A heady mix of myth and culture

Frenzied drumbeats and the fluttering of black flags held up high. Hands flying to chest in a hypnotic rhythm, accompanied by the steady chant “Hussain, Hussain”. Weeping women and small children reciting solemn poems telling the story of infant martyrs. Part spectacle, part funeral march, moharram is a heady mix of history, myth and culture.

Few moments in history are as compelling or dramatic as the martyrdom of Imam Hussain, beloved grandson of the prophet Mohammad, in a failed attempt to claim the caliphate. His small band of soldiers accompanied by women and children were betrayed and besieged by Yazid, ruler of what is now Iraq. Cut off from the (Euphrates) river near which they had set up camp, many perished from thirst. The saga ended with the battle of Karbala and the martyrdom of Hussain on the tenth day. The force of the tragedy is such that it forges a connection with mourners across the centuries, creating a freshness of grief that is overwhelming to watch and experience.

As a child my experience of majlis, gatherings where this story is recounted, was mixed. Being surrounded by a sea of women wearing black who frowned at our giggles was daunting. But as the marsiya — the narrative of the doomed battalion — unfolded, the story and characters took over. Various high points of the tragedy were marked by outbreaks of weeping from women, which we children perversely found amusing. Secretly, we were hoping for the bonus of a zealous mourner fainting from grief, which did happen with suspicious regularity. At the end of each majlis, it is traditional to hand out sweets. But in a covert contest of sorts, the hostesses of the bigger events in town started giving out small utensils and ornaments to establish the superiority of their own event, creating a breed of majlis hoppers who flitted around collecting the spoils.

It took a while for me to understand the rich cultural source these gatherings came from. Listening to my grandfather read the marsiya, I saw the art of story telling come alive, as a single actor used eyes, hands, face and tone in a thrilling combination to weave a spell of tragedy and faith. It did not surprise me to learn later that the art of marsiya khwani borrows heavily from the kathak style of Krishna narratives. It is part of the paradox of moharram that while the visuals of self-flagellation and violence seem so forbidding to outsiders, it is in fact a most Indian expression of Islamic history.

The tenth day of moharram, called the ashura, is marked by a grand procession. Typically, this would include taziya — a model made of paper and sticks — of the tombs at Karbala, which are eventually either buried or submerged in water. As the crowds swell and the cries of “Hussain” get hoarser and more strident, the spiritual energy of the crowd is so magnetic that hitherto cynical onlookers start weeping. It is part of moharram to let go of rationality and surrender to primeval, communal grief.

Perhaps the most powerful aspect of moharram for me is the fact that in remembering the martyrs, we also condemn those who remained mute witnesses to their massacre. Keeping their memory alive is a way of pledging to oppose such injustice in our own lives and times. The month of moharram marks the beginning of the new year for Muslims. To me, this is a way of establishing perspective — that grief is as much a part of life as joy. And to begin something new by remembering past sacrifices makes you that much more thankful for the good in your life.