Step 4: Don't forget to say your prayers

We blew off tonight's fashion week after party to experience a different kind of worship. The shrine of Baba Shah Jamal is a sacred Sufi site - visited every Thursday night by a throng of devotees.

A motley crew bundled into two cars from the red carpet - a fashion designer, three journalists, a photographer, and a famous Pakistani TV star. We fell out into the mud on a dark side street tucked behind some crumbling buildings, immediately blinded by the neon lights from jalebi stalls. In the distance drum beats grew ever more intense, and the smell of incense mixed with hashish came from each direction in smoky waves. We clambered through the shadowed faces of the crowd, pulling scarves over our heads. We made our way past beggar women sitting on the wet marble steps, their twig thin arms reaching forward in supplication. Leaving our shoes with the attendant (who chucked them in a heap with the others, giving me the distinct feeling that our exit would involve a jumble-sale-style riffle through the enormous pile) we entered the building. Us women crept under a piece of tarpaulin to go through our designated entrance
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Through the arch was a huge marble precinct with a huge above, covered in neon lights. Around it, pilgrims lit small candles in ceramic bowls. A gaggle of small girls reached up to touch my white hand, presumably as a dare. They quickly lost interest when they recognised our friend the TV star, and sat on the floor staring at her adoringly in silence.

Beneath the dome is the tomb of Baba Shah Jamal. It's a men only zone, but outside a woman prayed fervently. Her forehead every so often touched the grate in front of her, which is covered in small padlocks, placed in order to secure each supplicant's request. A quick peek inside at the men, who were bowing down in reverence in front of the marble slab, covered in a blanket of fresh red carnations.

We headed out, trailed by the TV star's small adoring fans, and then, their mothers and grandmothers to witness the real event.

Women were, once again, to keep their distance and so, standing on the steps we peered down into the courtyard where a crowd of men had gathered, teeming in from all corners, sitting down, walking around the perimeter, smoking hashish and swaying. A blanket of fragrant smoke rose - it was a shared affair. Boy carried trays of long jalebi sweets above their heads, passing them around so that the intoxicated might quell their sugar cravings.

The ceremony features the practice known as Dhol, and it is run by Pappu Sain, a man some know as a performer, and others as a saint. A tall, dark skinned old man, adorned with beads and embued with the authority that invokes silence with the twitch of a finger, he comes here every Thursday to play and dance with his followers.

The evening began as two drummers, brothers Gongu and Mithu Sain, drummed a frenetic beat in perfect time - a feat made even more impressive by the fact that one of them was entirely deaf. It was then that Pappa Sain's followers, who looked like Rasputins dressed in red and white, twirled, in a trance, holding their arms up, jangling heavy bells on their ankles. These were the dervishes. Members of the crowd stumbled, intoxicated, into the ring, but were immediately pushed out: this was for devotees only. My journalist friend from Karachi told me that these men were left at the temple as babies by people whose prayers to the saint were answered.

The crowd did not cheer: soporific, they stood and watched. But there was an electricity in the air which, even from the cheap seats, was palpable. Food was passed around from hand to hand - naan filled with a brown spicy sauce that I tried not to think too hard about as I placed it in my mouth. This is also a place, I was told, where people do not go hungry.

As we left, we s topped at the gift shop, or rather, a ramshackle stall lit by a single candle over the road where (as long as you don't get run over by a donkey cart first) you can purchase as much tin jewellery and holy bits of coloured thread as you like and probably still not pay over 100 rupees (80p). Or you could get a long string of pom poms as a present for a friend back home. They might not make Baba Shah Jamal answer their deepest desires but they might make the downstairs loo look cheerful.

In any case, it wa s home time, and, minding the donkey muck and holding up a friend who'd partaken of a little too much of the good plant, we picked out our shoes and found our way to the car. Though I think we'd used up all our blessings just managing to get home.



For photos that ar e a lot better than mine click here. I blame my pathetic offering on the fact that I am a woman and thus banished to the outer temple.