The One and Only Rahim!

Rahiman dhaga prem ka mat todo chatkay

Tute se phir na jude, jo jude to gaanth pad jaaye

Don't snap the thread of love, O Rahim,

Once broken, it cannot be mended. If mended, there will always be a knot

I came across this as a boy of twelve, in a remote village of Himachal. For good measure, our Hindi teacher conveniently displaced the word 'love' with 'friendship'. Fair enough, twelve year olds are perhaps not supposed to understand love, of any kind whatsoever. In the same courses, we had couplets by Kabir Das. Kabir was a 16^th century 'low-caste' weaver who transcended his background, education (or the lack of it) and recited some of the most beautiful things ever in Khadi Boli and Hindi. Most of his work was documented much later through oral tradition. For some reason, the image of a poor man sitting in his hut by the Ganga in Banaras weaving away and reciting nuggets of wisdom stuck in my head and I associated it with everyone writing couplets in Hindi, Urdu or Khadi Boli. That another well known poet Raidas (also known as Ravidas) was Kabir’s contemporary, a poor cobbler, and very wise did not help matters.

From there on, I imagined Rahim to be an impoverished mendicant dressed in tattered clothes, wandering through the world. I never associated a profession with him but he could have been a potter or an iron-smith. He would slave away for subsistence and, in his daily struggles, manage to see profound wisdom that escaped the mortals around him. Imagine my surprise then, when I learned that Rahim was a noble in Akbar's court, a wealthy governor, one of the navratnas, an accomplished warrior among much else. He was also an accomplished writer and translator, he translated Babar's autobiography from Chagatai to Persian.  And he has a tomb in Delhi, right next to the tombs of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and Humanyun. He is clearly keeping exalted company even in death. His resting place has been ravaged by time and the makers of Safdarjung's tomb, but that does not take anything away from its impressive size. With a little imagination, you can still see the delicate carvings on the walls, the ornate jharokha work on some of the small windows, and the grandeur of the grounds in the centuries past. Feeding off of the ghost story told to me by a security guard in Masjid Moth, I even imagined Rahim's ghost procession joining Humanyun's to seek Nizamuddin's blessings.

What has continued to hound me though is how could a blue blooded man, a noble and a wealthy man have the time, the depth, and the perspective to be such a profound thinker. Not taking anything away from Kabir (who I already called The Winner), it was probably easier for a Kabir to brood over life, for he did not have many other cares, no provinces to govern, no wars to fight and win, no autobiographies to translate and no emperor to please. For Rahim to have achieved what he did in literature is truly outstanding. It is perhaps fitting then that there are two Rahims in my mind and the two exist in different worlds. And lest I forget, when we met him in December, even Sam Miller was not aware that there was only one Rahim!

Bade badai na karen, bade na bole bol,

Rahiman heera kab kahe, lakh taka mera mol.

The truly great never boast about themselves or talk about their worth,

O Rahim, when does a diamond ever say it is worth a million.

Goodness! Forgot to mention, all photos above courtesy Wanderfool of A Date with Delhi.

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.

The Fliers

This is on the domes of Moti Masjid in the Bakhtiyar Kaki dargah.

 

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.

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.

 

Sunset at Shalimar Gardens

Apart from being a residential area in north of Delhi, which is what most Delhiites think it is, Shalimar Garden actually is a Mughal Garden. Long forgotten but grand and beautiful in its time, it lies in one corner of the residential area next to the village of Shalimar. It is a remarkably large open space with lots of fruit trees and lends itself to a site for watching a sunset from. From Shalimar Gardens last Friday.

Marking the Territory: Dilli Gate

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

Co-ordinates - N28 38.463 E77 14.433

Closest Metro Station - New Delhi Railway Station (Yellow Line)

Landmark - The gate itself

The Southern-most gate of the city of Shahjahanabad, Dilli Gate links the city of Old Delhi to New Delhi (un the current locality of Daryaganj). At one time, a wall must have run on both sides marking the territory of the imperial city. What remains now is just the gate, flanked by 2 lanes of the road on each side. While the walls do not survive at all, the gate survives as a whole, unlike Kashmere Gate. On the western side, remains of a staircase leading to the gate top can still be seen. As on date, it is enclosed in a green iron fence (presumably put up by ASI) and is not accessible to common public. There is no information board on the gate. The wikipedia entry, however reads:

"The road was also called the Thandi sadak (the cool street) as it was a tree lined avenue. The gate, square in plan, was built in sandstone and is an impressive and large structure. Near the gate entry, two stone carvings of elephants were erected. The Emperor used this gate to go to the Jama Masjid for prayer. The road from this gate passing through Daryaganj lead to the Kashmiri gate. A part of the fort wall to the east has been demolished to build the Old Delhi Railway Station while the wall to the west exists."

Dilli Gate from South - this was the entry to Shahjahanabad

Arch of the Dilli Gate

Side View: The stairs leading up

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