BENGALURU: I was on a divine errand of sorts -- my duty was to carry prayers and bring back blessings to a person who could not complete her mannat. So there I was at Ajmer Sharif, head covered and feet bare, waiting in a queue to reach the inner sanctum of the tomb. We had reached the dargah through narrow streets lined by shops selling mementos and paraphernalia linked to the dargah - holy threads, chadors, prayer mats, oudh, trinkets - and beggars.
A visit to the tomb of Sufi saint Moinuddin Chishti, standing in Ajmer for centuries, is believed to fulfil wishes, cure disease, dissolve sorrow, and enrich a person’s life. The faithful come here with stony burdens of despair and distress, and leave with hope and a peaceful heart. As they say, belief is directly proportional to blessings.
I noticed the angst and fervour around me, as devotees rubbed their palms against the silver doors, entryway and walls, as if hoping to retain some of the sacredness with themselves. Years and years of prayers must suffuse the tomb and its surroundings with some divinity, nothing to be cynical about, I told myself. There were weeping men and women, unburdening themselves in this, their citadel of hope.
The tomb of the saint remains a pilgrim post, a mystical unifier drawing people from all parts of the country and world, from global leaders to poor beggars. Donating chadors for the mazar is the accepted manner of devotion.
My experience at the shrine was more perfunctory. We were ushered in with gentle sweeps of peacock feather brooms, as the queue inched forward. One of the priests presiding over the tomb threw a thin cloth over our heads and chanted a prayer, and we slipped some cash near him. It is here that the most ardent prayers are recited.
As we moved on, a high priest tapped me on the head and reprimanded, ‘Cover your head, sister.” I hadn’t realised that my dupatta, wrapped around like a hijab, had slipped off my head. The hijab, which had plunged my home state into communal unrest! I pulled up the errant piece of cloth, pushed cash towards the disapproving priest and hurried towards the exit, and was directed straight to another hundi. Further up was a huge pit where devotees were free to drop their donations. Institutionalised faith. Cash for prayers. Jarring with the spiritual ambience. I was later told that it was used in the langar, to feed the devotees pouring in.
As I wandered around the premises, I noticed that every head was covered, whether of man or woman. Families belonging to all faiths were seated in corners, there were women in bindis and bright saris, babies in their laps, waiting for their blessings. At the entrance was a Sikh man, reverently bowing and touching the threshold. It was a soothing sight in a riven world, there was hope yet.