this is the room the wind will carry the news into this is where we will line up after our friend is shot this is the crying room the snap awake room the crisis room the room to rouse when another mother bolts this is where we ready for the call he has been picked up yes officer I was with him he was right here I swear this is the room I am the woman this is the night. this is the room we dreamt until we could not: this part of the room will open to the foyer and here is the corner section for brewing tea this is the room for meetings it has an AC and this is the lock and the key for oops the secrets and this is the back door see comrades here are the papers or their ashes this is the schedule for cleaning cooking and cataloguing the books this is where my friend’s dream press would have been and this where the dream mothers sit in pain and this side of the room two desks could fit but only one remains and sure let’s make our studios unassuming and upstairs and use their rent to run the cafe below let’s add a balcony from which she used to gaze down upon the cafe and the cafe can gaze back up at us too and this is where we be found and lost after the weekly meeting the midnight meeting the rain meeting among the plants lovingly grown by us and this is where we watch them die and grow and this is where we hide and the posters too do not dare paste them on the walls anymore tho if you flip it would be like S never left like she was never murdered like the city never took a hit like we are not stumbling around inside these rooms forgetting where we put things of our own making aren’t these the rooms isn’t this the door its labels we made with our hands out of paper out of paper isn’t this the paper aren’t these our hands will you open the paper room so we can smoke it down we must destroy this room burn it to ash pick up the ashes then store them in corners for later rooms that we will build with the same hands now put away your fears girl look at me, this city is just a room no more this room is a city of rooms you can leave them behind we are building anew girl, walk out.

january 28, 2023

a girl at the shrine says “topi wali behen” every time she sees me. topi, cap. behen, sister. only one person, so far, has disapproved of this sartorial choice, everyone else smiles

describing the darbar means describing the feeling of / the pull of / the trick of

the job of these places is to kill the self by showing you it is worthless, so that you turn towards the world with deeper stakes 

when god wants you, you become cup, you become vessel, you become cup filling, there is no one else, just a roundness O

Shabnam said, the camera must be least intrusive, as small as possible, so keep the equipment to a bare minimum

when god does not want you, you become empty cup. the dryness of your walls, the curves longing to be wet, the air filling and leaving and not staying like water does. do you have to befriend air now? start over all again?

i withdraw from the streets to seek refuge in god’s home

our big cameras are not allowed inside the darbar

turn towards the world with deeper stakes, please

February 5, 2023, Bhit Shah

actually my friend was right about the b roll all along thats what we should be focusing on the sidelines and the sidecharacters. like things I’d like to film : the phoolwala setting up in the morning; the row of shops selling the same mazaar-ware at the same prices and all of them thriving; the photographers photoshopping expertly your austere poses upon a backdrop of the blue shrine, you can get a special font too; the chaiwalas and the bhittai they recite by heart while taking forever to make the chai; the road to bisharat faqir’s village, the sun falling on the fields on the drive there; the after-raag hangs at autaaq where the faqirs all make fun of each other; the autaaqs themselves, where I am invited easily, but I have never seen another woman, not even the faqirs’ wives.

6 am call time & the man you suspect is creepy will later become your friend. but right now under the neem along with the other musicians his sindhi though you do not fully understand you can tell is unpleasantly directed to you because men’s hatred you know intimately. but you push the annoyance away because you are here on business only, all confrontations will take place with god. god who’s given me enough resolve to keep sitting, insistent among the men, and with a camera too, which changes everyone’s behaviour yes but then so does the presence of a woman, whether she is holding a camera or not, so I might as well

I have smoked now all over bhitshah but my fav is by the policeman by the back door who always says Take the chair. he has kind eyes and a familiarity growing and today offered me his match. this is sometimes how the boundaries of gender and class are crossed, smoking and sharing matchsticks.
I don’t take the chair but smoke in silence next to him, both of us listening to the raag which comes all the way to the gate through the loudspeakers. to go back inside I have to walk through the women’s side-gate, cross the security cabin where the guard is asleep because it is 1am. exiting, I ruffle the curtain lightly so as to not wake her.

City of incense and roses. City of mandirs every two streets. City of walking all day and learning that the market lanes circle in and out of each other, city of whirling through the smell of fried jalebi, city of bad chai until we get to Bhagat’s. City of purple, pink, and green wall paint. City of jewellery stores where you are seated before the salesman, on the floor, as he lays out each silver earring for you. City of shops selling miniature idols of gods, from India. City of Hindu gods framed in hotels and khokhas—also from India. They come less frequently now, the salesman dejectedly informs us, So there is less variety, but still we have this City populated with Ram and Ganesh and Lakshmi, all watching over us from display windows and shopfronts.

City of trinkets and spinning tops. Of plastic utensils from China and earthenware from Hala and tin trunks built here only. City of carpenters, masons, dyers. City where it is impossible to find rolling papers. City where we wake up at six and sleep at nine.

City we stay in three days and it is not enough. City of sometimes too sweet chai. Of sand dunes and Bhagat singing as we walk amidst them. City of walking, in the evening with sunset pink edging the peaks of mandirs, day walks in Shahi bazaar, and post-breakfast walks past sleepy cows.

City of shutters opening as we pull up for khatti daal, which my friend loves, he is the first customer of the day. City of sunset bhajans and sunrise bells. Of women chanting but you do not see them. Of Guru Nanak’s smiling face, and fresh garlands every morning.

City of tiny and large Hanumans ready to conspire with you.

City of Dhatki, Marwari, Gujrati. City of people dark as, and darker than me. City of signboards not often sighted beside one another: OM SWEETS, BHITTAI FABRICS. City of Guru Nanak’s protective gaze and PPP’s arrows. Of Bilawal’s face suddenly, and state sponsored reminders that Kashmir Banay Ga Pakistan. City where everyone is quick to remind you that they are a pur-aman people, a people-loving qaum, minority City in Pakistan where what else could you afford to be.

City where a mandir hopping plan fails because this particular bhagat prefers to lounge at home. We get high instead, and he confesses that work is not as good as it used to be. Fewer state gigs for folk musicians, compared to his father’s time. And within the community, well you know it’s a City of Hindu musicians with little work, City of some Hindu musicians with some work if they are upper caste.

City within city at bhagat’s house: a cousin in their family is getting married. The adjacent house is decked, come let’s go see. Stay for the wedding, the girls say. We say No no no, we have another shoot in Umerkot. We meet the bride then bhagat says, OK but you must return in Muharram. All day he’s been telling us about the City in Muharram, processions like no other, and it’s the same in Diwali he says, Shias come and join, and we join in full josh as well for Ashura. Come and see on the eighth and ninth. Yes, we say, and take bhagat’s leave and as we walk out the door City of mandirs has now also become city of maula— did you the girls were wearing a siqqa around their necks?

City of maulayi Hindus. City of people whose gods can be in several places, in several rituals at once. City that feels like a prem nagar, City where we do find rolling papers at last, City of the best paneer masala at Diamond Hotel.

City where no one stops me before entering a mandir, unlike in Khi sometimes, City where they flag me as a Muslim probably but will not say anything because a City has to be peace-loving, pur-aman. City where the only time our movement is affected is when the guesthouse manager says, Sir Sorry, govt has booked whole guesthouse, please can you find space elsewhere.

City we are about to drive away from, Ahmed’s car crammed with our road trip supplies and film equipment, when a man stops us in the car. Says, laughing and friendly, that he is from next door. He heard we are filming bhajans and researching Bhakti, so we should come over to his family’s mandir and record there. Those, he says, you haven’t heard before.

Ahmed says, next time for sure. Behind us, the boy from our new guesthouse recognizes this stranger, and they hug. Bring them over next time, home-mandir-man tells the boy, then looks back at us, bright and gesturing, You have to come, OK? Film the bhajans, and I’ll tell you all about Kabir’s god too, everyone wants to talk about it, but no one actually gets it, do they? Tell me then, what is God made of? Not Hindus not Muslims, none of them get it. Hindus sculpt God with their own hands, then paint with their own hands, then worship with the same hands, and Muslims— they say they don’t worship God’s image, so what is the kaaba, tell me, and who built it? And the photos you put up of the Prophet’s mosque? And the taziahs? These are not idols? But God is not inside a stone or a photo or a clay idol and if He is then God save me, I say break it all down.

Laughing, he pulled at the car’s side mirror.

I could tell you God is in here, he said, touching the mirror. And then I could smash it to pieces.

And tell me could you still find God?

See Amrit Pyala Notebooks for more ✨

رات شاید راگ کے لئے ہی بنی تھی۔ اگر پوری رات اسے سنو گی تو بھیگ جاؤ گی۔ بھیگ کر اٹھو گی ۔۔۔ دربار سے جب نکلو گی تو ٹپک رہی ہوگی۔ دربار چھوڑ کر کراچی بھی آ لوٹو گی۔ اس راگ کی آواز وہاں تک تمھارے اندر گونج رہی ہوگی ۔۔۔۔

ایک فقیر دوست نے اپنی امی سے ملوایا۔ انہوں نے پوچھا، راگ کیوں سنتی ہو؟

پتہ نہیں۔ میں نے جواب دیا۔ سندھی میں ہے کچھ سمجھ تو آتا نہیں۔

انہوں نے کہا پریشان مت ہو۔ سمجھ آجائے گا۔ راگ دریا ہے۔ ختم تھوڑی ہوگا۔ کیا دریا کو کتاب میں قید کیا جا سکتا ہے؟

صوفی کہتا ہے کہ دل آئینہ ہے۔ پھر راگ وہ صدا ہے جو دل کے آئینے کو صاف کرتا ہے۔ دکھاتا ہے کہ تم کس خدا اور کس خودی کے سامنے کھڑی ہو۔ سارا کچرا تمہاری آنکھوں کے سامنے لا رکھ دیتا ہے۔ فقیر صدا دیتے ہیں اور رات کو چیر دیتے ہیں اور اس چیرنے میں تم بھی بکھر کے کھل جاتی ہو۔

بکھرے بغیر کھلنا ناممکن ہے۔ یہ مجھے راگ نے سکھایا ہے۔

اتنا کچھ کھویا ہے کہ جب کچھ ملتا ہے تو چونک جاتی ہوں۔ بھٹ شاہ کے فقیر میرے خالی ہاتھوں کو چونکا تے رہتے ہیں۔ چائے اور تبرک بھیجتے رہتے ہیں۔ میں ہاتھ فورن نہیں کھولتی، تبرک فورن منہ میں نہیں لیتی۔ پہلے اس چائے کی پیالی کو غور سے دیکھتی ہوں، پرکھتی ہوں، مٹھائی کو ہاتھ میں ملتی ہوں۔ اس وزن کو سلام کرتی ہوں: کبھی کبھار، جو ملتا ہے، وہ مانگے ہوئے سے کئی زیادہ ہوتا ہے۔