Divided attentions

BY donating a million dollars to the shrine of Gharib Nawaz Khwaja

Moinuddin Chishti at Ajmer, President Asif Ali Zardari has queered the
pitch for us poorer pilgrims. How can anyone compete with such largesse?

The pledge he fulfilled had been made by Benazir Bhutto during one of her visits when
in exile. The funds were finally delivered by Pakistan’s high commissioner Salman
Bashir on Aug 17, on behalf of President Zardari and the people of Pakistan. Even as the
money was being handed over, some Indian cynics — over-familiar with the state of
Pakistan’s economy — wondered whether it was not (as M.K. Gandhi said in a different
context) “a post-dated cheque drawn on a failing bank”.

They need not have worried. A million dollars will not dent Pakistan’s foreign currency
reserves of $15bn. It will do much, however, to bolster the economy of that tiny Ajmeri
enclave which many Indians regard as Little Pakistan. Ajmer is not alone. On the road
from Srinagar to Kargil and Leh, some householder had scrawled ‘Welcome to Pakistan’,
but it was such a half-hearted assertion of independence that the Indian forces have not
bothered to erase it.

To Indians, the shrine of Moinuddin Chishti at Ajmer is as important as the shrine of

Data Ganj Buksh at Lahore is to Pakistanis. It is said that the Mughal emperor Akbar
walked barefoot many times from Agra to Ajmer to pay his respects. He did so in more
hygienic times. To repeat that devotion today is a test of one’s faith. The narrow, grimy
defile that leads from the lofty gate built by the Nizam of Hyderabad to the Buland
Darwaza of the shrine itself is congested with clamorous shopkeepers and importuning
beggars.

Inside the shrine are embedded two imperial-size cauldrons, each donated by Akbar and
his son Jehangir so that over 1,000 pilgrims could be fed simultaneously. Today, these
iron hemispheres swallow and digest everything thrown into their perpetually open
mouths — coins and notes, trinkets, gold, jewellery, bags of flour, rice or sugar. No one
remembers anyone slipping in a million-dollar cheque.

The more popular a shrine, the more arrogant its attendants, and the mazar of Gharib
Nawaz is no exception. His shrine is populated with them. They patrol the complex,
strutting like spiritual sentinels. To stand with one’s head uncovered is to attract their
censure; not to stand with one’s hands folded is to invite a loud reprimand. They
determine what is the right ritual, where it is to be performed, and by whom.

Groups of devotees are made to huddle beneath a large tinsel-trimmed sheet before they
can circumambulate the quadrangular shrine. The grave itself is expectedly modest. In
the end, even divines need no more than six feet of earth. A silver-plated portal allows
pilgrims a glimpse of the inner sanctum. The crush there is a pressing reminder that you
are in Little Pakistan. Faith takes first place, Discipline a poor second, and Unity is
untraceable in the disorderly mêlée.
Outside, you have a choice of meditating silently or listening to a trio of ageing qawwals,
or of answering questions about Pakistan. One of the attendants will introduce himself
as someone who still has relations across the border, and then probe you about what the
situation in Pakistan is really like. Some years ago, they would have expected you to
commiserate with them on their plight as Muslims stranded in India. Now, they pity you
for being marooned in Pakistan.

Over the past 65 years, the attitude of the Indian Muslim towards Pakistan has shifted
perceptibly down-scale, from being a dream immediately after 1947, to disappointment
after 1965, then disillusionment after 1971, and now derision after the Mumbai attack of
26/11. To them Pakistan is now no better than simply a septic tank, infested by vermin-
like terrorists.

The sanctity of Ajmer is matched by its neighbour Pushkar, seven miles away, where
there is a temple dedicated uniquely to Brahma. Taken together, they symbolise the
religious pluralism of India. At Gharib Nawaz, Hindus (and there are always a number
in the crowd every day) merge indistinguishably amongst Muslims, but interestingly
that communalism works only one-way. Devout Muslims at Pushkar are as rare as the
crocodiles that once slithered through the murky waters of the sacred lake. Hindu
devotees immerse themselves in it seeking absolution, the weight of their sins sinking
slowly into the sediment and mixing with the ashes of Gandhi, Nehru and Mrs Indira
Gandhi.

It was undoubtedly to remind his Pakistani hosts of India’s avowed policy of religious
pluralism that Foreign Minister S. M. Krishna during his recent visit chose to go to the
shrine of Data Ganj Baksh at Lahore. Compared to Zardari, Mr Krishna called empty-
handed. Whatever offerings he brought, he had delivered already in Islamabad.

Interestingly, before he left New Delhi, Indian newspapers revealed that visas would be
given on arrival to citizens above the age of 60. The protocol signed in Islamabad,
however, increased that age to 65. At a stroke, only Midnight’s Children became eligible
for this facility.

For my Hindu hosts at Ajmer and Muslims like me at Pushkar, prayers may begin with
individual belief, but they combine somewhere higher into a common faith that only
saints understand. Perhaps, therefore, the next round of India-Pakistan talks should be
held somewhere within walking distance of both Ajmer and Pushkar. Difference in
religion drove us apart; commonality of belief could well bring us closer.