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Showing posts from July, 2019

Down the streets of Nizamuddin

The purpose of our visit to the Nizamuddin Basti area was to search and find the reclusive heritage sites that we had heard about a lot, but never had the chance to see with our own eyes. With a joint conservation effort on in full swing in the area, we knew that this would be the best time to see the many monuments that were in various states of conservation.

Having reached quite early on in the day, we saw the basti before the activities of the day took over. Shop owners were still washing the thresholds of their shops, while a few young boys overlooked the entire operation with keen interest. Some shops had opened already - tea stalls selling fresh creamy tea to their patrons, and various paanwallas already catering to the shoppers that surrounded them. We headed on through the narrow lanes towards a school that had been developed, as part of the inclusive heritage conservation effort which considers the people living in the area as much as the monuments and heritage sites they aim to conserve and protect.

 I saw a pair of children getting ready for the day with an eagerness - the elder helping the younger putting on a shirt. Beyond, we could see the school day had already begun. We could see glimpses of young boys and girls running within the school courtyard, all dressed in smart uniforms, running around in the warm September sunlight. We saw the two children, now all dressed up and ready for the day, run off into the small black gate of the school and disappear out of sight. Our guide showed us where they had headed off to, and took us beyond the remnants of a park - broken slides and swings littered one end, while makeshift tents had sprung up on the other - to another, cleaner and greener park. He told us that the park, maintained under the conservation effort itself, was a small sanctuary they provided to all women and children of the area, not just the ones studying in the school, to come and enjoy the swings that had become so hard to find in the area. A small wide-eyed girl, still entirely enamored by the swings and the surrounding park, patiently waited her turn by the side while a group of younger boys swung by without a care in the world. Finally, it was her turn, and the camera in my hand thrilled her.



Carefully, with poise and grace, as though a million cameras and a large spotlight was upon her, she took to the swing and gently started swaying back and forth, always seemingly aware of the camera with which I snapped her photos. As the swing gathered speed, she lost her little inhibitions, and I could see her swinging more freely than before. Once, as the swing reached the fullest height, she threw back her head, her face upside-down, her hair hanging free, and laughed out loud at the timid young ones too reluctant to try such daring games, and as they laughed back at her, she turned and smiled at me. It was an infectious smile, and I found myself grinning back at her as well, while the young ones still whooped behind her.








Just outside of the school, there was a group of kids, all of school age, but in stark contrast with the ones running inside the courtyard in the sunlight, chasing each other. Yet, the children outside were learning new things on their own. As I walked by, I found them huddled around a bright red and yellow computer, eagerly looking into the screen. The installation was part of the hole-in-the-wall initiative; the concept being that even in unsupervised conditions, if the children have an opportunity to learn new things, they will pick it up. Seeing the group of children huddled around the computer figuring out how to use it, all on their own, I could see the hunger in their eyes to learn something new and exciting, even if it was outside the supervised classrooms just a few meters beyond. The children, although outside the structure of the school, had enough curiosity to teach themselves from whatever resources they had around them. We walked away from the school as more and more children gathered around the computer, often helping each other out when they got stuck with it somewhere.

In all the years that I've spent in Delhi, I've heard a lot of mention about the Baolis that dot the city. Still, I had only ever seen one, Argasen-ki-Baoli near Connaught Place. I knew about the existence of Nizamuddin's baoli, and had heard about the importance of the place from friends and friends of friends who visited the place earlier, but never did I get the chance to see it for myself. This time, though, we were headed off to see it.

We saw the well only from behind the closed gates, but we could see the importance that the place must have had in the area. Renovation efforts were most noticeable here, with the structure of the well being strengthened from the core. A group of young boys were bathing in the water, jumping from the surrounding structures into the water, while a recorded voice all around the area kept reminding all that water was sacred, and it is our duty to keep the well clean. The preservation of this particular baoli becomes even more important when I learned that it is perhaps the only one in the city which is still connected to an active water spring. For both the residents of the immediate area and for the heritage of the city, this is an important site that needs to be preserved and nurtured for years to come.





Before heading out of the area, there was one place that still needed to be seen - Mirza Ghalib's tomb, hidden away within the winding lanes of Nizamuddin.




Nested in the midst of residences, a small white marble structure marks the place where the legendary poet lay. Restored as part of the conservation effort, the marble tomb within a small courtyard is an intricate piece of sculpture. The courtyard also contains graves of Ghalib's family, and a few words from his poems etched in marble at one end. The tomb, right next to the Ghalib academy, is a wonderful testament to the simplistic beauty that the poet used in his own poems.

With the setting sun behind us, and wrapping up a day well spent at Nizamuddin, we walked out of the narrow lanes, and into the life that we know once more. Spending a few hours in the basti, it seemed as though the place and the people were both separated from the city that trudged on beyond the lanes by centuries - we could feel the history and culture of the area up close and personal, always present but always kept preserved and nurtured within those winding lanes.

As we walked out, the sizzling sound and wafting smells of the kababs and tikkas roasting on tandoors came our way, and we had to stop and sample a few. Sitting in one of the small hovel-turned-restaurants, as we savoured the sights, sounds and the smells of the market and the bustle of the business around us, we realised that in spite of being centuries away, Nizamuddin is always happy to see new faces come its way, and hear the stories that the place has told for ages - if only we stop, listen, and know that it's something worth caring for.

~

From One Poet to Another

I gave her a gift
A misquote
Wrongly acknowledged to Ernest Hemingway by a film
Where the writer says to the protagonist
“If your story is bad, I’ll hate it. If it’s good, then I’ll be envious and hate it even more.”
And I know it’s a misquote – I know that now
Because I spent four hours looking it up,
Since it sounded suspiciously like a true Hemingway quote
And even though it’s probably not him who said it,
I think there is some truth in that line.

We use words for a lot of things, you and I
And there are times when our words sound caustic to each other
Even if we meant them otherwise
But, then again, we use words enough to know that more often than not
We do, indeed, mean them to be caustic.

And while we both can differentiate between the good and the bad
There are times when everything that’s yours seems good, while everything that’s mine seems bad
Until, enough time passes and the sides flip
So that suddenly, everything that’s mine seems good, while everything that’s yours seems bad.

You were surprised when I told you, the other day, in a random conversation
That even though I don’t let you know, I do read your words quite diligently
I pore over your poems, trying to figure out the little nuances that I might have missed
As I pass over the lines the first time, trying to soak up too much too fast
Only to return for a second helping
To taste those words once more, leisurely
And it is during that time, that revisit of mine
That I begin to truly hate your words
And hate your style
And hate your emotions – which, I guess, are now mine
Since I am the one experiencing them after reading Your poem.

I always encircle “cooperative” when asked the question “Are you competitive or cooperative?”
But the more I think about you, and about us, and about your poems,
I keep wondering if that’s who I really am, or if that’s the person I want to be
Because cooperative, by definition, means “involving the joint activity of two or more”
But I know that if you and I ever got together to write
One of us is going to end up dead.

We are jealous folks, even if we don’t usually want to admit it
Because we know what it feels like to piece those words together to bring out the emotions
And no matter how we word it, there’s always some bit that seems to be lost in translation
Between the strange language our heart speaks in, and the language that we write in
And we know just how difficult it is when a poem, fully formed, longs to burst out at inopportune moments
So I have to write on a flimsy paper napkin,
With a pencil,
That I borrowed from the waiter while he brought the bill, expecting to be paid
And as I scribble feverishly, I can feel the eyes of the patrons on me
And the smirk of the waiter, seeing me acting like a child,
As I desperately try to wrap up everything that I want to write on that little square paper napkin.

And when I get back home, and try to make sense of all the things that I wrote out
And try to ensure that nothing from that page goes to waste,
And that everything I wanted to say comes out exactly the way that I felt it
I find, that you have written something too – something about a little beggar boy,
And the glimmer of the universe in his eyes, while he munched on the snacks you bought him
So that once his tummy was full, he could think about other things as well
How his first thought was of God, and the happiness that shone through his eyes as he munched on that God-given gift
While you took your notes, on a crumpled old bus-ticket, the way I took mine.

No matter how desperately I might look for that boy in my scribbled notes, I know he’s not there
And now, no matter what I write, and no matter how I write it, I’ll never be able to forget the boy’s eyes
Even though I’ve never seen them
No matter how much I try to depict him, I know that I can never get him right
The way you did; the way your words did
And so, after you know that I’ve read through the poem, you ask me,
“So, What did you think of it?”

I can’t tell you, that I hated it because I liked it so much
I can’t tell you, that I hated it because I can’t forget the boy
Or the God, who took care of that boy, and put that shining universe in his eyes
I can’t tell you, that I hate the emotions that choke me as I read through your poem
Emotions that I know will keep me up all night
And I can’t tell you, that the next time you write a poem, you can ask me to read it
But don’t ever ask me that question, “So, what did you think of it?”

Because, for better or for worse
I will, always, hate the words that you write.

~

Conversations with the city

Every day, Delhi expands and shrinks. It took me a long time to get used to such a paradox and learn to enjoy it instead. There are parts of the city still frozen in time, while the rest of the city races past. She is a city that grows on you, the more time you spend with her. You can hear her whisper stories about the broken walls that dot her landscape.

Delhi always seems to surprise me by how much smaller she seems as the years pass. Like watching children grow up, you never realize before it's happened. Maybe it's us who grow up faster than her.

I spent an afternoon with a friend once, meandering the roads of Chawri Bazaar. She had introduced me to the hidden facets of the city a long time ago. Now, she had returned, and I wanted to show-off how much I had come to know Delhi during that time. So, we walked down the road from the metro station and headed right into the heart of the old city. As the road turned a corner, we caught glimpses of the past, both ours and the city's. Up ahead, we saw a familiar wall, but my friend asked, "What's that?

Her question took me by surprise. It was the Jama Masjid, where we spent many afternoons and evenings. We would visit the older city only to spend some time beneath the chhatris of the walls. We would climb the stairs of one of the minarets and look down at the busy streets. She looked from me to the mosque and back, and said, "Seems smaller than I remember it to be."

In all the years of visiting these same streets, I had failed to notice it. Maybe in those years, we grew up. While New Delhi had expanded, maybe the ancient Delhi had shrunk inwards. The metro stations, the new shops and the crowds seemed to spill onto the narrow lanes. The new Delhi grew.

I took the bus home that day. I wanted to look at the roads instead of zipping away through underground tunnels. I blessed the snarling traffic which allowed me to take in the sights. I savored the parts of the city that I had grown to cherish, but had forgot to remember in a while.

Catching the bus from the Red Fort, I passed the Lahori Gate. Leaving behind the Jama Masjid, the bus rolled to a stop at the Daryaganj crossing. I noticed the roadside chicken shop, one of our favorites from back in the day. Our pocket money only allowed us the luxury of cheap chicken from a roadside shack. But in those years, even that shack had grown into a restaurant. I doubt if the taste of the chicken has changed though; some things stay the same.

We went on, past the Dilli Gate, Feroz Shah Kotla and the remnants of the Shahjanabad wall. Dusk slipped in as we headed on towards the southern side of the city. We reached the Old Fort, the broken walls of an even older city lit with warm halogen lamps. A slight left along the old Mathura Road led us straight to the Subz Burj with its iconic blue dome. I got off here on impulse, wanting to taste the famous kababs and tikkas of Nizamuddin. This old settlement takes on a new life as the day slips by. With the smells of sizzling meat hanging heavy in the air, I know I am home.

Growing up in Delhi, history surrounds us since childhood. We grow so accustomed to it that we miss what's right in front of us. We pass our jaded eyes over the intricate architecture of Mehrauli. We tend to skip over the stories that lay dormant in the stone walls of Hauz Khas. But these are timeless tales buried beneath mighty walls. They have stood guard around the city for centuries. These are the vivid stories that make me love this city.

College life brought with it its own sense of freedom for us. Travelling long distances became second nature. It was just a matter of time before I started feeling at home anywhere in the city. I started venturing out into parts of the city that were hitherto unknown to me. Such was the allure that it took us little time to get acquainted. Sneaking out of classes, we would hop on to the new metro trains and be out exploring. 

We spent a significant part of our college days aboard the DTC city buses. The buses were the best option for cheap daily travel from one end of the city to another. For me, the buses also proved to be my window to the city that I knew little. Every day, I learnt more about Delhi and her people from the vantage point of the bus window. As time went by, the city took on a familiar look. Thanks to those big green buses rolling around, I always knew I was never too far from home.

Thus, many warm afternoons gave way to cool evenings. We spent hours chatting with friends amidst the imposing masonry of the Agrasen Baoli. The cheap Kulche-Chhole found all over the city became our staple food. We took siestas beneath the cool shades of the chhatris of Hauz Khas. We discussed art, history, sports and politics over cups of coffee. And almost always, coffee led us straight over to Coffee Home of Connaught Place.

Connaught Place sees the duality of progress and preservation as well. Perhaps the best example of this is the Agrasen Baoli. Tucked away amidst modern buildings of the capital's commercial center, it is well hidden. Yet, this juxtaposition makes the sheer depth of the step-well all the more fascinating. With every step down the well, the busy world that surrounds it seems to recede away. Even in the heart of the city, this ancient well proves that history is never too far in Delhi.

Step-wells such as the Agrasen Baoli used to be a popular feature in Delhi. They conserved water from run-off, providing easy access to fresh water across the city. Land slope and underground water channels were strategic indicators for their location. Agrasen Baoli functioned as a rain-water harvesting well. Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya's baoli is another familiar step-well in the city. Named in his memory, it taps into an active water spring that still feeds it today. Over the years, the passages leading to the underground springs choked. The well dried and was soon wiped from memory. In recent years, a massive clean-up exercise repaired those choked passages. Water from the active spring gushed in to reclaim the step-well. Today, the Baoli stands restored to its original glory, fitting for its impressive age.

Delhi is an aged city. She has been home to her people long before becoming an important urban center. She has seen the rise and fall of countless rulers, shared the ambitions of kings. Yet, through it all, Delhi continues to welcome us with open arms.

To understand Delhi, we must peel away the layers of history and see underneath. The most compelling site for ancient Delhi lies near the Kalkaji Temple. Historians uncovered an edict carved during the rule of Emperor Ashoka that dates back to the 3rd Century.

Near the Purana Quila excavation sites, village habitations are dated back to 300 BC. Archaeologists have found evidence of late-Harappan culture in some old villages of Delhi. These artifacts take us back to 1,000 BC. Folklore takes us even further back. According to the legend Mahabharat, Indraprastha stood on the banks of the Yamuna. The Pandavas laid the foundations of the ancient capital city around 3,500 BC.

These stories about Delhi aim to look at the history of this imposing city. They aim to look at these half-remembered tales, lost in the cracks of time. It brings to life the ancient story that still surrounds us. To read all Delhi Stories, click here.

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