As the sun slips down the sky, behind the intricate detailing of the minarets, the last shadows lean on the trees and then stretch across the white marble floor of the dargah’s courtyard,  breathing quietly in the heart of Dewa Sharif, a small town I call my ancestral home.

Every time I return, I find myself drawn to a quaint corner of the dargah, just to breathe in its pure air and soak in the goodness that gathers there. I sit and listen to people speaking softly, to women making dua beneath the veil of their dupattas, hands folded, eyes searching for peace in the shade of the huge trees that seem to embrace even the most distraught.

As the time for Maghrib (the evening prayer) draws near, light filters through the branches of the large neem trees wilting gently in the courtyard, and falls on the iron rack that holds incense sticks, a brass holder, and a matchbox.

Every day, after Maghrib, someone takes on the responsibility of lighting the incense sticks, filling the courtyard with a pure, fragrant ambience. Slowly, others gather. In this courtyard, everyone is equal – at least here, in this divine space. People of all ages and genders – men, women, children and beyond, sit together, listening to the qawwali as the fragrant smoke rises into the night.

We have all seen people lighting or placing incense sticks in places of worship, whether temples or dargahs. The incense rack I noticed, quietly nestled in the middle of the courtyard among women and children who were complete strangers to me, gave me a purpose: a reason to return again and again.

I watched as people stood near it, whispered prayers for their loved ones and spoke softly to themselves – moments stolen from the throng of crowds in the dargah. This incense rack is equal parts faith and equal parts the sense of belonging that people feel here.

When incense sticks are lit, they leave behind smoke and ash. The smoke curls slowly in the air, silver-toned, thin and wispy – fading like silk, dissolving into prayers. Meanwhile, the ash is a soft, powdery grey, fragile and delicate underfoot.

The incense rack becomes a bed of pale grey ash like dust settled from a forgotten dream, cool and weightless, cushioning the quiet footsteps of memory. It lies there like grief gently untied, like knots of longing slowly loosening in the air…like prayers of couples unravelling in the sky…like women untwisting the pain from their hearts, leaving it in the courtyard to be free…to be gone.

People gently gather the ash to mark their foreheads, faces or hands. I watched a woman swiftly collecting the soft grey dust from the iron rack, pressing it tenderly onto her son’s head. When I asked her why, she whispered, “This will heal him, smooth away his troubles, and clear a path for him to grow stronger.” I said nothing more, only smiled softly, holding faith in her quiet belief.

Qawwalis are an intrinsic part of this place. Through their lines, we remember the saint and the Almighty. For a moment, the music carries us beyond the courtyard, transporting us to a different realm where the divine feels close.

The sharp thwack of the dholak and the nimble fingers adorned with colourful rings effortlessly playing the harmonium accompany the singer’s powerful voice as he leads his group near the courtyard staircase. In that moment, the world feels kinder – a place simply to be.

In the dargah, there are individuals who carry large, ornate hand fans often made of richly embroidered cloth and stand near the groups seated on the white marble floor. These men are typically known as pankha-bardars or simply pankhawalas.

During Urs – the saint’s birth or death anniversary, when the dargah fills with larger crowds, the embroidered pankhas are waved with rhythmic grace, a gesture of reverence and a symbol of spiritual presence in the thick of devotion.

They are part of this moment, this quiet hour I seek after the evening prayer.

Whenever I visit, I see women sitting quietly in reverence, no announcements, no fanfare. They rest on the cool stone steps or the courtyard floor, shaded by the ancient neem tree. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh – it doesn’t matter here. Married, single, transwomen – all of us come together, breathing in the fresh neem-scented air, listening to the qawwali, and quietly reaching out to the divine, trying to make sense of this often cruel world.

Some bring fruits or sweets to share, while langar is served with dal and roti. Some bring silence. Sometimes, they cry. But mostly, they talk…about children, husbands, aching bodies, and dreams left unspoken at home. They share stories of wounds inflicted by others, of unanswered pleas, of husbands who do not hear, and in-laws who tighten the grip of hardship.

Yet amidst this, a quiet hope draws them here, to this sanctuary where women find refuge, a sacred space woven with threads of solidarity. Here, they sit together in silence, offering nothing but the strength to hold one another – to weep, to listen, to lean close, and simply be.

Laraib Fatima Warsi is an independent journalist based out of Lucknow.

---

We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.

And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.

Read the series here.

This article went live on October eleventh, two thousand twenty five, at zero minutes past eight in the morning.

The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.