|
Delhi’s
historical ruins speak of a royal past. Today more mundane
activities—sports, shopping and eating—are their hallmark
Thistoric
buildings in Jama Masjid, Nizamuddin, Ferozeshah Kotla and the Lodi
Gardens are all leaves from a dynamic period of Indian history. But
today they are connected with activities far removed from the
past—sport and leisure, eating, and worship—making them
familiar in our vocabulary of the city.
But
once there were kings and queens, there was a fortressed city and a
sumptuous palace; there was the trumpeting of elephants as they
marched in procession carrying a royal retinue. There was the
rhythmic sound of stone cutters as they erected the walls of another
new city along the banks of the river Yamuna; and in a humble hut,
there lived a holy man whose piety and learning brought people from
far and near to establish a basti now synonymous with his name. And
famous for its shrine where the Sufi saint, Nizamuddin, lies buried.
Not
all of this happened at the same time. Nizamuddin Auliya was born in
AD 1236 and lived for almost 100 years. Some say he was born in
Ghazni in Afghanistan, some say he was born in Badayun, in what is
now Uttar Pradesh, and having lost his father at a very young age
came to Delhi with his mother. Whatever be the truth, he was a very
special man, who by the example of his own austere and saintly life
became known as a zinda pir, a living saint who could heal the body
and spirit. Although his disciples built a tomb over his grave, the
original, repaired and rebuilt by a Tughlaq monarch has long since
disappeared. Today, the dargah of Nizamuddin is the collective work
of many successive followers of the saint’s teachings who added
to a structure first built in 1562 by a devotee, the nobleman Faridun
Khan.
Nizamuddin
basti today is a congested, people-ridden settlement—not all of
its inhabitants are aware of the spiritual origins of where they
live, and certainly not interested in the little architectural gems
that exist so close to their own ragged lives. To reach the dargah,
you have to fight your way through warrens of the old and the infirm
whose makeshift plastic roofs or dusty odds and ends identify their
minuscule places on the earth, past wayside stalls peddling garishly
coloured sweets and ribbons, readymade packets of taburuk (rose
petals and sweets as offering at the dargah), marigold flowers and
coverings for the head. And if you can ward off the self-styled
“guides” successfully, you are finally in the holy precinct
itself.
Surrounded
by a courtyard of marble flooring, the tomb pavilion is enclosed by
delicately trellised screens. As rich and zealous devotees
contributed their bit to glorify the saint, the tomb acquired an
ornate mother-of-pearl canopy, a veranda with engraved marble columns
and brackets, and as late as the early 19th century, a huge marble
dome with gold encrusted finials. The spirit of Hazrat Nizamuddin
remains, however, very much above all the show of grandeur, and it is
impossible not to be moved to devotion, especially on Thursday nights
when the qawwals sing impassioned verses in praise of the Sufi saint.
Aside
from the steamy dhabas that dish out spicy meat recipes and thick
soft rotis to soak up the gravy, several other structures make the
Nizamuddin complex a place worth visiting. Across the tomb enclosure
to the west is the red sandstone Jamat Khana Mosque built on the spot
where Nizamuddin himself would pray and sermonise. Probably
constructed in 1325, it is a composite structure of three domes over
three bays, central one being the largest. One of the telltale signs
that establishes the period of building before the prolific Feroze
Shah Tughlaq period are the marble lotus buds that fringe the arches,
while the arches themselves are squinched to make the square bays
appear octagonal. On the northern side of the dargah is a baoli, now
practically dry all year round, where young boys would show off their
diving skills. Legend says the baoli was being built when the
imperious Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq, angered by the saint’s refusal to
pay back money to the royal coffers that he had given away in
charity, forbade its further construction. More-over, Nizamuddin had
prophesied that Ghiyasuddin’s son, prince Jauna would become the
sultan—which he did by manipulating his father’s death.
Ghiyasuddin even stopped the sale of oil to the saint’s
followers so that they could not build at night. They continued,
however, lighting their lamps miraculously with water from the baoli.
A
few other minor monuments dot the Nizamuddin complex, but within the
dargah enclosure itself is the delicate tomb of Jahanara, Shah
Jehan’s daughter, and a disciple of the Chisti saint. She is
said to have built it during her lifetime, inscribing it with the
touching words: “Let naught cover my grave save the green grass;
for grass well suffices as a covering for the grave of the lowly.”
It is unfortunately noticed only by some as they return from the
ritual homage to the main shrine.
A
pilgrimage to Nizamuddin is incomplete without a visit to two to the
other graves, one surrounded by marble jaalis that of Amir Khusro,
the saint’s most devoted disciple and poet whose mystic verses
are sung by every qawwal; and the other, simpler one of yet another
writer, Mirza Ghalib, perhaps the greatest Urdu and Persian poet to
have ever lived.
The
Tughlaq dynasty, which had only just established itself, while
Nizamuddin Auliya was still alive, saw its greatest ruler in Feroze
Shah (1351-88). Unlike his predecessors, military activities were not
Feroze’s priority, and although he ascended the throne when he
was already 46, his accomplishments were many. An able administrator,
he was the founder of Delhi’s fifth city, Ferozabad, which once
extended from the Ridge right up to Hauz Khas. Today, all that
reminds us of this historic period are the grounds of Ferozeshah
Kotla, better known for the hair-raising cricket matches that are
traditionally held here. Aside it, the crumbling ruins of a once
bustling city have become the haunt of lazing lunchtime officegoers,
of amateur urchin cricketers, and at night, a haven for the homeless.
But once there was a mosque where it is said that Timurlane, the
terrible Mongol conqueror, said his prayers every Friday night. So
impressed was he by the structure that he carried away masons to
Samarkand to build an exact copy of it. In Ferozabad, unfortunately,
only the rear wall now remains. Pieces of stone columns lie fractured
on the ground, and within the core area of the site, broken down
arched walls rise, pyramid like, supporting one of the two Asokan
monolith pillars that Feroze Shah, an indefatigable collector of
antiquities, brought to Delhi (the other is in Qutub Minar).
It
is also said that once there were tunnels connecting the site all the
way to Hauz Khas, so large that the sultan and his entourage could
ride on horseback through them. No evidence of this remains, but if
one counts this ruined city among all the mosques, madarsas, palaces,
caravanserais, reservoirs and tombs that Feroze Shah built in his
lifetime, then surely he must go down as one of the most prolific,
though less flamboyant builders of Muslim architecture in India.
The
last of the dynasties—before the Mughals arrived in India to
make Delhi and Agra two of the most glorious historic capitals of the
world—was that of the Lodis. Pathans from Afghanistan, their
ambition was to conquer as many of the provinces they could that
formed part of the Delhi Sultanate under the Turks. By the time, the
last ruler of that dynasty, Ibrahim Lodi, had died at Babur’s
hands in the battle of Panipat in 1526, much of Delhi had become a
vast necropolis, littered with the graves of rulers, nobles and their
families. Building activity declined during the short-lived reign of
the Lodi and Sayyid dynasty, and they seem to have concentrated more
on the building of tombs than of other buildings that distinguish the
more robust Tughlaq and Mughal periods before and after them.
The
Lodi Gardens, however, belies the stark reality of death by war,
fratricidal and court intrigue, for today its imposing monuments are
enveloped by clumps of leafy trees and shrubs, flowerbeds and
carpeted lawns. It was Lady Willingdon in 1936 who decided to make a
garden around the tombs and mosque, and later, a disciple of Le
Corbusier who put the final manicured touch with winding pathways,
bamboo clusters, hedges and arbours. Even though the 15th century
Sayyid and Lodi tombs provide the centrepiece of this planned
landscape; its fame rests more on its popularity as a walking and
picnic paradise, especially in winter when the gardens bloom with
colourful clusters of flowers.
The
tomb of Muhammad Shah, third ruler of the Sayyid dynasty (r.1434-44),
that lies on the south side of the gardens, is one of the finest
examples of an octagonal tomb of this period. It is also the oldest
structure here. The other octagonal tomb is that of Sikandar Lodi
(r.1489-1517). Two other dominating structures in the garden are the
Bada Gumbad, attached to a mosque and a guesthouse, and the Sheesh
Gumbad, that derives its name from the glazed turquoise tiles, a few
of which can still be seen clinging desperately to the monument.
Several graves lie within each of these buildings, many of them
without names, the only reminders of a past when living was not
only an art, but even death was distinguished by style.
The
crowning glory of the Mughal Empire would well be the Jama Masjid. It
was built in 1644 and was the last in the series of architectural
indulgences of Shah Jahan, the Mughul emperor who also built the Taj
Mahal and the Red Fort. The biggest mosque built in India—even
now there are very few in the world that are bigger—it is
capable of holding 25,000 devotees at one time. The highly decorative
mosque has three great gateways, high minarets and four towers in
which thousands of pigeons nest. Constructed out of red sandstone and
white marble, the Masjid stands on a raised hillock so that it would
stand higher than and overlook the Red Fort. Built by Ustad Khalil,
the architect of several of Shah Jahan’s buildings, the Jama
Masjid has been the centre for the followers of the faith for over
400 years. Today you have to fight for a place to park or take a
rickshaw from the parking lot in front of Red Fort to even get there
as walking is impossible.
It
is said that one of the reasons Shah Jahan came to Delhi was because
the roads in Agra were very narrow. And along with the mosque, work
was also started on building a grand street that ran from the Red
Fort to Jama Masjid, alongside a canal that was shoplined on either
side. Called Chandni Chowk, it was on this road that Shah Jahan and
Aurangazeb once walked in splendour, through this street was Dara
Shikoh paraded as a prisoner and Nadir Shah and Ahmad Shah rode in
triumph. It was also the street that witnessed the Raj at the zenith
of its glory when it seemed that the sun would never set on the
British Empire. The huge procession that heralded the Delhi durbar of
King George V in 1911, passed from the Red Fort through the Jama
Masjid and into the Chandni Chowk road, when as if paying tribute to
the glory of Delhi, the Emperor announced the shifting of the capital
from Calcutta to Delhi.
Today,
the narrow bylanes have street hawkers selling their wares from fruit
to used-clothes. The north side of the Masjid is home to chicken,
fish and halal meat butcheries, jostling for space between the ittar
and antique shops. The Jama Masjid is today known more for its food
stalls especially Karims and other ersatz wannabes that have cropped
up. As darkness descends the smells of charcoal-grilled meats waft
through the air, and the faithful return to their gastronomical
delights.
Beneath
the wrap of urban growth and behind the patina of the mossed and
creviced monuments, Nizammu-din, Ferozeshah Kotla, Jama Masjid and
the Lodhi Gardens are still thriving with life today. Although
threatened by their changing environments, they remain enriched by
the history that surrounds them.
|
