“Then, just when things had become unbearable, the Pakistanis announced that any Bihari in Bangladesh who wanted to come to Pakistan could have land in the southern Punjab. We didn’t know anything about the Punjab, but we had heard it was very rich so were tempted, especially as Bangladesh was very, very poor after the floods and the war.
“In the end, the family split. My mother stayed in Bangladesh with her cousin, saying she was too old to move again, and that she would take her chances with the Bengalis. But my younger brother and I took the offer of some land in Pakistan. Bihari volunteers from a camp near Khulna organised our journey. They gave us documents and took us in trucks first to Calcutta, then to Delhi. From there we crossed into Pakistan and were put in a camp near Lahore. Finally they took us to a cotton factory near Multan. There was no land when we got there, but at least we were given a small room, and a job.
“For all of us, it was very strange. We couldn’t speak Punjabi, and none of us knew how to work ginning cotton. We were used to fish and rice, and all we were given was meat and roti. But at least we were safe, and for every eight-hour shift in the factory we were given Rs 15. When I was not working, I spent my time visiting shrines in Multan, and talking to the fakirs. It was at this time that I first began to think that one day I too might become a wandering Sufi.
“For ten years I lived this life, and even got used to the work in the factory. My brother always looked after me. But then my brother died in an accident in the factory, and his wife misbehaved with me, saying that I was stupid and cursed, that I had always lived off my brother’s money and given nothing in return, and it was my bad luck which had caused the death. She said she didn’t want to live with me any more. On the fortieth day after his death, when all the ceremonies were complete, I decided to leave. How could I stay after what had happened, after all the words that had been spoken?
“The day before I left, I visited the shrine of Sheikh Baha ud-Din Zakariya and prayed for guidance. That night I had a dream. I saw an old man with a long beard who came to me in my sleep. He was sitting in a great courtyard, and he said, ‘Now you are all alone. I will be your protector. Come to me.’ In my dream, I replied, ‘But I don’t know who you are or where you are.’ He said, ‘Just sit on a train, and it will bring you to me. But leave all your money, and do not pay for a ticket, or for food. I will provide.’
“I did as I was instructed. I didn’t even tell my sister-in-law I was leaving. I caught the first train that pulled into the station at Multan, and just as the man in my dream had said, the ticket inspector didn’t ask for a fare—instead he shared his food with me. The following day, when the train reached Hyderabad in Sindh, a great crowd of pilgrims and fakirs were on the platform. Some were beating drums, and one them shouted, ‘Dum Dum Mustt Qalander!’ I looked out at what was going on, and I must have caught the eye of the fakir, for through the bars of the train he handed me an amulet, saying, ‘This will protect you—keep it!’
“I looked down and saw that on the ta’wiz was a picture of the man in my dream. I ran out of the train and chased after the fakir, asking him who the old man was. ‘It is Lal Shahbaz Qalander,’ he replied. ‘We are on our way to his ’Urs.’ I asked whether I could come too, and he agreed. We all caught a bus together, and when we arrived, I recognised that the shrine was the place in my dream. The courtyard where Lal Shahbaz was sitting in my dream was the one where the dhammal takes place every day.
“That was more than twenty years ago. Since then I have never left this shrine, except for once a year when I go to the ’Urs at the shrine of Shah Abdul Latif in Bhit Shah. The first year I slept in the courtyard at the dargah. In those days I was not a fakir or a malang—just an ordinary homeless woman. But I did the dhammal every day, and gave water to the thirsty pilgrims, and swept the floor of his tomb chamber. The longer I stayed, the more people got to know me. They accepted me, and I became part of the family of this shrine. I took a pir, who taught me how to live as a Sufi, and eventually I moved here to Lal Bagh, to the place where Lal Shahbaz lived and meditated. I’ve been here ever since, and now I have disciples of my own.
“This place is very peaceful, but has a strong power. Anywhere else it would difficult to live alone as a woman, but here I am protected, and accepted—no one bothers me. My food is provided by the pirs of the shrine. There are other holy women who come occasionally, for a week or a month, but I am the only one who permanently lives here. My pir and the other malangs have taught me how to live this life. They have told me all I know about Lal Shahbaz and Shah Abdul Latif, and the ways of a Qalander. Lal Shahbaz has become like a father. He is everything to me. Shah Abdul Latif is like my uncle. Though I am a stranger here in Sindh, and am not educated, what Latif says in his poetry speaks to me. I think he understands the pain of women.