huge numbers were venerating the tomb of a dead man and all were routing their petitions through the saint, rather than directly to God in the mosque.

But for the Sindhis attending the ’Urs, it was not they who were the heretics, so much as the stern Wahhabi mullahs who criticised the popular Islam of the Sufi saints as shirk, or heresy: “These mullahs are just hypocrites,” said one old fakir I talked to in the shrine. “Without love, they distort the true meaning of the teaching of the Prophet. They are just interested in themselves. They should all be jailed for life.”

It was while talking to the pilgrims in Bhit Shah that I heard about a Sindhi shrine, or dargah, that sounded even more wildly syncretic than that of Shah Abdul Latif. The dargah of the Sufi saint Lal Shahbaz Qalander, “The Red Royal Falcon” of Sehwan Sharif, lies barely a two-hour drive through the desert to the north of Bhit Shah. Sehwan was once a major cult centre of the great Hindu god Lord Shiva; indeed the town’s original name was Sivistan, the City of Shiva. Here, sixty years after Partition and the violent expulsion of most of the Hindus of Pakistan into India, one of the sajjada nasheens, or hereditary tomb guardians, is still a Hindu, and it is he who performs the opening ritual at the annual ’Urs. Hindu holy men, pilgrims and officials still tend the shrine, replenish the lamps and offer water to visiting pilgrims. I was told that it was only in the 1970s that the central Shiva lingam, long the focus of veneration in the saint’s tomb, was discreetly removed to a locked annexe.

The old fakir at Bhit Shah who had ranted about the hypocrisy of the mullahs was adamant that there were two things I should not miss when I visited Sehwan Sharif. The first was the daily dhammal, or devotional dance to the saint, which took place each evening at sunset, after the end of Magrib prayers. The other, he said, was a famous lady fakir who lived in the shrine, and was said to be the most passionate of all the saint’s devotees. Her name, he said, was Lal Peri Mastani, or the Ecstatic Red Fairy. I asked how I would find her amid the crowds.

“Don’t worry,” replied the fakir. “Everyone knows Lal Peri. And anyway she is unmistakable.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“She is dressed in bright red, is very fat, and she carries a huge wooden club.”



I arrived at Sehwan just as the sun was beginning to set over the Indus and the call to prayer was sounding through the bazaars. The dhammal was about to begin, so I ran through alleys thick with pilgrims to get inside the shrine before the daily dance in honour of the saint commenced.

The wide, arcaded courtyard was filled to bursting, and neatly segregated down the middle, with women on the right and men on the left. At the far end of the courtyard, between the tomb chamber and a long line of huge copper kettle drums and outsized leather-trussed camel drums, a large area had been roped off, and here the dervishes were preparing to dance.

There were men of all ages and appearances: black-robed or red-swathed, dreadlocked or shaven, hung all over with amulets and ta’wiz, or bound with chains and metal neck rings, their fingers heavy with cat’s-eye rings. Several of the malangs were now bending down and tying gungroos—lines of dancer’s bells—on their ankles. A few appeared to be practising their steps, hopping from foot to foot, like ballet dancers awaiting the curtain. One old man did this slowly and gently, while holding his granddaughter tenderly on his shoulders.