Seldom does one receive love akin to the kind bestowed upon us at Basti Aman Garh.

Basti Aman Garh — serene, simple and cosy — lies tucked away on the outskirts of Rahim Yar Khan, smack in the middle of the Cholistan Desert, or Rohi. Since long, it has been home to the Marwari tribe. Tonight, it was ours too.

The Marwari comprise both Muslims and Hindus, and the latter can be subdivided into the Balachs and Mangis. During Partition, thousands of Marwari fled to India, but the Hindu residents of Basti Aman Garh were promised security by their Muslim counterparts.

This strip of the Cholistan had been their home for centuries and there was no reason for them to leave, the Muslim Marwari stated. The Hindu Marwari chose to stay — fortunately for us, for we got to encounter a people as humble as they.

Prior to arriving at Basti Aman Garh, we made a pit stop at a Marwari village in Feroza. One member of the village, Goband, had joined us on the main highway to guide the way, and before we knew it, we had arrived at a beautiful mud house settlement.

We were greeted by the young and old, grinning ear to ear. The children flocking around us, eager to interact, and the women smiling shyly from the living quarters a little ahead.

They had emptied a room for us, where charpoys adorned with colourful hand-knitted ralli (geendi in Siraiki) lay. This handiwork was done by the women of the village.

Bottomless chai, made from fresh buffalo milk, ensued the heartfelt welcome. Despite their modest livelihood, they had procured five kilograms of milk for us, along with thaals filled to the brim with biscuits.

Their demeanour made it clear that they did not want us to leave, but Goband was receiving calls upon calls from our hosts to hurry up, as they had made extensive preparations for us ahead. We bid our farewells and set out for our next stop.

Feroza. — Photos by the author, Kabir Foundation and The Pak Voice

After travelling for about 30-40 minutes, we stopped in what seemed to be literally the middle of nowhere. As we stepped out on the road, the vast Cholistan engulfed us. For as far as we could see, we were the only humans around.

Dherminder Kumar Balach and Jagdeep Mangi welcomed us here. They had arranged for a daig of biryani — fused with special spices — with freshly-cut carrots and a container full of raita. Firsts, seconds, and even thirds, we devoured our lunch.

Meanwhile, Dherminder and Jagdeep gathered thorny wood from around, made a pile and set it ablaze. And so, in the middle of Cholistan, a group of 24 people sat cross-legged around a bonfire.

Cholistan might seem inhospitable and even overwhelming given the dearth of greenery and water. During the summer, we were told, no one ventured out during daytime. Journeys would always be made at night because the heat was simply unbearable otherwise.

The sand looked pristine, almost untouched, but it had witnessed a confluence of cultures, a turning of rivers — specifically the Hakra — and carried with it a long and profound history.

As we soaked in the warmth of the fire, Goband sang a few verses of Khwaja Ghulam Fareed’s qalām for us in Siraiki, which he later translated in Urdu. We were amazed not just by the depth of the work he recited before us, but also by the fact that he was perfectly multilingual.

Goband told us that most people here could speak a combination of five to seven different languages — including Balochi, Hindi, Sindhi and Marwari. Because of its location, Cholistan was at an intersection of cultures and people, which allowed people to learn and keep alive an array of languages.





مجهے اچهے نہیں لگتے ہار سنگهار سرخی کاجل کی داهار

روہی میں بارش ہوئی ہے اور ٹوبهے ( تالاب ) پانی سے بهر گئے ہیں

آ مل جاو مجهے میرے دلدار

نہیں تو مرجاوں گی بار بار

اب اونٹوں کے ریوڑ واپس موڑ آو

نہیں تو میں مر جاوں گی





I don’t like dressing up, lipstick and lining kohl in my eyes

It has rained in Rohi and the ponds have filled up with water

Come and meet me my beloved

Otherwise I will die again and again

Now turn back the herd of camels

Otherwise I will die





(This is an Urdu rendition of Khwaja Ghulam Fareed’s work. The original form was in Seraiki.)





The verses that Goband recited were celebratory ones; rain is a rarity in Cholistan and whenever the heavens open up, it is a momentous occasion.

The Marwari revere Sufism and an entire subsection of theirs — Bhagats — are devoted to the qalām through music. Little did we know that they would perform for us in just a matter of hours.

We were led into our rooms as we reached Basti Aman Garh, and soon dinner was served. The food was home-cooked and was enough to feed 40 people.

Once done, we were told to brace ourselves for the night, for a long list of activities awaited us. The village had already readied itself to stay up the entire night, and it was upon us to reciprocate the same zeal.

The event was one that the Marwari arrange annually. It was a festival celebrating the Marwari performing arts and tradition — and had been occurring for years — but in recent times, had been dedicated to Lums students visiting them.

None of us had anticipated the scale of ceremony this year. It was when we stepped out of the guesthouse and saw the massive tent erected in front of us that we understood.

There were at least a hundred pairs of shoes lined outside the tent. As we lifted off ours and looked up, a staggering number of people — many of whom had come from afar — had congregated to receive us.

We were showered with petals, adorned with garlands and met with extended hands and smiles. The night was cold, but the hearts warm as ever.

Blankets and cushions lay for us on top of the carpeted floor. A wooden stage was in place, with a flex in the background reading “Cholistani Shaam LUMS kay naam”.

The event began with a recitation of the Holy Quran, followed by that of the Bhagavad Gita. With so much religious intolerance, this entwinement of religions was more precious than ever.

The Lakho Jee Jhoomar Party.

As the night unfolded, so did the range of performances, and perhaps the most awe-inspiring was the Lakho Jee Jhoomar Party who performed a dance called gojari.

A couple of transgender women, decked in hues of bright orange, blue and green, with shimmering gold jewellery and white bangles all the way up till their elbows, blew us away with their moves.

They occupied the space right in front of the stage, as the men from their troupe — dressed in a flowing, orange and red attire with matching turbans — played the tumba, tabla and iktara amongst others. As the rhythm flowed, it seemed to imbue the dancers as they responded to it with perfect coordination.

They turned up the heat when one of the dancers brought fire-lit sticks. She swayed along with the fire expertly and, soon enough, put one of the sticks into her mouth, and thrust it back out while it was still aflame. Then, she blew out flames from her mouth.

This was followed by both the dancers placing matkas over inverted cups on the top of their heads, swaying rapidly to the beat of the live music. This was a display of their mastery over fire, perfect body coordination and incredible poise.

Adoo Bhagat, Mohan Bhagat and Narshingh Bhagat were some of the other honorary performers — they enchanted us with their singing, humoured us with their jokes, danced with us and kept us captivated till late into the night.

The youngest was Sunil Kumar, a grade eight student who mesmerised us with the range of his voice, while Suraj Kumar, a 17 year old, graced us with his beautiful Urdu poetry.

This event was also a commemoration. Speeches were made and diyas were lit in Darshan Ram Mangi’s memory. Referred to as Shaan -e- Cholistan, Ram was a young gymnast who was supposed to compete in the Punjab Olympics, but tragically died after getting injured while training for it.

He was the pride of his community — one that is enormously talented, but aching for recognition.

Darshan Ram Mangi.

Around 3am, the celebrations drew to a close with a prize ceremony, where all of us students were awarded certificates and ajrak. Our mere presence was appreciated more than we could have imagined.

Sunrise was in a couple of hours, but before leaving, the women in our group had a chance encounter with the Marwari women, who had sadly been barred from attending the event. They were anxiously waiting for us near the bus.

Upon their insistence, we went into their village, where we were embraced by entire families and repeatedly asked to stay for longer and have breakfast. They adorned each of us with bindis and gifted us a ring or a bangle, which we all treasure to this day. An amalgamation of namastē and salām pronounced our goodbyes.

Beneath their laughter and smiles, however, is also a tale of dread and horror. Often victims of violence —forced conversions, desecration of temples, hate speech — a large number of Hindu Marwari are migrating to India.

Yet, at the same time, the residents of Basti Aman Garh persevere against the hate with love — something we stand witness to. Undeniably, seldom does one receive love akin to the kind bestowed upon us by the Marwari.

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