A Place Within (36 page)

He says this Imamshah centre serves numerous communities without discrimination. There are centres worldwide and more than a million followers. People come with their problems or wishes, concerning a business venture, for example, or standing for election for the BJP. Imamshah was born in Uch, Multan, of Brahmin parents; they died when he was young and he was brought up by neighbours, a Muslim family, descendants of the Prophet. In the space of a week, before he was ten, he had learned the Vedas, the Upanishads, the shastras; he performed miracles—made the blind see, the sick well, and so on—and was recognized as a great soul.

The man says he is from the United States, sometimes comes to Toronto. My companions ask to film the scene and are granted permission. The Kaka for the occasion calls for his turban and puts it on, then speaks to the camera.

Before we leave, I cannot resist telling the Kaka that I am a Khoja. Yes, he says, Khojas do come here.

Could I be mistaken in thinking what I saw here some nine years ago was a much older-looking place? There had been only a minor attendant then, who had shown me a board on which the genealogy of the pir had been written down, including the name of his father (Hassan Kabirdeen) and grandfather (Sadardeen), so well known to me. The ginans of both of them were on my tongue, having been heard daily and drummed further into our heads by a certain Karim Master, who made us recite them in religion class at school. Hasan Kabirdeen sang the most beautiful, plangent devotional verses in the persona of a woman, and Sadardeen, besides the mystical verses also left behind cosmological and theological verses, one of them a life of the Buddha. Imamshah had
performed a miracle at this site and converted some pilgrims of the Lohana caste to his teachings. Closing their eyes and without moving, they had completed their pilgrimage to Kashi (Benares).

It seems that a complete usurpation has been made, a clean takeover, with a new origin and new stories, new rites, new look, a lot of money, all to convert it into a Hindu site. Back on the main floor there is a ritual room, empty but for some paraphernalia to one side. On the walls are newly painted pictorial depictions of the life of Imamshah that we just heard.

This is still not a Hindu site, not that it matters what you call it. The tradition has been syncretistic, anyway, and to some degree it still is. One wonders what changes await. The Arabic inscriptions in places, the graves themselves, depicting Muslim burials, must be disconcerting to some.

On the way out, I buy a few mementos at a gift shop: three cassettes of ginans (CDs are out of stock), a book of ginans, and a small photo of the Kaka mounted inside a clear plastic stand. I also pick up a pamphlet, which reproduces a painting of Imamshah. He is depicted sitting on a cushion on a tiled floor, wearing white pyjamas and tunic, over which is an open white jacket with gold piping; he has a white and gold turban on his head, a black beard, and a tilak on his forehead. His right hand is raised in a blessing, the palm facing outwards, the fingers tight. The caption underneath says, “Sadguru Shri Imamshah Maharaj.” The term “pir” is not used, but the biography inside refers to him as a Sufi saint who was born in 1440.

The police on the premises are an indication that a conflict is in progress. Next door to this shrine, beyond a barbed wire fence, we see an old mosque. The fence must have a tale to tell. We resolve to visit the other side. The only way is to go outside and around.

It is not easy to find the entrance. People stare at us, give vague answers to our queries; evidently there is much animosity around. One person points to a door that is very obviously closed permanently and says that’s it. As we walk on, we realize to our surprise that a man is following us on a motorbike. We persist, walking up the road in a dilapidated section of the town, then turning to the right, until we finally arrive at a gate in a wall, with a sign. We enter through the gate and immediately a man appears dressed in ordinary shirt and pants. He says he is a sayyid, Imamshah’s progeny and descendant of the Prophet. This place looks familiar to me, it was a part of Pirana when I last came here. The mosque is old but seems well tended, with a large open shed next to it. The man speaks slowly and gives me the genealogy of Imamshah I am familiar with, at least up to a few generations back. He says he had seen us on the other side; he himself goes there every day to pay respects to the grave of the pir and other holy men. He invites us to his home, a well-built though modest single-storey house, with a small living room in front where we sit on low sofas. We have water, then tea, we use his washroom. I ask him about the etched slab of wood or stone I had seen before, on which Imamshah’s lineage had been inscribed. He tells me that it and several other items had been removed or destroyed. Literature as well. I am not oblivious to the fact that he has his own interests to promote, yet there seems to be some truth to what he says.

He brings out a chart that traces his family back to Muhammad and includes, of course, Sadardeen, Hassan Kabirdeen, and Imamshah.

He has sued the Kaka’s group and the case is in court. But he does not expect an early resolution. I ask him about other Imamshah descendants, surely they must be around? He is vague about them—there are many, he says. His brother lives next door. His son is a manager of a communications company in Ahmedabad. And he confirms the story that one of Imamshah’s progeny married a daughter of Sultan Mahmud Begada.

The next day, standing outside the Imamshah centre, observing. It is Thursday, one of the “big” days. A woman with her family walks in, the mother carrying a baby completely draped in gunny cloth. A grimness to her look. People bring their problems here, their dearest wishes. How close was my own upbringing to worshippers of this kind: my mother asked to be blessed so she could have children, was given an apple to eat, and conceived; my unmarried aunt would stand on one foot daily, praying fervently, and finally got married, but the man turned out to be a drunkard. I, too, was taught to pray for benefits. No longer do I hold such belief, though I cannot help but empathize with those who arrive here, so openly bearing their desperation.

An SUV passes by us slowly, inside is the Kaka’s companion from the United States who gave us the story of Imamshah’s Brahmin origins. He waves briefly and formally from the air-conditioned interior. He must know by now that we have been to see the Muslim contender next door and are, at best, curious busybodies.

There is a certain naïveté about this renovated shrine and its refurbished story, a certain hubris, perhaps due to the nationalist rise in the country; there are BJP posters around the village. The fact that the heirs to a syncretistic, mystical tradition uniting Hindu and Muslim elements would seek comfort from such politics is perturbing. Surely past visitors have written about Pirana and recorded the previous character of the shrine?

And so while my people, the Khojas, have been cleansing their heritage of Indian, so-called Hindu, elements, here at Pirana essentially the same heritage is in the process of being cleansed of its Islamic connections and history. But such cleansings cannot be complete, there is always evidence left behind, questions that remain.

One thorn in the flesh for the Pirana site is the mosque next door and the Muslim claim to the identity and heritage of Imamshah. We soon discover another.

As we prepare to depart from this town, someone asks us if we know about a stone that moves when you make a wish. This sounds intriguing in the extreme, and in spite of time constraints we decide to go and have a look.

Behold, then, a new spiritual wonderland.

We walk into an unpaved alley leading from the main road into what looks like a separate community: women at the doorways of their shacks, seated on the ground, working at some kitchen task, children playing about. We reach a gate with a sign announcing the Bakarshah Bawa Mandir—a temple, as the name indicates, to a Muslim saint. The people who worship here are another distinct Imamshah group. A modest but more spacious, open site; no new constructions here, no gift shop selling religious memorabilia. There are rooms at the sides along a wall for pilgrims to sleep in. The compound is paved, and roughly in the centre of it is an oblong-shaped black stone on the ground, about a foot long, some five hundred years old, we are told. A priest sits next to the stone, and a few other men are also about. The ritual is that you make a wish, then crouch upon the stone; if it turns, taking you with it, the wish will be fulfilled. A young man’s wish has just been promised fulfillment as we arrive, and he gleefully gets up. One of my companions takes his turn; the stone turns for him, too.

I enter the main building, which houses the graves. Next to the entrance, on a board mounted on the wall, is a rather colourful and elaborate chart written in Gujarati. It lists the avatars of Vishnu, starting with the fish, but there are eleven of them here instead of the usual ten. The tenth avatar, according to this list, is “Muhammad dur rasoolilah,” the Islamic prophet. The eleventh avatar is named as Nishkalanki, the Pure One, who was number
ten for the other Imamshah group, as he has been for the Khojas. According to the story told here, he had been born but then disappeared. He is Bakarshah Bawa, the thirteenth descendant of Imamshah, and he died at the age of one. His body is believed to have turned into flowers, and he is the avatar to come.

There is a small child’s grave, belonging to Bakarshah Bawa, to one side.

This is a complete fusion of Hindu and Muslim beliefs. Moreover, it identifies the Muslim origins of Imamshah, which is the genealogy as I learned it, contradicting the one described at the big shrine across the road. How will these two shrines continue to coexist side by side in the future?

In a small room at the far end of the grounds, facing the main building, is a gallery of painted illustrations. Here are bright paintings of the Prophet Muhammad, their creator oblivious to injunctions in the Islamic world; the Imam Ali; Fatima, his wife, daughter of the Prophet; the grandsons Hassan and Hussein. There are also portraits of Bakarshah and of a few other Bawas and their wives who, I am told, look like beautiful Brahmin ladies.

And so, a simple, modest place—no sophistication, no special garb, nothing fancy. A forty-rupee contribution is considered generous. The jemadar, caretaker, who is not a priest, is a volunteer, a retired railway civil servant. He comes six days a week, has a very simple room on the premises, with hardly anything but a rolled mattress and some personal items. He takes Sundays off.

5:25 a.m., in my hotel room in Ahmedabad.

I wake up to an azaan from a mosque, a beautiful clear sound, high and always rising…

And then, a little later, the silence is broken again, this time by a sound that couldn’t be more different: a bhajan from a nearby
temple, almost like a ginan from childhood. I try and grapple with one from my memory that I think comes close to it, at least in a musical phrase.

Finally, the sounds of morning and a warm light suffuses the room.

Uneasy City: Ahmedabad

There is not in a manner any nation, nor any merchandise in all Asia, which may not be had at Ahmedabad, where particularly there are made abundance of silks and cotton stuffs.

JOHN ALBERT DE MANDELSLO (1638)

I had a predilection for Ahmedabad. Being a Gujarati I thought I should be able to render the greatest service to the country through the Gujarati language.

M. K. GANDHI,
Autobiography
(1927)

I
T IS SAID THAT IN
1411, when the sultan of Gujarat, Ahmed Shah, was returning to the capital, Patan, from a campaign, having chased a rebellious cousin (who was the governor of Baroda) and subdued him in Bharuch (Broach), he happened to camp close to a town called Asawal by the Sabarmati river, where a hare was seen to attack the royal dogs. This act of rabbity bravery very much impressed the king, and he decided that such a location was a worthy place to build a new capital. He was also influenced in this decision by his spiritual advisor, the Sufi Shaikh Ahmed Khattu Ganjbaksh. The area was ruled by a chieftain called Asa Bhil, who had to be subdued first, before the city could be built. The sultan perhaps also fell in love with the chieftain’s daughter. Thus the legendary and part-historical tale of the founding of Ahmedabad, Gujarat’s premier city. It would be said later that when a hare dares a dog, then a city gets built; meaning, by an extension, that fortune favours the brave.

Ahmedabad is older than the present Old Delhi, Shahjahanabad. (Shah Jahan had in fact spent some time here in his youth.) It grew over the centuries to become one of the great commercial cities of India. In recent times it has been called the Manchester of India; Erik H. Erikson, in his study of Gandhi, calls it the Pittsburgh of India. These comparisons hardly do justice to a city with a rich, complex history and magnificent architecture, much of it now, unfortunately, utterly neglected. It was here that Gandhi began his Satyagraha movement after his return from South Africa in 1915, founding the Sabarmati Ashram later that year. In 1918 he took up the cause of the textile workers of the city, going on a fast to win their cause. And it was from here that he began his famous Salt March, in March of 1930, which led to his arrest and mobilized hundreds of thousands throughout India.

The population of Ahmedabad has always been diverse, consisting of the great merchant houses, the middle classes, and the working classes, divided along caste and faith lines, caste often demarcating division of labour. Long renowned for its hand-woven textiles, the city’s more recent wealth came from the mechanization of its textile mills, increasing its working class and migrant population. With so many different communities existing side by side, the potential for conflict always existed. It only got enhanced by the categories used by the British administration in their regular censuses for all India, which, though fascinating for the information collected every ten years, also divided the communities along strict religious lines, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, Jew, with no space in between for ambiguity to soften differences or celebrate multiplicity within a unity. Folk traditions among “Muslim” communities were regarded by the census-takers, for example, not as indigenous and valid, which is what they were, but as adulterations to the pure and Quranic faith of Muhammad, which would have been alien to them. This clean division became even sharper and more hostile as the question of Indian self-government and identity
came up in the early decades of the twentieth century. Frantic attempts were made to proselytize, counter-proselytize, purify, and organize among the Muslims and Hindus. Literature appeared dividing history into pre-Muslim and Muslim eras. As Independence loomed, conflicts broke out more frequently. In recent times, after the partition of India, the violence has become progressively horrific.

In 2002, Ahmedabad suffered yet another of these orgies of violence.

The old city of Ahmedabad, situated west of Sabarmati river and connected by bridges to the newer developments, is a sharp contrast to Old Delhi, Shahjahanabad. The latter still has a medieval feel to it; regardless of anything else, there remains some continuity, history still abides in its narrow streets and alleys presided over by the fort and the grand mosque. People are aware of the past. Not so Ahmedabad, uneasy with time and history. No one built a New Ahmedabad, and so the old one has had to simply make do, patching, adapting, resoling. Streets have been widened, gates destroyed, prosaic structures squeezed in to replace the old. If history seemed ignored to my eyes when I first went to Delhi, here it seems to have been beaten on the head. Not surprisingly, Ahmedabad is not a tourist destination. Searching the catalogues of three major libraries, I could not find a book in English describing the city; I’m not sure one exists.

Still, this is an historic city, there must be a story to every stone here. You just have to scratch for it. But it is a city to keep returning to; it bewitches you the more you discover of it. We have put up at a modest hotel on Relief Road, in the Teen Darwaza area, close to the river. The owner is from Siddhpur, an ancient city north of here. You should go there, he says. We plan to. Outside, the day is a blur: hot, sunny, dusty, traffic pouring along the street
as if from a spout, the wonder of life throbbing in all its variety and colour all around. At such moments, even with the heat bearing down, it seems a privilege to have got away from life’s mundane chores, to be out on a quest, at large in this intriguing, frustrating city. A quest for what? We are not sure, but we hit the footpaths.

Walking along Relief Road, we turn right into a small street to head towards the famous great mosque of the city—built by Ahmed Shah, the founder of the city, what better place to start from?—when suddenly we find ourselves at the entrance to a shrine. It’s called the Pir Mohamed Shah Dargah, and doesn’t look very exciting, but on a whim we stroll in. A few people are about, tending to the place. There is a mosque to one side, and a tank in the middle of the compound for ablutions. Across from the mosque is the mausoleum of the pir, a modest structure with four small domes and a verandah with many arches. Inside is the grave, covered with a red and green chaddar. At the far end of the compound are guest rooms, presumably for pilgrims. What’s striking here is the dark, cool shade of the interiors, away from
the glaring sun beating down outside and all around. We are told we should see the library. What kind of library could there possibly be here? It’s easy to be skeptical and turn out looking foolish, and this is one such moment. As directed, we climb up a flight of stone stairs situated near the entrance, walk along a corridor and come upon an amazing sight: beyond the entrance lie three rooms, leading one from another, people sitting behind desks, bookshelves along the walls, a catalogue system chart posted on a board. A research library.

We are asked who we are, then a guide is assigned to us, a retired man who volunteers. There are several hundred manuscripts here, he says, as he shows us the contents of a glass display case containing about a dozen examples. Handwritten Qurans, a manuscript of a work by the great traveller and scientist Alberuni, another with the seal of Ahmed Shah, the founder of this city, upon it. There is no way of telling, of course, how true these attributions are, but the specimens look old and are evidently much prized. There is a manuscript strip several feet long with a verse written on it; within each character are inscribed, microscopically, parts of the Quran so that the whole of the Book is contained in the verse.

With all this treasure, the library looks unprotected against fire, riot, theft. Against fire, the man tells us, they have extinguishers; and then there is God. It is the kind of place that, with its naive fragility, could suddenly cease to exist one day. My companion is the irrepressible Mahesh from Delhi, and as we sit and drink the tea offered to us, he gives the man a long lecture on the importance of preserving all the treasure that is housed here and making sure that there are copies. The library receives a government subsidy, the man says, and the department responsible has restrictions on the making of copies, in case the originals get damaged. A discussion ensues on methods of preservation.

Outside, we are back on a short but busy street; old, once-elegant balconied houses jostle against each other, barely upright. This is a street of shoe stores, from which lead off smoky residential alleys. Further on, a poorer section—a butcher crouched on the ground chopping meat for customers, cots outside houses, children playing (and staring). We come upon the main Gandhi Road, and find more shoe stores, lock and hardware stores, twine stores; in front of them, sidewalk vendors selling juice, fruit and vegetables, handkerchiefs and underwear, slippers, jewellery, luggage, one after another, so that it can be hard to get through into the street. It is the colour and the names on the signs that gives each place its character and distinction, stand in for architecture. Intermittently, bicycles piled like flies upon a piece of meat. Bright billboards shading the balconies. And then the mosque.

The Jama Masjid of Ahmed Shah was completed in 1423. Its majesty is marred by the fact that its minarets are absent, having been destroyed by an earthquake in 1819, and its front facade is lined with stalls, leaving only the entrance visible. There is a man who sits on the steps to look after the shoes, but we take ours in our hands, as we see others do, and proceed up to a vast square courtyard contained on three sides by walls carved with inscriptions in tall Arabic characters, presumably from the Quran. The fourth side has the prayer hall. There is a large covered pool in the centre where a few people do their ablutions before proceeding to the hall. The roofed section of the mosque is supported by a thick forest of pillars, about three hundred in number. A magnificent central archway constitutes the main entrance into the hall, flanked by lesser arched accesses. The entranceway is intricately carved, an example of the Indo-Saracenic style. Very few people are about, and they sit quietly and privately in prayer, away from each other. Two girls in blue and yellow chaddars at the entrance add a sudden dash of exotic colour to the old red sandstone background. They must be tourists. The electrical cables strung about among
the pillars, the speakers attached to the ancient walls, the tube lights, the electric fans, the cheap clock, and the scaffolding are ugly reminders of today. The exigencies of daily life, the importance of prayer, leave no time for the appreciation of architecture, the contemplation of history. In the distance, above the walls, loom the drab modern buildings we left behind to enter here.

As I turn to go, waiting for my companion, who potters around near the entrance to frame just the right photograph to add to the multitude of Indian images he has captured in his lifetime, I experience a certain sense of bleak wonder. This vast, plain prayer ground, in the middle of it now a slight young man in white robe and white cap knelt in prayer, how empty it looks, and forlorn; how different this space from the enclosing, intimate, and perhaps oppressive space of even a large cathedral, or a temple clamouring with carvings and statues. How different are the senses of God represented in them. I imagine for this young man a distant, patriarchal, and even haughty Allah; but then he goes to a dargah to seek assistance from a pir, a man who could grapple with that distant patriarch.