Here I am talking about cultural corridors. These are corridors on which people travel their way to reach the places where they may get their desires fulfilled through spiritualism. The unknown god becomes mortal and mundane. The divinity is derived through age - old cultures and traditions. So subtle and delicate is this art of walking on these corridors that if a little vitality is lost you are going to loose a big chunk of spiritualism.
In India there are innumerous places, which are neither place of worship of particular religion or any baba’s private religious asset. Even then a large number of God-fearing people are seen there all the time. These places can be mazaars (graves) of great Sufis or babas, or pink, black stones called ‘manokamna devi’ (Goddess of desire). Also, it can be a very sacred tree, which has many pieces of clothes tied to its branches. One can find a web of corridors coming from all the directions towards these places carrying hundred of men and women. This is typical part of Indian culture.
I remember such a place I visited many years ago, I was present in one of the shrines on a very ordinary afternoon. It was the mazaar (grave) of Hazrat Nizam-ud-din Aulia, a great Sufi of thirteenth century. The corridor on which I was walking was neither very busy nor too calm. For long long time several masters of their arts had come along this corridor and they have cut various slices from various beautiful cultures. They would walk briskly, they would rest in shade. Therefore they would never be very busy and never be workless. I too was following the suit, enjoying my struggle to catch the cocktail of traditions and cultures. This cocktail was a mixture of beautiful traditions found in the far-flung nooks of our beloved country. I thanked those talented masters for their effort made my journey easy. At length my corridor ended in a courtyard – I sat beside a wall. In front of me ‘Qawwals’ were singing. It was their daily duty. I closed my eyes and heard them –
Mera haath dekh kar bata de birahmana
Mera yaar mujh se milega kab
Tere munh se nikle khuda kare
Isi manh mein isi saal mein
(O! priest look in my hand and tell me when I will get my
beloved. For God sake this will happen in this month this year)
I opened my eyes only to see different kinds of women flying like bees. They were in big numbers. No doubt like mine their corridors too had ended in the same courtyard. There were several groups of women because women are bearers of cultures and traditions; they are regular walkers in corridors of cultures. For me philosophically they were women but what they were physically I don’t know. I say this because only word woman was left there with all the delicate and slow and curious behaviours. Some behaviours were old and some were youthful. And you know that the behaviours are felt not seen. My feelings were enhanced by ‘qawwali’ –
Chashme masti ajabe
Zulf darazi ajabe…..
(Drunken eyes are wonderful, long hairs are wonderful….)
There were some tall and beautiful, clean shaved men, clad in Turkish cap and long white kurtas. They were spread like bubbles in the courtyard. As legend has it, they are travelling through very long corridor but alas they go nowhere. They have remained in the same courtyard. Although their corridor possesses several windows, showing them artifices of spiritualism. But the entire opening possessed by the corridor leads them to the same place where I was listening ‘qawwali’. These men are called “Mujavirs”(caretakers of Muslim shrine). They boasted about their blessed lineage.
The most beautiful and well-bred mujavirs would attend most elegant ladies. These ladies were coming through some other set of corridors, which join the big corridor of traditionalism, and modernism where women need not to ask which way the corridor is turning, from their husbands. They can easily go to the shrine without asking or taking any help. Married women were leading the unmarried ones though they knew that next generation is more well-informed than theirs. And, those young women covered their heads with dupattas, they were clutching themselves in their long clothes, followed their co walkers. They had little or no idea about the benefits of touching the brim of the door of the mazaar or the corner of cloth put on the mazaar.
There were some high level attendants who had big registers. They were wrapped in a kind of green clothes, those men would lead them to the door of the mazaar and ask the elder women to fetch few bunches of flowers and a pack of agarbattis (fragrant sticks). The women were doing so. After a close inspection I found that these rituals were paid for the future prospects of those young ladies. And the young ladies were either whispering in each other’s ears or laughing while keeping their mouths shut with the help of handkerchief.
In far end of the courtyard I found some small & congested corridors, which very rarely reach destinations, because they are lopped off in the path. These corridors make ways for the poor & huddled sick men, who jump from these corridors to those shrines. They were in large numbers too. Only touching the mazaar was not enough for them. Their relatives had to pay in currency or kind to get small square piece of green clothe called ‘Tabeez’. These tabeez would show their divine power when people tie them on their arms or hang in their neck.
I was calm and still. A sentence passed through my mind – how easily they crossed their corridors and came down to this congested corridor, they could hardly travel from one essence of philosophy to another but they can come to this shrine. They are in urgent need of a helping hand of any kind; perhaps they assume that a spiritual one would be best solution for all their chronic and fatal problems.
Finally I saw the ideal middle class Indian women. They are the one who care most for the rites and rituals. It’s very hard to weaken their beliefs. Between that hustle and bustle I could find those half pensive half gay faces.
Most of them were with their father or their husbands. They had come through the corridors of very distant and old culture. They were poor and unaware. They were neither Hindus nor Muslims, they were needy. Their needs (as I could guess) varied from desire of a tubby and healthy child to a suitable match for daughters. The mujavirs recited them the entire particulars about the rituals they had to perform. And no doubt, their orders were strictly followed. After all those…, …, their remunerations were paid instantly without delay.
When I was about to leave the sanctum sanctorum, took my sleepers in my hands, qawwals changed the tune and recited in high pitched voice-
Abhagan ban ke aayi thi
Suhagan ban ke jaoongi..
(I had come with ill fate and ruined, I will go flourished and prosperous )
They sang it to light a small lamp in every corridor to make the path easy. I watch fully walked through mess of the corridors I wonder, one day every corridor will carry those travellers who had found their real path.
· MILIND
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