The monsoons are here again, like the last time I was writing an editorial. They were delayed then, but this time, they came surprisingly early, bringing great relief. After two weeks though, the nourishing, fertilizing rain, suddenly stopped. July has been largely a hot and oppressive month, the air swollen with humidity.
At the Hazrat Pir Syed Ali Datar dargah in Mumbai we sweat in the heat of the afternoon, as crowds of people move towards it. The dargah is known for its power to heal the mentally afflicted, especially women. There are tables along the road with clay pitchers of cool water, and people tilt their heads back and empty their glasses in a way that even parts of their face gets drenched. This is the death anniversary of the saint, when the small market leading to the tomb does good business.
Located in the dockyard area this is one of the most destitute parts of the city. On this day, hundreds of people come to pray and ask for the fulfillment of their deepest wishes. And most of all women who are mentally ill. There are poor women, some could be prostitutes, who roll on the ground, from a distance, all the way to the dargah. Some are dancing, to drums, but it is a dance of pain rather than ecstasy. There are families with some of them, who give them a glass of water every once in a while, others are alone. Their long hair is tangled and knotted and soiled from rolling on the ground. They are almost all thin, often bony. It is hard to be an observer of this, and I keep turning my eyes away. We are four of us watching, from a different part of the city, from really another world, but no one stares, no one asks, no one treats our presence here as anything out of the ordinary. It wouldn't surprise them if we too had come to ask something of the saint.