Rose petals, chillums and improbable feats. Chinki Sinha looks on at the Urs congregation of fakirs at Nizammuddin

Barshad Ali Khalifa Rifai emerged from a throng of fakirs chanting and dancing on the last day of the Urs of Amir Khusro, knelt down and put a dagger right through his shoulder. His face twitched, his eyes rolled, but no blood coloured the floors. No cry of pain rose to interrupt the cacophony of drum beats and clanging cymbals. Jaws dropped, cameras flashed, and nobody blinked through the Dhammal, a combination of endurance feats like walking on fire, flagellating oneself with chains, and rhythmic dance.

The air was heavy with sweat, the sweet scent of rose petals, and the waft from the chillums the fakirs smoked. It also throbbed with anticipation, dread, and disbelief.

But faith seemed infectious. It was as if the onlookers were awed by the feat, yet they all knew he would be fine. Nobody cared to probe further, to question the antics, to get into a debate.

The tempo had reached its peak with the fakirs, who had gathered at the Rifai Chowk, the site of the scared fire or the dhuni at Nizamuddin Basti, shouting “Mast Kalandar”. As they whipped themselves, Barshad stood up, and in a state of rapture, pulled out the dagger, smiled, and walked back to his seat, swaying wildly.

No, he never felt any pain. It was a sweet trance, he said. “I don’t think about the pain. It’s ecstasy. Jis wali ke dar par fakir na gaya toh Urs kaisa. (No Urs is complete without the fakirs),” he said. “We keep the faith and he sees us through. Khusro is a man of God.”

... contd.