The Seeker

‘Gharib Nawaz se mera jhagda hain (I have a row with Gharib Nawaz)’ when I asked him about his performances at the Ajmer Sharif Dargah. A young, hungry Ghulam (Not the one, the iconic Sufi Qawwal we know of today) was loitering in the lanes of Ajmer. He had finished off his last few Indian rupees that very morning while buying a small breakfast of puri-sabzi, he hadn’t eaten well for the last few days. This was in early 80s’ while Qawwali singers could only survive on private mehfils, marriages or religious get-togethers at famous Dargahs. After spending the entire earning on his needs, a common man used to drop a two or a five rupee note on the harmoniums during the Qawwal’s performance at a Sufi Dargah. A young Ghulam had tried to build a career at almost everything, working as a mechanic at a neighborhood workshop, driving an auto-rickshaw, teaching chemistry to school-going children. His father was revered by the entire continent & beyond for his Sufi wisdom & his repository of Sufi poetry. He took a young Ghulam to his tutelage at a very tender age and had taught him the intricacies of his genre of music.

It was almost evening in the courtyard. A famous Qawwal of that era was about to take stage to perform (‘Us daur ke bahot bade qawwal thay woh, naam main nahin bataunga’). Young Ghulam was sitting with some of the local performers & was singing ‘Kirpa karo Maharaj’ in full gusto. He had even managed to collect some ten rupee notes as nazrana from the thin audience which assured him of a roti-korma dinner. He was also worried about his passage money to buy a ticket back to his country, he had a one way ticket to Lahore when he had left his town. Suddenly he was jolted roughly by a shout. It was the famous Qawwal, who almost shooed him from the courtyard.

Ghulam took the streets of Ajmer once again. With almost a hundred rupees with his pocket, he needed a place to stay that night in Ajmer. He had some old friends and distant relatives in Old Dilli, half of his problems would get sorted once he arrived in the capital. He looked back at the massive entry gate of the Dargah and vowed to come back only on invitation.

Someone touched his shoulder. An elderly man, elegantly dressed in white, his kohl rimmed eyes & bearded face had a warm smile attached to it. He slipped a five hundred rupee note in his palm and said, ‘this is an advance payment towards my private mehfil in Delhi this Sunday. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.’ He had melted in a crowded bye lane. Ghulam never heard from him again, but was invited to Ajmer Sharif with lot of fanfare in the late 2000s. He never had to look back in his entire career as a Qawwal.