The Dance

Dance, when you're broken open.

Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.

Dance in the middle of the fighting.

Dance in your blood.

Dance when you're perfectly free.

-Rumi

“Dhum-dhum-dhum…” The drumbeat started plaintively at dusk.

I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. As I turned around, the sights were to behold; orange, purple, yellow, green and blue fairy lights adorned the tomb creating a riot of colors. The chadors being handed out for draping around our necks were lal – red – the color attributed to the Saint.

It wasn’t just the sights and sounds that were captivating. Incense sticks generated a pleasant aroma. Typically, I would’ve been irritated by the cloying Metro Milan agarbati – but not this time. The nasal senses were heightened as much as the others, if not more. As if the sights, sounds and scents weren’t enough, a tingling sensation made itself felt all the way from my fingers and toes to my center. It felt like a warm embrace.

“DHUM-DHUM-DHUM….” The drums continued in the same monotone, louder, but not monotonous at all. There was something new to be experienced this time; the beats echoed in my blood stream. Could it be that one could actually feel the drumbeats in their blood? Perhaps the sound resonated with the plasma and cells circulating in my blood. 

“DHUM! DHUM! DHUM!” I could feel the beats reverberate in my bones, joints and muscles now; nudging me to act and not just sit there passively. I was mesmerized by what I saw, smelt, heard and, above all, felt. With all kinds of sensory overload the urge was upon me to sway; to twirl alongside the devotees gyrating to the drums.

Yet, I sat there as if glued to the spot. It was then I realized that I was content just being an itinerant observer. Sitting out the moment, in and of itself, was sufficient.

I felt my head sway from side to side, involuntarily perhaps, to the beat. By then my body too had settled to the rhythmicity of the drums. Without much fanfare, a shehnai piped in. Although an instrument of celebration, the notes that emanated were melancholic. The musical ensemble thus created further tugged at the heartstrings. Overwhelmed by it all, I shut my eyes and just focused on the sounds at the Shrine.

In that trance, time was suspended. I must have been in that state for almost an hour, without realizing it. But then there was no need to monitor time, as we know it. And beforeIknew it, the music died down as unobtrusively as it had started. The whirling came to a standstill. My intoxicated fellow travelers returned to this world, their temporary abode.

Like me, had others been transported to that place elsewhere? Was this subliminal ecstasy?

I wondered, because the colors and fragrances were simply too bold and intense to be reckoned with in a normal state. 

Had I consumed something? Maybe the oxygen at the Shrine was different? 

The reality though was more mundane. I hadn’t ingested or breathed anything unique to help transport me. I think I did not need anything in ‘the system’ for the experience to be had. I was primed for it. I had no expectations of this dhamal – the trance-like dance of the dervishes – that had been practiced at the Shrine since the 13^th century. Tonight was no different, but for me the dance was transformative - like none before. 

Selfie taken in front of the giving tree at the Shrine. 

A tribute to Sehwan Sharif & Lal Shahbaz Qalandar

[from Rambling of an Itinerant]

Acknowledgment: First published by the Express Tribune.