Saints of Sindh by Peter Mayne

Saints of Sindh Peter Mayne Reproduced by Saints of Sindh PETER MAYNE Reproduced by Sani H. Panhwar For W.A.L.B CONTENTS 1 MISTER PEACOCK .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 1 2 A CUSHION IN THE SKIES .. .. .. .. .. .. 19 3 ROCK-A-BYE BABY .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 58 4 PAGARO-I .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 76 5 PAGARO-II .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 97 6 A FRIEZE OF DERVISHES .. .. .. .. .. .. 114 7 THE WORLD IS A .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 144 One MISTER PEACOCK Mister Peacock lives some ten miles north of Karachi, in the foot-hills. It is arid, unrelenting country, but he has the best of it. He lives in an oasis, with a pool of dark water surrounded by rocks and palm-trees, and at the particular point where we were sitting there is a sandy sward. It was an afternoon in early December, a winter's afternoon, with the warm winter sun of Pakistan shining and a feel of indolence in the air. I say that we were sitting, and it is true of the other man, but as a matter of fact I was standing—in a circle that he had drawn for me in the sand. His task was to look after Mister Peacock and the others, and he said that he considered it his duty to look after me as well, since I had come to pay them a visit. I had a paper bag of meat with me, and a camera slung round my neck. All about us was a wall of stone and crumbling mud, some eight feet high here on the inside, but rising no more than three feet or so from the level of the ground outside. There was a sort of exit to the outer world made up of rocks set against the wall by way of which a man could clamber out again. It did just cross my mind that it wasn't a very convenient exit, and to wonder why they had done nothing to make it easier. I asked the man about this and he explained that no one came in, in the ordinary 'way, except himself. Terence hadn't come in. He was leaning over the wall behind me and well above where I stood in my circle, looking rather like the bust of a Roman emperor—except for his clothes. There were some villagers disposed along the wall beside him, and a wriggle of interest seemed to be stirring amongst them. Terence was interested too, I think—but in a different, more cerebral manner. I had seldom seen his features so immobile. As a rule he looks nothing like a Roman emperors bust. The villagers had a look of their own, as if a long, empty afternoon lay ahead of them. I was a stranger and consequently amusing to look at. Something might happen. They had nut-brown faces. The people of this part of Pakistan, the majority of them Sindhis or Mekranis, are seldom fair. These wore brightly-colored clothes—red and blue and green—and their eyes shone. One of them had a pink baseball cap, I remember, in the way one does remember little irrelevant details. I glanced along the line of them and then at Terence, who gave me a nod of encouragement. Saints of Sindh by Peter Mayne; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 1 The man by the pool was poking about with his wand at a pile of crocodiles, trying to isolate a particular one. "There he is," he said finally. "There's Mister Peacock." Crocodiles like to lie about in heaps, as if they were spillikins—but heavier and less innocent. The one they call Mister Peacock is famous in the neighborhood. He is the biggest and most splendid crocodile here, and some people consider him sacred. There is, however, still some controversy as to his true identity—whether he is really a peacock, or really a crocodile: so a compromise that allows of either possibility has been arrived at: people stick to his name, Mor sahib (which means Mister Peacock), and he continues to look for all the world like a crocodile; a crocodile, moreover, six hundred and something years old, for it is claimed that he arrived here in the thirteenth century with the intention of serving the saint whose tomb stands high on a rocky eminence above the pool enclosure. The saint's name is Mangho Pir. There are a great many crocodiles, or peacocks or whatever they are, in the enclosure. Over a hundred, I reckon. They range from Mister Peacock himself, who is about fifteen foot long, to relatively young and small ones born to him this century or last. Big and small, they come out of their pool to sun themselves on the sand, like beached war- canoes. Nothing could be pleasanter for them than this fine pool Set about with rocks. There are date-palms in clumps here and there, and a hot spring gushes out from the base of the eminence on which Mangho Pir's shrine is built. The hot spring is magical and cures all sicknesses if you drink its waters or bathe in them. In earlier days sick pilgrims had to share the waters with Mister Peacock and his family, but this gave rise to ill-feeling on both sides and complaints and worse, and I am told that pilgrim attendance used to fall off every time there was a little incident, so in the end they put up the stone and mud wall. The sick can now take their ritual baths and draughts without having to concern themselves with anything but their cure and the prayers that accompany it. They are expected to make little ex-voto offerings to the saint after that, of course. "That's Mister Peacock," the man said again. I dare say he thought I hadn't heard the first time, though as a matter of fact I had. The truth is that I was apprehensive — despite the peace and the warm indolence of the afternoon — and I thought it wise to remain silent. I could not remember (indeed, had I ever known?) whether crocodiles receive their impressions through their ears or their eyes, or their noses, or what. It wasn't that I was so nervous of Mister Peacock himself, because as anyone can see he is very old and somnolent; moreover the man was tapping his snout with his wand in a friendly way, so I assumed that he was not ill-disposed. But on three sides of me were other crocodiles, less old, more active, and almost as large Saints of Sindh by Peter Mayne; Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 2 as he. I had the disagreeable feeling that they were watching me. I was certainly watching them. I could have touched them—if I had wanted to. I don't really know how I had found the courage to come down into their enclosure in the first place, unless it was that the man, their guardian, had told me to do so and had stared into my eyes with such contempt when he saw me hesitate. Terence had been rather unpleasant as well, reminding me that I had talked so loud and bold about what I planned to do. "You keep on saying how much you like saints and their totem creatures," he had said. So I had come in, and was standing silent and uneasy in my circle, nodding at the man. Yes, I could see perfectly: that one was Mister Peacock. There was no mistaking him—his majesty and his size alone would identify him. I had heard it said that he wore a vermilion mark on his forehead—a badge of rank—and I tried to occupy my mind with searching for it. "And the vermilion mark?" I asked the man. "The mark?" He was leaning forward, looking for it, I suppose. Then he turned back to me and said: "It's got rubbed off." Mister Peacock's eyes are like small unwinking stars, or French paste, and they are set very high in his head. When he floats lazily upon the waters, which he can do as easily as can logs of wood or submarines, he so arranges it that only his French-paste eyes and his nostrils are 'visible. If you look carefully, however, you may sometimes also see the tips of the machicolated ridges that outline the flatness of his back. These join together in a single jagged ridge towards the end of his tail. I couldn't see his tail at present: only his head, forelegs and the beginnings of his huge body, the rest being hidden still under some of the other crocodiles: but it was clear enough that he was Mister Peacock in person—and all those others were his progeny. The wall of stone and mud, as I have said, was eight foot high. Terence was safely beyond it, making gestures and noises of encouragement. The villagers looked very pleased now. Meanwhile the guardian had taken a shorter hold of his wand and had started to stir the pile of crocodiles and after a moment of tumultuous heaving Mister Peacock managed to disengage himself and scramble forward on to the sand. Another crocodile tried to follow, but the man gave him a sharp rap with his wand on the snout and immediately there was a flailing of tails and a slamming of jaws as loud and hard and resonant as when you bang a succession of doors in anger. I think that Terence may have felt pity for me now. He was offering me comfort, and I pretended not to listen.

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