For no discernible reason, a man grabbed me by the shoulder and then clutched my arm too. My attempts to squirm free only led to him tightening his grip further. He was imploring — emotionally blackmailing — me to buy a chaadar to bequeath at the shrine. Or at least one lone flower — he had one for Rs. 100; another for Rs. 50. You must buy something , he insisted with a hint of menace.It was only after I pointed out what he was doing that he let go (reluctantly). Literally the same thing happened again at another similar shop a little ahead. A woman behind me smacked her young son on the head and yelled at him in Marathi. (Does one intervene? I was once advised not to unless weapons were involved; apparently, a classic thwack to the side of the head is nobody’s business but the parents’. So I didn’t.)
Akhil Sood Tea, coffee, light snacks, junk food, exquisite-looking neckpieces and assorted jewellery items, toys for children, toys for adults, religious offerings, knock-off sunglasses, shoes and slippers. Clothes for men, clothes for women, get your name written on a grain of rice, headgear, accessories and trinkets, socks, books and CDs, flowers, water and vada pao , belts, bargains and discounts. Then, every 30 steps or so, there’s a guy sitting on the ground with a weighing machine. You give him some money, and he lets you feel guilty about snacking.
It sounds suffocating — all of this — but it’s really not. Consumerism comes with its share of problems but let’s not pretend it’s all bad. The path to Haji Ali is basically an extended walkthrough mall. Theoretically, you’d want to pull out your hair. But let’s remember, everyone’s just trying to do their job — even the blockheads who grab and push you. More than that though, there’s a sense of purpose when you’re in that endless queue. You’re going to Haji Ali, a mosque and a tomb that holds significant value. For people of faith (which I’m expressly not), it has a certain meaning that I can probably respect and not fully understand. But that’s not all there is to it. It’s also a breathtaking construction in (sort of) the middle of the sea, accessible only via this mythical stroll across a long jetty leading into the sea. You’re in the midst of this madness, this rush and urgency to get to the end, and you realise those warnings about overpopulation and good behaviour aren’t just guff.
But there’s a contrast happening here. Set against the selfish, greedy, and desperate urge to get ahead is a sense of purity. The sea helps; it has this glorious presence that reminds you there’s an alternative to the bedlam of city life. The destination — the dargah — a reminder that there’s a higher power you can submit to, if you believe in that kind of stuff. And even if you’re not devout, the space itself allows for this grand release from urban reality. That there exists a temporary escape, where the sun sets with a lofty elegance and the sea sings out to you. Where you can shop to your heart’s content and do seaside selfies. Where there’s this little beach-side area, just before you reach (and another after as well), where you can sit on the rocks and take pictures and discover how much you love your family or your friends.
Eventually, you’ll get to the dargah. But it’s hard to enter. Rule number 10 on the little board they have states that photography is forbidden at the dargah or on the way to it, but when have rules ever stopped our people? It’s next to impossible to enter because the steps leading up to the building are crammed with people flashing their choicest smiles while their friends whip out smartphones and take photos. It’s absurd; you have employees requesting them to leave and not clog the entrance but they can’t be too insistent. Spirituality is a sensitive subject.
There’s a little tea shop inside, of course, and, ahead of it, you have these guys who take care of your shoes. Because a major concern anyone would have, understandably so, is their shoes getting flicked. They don’t, because Haji Ali employs specialists to guard your footwear. You take it off before entering the shrine. The serenity of those few minutes inside the shrine counters the carnival-like chaos outside, as people click photos, sit on the first and second floors of the under-construction building adjacent to the shrine, bring newborns wrapped in razais , eat chakna and chuck the plastic on the floor because who cares about littering. They have deep, meaningful discussions with their companions about life, religion, Shah Rukh Khan’s Fan and Virat Kohli, about the government and taxes and uncomfortable seats on trains. Everyone is calm in an enthusiastic, wired sort of way.
The backdrop is devotion but the immediate point of interest for a lot of the people there is a fascinating sense of community that often gets forgotten. It’s an air of positivity. I left the dargah because I was overwhelmed, and I went back to the guy who’d taken my shoes. I asked him how much. He said I should give him whatever I felt seemed right: 10 rupees, 20, 50, 100; nothing, if I wanted. I gave him a 20-rupee note that I hadn’t spent on weighing myself. I asked: So, brother, tell me, why are there literally no women inside? Are they not allowed? Why is it only men? What’s the deal?
Nothing of the sort, he said. There’s a separate entrance for women — a separate queue altogether with specialised specialists taking care of their shoes — on the left — and they can enter the dargah just as well as men can. The only thing is, they’re not allowed to touch the shrine, no sir. Ah, I said. Patriarchy, I tut-tutted.
This idea that men and women are not equals is so deeply ingrained in the mindset of the average Indian male, such as this writer, and maybe even the female, that the information didn’t detract from the positivity all around me. It’s OK, I thought; how does it matter? It’s not such a big deal.
I went out, much quicker than I came in, and got myself a glass of juice at the cult Haji Ali Juice Centre outside. Mangoes aren’t quite ‘in season’ yet, so I got myself a mango juice for a ludicrous Rs. 210. It was great — I loved it — but they cheated and put a bunch of chopped-up mango cubes in the juice. I wanted juice, not sliced fruit. But that’s just the way it is.
Akhil Sood is a freelance culture writer from New Delhi who wishes he’d studied engineering instead.
