Karakoram Conversations I
“You have come here seeking something, have you not?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, looking up from the book I was leafing through in his store.
“People like you always come here looking for something,” his knowing smile peeking through the thick beard. “I am Sufi mystic. I know.”
“If you know so much, maybe you can tell me what you think I’m hoping to find,” I teased good-naturedly while meeting his piercing stare.
“Mmmmm, I think maybe you have illness you want to cure.”
I didn’t think this was particularly perceptive as I had been suffering from immense travel fatigue and it was probably etched on my face. I was unceremoniously dumped in Nairobi and waylaid for 7 days because Jeddah airport, my original connecting nexus, had been overrun with pilgrims over Eid, a major religious holiday. By the time I stumbled into Hamid’s bookstore in Rawalpindi, I was due for an illness. My glazed eyes from the breakfast joint a teenage Afghan student had left me as a parting souvenir from our brief conversation the evening before only added to my overall torpor.
“I did not come seeking a cure but it is true that there are physical ailments I have which I would be happy to see go away,” I conceded.
“Speak and Hamid will make you well,” he bellowed, wagging his finger commandingly and never once averting eye contact.
“I have had asthma since I was a child and if you can make it go away, I shall remember you forever, Hamid.”
“Bring our guest here some cha!” he gestured to a curious cherubic boy who throughout this exchange had been sitting quietly, his big round eyes never once blinking. He was a cute boy but rather unnerving too. Like a Paki Chucky. Once the cha had arrived, Hamid ordered me to sit down about 20 feet away from him facing the far wall of the bookstore and drink the entire cup.
Highly skeptical, I nonetheless gulped it down. It tasted OK. “Now what?” I asked.
“Patience,” he said.
The one other patron in the store during this entire time had been going about her business without the slightest interest in this long-haired foreigner going through an ancient Sufi ritual to rid him of a lifetime of asthma. She paid for her items and left, and the whole store plunged into an unexpected silence.
I was still sitting in a well-behaved way facing the wall when Hamid let out a sudden, forceful and emphatic “Hohhhhth!” from deep within his abdomen.
Slightly startled, I let the moment pass and maintained my steady posture.
“Now stand up slowly and without turning around, walk backwards towards me,” Hamid instructed.
Thinking this could not get anymore absurd, I figured there was no point in breaking the Sufi spell at such an advanced stage and motioned gingerly backwards, taking care not to upset the precariously balanced piles of books on the floor. At least I was still conscious and not being carted away in a panel van after downing the mysterious cha.
After several paces, I felt Hamid’s hand on my back, halting my progress. A tingling warmth emanated from his hand while the other was placed behind my neck. We stayed thus for about 15 seconds with Hamid muttering incessantly in what I presumed was Urdu. Then he announced, “OK, it is done.”
I wanted to laugh but restrained myself. “So I am cured?” I asked.
“Yes. But if after a year your asthma returns, come and see me again.”
I wasn’t sure where else to go with this conversation and after exchanging some pleasant banter – relatively meaningless by comparison – I bade farewell to Hamid and his store.
Two months later, I went on a week-long trek to a holy Hindu lake in Nepal. It was some 15,000 feet high and for a long time – well before my encounter with Hamid – I had been concerned about my asthma acting up on the trek as I had done no preparatory training for it whatsoever. Not only did my respiratory faculty perform exceedingly well, Badri – my guide – commended me on my pace. Not bad, I thought, for someone bedeviled with asthma throughout his life. I found it difficult to accept that Hamid’s incantations and grunts had done what a lifetime of Western medicine hadn’t even claimed to attempt. Must be a placebo, I concluded.
A year later, I started wheezing again.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, looking up from the book I was leafing through in his store.
“People like you always come here looking for something,” his knowing smile peeking through the thick beard. “I am Sufi mystic. I know.”
“If you know so much, maybe you can tell me what you think I’m hoping to find,” I teased good-naturedly while meeting his piercing stare.
“Mmmmm, I think maybe you have illness you want to cure.”
I didn’t think this was particularly perceptive as I had been suffering from immense travel fatigue and it was probably etched on my face. I was unceremoniously dumped in Nairobi and waylaid for 7 days because Jeddah airport, my original connecting nexus, had been overrun with pilgrims over Eid, a major religious holiday. By the time I stumbled into Hamid’s bookstore in Rawalpindi, I was due for an illness. My glazed eyes from the breakfast joint a teenage Afghan student had left me as a parting souvenir from our brief conversation the evening before only added to my overall torpor.
“I did not come seeking a cure but it is true that there are physical ailments I have which I would be happy to see go away,” I conceded.
“Speak and Hamid will make you well,” he bellowed, wagging his finger commandingly and never once averting eye contact.
“I have had asthma since I was a child and if you can make it go away, I shall remember you forever, Hamid.”
“Bring our guest here some cha!” he gestured to a curious cherubic boy who throughout this exchange had been sitting quietly, his big round eyes never once blinking. He was a cute boy but rather unnerving too. Like a Paki Chucky. Once the cha had arrived, Hamid ordered me to sit down about 20 feet away from him facing the far wall of the bookstore and drink the entire cup.
Highly skeptical, I nonetheless gulped it down. It tasted OK. “Now what?” I asked.
“Patience,” he said.
The one other patron in the store during this entire time had been going about her business without the slightest interest in this long-haired foreigner going through an ancient Sufi ritual to rid him of a lifetime of asthma. She paid for her items and left, and the whole store plunged into an unexpected silence.
I was still sitting in a well-behaved way facing the wall when Hamid let out a sudden, forceful and emphatic “Hohhhhth!” from deep within his abdomen.
Slightly startled, I let the moment pass and maintained my steady posture.
“Now stand up slowly and without turning around, walk backwards towards me,” Hamid instructed.
Thinking this could not get anymore absurd, I figured there was no point in breaking the Sufi spell at such an advanced stage and motioned gingerly backwards, taking care not to upset the precariously balanced piles of books on the floor. At least I was still conscious and not being carted away in a panel van after downing the mysterious cha.
After several paces, I felt Hamid’s hand on my back, halting my progress. A tingling warmth emanated from his hand while the other was placed behind my neck. We stayed thus for about 15 seconds with Hamid muttering incessantly in what I presumed was Urdu. Then he announced, “OK, it is done.”
I wanted to laugh but restrained myself. “So I am cured?” I asked.
“Yes. But if after a year your asthma returns, come and see me again.”
I wasn’t sure where else to go with this conversation and after exchanging some pleasant banter – relatively meaningless by comparison – I bade farewell to Hamid and his store.
Two months later, I went on a week-long trek to a holy Hindu lake in Nepal. It was some 15,000 feet high and for a long time – well before my encounter with Hamid – I had been concerned about my asthma acting up on the trek as I had done no preparatory training for it whatsoever. Not only did my respiratory faculty perform exceedingly well, Badri – my guide – commended me on my pace. Not bad, I thought, for someone bedeviled with asthma throughout his life. I found it difficult to accept that Hamid’s incantations and grunts had done what a lifetime of Western medicine hadn’t even claimed to attempt. Must be a placebo, I concluded.
A year later, I started wheezing again.
posted by jngah @ 1:44 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home