The Seventh City

Shop in by-lane of Chandni Chowk

Living in ‘New Delhi’, the old city always fascinated me. Before I explored it, Old Delhi seemed like a different city with different rules and different languages, tucked away in the folds of the capital. In some ways, I had been right about Purani Dilli.

The avenues, streets, lanes, all breathed collectively with the crowds. The language here seemed novel to my untrained ears. The consonants fell softer from tongues. The vowels lingered on the lips of the speaker. The songs, wafting in the breeze, smelled like earth. Amidst the jostle of the crowds and the trampling of toes, the language could become harsh in an instant, only for that harshness to evaporate and be lost amidst the sweat and swell of the mass. This city, three centuries old though she may be, is still alive.

We explored Old Delhi without much care for history. We explored for old books, for stories, for a quick taste of phirni. Once, on a quest to find ittar, a friend and I spent the whole afternoon wandering the maze-like lanes of Meena Bazaar, amidst the scurrying people hurrying through. It was hours later that we remembered why we came there, only to realize that the ittar we had been looking for had been right under our noses – we were just too enamoured to see it.

Bus Service along the main avenue of Chandni Chowk, 2009. This service was started with the aim of reducing congestion in the area.

While our aimless explorations were contemporary, the history of the city began in 1639 with the laying of the foundation of Shahjanabad. It would go on to become the seventh city of Delhi, serving as the capital of the Mughal Empire till its decline. The remnants of this city – the gates, the walls, the mosques, the memories of the rulers who built them – make up this vibrant part of Delhi.

Shabab-ud-din Muhammad Khurram was born in 1592 in Lahore, to Prince Salim, who wasn’t the Emperor Jahangir we know him as just yet, and the Rajput princess Jagat Gosaini. Akbar fondly gave his grandson the name Khurram – Persian for ‘joyous’. He grew up under the care of Empress Ruqaiya Sultan Begum, who had aspirations of raising a Mughal Emperor.

Upon Akbar’s death, Salim ascended the throne as Nur-ud-din Muhammad Jahangir Badshah Ghazi, and immediately had to quell the onslaught on the throne. In 1608, now in control of his empire, Jahangir passed the fiefdom of the sarkar of Hissar-Firoza to Khurram, thus cementing his position as heir-apparent.

In 1611, Jahangir married Nur Jahan. Over the years, as Jahangir became more clouded with wine and opium, Nur Jahan along with her brother Asaf Khan claimed larger shares in Jahangir’s court. Nur Jahan would go on to play an important role in the writing of Mughal history, and shaping the princely aspirations of Prince Khurram. The marriage of Asaf Khan’s daughter, Arujumand, to Khurram consolidated the power of the court in his hand too.

Nur Jahan played her cards well by having her daughter from her first marriage, marry Khurram’s half-brother, Shahzada Shahryar. This led to further splintering in the fragile Mughal court of Jahangir. Khurram resented both Nur Jahan, for polluting his father’s ear, and being usurped by his half-brother Shahzada Shahryar who was Nur Jahan’s favourite.

Mosque Minaret, Chandni Chowk

Upon the death of Jahangir in 1627, Asaf Khan became the instrument of Khurram’s ascension to power. He forestalled Nur Jahan’s plans of placing Shahzada Shahryar on the throne by putting her in close confinement and seizing control of Khurram’s three sons under her care. Prince Khurram was crowned Emperor on 19 January, 1628 as Abu ud-Muzaffar Shihab ud-Din Mohammad Sahib ud-Quiran ud-Thani Shah Jahan Padshah Ghazi.

He ordered the executions of his chief rivals and arrested Nur Jahan. Shahryar, his own half-brother and Nur Jahan’s favourite, was put to death as one of Shah Jahan’s first acts as Emperor. With these rivals out of the way, Shah Jahan’s rule was absolute.

By 1638, Shah Jahan began to feel constricted in the cramped city of Agra. A new plan for a new city along the Yamuna was envisioned, and the building of Shahjahanabad commenced. The city was built through 1649 with the Red Fort, Jama Masjid and Chandni Chowk becoming the iconic landmarks.

With the later Mughal Emperors ruling from Lal Qila, a number of markets and settlements mushroomed within the city. Shahjahanabad became a flourishing capital that saw the Mughal Empire through to its decline in 1857, when the British forces took over the controls of the country.

By-lane of Chandni Chowk

One of the most iconic British constructions is the Delhi Town Hall of Chandni Chowk. Since its completion, it has seen many uses by the British and Indian administration – known as Lawrence Institute during which it housed the Delhi College of Higher Studies; later it housed a library and a European club, and was the seat of the Municipal Corporation. Parts of the building are still used as government offices.

Town Hall, Chandni Chowk

Stairs leading up to the Town Hall

The yellow walls merged smoothly with the overcast skies of the day. The white trims on the walls shone bright as we made our way through the high-ceilinged façade. A painting of Mahatma Gandhi hung in the entrance hall and from within, we could hear the hum of air conditioners working in the offices. Towards the center of the building, surrounded by high walls in yellow and white, was a well-maintained garden with tall trees and large leaves. The cool air and the quiet that surrounded us was a respite from the humidity and the bustle of the city that lay just beyond the walls.

Town Hall Entrance

Towards the north of the Town Hall is the Mahatma Gandhi Park, where a towering statue of Mahatma Gandhi stands. A pathway encircles it, and eight pillars of red sandstone with lamps surround the statue.

At the south end of the Town Hall stands a statue of Swami Sraddhanand. He was an educationist and Arya Samaj missionary. He founded the Gurukul Kangri University, Haridwar. He was a keen follower of Dayanand Saraswati. He was assassinated on 23rd December, 1926.

Mahatma Gandhi Park

Swami Sraddhanand Statue

This area, the Southern end of the Town Hall, is still referred to as Ghantaghar. In 1870, a clock-tower termed Northbrook Clocktower was built at this location. It became an iconic landmark, with its Gothic architecture, four faces and chime of five bells. It was named after the Viceroy of India from 1872 to 1876, Thomas Northbrook. The tower collapsed partially in 1950, following which it was dismantled over the years.

Where the town hall now stands, there stood a Caravanserai built by Jahanara Begum, Shah Jahan’s daughter and the designer of Chandni Chowk. Jahanara Begum was the daughter of Mumtaz Mahal, and Shah Jahan, and is frequently called Shah Jahan’s favourite daughter. Ascending to the post of Padshah Begum upon her mother’s death, she became one of the most powerful women of the Mughal times. Jahanara Begum was seventeen at the time of her ascension. She was a supporter of Dara Shikoh during Shah Jahan’s lifetime and during the war of ascension between Shah Jahan’s sons. When Aurangzeb placed Shah Jahan under arrest at the Agra Fort, she joined him and took care of him until his death in 1666. Jahanara died in the year 1681 and was buried at the Nizamuddin Dargah complex.

Jahanara’s Chandni Chowk has grown and evolved over the years, witness to many important landmarks of history. Lanes have become congested, streets bursting at its seams. Yet there is a taste of the halcyon days amidst the impatient honks of the cars, the tinkle of rickshaw bells in meek protest against the traffic, the betel-stained walls. The avenue is still telling its stories through the voices that haggle, the footsteps that stomp through the lanes, the sizzle of frying tikkis and aloo chaat. These stories still beat with the collective thump of Old Delhi’s heart.

~

Sauria

Sauria are the true lizards of the lizard family. Geckos, which are the most common form of these lizards, frequently hang out in my room. They hang upside down from the ceiling, always keeping a wary eye out for me. Were they here during the time that I had been away as well? I remember hanging like they do, precariously from tall trees made slippery by the constant rain. Scared, silent and still, we stayed there clutching our guns as if they were life jackets. Two days it took for the rest of the platoon to clear the route for us, before we could climb down from our ‘strategic positions.’ We could be people once more, instead of lizards. Maybe that’s why I feel closer to the geckos now that I’m back – I’ve somewhat seen the world from their vantage point.

Or, maybe they’re like the surrogate pets that I’ve never had the courage to keep. I hope they don’t let go and disappear after hearing about them being the surrogate pets. The truth is, to put it rather bluntly, I’m scared. I’m too scared to live; too scared to breathe; too scared to exist. War changes you; it distorts reality.

For instance, I still have trouble walking down the alleyway. Even in broad daylight, I am skittish. It has nothing to do with darkness. In fact, it is the light of day that scares me. I am too well lit, too exposed. There are far too many windows all around me to keep track of. Looking up, I am scared of clear blue skies and the dangers of the drones that may be lurking, invisible. I am scared of construction noises, the grenade like booms of the sledgehammers and the machine gun rat-a-tat of the drills. I fear the day for making me a sitting duck in the spotlight, and I fear the night for the unknown that presses in from all sides.

But most of all, I fear that which never leaves me – loneliness. It is the only thing that stays faithful when everything else has left. It is the one thing that never deserts, but snuggles up close to your heart, cold and menacing, hissing threateningly like a wiry felid. It followed me all the way back from the trenches, and chased away all that was dear to me.

Alcohol used to help, but now my body craves too much for it. Just as the tides, it has eroded away the remnants of my life that I came back to. My wife – my beautiful, loving, generous, forgiving wife – could not bear to look at me while I stared back at her through an ethanol haze. My feline companion hissed and growled from my chest, and I craved to destroy that which I cared for too much. It was the fear of losing her that made me want to hurt. When she inevitably did leave, the cat shook himself gently, yawned wide, and curled up against the crook of my neck, and slept. Once, he purred too – a cold, sinister purr that no living being should make.

My sleep has become fitful. While she was here, my cat used to sleep between us, and every night would take me back to the battlefield; the cold, the damp, the mud; the constant hum of mosquitoes around us and drones and jets above us. And as I slept, he would claw his way into my dreams and grow bigger and bigger, stretching out in front of me, his hiss becoming a roar, his purr a snarl. He could swallow me whole if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Like a cat, he toyed with his prey, played the deadly game, and just before I would be devoured, he would shake me violently. I still wake up in a cold sweat, shivering, reaching out to where my wife slept. But, of course, she isn’t there anymore.

Before the war, I used to write. I wrote about soldiers too, sometimes – the romantic tales of valour and dignity, of courage and brotherhood. All that died with my friends on the field. And amongst that carnage, out of the smoking craters of mortar shells and walls ridden with bullet holes, slinked out my feline friend. Before the war, these stories used to fill me with pride. Now, there’s no one to listen to my stories anymore. They don’t come as easily to me anymore either.

So, I read what I wanted to read to her to the sparrows. The ones that heard me flew away, but there were always more. And then there were the pigeons, the parrots, the mynahs. When she left, she took a lot of the stories with her. She took the sparrows and the pigeons and the parrots and the mynahs too. Both of us had been scared that I would hurt them all.

The felid remained.

There were big rats that looked like hand grenades that lived in the alleyway, but my scrawny feline friend never chased them. The owls swooped in and picked them off one by one, while on some nights the two of us would stand still and watch. We imagined the crunching of the rat’s bones between the jaws of the owl that swooped low, and the cat purred with joy.

But he is too scared to do the deed. A coward at heart, he is. That’s why he doesn’t touch the geckos living in my backyard, the ones that visit me sometimes at night. He doesn’t dare go after any of the rats that find their way indoors. He is content to snuggle in the protection of my chest, hissing menacingly from time to time, reminding me that he is always there, always present.

Would my wife come back had it not been for this stringy cat that sits heavy upon me? Some days, I find myself asking myself that question over and over, while other days I do not dare to. My days are empty, my nights hollow, save for the horrible company of my loneliness and the weight on my chest. Memories should never weigh so much, but more often than not, they do.

Today, I found a broken compass lying forgotten beneath my bed, its needle stuck permanently south. I don’t remember breaking the compass, and found myself wishing that it worked again. Maybe it was the cat. It could have been the rats. The owls might be guilty. But the geckos? They wouldn’t. They understand. They would not leave. They wouldn’t take what points me the right way away from me.

In light of this, I think it’s reassuring to have something stable in life – even if it’s the familiar sight of Sauria hanging upside down from the ceiling.

~

Image Credits: Yintan / Wikimedia

"Why Do You Write?"

Because I like it.

Because writing is liberating.

Because thoughts are fleeting, but words have a habit of lingering on.

Because sometimes, I find it difficult to keep a track of my thoughts otherwise.

Because my brain, much like yours, jumps from one topic to the next too fast.

Because I think of the chapatti I had for dinner.

Because I think of how it’s made of unleavened dough.

Because I think about how the yeast that made the leavening process possible used to be a metaphor for corruption in the past.

Because sometimes, I can’t stop thinking how corruption chokes this country.

Because right now, I’m choking in this polluted city; a sufferer of asthma like so many others.

Because in spite of it all, I still love this city that I live in.

Because I’m fickle minded.

Because my heart beats a thousand times a second, and resonates with stories that I want to write.

Because now, I only fall in and out of love with the most ridiculous things and not people.

Because I have fallen in love with a river.

Because I have fallen in love with a city.

Because I have fallen in love with an ocean.

Because when I was forced to leave the river, or the city, or the ocean, my heart screamed silently.

Because words were then the only way that I could record the sorrow.

Because writing was the only way that I could experience it.

Because it’s fun.

Because wordplays and puns make me laugh.

Because when I write, misinformation typed backwards still stays misinformation.

Because I can tell the truth labelled as a lie and people believe that it is, indeed, a lie.

Because just by writing something clever that you can understand, I can make you feel intelligent.

Because thoughts are free (i.e. unbound) and thoughts come free (i.e. they cost nothing) .

Because just by explaining something clever that I’ve written, I can make you feel stupid.

Because I travel and see new things.

Because I always take time to hear strangers tell me about their passions.

Because I can indulge in those second hand memories whenever I want.

Because I can relive my own memories from time to time.

Because every morning when I wake up, I never know what I might think up.

Because people are inspiring beings.

Because I indulge in those inspirations.

Because I drink way too much coffee.

Because I feel that my best stories are the ones that flew away before I could write them down.

Because there is no greater tragedy than losing a pen when you need to write.

Because the need to write will always, always be greater than the want to write.

Because writers, like everyone else, are competitive beings.

Because watching a friend sitting next to me writing passionately spurs me on to write as well.

Because a picture may be worth a thousand words, but a thousand words will always be more valuable than a picture.

Because the words we write today shape the words that will come in future.

Because (insert favourite author here) wrote as well.

Because once upon a time, in a land far away, my English teacher said so.

Because she told me that happy stories sound happiest on warm summer nights.

Because she said, sad stories sound saddest on cold winter mornings.

Because she showed us how scary stories can make chills run down your spine, like cold water dripping on your neck inching slowly and slowly down your back, sending shivers down your whole body, making you tremble in fear.

Because in spite of a scary story, ‘a man and his ostrich walk into a bar’ probably makes you smile.

Because with the coming of autocorrect and spell-check, spelling mistakes have just been too much fun.

Because old ink on aged paper smells like vanilla ice cream topped with caramel syrup.

Because some stories are smooth as honey, while others are smooth as aged whisky from a charred oak cask warming your throat.

Because writing makes me read, and reading makes me think, and thinking makes me write.

Because that’s the only vicious circle I seem to be able to enjoy.

Because sometimes when I don’t want to talk to people, writing something makes them leave me alone.

Because some people are still readers, and the readers still wait for the writers to write.

Because thankfully, pens and pencils and paper still come cheap.

Because mornings in the loo without something to read would just be so boring.

Because somebody has to provide early morning bathroom break entertainment.

Because some stories can keep me up for nights and nights till I write them down.

Because some stories frustrate me by never coming out the way that I wanted them to.

Because some stories make me want to kill myself.

Because some stories make me sing at 3:00 AM.

Because most stories make Thamma (my grandmother) smile.

Because when I was little, Didiya (my sister) got me hooked to books.

Because writing can be an intimidating activity, sometimes.

Because not writing is a frightening pastime.

Because I want to be a writer, and a writer writes.

Because I would like to see those words sing at 3:00 AM.

Because it’s better that instead of me, that hated character dies.

Because until I get them out, thoughts in my mind seem outrageous.

Because the things in my mind that seem too outrageous have a habit of not seeming so on paper.

Because the ideas that float in and out of me never stay forever.

Because I am always scared that if I don’t write, that idea would be lost and never found again.

Because until I put that final full stop at the end of the last sentence, the story isn’t done.

Because when it’s finished, it always looks good.

Because it’s eternal.

Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel immortal.

~

Image Credits: Mushki Brichta / Wikimedia