Imagining Lahore

by Haroon Khalid

  The dervish at the centre of the courtyard next to the dholwala slowed his whirl. He stopped rotating, banging his feet on the ground lightly, accommodating the shift in the beat. His red chola danced to the sound of his ghungroo. He beat his foot passionately on the ground. The dholwala recognized the challenge. He added his own signature. They both competed. They both played along. No one was in a hurry. The slower the better. There was a drug-induced patience in the air. Everyone had caught on to the rhythm. Everyone was shaking their heads. Something would eventually give. The dervish, the dholwala, the audience or the beat itself.

  The tame beat was now becoming a beast. It could no longer be controlled. The dholwala had to respond. The rhythm sped up. A moment of orgasm, beyond which lay nothing. The dervish too had become a beast. He whirled. He ran. He jumped. He cried. He laughed. The world was his, the moment was his. He longed for destruction. Nothing stood in his path. He alone existed. Nothing else deserved to exist. This was Lord Shiva’s tandava that had once created the world but would now destroy it.

  There are many similarities between the devotees of Shiva and dervishes from the Malamati Sufi school of thought. The Malamati within Sufism represent a group of devotees who do not adhere to any religious law. The dhamaal is an integral part of their religious experience. It is a carefree ecstatic dance in which a devotee loses control over himself or herself and is blown away by the rhythm of the music, much like Shiva’s tandava, in his form as Nataraja. The dhamaal is only one example of similarities between Sufi dervishes and devotees of Shiva. Like them, the dervishes too sit around a fire in the night consuming hashish or bhang. The ash from the fire in both these traditions is regarded as sacred and is believed to contain healing properties. Shiva, as a mahayogi, has dreadlocks piled on top of his head, and it is believed that the River Ganga flows out of his hair, signifying its spiritual powers. The Muslim dervishes too let their hair grow long. Their locks signify life-energy and are believed to contain magical powers.5

  It was a dance similar to Shiva’s tandava that the saint Shahjamal is believed to have performed at this spot to create a giant mound under his feet. We were at the base of this mound. On the top was another musical devotion being performed—calmer, milder and perhaps a little more acceptable to the sensibilities of religious orthodoxy. A group of qawwals sang devotional songs while about 100-odd devotees listened to them patiently. The tomb of this seventeenth-century Muslim saint is located at the top of this mound.

  The scene was different at the base. Here, at the centre of the courtyard, a couple of dholwalas played wild beats, improvising accordingly, as hundreds of devotees sat around them in a circle consuming hashish.

  The shrine of Shahjamal is a unique island. Surrounded by large bungalows, the shrine is located in the middle of a small, congested community where every Thursday hundreds of devotees arrive to consume psychotropic substances and partake in devotional music. Although smoking hashish is illegal, here the government turns a blind eye, perhaps accepting its consumption as part of the shrine’s tradition. It is also here that the secrets of the ancient city of Lahore are buried.

  As mentioned in an earlier chapter, several historians believe that it is not the current walled city but the small town of Ichra, about 8 kilometres away, that constituted the ancient city of Lahore. Writing in the eleventh century, a little after the invasion of Mahmud Ghazni and the establishment of his control over Punjab and Lahore, Ali Hujwiri, or Data Sahib, who entered Punjab with Ghazni’s caravan, identified the walled city of Lahore as a small village next to the town of Ichra.

  Several other narratives strengthen this claim. Some of the oldest temples in Lahore, including the Chand Raat Mandir, were located in Ichra. It is also argued that the Lohari Darwaza of the walled city is actually a misnomer for ‘Lahori’, and faces Ichra, the original city of Lahore.

  This shrine of Shahjamal, located atop a mound, is opposite Ichra, which has now become a congested market consumed by the metropolis of Lahore and devoid of a distinct identity. It must have been an abandoned mound in the seventeenth century when the saint decided to settle here, cut off from civilization.

  Like many other archaeological ruins around the country, this one too was incorporated into religious folklore and acquired a particular significance in precolonial Lahore. According to folk stories, a Mughal princess’s palace faced the saint’s abode. Every morning, when the saint would offer his prayers on a tall building facing hers, she would feel her privacy invaded as anyone standing on the building could look into her palace. When she complained to him, the saint began performing the dhamaal in anger. Such was the vitality of his steps that the building collapsed and was buried under his feet.6 This story can be viewed as a Muslim version of Shiva’s tandava, the angry dance that almost destroyed the world.

  While apocryphal in nature, the story may hold the secret to the city’s origin. Perhaps an old, destroyed civilization lies buried under the shrine of the saint. Before history became a chronology of events, to be recorded by the colonial state, it was encapsulated, compressed and preserved in names, folk tales, myths and legends. Perhaps the history of Lahore is hidden somewhere in the story of Shahjamal.

  Between the Lohari and Mochi Gates once existed the Shahalami Gate, one of the thirteen gateways to the walled city. Only the name survives today. This is also home to Shahalami Bazaar, another iconic bazaar of Lahore, known for its wholesalers, where retailers from all over Punjab come to shop. Deep within the bazaar, inside a mosque, is the mausoleum of Malik Ayaz, Lahore’s governor during the Ghaznavid Empire.

  While the mosque is imposing, the tomb is nondescript, a small room with a grave and a dome on top. This is regarded as the final resting place of the architect of Lahore, the loyal slave of Mahmud Ghazni.

  More is known about Ayaz through legends and tales than recorded history. Historical sources suggest that he was favoured by the king and was raised to the position of the chief of slaves; however, in later poetic and other literary references, the relationship between Mahmud Ghazni and Ayaz acquired a particular significance, of a deep love, even symbolic of the love between a devotee and the divine. In the poems of Saadi, Bostan, Jalaluddin Rumi and even Allama Iqbal, Ayaz is represented as a perfect man, utterly devoted to his master, Mahmud Ghazni, just as a believer is enamoured of God and devoted to him completely.7 It is these later poets, writers and historians who present a romantic relationship between the two. There are several stories and traditions recording incidents where these two men expressed their love for one other.

  Whereas in the Persian literary tradition Ayaz came to signify a true lover, in the writings of Muslim historians, particularly those writing from India, Mahmud Ghazni became the quintessential Muslim ruler, spreading the message of Islam in an infidel land. Every subsequent Muslim king was beseeched to evaluate their achievements in the light of Ghazni’s successes, the most widely known of which was the destruction of the Somnath Temple in Gujarat, portrayed as the greatest Hindu temple in India. 8

  It actually wasn’t the greatest Hindu temple in India; in fact, no one temple could have been given that status. In later Muslim writings, it acquired that particular significance, as if it were the Hindu equivalent of the Ka’aba.9 This was done to exaggerate the achievements of Mahmud Ghazni.

  Legends were crafted about how the idol at Somnath was actually of the goddess Manat, one of the ancient trio of goddesses worshipped in Arabia before the arrival of Islam. It was asserted that when their temple was destroyed by Hazrat Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet, the idol was saved and found its way to Gujarat where this temple was constructed in the goddess’s honour.10 Thus, in attacking and looting the temple, Mahmud Ghazni was fulfilling the wish of the Prophet, who had originally asked Hazrat Ali to destroy the temple in Arabia.

  While later Muslim writers glorified Mahmud Ghazni and his attacks on Somnath, part of the rhetoric was initiated by the sultan himself. He had succeeded his father, Subuktigin, af
ter deposing his brother. Fighting for political legitimacy, Mahmud desperately sought the patronage of the Caliphate at Baghdad. He began exaggerating his achievements, overstating the significance of the temple and the loot acquired from it, which he pegged at being equivalent to 20 million dinars.11

  Thapar, in her book Somanatha: The Many Voices of a History, identified how contemporary Jain and Hindu sources are conspicuously silent about Mahmud Ghazni’s raid on the temple. She points out that it is important to look at these alternative historical sources as opposed to only relying upon Persian sources, for it proves that the ‘destruction’ of the temple was never as complete and catastrophic as the Persian sources claimed. According to these sources the temple was receiving pilgrims shortly after the attack.12

  Focusing solely on Persian sources and interpreting them literally, British colonial historians exaggerated the severity of the attack and its impact on the psychology of the ‘Hindus’. In 1842, after the debacle of the First Anglo-Afghan War, the British removed what were believed to be the gates of the Somnath Temple from the tomb of Mahmud, which he had allegedly stolen following his attack, and took them back to India.13 The motive was to restore the honour of the Hindus.

  The British interpretation of these events was internalized by the Hindu and Muslim nationalists. The attack on the Somnath Temple became another example of repressive Muslim rule over a subjugated Hindu population. For the Hindu nationalists, the temple’s restoration became a way to reclaim lost honour. It was rebuilt in 1951, soon after Indian independence, to signal a new emerging identity. In 1990, when the first rath yatra was undertaken by Hindu nationalists demanding the destruction of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya and the construction of a Ram temple in its place, it started from the Somnath Temple.14 For these Hindu nationalists, history in independent India was coming full circle.

  While on the one hand, Mahmud Ghazni’s attack on Somnath was glorified in Persian sources, there was also a need to augment the prowess of his enemies on the other. They had to be depicted as stronger and mightier, with hundreds of thousands of soldiers and hundreds of elephants so that the victory of the Muslim king with a fraction of the army at his disposal could be better appreciated.

  Punjab, before the rise of this Afghan Empire on its western frontier, was ruled by the Hindu king Jayapala. When Subuktigin, Mahmud Ghazni’s father, broke away from his Persian patrons and founded an independent empire, the Hindu king is believed to have felt threatened by the rise of this new force right at the border of his kingdom, whose boundaries are believed to have extended within present-day Afghanistan.

  Jayapala, the ruler of Lahore, as he is presented in later Muslim resources, is believed to have written to other Hindu rulers, including the kings of Delhi, Ajmer, Kalanjara and Kanauj, and prepared a confederacy to counter the emerging kingdom on the west. With 1 lakh soldiers and hundreds of elephants at his command, he is said to have marched towards the north-west to defeat the forces of Subuktigin pre-emptively. Despite his mammoth force, he was outwitted by the cavalry of the Muslim army and thus had to hand over part of his kingdom to the king of Ghazni. Mahmud of Ghazni is believed to have fought valiantly in this battle.

  A few years later, with his ascension to the throne, another battle is believed to have been fought outside the city of Peshawar between a Hindu confederacy and the Muslim forces. This time too, a similar fate awaited the forces of the Hindu king and he was left with no option but to concede the city of Peshawar, one of his most prized possessions, to the Afghans. Defeated and humiliated, the Hindu king is believed to have performed self-immolation along with members of his family outside the city.

  In this way, at the turn of the millennium, Punjab opened up to Mahmud Ghazni who repeatedly raided the region and carried his loot back to Ghazni. Mahmud, unlike the Muslim kings of the Delhi Sultanate, had no intention of settling in Punjab. Ghazni in Afghanistan remained the capital of his empire, with artisans, traders, poets and others migrating from the cities of India to this emerging cultural and political hub. In order to handle the administration of Punjab, governors were appointed by the Afghan king who remained remotely connected with his empire.

  Much like the narratives of Somnath, the stories of this ultimate showdown with a Hindu confederacy are also part of the myth-making process, a glorification of Mahmud Ghazni to serve as an example for later Muslim kings in India. The biggest criticism of this narrative is the assumption that there was an overarching Hindu identity shared by the several kingdoms that dotted India at the time of Mahmud’s invasion. Another problem with it is the mention of the cities of Lahore, Delhi and Ajmer. While the city of Ajmer had not even been founded at the time, Delhi and Lahore were both relatively insignificant cities.15 In the early seventeenth century, when these stories were first being written, Delhi and Lahore had become major cities, thus allowing these authors assumptions about their past.

  Lahore is falsely cited as the capital of the Hindu kingdom under Jayapala. While Lahore existed as a small settlement at this time, it was never important enough to serve as a capital. It was after Mahmud Ghazni’s conquest that the city found its bearings on the political map of Punjab. Acquiring it from Hindu rulers, he appointed a governor for Punjab, with the city as the capital. It is around this time that major construction work transformed the small village into an important city. The greatest benefactor of Lahore is believed to have been Ayaz.

  During the battle of succession after Mahmud Ghazni’s death, Ayaz supported his son, Masud, who briefly appeared victorious. For his services, Ayaz was appointed deputy governor of Punjab with his base in Lahore, while Masud’s young son, Amir Majdud, was appointed the governor. As Majdud was very young at the time, Ayaz, for all practical purposes, functioned as the governor.16

  It is suggested that Ayaz, during his tenure, raised a new city, fortifying it with a protective wall. While Ghazni served as the western capital, it was Lahore that would be the eastern capital of the empire that lasted almost a century.17 With royal patronage, several new buildings were added to the city. A mosque was constructed just outside its walls by Ali Hujwiri, Data Sahib. Lavish houses were constructed by the nobles, such as Mas’ud Sad-i Salman, a poet and administrator, who is believed to have constructed three hammams in his house. Sarais and gardens were built and permanent staff was hired for their upkeep.18 Perhaps the original Lahori Darwaza that later became ‘Lohari’ was also constructed around this time as a tribute to the older city that the new one was replacing.

  After the death of Masud, Ayaz sided with his son Majdud, against his brother Maudad. After Majdud died under mysterious circumstances, Ayaz found himself on the wrong side of history. He is believed to have retired from political life and found refuge in the city he had built. It is here, in 1058 CE, that he is believed to have passed away.19 Earlier historical records suggest that his mausoleum was situated in a garden. However, all traces of that garden have disappeared and what remains today is a modest mausoleum constructed in a mosque in one of the most crowded bazaars of the city. Inside the mausoleum lies the grave of the architect of the historic city of Lahore.

  9

  A MYTHOLOGICAL CITY

  Ahuge mural adorned one of the walls of the veranda—Valmiki, with his flowing white beard and his hair in a knot atop his head and a halo in the background, flanked by his two cherubic students, Lav and Kush. A hermitage stood in the background, where Sita, after her banishment from Ayodhya, is believed to have been given refuge by the sage Valmiki. A river flowed behind it, ringed by mountains. While several religious texts believe this was the Tamsa River, a tributary of the Ganga that flows through modern-day Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh, a few local narratives suggest the site of Valmiki’s hermitage as the banks of River Parsuni, an ancient name for the Ravi.

  These folk narratives suggest that Lav, Valmiki’s disciple and one of the sons of Lord Ram and Sita, founded the city of Lahore. The city came to be known as Lavapuri, the city of Lav, eventually becoming L
ahore.1 The same narrative suggests that his twin brother, Kush, founded the city of Kasur, a twin city of Lahore. At their mythological origin, Lahore and Kasur were tied together in a bond that still holds strong. At Lahore Fort, close to the Alamgiri Gate that faces Badshahi Masjid, there is a little temple dedicated to Lav, the founder of Lahore.

  On the opposite wall there is a cross at the centre with a picture of Christ on one side and Mother Mary on the other. Of the two rooms that are situated within the veranda, one is reserved for Valmiki, with his statue covered in a saffron shawl. The other houses several deities of the Hindu pantheon—Shiva, Vishnu, Ganesh, Durga, Kali, Lakshmi, Saraswati.

  Facing the veranda is an open courtyard with a berry tree in one corner and a small room at another, used by the temple’s caretaker. Overlooking the courtyard are the tall buildings of Anarkali Bazaar. The entrance is a little gate with a saffron flag at the top, identifying it as a temple.

  Known as Neela Gumbad Mandir, after a blue-domed, Mughal-era mausoleum that is in its vicinity, the Valmiki temple is the only other functional temple in the city besides the Krishna Mandir at Ravi Road, close to Minar-e-Pakistan. Situated in a narrow street that was once known as Valmiki Street because of the temple and the homes of several Valmiki Hindus before Partition, the street was renamed subsequently. It now serves as the community centre for the descendants of thousands of Valmiki Hindus who stayed back, braving the riots of Partition.

  I first went to the temple in 2010, when I was working on a book to document religious festivals of the minorities around Punjab. In the courtyard of the temple, I was greeted by a handful of elderly men, part of the committee responsible for its daily functioning. Every evening they arranged a small puja attended by mostly just them. The temple, however, would transform during a religious festival. For days preceding the event, there would be a group of people in the temple preparing for the festivities. Holi, Diwali, Navratri, Krishna Janmashtami and several other Hindu festivals were celebrated here, but the grandest of all was Valmiki Jayanti, the birth anniversary of the sage.