Delhi

by R V Smith

  Even after that was done, the rift between father and son continued and Khurram had to turn east towards Bengal where he could not get the refuge he sought from the Portuguese. They were not only stubborn but also refused to let Mumtaz Mahal be treated by the doctors, suffering as she was from malaria. To add insult to injury, the Portuguese kidnapped two of her favourite maids. With Mahabat Khan always on his heels, Shah Jahan could do little against the feringhis at that time. Subsequently, Mahabat Khan too rebelled against the emperor and took him captive. But Nur Jahan with a cunning move, was able to rescue Jahangir and Mahabat Khan was made to eat humble pie.

  Fences were mended but not long afterwards, Jahangir fell ill at Kashmir and died on his way back to Lahore. Shah Jahan outwitted the empress and ascended the throne. Mahabat Khan was among those who presented themselves at court and was sent off to attack the Portuguese to teach them a lesson. By sacking ‘Hooghly’, Mahabat Khan had re-established himself in the esteem of Shah Jahan. His death meant the snapping of a vital link with Akbar’s times. But Mahabat Khan’s name survives to this day, and whenever you visit Jor Bagh Karbala you are reminded of his exploits.

  8

  Christmastime reminiscences

  hristmas makes one reminisce, read out a placard at a Delhi Church. That is as it should be because the festival commemorates a happening long ago, the birth of Jesus in a stable (or was it a shepherd’s cave?) in Jerusalem nearly 2,000 years ago. This seemingly little event was to change the course of history and bring internationalization in its wake as observed by the Archbishop of Delhi, Rev. Concasso – ‘Christ did not come blowing a trumpet, he was just born like you and I to a loving mother for whom affection counted more than the would-be greatness of her child’.

  Year after year as one sits back in some cosy chair in one’s home in the capital, away from the hustle and bustle of the roads, the slick efficiency of office and factory, and the harshness of our times or worse still the stinging remark or aloofness of the girl one fell in love with at first sight at the Humayun’s Tomb, and the collective cruelty of human emotions during everyday life in Delhi, we find a certain comfort, a solace which defies description in the spirit of Yuletide.

  This time as I relax in the old sofa (in the Mayapuri DDA colony) which has borne my weight for many a year, with the collar of the ragged coat covering my neck to ward off the draught from the window sill, I reminisce once more over the year that is past and the one that is to come. But there is a difference, I miss the smell of cookies, gujias, sankhen, khajoor, katchories, mince patties and the lot. Missing also is the flavour of freshly-baked cakes. The baker Abdul of Kashmiri Gate is dead and also the maker of those delicious cookies that pleased many a guest and family member in Raj Niwas Marg, and lasted well past the New Year night upto the Twelfth Night, when Christmas ended with the feast of the Three Kings at the Sacred Heart Cathedral, near Gol Dakhana.

  Sometimes I wonder whether the Virgin was aware of the fact that generations to come would, besides calling her blessed, make so much fuss of her pregnancy and the delivery sans the comfort of a nursing home. Still in her teens and big with child, she did not know that the time had come for her confinement to end. There were men all around, men in robes, which many were to wear through life without so much as a change of clothing because there were no mills to make cloth wholesale. And among those men was her spouse Joseph. Middle-aged he may have been but certainly not old because the grayness of his beard was acquired through the efforts of artists down the centuries. Surely, a flowing white beard attracts more attention than a small one which struggles to make its presence felt over the chin.

  Joseph was at his wits’ end too, never having helped during delivery in an age when there were no male nurses as we now have in Delhi. Whether he did succeed in getting a midwife is a debatable point, even though some maintain that not one but three midwives were present. St Luke, who describes the Nativity so profoundly does not mention midwives nor do the other Evangelists. But Christ was born and that was that.

  To come to the point, nativity and motherhood establish a link so strong that not even the affection of a fond father can break it. No wonder Jesus was always closer to his mother. It was she who wrapped him up in swaddling clothes, when the family fled Egypt. It was she who held him close to her bosom lest Herod’s soldiers would get to know about his presence. Then when he was lost in the Temple and found after three days, it was the mother who was more concerned. At the marriage feast at Cana, it was his mother who came to him with a request to replenish the wine which had run out of stock. Now of course we go to a wine store in such an eventuality in the capital and again during his passion and crucifixion.

  This is the message for all those who moan and weep and labour under the yoke of sorrow like the recent happenings in Mumbai. Let not that message be lost on us with each Christmas card that we send or receive, especially the one in the old dusty tray at the Mayapuri Church. Memories of course abide with you and me like the heart of poet Shelley plucked out from the burning ‘pyre’.

  9

  Coming of the ‘Paharwalah’

  hen the hot weather ended, it was time for the turbaned Paharwalah (mountainman) vendor to return to the plains. In childhood one could picture him descending the mountains with a basket on his head, wrapped in a blanket, covered with snow and making his way to the hospitable streets and lanes of Delhi, where children and housewives eagerly awaited his coming. He would make his rounds in the afternoon, calling out ‘Paharwalah, Paharwalah’. He claimed to be an Afghan and fruits were his specialty. Pomegranates were from Kabul, apples from Kashmir and grapes from Chaman in Balochistan.

  Years ago he used to accompany his burly father to the city, where both of them found lodgings in Ballimaran. The fruits were stored in a room there and replenished from time to time with fresh arrivals brought by their countrymen at a time when travel between India and Afghanistan was hassle-free. Balochistan, of course was a part of the country, for there was no Pakistan then so getting grapes from Chaman was as easy as procuring them from Pusa, now. This agricultural institute was originally situated in rural Bihar and was moved to Delhi after the original one with the same name was destroyed in an earthquake in the third decade of the twentieth century. Incidentally, Prithviraj Chauhan’s son-in-law was killed in a battle, near what is now the IARI campus, in the late-twelfth century and his wife, Bela committed sati. A temple in Jhandewalan is said to have been built by her.

  Looking at the sprawling buildings of the Pusa Institute, who could imagine that this place was nazul land upto 1935, where wheat and vegetables were grown by the villagers of Todapur-Dasgarha. Nestled on part of the Ridge, with its abundance of babool trees, rural women bathed their rickets-infected children and those suffering from diseases like measles and smallpox or convalescing after an attack of typhoid or malaria. When one asked why so many dried gourds (loki) were hanging on the tree branches, the reply from a village matriarch was, ‘Sookhey ki bimari khatam karne ke liye’ (to end the disease that made babies sickly and weak). The gourds were tied with saffron strings and healthy children and pregnant women were warned against walking under the kikar trees for fear of catching an infection that could affect those still in their mother’s womb.

  However, the Paharwalah did not venture that far even after his father died. His beat, like that of the Khan Bhai selling pastries, was the Walled City and the Gali of the Hakims, not far from Ghalib’s Mir Qasim Jan haveli. The Hindustani Dawakhana, established there by Hakim Ajmal Khan was a prominent building even then. And hakims, after examining their patients prescribed unani medicines and a diet of fresh fruit and vegetables. Seb (apples) and anar (pomegranates), along with anwle-ka-murabba were the usual supplements to good, healthy food, along with papita (papaya), both ripe and unripe. The latter was good for the liver, with best results obtained by keeping it immersed in vinegar. The ripe one aided digestion (as did the small variety of sirka-matured small onion) and was a sure cure for c
onstipation. Anwle-ka-murabba was considered beneficial for the heart and anar was a great pick-me-up for anaemic women. Would you believe it that one such suffering woman, who had been restored to sound health, was nicknamed ‘Anardana’ by her doting husband. And this unfortunately turned out to be the cause of much friction in the locality, with amorous young men shouting ‘Anardana, Anardana’ (pomegranate seed) whenever the pretty woman went for shopping. Another fruit then very popular with patients was anjeer (figs). These were grown in isolated pockets in Delhi but the best ones were brought from Meerut, Sardhana and Agra, where Semy’s Bagh was famous for them. Dried figs were prescribed for a number of ailments, including those of the digestive system, and could be had from the grocer’s shop where they were hung in garlands to attract customers.

  Paharwalah added some of the local produce to give variety to the fruits he sold and there was no dearth of people waiting for him to make his daily visits. Closely following him was Kalewalah, the dark, tall, thin man, wearing a tattered pagri on which rested his basket of stuff like bers (plums), tamarind, goolar, coconut, shakarkandi (sweet potato), aam-ka-papad, karonde and pungent amrak. Monkeynuts he carried in a bag hanging from his shoulder. Just after Kalewalah had made his round, appeared the one-eyed Papadwalah and Reti, a wizened old man who sold halwason, gajak, dal-seo, salt and sweet sankhein. When Reti (actually Raoti) left, the bearded Vadahwalah entered the galis crying ‘Yeh tau dahi vadah / Yeh tau dahi vadah, Khake dekho / Yeh tau dahi vadah’, and urchins taunting him with ‘Yeh tau gir para / Yeh to gir para’. The Paharwalah ceased coming long ago and so also the other vendors. The children of today prefer popcorn, chips, chocolate, patty and ice-cream. So where is the need for the likes of the Paharwalah and fellow-pheriwalahs to make their rounds?

  10

  Commemoration of the Durbar

  he centenary of the great Durbar of 1911 revived memories of the Raj, when pomp and pageantry came to Delhi with the arrival of King George V and Queen Mary. The royal couple had disembarked at Mumbai (then Bombay) from a ship that had brought them from England. Then they made their way to Delhi. But before that, the Viceroy Lord Hardinge had come with his entourage from Calcutta to supervise the arrangements for what was supposed to be his finest hour, the moving of the capital back to Delhi even through the real purpose of the Durbar was kept secret till the last moment. Among those who witnessed the event ‘with heart in mouth’ was Mirza Changezi, one of the sons of the last emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, who had returned a cripple from Mecca, where he had escaped to avoid persecution by the British in 1857. From a prince residing in the Red Fort, he had become a pauper, begging on the streets of Old Delhi. But the news he got about the Durbar, while waiting for alms on the steps of the Jama Masjid, made him nostalgic enough to dote over the turnabout in Delhi’s fortunes.

  The King and Queen were taken in royal procession through the streets of Delhi before reaching the entirely new ‘City’ of tents set up for the occasion (in Kingsway Camp). As many as 233 camps were spread out over an area of 25 square miles with 10 miles of canvas and the construction of 60 miles of new roads and over 30 miles of railway with 24 stations. Two vast concentric amphitheaters were built for the Durbar itself; the larger one to hold 100,000 spectators, the smaller one for princes and other notables. The cost of the Durbar came to 660,000 pounds as against 180,000 pounds which (Lord) Curzon had spent on his tamasha (in 1903). The imperial thrones were in the centre of a marble platform which was under a golden dome. And it was at this place that the royal visitors were crowned Emperor and Empress of India and received the homage of the princes in their colourful robes and bejewelled ornaments. The most important event of the Durbar was the announcement of the shifting of the capital from Calcutta to Delhi, much to the joy of the people of Delhi and the chagrin of the Bengalis and British officials, who felt cheated because they thought the infrastructure of that city would now go waste and Delhi babus would hog the limelight.

  Incidentally, the Imperial Durbar of 1877 was organized by Lord Lytton to mark the 1876 proclamation of Queen Victoria as the Kaiser-i-Hind (Empress of India). The site was outside the city of Delhi. Lytton arrived on 23 December from Calcutta by a special train. At about the same time, 400 Indian princes and their retinues also assembled in Delhi. On New Year’s Day, the viceroy and his family arrived at the Durbar, seated on elephants. The extravaganza was reminiscent of Mughal pomp and splendour. The Royal Herald read out the Queen’s proclamation, issued after the Mutiny by Queen Victoria in 1858 and the promise of justice and equality for her Indian subjects.

  The 1903 Durbar was held by Lord Curzon to celebrate Edward VII’s coronation as the successor of Queen Victoria, who died in 1901. It surpassed Lytton’s Durbar and the events spread out from 29 December, 10 days into the New Year. Part of the celebrations were held in the Dewan-e-Am of the Red Fort which was tastefully decorated for the purpose. When George V came, he and his wife gave a public darshan to the people of Delhi from a window of a palace in the fort, just like the Mughal emperors used to do.

  The centenary of the 1911 Durbar also focused on the imperial spectacles of 1877 and 1903 that preceded it and on many other things but it goes without saying that, as far as George V admitted, the injustice done to Delhi in 1858, when the city was deprived of its age-old status as the capital of Hindustan, was finally set right fifty-three years later. It is that event which was commemorated, probably making Bahadur Shah Zafar turn again in his grave in distant Yangon (Rangoon) after 1911. Thus does history repeat itself.

  11

  Evening of weird Experiences

  n Britain, cemeteries are finding it uneconomical to employ gravediggers; in India, gravediggers are finding it uneconomical to be employed at cemeteries. Many in cities like Delhi for whom gravedigging was a hereditary profession, have either left it or are leaving it fast.

  According to Bashiruddin, an old resident of Delhi, many gravediggers, or gorkands as they are called, now work in cemeteries on a part-time basis because the earnings are too meager for a livelihood.

  With fewer gorkands left, the result is that at times it is a problem getting a gravedigger on time and on occasions a burial has to be postponed to the next day. Maybe the law of supply and demand might in time increase the gravediggers’ wages. But, according to a Muslim divine, the profession is considered morbid (like that of a hangman) and people engaged in it are often shunned by others. It is considered a bad omen to see them on the road in the morning. Newly-weds and the ailing are particularly enjoined to avoid them. No wonder then that there are fewer, to dig graves. In England a substitute has been found in the form of mechanical gravediggers, but India has none, unless somebody is bold enough to import the device or better still manufacture it.

  Incidentally, gravediggers form a separate sub-caste. But now caste barriers for a gorkand boy to marry a girl of non-gorkand family are not so rigid.

  Gravediggers have always had an air of mystery about them. They were considered weird because some believed that they were in communion with the spirits. Two gravediggers were arrested many years ago after the death of a schoolgirl in mysterious circumstances. Three days after her death, the girl’s body was found missing from the grave around which were large bloodstains. It was conjectured that the girl had been drugged to give her a semblance of death and murdered later on. The circumstances pointed to her body having been whisked away at the behest of someone who held séances. However the case fell through and the gravediggers were acquitted. But talking of séances, one would like to narrate one’s own experience.

  It was an oppressively hot evening when Farooq Mian, a student of the occult, began his séance before an all-male assembly of six. The room was dark and quiet. A charpoy placed upright against the wall with a white sheet thrown on it served as the screen on which the spirit of the evening was to make its appearance.

  The performer sat in deep concentration. The smoke from his smouldering cigar took on a bluish tinge as the minutes ticked b
y. The deadly silence was broken when he started issuing vague commands to what seemed like an unseen presence in the room. Expectant eyes popped out of tired sockets. A hand shook here, a leg there. The nervous little cough that broke out from the other side of the table and the sound of someone scratching their chin were awesome moments, with hearts beating faster and sweat drops dripping from every face.

  Suddenly there was a screeching near the charpoy and something leered diabolically at the group from above. Everybody turned around, shaking with fear, to encounter the macabre sight. Many stifled a cry. But soon the excitement died down. It was only a cat that had smelt a rat and entered the closed room through the ventilator. Farooq Mian lost his concentration and the séance was postponed to another day.

  While walking through a deserted street back on the way, one stumbled and before regaining balance bumped into something hard. As one looked up with a start, one found a female form in white, grinning in the half-light. It sent a chill down the spine. But after recovering one’s composure one found that it was only a cinema hoarding displaying the face of an actress much in evidence in crime thrillers in those days. The after-effects of the aborted séance however lasted till one reached home, for a black cat crossed the path and pariah dogs trying to pursue it nearly bit this narrator as he tried to shoo them away.

  12

  Pre-winter Cameos

  elhi in autumn is a charmed city. With the cold lurking and the shadows shortening for winter, the capital in its apron of flowers presents a spectacle of many hues which vie with one another to make life a little more bearable. A fair day that makes birds sing gives the human heart a lift. Particularly touching a respondent chord are the evenings in Chandni Chowk when the sun sets and leaves behind a half-light that pervades the Chowk and the narrow gallis tucked away in its nooks and corners. There is nothing in New Delhi to match the sight. One walks up and down the Chowk – from the Red Fort to Fatehpuri Masjid – and despite the hurrying traffic one is free of the contrived air of sophistication which does not leave Connaught Circus even at night. Turn into Gali Paranthe Wali or into the lane of Ballimaran with their smells of frying paranthas and kebabs or into the gali going past the Central Bank building, where winter seems to have arrived, judging by the stuff on sale, and feel the difference which Ahmed Ali so vividly portrays in his novel, Twilight in Delhi. One cannot resist the feeling, so intensely expressed by the author, that New Delhi is after all ‘clerical’ compared to Old Delhi by twilight.