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

Fatehpuri Masjid

Fatehpuri is one of Old Delhi’s many hidden gems. In 1650, Shahjehan decided to let his wife, Fatehpuri Begum (known so because she was from Fatehpur) build a mosque at the far end of Chandni Chowk, a straight shot down Red Fort’s once great canal. Standing at the gate of Fatehpuri Masjid you could see the Red Fort clearly. Today, that view is obscured by Delhi’s ever present haze, haphazard construction, and tangles of electric wires.

Fatehpuri Masjid at sunset

The mosque, a poorer cousin of the grand Jama Masjid is still in operation and actually quite big itself. As you enter from the main gate, on your left you can see recently constructed apartments encroaching onto what used to be the madrasa on the first floor. A yellow wall here, a few red bricks there, some taking up all the space and some just teetering into the mosque. Its as if a web of the surroundings is starting to engulf the mosque, very slowly. Even if new construction takes the originality of the building away, it makes the old mosque a true part of the bustling surroundings. The courtyard has a homey feel. People stroll through the courtyard with nonchalance, as if they were walking in the courtyard of their own homes. Maybe that is what they are actually doing.

The surroundings becoming one.

I visited three times, spending quite a bit of time on each trip. The hospitality of the people in the courtyard struck me every time. Someone offered to take me around, someone else volunteered information about the mosque, and yet another person inquired if I was having a good time and liked the place. Whatever the mosque lacks in size and grandeur compared to Jama Masjid, it more than makes up for in its welcoming atmosphere and hospitality.

Walking to pray

 

Sunehri Masjid

One day last winter, I was walking from Nili Chhatri Mandir towards Chandni Chowk when from amongst the leaves of a large tree, I saw a small bronze dome right next to the road. A small detour to the right, up and down some steps and through a large iron gate, I finally landed at the Sunehri Masjid. It was built in late Mughal period by Qudsiya Begum, mistress of the infamous Muhammad Shah 'Rangila', the Nero of Delhi. They say the three domes were gilted with copper. The copper was stolen, possibly during one of the many foreign sweeps of Delhi. Eventually Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor, had the remaining metal replaced with sandstone.

Today it stands a little away from the Red Fort, very close and yet very far from the road. The inside has 3 arches with reed mats laid below. In one corner are some taps for performing ablutions before the namaz. Once in a while, someone walks in to pray. The noise of traffic outside is drowned out by the sound of a broom scrubbing the floor.

A story from Sultan Garhi

Prince Nasiru'd-Din Mahmud was brash and young. As the eldest son of Iltutmish and the governor of large parts of Eastern India, the prince had unparalleled prestige in the empire and was looked upon as the successor to the throne. This heir apparent slept on a bed laid with rose petals every night. A slave girl was employed just to ensure the petals were laid out well and the prince's bed stayed soft.

One day, tempted by luxury, the slave girl decided to see for herself how the bed felt. After all the prince wouldn’t be back until much later. However, the bed turned out to be so comfortable that the girl slept for over four hours and was only woken when the furious prince dragged her out of bed and ordered her flogged. As she was being flogged, she started laughing hysterically. This irritated the prince even more. He ordered her to be whipped harder. But the more she was punished, the more she laughed. Finally tired of the flogging and stumped the prince put a stop to the punishement and walked up to her.


'What is wrong with you? What is so funny!?'


The girl did not respond and just continued laughing. Multiple entreaties from the prince yielded no response. Finally, after much cajoling, the girl said:


'You will have me killed if I tell you what I think.'


Nasiru'd-Din Mahmud, curious as hell promised her riches and a life long pension if she would just open her mouth. Convinced, the girl replied,


'I was wondering if sleeping on this bed for four hours makes me feel so soft and weak, what must you feel like? You have slept on this bed all your life.'


The prince was flummoxed. This was a man known for his bravery, for having helped conquer parts of East India and was known as Malik-us-Sharq, King of the East. And here, right in front of his eyes, a slave girl, bound and tied was calling him a weakling. Stories say he was a fair minded man. He kept his word of reward to the girl. Before she left she predicted:


'You will never be the king. But you will be venerated as a saint.'


True enough, Nasiru'd-Din died long before his father and never got to be the king, though he was buried in a tomb befitting one. Over eight centuries later, without knowing the weight of the prince’s story locals from Sultanpur and Rangpur pray at the tomb and address him as baba, a title normally reserved for Sufis. Every thursday, the well to do from the villages host a free lunch for the poor. The entire community basks in the light of baba Nasiru'd-Din.


This was my introduction to Sultan Garhi. A middle aged man, lame with a wooden crutch, ostensibly the care taker of the tomb of Nasiru'd-Din Mahmud was flitting around in the dark underground crypt when I entered. Peering through his half closed eyes with a broom in his hand, he egged me to climb down the stairs. I could hardly see anything. A beam of light was entering the crypt from the small, short entrance, lighting the tomb in a surreal light and making it look like something from the distant past. Three graves lay at the bottom, two of them unidentified.


Seeing me stay around for much longer than others, the old man told me this story. There is much around the tomb to see. Its a unique structure, the oldest Muslim tomb in Delhi. You can read more about it here. There are Sanskrit inscriptions around, the oldest well excavated in Delhi, the restorations by the ever present Feroz Shah Tughluq and some Mughal ruins.


For a better version of the story however, you have to make the trip to the tomb and hope to meet the old man. To see the impact of baba Nasiru'd-Din and how a prince-turned-sufi fosters communal unity, find a Thursday afternoon, 12pm to be exact. Enjoy a free meal with the lungars at what is the oldest monument in Delhi.

The mihrab (far) and the octagonal crypt

Chatting in a tomb. Photo Courtesy: Rachel Leven

The divine light. Photo Courtesy: Rachel Leven

At Nasirud'din's grave. Photo Courtesy: Rachel Leven

Photo Courtesy: Rachel Leven

The Thursday feast.

Chirag-e-Dilli - Still Illuminating?

A bit of wandering, a few conversations, and I may already be falling in love with Delhi!

Pardon me, that line was written in a high of emotion after my visit to Chirag Dilli. Later, as I visited the much better known Jama Masjid, I have downgraded this statement to something like 'I am still struggling to come to terms with Dilli and I cannot understand and reconcile its contrasts.’ However, let’s not let that take anything away from Chirag Dilli.

First to set the scene, imagine that Saturday night. I was party hopping until 3 am. And, let me confess at the cost of embarrassing myself, this was my first party hop in all of my 28 years. So the night was spent in a swirl of drinks with young, energetic, socialites discussing careers, aspirations, and regrets.

The next morning found me barely a km away from the last party, in the dargah (shrine) of a forgotten Sufi. At Chirag Dilli I met a middle-aged Muslim man from Jaunpur, UP. After an inspiring visit to the dargah of Moin-ud-din-Chishti in Ajmer as a young man, he left his home and his newly wedded wife and has been cleaning up Naseer-ud-din Chirag-e-Dilli's dargah ever since. In 25 years he has earned nothing except what pilgrims care to donate. Once a year he returns home to visit his wife and 3 children, all grown up and working now. But he never really left the dargah behind.

When I asked him if he missed his family he said, “Baba ko chhod nahin sakte, humko inse mohabbat hai.” (I can't leave Baba [Naseer-ud-din], I love him)

and in the same breath added, “Ghar bhi jaate hain, bachche hain, unse bhi mohabbat hai lekin Baba to Baba hain.” (I go home too, I have children and I love them but Baba is Baba.)

As I walked into the dargah, I was greeted by a smile and a general welcome.

“Mehmaan aaye hain,” ( A guest has arrived.)

An authoritative looking man dressed in traditional Muslim attire, who I later realized was the head priest of the shrine said,

“Mehmaan ko dargah aur mazar dikhaiye aur unki khidmat kijiye,” (Show the guest around the shrine and the tomb and take care of him.) The thought ran through my mind, that only two days ago, I was the guest of Hindus and Shiva at the Nili Chhatri temple. Yesterday I was feasting among the young and elite. Today, I was the guest of Muslims and a Sufi mystic who lived hundreds of years ago.

I was offered a chai. The gesture was touching enough in itself but when I realized one of the four people taking care of the dargah had given up his chai for me, I turned to jelly.

Locally known as Jeetu Baba, Mohd Ursan epitomises the contrasts of Delhi. Jeetu Baba lives on the premise of the dargah, under a roof surrounded by just two walls. He does not have a blanket warm enough for the winter but exudes enough warmth to offer his chai to a man almost his son's age. He showed me around the dargah, told me the stories associated with the place, and also pointed out the 700 year old wooden bed which Naseer-ud-din used to sit and pray on. We chatted for a long time. I heard his touching story and wondered at the variety of humanity, how the seemingly least important things can be so important to someone else, how the idea of devoting a life to someone's service can be life itself and how in a few hundred metres, a large metropolis changes colours like a chameleon. Before I left I gifted Jeetu Baba a blanket because I could not see him sleep another night in the freezing cold.

In the romantic utopia I live in, this post should have probably ended here but it can't. If it did, I would be unfair to reality. A few days later, on Muharram, I went back to Chirag Dilli. I had still not gotten over the last experience, was still light headed from it. Jeetu Baba had invited me for the Muharram procession. We were to start at Chirag Dilli and carry the Tazia to Karbala near the Safdarjung Airport, about 12 km and 4 hours away. I was excited, so much that I had excited the interest of a few friends who could not come but were as excited from far away.

When I reached the dargah, the friday namaz was on. Respectfully, I bowed down, one amongst a multitude. The dargah wore a completely different look. The empty courtyard was replaced by a huge congregation dressed in white, bowing down to the power of the almighty, the quiet was replaced by a nasal voice reciting the namaz. The crowd rose to its feet and fell to its knees guided by an unknown force. A few minutes later, after the prayer was over, I started looking for Jeetu Baba. When I could not find him, I looked around for another man I had met on my last visit. Finally, after I managed to locate him, he told me Jeetu Baba had to rush home because of a phone call. He did not know if anything unpleasant was afoot.

His second sentence was, “Did you get the blankets?”

I was astonished, “What blankets?”

“Jeetu Baba said you would bring 5-6 blankets and give them away.”

A lump grew in my throat, I did not know how to react. I just said ”No, I did not say anything like that.”

“Why would I lie?” the man responded in a disappointed and accusing tone.

I was again at a loss. While I was excited about the Muharram procession, I was also feeling a little lonely. In truth I had not wanted to venture here alone. I had to overcome myself and with half a heart was standing in this mosque courtyard hoping to get into the experience. And then this blanket business had struck. The gift I gave Jettu Baba was out of pure compassion and good heart. It was not even supposed to find its way on this blog, and here I was being tormented for more and implicitly accused of going back on a promise I never made. I had no clue what to do. His imploring would not stop. He started asking for money. The magic spell of that past Sunday had been broken. There was a feeling of disconnection, I could no longer associate this courtyard with my last visit. I wandered out hoping to get some respite outside the mosque and waited for the procession to start. The one bridge that had bound me to this place was now on shaky pillars. When I walked out, I half knew the procession was as good as over for me. After waiting for a few minutes, I traced my way back home.

Three weeks later, as I post this, I have still not processed things in full. My two experiences at Chirag Dilli are still separated in time and space. For the fear of some truth being revealed, I do not even want to process them. Half of me wants to go back and meet them again, to understand and talk. The other half is scared on two counts. What if my only discoveries are my lack of understanding and that they used me and abused the saint's name? Neither of these sounds exciting. But is there something else to find? I am undecided. The title was meant to be a statement after my first visit. It has changed into a question after the second.

For more on Chirag-e-Dilli, please read this Wikipedia entry.

Photos: Nizamuddin Qawwali

One thursday evening. Enough has been said about the qawwali by people more gifted with words.

Setting the tone. The old gentleman on the left leads the group.

The dargah crowds as the qawwali starts. Photo Courtesy: Rachel Leven

High notes!

This gentleman was particularly enjoying

A group stands up to applaud. Photo Courtesy: Rachel Leven

The magical fingers on the harmonium. Photo Courtesy: Jamal Mohammad

Appreciation in the form of currency notes.

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.

Tomb of Mubarak Shah - Kotla Mubarakpur

Location - Kotla Mubarakpur

Co-ordinates - NA (alleys too narrow for a GPS signal)

Closest Metro Station - Lajpat Nagar (Purple Line)

Landmark - Opp Defence Colony

I started at a little before 8. It was a Saturday, not many people were around. As I crossed the road to Kotla Mubarakpur, it felt like crossing a few centuries. From the wide open posh Defence Colony to the cluttered medivial village of Kotla Mubarakpur is a change that can inspire anyone to say this. One moment, its B block, House no 28 in Defence Colony and a 2 minute walk across the road, there is an old settlement easy to get lost in. Houses hug each other closely, the roofs almost touch together, light barely gets in. From Honda Accords to good old bicycles, from stores selling olive oil to shops selling oily bread pakoras, the transformation does not take a minute.

Transported to the past

As I walked into the narrow alleys, it was not difficult to realize I was lost. Each street looked like the other. After 2 turns, all sense of direction was lost. India is a land of uncertainities. Ask for directions from 10 people and I can bet an arm on it, you will get 10 answers. I asked people for old 'gumbads' (Gumbad is Urdu/Hindi for tombs). 'There are none around', 'What does that mean?', 'You should go to Red Fort', 'Its just around the corner' were amongst the responses I elicited. After multiple attempts, many failings, getting lost a few times, someone told me I needed to find the mosque. With an SLR slung around the neck and a small backpack across the back, I was already getting some weird looks. In due time, I found something. It was everything I had not expected.

Tomb of Mubarak Shah crisscrossed by electricity wires

Staring at me was an octagonal tomb. Quite large, the size was accentuated by the closed surroundings. Surrounded by an iron railing and rounded by a 10 feet wide road, the claustrophobic surroundings made it look much bigger than it was. All around were myriad shops, a cobbler, a laundry, a general store. Trash was littered around. Atop the building was a lantern structure with pigeons flitting around.

Pigeons Flit around the top of the tomb

The front gate was crudely locked with a bolt and screw. I enquired around and was told the local cobbler is the caretaker. After I had circled the building twice, a boy approached me. 'Do you want to get in?' he asked me. 'Yes'. 'Use the side gate'. He led me through the side gate and I was in the verandah. The boy looked about 15. His name was Aman. Over the next 30 minutes as I walked around the tomb, I bombarded him with questions and he answered patiently. The 'Tomb of Mubarak Shah' is locally known as Bada Gumbad (large dome). The locals say it houses the remains of a Sufi and his family. The largest grave is said to belong to the Sufi (unnamed) and the rest to his disciples/family.

Graves in the Tomb

Cats and pigeons inhabit the Lodhi period tomb. By my guess, at anytime, it has 5 feline inmates and about 10 flying. Octagonal in shape, as is typical of Lodhi period tombs, the inside has intricate engravings all around. Three sides of the tomb have arched gateways while the one on the west is fashioned as a mihrab for a praying mosque with verses from Quran engraved on rock.

The Mihrab of the tomb with the engravings on top right and left

The roof on the inside and the western face on the outside also have ornate carvings. Floral patterns or verses from the Quran are the most common. The roof has remains of the famed blue tile work. Though soiled by time, it still retains some of the original colour.

Carvings on the roof

Carvings on the outside western face (on the outside of the prayer face)

Unlike most other monuments that one gets to see around Delhi, this is a live monument. Everyday, people from all faiths come to the tomb, leave their footwear outside, walkin into to sanctum sanctorum and ask the Sufi for help with worldly matters. The multi-communal aspect of the monument is best highlighted by the half broken small idol of Ganesha displayed on South East face of the monument. As I was walking around the monument, I saw many a passer by pay their respects to the idol and I would guess, in turn to the Sufi as well.

The broken Ganesha idol on the South East face

From the Dadi Poti Maqbaras to Kotla Mubarakpur was quite a change. Both places have tombs from Lodhi period. One set is right opposite a posh market, is lighted by ASI, is fairly well maintained and is only visited by camera holding tourists, almost bearing an eerie, far away look. On the other hand is this quaint, large tomb in a quaint, medivial village, surrounded by walls on all sides, littered by pigeon and cat poop and still has enough significance for Aman to tell me to not worry about my footwear left outside. 'Bahar chhod dijiye, yahan se koi nahin le jayega' - Leave your footwear outside and dont bother, no one will steal from here (that is from a Sufi's tomb where people come to pray).

Offerings on one of the graves

Aman, my informal guide for the morning

For more, read the wikipedia link here and references section.