This Above all
Pilgrimage to remember
Khushwant Singh

I have never been on a pilgrimage. I admit I never had the least desire to do so, nor would I go on one now except as a spectator-journalist. However, I also have to admit that everyone known to me who has been on one speaks highly of the emotional satisfaction they derived from the experience. All religions believe in pilgrimage. For Jews and Christians, it is Jerusalem, the birthplace of both faiths. They also have lesser places of pilgrimage like Lourdes in France, where, it is claimed, the sick are miraculously healed.

Hindus have their Kumbh Melas, where they go in millions to bathe in the holy Ganga. The Sikhs have their five Takhts (thrones) with the recent addition of Hemkunt Sahib in Uttarakhand. By far the most spectacular of all pilgrimages is the Haj to Mecca and Medina. It is obligatory for all Muslims who can afford it. Millions of Muslims from all parts of the world gather there to offer prayers. Those who can’t make it for Haj, go on a lesser pilgrimage called Umra.

From the pictures I have seen (no non-Muslims are allowed in Mecca or Medina), they make an impressive sight with thousands upon thousands of people similarly attired going through their genuflections with military precision. I have just finished reading a moving account of an Indian Haji who travelled to Arabia and back by a steamship in 1929.

Amir Ahmed Alawi (1811-1952) was a scholar and journalist. He kept a daily diary of his experiences during the journey, first published in Urdu under the title, Safar-e-Sa’adat (propitious journey). It has now been translated into English as Journey to the Holy Land: A pilgrim’s Diary by Mushirul Hasan, till recently Vice-Chancellor of Jamia Millia Islamia, and his media adviser Rakshanda Jalal.

The diary makes most pleasant and informative reading as Alawi had an eye for trivial details and relates what he had to undergo during the sea journey to Arabia, which was then under British domination.

He took many bundles of paan leaves to last during his pilgrimage. He writes of the dirty conditions of the steamship and its bullying British officers. All his narrative is peppered with apt couplets in Urdu and Persian. He was horrified to see Muslim girls dressed like Europeans, and in lavishly designed embroidered burkas to attract attention. "When heresy enters Kaaba, what will be left of Mussalmans?" he asks. You will enjoy reading the Pilgrim’s Diary because it is beautifully written and translated and gives you a flavour of the time.

Why write?

I often ask myself why do I go on writing. Of course, it provides me my daal, chawal and Scotch Whiskey. I could earn as much, if not more, running a dhaba on a National Highway. However, writing also boosts my ego, which selling tandoori chicken and parathas would not. Some people read what I write and send me their opinions. It assures me that what I write has some impact, however minimal. Since some of what I write also gets published in regional languages, chaiwalas at railway stations, ticket checkers on trains, policemen on patrol and butchers in Khan Market make it a point to tell me that they have read some of the stuff I churn out.

I feel mighty pleased with myself. Do any of them change their views after reading what I have written? I am not sure. I believe I was able to persuade some educated sections of my community not to listen to Bhindranwale, or consider demanding a separate state. I also wrote a lot against religious bigotry. I don’t think any bigot agreed with me, because many dismissed me as an agnostic mischief-maker trying to undermine the basis of Indian culture.

I get inspiration from Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore’s Ekela Chalo (walk alone) when others abandon you. I continue to tread the lonely path. I found further solace in a couple of lines of Urdu poetry by my young friend Prem Mohan Kalra when he came to drop his bi-weekly carton of dahi-bhalla:

Ayeeney beychtaa hoon andhon key shahr main

(You ask me about my business and what I have in mind? I sell mirrors in the city of the blind).

To bear, too sad for far and near.

(Courtesy: Kuldip Salil, Delhi)

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