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Sufi drumming night, Lahore, Pakistan
publication date: Feb 1, 2008
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author/source: Maggie Foster
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We filed into the ornate Lahore mosque, privileged Europeans in Pakistani dress, the women, obscured by shawls, even more privileged than the white men to be allowed to witness the Sufi drumming night.
Inside, the mosque was already packed with expectant excitement. We seated ourselves on the steps leading to the white marble tomb, an area reserved for foreign visitors, and surveyed the scene before us. Pakistani men sat cross-legged on the hard floor shoulder to shoulder, an occasional chant rising above the murmuring background. Three drummers stood in the corner with large skin drums strung around their necks. As the night slipped past ten o’clock, the lead drummer, a bearded deaf ex-American of Pakistani origin began hand-beating the ends of his drum. His two fellow musicians took up the beat and the crowd hushed to pick up the rhythm. Bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang-bang. Slowly the air filled with smoke as pockets emptied of pre-rolled narcotics, punctuating the crowd with tiny spots of red lights. Hands cupped into make-shift bongs were held out, five glowing tips held between fingers as eager mouths pulled the smoke into lungs. The crowd began to shake its head, intoxicated by smoke and thrumming beat. Bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang-bang. A grey-bearded elderly dancer joined the drummers, his weather-worn tanned face contrasting against his white robes and marigold-orange garland, his head shaking furiously from side to side. The crowd, oblivious, shook on.
Then out of the sea of black heads rose an impossibly tall, thin man, a shortened stump for an arm on one side and even less of a limb on the other. He dragged on a spliff and swayed through the seated throng, his gold-embroidered hat above his colourful robe, a golden crest on a purple tower, bending forwards so that money could be placed into a large bag hanging around his neck. The beat drummed on, heads shook with greater ferocity and the world sank below a layer of intoxicating smoke.
Gradually the rhythmic crowd moved back to create space for the slowly advancing lead drummer to come forward. Never losing the beat, he drummed on, spinning round and round, the drum lifting up and outwards into the air as he turned quicker and quicker, the drum straining on its leash to break free. Faster and faster, until nearly a blur in the swirling smoke and colours. Bang, bang, rat-a-tat, bang. Chanting rose, spliff-tips glowed, the black mops shook, reaching an impossible crescendo of euphoric noise and movement.
And slowly, carefully, everything returned to a more sedate pace, softened by sprayed rosewater. Bang, bang, bang, tap, tap tap, exhausted spirits coming back down to earth, the climatic moment behind, a quiet, scented end to a hypnotic ritual. A whispered calm pervaded the mosque and we filed out to begin the bustling taxi ride back to our lodgings.
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