A shrine to love in the desert

"This mazār [tomb] is a makeshift arrangement we built. The original shrine of Savla Pir is strategically placed on the Indo-Pak maritime border,” says 70-year-old spiritual leader of Fakirani Jats, Aga Khan Savlani. The provisional structure he is referring to is a small, lone, light-green, humble mausoleum standing in the middle of a huge open space near Pipar hamlet in Lakhpat taluka; in a few hours it will be bustling with people who have come to celebrate the Savla Pir festival.

The original shrine is on an island that is closed for worship since 2019 due to security reasons. The Border Security Force (BSF) now has a post in that location. “Prior to Independence the fair was held at Savla Pir’s home on the island in Kori Creek across from Koteshwar. At that time, Jat breeders from Sindh in present-day Pakistan would travel by boat to attend and offer their prayers,” says a Biocultural Community Protocol.

It has been the tradition in the region for both Hindu and Muslim families from all castes to attend the fair and offer prayers. The fair, organised by the community, is an annual event, taking place on the third or fourth day of the Chaitra Month of the Gujarati calendar, which is around March and April.

“At Savla Pir's shrine, everyone is welcome to pray; there is no bias. Anyone may come and ask for their well-being. You wait till late evening and see for yourself how the crowd is like," says Sonu Jat in his late 40s, a resident of Pipar hamlet in Kachchh. There are about 50 to 80 Fakirani Jat families living in the hamlet.

Fakirani Jats herd camels and have lived for generations in arid and semi-arid areas of coastal Kachchh. They keep an indigenous camel breed known as Kharai as well Kutchi camels. Pastoralists by occupation they have led a nomadic life for centuries. Traditionally, they have been seen as dairy farmers, supplying essential commodities like butter, ghee, milk, wool and manure to urban towns and villages. Their herds include sheep, goats, buffaloes, cows and other indigenous breeds. But they see themselves as camel breeders first, moving around the region with their camels and families. Fakirani women actively take care for the herd and look after the new-born camels.

“But initially we were not camel keepers,” says Umar Haji Suleman, a Sufi poet from the region. “Once two Rabari brothers had a disagreement over owning a camel,” he says as he begins to tell the story behind Fakirani Jat’s livelihood. “To resolve their dispute, they went to our revered saint Savla Pir, who created a camel out of beeswax and asked the brothers to choose between the real one and the one he created from beeswax. The elder brother quickly chose the living camel and left. The younger one, Devidas Rabari, was left with the wax camel. The saint blessed Devidas and assured him that a camel herd will follow Devidas on his return journey. His herd would grow if he promised not to look back till he reached home.

“Devidas could not keep his curiosity in check and turned back just before reaching home. There was a sizable number of camels following him, but now that he had broken the promise the numbers stopped growing. Savla Pir had also told Devidas, that if he should find himself with too many camels, he should entrust them to the care of the Jats. This is why even today, Jat communities take care of camels assigned to them by the Rabaris,” he says. “And as you can see since then everyone here has been following Savla Pir.”

Fakirani Jats are Muslims, and 'Savla Pir', who lived about 400 years ago with his camel herd on an island in Kori Creek is their beloved Sufi saint. And like every year, this year too, they have organised a two-day fair - Savla Pir no melo - in Lakhpat. On April 28 and 29, 2024.

The fair is bustling event, a riot of colours, sounds, activities, and emotions. The Jats set up a pandal above a large platform they have readied for the evening performance; small shops for clothes, food, utensils, and handicrafts are springing up. A group of elderly men drinking tea notice and greet me saying, “we are so glad you came from so far to be a part of the festival.''

There are many pilgrims arriving at the fair by now -- on foot, in automobiles, but mostly in groups in a tempo traveller. There are a large number of women at the fair, dressed in vibrant colours, reluctant to talk or be photographed.

It is 9 p.m. when the drummers begin to play the music. A slow-paced and rhythmic beat reverberates through the air. One elderly man suddenly bursts into a song of devotion, a song sung in Sindhi for Savla Pir. In a few minutes more people join him in the singing. A few others form a circle and begin to dance, keeping pace with the song and the drumbeats, slowly walking into midnight.

The next day April 29th, the main day of the festival, begins with religious talks given by community leaders from the morning. The shops are set, people are pouring in to seek blessings, to enjoy the fair.

"We are ready for the procession; everyone, please gather at the praying area." A loud voice announces at 3 p.m. Crowds of men holding above their heads little wooden boats adorned with a white sail and burgee on the mast with colourful embroidery, roar with joy, singing, and chanting the name of Savla Pir as they circle through the fair before rushing towards the shrine amidst the blinding light and dust clouds. The boat represents Savla Pir's presence because the saint used to travel between islands through creeks in his boat.

“I come here every year. We need the blessings of Savla baba,” says Jayesh Rabari, 40, who I meet during the fair. He has come from Anjar. “We spend the entire night here. Have tea with Fakirani brothers and when the celebrations end, we go home with a happy heart.”

“When my family faces any problem or hardship, we come here to offer prayers and things get resolved. I have been coming here for last 14 years,” says 30-year-old Geeta Ben Rabari, who has walked all the way from Bhuj to be at the fair.

“All religion is fundamentally based on Love. Remember that without love, there is no religion,” says poet Umar Haji Suleman when I go to bid adieu after two days of festivities.