Where the Indus is Young by Dervla Murphy

Author:Dervla Murphy [Dervla Murphy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781906011789
Publisher: Eland Publishing
Published: 2011-01-03T16:00:00+00:00

Skardu – 23 January

When I woke last night to use our ‘commode’ (that same bucket in which water is fetched during the day: of such unsavoury details is domestic life in Baltistan compounded) – when I woke at midnight I heard in the distance sounds so uncanny that my skin prickled. Then I realised that this was merely the wailing and lamenting of Skardu’s population, which stays up all night on the eve of Muharram preparing thus for the culminating ceremonies. In other parts of the Shiah world Muharram processions are often magnificent affairs, involving gorgeous pageants and elaborate rituals. But impoverished Baltistan knows no such pomp and splendour and, as a result, the central – mourning – purpose of the occasion is emphasised to an alarming extent. The only ‘props’ are multicoloured ragged silken standards, tied to long poles and borne in the centre of the procession, and a horse shrouded in a white cloth who carries on his saddle two turbans, symbolising Hussain and Hassan. These must be of white material, interwoven with red to represent blood, and they are repeatedly touched by weeping mourners who then reverently pass their hands over their faces and heads.

Skardu’s main procession starts soon after sunrise from the large village of Hussainabad, four miles east of the town, which we have twice visited in the course of our rambles. By 8.30 we were on our way to meet the mourners, walking through thin clouds of icy vapour as the sun lifted them from the Indus; the river’s course was just visible, far below, marked by its own pearly mist. (Later on the weather was perfection: long hours of warm golden sunshine, a deep blue sky overhead, gauzy white veils draped around the summits and sparkling miles of snow in every direction.)

We approached Hussainabad across a flat, glittering snow-field broken by occasional gigantic black boulders. Then far away we heard rhythmic shoutings – ‘O Hassan! O Hussain!’ – accompanied by what sounded like muffled drums, their regular beat amplified by a sheer mountain-wall that rose from the plain nearby. When the procession at last appeared there was something unexpectedly touching about that minute patch of darkness on the snow. Man and his griefs seemed so puny and ephemeral, set between the colossal backdrop of those indifferent mountains and the timeless flow of the Indus. Yet only man has the power to keep alive the memory of fellow-beings who died 1300 years ago. Seen thus, today’s procession of simple peasants, moving slowly across the valley’s vastness, was a triumphant assertion of spiritual strength.

It was Rachel who first realised that the muffled, rhythmic thudding was being produced – incredibly – by the breast-beating of some fifty men at the centre of the procession. These were thumping their chests with all their strength, like angry gorillas, while gazing fixedly at the tattered banners and lamenting their murdered heroes. Many were naked from the waist up, though the temperature was still below freezing point, and already their chests were bruised and reddened.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.