Tea and Tales at Sailany Wala Mandir Kasur

It was a grey afternoon when I wandered toward the fringes of Kasur Railway Station, following a narrow path whispered to lead to Bhullah Ki Bethak—a place where saints once sat, and perhaps still do, in spirit. What awaited was not a shrine in the usual sense, but a forgotten Hindu religious structure—a small, domed mandir that resembled a samadhi, locally known as the Sailany Wala Mandir, standing quietly beside the Sailany Wala Pond—left to crumble in time’s careless hands.

Temple

The structure stood beside an old Hindu bathing ghat, now a ghost of its former self. Once designed with separate areas for men and women to perform ishnan (ritual bathing), the ghat had long lost its sanctity. Roughly measuring 145 by 145 feet, this large square water body once reflected lamps, deities, and morning prayers. Garbage floated across the surface, and the surrounding neighborhood had encroached upon its once-sacred space. The water no longer reflected the heavens—only the waste of the living.

A local historian we met later shared that both the mandir and the bathing ghat date back to the 17th century—a time when Kasur was a vibrant center of cultural and religious mingling, where shrines, temples, and Sufi gatherings coexisted along the same spiritual arteries. Though now faded, the architecture still whispered of a sacred past.

The small mandir stood humble and cracked, its white plaster peeling like old skin. Inside, time had slowed. Posters of Bulleh Shah clung to soot-darkened walls. In a quiet corner lay wooden kharaoons—dervish slippers—beside a weathered kashkol (begging bowl). This one was boat-shaped, perhaps made from wood or brass, hung on a corroded chain. In the Indo-Pak tradition, the kashkol isn’t just a container—it’s an emblem of surrender, emptiness, and spiritual humility.

Podium for Placing Deity

Just outside the temple, in the open, stood a curious structure: a rusted canopy formed from interlocked cannon barrels. Beneath this shelter, a Hindu deity was once placed, seated on a stone pedestal. The idol was long gone, but the plinth remained—moss-covered and melancholic, as if waiting for the divine to return.

The air inside the bethak was thick and pungent—an earthy blend of dust, incense, and charas smoke. Several dervishes lounged in corners, eyes glazed with intoxication, drifting in and out of words and worlds. This was no place of formality or structured prayer. It was a space of release, where seekers, addicts, saints, and wanderers shared the same floor and the same silence.

The temple outer wall painted with Bhullah Shah's portrait

Hindu  Bathing Ghat

Our host—a soft-spoken elder—invited us in and served tea in chipped cups. We sat cross-legged on the cold floor as he shared qisse (folk tales) of Bulleh Shah. With each sip and each story, the dusty walls seemed to lean in closer. He claimed that Bulleh Shah once visited this place in his lifetime. There is no historical evidence of it—just oral echoes—but that didn’t seem to matter. The way he spoke, with a strange mix of conviction and wonder, made belief easier than doubt.

Born in Uch, in the Subah of Multan, Bulleh Shah came from a family of religious scholars. In his youth, he moved to Pandoke and then to Kasur, where he received his religious training. Later, he sought spiritual enlightenment in Lahore, becoming a disciple of Shah Inayat Qadiri—a humble gardener whose presence transformed the young scholar into a mystic rebel.

Bulleh Shah’s poetry remains legendary in Punjabi culture, written in the language of the people, filled with metaphor, rhythm, and bold defiance. He spoke of love, oneness, human dignity, and divine union, challenging the orthodoxy of his time. His kafis are sung at Sufi shrines and folk festivals alike. They have become part of the very soil of Punjab.

Here, though, in this forgotten bethak, his verses seemed to echo off walls that no longer remembered his footsteps. The langar was simple. The company was mixed: a few local devotees, some wanderers, and a handful of regulars who appeared more drawn by smoke than by song.

Nearby, another smaller temple ruin peeked from a pile of old bricks. No one noticed it. No one seemed to care. The ghat, once a place of sacred ritual, had become part of a slow decay, absorbed into the mundane and the forgotten.

And yet, amid the ruins, the metaphors remained. The kashkol, the tea, the silence. Each element asked something subtle. Who are we when we sit quietly? What remains when belief is stripped of form?

The saint poured us a second cup. Outside, someone began humming a kafi. A dog barked in the distance. And I sat there, in the cracked heart of an old temple, unsure whether I had just stepped into a holy place—or into a place made holy only by memory.

There was no divine pull. No revelation. Just quiet. Just smoke. And maybe that, too, is a kind of presence.

Maybe that’s what this Bethak is now: not a shrine of miracles, but a shelter of stories—where saints offer tea, where dervishes drift through haze, and where belief clings quietly to broken walls.

Or maybe it is simply a place where the forgotten go to forget.