City of Djinns

by William Dalrymple

  Eventually, however, Safdarjung overplayed his hand. His arrogance and bullying alienated the Imperial family; and in their desperation they called in the armies of the Hindu Mahratta Confederacy from the Deccan to help rid them of their troublesome Vizier. In the Civil War that followed, as rival armies from all over India converged on Delhi, Safdarjung was finally driven out of the capital. He returned only in death when his son begged permission to build his father’s tomb in the waste land to the south-west of Shahjehanabad.

  The tomb stands today as a telling memorial to the period. Most obviously, it demonstrates the strained circumstances of the age. Compared to the purity of the Taj Mahal - the spotless white marble, the unfussy shapes, the perfectly balanced design - Safdarjung’s tomb with its bulbous dome and stained sandstone walls seems somehow flawed and degenerate. Every schoolchild the world over knows the profile of the Taj, and in so far as Safdarjung’s tomb is different, it at first sight looks wrong: its lines look somehow faulty, naggingly incorrect.

  Moreover, the tomb has an unmistakably threadbare quality to it. As the traditional Delhi quarries near Agra were no longer controlled by the Mughals — the road between Delhi and Agra was usually blocked by wild and hostile Jat tribesmen - the builders were forced to strip other Delhi tombs in order to gather the material for Safdarjung’s memorial. Half-way through the construction, the marble appears to have run out. Prominent strips of inlay were left unfinished; awkward patches of pink sandstone intrude into the glistening white of the dome. The effect is like a courtier in a tatty second-hand livery: the intention grand, but the actual impression tawdry, almost ridiculous.

  Nevertheless, the longer you look, the more the qualities and character of the tomb become apparent and the clearer it is that the architect was not simply trying to imitate the Taj and failing. He had another, quite different aesthetic he was aiming to achieve - a sort of blowzy Mughal rococo. His design was the product of another age with very different, more eccentric tastes. The tomb shows how the aesthetes of the age of Safdarjung liked their gateways to be as ornately sculpted as their prose was purple; how they preferred their onion domes to be over-extended and tapered; how they thought the interior of a tomb incomplete unless covered with a rococo riot of elaborate plasterwork.

  For anyone used to the chaste purity of the Taj, it is here in the interior that the biggest surprises lie: inside, the capitals have turned almost into cabbages as they curve and curl in vegetable convulsions. They throw up stamens and tendrils past the stalactite murqanas and squinches, gripping and voluting towards the floral boss of the low inner dome. Even the pillars have taken root and become living things, blossoming into lotus filials at the base, cusp ing around the voussoirs of the arch, erupting out into little jharokha balconies at the top. The spirit is fecund, Bacchanalian, almost orgiastic.

  Like some elderly courtesan, the tomb tries to mask its imperfections beneath thick layers of make-up; its excesses of ornament are worn like over-applied rouge. Even the little mosque to the side of the gatehouse has a whiff of degeneracy about it: its three domes are flirtatiously striped like the flared pyjama bottoms of a nautch girl; there is something fundamentally voluptuous in its buxom curves and poise.

  Despite its sad little economies, Safdarjung’s tomb exudes the flavour of an age not so much decaying miserably into impoverished anonymity as one whoring and drinking itself into extinction. The building tells a story of drunken laughter as the pillars of empire collapsed in a cloud of dust and masonry; and afterwards, of dancing in the ruins.

  If poetry, music and elephant fights were the preferred amusements of the court, the humbler folk of the age of Safdarjung had their partridges. Again and again in the letters and diaries of the period there are references to both partridge and elephant fights; they also feature prominently in the miniature illustrations of late Mughal manuscripts.

  Both sports were clearly popular and well-established traditions; but when I asked my Indian friends about their survival in modern Delhi, they all shook their heads. As far as any of them knew, the last elephant fights had taken place around the turn of the century in the princely states of Rajputana; and as for partridge fights, said my friends, those sorts of Mughal traditions had all died out at Partition. I might find the odd partridge fight surviving in Lahore or somewhere in Pakistan, they thought, but not in Delhi.

  It was Balvinder Singh who one day in late January suddenly announced, quite unprompted, that he would not be on duty on Sunday as he and his father Punjab Singh were going to watch what he called a ‘bird challenge’. The fights apparently took place every Sunday morning in a Muslim cemetery in Old Delhi: ‘Bahot acha event hai,’ said Balvinder. ‘All very good birds fighting, very good money making, all very happy people enjoying.’

  I asked whether I could come along too; and Balvinder agreed.

  The following Sunday at six in the morning the three of us set off from International Backside into the thick early morning mist. As we neared the cemetery, the streets began to fill with people, all heading in the same direction. Some were carrying bulky packages covered with thick quilted cloths. Every so often one of the packages would let out a loud squawk.

  The cemetery lay within a high walled enclosure at the back of the Old Delhi Idgah. Despite the early hour, the arched gateway into the cemetery was already jammed with chai wallahs and snack sellers trying to push their barrows through the narrow entrance. On the far side a crowd of two or three hundred people had already gathered: craggy old Muslims with long beards and mountainous turbans; small Hindu shopkeepers in blue striped lungis; Kashmiri pandits in long frock coats and Congress hats.

  The crowd milled around chatting and exchanging tips, hawking and spitting, slurping tea and placing bets. As the partridge enthusiasts pottered about, three elderly men tried to clear a space in the centre of the cemetery. They strutted around, sombre and authoritative, clearly in charge of the proceedings. These, explained Balvinder in his (characteristically loud) stage whisper, were the khalifas, the headmen of the partridge fights.

  ‘Very big men,’ said Balvinder approvingly.

  ‘How do you become a khalifa?’ I asked.

  ‘Experience and market value,’ said Punjab.

  ‘You must be very good fighter,’ added Balvinder, ‘and you must have too many titar (partridges). This man here has one hundred fighting birds ...’

  The khalifa whom Balvinder had pointed out came up and introduced himself. He was a very old man; he had blacked his eyelids with collyrium and his teeth and upper lip were heavily stained with paan. His name was Azar Khalifa and he lived in Sarai Khalil in the Churi Wallan Gulli of the Old City.

  ‘We khalifas live for the bird challenge,’ he said. ‘We have no other occupation.’

  Azar and Punjab Singh agreed that Delhi was the best place to see the partridge challenge in the whole of the subcontinent. ‘I have seen the partridge fights of Lucknow, Jaipur and Peshawar,’ said Azar. ‘But never have I seen anything like the fights in Delhi. Khalifas come here from all over India and Pakistan to participate.’

  Some of Azar Khalifa’s partridges were fighting in the match that day, and the old man showed us his birds. From behind the headstone of an old Muslim grave he produced an oblong parcel trussed up in flowery chintz. Unbuckling the fastenings, he removed the wraps and uncovered a wickerwork cage. Inside, separated by a dividing trellis, were two fine plump partridges.

  ‘This one lady. This one gent,’ explained Balvinder.

  The birds responded with a loud cry of ‘Ti-lo! Ti-lo!’

  Of the two birds, the male was the more beautiful. It had superb black markings as precise and perfect as a Bewick wood engraving running down its spine; lighter, more downy plumage covered its chest. Half-way along the back of the lower legs you could see the vicious spur with which the birds fought.

  ‘I feed my birds on milk, almonds and sugar cane,’ said Azar, sticking his finger through the cage and tickling the female under its neck.
‘The males I train every day so that they can jump and run without feeling too much tired.’

  As we talked there was a shout from one of the other khalifas; the first fight was about to begin.

  Azar called me over and with a flourish sat me down on a plastic deckchair at the front of the ring of spectators. The open space in the middle had been carefully brushed and in its centre squatted two men about five feet apart; by their sides stood two cages, each containing a pair of birds. The spectators - now arranged in two ranks, those at the front squatting, those behind standing upright — hurriedly finished placing their bets. A hush fell on the graveyard.

  At a signal from Azar, the two contestants unhitched the front gate of the cage; the two cock partridges strutted out. As they did so, their mates began to squawk in alarm and encouragement. The males responded by puffing up their chests and circling slowly towards each other. Again the hens shrieked ‘Ti-lo! Ti-lo!’ and again the males drew closer to one another.

  Then, quite suddenly, one of the two cocks lost his nerve. He turned and rushed back towards the cage; but finding the gate barred, he skittered off towards the nearest group of spectators, hotly pursued by his enemy. At the edge of the ring the cock took off, flying up amid a shower of feathers into the lower branches of a nearby tree. There he remained, shrieking ‘Ti-lo!’, his chest heaving up and down in fright. The rival male, meanwhile, strutted around the deserted lady partridge in ill-disguised triumph. The hen averted her head.

  This first short fight obviously disappointed the connoisseurs in the audience. Balvinder shook his head at me across the ring: ‘This one very weakling bird,’ he shouted. ‘This one very weakling.’

  Money was exchanged, the two contestants shook hands, and their place in the ring was taken by a second pair of fighters: a Rajput with a handlebar moustache, and a small but fierce-looking Muslim who sported a bushy black beard. To my eyes the new pair of partridges were indistinguishable from any of the other birds I had seen that day, but the rest of the audience clearly thought otherwise. A murmur of approval passed through the crowd; Balvinder got out his wallet and handed two 100-rupee notes to his neighbour.

  At another signal from Azar Khalifa the two gates were pulled back and again the cocks ran out. This time there was no bluffing. Encouraged by the raucous shrieks of their mates, the two birds rushed at each other. Handlebar’s bird, which was the lighter of the two, gave the Muslim’s bird a vicious switch across its forehead; the darker bird responded by ripping at its rival’s throat. The two then fenced at each other with their beaks, each parrying the other’s thrust. A frisson went around the crowd: this was more like it. Despite the violence, the blood and the cloud of feathers, I was surprised to find it strangely thrilling to watch: it was like a miniature gladiator contest.

  The two birds had now broken loose from each other and withdrawn to the vicinity of their respective cages. Then Handlebar’s cock suddenly jumped into the air, flew the distance that separated it from its rival and came down on the darker bird with its neck arched and talons open. The spurs ripped at the Muslim’s bird and drew blood on its back, just above the wing. The bird rolled over, but on righting itself managed to give its attacker a sharp peck on its wing tip as it tried to escape. Then, scampering up behind Handlebar’s bird it grabbed its rival by the neck, gripped, and forced it down on to its side. The first bird lay pinioned there for four or five seconds before it managed to break free and fly off.

  Handlebar’s mate had meanwhile broken out in a kind of partridge death-wail. The cry was taken up by the loser of the previous fight who was still watching the new contest from his tree. Soon the whole graveyard was alive with the squawking of excited partridges.

  The action had also electrified the crowd who were pressing in on the ring despite the best efforts of the khalifas to keep them all back. Someone knocked over the tray of a chai wallah and there were loud oaths from the squatting men over whom the tea had fallen. But the incident was soon forgotten. The Muslim’s bird had gone back on to the offensive, swooping down with its spurs and ripping a great gash along its enemy’s cheek. It followed the attack up with a vicious peck just above the other bird’s beak. Handlebar’s bird looked stunned for a second then withdrew backwards towards its mate.

  The ring which had originally been twenty feet across was now little wider than seven or eight feet; the squatters were now standing and getting in everyone else’s view. In the middle, Handlebar was looking extremely agitated. Although the rules laid down that he could not directly intervene he hissed at the hen who dutifully shrieked out a loud distress call. This checked her mate’s retreat and the bird turned around to face the Muslim’s partridge with his back against her cage.

  The proximity to his hen seemed to bring the cock new resolution. For a few seconds the two birds stood facing each other, chests fully extended; then Handlebar’s bird flew at its rival with a new and sudden violence. He dealt the Muslim’s bird a glancing blow with the hook of his beak, then rose up, wings arched, and fell heavily on the lighter bird’s head. As he hopped out of reach he again cut the darker bird with his spurs.

  The reprisal never came. The Muslim’s bird slowly righted itself, got unsteadily to its feet, then limped off through the legs of the crowd. There was a great cheer from the spectators. Balvinder jumped up and down, punched the air, then promptly confronted the man with whom he had made the bet. The latter grudgingly handed over a stash of notes. All around the ring wallets were being slapped open and shut; fingers were being angrily pointed. Everywhere arguments were breaking out between debtors and creditors, winners and losers. The outsider had clearly won.

  Suddenly there was a cry from the gateway; and the khalifas started ushering everyone to one side. All the spectators frowned.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked Punjab, who had come up beside me.

  ‘This khalifa is saying one dead body is coming. We must leave the graveyard for an hour.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, immediately. Some people are wanting to bury some body here.’

  As we were leaving, we passed the Muslim who had lost the fight. He was cradling his partridge in his hands and kissing the bird. He was close to tears, but the bird looked surprisingly perky.

  ‘Will the bird live?’ I asked Punjab.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he replied. “This Mahommedan will bandage the wounds with herbs and feed the titar with special food. In a few weeks the bird will be back in the fighting ring.‘

  Outside the cemetery we came across Azar Khalifa.

  ‘You liked?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much,’ I said.

  ‘Everyone likes,’ said Azar. ‘For the people of Delhi this partridge fighting has always been a happiness.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Punjab Singh. ‘People are coming here drunk, worried or tired of the chores of the world, but always they leave this place refreshed.’

  I spent the rest of January visiting libraries to research the age of Safdarjung. The trouble was that, unlike most other periods of Delhi’s history, there seemed to be very few good primary sources. There were the usual dubious court chronicles, but the accounts of the different palace intrigues - the competing factions, the endless round of murders, blindings, stranglings, stabbings and poisonings - seemed only to confuse, not in any way to illuminate the age. It was Mozaffar Alam, the Mughal historian, who told me about a book which became one of my favourite Delhi texts: the Muraqqa‘-e-Dehli.

  The Muraqqa’ is a wonderfully gossipy account of Delhi taken from the diary of an impressionable young visitor named Dargah Quli Khan. Khan was a Muslim nobleman from the Deccan who paid an extended visit to Delhi from 1737 to 1741 as part of the entourage of Safdarjung’s great rival: Asaf Jah, the first Nizam of Hyderabad.

  For all its humiliating decline, Khan still saw Delhi as a vibrant and sophisticated city, full of glamour and intrigue; the beauty of its palaces and shrines, he thought, was rivalled only by the strangeness of the city’s society a
nd its dazzling complement of poets, dancers and mystics. His account brings the whole city alive: the dry bones of the period are suddenly fleshed out and take on a recognizable human face. Typical of his account is the picture he gives of the festival held at the great Sufi shrine of the Qadam Sharif, which sheltered the supposed Footprint of the Holy Prophet. ‘Every Thursday the courtyard of the Dargah is so full of visitors that it is difficult even to approach the Place and touch it,’ he writes. ‘Pilgrims and ascetics come from countries and cities far and near to seek the fulfilment of their desires.’

  But when Khan goes on to describe the crowds a little more closely, this picture of prayerful pilgrimage undergoes something of a transformation: ‘On seeing beautiful women carrying in their hands porcelain bottles of perfume, the crowds become uncontrollable ... the ecstatic people move around as though being swept into a whirlpool ... Gradually the singers gather and the mehfil (gathering) becomes gay. Men and beautiful women also join in. Pleasure-seekers retire to the corners and find the privacy to enjoy their desired company.’

  If this sort of thing could take place at the most sacred shrine in Delhi, then the festivals at the lesser dargahs — such as that which grew up around the grave of the saintly Emperor Bahadur Shah I - could be even more lively. Quli Khan is clearly not sure whether he should be disapproving or excited about the orgy busily going on all around him:[At night] chandeliers of all kinds are hung so that the place dazzles like sunlight and overshadows the moon. Hand in hand, the lovers roam the streets while [outside] the drunken and the debauched revel in all kinds of perver sities. Groups of winsome lads violate the faith of the believers with acts which are sufficient to shake the very roots of piety. There are beautiful faces as far as the eye can see. All around prevails a world of impiety and immorality. Both nobles and plebians quench the thirst of their lust here.