Soul Power

After barreling through the relentlessly flat, verdant Punjabi hinterland in a rented Toyota, stopping briefly for naan, kebabs, and petrol, we hit town at three, four in the morning, and at three, four in the morning, music wafts through the still, sticky summer air. Millions^[1] gather each year for ten days in the hilly medieval town of Pakpattan, in Pakistan, to commemorate the death anniversary of the twelfth-century saint Baba Farid, celebrating the reunion of man and his maker with qawwali—call it Muslim soul. When Doc, a pal and Pakpattan regular, urged me to join him on the pilgrimage the night before—it’s Baba’s 776th death anniversary, he informs me—I decided to accompany him. I can’t refuse Doc: I’ve got his back; he’s got mine. And who knows? Perhaps Baba will bless me as well. But you have to believe to be blessed.

As soon as we disembark outside one of the friable gates of the walled city, several musicians from Delhi emerge with paan-stained grins to embrace Doc. They insist on presenting themselves again in the afternoon—Doc’s well known in these parts. Then he and I trudge through the labyrinthine alleys to the guesthouse belonging to the right-hand man of the Diwan, the direct descendant of Baba. Tucked away near the summit of a hill, the boxy, two-story concrete structure is modest save for the timeworn, iron-studded wooden doors that lead to a sloped paved courtyard. A few guests remain awake, smoking huqqa, palavering among empty nihari-stained cauldrons. Doc exchanges pleasantries. I hit the sack.