Guest Post: Photos by Ram Mahajan

My first contact with Ram was through my trekking website, www.trekhimachal.com. As I moved to Delhi, I met him briefly once at New Friends Colony, shared a couple of beers and had some of Al Bake's shawarma rolls (or I had them for he is a poor vegetarian). He mentioned his interest in photography. In typical lazy fashion, I never bothered to check his facebook profile.

End of January, one Sunday evening, we got together again over three large Old Monks at Kabila Resto Bar in Hauz Khas (As an aside, I dont know what they do to it but they serve the best Old Monk I have ever had). He showed me some of his clicks on his HTC phone. I was blown over! BLOWN OVER! I asked him

'Why don't you consider photography professionally?'

'I do this for pleasure, cannot imagine doing this otherwise.' he replied.

After blabbering about why he should take this 'seriously' for a couple of minutes as he kept smiling at me, I realized such talk is too rich coming from someone who has been wandering for 19 months without taking anything seriously. So, I just shut my trap and asked him permission to post his photographs on this blog. All photos below are Ram Mahajan's work, copyright owned by him and not governed by the usual Creative Commons license on this blog. All of them were taken in and around Old Delhi, near Chandni Chowk. Look at them, admire them, drool at them but before using them, ask Ram. See more of his work at

www.flickr.com/photos/woh-pal

 

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. :)

Sunset at Hauz Khas

From right next to the Hauz Khas tank, close to the ancient site of Hauz Khas Medresse.

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.

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.