Last night I visited the Nizamuddin Dargah; never knew such a place existed in Delhi. So green. So Muslim. So another world of Aladdin, Ghalib and Khusrau. It was very humid and Corinna vowed that she lost 5 kgs of weight just sweating.
We entered the Dargah through a long series of lanes, a maze, a labyrinth with blind turns – with shops just large enough to hold the shopkeeper; flower-sellers whose wares spilt at your feet; butcher shops where the carcass hung right in your face; ill-fated goats tied to posts; eunuchs who passed by with a haughty sway; men with skull caps, women with covertly covered heads, mothers jostling with sweating babies, many old men with saffron beards, blackened eyes, blue check lungis and long kurtas. And it was all so colorful! Green majorly, some orange and golden gota.
Doodles by Rijuta, fellow explorer. Khacha Khach Khacha Khach. Madam, Madam flowers?
Meat Smells
At the Dargah, people walked freely where the tombs lay. The needy, handicapped and destitute sat begging for alms. Life offered a new perspective as I saw an old beggar, lying on the sticky floor like a forgotten rag, singing heartily.
We stuck together, a group of five girls, with our elbows right next to our bodies. A large assembly of men bowed flexibly in the evening namaaz, in the open area after the tombs, and after a marble jaaliwork (lattice) chamber. After the namaaz came the moment we had come for - the sama mehfil.The music sesson with qawwali, resonant Sufi music that one could sway to. Trance spelt by an Urdu combo of Islamic music and Hindu folk style. The music group seated themselves in front of the main shrine to sing directly to Allah. One of the older men from the group walked around saying “Allah ke vaaste bait jaao, pankhe se hat jao” (For Allah’s sake sit down and don’t block the fan). He pushed people sitting in the wrong places at the back and nicely led ladies to sit to the left of the qawwals.
The music, the singing I shall not describe. It has to be experienced. The superlative quality of the men’s voices has to be heard.
The qawwals belted out songs with poetry by the legendary Mirza Ghalib and Amir Khusro. Khusro was the most favourite disciple of Saint Nizamuddin Auliya; both are buried at the Dargah. Auliya had once said that if religion allowed it he would like to be buried in the same grave as his pupil and stay with him even after death. People stepped forward and dropped money before the singers. The head singer, with a protruding mouth and paan stained lips would get up and kiss the hands of the money-givers at times. Some pankhawals (fan-men) walked amidst the sweating crowd, waving large fans and providing much required breeze. The tall, gaunt wind-makers looked like they were built to be royal bodyguards, with aristocratic mien, but had fallen on hard times.
As the qawwals sang, my friend noticed a young smiling man standing alone in the crowd holding a single rose, lost in pleasant thoughts. Next to us, in the lattice chamber a man flung himself against the wall. His roars of anguish were mostly drowned by the music. His body twitched and jolted. The boys sitting next to me explained, quite matter-of-factly, that the holy lattice chamber exorcised malignant spirits and evil magic that had possessed a person. A little disturbing but easy to get accustomed to. Corinna and Tanavi, two from our group, enjoyed the experience but were pissed off by lusty guys brushing past with feigned inadvertence.
A great experience, with ostentation (ornate chandeliers hung right next to naked CFL bulbs) and a kind of immaterial happiness.
Bright Indulgent Chandeliers hung;preceded by CFL bulbs…!
‘No Ladies’ seen almost all over. Shops less wide than my arms outstretched.
