Pakistan's ancient religion

Maureen Lines gives insight into the ancient religion of the Kalash people who live in the mountains

The Kalasha religion is a complex, convoluted subject with multi-layered and often paradoxical beliefs. Unlike religions such as Christianity, there is no separation between the religious and secular life.

Kalash is based on the strict separation of the pure (ONJESHTA) and impure (PRAGATA) realms. The pure realm is associated with mountain tops (Home of SUCHI – fairies of supernatural beings), the high pastures, goats, goat-houses and carved wooden shrines. The wild MARKHOR goats are the scared herds of the supernatural beings and subsist on juniper.

Women, because they are considered impure due to their menstrual cycle, are confined to a special house (The Bashali) at the time and when they give birth. When women leave the Bashali House, which is always situated near the river, they must wash from head to foot and all their clothes. Women are not allowed to venture near the pure realm of the goat and cattle- houses and the high pastures. If Kalasha men and women break the strict clan law, by marrying into the clan within five generations on the father's side, they offend the Kalasha religion. Women can then no longer take part in the purification ceremony called shishow at the winter festival, when juniper branches are dipped in water and passed over their heads. Men can no longer be anointed with the blood of a goat during purification ceremonies.

This dichotomy in Kalasha society is noticed constantly in the daily life. A woman cannot go to the upper portions of the village if she recently gave a birth, until she has undergone purification ceremony at one of the festivals. She cannot drink out of cups and must carry her own drinking vessel. She may not drink out of a communal water container, but must cup her left hand as an intermediary channel. Women cannot wash inside the houses or carry out their ablutions in sight of the goat and cattle-houses. They must not visit the scared shrines. They are not allowed to eat the meat of the male goat. At the funeral of a woman there is no dancing.

Maureen Lines was born in North London and has worked with the Kalash people in Pakistan for many years. She is the author of The Kalasha people of South Western Pakistan.
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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times