Today I’m going to tell you about a peculiar place; one that isn’t so far away in physical distance but is light years away from our intellectual capacity of comprehension. However, the truth is, that this isn’t my story. It may be a story about love, about sacrifice, about compassion, about faith, about belief… but it isn’t my story.
This is a story about a 16-year-old boy who watched the life slip out of his mother like a whisper into the air of Husain Tekri in September of 1987. Now before I begin, remember that human beings know less about the world and its ways than they like to admit. So read this only if you can keep an open mind for it isn’t a story for parochial people.
Forty kilometers away from the Ratlam district of Madhya Pradesh lays a small village named Jaora. Back in the 19th century, it used to be a Nawabi state, ruled by Mohammad Iftikhar Ali Khan Bahadur; a devoted follower of Islam who built shrines for the Prophet’s grandsons - Husain and Abbas - to immortalize their memories in the hearts of the people of Jaora. Soon, this place of worship came to be known as Husain Tekri. It is believed that hundreds of years ago, there emerged a conflict between two worshipping groups trying to lift the zari at Imam Husain’s shrine. However, at the sight of this dispute, the wooden zari miraculously lifted itself in the air, even though it required at least twenty-five people to lift it above the ground.
This event was seen as a textbook example of a karishma by the people of Jaora. Over the years, Hussain Tekri became a shifa-khana; a place of rehabilitation for the incurable, a provision of hope for the dejected, a portal of faith for the cursed. People who go to Husain Tekri in search of a cure are victims of black magic, djinns, hexes, curses, and dark, unholy spirits. People who go to Husain Tekri in search of a cure are victims of irremediable diseases; ones that doctors refuse to analyze, ones that experts state are terminal and fatal. People who go to Husain Tekri in search of a cure are mostly Hindus, Sikhs, Christians, Jews, and believers of other religions and faiths that know little to nothing about the Prophet or his family. Still, they believe that they can be healed by the blessings of Bade Baba, Husain, and Chote Baba, Abbas.
Apart from the distinctive backgrounds of the people that visit Husain Tekri, another ironic detail in the history of this town is that it is managed by a Sunni Trust in Bhopal. No matter the differences and apparent hostility between the Shias and Sunnis (among the seventy-two sects of Islam), they believe in the higher power that exists within these shrines and the small vicinity of Jaora. As of today, there exist 7 shrines, each dedicated to a member of the Prophet’s family; namely Imam Ali, Fatema Zehra bint-e-Mohammad, Imam Hasan, Imam Hussain, Abbas Ibn Ali, Zainab bint-e-Ali, and Sakina bint-e-Hussain.
It was with unwavering faith that a sixteen-year-old boy traveled from Lucknow to Husain Tekri in September 1987 with his father and his sick mother who suffered from an odd kidney malady. It had been long since the doctors had told his family that there was hardly any hope left for the woman he had adored for the last sixteen years of his life. Full of life and vigor, he now saw his young mother of 37 suffering from an illness that crippled her from the inside out. Because she was a woman that possessed a love greater than life itself for her religion, she had requested to visit Husain Tekri in her final days.
Back then, societies were more conservative than they are today; constantly looking for ways to keep the patriarchy alive, looking for reasons to keep women under their thumbs, and looking for opportunities to pass backward and age-old traditions down from generation to generation. But his mother wasn’t one to fit in the crowd. Although her name had been struck out of class and she’d been pulled out of school at the suggestion of her older cousin brother, she continued to find unconventional solutions to partisan issues. She had been married off at a young age just like other girls around her but that hardly ever blinkered her ambition.
His mother was always looking up at the stars, mapping visions of her future onto the sky. She was relentlessly compassionate - always putting the people around her above her, she was smart and witty to no end - having an answer and solution for all that life could offer her, she was caring and charismatic - like an earthly karishma that the world respected. But when she got sick, what she clung onto most was snatched away from her - and that was hope. Seeing no other choice, they took a one-way train ride to Jaora.
Life in this village was different from what they had witnessed back home, not only because it was less crowded than Lucknow and its wildly oozing city life but because there was something mysteriously strange in the air of Husain Tekri that could never be pointed out but always be felt. A lot of its inhabitants were victims of hazri (possession or a sinister presence); in fact, they were so distraught and disconnected from reality that they were often chained in order to prevent themselves from hurting their own bodies and those around them. It wasn’t an uncommon scenario to see men and women screaming and crying ominously at night or in broad daylight; they simply weren’t themselves. It also wasn’t an uncommon scenario to see those who had been miraculously healed before getting involved in the day-to-day activities of the town.
Many a time, people would witness the odd behaviors of those who had the hazri of different animals upon them. They would witness whole lemons, rusted nails, razors, thick balls of hair, and cloves coming out of people’s mouths. Once a sacred spring of water had emerged out of thin air at Chote Baba’s shrine and had seemed to cure all those that drank it. However, it eventually ran dry and was replaced with filthy sewage water. Still, people’s faith in the power of this water remained alive. Frenzied people with hazris would lay in the dirty water for hours at an end, washing their faces and bodies with it, brushing their teeth, and downing as if it was zam-zam. Each time they saw someone feeling uncomfortable at their sight, a manic smile would stretch across their faces and they would continue to indulge in activities they considered as ‘normal.’ I suppose it was the God they believed in that protected them from procuring diseases whilst sitting in the wastewater for, besides hazri, there wasn’t a single illness that plagued their minds and bodies.
None of this, however, scared the boy who had come to Husain Tekri as part of his dying mother’s last wishes. Since it was a small village with hardly any provisions of facilities, especially back then, people who were unable to walk were transported from one shrine to another on wooden thelas. Jaora was filled with small mansions with even smaller rooms as accommodation for people who had come from all around India and abroad in search of miracles, healing, and life itself. Small but infinitely loaded shops sat on each nook and corner of Husain Tekri, filled with foodstuff and packaged water that tasted… different. Along the roads by the shrines were thelas and temporary stores that sold flowers, tasbeehs, sajdigas, ta’wiz (an amulet or locket worn for protection and good luck), and prayer mats.
Of course, this mysterious village was not without its rules and procedures. All those who visit the shrines were required to do so in a particular order; first Abbas Ibn Ali, then Imam Ali, and finally Imam Husain. Those in search of a cure were also suggested to tie two red threads; one in the lattice screen of the shrine and another around their wrist for it is believed that this connection between the ailing and the higher power will eventually destroy the bewitching spirit or the chronic disease.
Besides procedures, there were also many popular traditions. Dhooni, for example, was the process of reciting surahs from the Holy Quran atop burning coal to which benzoin was added for its medicinal properties. It was burned day in and day out and was inhaled by all those seeking rehabilitation. This was one of the few tangible cures found at Husain Tekri. Besides this, a plethora of events were observed on Arba’een, forty days after the martyrdom of Imam Husain on the day of Ashura. All activities on the day of the procession were managed by a non-profit organization named the Hussaini Mission. One of them being chool, a ritual in which those troubled by unfamiliar presences or spirits walked on burning coal. Out of all the rites observed in Husain Tekri, chool was of the utmost importance. On the night of Arba’een, especially, those disturbed by hazris were severely anxious and uncontrollable. It was believed that whatever haunted their soul would perish in the ember. At the end of the rite, many would take dips in the water or simply pass out until the next morning on which they would awake and be free of their curse.
In September of 1987, the sixteen-year-old had seen a lot - from unfamiliar processes of Husain Tekri to his sick mother’s worsening condition to a companion with a lion’s hazri. On this bizarre journey, he had also managed to befriend an older boy named Pinkesh - a 4th-year M.B.B.S student from Indore who had been hexed by a relative. He used to help the boy and his father with routine check-ups for his mother. Pinkesh was a decent man… except when the lion’s spirit would take over. The young boy had always been unafraid and rather intrigued by the people of Husain Tekri so each time he would tease his companion with a little roar, the hazri took over and his erratic behavior would spin out of control. Pouncing across fields on all-fours, Pinkesh would roar and travel the distances of Husain Tekri until his body finally gave in, after which he would rest in dirty pools of water for hours. It has been thirty-three years to this incident though. Pinkesh went on to finish his studies, open a nursing home in Bhopal, and finally add ‘Doctor’ as a prefix to his name. Every year now, he visits Husain Tekri with his family to pay homage at the shrines of Bade Babe and Chote Baba.
There had also been an instance when the boy’s mother had been asked to give the child up for adoption. Mrs. Ratani had traveled across oceans from New York to Jaora to pray for a baby after 13 years of childless marriage. When she met the sixteen-year-old boy, they instantly clicked and she admired the innocent look on his face - his bright eyes and straight nose - his hospitality, and his resolve to remain positive despite the condition of his mother. At this absurd request, however, his mother was undoubtedly crossed. Still, she remained calm and used her somewhat clairvoyant skills to relay that Mrs. Ratani would conceive a son soon and that she should name him Abbas. It was only months later that the boy received a letter from America stating that the woman who sought to adopt him was now a mother of a baby boy named Abbas.
Three nights before his mother passed away, she had been in immense pain; unable to lay down, unable to speak, unable to eat, and unable to breathe fully. Often, she would turn towards the direction of the Ka’aba and wish for Azrael, the angel of death, to dawn upon the earth and take her soul. A few minutes before she faced Azrael, she asked her family to take her to the shrine of Abbas Ibn Ali. And so they did. The town lacked services like no other so the boy pulled a wooden thela and placed his frail mother on it. He hadn’t realized it then but when he carried her in his arms to the steps of the shrine, all signs of life had already left her body; her mouth agape, eyes turned over, and a sudden heaviness in her weight.
Now it was just tango with Azrael…
The death of his mother left a gaping hole in the boy’s heart, one that no amount of happiness or success could fill because his always eager, always excited mother wouldn’t be there to see it. Still, after lowering her into the ground, he made a promise to her rooh; to travel from Lucknow to Jaora and visit her grave - just like he did in 1987, to find more perturbed companions in this strange land - just like he did in 1987, to memorialize every last memory he had of her - just like he did in 1987.
For the next twenty-two years of his life, he went to Husain Tekri to observe Arba’een and meet his mother. In the early years, he was still a young student with little money and no job; everything he had was what he had saved up throughout the year for he disliked asking his father for monetary support. He would share the space of small rooms in smaller mansions with other pilgrims visiting the shrine and pick up on any and every opportunity to work and help those who had come to seek help from the higher powers.
Each time he went to Jaora, he returned with added fame from the previous year. He knew everyone and everyone knew him. Following his mother’s legacy, he remained unafraid, fascinated, compassionate, and oddly mischievous. At times, he would tease the people at the shrine and they would bark back curses at him then immediately repent by repeatedly muttering ‘tauba, tauba, tauba’ to God. Another time, he messed with a man named Arif who came from the town of Faizabad, the same as his mother. Arif was oftentimes than not troubled by the spirits of both a lion and a snake; he would slither up lattice screen, pounce on people, and roar for hours at an end at night. In those days, a new movie named ‘Naagin’ had been released so as the boy sat by the steps of the shrine with little to no work on his hands, he hummed the tune of a famous song from this very movie. It was only moments later that Arif heard this sound and began to dance. However, music or music, song or no song, the man danced continuously for two whole hours with no sense of reality; he was in his own space, his own world that couldn’t be disturbed.
Over the years, he witnessed many such incidents; from the cursed daughter of a fertilizer company’s Vice President to a woman who had endured third-degree burns on seventy-percent of her body under a spell to an old woman who had been sick for years but had finally found healing in this small village to a bedeviled merchant from Kanpur who now runs a soup kitchen in Husain Tekri to men and women from Singapore, New York, South Africa and beyond… he had seen it all for hexes don’t discriminate.
Yet, this was the only place he found peace and solace in. At times, he would sit beside his mother’s grave and talk to her as if she was still alive, filling her in on every minute detail of his life. Other times, he would lay there and tell her about everything that was going on in the world; he knew she would have loved being involved in it.
And sometimes… just sometimes, he would talk about her to his family with sad eyes but a strong voice, and his daughter would write about it.
By; FARVA NADIM
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