Qudsiya Bagh

 In my last post about the wanderings on the ridge, I made a brief mention of Qudsiya Bagh and then promptly forgot about it. That was until this Sunday. Browsing the internet for something random, I came across a website of old Indian photos. It had a photograph of the Qudsia Bagh masjid from just after the mutiny (war of independence) of 1857. Taken in 1858 by Dr. John Murray from the Western side, it shows the collapsed or collapsing arches of a bridge on the right and the main building of the mosque, all holed and battered perhaps by the gunfire.

The Qudsiya Masjid in 1858

In some ways, the Qudsia Bagh of today stands in a very similar setting. First of all, it is, amazingly, still a bagh i.e. a garden. It still is an island of silence and serenity right next to the bus station. Unusual for such a setting, there are no amorous couples here. All we came across were the caretaker of the mosque and a couple of old ladies sitting under an old gate. The mosque is still alive, the domes in the exaggerated late Mughal style. The damage to the standing walls has been covered up with plaster but none of the collapsed walls have been rebuilt. The gate has ornate red sandstone carvings and decorations with floral patterns and vines.

Qudsia Bagh is not a place I would recommend a standalone visit to. However, if you are around the bus station with a few minutes to spare, do walk over. It is short, it is sweet and it is stunningly serene and detached. The mosque, the old gate, and one later structure (which looks like a mansion but we could make nothing further of) are the bonuses.

Qudsiya Masjid in July 2011

The gateway

Floral patterns on the arch

Finding Hakim Biryani

One of my first few days in Delhi when I still did not have my bearings and could not tell Defence Colony from Lodhi Colony, I and a friend Vivek attended an INTACH walk. I was using these walks as tools to orient myself. We went around Nizamuddin seeing many things, amongst them Ghalib's tomb, Nizamuddin dargah, Amir Khusrow's tomb. After we finished I remembered that another friend had recently told me about an eatery that served delicious Biryani. I have a huge weakness for meat based rice dishes.

"”It's near Kashmiri Gate" the friend had said, "maybe about a kilometer from the gate.”"

“"Where near Kashmiri Gate?”" I asked.

“"Take the right after Kashmiri Gate into the small lane, its around there,”" was his answer.

So, after so much roaming, I and Vivek decided we could do with a generous helping of the biryani. Our tongues lolling out in anticipation, we reached Kashmiri Gate and turned right. After an earlier visit to Kashmiri Gate, I had emphatically declared to all those who cared to listen that none of the Shahjehanabad wall existed anymore, only the gates were left, those too in shambles. Immediately, I realized I had been very wrong. In the lane, stretching out right in front of us was a long section of the wall. It was fractured in places, there were holes too, but it was there. The arches in the base had been reinforced (presumably by ASI) to strengthen the structure which had been mined for stone by locals (what goes up must come down). There were also holes large enough to make a bedspace. Torn rugs of blankets proved that even in those cold months of winter the small dens were in use. Mughal structures still influencing modern Delhi.

Section of the Shahjehanabad Wall

Hole in the Wall

After about half a kilometre, we began asking for Hakim Biryani. The reaction could not have been stranger had we asked for the moon of Mars. We persisted but eventually changed strategy to ask for Rodgran Gali, which I had looked up as the address somewhere on someone's blog. That drew blanks too. The good - or the bad thing - was that the lane we were on did not branch anywhere, so we did not have to make any real choice. One helpful rickshaw walla offered us to take us to Karim's. It took quite a while to convince him that while both Karim's and Hakim sounded similar and both served food, they really were different. "Or are they?", I thought to myself.

The lane eventually merged into what looked like a major road. There, we hunted out an auto and asked him about Hakim Biryani (because autos tend to have a longer range). When that did not get any response, we asked again for "Rodgran Gali".

"That?!" he quipped.

"Why are you surprised?" I asked.

"That is near Lal Kuan, what are you doing here?" he asked.

I was stumped, I thought maybe there could be 2 of them. So, I asked, "I am sure the one I am looking for is here."

"I have been around for quite sometime. Trust me, there is nothing by that name here."

"How far is Lal Kuan?"

"About 5 kms."

Now I was not really sure. My friend had told me it was about 1 km from Kashmiri Gate and we had already walked 2. So, I called him. When I cross questioned him about the route and told him about the situation we were in, he sheepishly said,

"We were drunk on beer and we were in a car."

"Oh, awesome!!" I barked and disconnected the call.

No wonder he had felt it was right around the corner and only about a km away. So, we were stuck nowhere near Hakim Biryani. Brave souls that we are, we decided to walk on. Asking around for Lal Kuan (because that was somewhere everyone seemed to know), we wandered around the streets. Walking across an overbridge, we saw a sadhu covered in a dirty brown shawl with a tattered orange turban sitting senseless on the pavement. His head hung down and from metres away, you could smell pot. Although I am not usually a smoker I jealously considered that no amount of noise, chaos or shaking would wake him. He had attained his nirvana.

Jai jai Shiv Shankar!!

As we walked into yet another bylane, across the busy street towered a red building. Intrigued, we got closer. We had reached Fatehpuri and this was the St. Stephen's Church in Fatehpuri. Built in Gothic style in 1862, the church had been awarded the DDA Urban Heritage award in 1993 for excellent upkeep. And one could see why. The walls were spotless and the painted windows gleamed. The nave was locked though. We walked around to find someone and reqesuted them to open. It was more of a wish than a hope. The people however were really pleasing and helpful and one of them gave us a short tour. The furniture was clean, even the rug on the floor was clean and there were 3 different information boards explaining the history and heritage of the building. The most important thing was that all the boards agreed on nearly everything, something which rarely happens in Delhi.

St. Stephen's from across the street

Inside the award winning church

The few minutes in the church had made us forget the purpose of our quest. Walking outside, we passed along a street of nut sellers with shops extending to the street. The colourful shells and skins made for fascinating viewing. Dotting the nut stalls were shops with sweets made of pure desi ghee. It was tantalising for the tongue and torture for our growling stomachs. But we persevered. The biryani beckoned and it demanded an empty stomach. A few minutes more and we entered Lal Kuan, a narrow, crowded and sometimes smelly street. In other words, typical Old Delhi. We could see some domesticated pigeons flitting around in an orchestrated flight over the street.

Lal Kuan is named after a historical Mughal well made of red standstone. Today, the well occupies a non-descript area on the side of the street, marked by a peeling INTACH board. The mouth of the well has been closed with wooden planks and sits inside a small shed, which forms the temple walls. To see the walls of the red well, you ,must request the priest to move his planks a bit and peer down into the dark hole, which may still have water. Noone knows.

The remains of Lal Kuan

Since this was Lal Kuan, everyone knew Rodgran Gali and pointed us further down. After what seemed like aeons, our bellies on fire, we reached a small bylane. About 15 feet above us, entangled in a mesh of electric wires, stood an old sign announcing

"Mohalla Rodgran"

The sign that will strain your senses

We were ecstasic. We had arrived. Biryani was round the corner. But the first person we asked knew nothing, neither the second, nor the third. We kept walking and finally found someone to point us to the right place. It was no restaurant. It was no eatery either. Hakim Biryani fills only wholesale orders in a huge kitchen. We had found our holy grail only to realize that it was beyond our reach, as hungry as we were the 5 kg minimum seemed a bit much. No amount of begging for a taste would melt their hearts. Understandable. How could they take off a few hundred grams from someone else's order and feed it to us, even if we had walked 7 km and 3 hours to reach there. Sadly, they were good and honest people. I called my supposed friend and lambasted him. But after scarfing down lesser biryani from a stall nearby I secretly thanked him, for leading us astray. Along the way we saw many things which we would never have otherwise seen.

I left the place, promising myself that one day I would find a reason and a following of people large enough to place an order. I would finally conquer the biryani from Hakim.

Mutiny Monuments

They litter many parts of North Delhi. There are some on the Central Ridge, apparently some near Coronation Park but to me, the ones that stand out are those on traffic islands near Old Delhi Railway Station. As you take the road from Red Fort towards Kashmere Gate and pass under a railway track on a bridge, you can see 3 of them on the road divider. Blue Line buses zip past, as do many green Tata MarcoPolos, oblivious to these small memorials which mark the mutiny/revolt or first war of independence of 1857 (depends on which side you are looking at it from).

Many years ago, I read a quotation 'One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter.' Never was this truer than for these monuments. Click on the third photograph and read the plaques, you will understand what I mean. The plaque has sometimes made me wonder if this should make us (as citizens of India) look at the Kashmir and Bodoland problems in a different way?

An afternoon at the Fraser's

In continuation of the previous post, fast forward three hours. A long auto ride to Kashmiri Gate area and we got down near the St. James's church. We walked the last mile to the hallowed building of our dreams. Approaching it, I took my camera out and strapped it around my neck. I also pulled the letters out. I wanted to convey a message. I was not about to be pushed around. I had slaved for three weeks for those damn pieces of paper. Today, I would throw all my charm and politeness to the wind and just be business like. 'Here is the letter you asked for. Now, scoot over and let me in.'

As we approached the gate I saw the familiar table in the open with two chairs on the other side seating the sentries just inside the gate. I handed them the letters and said 'These are permissions for photographing in this building. Do we need to meet someone?' The man was confused. Perhaps he had never seen permission letters, perhaps my face looked like that of an alien. After a few moments, he asked, 'Who gave you these permission letters?'

'The railway board.', I retorted in a pompous tone. I would excuse him if he half imagined me as the CEO of the board. He ran around a bit to find out what was to be done with these two strangers who had interrupted his daytime reverie and his slow meaningless chat with his buddy. His buddy remarked, 'Waise, is building mein jaane ki permission milti nahin hai.' (Normally you dont get permission to get into this building.) It was clearly my turn to be speechless. Just seconds after handing over a letter from the mighty railway board, I was being told this. I chose to ignore the remark.

The other man in the meanwhile, having checked around and possibly not found any answers, led us to the main building, to the office of the Chief Administrative Officer (Construction). He was very courteous though. In the lobby of the office, we were asked to wait and politely offered seats on comfortable chairs while our letters were taken to someone inside and their fate decided. Looking around, we could clearly see the old arches. This must have been the waiting salon even in Fraser's days. Three doors, each under a concrete arch led to rooms beyond. The lower parts of the wall were adorned with more recent wood panelling. Soon, we were called in and ushered through the central door into the presence of a man dressed in a navy blue safari suit working over a computer on a small desk placed in a corner. As we stepped in, he walked over to his main working table, an imposing wooden one with a table glass and a few paper weights. A couple of phones on the desk, a printer, the size of the room and the manner of the man clearly indicated he was one of the top honchos. Once again, I went through the rigmorale of explaining our purpose of visit though this was much shorter, concise and the man on the other side was smiling through it. It was a gentle, kind and affable smile.

As soon as I had finished, he picked up a phone, called someone and said, 'Mr, Arya, we have visitors who want to photograph the building. I am sending them over to you. Can you please ensure they are taken around and taken care of. Please assign someone to take care of them.' With that, he signed our letters, notated something in the top corner and returned them to me with a smile. I had one last question though.

'Would we be allowed entry into the underground cool rooms?' I asked.

'No, they are closed.' was the answer.

'But in our original request letters, we had asked for permission to get into the cool rooms as well.'

'Yeah but these letters don't say so.'

Before I resigned to my fate, I had a last question. 'What do we need for getting into the cool rooms?'

'Permission letter.'

Not again! So I put on my charming hat and said, 'It took me 3 weeks of running around to get these letters. It's been a lot of hard work, I am not sure why they were omitted from the permissions. You will appreciate we have done a lot of work and have keen interest in this building. Working again on letters will be quite a hassle. It would be very kind of you if you could help us.'

He smiled, picked up the phone without replying to me, called up Mr. Arya and said, 'Please open the underground rooms too, get them lighted. First take them around the main building. Once the underground rooms have been opened for sometime, please take them there.'

We thanked him profusely and left the office. This was turning out to be just too good. Mr. Arya was even more affable and gentle. He seated us in his room while our escort arrived. He was almost apologetic about the state of the building because it was being scraped and replastered in some parts. He was concerned we would not get good photos. By now, the escort had arrived. Yet another affable, soft-spoken man,

'Where would you like to begin?' he asked in the politest tone I had ever heard.

We started from in front of the building, shutter happy with two SLRs between us. After multiple shots of the front, half hopeful we asked him if we could climb to the roof. Of course, we could. Our fortunes seemed to have turned in a few hours. From no permission to a yes at everything was a transformation we were having difficulty digesting. As we climbed to the top of the roof, walking around beams and pillars, we walked into two of the four minarets around the building, which served as sentry positions in the days of The Fraser.

Finally, after climbing down from the top, we were taken to the back of the building, where a lifted iron grill led to some stairs, the gateway to the underworld. The underworld built around the same time as Red Fort to serve as cool rooms. When William Fraser, the then Deputy Resident was alloted the house of Ali Mardan Khan (Shahjehan's senior general), he razed the run down quarters but the Mughal tykhana was preserved. Over the past almost 400 years of existence, the underground passages have been through a lot.

As we climbed down the slightly slippery, poorly lit stairs, three more people had joined us. Using cellphone lights as torches, they guided us down the narrow, winding staircase. Their concern for our safety was touching. After a 180 degree turn on the staircase and few steps, we reached a landing about 10 feet long. At the other end, a few steps led down to yet another landing. This one had three arches, all stuffed up with concrete. It had been whitewashed not too far back in the past. Drops of moisture could be seen on the walls and the underground humidity was clearly noticeable. One of our guides pointed to the three arches. One of them, to our left was originally a passage to the Yamuna, which back in those days flowed where the present day Ring Road is. The one straight in front, so the story goes, led to Agra via the Red Fort. The last one, on the right, led to St. James's, possibly further outside the city walls. Clearly, these were escape routes or secret passages which connected the residences of important people with those of other important people.

One of the men with us also pointed to a clear streak of fainted paint running about two feet above the floor as the flood level this last monsoons. Even today, as the monsoons wreak havoc in the Indian plains and the Yamuna floods, the raised ground water level floods these underground passages, further destabilizing the foundations of Fraser's house. Quoting City of Djinns

'Roots spiralled down from the roof like curvilinear stalactites. It was pitch dark, but as the flashlight passed over the walls you could see that its surface was decorated with beautiful ogee-shaped arched niches. Although it was difficult to see clearly, in some of the arches you could faintly make out traces of Mughal murals, perhaps originally of flowers inside filigree vases.'

The basements have clearly changed beyond recognition since then. The original thin brick walls have been plastered and painted white to keep them from caving in. One of our escorts explained how a few years ago, the walls and the surrounding earth had caved in, creating earthen mounds on both sides and just leaving a few inches wide passage to pass through. There are no roots, no arches on the walls and consequently no remains of the murals now.

The entire basement has however been preserved intact, almost that is. There are still all the rooms, flanked by smaller ones. On the far end is a room, which was apparently used as stables (quite how, I do not know). Then there is another room which was used by the railways as a record keeping room, which roughly translates to shoving piles of unwanted old paper files down into a room till they collect dust. We did not see that room because the underground approach to it had been plugged by concrete but in the words of one of our guides,

'It has a 2 inch thick layer of dust on piles of files, cobwebs run all over the room and its a scene right from a horror movie.'

The rest of it, which we saw was no horror movie at all. It was a large basement, divided into many rooms, large and small, some flanking the others, others with ventilators to keep the building above cool (but now closed). One of the ventilation holes was explained as a dead body disposal hole by one of the men with us. We were skeptical about that. After all, what kind of human, British or Mughal would like to throw dead bodies down a hole into his own basement and then walk down a few hours later to feel the cool of the rooms amidst the stench of the just severed head.

The underground passage tour lasted about half an hour, the distinguishing feature being the pride each of our four escorts took in showing us around. It was almost as if they had family ties to it. It was so moving and touching to be taken personal care of, narrated the legends of the building, shown around the passages and the building. It was also so contradictory. As we walked out into the open, we could not believe we were apprehensive about getting into this building a couple of hours ago. This world was so different from Rail Bhawan (except Ganesh).

Once again, like Nili Chhatri, our visit to a place had been made infinitely more interesting and fun because the people we met were warm, welcoming, human and more people like than anywhere else. What are a few old, dank, damp, cold and undergrounds rooms compared to four smiling and courteous escorts!

And if you have read the last post, it is worth remarking; there was not a trace of trash in the entire building worth photographing, commenting on, writing about or for portraying railways in a negative light! So much for the bureaucracy then.

P.S.: While they are only incidental to the experience, attached below are some photographs of Fraser's bungalow. I am not given to hyperbole, so let me state here for the record: Getting into William Fraser's bungalow counts as the pinnacle of achievement in my Dilli walking career.

Front view of Fraser's bungalow

One of the sentry posts

The dome from the rooftop

The stuffed passages: To Yamuna (L), To Agra via Red Fort (C), To St. James's (R)

One of our escorts. The faint water mark line can be seen.

In the middle of the cool rooms.

The lighted cool rooms.

 

Getting into The Fraser's

Like I once said earlier on the St. James's post, if you have read City of Djinns, you are in love with William Fraser. If you are not, go get yourself checked, there is something seriously wrong with you. So, then, somewhere in the middle of the book, Dalrymple talks about visiting Fraser's mansion near Kashmiri Gate. One fine morning, bereft of all other inspiration, I picked up the book again and read over the passage about finding the mansion. Book under my arm, page 121 bookmarked for reference, I got off at the Kashmiri Gate Metro Station and about 15 minutes later, walking over a flyover had seen the elusive dome of the erstwhile mansion of William Fraser, the former deputy resident of Delhi.

It was another 20 minutes before I found the road leading to the building and 25 before I reached the gates. The gates were iron grill and a long driveway led to an imposing building with a large lemon coloured dome. Two RPF (Railway Police Force) sentries seated on chairs behind a wooden table in the open just next to the gate immediately gave me an impression I was not welcome. I had a camera around my neck and innocently, I walked in. 'Can I take some photographs?' I asked.

'Who are you?', one of them retorted. I was stumped. I had thought my innocent, sincere looks could pretty much get me anywhere. I gave them a student story and my interest in history and my keen interest in photographing the place and how I had come from far away to just see this building. It did not cut any ice.

'You can't just come here and photograph. Go get a permit.' was the answer.

'Where from?' I asked.

'Patiala House.' he said and then turned his face away. Clearly, we were not talking any more about it.

Dejected, I walked away, my hopes of seeing Fraser's quarters quashed. I guess that should have been the end of it. I had nothing planned for the rest of the day. Patiala House was on the way though I had no clue what it housed. I took an auto and went there. Standing outside the gates, I called a friend who for some vague reason, I remembered had some contact in the railways. A few calls back and forth with him and I did have a contact and some pointers about what I should do though nothing could be done that day.

There was a ray of hope somewhere that I could get in. If I had an inkling about what the next 3 weeks had in store for me, I would probably have not been as hopeful. So, the next day, full of hope, beaming a smile, I reached Rail Bhawan, the mecca of Indian Railways officialdom, who own and run this building. Outside the building stood the image of Bholu, the Guard, the mascot of Indian Railways. It depicts a middle aged man with a pot belly, holding a lantern but with the face of an elephant, the quintessential railways guard who make the railway go around. Whether the similarity of the mascot to Ganesh is intentional or incidental, I cant comment but the way the building seemed to function seemed to be as lazy as Ganesh. Almost as a god sent message, my contact in the building also shared his name with the pot bellied god. I was asked to wait at the statue while someone came down to fetch me. The statement 'Ganesh Sahab ke guest hain!' (He is a Guest of Ganesh Sir) seemed to whisk me past the metal detector despite a ton of metal being detected on me. My hopes soared, I was already half into Fraser's mansion.

The man who had come to fetch me guided me into an elevator filled with middle and not so middle aged men on their way back from lunch. On the 4th floor, we got off the elevator and walked what almost felt like a mile. After the first 2 turns, I had lost all sense of direction. There were wings of the building and each wing had wings of its own. There were long corridors lined with doors, each with a name plate and a room number.  Everyone in the building seemed to be a director or a secretary.

Executive Director, Marketing, Room No 431
Additional Director, Maintenance, Room No 433
Director, Information and Publicity, Room No 434
Senior Director, Administration, Room No 427


Walking past many directors, I reached Room No 438 where I met Ganesh Sir. He was a clean shaven, 30ish, affable man dressed in a full police officer uniform with 3 stars adoring the eppaulette of his shirt. Soft spoken, gentle and courteous, he inquired the reason for my request. Jumping around questions with the usual difficulty I have in making people understand what I have been doing for the past 19 months, I managed to convince. Rather, I should say he was convinced 'There is no point trying to find out the reason for why this guy is wanting to get into a godforsaken building no one wants to see. So, let me cut this short and tell him how to go about it.' Well, it worked for me and I was not complaining.

Together with my benefactor, I once again undertook the pilgrimage to one floor and many corridors down, to the office of the Director, Information and Publicity. A door led to a large room, housing the many people who served the esteemed director. It was a pile of files and people reclining on chairs. In one corner was the sanctum sanctorum of the director herself. I was successively introduced to two people, for there was confusion about who the competent authority really was. The second one, a bespectacled, old South Indian gentleman was berating a man for printing some stationery on the non standard thickness of paper in Hindi with a pronounced South Indian accent. I watched the poor man saying many sorries while not really being so. Finally, after the session had ended, the gentleman turned to us, lowered his spectacles and peered at me over his nose. After appraising me for what seemed like a full minute, 'Yes?'. Ganesh explained the purpose of our visit. There were the usual questions about why etc. He went into a long monologue about why the permission was needed and why I had to explicitly declare that this was for non-commercial purposes. Apparently, a foreigner had once gotten into a railway building and photographed it and posted the photos online. A few days down the line, the Railways Department had used his picture as a background on their website and the photographer objected to it, suing the department for using his copyrighted work. Ever since, Railways decided that they do not only own the building but also the photos taken by tourists visiting them. So, if your purpose was commercial, not only would you have to pay a fee (which is justified), you would never get the permit, or so I was told.

Having convinced him that my purpose was purely personal, we seemed to be on the way to deciding what really was needed when the issue of my blog and site came up. As he heard it, he said 'Why were you hiding it? You are going to use it on a blog, that is commercial use.' All our good work had been undone with the indiscreet mention of the B word and we had gone into the red territory. It took another 15 minutes of cajoling before he agreed a personal blog is not commercial. Then another bombshell dropped. When I revealed that I wanted to get in with some friends, 2 of whom were foreigners, he went red. 'What will they do inside? This is a security issue. Do you realize how much will this complicate everything?' Sheepishly, I agreed that all foreigners are 'security issues' but pleaded that these were not. After all, not all of them are 'security issues'. Reluctantly, after considering the sincerity in my voice, he agreed. Then he said, 'We only issue permits for foreigners.' For a moment, I thought he was joking. He was not. I was supposed to go to another office for getting a permit for myself. If by this point you are confused, don't worry. 3 weeks after I first went there, I am still confused about what happened there.

Before we parted, we agreed that I would send across a sample application letter seeking permission for entry and photography in the building and the gentleman sitting across the desk would vet it before I sent in a signed, printed copy for final verification. Next day, I had sent a draft and within hours received a reply saying it was fine. Promptly, happily and hopefully, I had it signed by my friend and dropped it at Rail Bhawan. The sky was blue, it was sunny outside, I was optimistic. The same day, I also made the pilgrimage to the office of The Chief Public Relations Officer, Northern Railway, which was interestingly situated at the State Entry Road in a run down building. There, I bumped around a couple of desks with my application before I was granted audience and was immediately told to come back the next day so that 'we could discuss the issue'. However, I was told 'we normally do not grant permissions for getting into this building'.

In 2 days, the fortunes of my and my friends had fluctuated a lot. One day, I had thought it was an easy sail for me but not for my foreigner friends. The next, I had flipped my opinion. I was almost ready to start a betting book on the odds of who got the permission first, if at all. Next day, when I went back, it was much better. Apparently my second consecutive showing had melted the heart of the Public Relations Officer and I was told I could get in. I was asked to wait for a few minutes. I waited and was told the printer was broken. So, I decided to leave and come back in 2 days time. By then, they would have fixed the printer. Meanwhile, there was no news from Rail Bhawan. I had set my date of entry as 28th Jan, so I was not really concerned. It was still 10 days away.

Couple of days later, after waiting for the gentleman who had my letter and was having an extended lunch, I got my letter of permission. It almost seemed a little too easy. Rail Bhawan on the other hand was shut like an oyster's trap. I called but was told, 'The file has been put up for consideration'. 2 days later, it had been sent for security clearance but security had not received it. 'The file was lost and could not be traced' was the new status. Ping pong went on and Republic Day arrived. It was 26th, just 2 days to go. I was losing hope. I had lost hope. 27th morning, I called again. It was being located. Half an hour later, I was told it had been found but....and this was a big but(t). Apparently, it had never been sent to security because her highness the Executive Director of Publicity and Information had an objection. My friend, whose application she was pondering over is researching municipal solid waste management as part of a Fulbright Grant. Apparently, the ex director was concerned that she might get into the building, photograph waste and portray railways in a negative light. And I thought we had given the information about her research to establish she was no David Headley, who she had been compared to in my first conversation with the old gentleman sitting outside the director's cabin. So much for credentials. You dont have them, you are doomed. You have them, you are still doomed.

It was mid morning 27th and there was an objection. So, we were asked to send an undertaking by fax, signed and all, saying that we would not do anything to the waste on the premises and ensure we do not portray railways in a negative light, that we would close our eyes (lest they be gouged out) as soon as our eyes rested on a stray packet of gutkha on the pavement. And we did that. Quite why would they be concerned about a building in Kashmiri Gate when the railway stations are squeaky clean (sic) is still beyon dmy limited intellect. The undertaking was faxed, multiple follow up calls followed. The file had moved off its big bad butt. It had gone for security by the evening. This time, it actually reached. 7 in the evening, I got a call from Ganesh telling me security had cleared it. I still hung on to the hope of getting the letter in the morning and postponed my own visit to the afternoon of 28th. I had all but lost hope though. It had taken them 2 weeks to move the file 2 stages. God only knows how many more hiccups before 'the letter' was issued, before the 'fat lady sang'.

28th morning saw me half hopeful, half forlorn. I called up at quarter to 10, was told to call back in half an hour. And then, lightening struck. Before the clock had struck half an hour, I got a call. The letter was ready. 'THE LETTER' was ready. Can you believe that? I still cant. THE LETTER WAS READY. I jumped onto the metro and collected the letter. It was a real letter, real paper and ink, real flesh and blood. Mixed with elation and relief was the apprehension of what twist would the visit actually throw our way. 3 weeks of running around the offices had made me a cynic. Anything was possible. What if they did not recognize these letters there? What if they did not let us in? What if they only let us photograph from the outside?

That however could wait for another hour. For now, we had 2 people with 2 letters to get into Fraser's bungalow. And we were getting in that afternoon, trying to at any rate!

Copy of Letter 1 (personal details removed)

Copy of Letter 2 (personal details removed)

P.S. - Some of the story above is only indicative, partly fictitious and not necessarily true. I disclaim because I was asked to give a declaration that I would not portray Railways in a negative light and I am keeping my promise. :)

Nili Chhatri and the Universality of Humanity

I will start with a confession. Living an unstructured footloose life is not always easy. I’m playing a game against inertia, hoping to beat it as often as possible. Every morning I have to get myself out of bed without knowing what I am going to do; Just searching for an inspiration can often mean a wasted day. This particular morning was mercifully different. The night before, like a thunderbolt, the idea of visiting Nigambodh Ghat had struck me. Nigambodh Ghat is the oldest place in Delhi. Well, at least it’s the location of the oldest surviving legend in the city. In antiquity, it is said, the Hindu god of creation, Brahma suffered from amnesia and forgot all the holy texts. After long penance on the banks of the Jamuna, all the holy texts were thrown out of the river bed by the river goddess. Today, Nigambodh Ghat is a Hindu cremation ground equipped with an electric crematorium which handles about 60 cremations a day. I was disappointed to learn that there is nothing antique about it. And when I walked in with an SLR slung to my neck, I could see I was intruding on nothing special. Taking the cue very early, I left the place. Feeling betrayed by the previous nights thunderbolt, I walked towards Nili Chhatri temple. This is where Yudhishtira is said to have installed a Shivling during the Mahabharata.

When I walked into the nondescript blue concrete temple, there was nothing striking about it. It was very small with two sponsor boards hanging from the roof. It could have been any temple on any street of any town in India. But just as I climbed down the stairs into the compound, an old man was coming out:

Present day Nili Chhatri

‘Are you not from Delhi?' he asked.

'Yes and No. I live in Delhi now but am not from Delhi.' I replied.

'So, what are you doing here? How did you hear about this place?'

'I read about it in a book.' Another man, who was perhaps overhearing our conversation joined in, 'Which book?' 'City of Djinns', I said.

And then came a flood of questions. The pride that their favored temple was finding its way into books and inspiring visits from camera holding-outsiders was plainly visible on their faces. The older man, postponing his departure from the temple, sat down on the steps with only one sock on and started telling me his story. 15 years ago, when he first came to this temple, he did not even have enough money to buy himself a cup of tea. But he started visiting it regularly, and things changed. The old man said Shiva took him under patronage and gifted him a Midas touch. Today, he says, he has everything but he still comes and visits it everyday. 'There is a lot of power in this Shivling, son', he said, 'you make a wish and it will be fulfilled. You have rare luck to have heard of it in a book and come here. Not everyone gets to visit here. Make the most of it.' At moments like these, a non-believer like me starts to understand faith. I may not need it, but if it can turn lives around and give people the heart to bless a stranger they met two minutes ago, may it live long!

The ancient Shivling

The younger man gave me a quick tour of the temple. According to him, 'The shivling is 10000 years old and was installed by Yudhishtir Bhagwan. Ever since, people have come here asking for their wishes to be fulfilled, their agonies to be taken away and the god has never disappointed.' I noticed that the Shivling was draped in leaves and fruit, and milk was being poured on it through a curious looking nozzle. Followers were kneeling down in front of the god to pay their respects.

'Can I click photos?' I asked the man.

'Yes, of course, you are our and the god's guest.'

I was touched. When I left to roam Delhi, I had shelved all expectations of humanity in the mountains. The last thing I expected was to be treated like a prince, taken for a guided tour, imparted with the story of an old man's struggles, and having a god play host to me. Humanity exists everywhere, most of all in a city of 20 million. It’s just covered under the dust of daily existence. The moment you are willing to gently dust the surface, it oozes out lovingly.

The boat going out on the Yamuna

I walked out of the temple with a gleaming smile, reflecting on the satisfaction of meeting good people on the road. I was going to head for Nigambodh Gate, one of the gates of Shahjahanabad. But just across the road was the Jamuna, flowing black and lazy on a winter morning in the haze. I decided to hop over to the dirty banks. So I stood there on plastic and lots of assorted trash, looking over the oily ooze of Jamuna. Far away, in distance, on an island was a huge mass of birds, so many that they painted the island white. Just a few feet away from me, a group of men, sitting on their haunches were getting ready for a game of cards. An old man with missing teeth, grey and disheveled hair, and a vermilion mark on his forehead, walked down to the river bank. One of the card players, a boy, got up and pulled a yellow boat into the water. The old man climbed in and off they went. The young man was singing an old Hindi song, 'Zindagi ke safar mein guzar jaate hain jo mukaam, woh phir nahin aate.' (Milestones once passed in the journey of life never come back.) It was so apt a song for the crematorium nearby, where people come at the last milestone of their life and then have their ashes sprinkled on the holy river. The setting was so calm, the young man’s deep baritone so soothing, the river so serene; for the first time, I felt very comfortable seeing death at such close quarters. After a couple of oar strokes, the boy turned back to the shore and got out of the boat. They had forgotten to take matchsticks. I was anyway wondering about their trip, so I walked over and asked,

'Are you crossing the Jamuna?'

'No, we are just going to feed the birds.', the boy replied.

'Can I join in?'

'Yes, of course.'

Without hesitation I jumped in and we were off. Before the feeding started, incense were lit and set to float on the holy river as an offering. Then the food, salted vermicelli, came out and the birds flocked over. One moment, the boat was a lonely farer on the river. A minute later, hundreds of birds were circling the boat. And we three began to chat.

The hand that feeds the birds

They were a strange pair. An old man, will into the second half of his life, coming to feed birds, supported by a young rebellious teenager who claimed he was, '…a free bird, I am only tied to Jamuna Maiya.’ The old man, he told me, has been coming to feed the migratory birds every single day of the winter for the last 3 years and each of these days, this young boy takes him out to the river. What chemistry binds them, I have no clue. It was not money for sure, something much deeper than that, maybe something which is better left not understood.

The feeding ended too early. Sitting there on the boat over a black, silent, river I could have spent the entire day watching the birds come and feed and watching these two strangers interact with the ease of childhood buddies. Behind it all was the falling ashes of many people who had come to the last milestone of their lives, while I was still living mine. The boat was moored to the bank and I walked out to the road, taking a moment to look back at the scene. There was no Hall of Thousand Columns, no big monuments, no geographic discovery. Yet, I’d had the best day of my Delhi walking life. All I did was meet a few wonderful people and listen to their stories. That is why, they say, it is people who make the world what it is and not the other way around. I have belatedly realized that the living Dilli is part of this circle too.

Skinner's Church: St. James' Church

Location - Kashmere Gate -Delhi 6 (click here for the map location)

Co-ordinates - N28 39.930 E77 13.861

Closest Metro Station - Kashmere Gate (Yellow Line)

Landmark - Near ISBT Kashmere Gate

I first read about this in 'City of Djinns', the book I come to love more and more as I see more of Delhi. Dalrymple gives extensive coverage to a man called William Fraser, a Scot who came to the then Company headquarters of Calcutta as a student of the orient seeking knowledge and turned into a native guerilla warfare leader. As the deputy resident stationed in Delhi, his duties included stamping out the menace of the Mahrattas. He took to the task and the city so well, he never left. Dalrymple ends Fraser's story with his murder and then the burial in St. James Church near Kashmere Gate. Ever since, I wanted to see Fraser's grave.

Adding to the appeal of the church was James Skinner, the man who ordered the church made. James Skinner was what the British referred to as half caste (Anglo Indian) and was therefore switching allegiance because neither parties identified him as their own. Only Fraser, himself a lover of the orient and a maverick appreciated Skinner. The two were brothers in arms. Skinner survives to this day as the founder of Skinner Horse.

St. James from the entry gate on Madrasa Road

St. James has an interesting history. Skinner was lying wounded on the battlefield when he decided he would make a church to honour god if he survived. And he did. That is both survived and had the church built. The construciton was started in 1826 and completed in 1836. Built in Renaissance style to a cruciform plan (the floor plan is shaped like a cross), it has porches on 3 sides and 2 stained glass windows (presumably original Belgian) towards the altar side. The roof has an octagonal dome, right over the crossing (the point where the arms of the cruciform intersect).

The front porch with the portico.

Close up of the dome.

Stained glass windows near the altar (East side)

The church has extensive grounds with well maintained gardens and is still used as a place of worship. The grounds have some beautiful trees and a graveyard. Towards the north of the graveyard is a special section, cordoned off by a fence; dedicated to the graves of the Skinner family. Holding about 15 graves, small and big, plain and elaborate, the only Skinner I could not find here was Colonel James Skinner himself.

At the West edge of the grounds, as far as possible from the church building while still staying in the grounds, are 2 monuments. One of them, an upright memorial cross, commemorates christian killings in Delhi during the 1857 mutiny. The other, a rectangular, slightly raised platform holds the remains of William Fraser, the man whose grave most inspired me to visit St. James.

One of the fancy Skinner graves towards the North.

The raised rectangular plinth in the foreground is Fraser's grave.

Fraser's tombstone.

In a city otherwise full of ancient, unkempt ruins, St. James gives an almost modern feeling. A crisp, painted building, its less than 200 years of existence and European architecture feel like today's, which is perhaps fitting for it lends an air of antiquity to all the previous rulers of Delhi.

Marking the Territory: Kashmere Gate

'Marking the Territory' is a series of posts which will physically mark boundaries of the various cities/forts/citadels of Delhi on Open Street Map. The initial idea was to mark only the gates or locations of erstwhile gates of Shahjahanabad but I have extended it to marking pretty much all fort walls, gates etc which remain, can be traced or seen. It starts with Kashmere Gate and will hopefully extend to many more.

Location - Kashmere Gate -Delhi 6 (click here for the map location)

Co-ordinates - N28 39.996 E77 13.746

Closest Metro Station - Kashmere Gate (Yellow Line)

Landmark - Near ISBT Kashmere Gate

Finding Kashmere gate, like most things in Delhi, is not easy. I started off at 7 in the morning, got into an auto and asked the auto driver 'Kashmere Gate?'. In today's parlance, it either stands for the big bus station or at best the locality around, which was part of the old walled city of Shahjahanabad. When I asked him if he knew about the old Kashmere Gate, after which the locality has been named, I drew a blank. 'The St. James' Church'? Blank again. So we decided we will reach the area and ask around. I had already given up the idea of asking for Kashmere Gate because it means too many things and unfortunately, they were not the same for me and for those answering. So, we settled for asking for the church. St. James' was an easy find. It was not even 8 when I reached and the church would not open till 8:30.

As I set off in one direction to look for Kashmere Gate, I was pondering on what line of enquiry should I take. I called a friend and requested him to check it up on the internet. Meanwhile, my line of enquiry started as 'Kashmere Gate?', changed to 'remnants of an old wall from the time of Mughals?', 'extension of red fort', 'a gate, an arched gateway'. I was directed towards Old Delhi railway station, was asked to walk past it. While Kashmere Gate was hard to come by, I saw this interesting looking mosque called 'Lal Masjid' (Red Mosque). It was red, on the first floor and had a variety of shops below it.

Lal Masjid in Kashmere Gate. I know nothing except the name.

Finally, after a long circuituous route and multiple failed and semi-failed enquiries, I landed up at a place with a gate. An old morose looking caretaker had just let in a group of foreigners and was closing the gate. I asked 'Kashmere Gate?' 'Yes, the place this locality is named after' came the reply with the frown on the face replaced by a proud look and a gleaming smile. The place I was standing at was just 200 metres away from where I had started half and hour and 2 km ago.

Kashmere Gate! Finally!!

Kashmere Gate was built as part of the Red Fort walls by Shahjahan in 1638 AD. The northernmost gate of the walled city, it was so named because the road to the north led to Kashmir. While I have nothing to substantiate this, Shahjahan was so much in love with Kashmir that I dont find this far fetched. Any gate leading slightly to the north would have been christened such in those days. What remains now is a gate with a double archway, some barracks on the sides and some enclosures to house guards on duty. The wall encircling the old city is nowhere to be seen. Quite how much of what remains was part of the original structure is difficult to ascertain with the British and ASI restoration.

The insides of the gates with niches.

At a later stage, the gate played an important role in the mutiny of 1857, with a face off between the East India Company troops and the Indian rebels. As a result, the gate was extensively damaged, ostensibly from cannon balls fired by both parties. The damage can still be seen on the face of the structure, though a lot of it has been covered by the recent shoddy ASI restoration.

The back of the gate-clearly less restored than the front. The original damage is still visible.

After the mutiny, Kashmere Gate served as a posh locality with British officer's quarters marking the area. With Lutyen's Delhi planned and executed, the area lost its importance, sheen and walls to time. What remains today is just a feeble reminder of what once was.

Part of the erstwhile barracks