The tomb of Shah Jehangir in Gujrat, where many come to have their wishes granted, is in all likeliness the place where the fourth Mughal emperor’s intestines are buried
“What brings you here?” the man with a bit of plaster covering a cut on his chin asked. He had obviously set me apart from the throng of visitors still loitering under the shade of the spreading banyan in the premises at the end of the three-day urs of Shah Jehangir in Gujrat city. Once outside the city limits, to the northeast of town, the tomb is now within the municipal limits and unbeknownst to me, I had arrived in the wake of the annual urs held on the first Thursday of the Punjabi month of Harr.
This time I was not to be caught unaware, this time I had a story. A friend, much troubled and having despaired of all the astrologers and black magicians of Lahore, I related, had sought the end of his travails at this shrine. Two weeks ago for a full night between the blessed days of Thursday and Friday he lay prone in front of the sarcophagus inside the building. As dawn was breaking on Friday, my friend suddenly became aware of the milky light filling the dark confines of the unlit tomb and the feeling of intense peace and well-being that came over him. He knew then that his prayers had been answered by Shah Jehangir. Just three days after returning home to Lahore, my friend saw his wish granted.
“He instructed me to also seek the end of my difficulties at the threshold of Shah Jehangir. And so here I am.” I lied through my teeth. But this was the fib Plaster Chin was just dying to hear. “You have come to the right place. He is the king, the great giver, the grantor of wishes. Go inside, put your forehead to the ground and ask all that you desire. You will not be disappointed.”
The tomb with its tiled main dome and series of smaller domes and miniature minarets was pretentious in an uneducated sort of way. It was the kind of quasi-religious building made by public donation anywhere in Pakistan which followed Mughal architecture in a vague sort of manner. One look and I knew the structure was no older than 50 odd years. But another loiterer who had come over to hear us talking told me that it was built long before his grandfather’s time. Here we have people who in one breath claim that their fathers lived for 150 years and in the next unwittingly tell you that 50 years equal three times as much.
Above the door jamb was a marble plate that announced the ‘blessed abode’ of Hazrat Shah Jehangir Sahib which was build in the reign of Aurangzeb Alamgir in the year 1100 Hijri. The line below had the name Farzand Hussain Moinudinpuri with the date September 15, 1969. It was evidently the date when the plaque was affixed by this believer, but for the life of me I do not know where Moinudinpur is – and there are few places in Pakistan I haven’t been to. The erudition (or lack thereof) of this man was evident in the misspelling of Aurangzeb – in Urdu too.
Inside, the reek of joss-sticks and rancid sweat mingled to create a sickening thickness. Devotees sat staring at the green-draped sarcophagus, hands cupped in front of their faces begging, begging, begging, the stone to give them the desired son or the wealth that had so far eluded them. One ardent and particularly troubled believer was prostrate at the foot end of the tomb rubbing his forehead on the floor and deep in mumbled conversation. How I ached to hear what wishes he wanted fulfilled but despite all my straining could only hear something about Kishwar.
Above the door there was another marble plaque that began in Persian and faded into Urdu to record the completion of the tomb in February 1957. The Persian part mentioned Spehr Shah Aurangzeb and the year 1289 which would correspond with about 1880. The give away was the flawed Persian, evident even to one like me with only rudimentary knowledge of the language. In order to give it some historicity, the builders and promoters of the tomb had added the Mughal-sounding name of someone who never existed. So, who was this Shah Jehangir who grants wishes and fulfils dreams?
On the eighth day of November 1627 Jehangir, the fourth Mughal emperor, died on his journey back from Srinagar to Lahore. He had ruled a full 22 years and had finally succumbed to an attack of asthma that had plagued him for the past eight years. His caravan was at that time halted at the caravanserai of Chingas Hatli. Now, this caravan stop was mentioned only a few years earlier by the English sailor and merchant William Finch who travelled extensively across India.
Finch tells us that Chingas Hatli was 40 kilometres, or just over a 150 kilometres northward of Gujrat on the highroad to Srinagar. That is, from this caravan stop the journey to Gujrat would take no less than five days. Even in the cool of early November, the body of the king would have started to stink. And as they stopped for the night at Gujrat, the royal surgeon would have set to work eviscerating the rotting corpse. The innards were deposited outside the city and the grave marked very likely with a sign that said something about Shah Jehangir.
Years passed. The tomb grew and people forgot what was buried under it – only the name was remembered. For Muslims of the subcontinent, praying at tombs is a throwback to the time we all prayed to graven images. But when our forefathers, converted to Islam, it was impossible to wean them away from the idol: how could one pray without something material in front of the bowed head? Surely this would have niggled for when the guide who had converted them passed away from this life, his tomb became that much desired idol. As Islam spread across the subcontinent so too did the cult of the worshipful tomb until until Indian Muslims today are no more than hard-core grave worshippers.
Time went by and every old grave became a saint who bestowed sons and wealth on those who grovelled around it. The intestines of Jehangir, an utterly worldly sort of king, did no worse (or better). As its fame grew and the collection box began to fill, the Auqaf Department became its custodian. This totally redundant setup which should actually be renamed Superstition Department, is the keeper of all such spurious tombs for the money they rake in and it has accordingly got its fingers in the Shah Jehangir pie as well.
Outside, Plaster Chin was waiting to ask if I had petitioned the Syed badshah. I nodded and he said never had anyone gone unrewarded from this threshold. Reeling under the garb of my false piety, I could not resist this one. How, I asked, did he know all comers had their desires satisfied? Because they all came back with donations in appreciation for the saint’s intercession in their affairs, replied the man.
It would surely have been too taxing for his simple mind to recognise that those whose desires remained unfulfilled would not return. They would, instead, seek other demi-gods to answer their prayers. And in Pakistan there is no dearth of graves.