Drummers and tongs-players, covering-carrying groups were led by youth who danced and pranced and whirled. They quickened as the drum quickened. They had come to pay homage, to bow their heads in gratitude. There were some in green with bangles on their hands and chains on their ankles who churned the air with their long hair and the vigorous tossing of their heads. Groups of aspiring Sufis chanted Allah-Hu in unison. Some sported empty milk cans, others plastic bags in the hope of filling them at the Langer-khana, charity kitchen.

On both sides of the lane the small shops were bright with mercury lights. The wares glittered and gleamed: munds, of the flowers and petals, of pickles and preserves and silver foiled, mithai of sugar cakes and sweet assortments, garlands in rows, attar in vials and kohl in mainature phials. Shops blaring folk songs, encomiums to the Prophet (pbuh) and Qawwalis. Gates where tandoor chapattis were being distributed without charge and shops spreading out their books. On the ground beads and bangles sellers, ring hawkers who engraved names while one waited and trinket peddlers. Out on the main roads cauldrons of oil steamed and sizzled tens of delicacies. There were clay pots and pottery heaped in hay. There were fortune-telling parrots and cheep toy vendors. In the green belt of the old city the Ferris-wheel turned, the circus tent was pitched and amusement stalls had come up. The sacred and the secular mixed.

The shrine and the mosque had been draped in lights. Inside a more reverent crowd queued to touch the marble window of the tomb. The coverings shrunk here and slithered like green snakes, over the heads of he devotees, as they were pulled at the other end and deposited next the grave to the saint. Thousands sat on straw mats, praying, meditating, reading the Quran, reciting verses in praise of the Prophet, the saint.