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Bhit Shah Urs through the eyes of an international visitor Do you wanna be in my gang ?
Bhit Shah was home to Shah Latif Bhitai, Sufi poet, musician and subsequently saint. About the time of the anniversary of his death - the festival only takes place under the full moon - devotees from all walks of life gather in his home town to pay their respects, to visit the shrine in which he is buried and to participate in the celebrations, which this year include such un-Islamic titillations as a fun fair, dodgems and dancing girls. (The latter perform safely out of reach above the heads of the masses in rickety wooden cages which sway with their every movement. Their audience, a silent sullen mass of (male) country folk, is both attracted to and repelled by the brazen spectacle. They see me watching this medieval sight and throw fireworks at me until I leave). Shah Latif was a contradictory figure - a musician who was never heard to perform a note but who composed songs still heard to this day, an unlettered poet who was the first literary figure in Sindh to develop a body of written work. His 'Risalo' has been compared by some, in stature and significance at least, to the works of Shakespeare. (In his time, the traditions of Sindh were oral - when an acolyte first presented the written collection of his poems, he ungratefully threw it in a lake, saying that he did not wish his words to be preserved on paper. Later, he had second thoughts). Once a year, when the faithful, the not-so faithful and the merely opportune gather in Bhit Shah (bhit means dune) to celebrate his life, the town's usual population of 20,000 multiplies one hundred-fold - eunuchs, snake-charmers, midgets, flagellants and transvestites all jostle for space and custom. The highlight of the urs (festival) is the three-day long presentation of Shah Latif's music at the Shah Latif Auditorium. As much an occasion to be seen at as to participate in, Pakistan's politicians are out in force. An edgy atmosphere pervades, abetted by the recent nuclear tests as well as the unbearable heat. (A taxi driver in Karachi informs me that the current temperature, increasing by one or two degrees C per day, is a result of the tests.) A selection of Sindh's finest (and otherwise) musicians take the stage for their allotted five minutes to demonstrate both prowess and devotion to Shah Latif - if it's all going a bit downhill, a rousing shout of 'Jie Latif! Long live Latif!' works wonders. The soulful passion of the orange-clad, -haired and -bearded Sohrab Fakir and his twenty-strong troupe of singers and musicians contrasts with Anju Ara, presenting herself as a Sufi Kylie Minogue complete with fatwah-provoking make-up and a notebook with a fluffy cat on it, from which she reads all the words. She even reads the choruses, which are, in true pop fashion, merely the same lines repeated an infinite number of times. Maybe she has a short-term memory problem, or maybe there's a Sufic subtext that I'm missing. She goes down a treat, anyway. Within the auditorium, the atmosphere is nonetheless dour, with no evident enjoyment to be seen on stage, save for the house band who present an splendidly silly selection of jingles to introduce each artist. By the last day, they are excelling themselves and can barely get to the end of their latest silly masterpiece without dissolving into hysterics. Contributing to the lack-lustre ambience is the dominating line-up of politicians occupying the front rows of seats. Each with his own armed bodyguard and entourage of flunkies, their baneful presence looms over the proceedings. The camera crews film the front rows, face away from the stage and ignoring the musicians. When Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif arrives, security rises to a fever pitch.. The previously urbane Secretary of Culture rants at the secret policeman who is trying to throw his friends out of the front row. 'Don't you tell me about protocol!' he shrieks. The policeman searches for a suitable riposte. 'I will tell you about protocol!'. I am quizzed by a suspicious Army type'. 'Are you........foreigner?', he probes, and asks me if I drink Pakistani water. Speeches over, when the politicians have departed, the entire cast sing the festival theme song and are speedily hustled off stage. The 1998 Urs of Shah Latif is concluded. This is confirmed to me in the morning by the large hole in the wall of our accommodation which yesterday contained an air conditioner. Outside, men struggle by with dusty generators balanced on bicycles. We take the hint. Invited to visit one of the performers, the venerable Mohammed Khan Fakir, we find him after fourteen hours and one sandstorm (also known as a Sindh shower', in Sir Richard Burton's phrase) in his village of Mirpur Sakkro, district of Hyderabad. The surinder, a plaintive forerunner of the more popular sarangi, is gradually disappearing from public view and Mohammed Khan is one of the few remaining players. Despite being popular with governmental bodies (they sometimes provide accommodation for favoured musicians), he lives in grinding poverty on a tiny plot of bare land, sharing his water pump with his extended family of twenty, a goat, cows, stray dogs and cats and two rabbits. Fakir, in Arabic, means poor man. Holy boa constrictors, Robin!
A final visit to the shrine to make our farewells reveals a stream of supplicants circling the tomb, rejoicing, entreating, singing or, in the case of one bearded policeman, sobbing silently. During his life, Shah Latif Bhitai was an outsider and iconoclast - today, he exerts a unifying force over the people of Sindh, and is much loved by those with whom, in his lifetime, he had no common cause - politicians, religious fanatics, literary lions. He is a veritable people's poet and more - the queen of desert songs' Mai Bhagi summed it up earlier when she sang 'Oh Bhitai, let God rain light over your bhit, you fulfilled all my wishes!'. There is no doubt in the minds of these supplicants that Shah Latif will protect them from the hard rain that is gathering over their country. |