On the Ridge

In City of Djinns, William Dalrymple briefly mentions a bungalow that William Fraser built for himself on a hill. The mention is only about a sentence or two. Read carefully, it yields two things important enough to hold my attention any day. That it was built by William Fraser and that it was atop a hill. For the uninitiated, my love for William Fraser is documented here and that for the hills much more extensively at Trek Himachal. Obviously visiting the bungalow immediately became a personal quest. So, when one July morning a friend, Varsha, expressed a desire to see the Northern ridge, I had every reason to accept.

We got into the swanky Delhi Metro from Hauz Khas and got off at Kashmere Gate. After stopping briefly at Qudsiya Bagh and wandering around a city park we quibbled over which direction to take, (and sadly, I lost the argument) before we finally got into an auto for the Hindu Rao Hospital.

It was a surprisingly short auto ride. Towards the end it got really interesting, weaving through a couple of small lanes before eventually climbing up a steep hill. I had no idea such steep slopes existed in Delhi. Eventually, we were dropped off at the entrance of the Hindu Rao Hospital, and had no clue what to do. Dalrymple had said Fraser's bungalow had been converted to Hindu Rao Hospital, named after a Maratha merchant of that name, who had bought the bungalow after Fraser's death. An ASI book we were carrying said the same thing. We had assumed we would get off the auto and bingo, bang in front of us we would see a charming building from early Raj with fluted columns and colonnades. Instead, there was a 1980s, dilapidated, typical stinky hospital looking at us with sleepy, disinterested, eyes. Lost of purpose, we walked around a bend in the narrow road and spotted a police post. But Varsha refused to use her womanly charms to quiz a policeman for the whereabouts of the haveli so we moved a little further down the road trying to orient ourselves while sifting through the pages of the ASI book.

Just before we passed the last of the hospital grounds, we spotted another guarded gate. Just to prove a point I had been making (that I am a very charming man), I politely asked the guard on duty for a baoli in the area which the ASI book mentioned. People are more likely to know old, unused baolis than re-used havelis. After a bit of apprehension, he actually led us inside the gate. While I was basking in the afterglow of having proven my point, Varsha looked around and whooped at having possibly found Fraser's haveli. I am not sure why she got so excited. What stared us in the face was a sad, half mossy, stinking, unkempt building showing multiple failed attempts at renovation. We tried going inside but were blocked by a pile of broken chairs. Anyway the room stank like a public loo in Kashmere Gate. I lost all my enthusiasm.. I have been to many a ruin covered in shit but this building was supposed to be in use. You could see name plates outside doors and yet it was stinking of pee. It was unbearable!

Walking a little further down the road, the baoli was not much different either. Parts of the walls had caved in and it was fenced off. Tall grass grew around it and, moss settled into the empty places left by fallen stones. ASI had fenced it off physically and fenced it off their minds as well. A little further after the baoli, was Pir Ghaib and it was a completely different story. It is a curious structure. I didn’t know what to make of it. Actually, no one does. One legend goes that a sufi resided here and one day just disappeared. Disappear is ghaib in urdu, hence the name. Who the Sufi was, when he lived, how and why he disappeared, no one seems to know. There is no mihrab anywhere to indicate a place of worship. The couple of graves inside are not conventionally oriented. The ceiling has a couple of openings which seem to be part of an astronomical observatory. Then there is the theory that this could have been a part of Kushk-i-shikar, Feroz Shah Tughlaq's hunting lodge on the ridge. There are very steep staircases with very narrow stairs on the first floor leading to the rooftop. From there, you can peer down through the holes to the ground floor and also look around many parts of North Delhi. It is two floors high on a high hill in Delhi and in a green area with very little haze. This is about the best view you can get in the city.

The curious Pir Ghaib, of the Pir who disappeared curiously

After Pir Ghaib, we went to the Asokan Pillar on the ridge. Truthfully it was nothing but another thin, strong column of special iron with Asoka's edicts on it. This one had been taken off from somewhere, reassembled somewhere else, then blown to fragments in a blast, collected and pieced back together again and then placed somewhere else. I wonder if Asoka would be able to read what edicts are left on it!

The Asokan pillar! Yet Another!

One of the charms of the Northern Ridge (and I say this with the benefit of hindsight) is many small monuments littered in a small area, all a short walk away from each other. They come in all shapes, mostly small sizes and encompass about eight centuries of Delhi not counting the Asokan Pillar. The latest of them all is the Mutiny Memorial built by the British in memory of the Mutiny of 1857.

Mutiny Memorial from the foliage

The search for the Mutiny Memorial took us on one of the most pleasant walks I have ever been to in Delhi. Varsha, with her aching feet, would probably not agree. We strolled down a slope on a narrow road with woods all around. It was rainy season, the forest was lush green and calm. An auto plodding up the slope with a few school kids looking curiously at us accentuated the far away feeling. It could have been in a small village in Himachal.

A close up.

Finally, we turned back up the slope, much to my disappointment, and found our way towards the Mutiny Memorial. While the memorial was closed for renovation, the staff allowed us to poke around the outside. Whatever else people may say about it (it has been renamed Jeet Garh with new inscriptions about how 'those referred to as traitors here were the freedom fighters'), the British taste of location was perfect. Perched on the top of a small hill, itself on the top of Northern Ridge, there could hardly have been a better location for placing a memorial to victory. It is not grand and is slightly understated but, placed where it is, it does not need to be any of those things.

We walked around a bit more and were surprised to find amongst other things a clean loo in a public park. The park itself is full of monkeys, has a water channel, a small pond, Flagstaff Tower and some other remains of Kushk-i-Shikar. Finally, exhausted and in search of an auto, we walked past Rajpur Road, which I had recently learned was the poshest of the posh residential neighbourhoods in Delhi. Yes, more upmarket than anything in South Delhi. You only have to walk on that one road lined by huge bungalows and mansions situated back in their own grounds and guarded by tidy greenery to believe that this exists in Delhi.

Flagstaff Tower. British officials' families hid in during the mutiny.

The afternoon was topped off by a sumptuous Korean meal, courtesy of a friend Jamal Mohammad, who is the single most reliable source of food information in Delhi and a lecture on moderation by Varsha, which she herself did not follow when faced by a chocolate fondue at AIM Cafe in North Delhi and the most wonderful waffle I can ever hope to have.

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.

Makhani Khizr

There is a theme running through our blog. And it’s not just us, really it’s present in all travel writing on Delhi. That is, the struggle to see beyond the Delhi of tomorrow, the mega city that is India’s capital, to appreciate its unique place in history and to find some small space where the push and shove of urban life is held at bay. How romantic! How clichéd. It would probably do us all some good to remember that we are just as addicted to the race for the cosmopolitan life as we are in need of escaping it.

With that in mind, wandering can have its disappointments when it does not deliver the otherness that the traveler is seeking. For me the Dargah-e-Aashiq-e-Allah (The shrine of the lover of Allah) was almost such a place. In a hurry to arrive, we stepped off from auto into shrubbery and set off down a dirt road. We passed an active village mosque which stands deserted outside of prayers. The late construction of the building was nothing to write home about. The road is clearly well used, however, and we passed a number of commuters on their way to pray at the dargah or turning down other paths.

It was hot, dusty, and dirty. Although the one story tall plant life blocked our view of South Delhi’s concrete roads, beggars and fancy cars – one worshiper arrived at the courtyard of the dargah in a new automobile, no doubt to give thanks for some sort of good luck, or perhaps to pray for more – was not my idea of escape.

The dargah too was a disappointment. White washed walls thick with water logged paint, unnamed graves the same color as the walls, holding a scattering of rose petals. This was not entirely surprising. The site is known for its legend, not its décor. Although the Imam of the dargah is not one to boast, or to tie his shrine to folklore, it is said that the Green Sufi could be evoked from a cave on this location. As early back as the 15th century Sufi saints fasted and prayed for 41 days, perhaps even hanging upside-down to call on the guidance and help of an ancient mystic and saint, one whose connection to God was so strong as to lend him sway over water and rain. Even in recent years his spirit has made an appearance. About fifty years ago, when Sufi saints still widely followed a tradition of praying in the Yamuna for days at a time, one saint was washed away (the Yamuna was a mightier beast then). The drowning man evoked Khizr and bystanders claimed that a green cloud formed to pull him back to shore. Khizr in spirit and flesh is seen in folk stories across the Islamic world, always with the same theme of love for Allah and a special connection to water. The Koran mentions the figure explicitly as a companion and teacher of Moses.

We walked up a few flights in the dargah with nothing grabbing us for a second look. But at least the view from up here was nice, with the Qutub Minar in the distance. The normal prayer ribbons were, instead, many colored plastic bags, adding an interesting quirk to the lattice of the roof. The legend of Khizr is not widely known amongst locals so few visitors actually make their way to this far corner. Still, we waited in line behind three other visitors, two middle aged men and an older woman. Two younger women, having finished their circuit walked by us happily chatting. This section of the dargah, the roof, was only a few meters in area with a tomb in the middle and a cave to the left. We walked around the tomb as the wind picked up, blowing flowers and kheel from the grave. We entered the cave. More like a dank room of natural rock than a cavernous retreat.

Inside there was barely enough room for two people. A reed mat lay on the floor and a green cloth covered the mihrab. A box which looked to be for incense, and interestingly not for donations, sat to the side of the mihrab.

I sat and stared at the black walls of the cave. At first I thought, ‘How long has it been since they gave this place a good wipe down?’ Then, ‘How many layers of soot cover these walls?’

A light sprinkle of rain began to fall outside, putt-puttering on the plastic bags. I kept looking forward, considering how many candles were burnt over the years to create the shinny black veneer.

The rain came down harder, splattering our backs the tiniest bit. The pattern of the storm echoed through the cave, drowning out all other noise, even my own doubting thoughts. With no way to leave we sat, silent, looking. And looking. And looking. And finally, right or wrong, I imagined the black surface expanding, becoming a tunnel, stretching back to the green one himself.

The rain stopped and we left. The return journey seemed lighter, more interesting with the drying landscape. Exiting into a village, I noticed those things I had missed in our earlier rush, like a 70 kg pig and her babies and the neighborly streets which quickly returned to a rush of honking and the metal garden we call home.

Wandering, like anything in life, is nothing but a state of mind.

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.

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.