Day 8 in Pakistan: A Securitised morning in Multan

When I reached Multan and checked in yesterday evening, I was told at the reception that every time I left the hotel, I would have to have a police escort with me. I had read something to that effect on Google reviews and booking sites, but the posts were so old that I assumed they were outdated. In vain did I try to convince the hotel that I had a local friend who would accompany me at all times, for, as I found out later, this measure was not just intended to ensure my own security, but also to keep me away from Multan’s nuclear facilities in case I was a spy. In any case, there was nothing I could do but accept the dictate from on high. At least the service was free.

Multan is the sixth-largest city in Pakistan, with a population of over two million people. It lies just east of the Indus River in a fertile area famous for its mangoes and rich in wheat, corn, sugarcane, okra and many other types of produce. Multan’s main claim to fame is its connection to a number of important Sufi mystics from the 11^th to the 14^th century, which is why it is often dubbed the “City of Saints,” and the tombs of these saints have imprinted on the city a unique character with their distinctive octagonal bases and colourful facades. Indeed, the Tomb of Shah Rukn-e-Alam from the fourteenth century is held to be the earliest example of Tughluq architecture, predating monuments of the same style in Delhi. The tomb was likely intended for its builder, Ghiyath al-Din Tughluq himself, but when the Tughluqs took over the Delhi Sultanate and relocated to Delhi, they gifted the tomb to Shah Rukn-e-Alam’s descendants.

I had arranged to meet my friend at eight o’clock, but between his late arrival and the even later arrival of the police escort (who should have been informed by the hotel that I wanted to leave at eight as early as last night), we left closer to nine. Despite my friend having his own car, the two policemen tasked with accompanying us insisted on driving ahead of us in one of those big trucks with an open back. One of them spoke very passable English and throughout the day became more of a tour guide than a security officer, accompanying us into all the tombs and pointing out their architectural features.

We spent only a few minutes in the old walled city, as driving around all the gates would have been a pain in the neck in the tow of a police truck. We stopped outside Bohar Gate, an elegant high-vaulted structure, behind which began the market of the old town. Through one of the alleyways, the policeman led us to the Tomb of Shah Yousuf Gardez. As the oldest of the tombs we visited, it is built in a very different style form the octagonal Tughluq monuments, but its simple rectangular shape is made much more interesting by the beautiful blue and white porcelain tiles for which Multan is famous. We then drove a little farther to the colonial-era clocktower, where my friend had taken his wedding pictures just a few months earlier.

Still following the police truck, we rode to the next few monuments up paths that are ordinarily closed. The whole day, the policeman insisted that none of the usual conventions applied to us, so we not only parked wherever we pleased but also never paid for leaving our shoes in storage before entering the tombs. Of these, we visited the final resting place of Shah Rukn-e-Alam, Bahauddin Zakariya and Shah Shamsuddin Sabzwari Multani. The nearby gallery was being renovated, but we entered regardless to see some of the paintings left on the walls and to take in the views of the Shah Rukn-e-Alam Tomb from the balcony.

At the Tomb of Shah Shamsuddin Sabzwari Multani, I saw a man dressed in a rich green cloth with several bead necklaces hanging down his neck, which made me wonder what happened to the Sufis of Pakistan. My friend did speak of them very favourably. The current custodians of the tombs are of course not Sufis, and my friend opined that the popularity of Sufiism rested on the ignorance of the common folk about the true nature of Islam. The Sufis, he said, were not very good Muslims, always dancing and indulging their senses, but in times when Mecca felt much farther away than it does now, they were esteemed as high spiritual authorities.

The last place on my list was the Mosque of Shahi Eid Ghah, which stands right next to yet another saintly tomb. From there, the policeman took over. He insisted we visit the old city, so we parked outside the market and followed him on foot past dozens of bridal shops until we reached an intersection. On the little side street, he greeted a shoe-shiner sitting on the kerb, and the man scooted over to let us through the door behind him. It was an old wooden building with intricately carved balconies and marble stairs so steep that someone had fixed a rope next to them for people to hold while climbing. Reaching their top, we found ourselves in a dilapidated Hindu shrine. Discoloured, barely discernible icons decorated the walls of the side rooms, which the old arcades separated from a square hall with a symmetrical ceiling composed of broken mirrors. There were a few men apparently working on renovating the place, but the sound of their tools was drowned out by chirping bats.

After trying a Multani halwa at a nearby sweetshop, we decided to head back to the hotel, but my friend and the policeman were kind enough to first accompany me to an exchange bureau. They also ended up waiting for quite a while – at least half an hour – for my InDrive driver to appear. Every time we called him to ask where he was, he told us he needed another ten minutes, which I suppose was not very honest but ultimately understandable, as I had asked him to drive me to the city of Sukkur, which is about five or six hours away from Multan.

We made a single stop along the way in Uch Sharif. Just like Multan, the city is famous for the tombs of Sufi mystics, the most iconic of which is named the Tomb of Javindi Bibi and stands picturesquely on a rock above golden wheat fields. It is accompanied by two other, smaller mausolea, all three of them partly ruined but with details restored to a brilliant blue in the parts that remain. We only spent a few minutes at the location before driving on as night descended. Until it turned pitch black, all we saw from the road were vast mango groves alternating with tall wheat fields ready for harvest. In some parts, the stubble on the fields was being set on fire, and the dark clouds stretched for miles across the sky. We could smell the smoke slowly seep inside the car.