Our camp was pitched on some small flats covered with the stubble of júár crops, and hard by was a collection of six or seven kirrí or booths belonging to the Khánzai Brahoe. They have adopted this proud title because the Khán of Calát is married to a daughter of their tribal chief. The benefits of the alliance do not seem to extend beyond the empty honour of the title, for a poorer and more miserable set of people we have not yet seen in his territories. The villagers, too, who brought our supplies into camp were in no better plight. Several hideous old women, who carried loads of wood and straw for our camp, were only half clad, and apparently less fed. Poor creatures! theirs is truly a hard lot; they are the mean drudges of the community, are despised by the men, and evilly entreated by the younger and more fortunate members of their own sex. Whilst these wretched people were toiling under their loads, a number of young men, who, judging from outward appearance and circumstances, were little if at all exalted above them in social status, seated themselves about the skirts of our camp and idly viewed the spectacle.
The situation of Hatáchi, in the midst of these rugged and barren hills, may be described as a pretty spot. As we saw it, the place is almost deserted; but in the spring months it is alive with the camps of the migratory Brahoe, moving with their families and flocks up to the higher plateaux of the Calát tableland. There is a shrine or ziárat here, dedicated to the memory of Bahá-ulhacc, the saint of Multán. It is only noteworthy on account of the conspicuous clump of palm and other trees in the dark shades of which it is concealed.
Our next stage was sixteen miles to Narr. For about seven miles the road winds through a wide belt of tamarisk jangal, to the south of which, in a bend of the hills, is the Farzán-ná Bent, or “the cultivation of Farzán.” A few scattered huts of the Hindu grain-dealers of Kotra were seen here and there, but there is no permanent habitation here.
Beyond this we passed through a narrow gorge into the Pír Lákha basin, which we entered near the domed tomb of that name. It was built about a century ago, in the time of the first Nasír Khán, Baloch, and is already in a state of decay. Around it are a number of humble graves, the depository of the remains of departed Brahoe of this part of the country. They are tended by some faqírs, whose families are housed in very neat and comfortable quarters hard by—to wit, two commodious huts, surrounded by corn-fields, and shaded by some lofty date-palm and jujube trees.
Pír Lákha is about half-way between Hatáchi and Narr, and is approached through a narrow passage between perpendicular walls of rock, that rise in sheer precipices to a height of 150 to 200 feet. I was turning my head first to the right and then to the left, noting that the strata on the one side were horizontal, and on the other vertical, when one of the escort, riding behind me, and from whom, during the march, I had been making inquiries as to the people and country we were passing through, unexpectedly exclaimed, “And there’s the dragon!” “Where?” said I, eagerly, not at the moment quite sure but that some frightful monster was peering at us over a ledge of rock. “There,” said he, pointing to the blank wall of rock on our left, which formed the southern boundary of the passage; “don’t you see it running up the rock?” “No,” I answered, staring full force in the direction indicated; “I see no dragon. What is it like? Is it moving or stationary?” Here my friend, as I could see by the laugh in his eyes, was moved with inward mirth at the not unnatural misunderstanding on my part in taking his words in their literal acceptation. He controlled the expression of his merriment, however, and, with a serious countenance, explained, “I don’t mean alive dragon, sir; God preserve us from him!” Somewhat disappointed, “Then you should have been more precise,” I irresistibly interposed. “But, sir,” said he, in justification, “it is called the ‘dragon of Pír Lákha,’ although it’s only his trail; and there it is, clear as noonday, on the face of the rock.”
And so the dragon resolved itself into the reptile’s trail only, and the trail in turn proved to be merely a vein of white quartz running obliquely across the face of the rock. An inquiry into the history of the dragon naturally followed this denouement; and here is my Brahoe informant’s account, much in his own style of narration:—
In olden times, a great red dragon used to haunt this defile. He was the terror of the wicked as well as of the just, for he devoured them alike, such as came in his way, without distinction; and when he could not seize men, he laid in wait and entrapped their sheep, and goats, and cattle. Owing to his insatiable appetite, and his continued depredations, the country was depopulated; and so widespread was the terror of this monster, that wayfarers ceased to travel by this road. At length the holy man whose shrine lies yonder undertook to rid the country of this bloodthirsty tyrant’s oppression. Pír Lákha planted his takya or cell on the spot now occupied by his mausoleum; and so great was the sanctity of his character, and so powerful the protecting influence of God Almighty, that the dragon voluntarily came to pay homage to the saint, and, in place of offering violence, besought his favour with the utmost submission and tender of service.
The Pír made the dragon repeat the kalama or Prophet’s creed, and converted him to the true faith, to Islám; and giving him his liberty, commanded him not to oppress God’s creatures, and that the Almighty in His mercy would provide for him. And so it was the dragon disappeared, and the country became free, and the saint’s memory perpetuated in the shrine that bears his name. Pír Lákha is the most popular saint of the Brahoe in this part of the country, and his sanctuary is held in the highest reverence by all the tribes around, who constantly resort to it to offer up their prayers and supplications, and to beseech the saint’s blessing, particularly since the catastrophe connected with the dragon’s trail, which, we have just seen, gave such confirming proof of his merits and supernatural powers. It was in this wise: In the early days, when people began to forget the debt of their gratitude to the saint for the great boon conferred by him on them, were careless in the performance of their vows, and neglected to support the servitors of his shrine, they were aroused to a proper sense of their obligations by the reappearance of the dreaded dragon in his former haunts, and with his accustomed violence. The first to feel the weight of his oppression was the tumandár, or “chief of a camp,” of migratory Brahoe who used to winter in the vicinity.
It was in this manner: His favourite wife, who was young, handsome, and well connected, was blessed with no offspring. This was a sore trial to her, and for several years she offered up her petitions at the saint’s shrine as the camp passed it on their way to and return from the summer grazing grounds. At length, making a special pilgrimage to the shrine, she prayed earnestly for the saint’s intercession that it might please God to give her a son, and vowed to give the priest in charge a cow on her prayer being granted. The saint through the priest informed her that her prayer was heard, and, please God, the desire of her heart should be gratified. She went away happy in mind, and in due time was rejoiced by the birth of a son. But, her desire gratified, she forgot her vow, and even failed to offer up her prayers and thank-offerings at the shrine on passing it to the summer pastures, and the like carelessness did she show on the return therefrom in autumn. Next spring, as the camp marched through the gorge on its accustomed journey, the dragon, watching his opportunity, dashed into the midst, seized the boy from its mother’s arms, and disappeared with it over the hills, leaving that white track of its body as a memorial on the rock.
Such in substance was the Brahoe’s story. It explains, at all events, the comfortable circumstances of the faqírs attached to the service of the mausoleum of Pír Lákha. In such a country, the lot of these people—the priesthood—is really enviable. They are respected and trusted by all classes, they enjoy free grants of land for their support, and receive besides tithes and other offerings; they are not affected by tribal feuds, nor are they obliged to interfere in the politics of the people; and altogether they are the most comfortable and well-to-do of the community. Yet they possess no special merits: generally they are but little better educated than the mass of the common people, and are indebted for their good fortune more to hereditary right than anything else.