Amjad Gond sings qawwali

Ghungroos (dancing bells) tied to the wrist, playing a dholak (drum) that sits like a baby on his lap, a qawwal is singing at a dargah (shrine) near Pune city.

In a loud and clear voice, reaching the top of the dome, without a microphone or singers to accompany, or an audience in front, a qawwal performs solo.

One qawwali after the other. He rests only during zuhr and maghrib namaz (evening prayers) as it is considered improper to sing or play music during prayers. The namaz ends and he continues to sing till almost eight at night.

“I am Amjad. Amjad Murad Gond. We are Rajgond. Adivasi.” He introduces himself. A Muslim in name and appearance, an Adivasi by birth, Amjad informs us: “Qawwali is our occupation!”

Eating a paan, he says, “Show me a person who does not enjoy qawwali! It is an art that everyone likes.” As the paan melts in his mouth, he goes on to talk about his passion, the qawwali adding, “public ko khush karne ka. Bass [to make the people happy, that’s all]!”

‘Paon mein bedi, haathon mein kada rahne do, usko sarkar ki chaukhat pe pada rahne do…’ The tune reminds me of a popular song from a Hindi film.

Devotees at this dargah do not object to him using a Bollywood tune for his qawwali and give him some money as they listen to his singing. Some pay 10, some 20 rupees. The caretakers give tilgul (sesame and jaggery) to the devotees who offer a chadar and seek blessings of the revered saint. A mujawar uses peacock feathers to pat the back and shoulders of sawaalis (devotees) aiming to ward off evil. Money is offered to the pir (saint), and a small amount is kept aside for the qawwal (singer).  

The dargah is visited by many rich people, says Amjad. The road leading to the tomb has multiple small shops selling chadar and chunri that are offerings. A place of worship always feeds and employs many.

Hazrat Pir Qamar Ali Durvesh does not discriminate. On the stairs of the dargah, one meets a fakir (mendicant) begging for alms and a few with impairments seeking people’s mercy and money. An old Hindu woman in a nine-yard saree is a regular and feels blessed by Hazrat Qamar Ali Durvesh. The disabled, the orphans and the qawwals all are at his mercy.

Amjad is not a beggar. He is an artist. At 11 a.m. he finds a place in front of the tomb and sets up his ‘stage’. Slowly and steadily, the devotees start coming in. By noon, the white marble and granite floor around the tomb is hot. The devotees jump and run to save their feet from the blistering heat of the stone. The Hindu devotees outnumber the Muslims.

Women are not allowed to go near the mazar (saint’s tomb). So, many, including Muslim women, sit in the verandah and recite the ayat from the Quran with closed eyes. Next to them a Hindu woman from a nearby village is possessed by a spirit.  “Piracha wara [spirit of the pir],” people say.

Devotees believe that the oil from the chirag, the lamp at the tomb is an antidote to the venomous snake or scorpion bite. A belief with its roots in an era when there was no cure for such poisoning. Now we have clinics and cure, but many cannot afford them still. And there are many, tormented by worries, a childless woman, a few harassed by mothers-in law or husbands. And there are some, searching for their loved ones gone missing.

The shrine also has people with mental illnesses seeking a connection with the pir. They plead for blessing and Amjad’s qawwali puts a tune and rhythm to what they seek, taking us into a trance just like any other prayer.

Does he ever stop singing? Does his throat get tired? His lungs seem like a pair of harmoniums. Amjad takes a break between two songs, and I approach him seeking his time for an interview. “Mere ku kuchh den padega kya? [Will I have to ‘give’ anything?]” Amjad asks, his fingers gesturing money.  I have no answer. I once again ask for his time and continue to listen to his singing.

Qawwali is roohani – touches the soul. The sufi tradition connected it to the Supreme. What we hear on reality talent shows is the other kind, the roomani or romantic. And there is this third kind. We may call it khanabadoshi. One that reached likes of Amjad who wander to survive.

Amjad’s voice reverberates in the air.

The last line carried a deeper meaning when Amjad sang it. I was more eager to talk to him now. Not wanting to disturb him I asked for time the next day and go again to the dargah. Learning the history of Pir Qamar Ali Durvesh kept me busy till the next day.

The story goes that Hazrat Qamar Ali came to Khed Shivapur, a small village at around 25 kilometres from Pune city located at the foothills of the Sinhgad fort. The villagers, tired of a devil in the village, went to Hazrat Qamar Ali and asking for his help. The holy man trapped the devil in one stone and cursed him saying: Ta qayamat, mere naam se log tujhe utha utha ke patakate rahenge, tu logon ko pareshan kiya karta tha, ab jo sawali mere darbar mein aayenge who tujhe mere naam se patakenge! [People will lift and bang you on the ground till the Day of the Judgement. You have harassed them till now, now all those who come to seek my blessings will bang you on the ground].”

The stone in front of the tomb weighs more than 90 kilos and a group of roughly 11 people can lift it together with just one finger. They chant ‘Ya Qamar Ali Durvesh’ in a loud voice and bang the stone down with all their might.

Many villages have dargahs but a very few are as crowded as this one at Khed Shivapur. The wonder of this heavy stone brings more people here; many like Amjad have better chance at earning a little more because of these crowds. Devotees also believe that the aulia blesses the childless with a child. “We also give herbal medicines and cure childlessness,” Amjad tells me.

There is a masjid in the same campus and a wazukhana adjacent to it. Amjad goes there, washes himself thoroughly, ties his hair in a bun, wears his orange skullcap and starts to talk. “I come and stay here at least for a week every month.” As a child, he accompanied his father who was a regular here. “I must have been 10 or 15 when my abba [father] brought me here for the first time. Now I am past 30 and I bring my son here sometimes,” he says.

A few from the Darweshi community are sleeping on a mat in the basement of the dargah. Amjad too had kept his bag near a wall. He takes out a mat and spreads it on the floor. He tells me his home is in Gond basti in Pachora, district Jalgaon.

Amjad does not bother to identify himself as a Hindu or Muslim. I ask about his family. “My father and two mothers. We are four brothers. I am the eldest of the boys. After me, Shahrukh, Seth and the youngest is Babar. I was born after five girls.” I ask him about their Muslim names. He answers, “We Gonds have Hindu and Muslim names. We have no religion. We do not believe in caste. Hamara dharam kuchh allagch hain [Our religion is a bit different]. We are Rajgond.”

Information in public domain shows that around 300 years ago, a section of the Rajgond Adivasis converted to Islam. They were known as Musalman / Muslim Gond. One can meet a few members of this Muslim Gond community In Nagpur and Jalgaon districts of Maharashtra. But Amjad is unaware of this history.

“We do not marry Muslims. Only Gonds. My wife is Chandani Gond,” he continues. “My daughters are Lajo, Aliya and Alima. All of them are Gond, isn’t it?” Amjad simply does not think that one can identify religion based on names. He goes on to tell me about his sisters. “My eldest sister is Nishori, then comes Reshma. Sousal and Didoli are younger to Reshma. See all these are Gond names. But the youngest is Mary. Yeh naam to kirishchan mein aata hain [This is a Christian name]. No problem with that. We just use what we like.” Nishori is 45, and the youngest Mary is in her thirties. All of them are married to Gond men. None of them ever went to a school.

Amjad’s wife Chandani is unlettered. When asked about schooling of his daughters, he says, “My daughters attend a government school. But in our community girls are not encouraged to study much.”

“One of my sons is Nawaz and the other one is Gareeb!” Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti is referred to as ‘Gareeb Nawaz’, the saviour of the poor. Amjad has used these two words to name his sons. “Nawaz is not even one! But I will ensure that Gareeb studies well. I will not make him wander like me!” Gareeb is eight and studying in Class 3. But this child does wander with his qawwal father.

All men from his family have taken up qawwali as their occupation.

“You know what, we Gonds can sell anything, even a clump of clay. We clean ears. We sell dates. Ghar se nikal gaye, toh hazar-pach sau kamakech latein [Whenever we leave home for work, we return with 1,000 or 500 rupees]!” Amjad shares. But he also complains that “people splurge the money. They do not save. We don’t have a particular occupation. No one is in any kind of service.”

Navigating this complete lack of a stable source of income or occupation, led Amjad’s father to qawwali. “Like my grandfather, my father too wandered around villages selling herbs and dates. He was fond of music and found the path of qawwali. I always followed my father wherever he went. Slowly he started singing at programmes. And watching him, I too learned the art.”

“Did you not go to school?” I ask.

Amjad takes out a sachet of chuna (slaked lime), takes out just enough to cover a fingertip, licks it with his tongue and says, “I went to school till Class 2 or 3. I didn’t go after that. But I can read and write. I also know English.” He feels he would have progressed in life had he studied further. And also laments that he didn’t. “Us ke wajah se hum peeche hain [I have lagged behind because of that],” he says. The same is true with Amjad’s brothers. All of them entered school only to learn how to read and write. That’s it. Work took them away. 

“We have 50 Gond households in our village. Rest all are Hindu, Musalman and ‘Jai Bhim’ [Dalit]. All of them are there,” says Amjad. “You will find educated people in all these communities barring us. But my nephew has studied. His name is Shiva.” Shiva studied till the age of 15 or 16 and wanted to join the army but could not get through. Now he is trying for police recruitment, he says. At least one youngster in Amjad’s family is thinking of a career and education.

Amjad too has a career of his own. “We have a party, the KGN Qawwali Party.” KGN stands for Khwaja Gareeb Nawaz. He has started this with his brothers. They get to perform at weddings and other functions. “How much do you earn?” I ask. “It depends upon the organiser. We get 5,000 to 10,000 rupees. The audience also gives some money. In all we make around 15,000 to 20,000 for a programme,” Amjad says. The money is divided among all the members and everybody ends up with not more than Rs. 2,000-3,000. Once the wedding season is over, there are no programmes and then Amjad comes to Pune.

Here at the Hazrat Qamar Ali Durvesh dargah at Khed Shivapur he always makes some money. He spends the night in the basement. “Uparwala bhookha nahi sulata! [The God Almighty does not let you go to bed hungry]” Many people offer a feast or food if their wish comes true. He stays here for a week, performs his qawwali and heads back home with whatever he is able to make. That is his routine. When asked about his earnings here, Amjad says it is somewhere between 10,000 – 20,000. “But one should not be too greedy. And even if you earn more, where will you keep all that money? So, whatever I make, I just take it and head back home!” he tells me.

“Is it enough to survive?” I ask. “Haan, chal jata hain! [Yes, one can manage] I also work when I am back in my village,” he says. I wonder what work as he does not own any land or any other asset.

Amjad solves my query. “Radium work. I go to the RTO [regional transport office] and paint names and number plates of vehicles,” Amjad explains. “Qawwali programmes are far and between so I decided to search for some work. I picked up my bag and bought some radium paint. On the way, I stopped at one vehicle and decorated it like a bride.” This is his side business, one that uses art, is done on the street, and earns him a few rupees.

With very few livelihood options and his art appreciated by select few, Amjad’s community do not have much to aspire towards. But things change. Indian democracy has brought that ray of hope in their life. “My father is a sarpanch [village head],” he says. “He has done many good things for the village. Earlier we had mud all over, but he built a road.”

Reservations for Adivasis at the local governance institutions has made this possible. Amjad is upset with his own people though. “Should you overstep a sarpanch? My people do it. The moment they have some money in their hands, they will buy chicken and fish. They spend all the money and have fun. Nobody thinks about the future,” he complains.

“Who do you vote for?” I ask, knowing fully well that voting is confidential. “Earlier I voted for panja [symbol of the Indian National Congress]. Now the BJP is in full swing. We have to vote as per the decision of our caste panchayat. Jo chal raha hain, wahich chal raha hain! [We follow what is happening all around]. I have nothing to do with politics,” he says brushing it off. 

“Do you drink?” I ask and he is quick to refute. “No, never… no beedis or liquor. Mere bhai bidya peete, pudya khate, [my brothers smoke beedis and eat tobacco/gutkha]. But I don’t. No such vices for me.” I want to know from him what is wrong about these habits.

“I am in a completely different lane! If one drinks and sings a qawwali, he will surely lose his dignity. Why should one indulge in such behaviour? That’s why I never got into these habits,” says Amjad.

Which qawwali do you like? “I like the one in Sanskrit. I like to sing it and also to listen to it,” he says. Sanskrit qawwali? I am intrigued. “Aslam Sabri sings, ‘kirpa karo maharaj…’ what a sweet composition. For me, what touches the soul is Sanskrit. Qawwali bhagwan ke liye gao, ya nabi ke liye, dil ko choo jaye bass [qawwalis are to be sung for god or the prophets. If it touches your heart, that’s enough]!” he elaborates.

For Amjad, a qawwali praising a Hindu god is ‘Sanskrit’. It is us who keep fighting about scripts and tongues. 

As noon approaches, the crowd starts to swell. A group of men gather in front of the tomb. Some wear a skullcap and others cover their head with a handkerchief. A loud chant of ‘Ya…Qamar Ali Durvesh…’ and all of them lift the heavy stone with their fingers, only to bang it down with full force.

Amjad Murad Gond continues to sing, for god and the prophets.