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The dervish and the computer
Over the past ten-odd years, Sufism has become an international rage. Foreign tourists now travel to sacred Sufi shrines.
Over the past ten-odd years, Sufism has become an international rage. Foreign tourists now travel to sacred Sufi shrines and young urban Indians consider it fashionable to be spotted at an Abida Parveen concert. Beyond the glamour and the lights, however, there lives in Delhi a community which is trying its best to walk the same path of meditation and introspection that has defined the mystical religion for ten centuries.
If you happen to visit the dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin, you’ll find women prostrate before the marble lattice of the tomb, beseeching the saint for an answer to their prayers and men waiting patiently to enter the inner sanctum to cover the tomb with rose petals. Tourists, meanwhile, are quickly identified by English-speaking caretakers who show them where and how to pray and then just as quickly escort them to the side and push for some monetary donation.
By the end of the day, these caretakers, descendants of Nizamuddin, gather around to note how the donations will be used -- schools for street children, meals for the poor or upkeep of the tomb. The 500 descendants, related through the three families of Nizamuddin’s sister, master and disciple, mostly live within the colony around the tomb. One of the caretakers, 29-year-old Sayed Hammam Nizami, says his relatives all have the freedom to choose their own path in life, but they will always be connected to the tomb.
Some cousins went to the United States to study medicine and others went to Saudi Arabia to set up businesses. Nizami attended university in Delhi, studying computer science until he graduated and chose to remain at the tomb. Now, he is the only one out of the 500 members of his extended family that can recite the Quran by heart. So every night, at every service, he crosses the patio to the mosque to read verses to the faithful that flock there. “To be a Sufi, the first thing one must do is sacrifice. Sitting here all day is my sacrifice”, he says. He still finds uses for his degree: A wealthy Australian tourist created a fund for girls to attend computer classes at Nizami’s house.
Across town and down four cracked stone steps in East of Kailash, a smaller tomb also opens its door to worshippers and visitors. On Thursday evenings, tired labourers, older auto drivers, eunuchs donned in purple saris, university students looking for a thrill, and Sufis wrapped in white turbans pile into the ramshackle building and bow for a blessing from a wizened old man in a hot pink turban.
Kali Baba sits before the six-year-old tomb of Peer Kurban Ali Shah offering Pepsi and chai to guests. Professional qawwali musicians, who tour the city’s parties, set up their harmoniums and keyboards with day labourers, who borrow from the tomb’s collection of instruments. Kali Baba lights incense, guests light chillums and the organic, chaotic music takes shape as the audience shouts out requests. The listeners sway and clap along to the high-pitched chant sung in Urdu. An ancient dervish paces the dirt floor, raises his arms to the sky and shouts out praise to his God. The religion has been mixed with pop culture, commercialisation and cynicism, but its followers still worship their God in ancient ways.
