A Day at the Ruins

Ya rahey hissar* oosar, ya basey gujjar (May [this place] remain unoccupied, or else the herdsmen may live here).

I will admit I started with doubts. Don’t get me wrong, I love to wander around ruins and love seeing new parts of the city even more. But Shalabh can sometimes be a little over enthusiastic about history. So when he told my friend Johnny that we were going off to a far corner of the world to look at a fort with no ceilings, no complete structures to speak of, surrounded by villages and used as a grazing ground for the local goats, I felt it was my obligation to explain to Johnny that he should keep an open mind and just enjoy the metro/auto adventure until we saw what we were really up against.

The metro ride itself had to be an hour. It was January of 2011 and the Tuqhlaqabad stop (second to last stop on the purple line) still had a film of new station dust. After twenty minutes on a corner, we convinced an auto to take us to the fort. Feeling generous and desperate, we agreed to pay his way there and back so he didn’t have to wait for us to finish to pick up another ride. Bumping along, I wondered if we were leaving the authority of the MCD. Just a bit further and we would be in Faridabad.

Even after we piled out onto Mehrauli Bedarpur Road, and I saw the huge walls of the Tughlaqabad Fort looming above us, I was pretty skeptical. The entrance looked hokey, there were fake stone stairs, an ASI board, polished towers, and a ticket booth.  The warning signs of an uninteresting afternoon.

I could not have been more wrong. Three hours later and I was convinced. There is no better way to appreciate the grand, artistic, spiritual, and destructive history of Delhi than within the walls of Tughlaqabad. Here is a simply recipe for how you might spend the day.

1.    Take twenty minutes when you first enter to sit on a hill and look to the far reaching walls and the desolate inner grounds of the fort below you. Despite missing roofs it is easy to conjure up dreams of history and life pacing streets. A grain grinder looks as if it is waiting for the operator to come back from a long harvest season. Perhaps it’s because the ghosts of this disserted city were abandoned here, disconnected from the growth and destruction of Delhi, undisturbed even now.

Climbing through secret tunnels.

2.   Take a walk with the ghosts. Legend has it that this city is cursed. When Ghiyas-ud-din began building his fort city, the famous Sufi dervish Nizam-ud-din was completing a step well for serving the needs of the local people. Although Ghiyas-ud-din decreed that all craftsmen should be dedicating their time to the fort, many snuck out at night to volunteer on Nizam-ud-din’s well infuriating the ruler who already mistrusted and disliked the spiritual leader. During their struggle Nizam-ud-din proclaimed, Ya rahey hissar, ya basey gujjar (May it [Tughlaqabad] remain unoccupied, or else the herdsmen may live here).

Whether curse or prophesy, Nizam-ud-din's words were remarkably accurate. Tughlaqabad, which took four years to build, was only occupied for six years before a lack of clean water and the ambition of Ghiyas-ud-Din’s son, Muhammad, forced the capital to shift to the new city of Jahanpanah.

3.     Get into the walls. I won’t tell you where it is but somewhere, perhaps a kilometer from the entrance, there is a crawl space in the fort walls that will lead you outside, and leave you standing on the edge of fort and forest in what used to be a mighty water way. Perhaps an escape route, or something less interesting, it is definitely human sized (well, small human sized). If you find it, keep in mind you will be sharing the crawl space with bats and the only option once you have reached the other side, is to turn back around through the tunnel, or scale the fort walls. You don’t need ropes but you may want to bring a friend. We found it perfectly safe, but promise nothing.

Reaching new heights.

4.     Play a game of tag. Ever since visiting this site I have a recurring fantasy of playing laser tag or paintball at the fort. Of course, that is impossible, but a game of simple tag is not. If you steal this dream from me, tell us tell us how it goes!

If you haven’t figured it out yet, Tughlaqabad is sort of like a giant sandbox. If you can allow yourself to regress into childlike imagination and restlessness you might just have the best day you’ve ever had in Delhi.

*Struck through and corrected after the comment by Arghanoon-e-aashiqaan at 05:05 on 24th May 2012

I found Delhi's attraction at Masjid Moth

I first visited Delhi as a boy of nine on a 'Bharat Darshan' trip with my family. It was supposed to be a trip for the kids to see the country’s landmarks, but I was mostly taken aback by the sheer crowd, dirt, dust, noise, loudness and crowds of Delhi. We lived in a mountain village of four hundred back then. I still remember looking down from the 4^th floor balcony of a hotel (called Neelkamal or Kamal Hans or something with a kamal in it) in Chandni Chowk and seeing more people in one sweep of the eye than I had perhaps seen in my lifetime. I could not find anything appealing in the city. Yes, Gandhi's memorial was cool, so were Jantar Mantar and Red Fort and so on but they weren’t Delhi, they were more like things that had been mentioned in school and had seemed unreal or far away. Textbooks in 3D form.

As I went to college and then to business school and then worked in Chennai and abroad, Delhi was the airport I flew from, the bus station I boarded the bus to Himachal from and the second choice railway station. It was my gateway to the world beyond Himachal but it was one I did not look forward to crossing through. Delhities were rude and seldom answered my questions, auto drivers seemed to be out to fleece me. I was a simple mountain boy in a place that was out to get me, trample me. Someone once said, 'Delhi is cut-throat'. That it is and it almost cut my throat so many times. Only masochism or love could have driven me to move to and walk around the city I most dreaded.

The truth is it was a little bit of both, but that is a different story. Over nine months of wandering, I found many things that made Delhi tolerable. But it was only after I paid ten grand last Diwali to fly to Delhi for just two days, that I realized that I, like so many sceptics before me had become a Del-mantic. Sure I was partly there for the friends, but the truth is that something else draws me back to Delhi. I can’t put a finger on what it is. The city hasn’t changed, it is still as dusty, loud, and polluted as ever so it must be me. I have a theory that over all of these centuries, the city never really changed. The loved tortures, subdues, and changes its lovers without ever once moving itself.

On Diwali, over a pontificating session, we discussed how Diwali might have been celebrated a few centuries ago without reaching a conclusion (this was pontificating after all). But the next day I went with Varsha (who writes here and is still wandering around Delhi) to Masjid Moth. This was the first time someone else had taken me wandering around Delhi. I had often seen the signage from a flyover on the Outer Ring Road reading 'DDA Masjid Moth Flats'. Often I had imagined that there must be a Masjid Moth and a couple of times even thought of venturing there.

The first surprise came with the realization that Masjid Moth is not anywhere near those DDA Flats. It is a good 3-4 kms away near Hauz Khas. We got off an auto and, expertly, Varsha led me through a maze of streets. I have often noticed and never mentioned that there are many Old Delhis in Delhi. You can go anywhere in an older neighbourhood and find an old fashioned market where a grocer sells only limited goods, a stationer only stationery, there are a couple of shops for fixing the punctured tyres of bikes, a couple of cheap eateries and a doctor who calls his business a 'dispensary'. Old Delhi just happens to be the biggest such neighbourhood and the most chaotic. But that is beside the point. We were now in the heart of something somewhere in Hauz Khas with chaotic criss-crossing lanes in an old fashioned market place. I could not believe I had missed a site this close to where I took Spanish classes.

After walking a few minutes, we came upon a stone structure to our left. It was ruined and dilapidated. There were a few cars parked next to the walls, which stank slightly of urine. We walked through a small gap, past a wall, turned right and then saw a gate. Stunning. Carved with delicately carved floral patterns and geometric figures, it has to be the most ornately carved gate I have seen in Delhi. Once inside, I was surprised again with the carving in the second picture below.

It is very un-Islamic to have a life form carved in a mosque, infact it is prohibited by the Quran. This is however a case of a mixing Hindu and Islamic architecture: a Hindu arch laid within a Muslim arch. The story of the mosque's origin is also fascinating and can be found at this Wikipedia link.

As we walked in and wandered around the courtyard, the quintessential Delhi ruin quiet caught on and I just sat on a parapet mulling over life. It is amazing how repeatedly, Delhi can throw old buildings your way which really transport you back into time, where the sound of the traffic seems to come from a distant place and age. I was thus lost in a reverie when I was interrupted by a voice. It was the security guard at the mosque talking to Varsha. She was asking him questions about the history, which he did not have concrete answers to. I got up from my seat and walked over to them. He was clearly a recent immigrant from either Eastern UP or Bihar, like most of the security guards in Delhi these days. Slowly, as he got talking, he mentioned his previous job at Humanyun's Tomb. In a soft tone, he said

'There are ghosts there.'

Varsha was almost livid. She does not like nonsense. However, before she could interrupt him, I cut in, 'Really? How do you know?'

'I have seen them. All the guards in Humayun's tomb are scared of going anywhere near the crypt in the night. Sharp at midnight, when everyone is asleep, and the tomb is absolutely silent and dark, the royal procession of Humayun makes it way out clad in royal shining fine silk robes and mounted on beautiful steeds.'

I was already in dream ghost land when Varsha, who could take no more of such nonesense, pulled me away. To this day, I have been imagining how the plot would have developed. Would Humayun's procession cross the road and be joined by a procession of Abdul Rahim Khan-i-Khana and, together, would they meet the spirit of Nizamuddin and seek his blessings? Or would the procession just wander around lamely within the tomb walls? Damn you Varsha!

The guard also sheepishly mentioned something about ghosts in Masjid Moth but I did not get to hear about them either. Instead we sat down under a tree and read a little from a book which describes the mosque. I climbed the top of the gate to see if I could get a good picture (I couldn't) and then we heard the creaking of an opening door. Right opposite us, in the courtyard of a small shanty sharing a wall with the mosque was an old man with a newspaper. The courtyard had a line with laundry hanging on it. Casually, the old man sat down on a chair, appraised his surroundings with a slow movement of the neck, looked towards us and the courtyard of the mosque, and finally faced the mihrab and started reading his paper. It’s only in Delhi that someone can so casually share a wall with history while a visitor from another city stands across the way appreciating the finesse of the fabric hung out to dry, and fantasies of royal phantoms march through the courtyard between them.

I couldn’t capture the word, but I almost understood what pulls me back to Delhi.

The Gate

The Blasphemy

The courtyard

The Mosque and............The Ghost

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.

Nili Chhatri and the Universality of Humanity

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

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

Present day Nili Chhatri

‘Are you not from Delhi?' he asked.

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

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

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

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

The ancient Shivling

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

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

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

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

The boat going out on the Yamuna

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

'Are you crossing the Jamuna?'

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

'Can I join in?'

'Yes, of course.'

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

The hand that feeds the birds

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

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