A Staircase Connecting Three Worlds

Last night’s suffocating Lahore heat was broken by the cool breeze that brought the promise of monsoon rains – God’s own air-conditioning for the masses. As the incessant heat of June gives way to the stuffy coolness of monsoons, Lahore’s underbelly rejoices at the cyclical weather relief. But there is relief of another kind too – each Thursday at Shah Jamal – in the form of the city’s biggest free for all hash party. Even a silent observer cannot escape the gasping relief it provides to the masses- much like the monsoons- to let go and break free from the reality as it exists for the common man.

Located in the heart of Lahore’s upscale Shah Jamal area, the shrine of Baba Shah Jamal is revered by many as the resting place of the 18th century Sufi Saint belonging to the Qadriya Naqshbandiya School of Thought. Not that the precise school of thought matters to the never-ending line of visitors to the small shrine. They climb up the long staircase with reverence in their hearts for a saint entombed in a small grave. Many come, no doubt, with the longing to pin their hopes for the realisation of a dream. Judging by the number of Chinese-made locks clasped to the lattice work of the shrine, the rags tied to the trellis pattern of the marble arches and the stench of burning candles, people’s faith in such emblems is a steadfast reality. The courtyard’s cool marble soothes tired feet and heavy hearts. It is easy to feel the stillness of time as one sits there embalmed in an atmosphere where time stops peddling uphill. A centuries old tree is stifled by the marbled floor of the courtyard like the dreams of a forgotten life.

This is a world where hopes are pinned, dreams take form and life’s problems seem to somehow droop their heads like tired banners on an old banyan tree. A world enwombed in its sanctity which lulls one into a moment of time caught between the ending of one cycle and the beginning of another.

On Thursday nights, the staircase descends to a courtyard belonging to another world connected to peace of another kind. Peace that is brought about by the momentary lifting of the oppression that surrounds life for the common man. Rickshaw drivers, college students, masons and the so-called educated alike rub shoulders in communal enjoyment brought by free marijuana and other substances openly passed around for a moment of individual escape. They sit in groups in the small courtyard, pressing the almost revered substance into their palms, delicately filling cigarettes and lighting up the precious smoke that takes them into a world free from heat where nothing is as it seems. These are not people to whom the Chief Justice’s issue matters a great deal, who are worried too much if their names are not on the voters list, who are piqued about whether a uniformed president is preferable or not. They are probably the type of people for whom the price of CNG is of critical importance when driving their rickshaw to the petrol stations. Or is it? It is impossible to know since the break down of class walls is nowhere so evident in Lahore. Perhaps it is the great leveller, like college examinations should be, in determining what counts. This is perhaps one of the few places in Lahore where what counts is how much and how well you can light up and withdraw from life around you. The effort to withdraw is incessant – people climb up trees and sit rocking their heads to an imaginary drum beat, coil up and lie dazed while the less “withdrawn” exchange pleasantries. As in a cinema, papar wallas and chanachoor wallas ply their wares. Curiously, a turban clad youth sprinkles rose water on the crowd as though to purify their existence even further! The star attraction of the evening – Pappu Sain – sat unconnected to this party conversing with the crowd. It was past midnight before he beat the drums and let the crowd have a show. One hears such drum beat rarely on weddings in Lahore these days. The unbroken rhythm beckoned another world of yore. Many of those assembled, banged their heads to the beat of a primeval kind something that resonated in the heart and only faintly on the ear drums. So that’s how the party rocks. But of course, it is only after the drumming begins that one realises that the drums are not the star attraction – the slam dunk is somewhere else! In the heart that sinks and swims inside without a body, a reality that exists in a ridge between the rocks of CNG prices and oppressing 48 degrees heat where the heat, prices, class, stench and injustice are words written in Spanish for another world meant for an audience drinking champagne in the grave!

They spill over the courtyard onto the staircase, winding its way down to the street. A clean street by Lahore standards! The Police vans ply slowly through the narrow street, past the stand of Five-rupee-a-glass sabeel seller, amulet salesmen with their wares spread on a red cloth and rose petal stalls selling a whiff of sanctity. The Police wallas eyes were dazed probably because they had driven past shops such as Zeitgiest and The Men’s Store on M.M Alam Road to inch past the shrine. The blue police vans and the shining eyes rolled past where the stairway met the street. As one sits on the top of this staircase on a Thursday night, it is clear in a flash that the only thread connecting this city’s worlds is a view from a staircase.