My memory of witnessing the magical powers of mythical entities called djinns is inextricably linked with an incident in what seems like another life, another time. It was in my early adolescence that I first savoured special aflatoon from Suleman Usman Mithaiwala, the sweetmeat shop on Muhammad Ali Road in Mumbai, which has now come to be known around the world squarely, some say, on the popularity of its unique and fortifying speciality.
Of Aflatoons And Djinns
Bad djinns may offer fodder for films, but it was through the help of good djinns that the author saw aflatoons produced from thin air
Aflatoon fills your mouth with its soft, mellow richness. Made from dry fruits, crushed mawa (coagulated milk) and sooji (semolina), it is swathed in ghee; the latter’s flavour will swarm your tastebuds upon the very first bite. The fact that we, a clutch of boys and girls, had got to relish the prized delicacy without having to pay for it, which anyway nobody could have, felt like a luxury.
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We owed our little party to Baba Wadood, a lanky fellow, with sunken eyes, broad forehead, and long, wavy locks. In the early 1990s, he had briefly become a bit of a cult in the north Bihar village where I grew up. Nobody knew what he exactly did for a living. And yet, it was said, there was nothing that he could not do. Before he pulled out an incredible feat right before our eyes and satiated us in record time, he had performed several mind-boggling acts of generosity and, of course, ‘magic’—pleading with his beneficiaries every time not to go around talking about it.
But word got around; it always does in a small place where everyone knows everyone. In a matter of few months, Baba Wadood came to be besieged with myriad requests from people: help with things that they had lost, better marriage prospects for their daughters and suitable jobs for their sons, getting ahead in life or, simply, wanting to relish things they desired to eat and drink. When Baba Wadood realised that his reputation had started preceding him, he quietly disappeared, and was never seen again.
Before Baba Wadood had appeared on the scene, djinns and conversations around them were part of our everyday life. In the neighbourhood, there would always be someone or the other who would be a victim of what is known as ‘djinn possession’. The ‘possessed’ person, often a young woman, would be suddenly transmogrified. If she had hitherto been veiled and coy, she would throw away the sari pallu or dupatta and shout assalam-o-alaikum (peace to you) to everyone in a strong, guttural voice. Men in the family, some of whom would hardly get to see the faces of these women on normal days, would be palpably gripped by fear, shock and disbelief.
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And, then the ‘possessed’ person, in an altered state of consciousness, would transition into a monologue about the state of the world and, to the horror of folks in her family, what they had been doing privately. For instance, a young man who was studying to be a hafiz (someone who can recite the Quran by heart), was promptly asked to keep his mouth shut when he tried to plead with the djinn to leave the body of the possessed: “I know that you have been watching TV secretly. It’s better for you to stay silent else I will spill the beans on your other wrongdoings.”
Every djinn ‘possession’ would be a spectacle to behold. The possessed woman would rant for hours, in an angry, high-pitched tone. It was not right, she would pronounce, that the men and the women were drifting away from the true teachings of Islam: women abandoning the purdah, and men not praying five times. People were also harangued for their choice of clothes: “Islam hamein aisi fahashi ki ijazat nahin deta (Islam does not allow such perversity).” She would be either sitting upright on a cot, with gay abandon or sprawled on it—legs akimbo, arms stretched. Soon, someone would be sent out to fetch the man everyone called Hafiz saab. He had the entire Quran, comprising more than 6,000 verses, lodged in his heart and could fluently recite them. He also acted as an exorcist or a raqi, who would conduct ruqya (spiritual healing) and expel the djinn from the ‘possessed’ person.
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For us children, that process would be no less fascinating to watch either. Hafiz saab, who could be spotted from a distance by his scraggly beard, would arrive and immediately begin the proceedings to chase the ‘evil spirit’ away from the ‘possessed’ woman. He would ask the householder to pour hot mustard oil in the woman’s ears. She would squirm but not writhe in pain. Hafiz saab would simultaneously recite the holy verses and blow hard into a glass of water, which he’d either sprinkle on the woman’s face or force her to drink. Sometimes, he would get violent—slap the woman, pull her ears ferociously. We would be aghast.
When the djinn had had enough, it would agree to leave, but not without issuing a warning that it would soon return. Not long after, this entire process would be repeated all over again, with us watching. Now when I think about it, I marvel at how these women defied, though unwittingly, the limitations imposed on them by their gender through their supposed ‘connection’ with mythical creatures from the netherworld. When they were possessed, they would state things as they were. Sometimes, they’d also underscore the misdeeds and injustices of their husband, brother, or father. It was the voice of the djinn that enabled them to achieve the unthinkable—threaten male family members to mend their ways.
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The djinn that took hold of women’s bodies in my village and needed to be warded off can be termed as good, and meant no harm. Mostly, they would help people solve their problems or end their misery. But in Muslim folklore, there are other types of djinn—a plural noun in Arabic literally meaning demon or spirit, and has been Romanised as djinn and Anglicised as genie. They are the animalculæ in the illimitable air, gossamer-like, and unseen by the naked eye.
In Islam, djinns are categorised into three types: type one flies in the air all the time; type two, called hinn, exists as snakes and dogs; and type three is largely earthbound, resides in one place and wanders about the world. This broad category of djinns includes shapeshifting ghouls, who are cannibalistic (they feed on corpses stolen from graves) and blood-drinking; the infernal, and enormous, winged creatures called the Ifrits; and the intelligent Silats that can take the appearance of humans. The most mischievous, however, is shaitaan (devil) which alone has the power to plant evil ideas in the minds of all human beings.
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Besides the good ones, there are malignant djinns who infest empty houses, tease and trouble humans, cause sickness and diseases, make objects disappear from people’s homes, and take revenge if unknowingly mistreated. Such instances were commonplace in my village, where djinns were both wondrous and wicked, troublesome and cooperative, and vengeful and beneficent—as they are in The Arabian Nights.
Horror films in recent years, however, have failed to do justice to the fantastical tales of djinns; one is hard-pressed to find a single film in the last two decades that unravels their mysterious world and is also a scare-fest. The Western perception of djinns or genies is still stuck in the past: Barbara Eden as the 2,000-year-old genie sporting pink harem pants in I Dream of Jeannie, the sitcom of the 1960s, or the one in the magic lamp in Disney’s 1992 animated feature film, Aladdin. In 2014, US-based director Ajmal Zaheer Ahmad, whose parents were born in India, made Jinn with an intention to show that djinns were just like humans: They could be good and bad, have friends and families, and practise different faiths. The film is as plodding as David Charbonier & Justin Powell’s The Djinn (2021), about an evil djinn who stalks a mute 12-year-old in a suburban home on a summer night in 1989.
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Bad djinns may offer fodder for films, but it was through the help of good djinns that Baba Wadood had got us the aflatoons from Suleman Usman Mithaiwala. He would call them muwakkils (someone through whom you get things done), who would obey each of his commands, come hell or high water. After he had succumbed to our fervent requests to treat us, Baba Wadood had raised his empty hands towards the sky, and lo and behold, a packet of aflatoons had appeared from nowhere.
Baba Wadood, I later found out, was a dervish who was said to have perfected the technique of ‘out-of-body experiences’ through years of rigorous amal (spiritual process to become an aamil, person with special/paranormal powers), which involves prolonged fasting and chanting special prayers over a period of time, usually 41 days. He was a thaumaturgist, who could practically do anything under the sun. He could help people cope with djinn ‘possession’, cast out demons, and heal damaged souls. And on a good day, get aflatoons for children.
(This appeared in the print edition as "Aflatoons and Djinns")
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