Roughly handmade diyas—uneven, cracked, some leaning like a quiet congregation of forms waiting to be acknowledged—sit upon a mat. Beside them lies a dense, unmoving hump of raw clay, holding within its silence the memory of the ground from which it was taken. At the far end stands the chak, the potter’s wheel. It does not announce itself; it simply exists, anchored and patient, flanked by a bowl of water catching the light and a thin cutting thread coiled like a secret.

This is the sanctuary of Dr. Sangeeta Jawla, a researcher, potter, and storyteller who has spent the last seven years excavating the stories trapped within India’s soil. To attend her session is not to watch a demonstration; it is to enter a rhythm that has pulsed through the subcontinent for millennia. At a young age, she has evolved into a storyteller who serves as a bridge between the academic study of folklore and the tactile world of ceramic art. Her journey began with a childhood curiosity in her ancestral village in Haryana and evolved into a rigorous seven-year research project documenting the oral traditions of India’s potter communities.

Through her practice, Sangeeta seeks to fill the “gaps in the archive,” exploring how Hindu, Muslim, and Tribal narratives differ in their spiritual and physical relationship with the earth. Her work is a rare blend of artistic reclamation and sociological inquiry, specifically challenging the gendered norms of the craft. By placing herself at the wheel and performing the arduous labour of clay preparation, she brings visibility to the millions of unnamed women whose hands have sustained the rhythm of Indian pottery for centuries.

A central theme in Sangeeta’s work is the etymology of the name Prajapati, a title used by potters across India. While the word translates to “Lord of Procreation” or “Creator,” the communities bearing the name often live at the margins of the social hierarchy. Sangeeta uses her performances to highlight this “indispensability without status,” asking the audience to reconcile the divine origins of the craft with the difficult socio-economic realities of the craftsmen.

In her mesmerising presentation this evening, which the writer attended, Sangeeta entered without ceremony. There are no heavy credentials offered, no academic posture. What she carries instead are journeys—across regions, communities, and lives shaped by earth. Her storytelling begins not with a greeting, but with the tactile reality of labour.

Her hands reach for the clay. It meets the mat with a soft, damp thud. Fingers press, release, and hesitate before finding trust in the material. As the chak begins to turn, it produces a low, continuous hum. To the untrained ear, it is ambient noise; to the potter, it is the “rhyme of everyday survival.” It is a cadence that women across rural India recognise because it mirrors their own lives—constant, patient, and largely unnoticed. It is the music of the unseen.

Sangeeta’s narratives are not the romanticised, picturesque tales of “craft” often found in coffee-table books. Her stories are gathered from years of visiting potter communities—initially Hindu, and increasingly Tribal and Muslim potters—to understand the vast, differing frameworks of their existence.

She explores a fascinating paradox: the potter is indispensable to Indian social and cultural life, shaping the vessels for births, rituals, and deaths, yet remains pushed to the lowest strata of society. “Clay carries a paradox,” she notes. “Indispensability without status, skill without recognition.”

In Hindu traditions, tools are often described as divine gifts from Shiva or Vishnu. In contrast, tribal tales can be “graphic,” detailing a more visceral, raw acquisition of tools from the natural world. By engraving these stories onto her pottery, Sangeeta ensures that the clay itself becomes an archive, recording not just folklore, but the politics of identity and survival.

To look at Sangeeta’s finished work is to see a visual tapestry of these oral histories. Her process is one of deep patience and technical care. Unlike contemporary potters who might reach for commercial glazes or vibrant synthetic paints, Sangeeta stays true to the rustic roots of the craft. She emulates rural artisans by applying a layer of khadiya mitti, a white chalk clay, over the damp terracotta. This ivory-hued slip acts as a canvas of depth. Using fine tools, she cuts through the white layer to reveal the rich, burnt-orange earth beneath.

“I heard the stories; I didn’t see them,” she explains. “The visualisation is purely imaginative.” Each line she etches represents a character from a potter’s folktale or a movement of a woman’s hand. She describes the process as “nurturing a child,” often staying up all night to monitor the drying process, ensuring the tension in the clay does not crack the narrative she has so carefully carved. The result is a striking contrast: a dark, earthy line singing against a bone-white surface, making the stories of the community “pop” with visual urgency.

At the heart of Sangeeta’s practice is a sharp, necessary gender lens. In the world of pottery, labour is strictly—and often unfairly—divided. Women perform the most arduous and foundational tasks: they trek to collect the clay, they sieve the soil for impurities, they fetch the water, and they spend hours kneading the earth into a workable state. Without their labour, the wheel cannot turn.

Yet, a traditional boundary exists: women are often kept away from the chak itself. The wheel—the visible symbol of creation and mastery—remains a male domain. Sangeeta’s performance is an act of reclamation. As she moves through the space, her hands and feet immersed in soil, she performs this “invisible” labour. She kneads the clay with her legs, grounding herself fully, allowing her body to become part of the material. She uses tools as metaphors: the sieve speaks of filtration and control; the act of kneading speaks of endurance; the wheel speaks of authority and access.

As the audience is drawn in—no longer spectators, but participants touching and shaping the soil—the atmosphere thickens. Time stretches and folds. In the midst of the labour, Sangeeta recites a couplet from the mystic poet Kabir, allowing the words to rise naturally from the movement of her body. She recites, “Maati kahe kumhar se, tu kya ronde mohe, Ek din aisa aayega, main rondungi tohe.” The meaning: the clay says to the potter, “Why do you trample me now? A day will come when I shall be the one to trample you.”’

The lines arrive not as literature, but as a prophecy. It is a moment where labour confronts power and mortality answers control. The room grows still; the only sound is the whisper of water and the breath of the participants. For Sangeeta, who also carries this “embodied approach” into the classroom as a teacher, pottery is a way of knowing that bypasses the intellect and speaks directly to the nerves. In a world obsessed with speed and digital detachment, her work insists on the “slow answer.”

When the workshop ends, there is often a profound silence. People forget to clap, their hands still stained with the grey-brown dust of the earth. They remain bound not by the spectacle they have seen, but by the realisation of what the clay has revealed.

About Author: Anu Jain is a Doctoral Scholar at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. Her research examines the intersection of Gandhian philosophy and Gender with a particular focus on the crucial role of Elected Women Representatives (EWRs).

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post Listening to the Soil : Dr Sangeeta Jawla’s Lyrical Revolt in Clay appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Located in the Hanumangarh district of northern Rajasthan, near the fringes of the Thar Desert, Gogamedi is not merely a pilgrimage site but a living archive of north-western India’s syncretic past. The shrine, popularly known as Gogamedi, is dedicated to Gogaji Chauhan, also revered as Jaharveer Gogga, a 11^th century medieval Rajput warrior-saint whose veneration cuts across religious boundaries. For centuries, Gogamedi has drawn Hindu and Muslim devotees alike—peasants, pastoralists, warriors, and traders—making it one of the rare sacred spaces in Rajasthan where religious identity has historically been secondary to lineage, memory, and shared devotion.

It is precisely this inclusive character that has recently come under strain. On January 26 this year, Riddhima Sharma, a Jaipur-based social media influencer, visited Gogamedi and posted videos and statements that were widely perceived as communal and inflammatory. Circulated extensively on social media, the content appeared to question the legitimacy of Muslim participation at the shrine and deployed a language of exclusion alien to Gogamedi’s lived traditions. The episode led to public confrontations at the site and drew condemnation from local devotees and Rajput organisations like Kshatriya Parishad , who accused Sharma of attempting to communalise a shrine historically rooted in Hindu–Muslim coexistence.

What unfolded at Gogamedi was not an isolated provocation by an individual influencer. It was symptomatic of a broader political project—one that seeks to recast shared folk shrines into narrowly defined, Brahminical Hindu spaces, erasing inconvenient histories and displacing long-standing custodial communities. Gogamedi, with its Rajput genealogy and Muslim priesthood, stands as a stubborn obstacle to this project. Hindutva, the political project that this country is under siege currently from, is both Brahmanical and exclusivist.

Gogamedi, Gogaji Chauhan, and the Rajput Custodianship of a Shared Cult

Gogaji Chauhan, also known as Jaharveer Gogga, occupies a distinctive place in north-western India’s folk-historical memory.

To understand why Gogamedi resists easy communal categorisation, one must return to the figure of Gogaji Chauhan himself. Remembered in bardic traditions, oral epics, and folk memory as a protector of pastoralists and farmers, Gogaji was a Chauhan Rajput chief of Jangaldesh or Dadarewa (present-day Churu district) and a contemporary of Mahmud of Ghazni as per historians like Dasarath Sharma, RC Temple and sources like Kayamkhan Raso and Jain text Shrawak-Viatudi-Atichar. These historical references tell us that he was a feudal under the Imperial Chauhans of Rajasthan and the region he ruled, from Fazilka in Haryana to Dadrewa in Churu was called Chayalwara, after the Chauhan subclan – Chayal, to which he belonged.

During the era of Firoz Shah Tughlaq, many Chayal chiefs embraced Islam under the influence of Sufis, one of which was Dadrewa’s Raja Karamchand Chauhan, who became Kayamkhan. His and his brother’s descendants, collectively called Kayamkhanis, have produced excellent soldiers to this day, including many who have been awarded Vir Chakras and Sena Medals. The cities of Jhunjhunu and Fatehpur (near Sikar) were founded by Nawab Mohammad Khan and Nawab Fateh Khan – both Kayamkhani rulers.

Hence, unlike Sanskritic deities absorbed into Brahminical ritual hierarchies, Gogaji belongs to the world of historical figures turned folk hero-saints—figures whose authority emerged from martial ethics, local sovereignty, and popular reverence rather than scriptural sanction.

A crucial, often deliberately obscured fact is that the chief priests of Gogamedi have historically been Muslim Rajputs of the Chayal (Chauhan) lineage, regarded as descendants of Gogaji himself. Their presence is not a later “accommodation” but intrinsic to the shrine’s history. In Rajasthan’s folk religious landscape, lineage frequently outweighs doctrinal religion, and Gogamedi exemplifies this logic. The priesthood here is hereditary, tied to blood and ancestry rather than to Brahminical ritual qualifications.

Gogamedi is also part of a wider constellation of shrines associated with the five Panchpirs of Rajasthan, all of whom are remembered in regional tradition as Rajput warrior-saints – some of them are Pabuji Rathore, Mehaji Mangliya, Ramdevji Tomar and Harbuji Sankhla. In each of these shrines, custodianship has historically remained with the saint’s own descendants, irrespective of whether they identify today as Hindu or Muslim. This pattern unsettles modern communal frameworks but makes perfect sense within the pre-colonial social world of the region.

Far from being a marginal or neglected site, Gogamedi has repeatedly served as a space of political and social convergence. In June 2025, the town hosted a meeting attended by members of BAMCEF (an Ambedkarite organization) and its Rajput offshoot-wing KMM, with participation from both Hindu and Muslim Rajputs. These gatherings underscored Gogamedi’s continuing role as a node of Rajput solidarity cutting across religious lines—an aspect rarely acknowledged in mainstream narratives.

The shrine’s inclusive ethos was also formally recognised by the princely state. In 1911, Maharaja Ganga Singh Rathore of Bikaner undertook the renovation of the Gogamedi complex. Importantly, this was a vital act of historical preservation. Ganga Singh ensured that the Muslim priests of Chayal Chauhan ancestry were accorded due respect by Hindu devotees, granted state patronage, and paid for their maintenance as descendants of Gogaji Chauhan. The Bikaner ruler’s intervention reinforced the shrine’s syncretic and Rajput-centric character.

Gogamedi, therefore, is not simply a symbol of abstract Hindu–Muslim harmony. It occupies a unique socio-political position, binding Hindu Rajputs and Muslim Rajputs—particularly Kayamkhanis—into a shared sacred and historical universe. Any attempt to communalise the shrine necessarily threatens this fragile but enduring bond.

Influencer Politics, Brahminical Assertion, and the Targeting of a Rajput Shrine

Against this historical backdrop, the actions of Riddhima Sharma acquire a sharper political meaning. Sharma is not a local devotee shaped by Gogamedi’s traditions but a Brahmin influencer from Jaipur, whose social media persona is built around performative religiosity and viral provocation. Her intervention at Gogamedi was not an innocent act of devotion but an intrusion into a space structurally and historically divorced from Brahminical authority. What was at stake was more than a generic Hindu–Muslim tension.

The language deployed, and the specific focus on Muslim priests, pointed towards an attempt to engineer fissures between Hindu Rajputs and Muslim Rajputs, particularly Kayamkhanis, who have long been integral to the region’s political and social fabric. By questioning Muslim custodianship, such interventions seek to delegitimise Rajput lineage-based authority and replace it with a Brahmin-centred religious hierarchy.

This is a familiar pattern. Across north India, shared folk shrines—whether associated with warrior-saints, pastoral deities, or local pirs—are increasingly being targeted for “purification”. The process typically involves reframing the shrine within a Sanskritic idiom, introducing Brahmin priests, marginalising hereditary custodians, and reinterpreting history to align with a homogenised and Brahminised Hindu identity. Gogamedi’s resistance to this process lies precisely in its Rajput genealogy and Muslim priesthood, which together obstruct the consolidation of Brahminical socio-political supremacy.

Seen in this light, the Gogamedi episode is less about one influencer’s statements and more about a struggle over power, memory, and control. Control over the shrine implies control over donations, narratives, and regional influence. Displacing Muslim Rajput priests would not only communalise the site but also dismantle a long-standing Rajput polity in the region—one that has historically operated outside Brahminical mediation.

The backlash therefore, should not be read as a mere defensive reflex. It represents a conscious assertion that Gogamedi belongs to a non-Brahminical, lineage-based sacred order, and that attempts to hijack the Gogaji cult into a Brahminical socio-political structure amount to historical distortion and cultural aggression.

Conclusion: Defending Gogamedi Is Defending History Itself 

The controversy surrounding Gogamedi is a reminder that India’s religious past is far messier, richer, and more plural than contemporary political projects allow. Shrines like Gogamedi survived precisely because they resisted rigid boundaries—between Hindu and Muslim, between priest and warrior, between devotion and lineage. To communalise such spaces is not to “protect” tradition but to falsify it.

What is unfolding at Gogamedi today is a test case.

Will shared sacred spaces be allowed to exist on their own historical terms, or will they be forcibly assimilated into a homogenised religious order that privileges one caste and one narrative over all others? Defending Gogamedi is not merely about preserving harmony; it is about defending the right of history to remain complex, uncomfortable, and inclusive. In that sense, the struggle over Gogamedi is not peripheral.

It goes to the heart of how India chooses to remember itself.

Related:

गोगामेड़ी: राजपूत–मुस्लिम परंपरा और उस पर होते सांप्रदायिक दावे

The post Rajasthan: Gogamedi, a Rajput-Muslim shrine and the politics of communal capture appeared first on SabrangIndia.

At the present time, Uttarakhand has become a centre of hate crimes. A few days ago, a report by a US-based think tank was released, which stated that the Chief Minister of Uttarakhand, Pushkar Singh Dhami, delivered the highest number of hate speeches in the year 2025. In 2025 alone, he gave a total of 71 hate speeches, which included terms such as spit jihad, land jihad and love jihad.

In Uttarakhand, under the protection of the government, dargahs are being continuously targeted. Sometimes the administration itself reaches the spot with bulldozers, and at other times anti-social elements arrive with hammers to demolish them. In one of his speeches, Chief Minister Pushkar Dhami himself claimed that his administration has demolished 600 dargahs. This is the official figure; apart from this, hundreds of other dargahs have already been demolished so far.

Something similar happened when, influenced by the Chief Minister’s provocative speeches, anti-social elements themselves vandalised an over 100-year-old shrine dedicated to Syed Baba Bulleshah in Mussoorie, Uttarakhand, on 24 January 2026. Approximately 25 to 30 people arrived at the shrine early in the morning and damaged the site using hammers. The group reportedly chanted religious slogans during the act, and a video of the incident has been circulated on social media. The police have taken the video as evidence for their ongoing investigation.

Perhaps the attackers do not know, O ignorant hammer-wielders, which personality’s shrine they went to demolish. They do not know who that great personality was. That shrine belongs to Hazrat Bulleh Shah, the great 17th-century Sufi, poet and philosopher.

Hazrat Sayyid Abdullah Shah Qadiri, also known as Hazrat Baba Bulleh Shah, is universally acknowledged as the greatest of the Punjabi mystics. No Punjabi mystic poet enjoys wider fame and a greater reputation. His kafis have gained unique popularity. In truth, he is one of the greatest Sufis of the world, and his thought equals that of Jalal al-Din Rumi and Shams Tabriz of Persia.

About Hazrat Bulleh Shah, Shah Inayat Qadiri writes:

Hazrat Shah Inayat, may Allah have mercy on him, said:

Bullhia rabb da pan ai

edharo puttan odharo lan hai.

“O Bulleh! This is the secret of Almighty Allah: on this side He uproots, on the other side He creates.”

“This,” says the tradition, “so deeply impressed Baba Bulleh Shah that, forgetting his family and its status, he became Inayat Shah’s disciple.”

Hazrat Bulleh Shah always stood for humanity and peace. In his life, we find many such incidents that prove that he was a humanist.

He emphasised universal love, tolerance, and the transcendence of sectarian identities, viewing humanity as inherently united under a single divine essence. His teachings advocated equality and rejected caste, creed, and ritualistic barriers that separated people, especially Hindus and Muslims, during a time of communal tensions under Mughal rule.

Influenced by Sufi traditions and elements of Hindu philosophy such as Vedanta, Bulleh Shah promoted humanism, urging followers to prioritise inner spiritual connection over external religious labels, and to see God in every individual regardless of faith.

He was revered across communities, Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs alike, for his role as a beacon of peace, denouncing dogma and social stratification while fostering fraternity and oneness.

Bulleh Shah’s time was marked by communal strife between Muslims and Sikhs. But in that era, Baba Bulleh Shah was a beacon of hope and peace for the people of Punjab. While Bulleh Shah was in Pandoke, Muslims killed a young Sikh man who was riding through their village, in retaliation for the murder of some Muslims by Sikhs. Baba Bulleh Shah condemned the murder of the innocent Sikh and was censured by the mullas and muftis of Pandoke. Bulleh Shah maintained that violence was not the answer to violence. He also hailed Guru Tegh Bahadur as a ghazi (an Islamic term for a religious warrior), which earned him the wrath of the fanatical Muslims of that time.

Banda Singh Bairagi was a contemporary of Bulleh Shah. In retaliation for the murder of Guru Gobind Singh’s two sons by Aurangzeb, Banda Singh Bairagi sought revenge by killing ordinary Muslims. Baba Bulleh Shah tried to persuade Banda Singh Bairagi to abandon his campaign of revenge. Bulleh Shah told him that the same sword which fell upon Guru Gobind Singh’s sons and innocent Sikhs had also fallen upon innocent Muslims. Therefore, killing innocent Muslims was not the answer to Aurangzeb’s oppressive rule.

Hazrat Bulleh Shah’s famous poem “Neither Hindu Nor Muslim” (original Punjabi: Na Hindu na Musalman) is a powerful critique of religious labels. This poem calls for discarding pride and walking on the path of peace, transcending binaries such as sin and virtue, or believer and non-believer, in order to embrace universal love.

Neither Hindu nor Muslim,

Sacrificing pride, let us sit together.

Neither Sunni nor Shia,

Let us walk the road of peace.

We are neither hungry nor full,

Neither naked nor clothed.

Neither weeping nor laughing,

Neither ruined nor settled.

We are not sinners nor pure and virtuous;

What is sin and what is virtue, I do not know.

Says Bulleh Shah, the one who attaches his self to the Lord

Gives up both Hindu and Muslim.

Bulleh is neither Rafzi nor Sunni,

Nor learned, nor an intellectual, nor a Jaini.

I have learnt only the lesson of the love of God.

People say: Bulleh is an infidel (kafir)

And an idol-worshipper.

But in the Lord’s court, both the momin and the kafir

(Believer and non-believer) are treated alike.

Here was Ramdas (a Hindu) and there Fateh Muhammad (a Muslim),

What an ancient quarrel there was between them,

But now their dispute has vanished,

And something new has emerged!

Makkay gayaan, gal mukdee naheen

Pawain sow sow jummay parrh aaeey

Ganga gayaan, gal mukdee naheen

Pawain sow sow gotay khaeeay

Gaya gayaan gal mukdee naheen

Pawain sow sow pand parrhaeeay

Bulleh Shah gal taeeyon mukdee

Jadon Mai nu dillon gawaeeay

~In English

Going to Makkah is not the ultimate

Even if hundreds of prayers are offered.

Going to River Ganges is not the ultimate

Even if hundreds of cleansing (Baptisms) are done.

Going to Gaya is not the ultimate

Even if hundreds of worships are done.

Bulleh Shah the ultimate is

When the “I” is removed from the heart!

This composition subverts orthodox identities and aligns with Sufi concepts such as wahdat al-wujud (the unity of being), where religious multiplicity dissolves into divine oneness, promoting interfaith reconciliation and humanistic equality.

In some of his verses, the Vaishnava colour is so dominant that one hesitates to accept them as the compositions of a Muslim. The vocabulary, metaphors, atmosphere, and thought are all Vaishnava. In the following verses, the gopis of Krishna’s devotees speak:

Murlī baj uthi aghatan, sun sun bhul gaian sab batan;

Sun sun Sham Sundar dian batan……

(Lord Krishna is playing the flute. Hearing its sound, I have forgotten everything.)

Bullhe Shah main tad birlai;

Jad di Murli Kanha vajai;

Bauri hoe ke tain val dhai,

Kaho ji kii val dast baratan.

(When Lord Krishna sounded the flute and I heard its voice, says Hazrat Bulleh Shah, I cried in agony. Since then I have been wailing in the pain of separation. Bulleh, the gopi, turned mad and ran towards Lord Krishna. The gopi asks where else she should go.)

Bulleh Shah sees God in Krishna, who grazed cows in Brindavan, and in Rama, who invaded Lanka:

Bindraban vich gauan charaen;

Lanka charh ke nad vajaen;

(O God, it was You who grazed the cows in Brindavan in the form of Krishna, and it was You who blew the trumpet of victory and invaded Lanka.)

In the verses where Islamic terminology appears, the spirit remains undeniably Vaishnava. Hazrat Bulleh Shah adored Prophet Muhammad not merely as a messenger of God, but as an incarnation of God.

He died in 1757 at the age of 77 and was buried in Kasur, where he had spent most of his life.

A regular contributor to New Age Islam, Sahil Razvi is a research scholar specialising in Sufism and Islamic History. He is an alumnus of Jamia Millia Islamia.

Courtesy: New Age Islam

The post Hate Politics and the Message of Hazrat Bulleh Shah appeared first on SabrangIndia.

(“Bulleh! I know not who I am.
I am neither a believer in the mosque,
Nor an unbeliever in the rites of heresy.
I am neither among the pure, nor among the polluted.”)

Did the twenty something boys and girls who hammered away at the shrine know anything at all about the raw honesty and introspection of the great philosopher? Did they know about his lifelong rebellion against Organised Religion including Islam and Hinduism?
No, they did not!

Their education and understanding of the world is limited to a zombie binary called Hindu versus Musalman.

Wrote the Sufi Saint:

Makkay gaya gal mukdee nahee
Pavein sau sau jummay parh aiye
Ganga gaya gal mukdee nahee
Pavein sau sau gotay khaiye

(“Going to Mecca doesn’t settle the matter,
Even if you pray a hundred Fridays there.
Going to the Ganges doesn’t settle the matter,
Even if you take a hundred ritual dips.”)

When asked why they comited this heinous act, one Lalit of Hindu Seva Dal replied “because his grave lies in Pakistan.”

God help the future generations of this country.

Courtesy: Facebook / Pushpinder Singh 

The post I feel a deep sense of sorrow as I sing to myself these verses by Baba Bulle Shah appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The interesting part was that in the front of the processions were bullock carts in keeping with the tradition , unlike some other processions where they use mechanized vehicles. This makes our streets so lively, of course mostly we have bad traffic jams and things are bad. But these old traditions lend much colour to the otherwise drab lives of common people. In the West they have given up these traditions long ago, the streets are too sanitized, too orderly.

A Sandal Procession (Sandal Sharif) is a Sufi Islamic ritual where devotees carry fragrant sandalwood (Sandal/Chandan) paste in plates, often with incense, to anoint the tombs (dargahs) or walls of mosques belonging to Muslim saints during Urs (death anniversary) celebrations. It is a display of devotion, purity, and unity, sometimes integrated with local traditions, there is Hindu Muslim unity, the Mahim police station takes the lead in the organization.

Some people may scoff at the idea animals on the streets which they think should be reserved for their cars, forgetting that motor cars are big polluters and impose such heavy social costs.

With all the faults, traditionally Indians have a good relationship with domestic animals, on some days the bullocks are worshipped decorated, not burdened on the day of Pola in Maharashtra and there are similar days in other states.

Westerners with all their sophistication in certain matters had had a pretty unfriendly, even hostile relationship with animals like in bull fighting which involve so much violence and though horse racing appeals to so many people, it involves much cruelty to the animal which we never get to see.

As coincidence would have it I saw a fairly interesting film at Alliance Francaise earlier this week which showed a woman, the protagonist, who realizes the need to treat the bulls kindly in bull sports.

In the film Animal, the first local woman to enter the ring with the young men who tempt, chase and are chased by local bulls starts to see things from the bulls’ perspective as bulls go “rogue” and started goring and stamping the locals in the dark of night, long after the audience — mostly tourists — for some events has left.

The Camargue style of bullfighting is non-fatal, a lot less bloody and far and away a more humane and “even” contest and is thus referred to as “bull racing” by the locals, who enter the ring — basically unarmed and on foot — and try to snatch cash-prize tokens attached to the bull’s scalp.
But as experts point every year, approximately 180,000 bulls are killed in bullfights around the world, with many more killed or injured in bull fiesta events. Bullfighting is already banned by law in many countries including Argentina, Canada, Colombia, Cuba, Denmark, Italy and the United Kingdom.
Although legal in Spain, some Spanish cities, have outlawed the practice of bull fighting.

(From Vidyadhar Date’s page on Facebook)

Mahim Durgah, a Sufi Saint and a Mumbai police ritual

A colonial practice, this ritual of Mumbai’s top police officers walking to durgahs with an offering every year has continued –despite the serious fissures between the police administration and Mumbai’s (then Bombay’s Muslim minority) during the post-Babri Masjid demolitions in December 1992 and January 1993. Sections of an otherwise acclaimed police force were accused, and found by the Justice BN Srikrishna Commission of being guilty of deep anti-minority biases. The practice of officers offering the ceremonial chadar has continued and this year. Each year, as Urs begins at Mahim Dargah, in December, a scene plays out on the streets of Mumbai with a police band at the front, uniformed officers behind and senior police officers carrying a green chadar as they walk towards the 600-year-old shrine of Hazrat Makhdoom Ali Mahimi.

After Independence, while most government departments quietly shed the ceremonial and religious practices they had inherited from the British era a few exceptions endured, particularly at dargahs such as Mahim, and Dongri’s Rehman Shah Ba.

What is the legacy of the Mahim Dargah?

The Indian Express reports that the Mahim Dargah of Hazrat Makhdoom Ali Mahimi is one of Mumbai’s oldest and most historically revered Islamic shrines, with a lineage going back over 600 years. Long before Mumbai grew into a metropolis, this coastal dargah functioned as a spiritual anchor for sailors, traders, scholars and communities along the western coast. The saint himself was of Arab descent; his ancestors are believed to have arrived in India around AD 860 (AH 252) after fleeing the persecution of Hajjaj ibn Yusuf, the much-feared governor of Basra. Born roughly five centuries later in India, Makhdoom Ali Mahimi received rigorous training in Islamic law and theology and was eventually appointed the faqih, or law officer, for the Muslim community of Mahim. He passed away in 1431, and soon after his death, the local community built a mosque and shrine in his honour. Over the centuries, that shrine evolved into one of Mumbai’s most significant pilgrimage centres.

Related:

Preamble to be read at Mahim Dargah in Mumbai

A Mahim Dargah revered by Mumbai Police

The post Mian Maqdoom Shah shrine, Mumbai’s Mahim Durgah & the December Urs appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The post Bettina Bäumer’s Inclusive Philosophy Is What We Need in Such Times appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post Ghazala Wahab on the Glorious Days of the Hindi Heartland appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Since then, a debate has emerged in the public domain. Our self-styled “left liberal” intelligentsia, otherwise loud in denouncing Hindu majoritarianism, suddenly turned mute when confronted with Muslim right-wing pressure. If a program had been canceled under Hindu Right pressure, the outcry would have been deafening. Op-eds, reportage, and fiery essays warning of fascism’s arrival would have saturated every public platform. But when Muslim clerics strong-arm a cultural body into silencing a poet, silence reigns. Many intellectuals believe that calling out Muslim bigotry amounts to Islamophobia and would endanger an already threatened community. This view is simplistic and cowardly. If the true enemy is oppression, it must be opposed wherever it arises, across communities and within them. What the oppressed deserve is critical solidarity, a support that is constructive, accompanied by food for thought.

The Jamiat’s letter to the Academy, dated August 25, begins with praise but quickly hardens. It “forcefully” appeals that Akhtar not be invited, demanding a “man of integrity” take his place, “of any religion, but not a blasphemer of God.” It threatens “democratic means” if ignored, invoking the precedent of Taslima Nasreen who was hounded out of Kolkata. It expresses confidence the Academy will comply, which it did. The letter denounces Akhtar as a “blasphemer,” unfit for a literary stage.

What is striking is not just the intolerance of the demand, but the attempt to normalize religious authority in public life, where writers and poets must either submit to clerical approval or face ostracism. Mufti Shamail Nadvi, a leading voice of the protest, said he was “shocked” Akhtar was invited. But what is shocking about inviting Javed Akhtar to preside over a mushaira? He is first and foremost a poet, heir to four generations of Urdu literary contribution, the author of lyrics that define the golden era of Hindi cinema, and an uncontested literary figure. Nadvi’s “shock” reveals not moral concern but clerical disdain for a man who openly opposes them. Whom did he want instead? Someone with no claim to poetry but unquestioned theological orthodoxy?

Nadvi later claimed he did not demand cancellation, only that “true Muslims” boycott the event. But a boycott called by clerics is never benign. It lays the groundwork for ostracism and, in volatile contexts, mob violence. Imagine if a Hindu leader called for boycotting an event because the guest was Muslim. It would spark outrage. Yet when Muslim clerics do the same, many Muslims and their media representatives applaud it as a victory. This sets a dangerous precedent: must every intellectual first pass a theological litmus test before entering the muslim public sphere( public space where muslims form a sizable chunk ) ?

Nadvi also proposed a debate with Akhtar on the existence of God, accusing him of defaming religion and promoting atheism. But here the clerics stumble on their own contradictions. The Qur’an itself instructs believers not to insult others’ gods precisely because early Muslims did so and provoked offense. Offense is woven into Islam’s very beginnings. Why then is offense suddenly intolerable when directed at Islam? Will Muslims extend the same courtesy of not offending others’ beliefs? Within Islam itself, sects routinely accuse one another of blasphemy. In Pakistan, Nadvi’s counterparts have hurled the same charge at Engineer Mirza, a fellow Muslim preacher. Even Mufti Tariq Masood, from Nadvi’s own sect, has faced accusations of blasphemy. To brand someone a blasphemer is a political weapon, a tool to reclaim fading authority rather than a defense of truth.

If religion trembles before a single poet, then it is the clerics who insult the faith, not Akhtar. Nadvi insists Akhtar is famous for mocking Islam, when in fact his reputation rests on films, lyrics, and poetry. His atheistic remarks, when they appear, are marginal and occasional. Reducing his legacy to blasphemy is either ignorance or deliberate misrepresentation to score points. Worse, Nadvi’s rhetoric paints a target on Akhtar’s back. By invoking the precedent of Taslima Nasreen and repeating that Akhtar’s presence is an insult, he encourages hostility in an environment where blasphemy accusations can easily invite death  . Calling for a “debate” in such circumstances is a provocation for hardliners to do the job.

Akhtar was invited to preside over a mushaira, not to preach atheism. To object to his private unbelief is irrelevant. Does Nadvi mean to say a godless person has nothing valuable to contribute to literature, culture, or cinema? By that logic Muslims should shun modern intellectual life, where atheism and agnosticism are common, and confine themselves to insular ghettos of their own making. Such isolationism is disastrous. It strangles Muslims’ cultural life and reduces them to a community fearful of thought itself.

For so many years, he has attended thousands of mushairas and public programmes and no Muslim was ever offended by his supposed blasphemy. But suddenly when Nadwi comes out and declares that we should be offended and are offended everyone seems to fall in line. This politics of being offended must stop somewhere.

Meanwhile, Nadvi’s own 26-minute press conference did not cite a single Qur’anic verse or Hadith. It was a pure rant, a bid for relevance. His YouTube channel, once stagnant with 26,000 subscribers, surged to 32,000 after this controversy, with his video on Akhtar becoming the most viewed. The episode is less about defending faith and more about clerics chasing attention.

The Prophet of Islam urged believers to “seek knowledge even if it takes you to China,” meaning even from non-believers. Clerics like Nadvi are unable to come out of their archaic mindset of being offended. They demand isolation, echoing the Hindu Right’s charge that Muslims cannot coexist with others.

The cancellation of Javed Akhtar’s invitation may seem small, but it reflects a deeper malaise: the religionization of Muslim identity, where culture, literature, and art must bow to clerical approval. If unchecked, this mindset will strangle public life, silence intellectuals, and confine Muslims to an ever-shrinking ghetto of thought. The tragedy is not Akhtar’s disinvitation but that in 2025, clerics still dictate what ordinary Muslims are allowed to do, and ordinary Muslims can still be mobilized at the clerics’ whim.

(Osama Rawal is a political science graduate from Elphinstone College, Mumbai. He writes on identity, justice, and global affairs. Passionate about reading, travel, and critical thought. He tweets under @OsamaARRawal)

The post Urdu is not the monopoly of mullahs, nor even the Muslim community  appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Mubarakpur’s weaving tradition dates back to the 14th century, appearing in Ibn Battuta’s travel diaries, where he marvelled at the fabrics of the region. During Sultan Muhammad bin Tughlaq’s reign, records mention some 4,000 weavers in the town. Known for weaving pure silk sarees with zari work, the artisans developed looms that still rival mechanised versions in quality and finish.

For decades, however, weavers have suffered from under-representation, exploited by middlemen who blurred the distinction between Banarasi and Mubarakpuri products. Many were forced to accept inferior raw materials and unfair loans, producing fabrics that demanded long hours yet yielded little return. Religious riots drove away workers, while erratic state policies—such as scrapping fixed electricity tariffs and replacing them with metered bills—pushed fragile households out of the loom sheds. The “One District One Product” scheme failed to meaningfully uplift Mubarakpuri sarees, while GI tagging and transport connectivity with Varanasi and Gorakhpur—essential trade hubs—remain inadequate. Even a completed shop market complex in Alinagar, built under the Samajwadi Party, stands locked and unused.

Despite intermittent political support, weavers have largely been left to innovate and survive. Some modified looms with motors to mimic power looms. Others migrated to cities like Hyderabad. For those who stayed, dignity came slowly through organisations such as the All India Artisans and Craftworkers Welfare Association (AIACA). Beginning in 2014, “Mubarakpur Weaves” revived skills, trained artisans in business and design, and secured Craftmark certification for authenticity. Wages rose, ownership and profit-sharing returned dignity, and the brand gained visibility. The effort proved that even a marginalised cluster could reimagine itself with collective organisation, certification, and a distinct identity.

Yet these hard-won gains now face an external shock. In August 2025, the United States sharply raised tariffs on Indian goods. A prior 25% reciprocal tariff was joined by a new 25% punitive tariff, bringing total duties to 50% on a wide swath of exports, including garments, textiles, carpets, and jewellery. The stated reason—India’s continued purchase of Russian oil—was geopolitical. The effect on artisans was immediate. Sarees, carpets and handicrafts destined for diaspora customers in the US suddenly, became uncompetitive. Exporters reported cancelled or delayed orders.

Rajan Bahl, vice president of the Banarasi Textile Industry Association, stated: “Exports of Banarasi sarees will decline by 15 to 20 per cent due to these tariffs. Handloom products will be the most affected. Though the current losses may appear small, the future impact will be severe. Every year, exports worth Rs 200 to Rs 300 crore were sent to the US, which is now under threat. Orders are being cancelled, and no new orders are coming in. This is not a minor loss; it is a major blow to Banaras and its industry.” Traders in Varanasi staged protests, burning posters of US President Donald Trump and warning of widespread disruption. For the Banarasi and Mubarakpuri clusters, the US market is vital: not the largest in volume, but among the most lucrative, especially for high-end consignments. A 50% tariff makes Indian products far more expensive than those from Bangladesh, Vietnam or Turkey, who now stand to capture price-sensitive segments.

The ripple effects are harsh. In the dispersed handloom economy, even a short spell of cancellations means idle looms, depleted working capital and migration away from craft. International and Indian outlets estimate that thousands of jobs across labour-intensive textile sectors are at risk. For communities already surviving on thin margins, the blow is existential.

To its credit, New Delhi responded with stop-gap relief. The government extended an 11% import duty exemption on raw cotton until the end of 2025, aiming to lower input costs across the textile sector. While Mubarakpuri sarees are primarily silk, blended ranges, linings, and broader supply chains do benefit indirectly. Branding initiatives such as the “Silk Banarasi” trademark, complete with QR-linked authenticity and Silk Mark certification, are also being scaled. Uttar Pradesh to establish showrooms in Varanasi, Lucknow, Ayodhya and Delhi, where digital codes link customers to weaving videos and details of artisans.

Still, tariffs test more than cost structures. They expose a strategic weakness: over-reliance on a single overseas market. For Mubarakpur and other clusters, the way forward lies in diversification. Industry bodies urge exporters to pursue Japan, the UK, Australia, the UAE and Europe, while strengthening domestic retail linked to tourism. Digital direct-to-consumer platforms offer another path, enabling weavers to bypass middlemen and reach diaspora buyers in lower-tariff markets.

Raw material resilience is another critical factor. Assam’s silks—muga, eri, pat—have long inspired designers, adding richness and exclusivity to sarees. Yet Assam’s sericulture has recently suffered from cocoon shortages, administrative instability and logistical disruptions. In 2024–25, yields fell, imports rose, and prices spiked, reducing availability for experimental blends in Mubarakpur and beyond. Without reliable supplies of specialty silks, innovation suffers, and artisans are pushed towards inferior fibres that diminish quality and reputation.

The danger is not only economic but cultural. If tariffs drive buyers towards cheaper mechanised alternatives, the painstaking artistry of handloom risks erosion. Once artisans leave the loom, their skills rarely return. The emotional economy—pride, identity, heritage—is as fragile as the financial one. As one weaver noted, a saree may sell for ₹5,000, but the artisan’s share amounts to only ₹500–600 a day, while intermediaries capture the rest. When shocks like tariffs or raw-material shortages arrive, the imbalance becomes unsustainable.

And yet, resilience persists. Mubarakpur’s weavers continue to innovate. Their sarees remain sought after for bridal wear, ceremonial occasions, and heritage collections. Urban elites and diaspora buyers still pay for authenticity when they can recognise it. The challenge is ensuring that recognition translates into sustained demand in markets beyond the US.

The story of the Mubarakpuri saree today is one of survival amid compounded pressures: historical neglect, domestic policy missteps, raw material shortages, and now punitive tariffs. But it is also a story of possibility—of artisans reclaiming identity through certification, of NGOs building weaver-led enterprises, of governments experimenting with branding and provenance. Whether these interventions can withstand the storm of tariff-driven market loss remains to be seen.

The lesson is clear. Cultural resilience requires economic strategy. The saree may be timeless, but its survival depends on choices made in boardrooms, ministries, and export councils. If India diversifies markets, strengthens branding, secures raw materials, and provides genuine support to its artisans, the Mubarakpuri saree can navigate the tariff era and emerge stronger. If not, one of India’s most ancient weaving clusters risks becoming another casualty of global trade politics.

In the end, tariffs are more than percentages; they are reminders of fragility in heritage economies. For Mubarakpur, the challenge is not only to endure the present shock but to convert it into an opportunity—preserving a craft that is both identity and livelihood, and ensuring it thrives for generations to come.

(The author is a writer in English and Urdu, with a focus on literature, politics, and religion.)

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Purvanchal: Silence of the Looms

Curtain raiser: The Warp and Weft of Despair in Purvanchal

The post The Mubarakpur Saree in the Digital Age: Can e-commerce bypass traditional barriers? appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Brahmdev Maharaj temple, was also where the Muslim caretaker w lived alone after separating from his family. For more than 35 years, Mohammad has quietly tended to the temple, a place he also called his home. On most days, he has fed animals, cleaned the temple grounds, assisted during aarti, and found quiet moments to pray, yes offer namaz.

However, something he has done for years, the namaz, discreetly offered near a tree on the premises, became a matter of public controversy when someone filmed it — reportedly around two months ago — and uploaded the video online on June 28.Within hours, Ali found himself behind bars for “defiling a place of worship with intent to insult religion”. This act is symptomatic of the street vigilantism encouraged by the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) be it in Uttar Pradesh where the incident happened, Haryana, Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, Gujarat or Maharashtra. Local police also immediately tend to bend to the will of these mobs on the prowl, influenced by the fact that they enjoy political patronage.

In this case, Ali Mohammad had reportedly earlier apologised to some local villagers when questioned about the prayer, and the matter had initially subsided until the clip resurfaced. Paramanand Das told TOI he was taken aback by the arrest of the man who had served the temple faithfully since the days of his late mentor, Radheshyam, in 2002 and promised to personally arrange help for Ali’s bail if his family were unable to do so. “What happened to Ali Mohammad was wrong and unexpected,” Das said, adding that the village panchayat would “punish” the individual responsible for circulating the video. “The unidentified man who slyly shot and posted the video has committed a greater offence than Ali. If the police take our statement, we will support Ali. Humanity is above religion,” he added. However, Das also said, “Whatever he did here was wrong. “Das added that the temple is a place of devotion for people from all faiths. “On Diwali, people of different religions come to offer prayers at the feet of Brahmdev Maharaj. Ali respected every religion, committed no crime, and never harboured any religious hatred. He worked with dignity and respect, maintaining the temple’s sanctity.”Dataganj circle officer K K Tiwari said, “An FIR has been registered against Ali. He has been arrested. Investigation has so far revealed that Ali was living for decades near the Brahmdev Maharaj temple complex. Someone recorded a video of him offering a prayer supposedly near a tree inside the premises and shared it online. Police force was deployed at the temple premises as soon as we received information in this regard.” Ali himself, in a video released by police, seemed utterly bewildered by the stringent charges slapped on him. He said, “The temple is my sanctuary, the place I found peace. I left my family to serve here. I received meals three times a day from the temple, sometimes even clothes. I did not commit any crime – I would not even think of defiling a place that is home for me.”

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The post ‘What happened to Ali Mohammad was wrong’: UP temple’s Muslim caretaker held for offering namaz; Hindu priest to arrange bail, says he served with dignity for 35 years reports TOI appeared first on SabrangIndia.