THE WEEK explores a unique African sacred landscape on India's western coast

Gujarat, Maharashtra, Diu, Karnataka, Goa and Kerala

Six kilometres from the industrial town of Jhagadia in Gujarat’s Bharuch district is a serene hill considered sacred. Part of the Satpura range, it has a cluster of dargahs of Sufi saints of African origin.

At the base of the hill, a large number of devotees live in Ratanpur, a quaint village whose name means ‘the land of gems’. The semi-precious agate stone was mined here to make exquisite beads.

Sidis of African descent form a significant share of the population of Ratanpur. The Africans had arrived centuries ago as sailors, soldiers and slaves. There are fewer than 1.5 lakh Sidis in India, and they are scattered across Karnataka, Gujarat, Maharashtra, Andhra Pradesh and Goa. But a vibrant tapestry of rituals, beliefs and legends ties them back to their Afro origin. For Sidis of Gujarat, Diu and Maharashtra, the hill near Ratanpur is the foremost sacred site.

Mahmad Rafik Abubhai Vajugada, a Sidi elder in Jamnagar who has relatives in Ratanpur, had arranged for my stay at the sacred hill. His son-in-law Firoj Malangbhai Sidi drove me to the hill in his autorickshaw. Once a professional dancer, Firoz has performed the Sidi Dhammal dance in more than two dozen countries.

I reached the top of the hill moments before the commencement of loban, a daily faith healing session, and stood looking up towards the dargah of Bava Gor, the most prominent of the Sidis’ ancestor-saints. Rhythmic beats of the mugharman, a traditional drum that is central to Sidi rituals, could be heard.

As I began climbing the 50 steps to the dargah, I remembered a legend I had heard from Yasin Bawa, a Sunni Muslim who looked after the saint’s chilla (satellite shrine) in Kurla, Mumbai. “In the past,” said Bawa, “people accused of robbery or fraud were made to climb these steps with their legs chained. If the accused were innocent, the chain would break because of Bava Gor’s power. If guilty, they would not be able to enter the dargah.”

I entered the dargah wearing a skullcap given to me. “No camera inside the dargah during the loban,” Firoz said.

The dargah’s mujawar, or caretaker, was a Sidi. He moved around the shrine, spreading dense clouds of frankincense. The crowd was unusually thin because it was a rainy Friday evening. On jumerat (Thursday evenings), the dargah throngs with people of different religions, all offering flowers, cloth and coconuts for their prayers to be answered or for expressing gratitude for prayers granted.

Much of the crowd I saw in the dargah was seeking relief from physical and mental pain. As the drum beat faster, many people began to shake their heads and contort their limbs. I stationed myself near the inner sanctum that had Bava Gor’s tomb, which was covered with a green chaddar, flowers and other offerings. Using a peacock feather brush, the caretaker distributed the saintly “healing energy” to the faithful.

Behind me stood a teenager in a thobe, an ankle-length garment with long sleeves. He moved frenetically, muttering incoherence. I was told that it was a case of hajri―possession by evil spirit. At one point, he moved closer to me, sending chills down my spine, but soon moved away and began hitting his own head. He calmed down as the drumbeats came to a halt. The loban had concluded, but a woman who seemed to be in great pain continued to whimper.

I met the woman and her husband the following day. They were Hindus from Uttar Pradesh who had moved to Surat. Like me, they had been staying at the visitors’ quarters near the dargah, but they had been here for the past ten months.

The husband, Mukesh Soni, said they planned to stay there till the annual Urs festival in the Islamic month of Rajab. Urs is the dargah’s most significant celebration―it commemorates the anniversary of the death of Bava Gor around 500 years ago. “We visited many places,” said Mukesh, “but my wife’s mental condition remained precarious. Then a bava from Surat suggested that we come here.”

Faith healing is a popular choice in rural India. On the western coast, there are many obscure shrines that practise faith healing of African-origin. These shrines of Afro-origin saints and deities offer people hope, protection and the possibility of experiencing life-altering miracles. While religions compete and conflict with one another, these ethnic shrines function as syncretic spaces that bring together devotees cutting across class, caste and religion. The stories associated with these shrines, according to anthropologist Neelima Jeyachandran, are “reimagined and reinvented by stakeholders to suit contemporary purposes”.

A result of these reimaginings is that, besides Sidis, a large number of individuals from a diverse range of places and communities now worship the ancestor saints from Africa. “We have faith,” said Mukesh, “in Bava Gor’s power and benevolence.”

THE DIVINE ‘KAFIRS’

A temple near the Kali river at Tariwada in Karwar, Karnataka, looks like a church as well as a mosque. It is the Shri Khapri Deva Temple, the word khapri being a corruption of the Arabic word kafir, which means ‘one without faith’.

Khapri, though, has become a cornerstone of faith in the Karwar region, said Dileep Naik, a Komarpanth Hindu who is one of the seven caretakers of the temple. A 44-year-old IT professional, Naik works from home for an American company. His father had been the deity’s “spirit medium” who interacted with devotees.

Naik said the deity was an African who came to India 500 years ago. “He was a woodcutter who chose a life of celibacy and was known for his selfless nature and willingness to help those in need,” he said. “If anyone lost their way at night, he would guide them back to their home. He lived in the area for more than 40 years. A stone he often sat on is considered sacred.”

Mattancherry near Kochi has a similar legend about a benevolent African guide-spirit. A small shrine at Mangattumukku in Mattancherry is dedicated to Kappiri Muthappan―kappiri meaning kafir and Muthappan meaning ancestor-god. People of all faiths worship Kappiri Muthappan, and on Tuesdays and Fridays, they offer him toddy, mackerel, unsalted fried chicken and cigars. They believe that the Muthappan appears at midnight to partake of the feast.

The offerings at the temple 700km away at Karwar are similar. Around 50,000 devotees visit the temple during the annual Jathra festival in March, and they offer liquor, meat and bidis, and sacrifice hens on the temple premises. In the inner sanctum, there is a stone on which Khapri Deva had sat, and upon it is a black idol of an African figure adorned with flowers.

The Afro-origin community in Karnataka (who spell the name as “Siddis”) is distinct from those in Gujarat, Maharashtra and Diu (“the Sidis”). A DNA study led by sociologist A.M. Shah in 2011 found that the Sidis of Gujarat trace 66.9 to 70.5 per cent of their ancestry to Bantu-speakers of Africa, while the Siddis of Karnataka have 64.8 to 74.4 per cent southeast African ancestry. Unlike in Gujarat, Diu and Maharashtra, where most Sidis follow the Sufi tradition, Siddis in Karnataka harbour a diverse range of belief systems, including Hinduism, Christianity and Islam. There is, nevertheless, a common thread of African traditions that bind them, such as the reverence for Sidi Nash, an ancestral deity symbolised by a sacred stone.

Siddis in Karnataka marry across religions (but rarely do they marry Sidis of western India). For instance, Mohan Ganapati Siddi, a social worker at Yellapur in Uttara Kannada district who accompanied me to the Khapri temple, married a Christian Siddi. His cousin married a Muslim Siddi from Haliyal. “What is paramount to us is the Siddi identity,” Mohan said. “Religion is merely an added layer.”

Mohan told me about a popular Siddi shrine near Yellapur, known as Gudu Gudi Nas, which has traditions similar to Khapri temple. “This shrine is within a reserve forest near Vajralli, and has an ancient idol that resembles the idol in the Karwar temple. Once a year, even non-Siddi devotees gather at Gudu Gudi Nas with offerings that include liquor and ganja rolls,” he said.

In Yellapur, Mohan and I met Ramesh Subba Siddi, a 24-year-old former earthmover operator who is now the priest at Gudu Gudi Nas. He inherited his position as the spirit medium from his late grandfather. “I collect the offerings of villagers―including alcohol and ganja―from their homes and present these to the deity in the forest,” he said. Ramesh said the Siddi deity is an avatar of Shiva, and therefore part of the Hindu pantheon.

While most devotees at Gudu Gudi Nas are forest-dwellers, Tariwada draws mostly coastal communities. During the Jathra festival, the worshippers honour a Catholic Christian from the region by presenting him with all the offerings given to the deity. The belief is that Khapri Deva was a Catholic in his lifetime, and by treating a Christian in this manner, they are essentially honouring Khapri Deva himself.

Naik asserted that the khapri arrived in Karwar of his own volition. It is an interesting claim, as it veers away from the narrative of forced displacement of Africans across continents, and of the Indian Ocean slave trade, and emphasises the dignity and autonomy of the deity as well as the community.

Similar legends asserting the autonomy of Afro-origin saints can be seen among devotees from western India, too. Especially so in Gujarat, which had strong trade ties with Africa, and whose merchants were active in the slave trade. Gujarat, in fact, has the most extensive presence of sacred African shrines. According to Babubhai Sidi, a community elder in Ratanpur, the Sidis in India are the descendants of people who followed Bava Gor from East Africa to Gujarat on a religious mission. He said Gor’s saint-siblings, Bava Habash and Mai Mishra, had come to India to assist him in his mission.

There is no single, monolithic account regarding the arrival of these saints that can be verified for authenticity. Legends depict Gor variously as a Sufi saint, an Abyssinian military leader, a trader, and the inventor of the craft of making agate beads. One legend says he could illuminate the agates with his power of meditation. Intriguingly, many non-Sidi agate traders, particularly those from Khambhat (erstwhile Cambay), revere Bava Gor.

“The variations in stories about Bava Gor can be attributed to the fact that these narratives are rooted in the memories passed down by grandparents or great-grandparents, continuing through generations as oral traditions,” said Beheroze Shroff, a Parsi documentary filmmaker and professor at the University of California, Irvine, who has studied the Sidi community.

According to Shroff, each of the accounts regarding Gor holds significance for the Sidis. “They have creatively and imaginatively embraced Bava Gor as a symbol not only to preserve their dignity but also to construct a history of belonging in India. This is particularly important, given their status as displaced and uprooted individuals who originated from various parts of Africa, often with little knowledge of their specific origins,” she said.

Although Sidis consider Bava Gor, Bava Habash and Mai Mishra as siblings, their legends suggest diverse origins. Bava Gor’s original name, Sidi Mubarak Nobi, indicates that he hailed from Nubia, a region between southern Egypt and central Sudan. Mai Mishra is said to have come from Misr, the Arabic name for Egypt, and Bava Habash from Al-Habash (present-day Ethiopia).

The dargahs of Bava Gor and Mai Mishra in Ratanpur are close to each other, while Bava Habash’s dargah is on a separate hill. Legend has it that the hot-tempered Habash loved solitude, and as he could not stand noisy children, decided to roll away in the form of a flower ball to the nearby hill.

Interestingly, when we visited Bava Habash’s dargah, Firoz’s five-year-old son led the way. At the dargah’s steps, the child removed his footwear with reverence. As I looked inquiringly, Firoz explained: “Over the centuries, Bava Habash has become more tolerant. But even so, nobody is allowed to stay the night near his dargah.”

Thus the legends continue to evolve.

A COMMUNITY OF FAKIRS

In the 15th and 16th centuries, slaves from Africa, particularly Ethiopians in middle eastern slave markets, were brought to India to serve in the growing armies of the Deccan. Unlike colonial powers, the sultanates offered slave soldiers a chance to become free and socially mobile. Islamic law defined the emancipatory right of slaves. Many of them converted to Islam and, through marriage, gradually assimilated into Indian society. Some of them rose to positions of power, like General Malik Ambar of Ahmadnagar and General Sidi Masud of Adilshahi sultanates.

But scholars say there is little “direct link” between sultanate-era African soldiers and the Sidis who now live on the western coast. The soldiers merged with the Muslim elites in India. The Sidis of today, say scholars, are the descendants of a later period of the slave trade sustained by European, Arab and Gujarati merchants.

In the 1840s, the British abolished slavery in India (though African slave import apparently continued till the 1930s). Shroff says many of the freed men and women, as well as those who escaped their princely masters, found refuge in dargahs and chillas of ancestor-saints. Sacred shrines thus became spaces where uprooted individuals from different parts of Africa could come together, form new bonds and become part of a community.

Incidentally, the dargahs and chillas close to Sidi villages bear the local community’s occupational stamp. For instance in Diu, where most Sidis are into fisheries, a saint who has authority over the seas (Dariya Pir) is venerated. The Nagarchi Pir Dargah in Gujarat’s Jambur, 20km from the Gir national park, is surrounded by a community deeply connected to forestry and agriculture. The saint Nagarchi Pir and the Gir lions are believed to share a unique bond; lions, in fact, occasionally grace the dargah premises.

Nagarchi Pir is also considered a sibling of Bava Gor. There is a chilla in honour of Mai Mishra, too, near the dargah. A small stream separates the dargah from the Sidi village, whose residents are primarily manual labourers. The houses are clustered together, because Sidis prefer not to build standalone houses. Despite Jambur’s apparent poverty―many houses were half-built and had low doorways―the dargah and its surroundings were well-maintained and had all amenities.

Studies say that villages near the dargahs helped uprooted people of African descent form a fraternity of fakirs. Their unique rituals, coupled with their exotic physical features, became associated with potent healing abilities. Ritualistic music and dance, known as goma (also called Sidi Dhammal), play a vital role in the Sidi community’s healing practices.

Interestingly, goma bears similarities to ngoma―the ritualistic dance and music accompanied by drumming that is still prevalent in Africa, particularly among those who speak Bantu languages such as Swahili, Xhosa and Zulu. As an umbrella term, ngoma also encompasses healing practices like dream interpretation and spirit possession. In many places, nearby communities look upon Sidi fakirs as embodiments of spiritual powers associated with barkat (abundance) and karamat (miracle healing).

Devotees make offerings that align with a saint’s temperament and disposition―such as colourful bangles for Mai Mishra. There are innovations as well. At a chilla in Dongri, Mumbai, I saw a devotee offering a kit that had beauty-care products―shampoo and talcum powder to coconut oil and fairness cream.

In Ahmedabad, I met Hameeda Biwi Sidi, an 82-year-old spirit medium who lives in the Sidi neighbourhood near the Sidi Sayyid Mosque. During the annual Urs, as the goma intensifies, Hameeda enters a trance state known as hal. “I became a medium for Mai Mishra at the age of seven,” Hameeda said. “When Mai is within me, there is no need for anyone to ask her questions. She knows their concerns without anyone uttering a word.”

In Karnataka, too, Siddis practise faith healing, though with significant differences from such practices in Gujarat. In Uttara Kannada, I saw Siddi faith healers invoking non-Siddi saints as well. A unique example: Rosina B. Salagatti Siddi of Thottalgundi village is a Christian who invokes a Sufi saint known as Doodh Nana. Next to her humble house is a dargah, where she “treats” illnesses ranging from skin problems to mental afflictions.

Rosina wore a bright green sari that matched the colour of the dargah’s walls. She and her brother Rocky had built the dargah, ignoring the opposition of the church to her adoration of a Sufi saint. She said she chose to remain unmarried because of her “commitment” to the saint. “There are people who want to label the healing practices here as demonic. But we are doing nothing harmful; we only help people,” she said.

In Karnataka, Siddis perform traditional dances like phoogidi, dolki, dhammam and sigmo to celebrate festivals, weddings, childbirth and commemorative events. These dances have similarities with goma of the Sufi Sidis, but there are notable differences in the instruments employed and rhythms played. The dances are performed irrespective of religious affiliation, with songs that seek blessings from Bava Gor and the ancestral deity Siddi Nash. In Karnataka, though, Gor is not a Sufi saint; he is a clan leader.

“Most Christian Siddis,” said Mohan, “have two wedding ceremonies: one at the church and another at home in the Siddi way with dhammam.”

THE PERSIAN CONNECTION

After the Arab conquest of Persia in 651 CE, Parsis took refuge in the Indian subcontinent. Like African slaves who were brought to India, Parsis also experienced forced displacement, but their journey in the subcontinent took a different course. While preserving their religious traditions, they assimilated into the Gujarati culture and transformed themselves into an urban community during British rule.

Following the abolition of slavery in the 1840s, the Parsis in Surat and Bombay employed freed African slaves as domestic help. Almost a century later, a segment of their descendants in Bombay once again turned to Africanity―this time for ‘spiritual help’. A Sunni Muslim boy, named Makbul, trained as a fakir under the Sufi master Gul Hazarashah, became a spirit medium of Bava Gor, and came to act as a bridge between two communities still grappling with the effects of their forced displacement.

A Parsi businessman, Dinsaji Kalianiwalla, once met Makbul Bava at the Pedrushah dargah near Bombay’s Crawford Market. Kalianiwalla soon became a disciple, and along with him, more than 200 Parsis began worshipping Bava Gor and listening to Makbul Bava, without rejecting their traditional religion.

As the American psychological anthropologist Tanya Marie Luhrmann wrote, the Parsis were facing social dilemmas in the 1940s and 1950s. According to her, under colonial rule, they felt a sense of purpose as “agents of social change”―they were educated in the British system, but played an important role in the freedom struggle. The end of the British rule in India, she said, suffused them with a “sense of loss”. “Many people either clung to whatever faith they had or were looking outwards for new forms and modalities of faith,” she wrote.

Shroff’s family, too, embraced Bava Gor’s faith. “In the 1950s, my father had depression,” said Shroff. “Back then, depression was not something that was dealt with medically. He looked for a guru. And finally, a Parsi guided him to Makbul Bava.”

Parsis helped rebuild a makeshift chilla of Bava Gor at Kurla that had been destroyed in a cyclone in 1946. “Makbul Bava never asked them to abandon their religion,” said Shroff.

Even today, Parsis throng the chilla, which is also known as Parsi chilla. Parsi prayers are recited here, along with prayers of other faiths. “Following the loban and other rituals, we assemble around the chilla of Bava Gor and the dargah of Makbul Bava to recite Parsi prayers,” said a 65-year-old Parsi devotee from Dadar. “Occasionally, people of other faiths who are familiar with our prayers join in.”

The current caretaker of the chilla is Makbul Bava’s grandson―Yasin Bava, who had told me the legend of the 50 steps in Ratanpur.

THE MEMORY KEEPERS

Unlike other states on the western coast, Kerala does not have an African diaspora―possibly because African-origin people were socially and culturally integrated with the local population. In the coastal areas of Kochi, though, subaltern communities maintain household shrines to keep alive memories of African spirits.

Many of these shrines represent the kappiri spirit in the form of kappirikallu―a symbolic stone much like the ones that Siddis of Karnataka worship. Certain Vannars―descendants of a Tamil-speaking community of washermen who were brought by the Dutch to Kochi from Coimbatore and Tirunelveli in the 1700s―have a tradition of worshipping the kappiri spirit in their homes. They maintain kappiritharas, platforms for the worship of the spirit.

“Every day, we light a lamp or candle to honour Muthappan, who serves as a family guardian,” said Manoj Ponnappan, a 60-year-old Vannar who had worked in the middle east. “On occasions such as weddings or children’s naming ceremonies, we offer dried fish, boiled eggs and bread to Muthappan. Toddy and cigars as well. The head of the family cleans himself before making the offerings, and we invoke the presence of Muthappan and seek his blessings. After a while, the offerings are distributed among the people.”

Manoj and his family follow Hindu customs. They light lamps at the kappiri shrine in the evening, just as they do before Hindu idols. The Vannars rely on astrological calculations to discern the spirit’s preferences. The kappirithara at Manoj’s house is under a mango tree, which he had planned to cut down, but desisted after an astrologer said Muthappan disapproved of it.

A section of the Konkani Vaishya community, too, reveres Muthappan. “We perceive his presence in trees,” said Sivaprasad R. Pai, a Konkani who lives in Mattancherry. “We light candles at the base of the trees and offer primarily vegetarian items such as puttu, banana and milk. Toddy and cigars are not uncommon. After making these offerings, we turn away without looking back.”

Rai’s house has a kappirithara; his father, P. Ramesh Pai, had acquired the plot from a Vannar family on Dhobi Street. “We continue the practice of lighting the lamp for the kappiri spirit every day,” said Pai.

On the Vypin islands close to Kochi, Pulaya dalits have rituals similar to those seen at the Muthappan shrines. Their ‘muthappans’, however, are not kappiris, but their own ancestors. Their offerings include cigars, toddy and meat, and they do the ritual of “spirit possession”. In some sacred groves of Vypin, Kappiri Muthappan is worshipped with other Hindu and ancestral deities.

WATCHFUL PROTECTORS

Farooq Sidi, 41, a gig worker in Ahmedabad, lives close to the famous Sarkhej Roza, a mosque and mausoleum complex where the Sufi saint Sheikh Ahmed Ganj Baksh lies buried. It was Baksh who suggested that Ahmed Shah of the Gujarat sultanate build a new capital on the banks of the river Sabarmati.

Ahmedabad, which thus came into being, has a rich tapestry of Sidi history and legend. Farooq is passionate about preserving it. According to him, Ahmedabad owes much of its prosperity to the Sidis who prevented the goddess of wealth, Lakshmi, from leaving the city.

“During Ahmed Shah’s reign, Sidis guarded all 12 gates to Ahmedabad,” Farooq explained. “Once, in a fit of anger, Lakshmi Devi decided to leave the city. Sidi Sujat, the guard at the Bhadra gate, implored her not to leave until he obtained permission from the ruler. But he had to ultimately sacrifice himself to prevent her from leaving.”

The story has various versions, with different names for the king and the guard. Taken together, they provide subtle insights into the sacrifices that the Sidis have made in service of their rulers.

The legend of the Sidi sacrifice remains relevant in another way, too. “The Sidis, at our own expense, prevented the city from falling into poverty,” said Farooq. “But we continue to be impoverished.”

Kerala, too, has accounts of sacrifices of Afro-origin men and women. In the 16th and 17th centuries, African slaves served Portuguese businesses and households in Kochi. In 1663, the Dutch defeated the Portuguese and many slaves perished. There is, however, no historical records of the number of the dead.

A legend of Kappiri Muthappan suggests that the slaves were actually killed by their masters themselves. As the Portuguese fled Kochi, many of them buried their treasures, and the kappiris were buried alongside to safeguard them. Some people believe that the souls of these men and women still roam the streets of Fort Kochi and Mattancherry.

The police headquarters at Shahibag in Ahmedabad has a graveyard of around 80 afro-origin warriors who died in battle. Among them is the legendary Sidi Sultan, who, according to Farooq, continued to fight even after he was decapitated. The graveyard draws a multitude of devotees, including policemen of various faiths.

The grave of the Sidi gatekeeper who blocked the goddess Lakshmi is in a tin shed behind the Bhadra Fort. Street vendors often use the shed as storage space, even though they revere the martyr. The Sidis hold an annual Urs at the shrine, but they can hardly afford a caretaker to look after it.

The graves of Sidi generals who died defending the Gujarat sultanate are worse off. Near Sarkhej Roza, for instance, is a graveyard where heroes such as Bilal Jhujhar Khan (a general who served the last sultan) are buried. Enter the graveyard at your own peril―feral dogs have become its guardians.

DISSENT AND DISCRIMINATION

In 1986-87, the Sports Authority of India started the Special Area Games scheme, which aimed at nurturing athletes from ethnic groups that had a “natural aptitude” for sports. One of the Siddi athletes selected for training was Juje Jackie Harnodkar Siddi of Uttara Kannada. Juje was among 30 teenagers in the second batch in 1989. But the scheme floundered and athletes who did not meet performance standards were sent back to their villages. The scheme was eventually shut down in 1993.

Instead of returning to his hometown, Juje joined the Bengaluru Police, and later secured a sports-quota job in the Employees’ Provident Fund Organisation. “I have experienced discrimination at my workplace,” he said. “I have suffered inordinate delays in processes like passport renewal and police verification. My son has not yet received his domicile status even though he was born in Mumbai.”

The root of the prejudice is that most Indians remain ignorant of their fellow citizens of African descent. As Juje said, stories about them and about the saints and spirits of African lineage can raise awareness and make people kinder and gentler. Narratives about the saints and spirits of African lineage, he said, were crucial for attaining this objective.

“We have no alternative but to challenge the biases,” he said, “because India is our homeland as well. We were born here, and we have no other place to call home.”