Wrapped in centuries of wonder and reverence, the Ajmer Sharif Dargah of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti strikes me as the grave of a pearl.

As classical Islamic mysticism blends with folk traditions and ancient faiths, all boundaries in humanity break down in absolute devotion; some to him, others to hope. Oneness sets in outside, in the crowded alley lined with tight shops, where impassioned devotees jostle through beggars and sellers to reach the majestic Nizam Gate, a bequest from the Nizam of Hyderabad in 1915.

One deposits shoes, thoughts and the outside world at the steps to enter the most venerated monument from the13th century of the founder of South Asia’s paramount Chishti Sufi order. In the alabaster oasis, khadims in crisp white offer to guide you through the complex dotted with stalls of green and red chadors, rose petals, misri, threads, and incense.

Further down, on the side of the Ehaata-i-Noor, where many saints prayed for him, is where Khwaja is entombed. The main gate to his burial chamber is grandiose, so I go towards the side where a small door, by his feet, opens into the same room. Prayer enclosures lie on either side of the doorway; it is modest, intimate, less touched by imposing gestures of gratitude from ancient emperors and the affluent.

Khwaja’s threshold is overwhelming — its air is moist with sweat and tears and resonates with rushed, desperate murmurs, the slow, reluctant shuffle of hundreds of feet amid directions from khadims. Sadly, there is no time to gaze at him, beneath a silver and mother-of-pearl canopy from Emperor Jehangir, covered in flowers and shrouds as a patterned silver fence encircles it.

I turn to a bejewelled Hindu lady to ask what she finds here. “You cannot see Allah. We don’t know Eeshwar, but Gharib Nawaz knows God. He can take our prayers to Him. Can’t you feel the power?” she replies with moist, kohl-rimmed eyes.

The Sufi giant, Sultan-ul-Hind, was born in Afghanistan in 1142 AD and chose Ajmer as his home in 1192 AD. His most powerful devotee was the secular emperor, Jalaluddin Akbar, who paid homage often for sons and conquests and on occasion came on foot from Agra. Many reminders of Akbar’s devotion mark these grounds — Akbari Masjid in marble stands in the entrance courtyard and two mammoth deghs tower on either side of the Buland Darwaza by Mahmood Khilji.

The smaller one was installed by Akbar on the occasion of the birth of his heir and feeds 55,000 people; and the other, twice the size, came from his son. Another mosque appears in the Shahjahani patio. Inscribed with the names of God in Persian, it is easily the most intricate spot beside the Shahjahan Darwaza and the courtyard of Chaaryaar lies behind it. Meanwhile, it was Humayun who completed the entire edifice of the shrine.

The tomb square, which contains the Begumi Dalaan, laid by Shahjahan’s daughter Jehanara, glistens like silver in the shadow of a magnificent dome. The king’s second daughter, Hural Nisa, is buried on one side of the tomb, enclosed in a marble trellis. Khwaja’s only daughter, Bibi Syeda Hafiza Jamal, lies by one of the tomb’s doors in a tiny white room with a stupa and further down is his wife, Bibi sahiba.

The mid-afternoon hours are a redolent time — the front door closes and a black curtain comes down on the back door where I stand obstinately to witness a dramatic, moving Khidmat ritual.

Senior khadims in black robes enter the prime sanctum to bathe the sepulchre in sandalwood, saffron, rose water and the heady fragrance wafts out. Diyas are lit in the four corner niches, peacock feathers sweep the floor, with new covers and fresh flowers placed on him. Sandal and Fateha close the ceremony; khadims begin to pour out; tearful, their hair and clothes soaked.

Before the sun dissolves behind the dome, a similar cleansing process is repeated, the shrine’s drummers emerge to provide the background score for Persian verses recited by keepers carrying oil lamps aloft.

Few aspects are entirely unique to this most consecrated shrine in South Asia. “The real taweez is usually in the basement. Sarkar’s grave was given a customary boundary and covered because all the saints of the time sprinkled dust on him as they recited holy verses, so it was not suitable to build another above it,” says a prominent khadim, Mohammed Khalid Hashmi.

Hashmi also says that it is the only rauza where prayers are ceaseless. I look around and see some in deep meditation, others on a prayer mat, people chanting scriptures and Sikhs huddled around their Guru Granth Sahib.

Then there is the frail Khatib sahib who carries a small steel urn, and wanders in a white cotton outfit. He has spent over 40 years at the dargah and says nothing of his belongings or family, but holds his peacock feather of a pen close to his heart.

“Khatib sahib is like the wind. But for Sarkar, he stays put throughout Ramazan and Rajab, the month of the Urs,” says Hashmi.

Hashmi is soon surrounded by people who have come for mannats and with gratitude for fulfilled dreams. It is the hour to leave a place where the world of man blurs; when man and divinity are close. As the rickshaw ride begins, I cannot look back enough times till the dome is eclipsed by the dark.

Published in Dawn March 8th , 2015

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