• Among them is a deeply rooted yet increasingly forgotten ritual, the ceremonial celebration of a young boy’s circumcision.

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

There was a time in Sindh when even the smallest milestones of life were wrapped in celebration, meaning, and community spirit. Some of these traditions still breathe faintly in the rural corners of the province, while others have quietly faded into memory. Among them is a deeply rooted yet increasingly forgotten ritual, the ceremonial celebration of a young boy’s circumcision.

Today, circumcision is largely seen as a routine medical procedure, performed in sterile clinics by trained doctors. It is quick, safe, and often devoid of the cultural richness it once carried. But in the past, particularly in the villages and small towns of Sindh, this event was far more than a necessity; it was a social festival, a rite of passage, and a moment of pride for the family.

The child, usually a toddler, was considered to be a groom.

On the day of the ceremony, the young boy would be dressed in traditional attire that symbolized honor and celebration. He wore crisp white clothes, adorned with a Sindhi topi and draped in a vibrant Sindhi ajrak. Around his waist, a red godd (loincloth) was tied, completing a look that mirrored a bridegroom on his wedding day. The transformation was symbolic; it marked his transition into a new stage of life, even if he was too young to understand it.

Before the actual procedure, there was an event known as sargas. This was perhaps the most visually striking part of the ritual. The child would often be seated on the back of a decorated horse and taken around the village or town in a celebratory procession. Family members, relatives, and friends would accompany him, turning the occasion into a public festivity. It was not just about the child; it was about announcing joy, pride, and continuity of tradition to the entire community.

Music, laughter, and chatter filled the air, making the procession even more lively and memorable. Some duhul players beat the drums with rhythmic energy, their sounds echoing through the narrow lanes and open fields. Alongside them, a few men played music from mouth flutes, adding a melodic layer to the celebration. The blend of drumbeats and flute tunes created an atmosphere that was both festive and deeply rooted in Sindhi cultural expression. For the elders, it was a reminder of their own childhoods. For the younger ones, it was a spectacle of color and excitement. And for the parents, it was a moment of both pride and anxiety.

The actual procedure itself was performed not by doctors, but by hajams, traditional barbers who were entrusted with this delicate responsibility. Their role in society extended far beyond haircuts; they were considered skilled practitioners of certain cultural rites.

Yet, what stands out most is not just the act itself, but the emotional choreography surrounding it.

Before the procedure, women of the household, mothers, aunts, and grandmothers would prepare powdered sugar made from rock sugar or thread sugar known as misri. This sweet powder was gently placed in the child’s mouth, perhaps to comfort him, perhaps as a symbolic gesture of sweetness before pain.

Then came a moment that was both tender and strategic.

To distract the child, someone would point toward the wall and say, “Look, there’s a bird!” In that fleeting second of innocence, as the child lifted his gaze in curiosity, the hajam would perform the cut. It was quick, almost invisible in its execution, yet deeply significant in its meaning.

The maternal uncle played a crucial role in this ritual. In many Sindhi traditions, the mama holds a special place, often symbolizing protection and affection. During this ceremony, he would hold the child firmly, ensuring he remained still. After the procedure, it was often the maternal uncle who carried the child back home, cradling him with care and pride. It was as if the responsibility of the child’s well-being momentarily shifted into his arms.

But the ritual did not end there.

As the child returned home, another curious and vibrant tradition unfolded: water was poured over family members, especially the parents. The origins of this practice are not entirely clear. Was it symbolic purification? A gesture of relief? Or simply an expression of joy? Perhaps it was all of these things combined. Like many cultural rituals, its meaning was felt more than explained.

Meanwhile, guests continued to celebrate.

Hospitality, a cornerstone of Sindhi culture, was on full display. Guests were served sun-dried dates, boondi, and various sweets. In many households, elaborate meals were prepared, turning the event into a feast. Laughter echoed through courtyards, conversations flowed, and bonds were strengthened.

One of the most touching aspects of this tradition was the exchange of money garlands. Relatives would place garlands made of currency notes around the child’s neck, a gesture of blessing and prosperity. In some cases, similar garlands were also given to the parents, acknowledging their role and sharing in their happiness.

These moments were not just ceremonial; they were deeply communal. They reflected a society where individual milestones were collectively celebrated, where joy was multiplied by sharing it, and where traditions served as threads weaving people together.

However, as time moved forward, change became inevitable.

With advancements in medicine and increased awareness of hygiene and safety, the role of hajams gradually diminished. Parents began to prefer doctors and clinical environments, ensuring a safer experience for their children. This shift was not only practical but necessary. Health and safety must always come first.

Yet, in this transition, something intangible was lost.

The color, the music, the shared laughter, the emotional depth, and the cultural essence of the ritual began to fade. What was once a vibrant community event slowly transformed into a private, clinical procedure.

But must it be so?

Progress does not have to erase tradition. It can, instead, reshape it.

There is no reason why the cultural elements of this ritual cannot coexist with modern medical practices. The procedure can be safely performed by doctors, while the surrounding celebrations, the attire, the gathering of loved ones, the rhythmic drumbeats, the melodies of the mouth flutes, the sharing of food, and the symbolic gestures can still be preserved.

Traditions are not static; they evolve. And in that evolution lies an opportunity, not just to remember the past, but to reinterpret it in ways that align with present realities.

In the case of this Sindhi ritual, perhaps what we are witnessing is not its disappearance, but its transformation. In some rural areas, echoes of these practices still linger, carried forward by those who value their cultural roots. In urban settings, they may re-emerge in new forms, adapted yet recognizable.

Ultimately, the question is not whether such traditions should remain unchanged, but whether we are willing to preserve their spirit.

Because in these rituals lie stories of families, of communities, of shared humanity. They remind us that life’s milestones, no matter how small, deserve acknowledgment. They teach us that joy is richer when it is shared, and that culture is not just inherited, it is lived.

And perhaps, somewhere in Sindh, a child still rides a decorated horse, dressed like a groom, accompanied by the beat of drums and the soft music of flutes, surrounded by laughter and love, unaware that he is part of a tradition that refuses to be forgotten.

Read: The Warmth of Sindhi Bonds

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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.

The post The Forgotten Rituals of Sindh first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Souad Khalil | Libya

Does writing have specific rituals that a writer performs when they want to write a story, novel, poem, or dramatic work? Writing is considered one of the most important creative fields we engage with according to our intellectual and cultural tendencies.

Certainly, one of the most important moments in the life of a writer or literary figure is the moment of writing—the moment of creative flow, the moment of poetic inspiration, the moment of expressing overflowing emotions, the moment of intense reflections. So, when these states affect a writer, do they have particular rituals or conditions?

Writing, on one hand, is a continuous effort to reach a form that achieves at least a minimal harmony between the creative self and their world. But is writing only continuous effort?

Perhaps. No… Writing is more ritual than creativity.

Writing breaks the usual, the routine, because it creates its own usual from its kind. The anxiety and pains of writing are much more beautiful than what is written. Every literary person has their rituals, undoubtedly, when they retreat into their creative state. Some prefer isolation and renunciation of the world and its pleasures; others take pleasure in strength, and so forth. The meaning of ritual:

We will refer to a part of a study by the writer Muhammad Eid Al-Khuryutli about rituals in writing. He says:

The concept of ritual refers to the secret practices among peoples performed by religious groups, and also to secret practices or specific signs performed by followers of a certain religion as rituals of peace, which vary from one culture to another. This is the general concept of rituals. But contemporary writing constitutes a radical break from some old forms of writing or art of speech. Also, the modern concept of the writer has undergone multiple epistemological changes that moved him away from mystical realms and brought him into the whirlpools of objectivity. The writer is no longer surrounded by secrets.

Philosophy professor Muhammad Shweikeh asks: Do writing rituals represent the preparations and practices the writing self performs before starting the act of writing as a human act? Or do they manifest in rituals of sanctification, prohibition, and desecration based on contradictions like forbidden and desired, sacred and profane?

Does the writer always write? Or is the preoccupation with writing a harsher ritual than the act of writing itself? What is the difference between the act of writing and the act of reading? Isn’t the written text just the beginning of an authoring process that might not necessarily be written? Reading is a psychological, interactive act. The reader authors while reading. The preparation for writing is a ritual because it is characterized by stability. No matter the circumstances, a writer must prepare to practice this act, even in the simplest ways: searching for the pen and paper, turning on the computer, preparing the appropriate program—all these express tangible and real readiness.

Why the rituals of writing in the ancients? Why heritage?

It is natural to give everything its due, at least not to belittle it. Therefore, it is natural to care about heritage, not to curse or disdain it, as some who see nothing worthy of even contemplation in heritage do. Returning to heritage is not, as some imagine, retreating into a shell or closing in on oneself, nor is it an inability to surpass the present. Rather, it is a return to roots and uncovering the bright landmarks of our past. No matter what the focus of returning to heritage is, it should be a prelude to launch and liberation.

If we discuss mistakes and search for shining aspects, it is to embody them and surpass them for what is better. A nation that wants to rise must return to its intellectual heritage and cultural legacy to make it a deep and firm foundation upon which it builds a lasting structure.

This study by the researcher is very long. We will summarize the most important points:

About rituals in writing stories, novels, and poetry

Writing is mysterious, distant, maybe obscure and unclear. It may begin with a word, a sound, a smell, or a scene that often gathers in the creator’s imagination. At some moment, at a specific time, it announces itself. This moment is called the creative moment.

No matter how different creators’ habits during work are, most consider regular daily output important and necessary, relying on the method “putting black on white” instead of fierce, intermittent writing bursts which are more typical of poets than novelists. The first half of the day is the preferred time for work, though there are exceptions like Dostoevsky who always wrote at night.

The novel’s writing may begin at once or take the form of a title living with the creator. The Algerian novelist Taher Wattar said about his novel The Mule’s Wedding: “I lived in the atmosphere of the novel for five years. The obsession lived with me; I made friends and enemies by it, and involved people in its framework. But then I sit for three weeks to edit, writing ten hours daily with one breath.” The psychological and moral charge continued for five years. During this period, he did not take any notes. When he began writing, he placed the logical introduction of the novel. Any work without a logical introduction is a failed work.

The ritual of writing is very important for poetry, as poet Abdelkader Al-Hosni equates the poem itself to the ritual. He says: “Several poems rest deep inside me, fully formed and complete in their backwardness, needing only to find their ritual—a gathering of atmospheres necessary for their birth inside me so that the inner becomes their outer and the first becomes last. When the poem is complete, I feel it has detached from me, and I become one of its readers. I feel bitterness and estrangement; it has become for the tears and I am one of them.” He clarifies that the poem begins from a spark embraced by the soul. The internal interactions grow into an obsession to the point that everything around me chants this obsession until I reach a moment when I can no longer bear what I carry, and the latent must turn into the visible written on paper.

The study cites many writers and poets and their opinions and rituals of writing.

Literary writing is considered an art among the fine arts, and like other arts, it is adorned with its own special rituals related to time, place, appearance, and tools. Many writers agree that all times are suitable for literary writing, but the writer chooses specific times they get used to, which become a persistent habit according to their circumstances.

Time also holds value for writers and researchers—it is their capital.

In ‘On the Experience of Writing’ by S. Martin and C. Simenon, he wakes at six a.m., prepares his coffee, takes his cup to his study where the curtains are drawn because he likes to work under electric lights, and writes for three hours daily.

Other writing rituals include reading before writing, as many writers sit down to write only after reading, even a little, which has become a habit or ritual. Some writers have rituals for invoking ideas. Zola spent nine or ten hours daily at his desk, often sitting with his chin on his hand, staring outside the window trying to recall some scenes or characters to bring them to the page. To overcome such difficulties, he gave great importance to order in his work, with a motto carved: “No day without a line.”

Some prefer quiet and solitude, the highest traits of creative rituals. Just as the best worship happens when a person retreats to themselves and communes with God away from eyes and hypocrisy, the writer, when isolated, begins to be flooded with ideas that flow between their hands if ready to receive them, copying words from a language unknown before it happened.

Some write amid noise in cafes, like Muhammad Afifi and others who write anytime and anywhere. Some writers have rituals about paper choice—some use plain paper, others colored paper, some small sheets, others only newspapers or lined paper, some only white paper.

Some write on anything that comes to hand if they get an idea or the start of a poem. Some have rituals about pen choice—some use ink pens, others pencils, others calligraphers’ pens. There are other rituals: some prefer writing at night, others during the day. Many writers and poets have specific rituals when writing, as mentioned; some prefer writing in winter, others in summer. Some listen to music while writing; others prefer complete silence. In short, writing rituals vary greatly between writers.

I say: one of the most important writer’s qualities is the importance of acquiring knowledge and honing experience in writing in general. However, talent still occupies a fundamental space in a writer’s superiority over others, even if the concept of talent is replaced with other expressions that soften what lies behind it, such as love for writing, dedication, and practicing it with patience, passion, and perseverance.

Nevertheless, the testimonies of authors and writing experts through their works show the skill writers have in capturing what is essential and rewriting their text in an original and impactful way. This, in itself, is an invisible charge that transfers to readers and makes us adore one text and reject another.

It can be said that true creativity can neither be deprived nor underestimated.

Read: Eternal Bond of Beauty and Creativity

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Souad Khalil, hailing from Libya, is a writer, poet, and translator. She has been writing on culture, literature and other general topics.

The post Writing: Rituals and the Mastery first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Nazarul Islam

Lost in the ‘alleys of faith’, man could never find the spirit of spirituality.

So true! Here, the ‘alleys of faith’ are the rituals that are so integral to all faiths and that have impeded our spiritual growth. There’s a famous English adage missing the wood for the trees.

The same has happened to humankind in terms of spiritual upliftment. We’ve lost ourselves in the welter of mindless rituals and mistaken them for self-realization.

We must weed out the rituals to pare our faith down to the simplest form. If at all god exists, they are not concerned whether you fasted or offered your prayers five times a day, or whether you ate non-veg on Tuesdays or had something sour on Fridays!

That is insignificant for someone you believe to be the regulator of the universe. What matters is the purity of your intent and the purpose of your essentially spiritual existence on earth.

There’s a beautiful parable in Islamic mysticism. The great Sufi, Bayazid Bastami, never fasted even during the month of Ramzan. Neither did he urge any of his disciples to observe the ritualistic strictness in the holy month of the Islamic calendar. Someone asked him whether he was not blasphemous by behaving in such an ‘unholy’ manner during Ramzan?

Bayazid told him, ‘for a poor person, who can’t even make both the ends meet, the whole year is Ramzan because he has to fast perforce all the time. I’m like him, a mendicant who subsists on food and alms given by others.

So, why should I make it all the more difficult for myself by further torturing and tormenting my body during the month of fasts?’ The point is, rituals serve no purpose. They make you a slave to religion and a fictional god. Rituals are the debris of a crashed aircraft. Remove them to get to the black box of self-realization.

Let us not neglect rituals. They can be the watchdogs for the survival of our mental health, warning us when a well-oiled functioning of our life story is about to disrupt. Rituals can be safeguards hindering us from stumbling into the abyss of nothingness. Rituals can be anchor points providing guidance on our potholed path for the future.

Don’t let rituals get the upper hand and dictate terms to you. Only when you feel spiritually emancipated from within can you evolve further and reach the state of blissful enlightenment. A pure heart needs no trappings or manacles of strict religiosity or ritualistic autocracy. It’s beyond all scriptural hegemony and ritualistic dictatorship.

If you have strength of character, you can use that as fuel to not only be a survivor but to transcend simply being a survivor, use an internal alchemy to turn something rotten and horrible into gold.

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About the Author

The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his 119 articles.

The post Eat, pray and love…. first appeared on Sindh Courier.