Haji Ali was a very kind Muslim. He helped people a lot and after some time he wanted to on Haj to Saudi. He did not make it and died on the way. His coffin miraculously drifted on the Arabian Sea and arrived on rocks in Mumbai. They built a mosque there on the rocks for him and a little school and an orphanage later. It was on a small island, only accessible at low tide, so they added a causeway for easy access. The beggars, religious tat sellers, food stall holders and 'your photo in front of the Haji Ali Mosque gate in 5 minutes for 50 Rupees' people became very grateful. Apart from the beggars the permanent crowd is on the left of the causeway. Frilly and glittery table cloths ( why, I wonder) and white flowers, red roses on string sellers, key chains, Ray Ban glasses, rusty nails, rusty horse shoes, scarves, woolly hats ( it is 30 'C), plastic toys of every colour and shape- including a parrot which sings when you clap your hands are on sale. The causeway is a kilometre long and the music from the left side, the monotone of the single prayer from the beggars on the right accompany you to the mosque entrance. Inside there is a humble, small, off white mosque and Haji Ali's tomb. Women enter from left, men enter from right. We take our shoes of. There are headscarves behind the young boy who looks after the shoes for you and if you had an uncontrollable desire to see the mosque and forgot to take your head scarf with you, he lends one to you conveniently for 10 Rupees. Luckily, I have Kitty's Hard Rock Cafe scarf. 'Love all serve all'. It is kind of the same message. I follow my fellow female visitors, they have neatly folded newspapers in their hands, white flowers and red roses on the strings and small bags of sweet roasted chickpeas. Some have brought coconuts. They wait for their turn and a white capped man near the tomb takes the bundles from them, rips the papers open, and reveals the most colourful table cloths. They have the brightest mango greens, neon yellows, Marlboro reds, shiniest glitters, sweetest melon colours. He opens them one by one and places them on the tomb. Rips up the rose petals in to a bowl. White sugar coated chickpeas are opened and placed on the counter. Coconuts are hacked with a machete and people coming in give stuff, take stuff back and dither until the white capped man pats them on the head several times with a broom of tired peacock feathers. This is a blessing and the happiness can be seen from their faces. They put their necks forward to be patted by the man murmuring a silent prayer .The men touch the base of the tomb and touch their faces, kiss the long Islamic green cover on it and depart backwards. Ladies who have brought their own head cover and the ones borrowed from the young man look around to find suitable places to tie their wish strings. On the trees, on the bushes, big wooden door, wherever they think is more propitious for a wish; the colourful strings are tied there- or wherever they can reach. The man places endless table cloths on the tomb, the men feverishly kiss its base.
The mosque is on a tiny island. The tide is out to expose black granite stones. There is also a Haji Ali Cafe there, sweet cloudy masala teas, rice with something, potatoes with something else, snacks in small bags are taken to the black rocks and eaten there by the whole family. Children carry the tatty toys they have just bought or crying because they haven't bought, or waiting for the wish string to work for the toys to be bought on the way back. It is a happy and eating crowd.
I take photographs of them secretly when their backs are turned to me. When they are not aware of being looked at-not that they would mind. They do it all the time to me. They gaze. Hands behind their back, legs akin, they examine me with their eyes- not in a nasty way. The way we look at primates and realise how similar yet different they are to us. They look at my feet (small like ours-cleaner), they look at my earrings (small, like ours), my hair (not like ours), my t shirt (just a t-shirt), my skirt (a skirt! not long leggings) until our eyes meet, then they change their gaze and start looking at something else- a seagull, or somebody else- a child until they are satisfied with their analysis. I take photographs of them gazing at me. They don't like it, they feel caught. So I take their photographs when they are on the phone, looking at the sea, giggling with friends, drinking tea...
The tide is out, there are huge bundles around the black rocks. I look at them closely, they are empty water bottles. Bisleri. The TV ad has a dinosaur and a song goes 'Bisleriii' ,'Bisleriiii'. The water is sold in Bisleri bottles in the cafe in the mosque area. I walk away with a hidden panic 'Bisleriii' screaming in my head. I am hot and tired. I have my water with me but I need the loo and a place to sit and look around a bit. The rocks are covered with small paper rice plates and paper masala tea cups. They do not mind eating on the rocks and leaving the rubbish there, on the spot. The next family comes and brushes the rubbish away and have their rice, potatoes and masala tea, leave the cups there too.
One day if you wish to go to Haji Ali mosque take your water and head scarf with you. Sit on the black rocks and look at the seas. Look at the sea gulls and fishing boats coming in, families having sweet chickpeas. Look at the street urchins flying their kites on your left, sky scrapers in the haze on your right. Think about the religions you know, religions you don’t know and how difficult it is to keep the world clean and orderly. Be happy, be content, all is well.
Avoid the loos...
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