Quwaali

Eid al-Fitr Mubarak! (not that I was fasting, but...)

It seems like the big deal in Delhi around Eid time, and a lot of the rest of the time, is quwaali -- sufi devotional nusic centred here around the labyrinthine complex of the Durgah of Hazrat Nizamuddin and the surrounding ghetto in the upper bit of south Delhi. Going to the Durgah itself is quite an experience: winding through the alleyways thronged with people, finding your way to the marble tomb, seeing scores and scores of people trying to wind their way past the saints tomb, and the staccato and emphasis of the singing itself. It's a very Muslim experience, by which I mean very rooted in particular types of religious experience that I certainly don't have access to. There's also something deeply heretical and thus endearing about this, as (ultra-)orthodox Islam has decided to transcend place, and the Durgah is rooted in the city, the city of Ghalib and the latter Mughals.

So I went to two quwaalis in the last couple of days/ The first, followig some friends of mine, was in a crowded stuffy smoky room opposite one of the entrances to the Durgah in Nizamuddin: just consisted of a few guys -- an old man and a guy with a beautiful voice but no legs and a few others -- and then a small crowd jammed in. The chillum was readily available and the singing was good, but the image of the experience was better: just some people, from wildly different backgrounds, coming together and sharing in the mysteries.

The second 'quwaali' I went to was part of a cultural programme at the US Cultural Attache's residence. Seated on chairs, we listened to the Niyazi brothers (whom I'd actually seen at the Durgah) sing abridged versions of quwaalis in a very limited environment.

It occurred to me then that what was missing from the latter was the dangerous, transformative part of quwaali (and sufi-ism): the tendancy for religious abandon, direct experience of God's love that will leav you a little crazy, or at least moved. Obviously, there's no place for this at the United States Cultural Attache's residence, which is all about 'safe' culture being packaged and served out like tiny vol-au-vents. But the experience, without the chillum (and for all I know the hashish), the crowds, the meditative swaying, the cold marble and the moon overhead, seems to just be missing the point.