Delhi

by R V Smith

  Hauzwali Masjid was built around 1550 during the reign of Sher Shah and is situated in Gali Batashah, Nayi Sarak, that seems strange as there was no Old Delhi at that time. Masjid Ramzan Shah dates back to 1802 when Ghalib was about five years old and was built by Anis-un-Nissa Begum, mother-in-law of Nawab Mansoor Khan of Shah Alam’s Court. He must have been a really privileged son-in-law to have such a lasting memorial dedicated to him though some say that it honours the family Pir. Randi-ki-Masjid, better known as Mubarak Begum’s mosque, in Hauz Kazi was built by the chief Bibi of Gen. Ochterlony in mid-nineteenth century. She later married Wilayat Khan, a Mughal nobleman. Amrudwali Masjid (173536) is in Bulbulikhana, Bazaar Sita Ram and was once known for its guavas. Qabarwali Masjid in Kutcha Shah Tara, has the grave of Parinda Khan in the courtyard and was built by his wife Rabia Begum around 1786-87. Qasaiwala (butcher’s) Gumbad in Vasant Vihar is a mosque of the Tughlaq period. Takia of Kamli Shah has a mosque commemorating a woman saint of Bahadur Shah Zafar’s time. It is located in Lado Sarai, Mehrauli. Mothwali Masjid in South Extension has the amazing story of how a mosque grew out of a small seed in the Lodhi era.

  Haji Langa’s mosque (and gumbad) dates back to Tughlaq times and is misnamed as Haji Langra’s (lame Haji’s) mosque. It is in RK Puram. Hijron-ka-Khankah in Main Market, Mehrauli, is a mosque that has the graves of several eunuch gurus and is believed to be of the Lodhi period. Fakrul Masjid in Kashmiri Gate was built by Fakrunessa, wife of the Commander of Agra Fort in Aurangzeb’s reign. He died in Kandahar during a battle with the Persians. The mosque was repaired by Col. Skinner and is also known as Sikandar Sahib’s masjid. There’s a Babari Masjid in Palam village built by Ghaznafar, a nobleman of Babar’s time, in 1528. Besides the famous mosques of the Red Fort and the Zeenat Masjid built by Aurangzeb’s daughter in Daryaganj (used by the British as a bakery in 1857), there are at least four or five Sunheri Masjids or golden mosques, the most famous of which was built by Roashan-ud-daulah for his Pir in 1821 at Chandni Chowk, and from which Nadir Shah ordered the massacre of Delhi in 1739. The famous Sunheri Masjid is near the Red Fort which owes its inception to Qudsia Begum, wife of Mohd Shah. Some other masjids with unusual names are: Daiwali (midwife’s) mosque at Tehra Bairam Khan (1653-54), Beriwala (plum mosque) in Netaji Marg, dated 1635, and Burhiya-ki-masjid (old woman’s mosque) built in the late Mughal period and situated in Mori Gate. Baghwali Masjid, also of the same time, is at Pandara Road; Chini ka Burj is an unusual oblong mosque in Nizamuddin Basti and is dated 1550-60 (Sher Shah’s time). Then we have Pankhawali Masjid, (Lodhi period) in DDA Park, Mehrauli. Tofhewali Masjid (one that gives gifts) is of the Khilji period in Shahpur Jat village, but now in ruins. The Kutcha Tihar mosque (now modernized) is said to have been frequented by strangler thugs. Unchhi Masjid (there are several) have the prayer chambers on the top storey of the building. Jinnon-ki-Masjid in Kotla Ferozeshah is supposedly haunted by djinns, who shower favours on Thursdays.

  In front of Parliament House is a mosque near which the former president, Fakruddin Ali Ahmed is buried. It was here that Hasrat Mohani, the poet who wrote Chupke Chupke lived during the freedom struggle. Behind Parliament House is Rakabganj Masjid, also known as Jungle Shah’s mosque, as a Sufi lived in it when the place was a wilderness of Raisina Hill in pre-British times. It is dated as ‘Late Mughal’ and its name reminds one of the Church of St John in the Wilderness near McLeodganj, Himachal Pradesh where the viceroy, Lord Elgin was buried. The church is now closed to worship but not the redesigned mosque.

  34

  Reminiscences of Nehru

  hen Jawaharlal Nehru came to wed Kamala Kaul at Haksar Haveli in 1916, he took the opportunity to explore Delhi, then confined to the Walled City. Haji Zahoor, who was sixteen years old then, used to recall that the slim Kashmiri youth visited the Jama Masjid in the evening and was fascinated by the azan being given by seven muezzins. Lala Hanwant Sahai, who was one of the accused in the Hardinge Bomb case told me a few years before his death: ‘Jawaharlal also visited the Gauri Shankar Mandir in Chandni Chowk though he did not stay to pray. The next day he visited Indraprastha Girls’ School where his wife had studied. He looked like a prince,’ said the freedom fighter, who in later years became disillusioned with the Congress and Nehru as PM, as he thought real swaraj had not been achieved.

  Though forty-four years have passed since Nehru’s demise, one’s own memories of him are still fresh in the mind, more so now that his birthday is just around the corner.

  In 1935, when Nehru visited Agra, father was a young press correspondent for a Delhi paper and went to cover his speech at the public meeting held at the Ramlila grounds, opposite the Agra Fort. Nehru was forty-six years then and full of life. He spoke with great enthusiasm of the India of his dreams. The Second World War was still three years away and the British had not yet spelt out their plans to grant independence, but the youthful leader was sure that it would come about.

  There was a massive crowd eagerly listening to him and father thought it wise to stand near a loudspeaker and hear the speech far from the hurly-burly. He wrote out the report and went to Dr Katju’s house, where Nehru was staying. The congress leader read the report with some interest and remarked. You have written it even better than I spoke it.

  Then at another meeting in 1952 at the same venue, the crowd became restless to see and hear him and there was a stampede towards the rostrum. People began to scream because many of them were being squeezed hard by those pressing on from behind. Seeing the commotion and worrying about its outcome, Nehru jumped from the rostrum right into the crowd and began to push people away. When that did not work the famous Nehru’s temper flared up and taking a lathi from a policeman he started waving it. The small police force deployed was hard put to get him out of the surging mass, fearful for his safety, though there were no terrorists around in those days and national leaders were pretty safe at all venues. When Nehru got back to the rostrum after rescuing an infant, he berated the crowd for its unruly behaviour and also the local leaders and policemen. Gesturing towards the area MP, I think it was Seth Achal Singh, who also happened to be the treasurer of the Congress party, he said, ‘Here is a six-month-old child. He is too small to understand why he is here, but I marvel at those whose mind is just six months old and cannot even organize a public meeting.’

  Once when Nehru was leaving Teen Murti House in his car, a bearded man lay down on the road to obstruct his passage. The driver braked hard and Nehru got out, his nostrils flaring, and scolded the man. ‘Why are you trying to commit suicide in front of my car?’ he said. The brave Ali Sher Mewati stood up, saying, ‘What else to do Panditji when your government can’t even stop encroachments at the graves of Khwaja Mir Dard, Shah Waliullah, and Hakim Momim Khan Momim,’ Nehru looked puzzled for a minute and then told his secretary to see to it that the encroachment at the poets’ graves was stopped.

  Another time when Nehru arrived at Teen Murti House, Josh Malihabadi gestured to him but the PM did not stop. Josh remarked that power had gone to Nehru’s head. After a few minutes Nehru returned and confronted Josh with ‘What were you saying about me just now?’ Josh repeated his remark and Nehru whispered in his ear that he was in a hurry to go to the cloakroom, though he knew very well how Josh would react.

  35

  New Delhi & Old Delhi

  nlike Old Delhi, New Delhi does not have a character of its own, though its builder Edward Lutyens probably did not intend it to be so. Every visit to the Walled City confirms the fact that despite over 300 centuries that have elapsed, Shah Jahan’s creation continues to retain its identity. After Partition came the refugees from Pakistan, and the old Delhiwalah found himself in a piquant situation. The influx left him tottering. But slowly the newcomers merged with the mainstream. They picked up the mannerisms and nuances of their new place of abode and now it is quite difficult to make out from the speech, likes, and dislikes of the new generation that they are the descendants of refugees, who spoke a different tongue and at f
irst resented the very ambience of the city.

  New Delhi originally came up as the new centre of government on Raisina Hill. The Viceroy’s House (now Rashtrapati Bhawan), Parliament House, North, and South Blocks were the central buildings, around which new structures came up, mainly government offices, a shopping centre like Connaught Place, churches, gurdwaras, mosques, and temples. The old temples like the Hanuman Mandir and the adjacent Shiv Mandir had been there for centuries but the new ones catered to the residents who came from outside or moved in from Old Delhi. The Kali Bari in Mandir Marg and the Kali Temple in Baird Road became the centre of worship for Bengalis who worked in central government offices, churches like Sacred Heart Cathedral, and Cathedral Church of the Redemption were built with an eye to the socio-religious compactness of the new capital. Earlier the viceroy worshipped at St James’s Church in Kashmiri Gate and the Roman Catholics at St Mary’s Church near More Sarai. The new mosques were an addition to the existing ones like the Jama Masjid, Fatehpuri Masjid, Oonchi Masjid, and so many others that had existed for a long time.

  Then New Delhi began to expand after 1947 and new colonies came up at the drop of a hat – Karol Bagh became extensive and in its vicinity came up Pusa Road and Rajinder Nagar. Then Inderpuri, Mayapuri, Rajouri Garden, Janakpuri, and many other colonies came into being, with Delhi Cantonment retaining its military character.

  In South Delhi Nizamuddin Basti expanded to East and West Nizamuddin, further Lajpat Nagar initially became a colony for refugees, Defence Colony for retired bureaucrats. Further still Greater Kailash I and II were born. The process has not stopped and New Delhi has expanded to Palam, Gurgaon on the west and Mayur Vihar, Parpatganj, Noida on the east, besides New Seelampur across the Yamuna. In the north too expansion has taken place with Punjabi Bagh, Pitampura, Shalimar Bagh and other places coming up. All this took place because of the creation of New Delhi, though these areas may not be really part of it.

  How can New Delhi then have an identity of its own? Walk through Connaught Place and you don’t get the same feeling of unity and cohesion that you find in Chandni Chowk, for instance. The lingo spoken there is peculiar to that area. In the Jama Masjid area they speak khari boli, pronouncing certain words in a different way and having concerns of their own. They are used to different pastimes too, like kabutarbazi, patangbazi, kushti, ram fights, qawwalis, mass card playing, paschisi, shatranj and what not. The people identify themselves with these. Where else would you find such bonhomie in New Delhi.

  The truth is that Lutyens and Baker had designed a city for governance and not mass habitation. Their structures were of brick and concrete, magnificent ones but they couldn’t impart a heart to them like Shah Jahan had done for his new capital. When the emperor moved his seat of government to Shahjahanabad, a huge chunk of population from Agra came along with him. They were nobles, artisans, scholars, fruit sellers, general merchants, gold and silversmiths, in fact all kinds of people, besides the hoi polloi. They built houses in the proximity of the Red Fort and established their various trades in keeping with the character imparted to the city by the emperor. So Old Delhi developed a heart of its own, one that breathed in unison with the inhabitants.

  Lutyens and Baker could not do that. They created a city where work was done in the day. At night the babus and high officials retired to their homes far away, with only a few staying round about. In the 1930s and early ‘40s, at night and on Sundays and other holidays a wayfarer could not even get a glass of water, as all the offices were closed. As for the shops in Connaught Place, there were no takers for a long time. The painter Alfred Thomas was persuaded to set up his studio there on a rent of just ? `3, so were many others.

  New Delhi is a hotch-potch of different people. You will find Biharis, Bengalis, Malayalis, Tamils, Punjabis, Sindhis, Jharkhandis, Gujaratis, Rajasthanis, Haryanvis, Andhraites, Maharashtrians, UP-walahs, Nepalis, Oriyas, Assamese, Manipuris, Sikkimese, Afgans, and so many others living side by side. They speak different languages, have different customs, marry among their own kind. Even their eating habits differ.

  How can you expect such a conglomeration to have a distinct entity? It’s like the biblical tower of Babel where people spoke in different voices, which led to such confusion, that the tower that was to stretch to heaven was left at one-thousandth of its destined height.

  With the coming up of embassies of various countries, a cosmopolitan character has also been added to New Delhi. Different nationalities inhabiting a significant part of the capital have added their own ambience. So New Delhi has become a place with different pockets of identity, culturally, socially, and ethnically. What however binds this conglomerate together is the common interest of coexistence and unity in facing the problems confronting them, like health, sanitation, security, and availability of amenities.

  Otherwise, New Delhi is certainly a soulless city where you don’t find jhun-jhun katorawalahs selling cool water or venders selling their wares by singing ditties or people flocking to mazars and shrines of different faiths or parties of singers waking up the faithful for Sehri during Ramzan, religious processions or Sufis meditating at the graves of saints like Hare-Bhare Sahib, where both Hindus and Muslims and some Christians flock to keep the night young. Can New Delhi provide such delights, besides many others that are such an intrinsic part of Shahjahanabad? Since New Delhi doesn’t have a heart of its own, can one ask if it’s in the right place!

  36

  New year’s Eve Reverie

  illie Wilson, half blind and old, used to sit by the fireside on those winter evenings we spent together in Rajpur Road before he passed away in 1972. Wilson could talk thirteen to the dozen, and this reverie of his took quite an effort to convert into a written narrative after all these years when even his tombstone has disappeared from Nicholson Cemetery. One can almost hear in the inward ear, that vibrant voice rambling away to this effect.

  As the mist lifted up and the moon shone again, I turned my steps onto those old familiar ways and byways, where the hedges ran helter-skelter under the branches of the gnarled tree on which many seasons had set like the sun. It stood silhouetted now, having shed its leaves in the wintry blasts that sometimes lash Delhi after snow in the hills. I looked around me and time seemed to stand still, the ever rolling ever galloping, ever changing time, and I was a boy again, hurrying to school past the church a station priest had built for his Archbishop.

  I turned around as bygone times beckoned and it was New Year’s Eve and school was long over. There stood the X’mas tree in the mind’s eye as Miss Hayes bent to present the prizes, so young, so graceful, a case of beauty lost on a young herd, which did not know the difference between a comely and an ugly face. I was the last in the row, no fancy prizes for a dunce like me. Beresford and Beardsley, Wadley, Heatherley and Gardner, Aratoon, Shaw, Graham and Sutherland, Wilson, Bellety, Gallard and Cress – nearly everyone had won something worthwhile. There was a packet for the fat boy too who slept through the periods and even one for Phunsee, the chap with sores all over. The last present went to the Turkish boy who fell into the tank while catching tadpoles with me and while I was too scared to report the matter, he nearly drowned until Sukhia, the sweeper, dived to save him and ‘Header’ (the Headmaster) caned me black and blue.

  For poor little me there was just a nondescript packet at the X’mas Tree party held for boarders and day-scholars on December 31, when the holidays were halfway through. And I hated in my heart that beauteous woman.

  They all left one by one and me last of all, sulking and very cross with world. As I put one leaden foot forward a dainty hand held me by the ear and I felt that the shapely fingers itched to strike my face. But the hand stayed suspended where it was and I, looking up, saw Miss Hayes, her face all smiles and dimples, her skirt tight, her bosom heaving with some strange emotion. Her hair booked, her British nose a trifle pink, despite the pug, her legs with just the right amount of flesh on them, so erect and regal on those high-heeled shoes. She pulled m
e by the hand and led me into the hedge way we called Love Lane. ‘There,’ she said, ‘you little brat, how I hate you for the nasty little man you are, getting on my nerves. A good for nothing. But I must be kind for it’s New Year’s Eve, and you be nice my boy or I’ll tan your bottom. So brush your tears away.’ So saying she sat with me in the little nook, holding my winter-scarred hand in her soft palm and told me a tale as she awaited her sweetheart from the British Battery in Delhi Cantt.

  She told me of a New Year’s Eve long, long ago when knights went about in armour to seek the hands of girls as sweet as she was and the world was a lot younger and less crowed. When cows grazed in the meadows and sheep in the corn, and little boy blue blew his horn and man pranced about on horses and women too. The Iron Duke ruled over them and was hard as hard can be until it was time for the year end and he was kind for once. In those days there was a priest and he drank the red wine all New Year’s Eve and when the joy bells rang out and it was time for vigil Mass, he entered the church and slept the service through, while the Little Babe lay in the manger, and the cows and the sheep warmed him with their breath and his old father gathered twigs to light a fire and his pretty mother gazed at him in anguish. And all the angels came and sang ‘Gloria’ again, for he was to be named.

  I heard the tale, mouth agape, while the sun set behind the high steeple. I must have dozed off, and came to myself with a start, for Miss Hayes had planted a lingering kiss on my little lips, all chaffed with the cold. As I opened my eyes there stood the officer, twirling his slim moustache and winking all the while. And I ran out past the grotto and the church the priest built.