Ajmer is about 130 kilometers away from Jaipur, famous for the shrine called Dargah Sharif, which is the third most important holy place after the ones in Mecca and Medina. It houses the tomb of a legendary Persian-born Sufi mystic, philosopher and saint, called Muinuddin Chishti. I headed there for the 3 o’clock khidmat, a special purifying ritual, during which you receive blessings and make a wish, believed to eventually be fulfilled. My guide Zafar, who was recommended by a friend, picked me up from my hotel a few hours earlier to take me around the city and introduce me to its history. Ajmer is situated in a valley in the Aravali mountain range on the banks of the artificial lake Anasagar. It used to be considered a key-city of the region, because of its strategic location and natural protection. During the colonial period Ajmer was a province, which until 1956 used to be a separate state, but subsequently became a part of Rajasthan and Ajmer now is the name of city, a big trading center and a vital railway juncture. The local historians claim that it was founded by the Chauhan dynasty in the 7th century, but it fell under the rule of Mughals, Marthas and Maharajas in different time periods.
Zafar, told me that Ajmer’s fame grew exponentially after Muinuddin Chishti settled in the city. He was born in Persia and after he visited many holy places in the Middle East and studied with the best scholars, he was directed by the Prophet himself to move to India. He founded the Chishti Silsila or Chishti Order in Ajmer and successfully attracted not only Muslims, but many followers of other religions as well. He was recognized for his teachings of peace, compassion and mutual respect, for his care of the poor and the sick.
After he died, his tomb was turned into a shrine. It was renovated, expanded and embellished throughout the centuries by donations from Mughal emperors, Muslim rulers and rich merchants. Today it is a huge white marble complex of big and small buildings, tombs, courtyards, pavilions and galleries. The inside walls are decorated with extensive writings in Persian, elaborate incrustations and detailed ornamentations with real gems and gold. A tall wall-fence encircles the facilities with two majestic gates. The doors are open for pilgrims of all religions to pray and the poor and the homeless are offered food and clothes30.
At the central entrance gate we left our shoes to a young kid and gave him a few rupees for a couple big white handkerchief-size scarves to cover our heads, because Zafar wasn’t wearing the traditional white hand-knitted Muslim cap and I was not veiled. A huge crowd was gathering outside. We entered the complex and passed by two gigantic cauldrons (about three meters in diameter) on specially built brick fire places, which were used to cook food for the homeless during festivals. We were making our way through the grounds of the complex, which was filled with a swarming but exceptionally tranquil multitude of people. We stopped several times to listen to groups of kawwali singers sitting on the ground, blissfully engrossed in their devotional music and singing.
We entered inside the shrine. People were crammed next to each other, walking with nimble delicate little steps, quiet and introspectively immersed in thoughts. I was repeating my wish in my head. I could hear only my own breathing along with the monotonous recitation of the Holy Quran. We shambled in a clockwise direction around the tomb itself, placed in the middle of the chamber and surrounded by a one-meter-tall wall. I followed the guide’s instructions. I tried to move closer to the middle and handed the flower garlands, which I was given at the entrance, to one of the khadims, temple care-takers, standing behind the fence. Then I made sure that I got under the chadar, a green silky fabric, which they spread above us, until it touched our heads, then retracted it and again spread it over us with a brisk movement. Everyone in the crowd was looking up and when it was coming, all tilted their head on the right to secure the blessing and its sanctified effect on their wish. The shrine was filled with calm obscure murky dimness, which bright shiny sunrays, coming from the doors, pierced through like theatrical light beams directed at the cornices, reflected in the band of foliated motifs inlayed with mother of pearl and gold encrustations and diffused in sparkling bright streaks under the domed ceiling.
Everyone received a string of interwoven yellow and red yarn, which could be tied around the wrist or worn on the neck for good luck. Zafar clarified that when the wish was realized, you had to return to the Dargah Sharif and express your gratitude to the saint by making a donation of money, sandal wood oil and a silk cover for the tomb of the saint. We saw several processions of people each carrying a piece of shiny fabric that they held aloft, over their heads, by lifting its edges; these devotees were the lucky ones, Zafar pointed out to me. When you return, before you join the next khidmat ceremony, you should tie your old string on the east gate. I went to take a look. It was covered with thousands of gleeful bright knots of fulfilled dreams.
We were in a restaurant for a tea and samosa break. Zafar, who was about sixty years old, was multilingual. Besides Urdu and Hindi, he knew Arabic, Persian, Rajasthani and a local dialect Marwari. He said he was working on his English speaking skills, because more and more foreigners were visiting Ajmer. His family had been connected with the Dargah for generations. It was because of their obligations to it that they decided not to move to Pakistan during Partition.
“Can you imagine what so many people in Pakistan feel when they can’t freely come to visit the shrine? I really sympathize with them. I have relatives who left and never came back. One of my uncles, for example, had a cotton textile factory. But they were urged to leave, then threatened that they would lose their lives if they stayed. A friend of theirs, who was Hindu, let them stay at his house for a few days until they made arrangements to leave. One of my cousins was killed on the train. People came on the train and started shooting. He lay down over his wife to protect her. My uncle was also killed.”
Zafar dipped a piece of his samosa in the hot sauce, took a bite and continued:
“My youngest cousin was then only seven years old. She was hiding under the seat during the whole train ride. 28 hours. We had already heard so many horror stories, the kidnappings, the rapes, the killings, the torture… and it was all happening on both sides. It wasn’t only the Hindus doing this or just the Muslims or the Sikhs. All were…”
He paused again. I didn’t ask any questions and didn’t say anything at all. Partition occurred in 1947, but because of the sheer magnitude of this historical event, the number of people killed, the women who were raped and abducted by all sides, Partition is a topic that still evokes painful memories and is being constantly re-evaluated. As Bose and Jalal explain:
“ […] the [British] raj came to its end amidst political and social
convulsions in which Hindu and Muslim as well as Muslim and Sikh
engaged in an orgy of murder, rape and plunder on an unprecedented
scale. Some seventeen million people were shunted across frontiers of
a subcontinent ostensibly divided along religious lines for the first
time in its history… Today the legacy of 1947 is looming larger than
ever before, at both the domestic and the regional levels. The scars
of partition have proven to be deeper than the healing touch of
Independence from colonial rule.” 31(157)
We sat in silence for a few seconds and then Zafar went on:
“No one knows where this whole violence and brutality came from. Men were worse than animals. Where does this cruelty hide in the human soul? How is it born? God knows. It was like a natural disaster. So destructive! No stopping it. All hell broke loose. And whose fault was it? Well, we allowed it to happen, we did it. We can blame the British and our politicians as much as we want, but ultimately, it’s our fault, right?”
I recalled an interesting observation the psychoanalyst Sudhir Kakar made that when members of a religious-cultural community feel that their social identity is threatened, they start mobilizing their identity around their religious affiliations. The social identity dominates or replaces the individual identity, which creates conditions for homogenization and depersonalization. Thus, individuals begin to perceive each other in terms of shared group characteristics, attribute stereotypes to the adversarial group and amplify the differences between the two groups. Ultimately, in a crowd, individuals act according to the norms of the group, their emotions are intensified and the act of violence becomes their expression32.
“How about one more tea?” And Zafar made a sign to the waiters.
“Why did we split India? What did we achieve? Tell me! And there is no going back. We lived together for ages, all kinds of people. So now we should have a separate state for the Sikhs, then one for the Jains, later for the Christians, right? Who wanted Pakistan for the Muslims? We only became poorer. How many millions suffered with no shelter and no food? And those on the top, the movers and shakers, what happened to them? Nothing! They sipped their tea – some in Karachi, others in Delhi, not really understanding what was going on. And what happened with Pakistan – a state with an army? No! An army with a state, I’d say. What did we achieve? Nothing! And Gandhi thought he had the power to stop it. But, well … Listen, once you throw religion in the mix, only bad things can happen…”
I remembered a conversation I had with a writer whom I met by coincidence in Mussourie more than 10 years ago. I was sitting on a bench at the tea stall next to a phone and fax services booth, waiting to be called to speak on the phone. I heard my name on the speaker that I needed to wait for a few more minutes because the number they were dialing for me had a busy signal. A skinny man with white hair approached me, smiled and greeted me. He apologized for the intrusion, but said that he was wondering whether I was Gabriela from Bulgaria who works with Hindi.
“How small is the world!” I said quite astounded and invited him to sit with me. Mr. Mishra introduced himself. We had a few common acquaintances such as the poet Manglesh Dabral whose poetry I translated in Bulgarian and with whom I worked on translations of Bulgarian poetesses in Hindi. Mr. Mishra waited for me to finish my phone conversation and we went to have lunch together. He was wearing a white cotton shirt. It looked hand woven and I asked him if it was the type, called khadi. I knew Gandhi wore only this kind of fabric to inspire the poor to continue their traditional crafts and local production work, in order to be independent of the foreign imported goods. Mr. Mishra proudly shared with me that he was involved in the Khadi Gram Udyog national movement, which carries on Gandhi’s ideas and encourages the handicraft industries and thus increases employment opportunities for the poor people and, especially, affects the livelihood of women and underprivileged in the rural areas in India.
“My father and grandfather were his followers and supporters. They met with him on several occasions in the Sabarmati Ashram in Gujarat, where he used to stay. My father was convinced that without Gandhi our confidence and pride as an Indian nation was not going to exist, because it was all crushed by our colonial past. He thought that the world had forgotten our contribution to all of mankind’s civilization in math, architecture, philosophy, astrology, literature and thanks to Bapu ji, we drew some attention back to our civilization. Gandhi was a genius, a global thinker and a diplomat. Actually, you know, he was born in a rich family, but chose to live like the poor with a single piece of cloth on his body, bare-feet, walking everywhere on foot. I mean, he had denounced the material world as transient, so people loved him and placed their trust in him. He was in such control of his body, it was almost against nature…Didn’t eat for weeks to try to stop the violence during the Partition. Unfortunately, he failed. Nothing hurt him more than the Partition and the communal violence and bloodshed afterward. Even he didn’t anticipate it, no one did. And it never stopped, you know. This is our tragedy and shame….”
In October 2007 a bomb blast in the Dargah Sharif in Ajmer killed and injured several innocent people who had arrived there to celebrate Ramazan. When I heard about this tragic event, I recalled something Zafar had told me:
“Our great teacher Mainuddin Chishti used to say that a man is fully devoted to Allah, only when he can carry in his heart the love of the sun, which shines over all people, the munificence of the water, which quenches the thirst of everyone, and the benevolence of the earth, which welcomes each and every person in its embrace, irrespective of religion.”
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30 See for more Mohammed, Malik. The Foundation of the Composite Culture in India. Aakar Books, 2007. 201-213 and Theodore De Bary, William and Steven Hay. Sources of Indian Tradition. From the beginning to 1800. Vol. 2. Columbia University Press. 1988. 447-501
31 Bose, Sugata and Ayesha Jalal. Modern South Asia: History, Culture, Political Economy. NewYork: Routledge, 2003.
32 See for more Kakar, Sudhir. Indian Identity. Penguin Books, 2007. 229-235