Pearl Mosque
The Mughal buildings which remain - a line of single-storey pavilions, the Emperor’s private apartments and the zenana buildings - stand still in their marble simplicity; but without their carpets, awnings and gorgeous trappings they look strangely uncomfortable: cold and hard and white, difficult to imagine back into life. Today, as the pavilions lie empty and neglected, they look like ossified tents — silk turned to stone. The Emperor is dead; the courtiers have dispersed. The whole structure has crumbled. The gorgeous canopies have rotted, the bamboo supports have snapped. The dazzling inlay of precious stones was long ago picked out with daggers.
Most infuriating of all is the Mumtaz Mahal, the Palace of Jahanara Begum. Once the most magnificent of the zenana buildings, it was the only one to be the exclusive residence of a single woman. The privacy made it perfect for the reception of forbidden lovers - which made Roshanara Begum all the more jealous that such facilities should be given to her sister Jahanara while being refused to her. Nevertheless, with all the spies at work in the palace, even here secrecy was impossible. Shah Jehan soon came to hear of Jahanara’s orgies, and according to Bernier, resolved to surprise his daughter in flagrante with one of her secret paramours:The intimation of Shah Jehan’s approach was too sudden to allow her [Jahanara Begum] the choice of more than one place of concealment, so the affrighted gallant sought refuge in the capacious cauldron used for the baths. The King’s countenance denoted neither surprise or displeasure; he discoursed with his daughter on ordinary topics, but finished the conversation by observing that her skin indicated a neglect of her customary ablutions, and that it was proper she should bathe. He then commanded the eunuchs to light a fire under the cauldron, and did not retire until they gave him to understand that his wretched victim was no more.
This, of all the Fort’s pavilions, should be haunted by ghosts, yet today it is converted into a grubby little museum lacking any atmosphere or mystique. The ruins of so many Indian palaces - Mandu, for example, or the great Hindu capital of Hampi - still retain an aura of great dignity about them in their wreckage, but in the Red Fort that aura is notable by its absence. Instead, what remains, despite the completeness of the walls and the outer gates, is a peculiar emptiness, a hollowness at the very heart of the complex. For all the marble, for all the inlay, for all the grand memories glimpsed through finely perforated jali screens, the final impression is sad, almost tawdry.
The sycophants have drifted away to find new lords to flatter; what they left behind them now looks merely empty and vainglorious.
That week Olivia and I visited Dr Jaffery’s family haveli in the walled city for the first time. He had been very nervous about inviting us.
‘You should not make friends with an elephant keeper,’ he had said, ‘unless you first have room to entertain an elephant.’
‘Doctor, I wish you would explain your aphorisms sometimes.’
‘My friend: I am referring to you. You are a European. You come from a rich country. I am a poor scholar. It is unwise for us to become close because I cannot afford to entertain you in the style to which you are accustomed.’ Dr Jaffery frowned: ‘I am a simple man. I live in a simple house. You will be disgusted by my simple ways.’
‘Don’t be silly, doctor. Of course I won’t.’
‘So if I invited you to my house you would not be upset by the simple food I would serve?’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
‘In that case you and your wife must come and eat some simple dervish dishes with me and my family.’
It was now early March and Ramadan had just begun. With its overwhelmingly Hindu population, New Delhi was quite unchanged by the onset of the Muslim month of fasting, but the Old City had been transformed since our last visit. There were now far fewer people about: many streets were deserted but for groups of tethered goats fattening for their slaughter on Idul-Zuha. Those Muslims who were out on the streets looked bad-tempered: they had not eaten or drunk since before dawn, and were in no mood for smiles or pleasantries. Even the endlessly patient bicycle rickshaw drivers muttered curses under their breath as they drove us uphill through the narrowing funnel of tightly-packed houses.
Dr Jaffery’s house lay a short distance from the Turkman Gate, off the narrow Ganj Mir Khan. A steep flight of steps off the street led to a first-floor courtyard dotted with pots of bougainvillaea. Here we were met by Fardine, Dr Jaffery’s nephew.
Fardine was a tall, good-looking boy, about sixteen years old; like his uncle he was dressed in white kurta pyjamas. Dr Jaffery was still giving lectures at the college, Fardine said. Would we like to come upstairs and help him fly his pigeons until Dr Jaffery arrived for iftar, the meal eaten at sunset each day during Ramadan?
He led us up four flights of dark, narrow stairs, before disappearing up a rickety ladder out on to the roof. We followed and emerged on to a flat terrace with a magnificent view over Old Delhi. To the right rose the three swelling domes of the great Jama Masjid; to the left you could see the ripple of small semi-domes atop the ancient Kalan Masjid. In between the two mosques, in the great arc of roofs and terraces which surmounted the houses of Shahjehanabad, I saw for the first time that secret Delhi which lies hidden from those who only know the city from ground level. From Dr Jaffery’s rooftop you could look out, past the anonymous walls which face on to the Old Delhi lanes, and see into the shady courtyards and the gardens which form the real heart of the Old City.
In the last hour before the breaking of the Ramadan fast, the courtyards and rooftops were filling with people. Some were lying on charpoys, snoozing away the last minutes before their first meal for thirteen hours. Others sat out on carpets beneath the shady trees enjoying the cool of the evening. Nearby, little boys were playing with brightly coloured diamond-shaped kites which they flew up into the warm evening breeze. They pulled sharply at the strings, then released the kites so that they flew in a succession of angular jerks, higher and higher into the pink evening sky. While most of the fliers were quietly attempting to raise their kites as high as possible into the heavens, some of the boys were engaged in battles with their neighbours. They locked strings with the kites of their enemies and attempted, by means of the ground glass glued on their strings, to cut their opponents’ kites free.
Yet, on the rooftops, the kite fliers were easily outnumbered by the pigeon fanciers - the kabooter baz - who stood on almost every terrace, hands extended into the air calling to their pigeons: Aao! Aao! Aao! (Come! Come! Come!) Above them, the sky was full of the soft rush of beating wings, clouds of pigeons dipping and diving in and out of the domes and through the minarets. The flocks whirled and wheeled, higher and higher, before nose-diving suddenly down towards their home terrace on the command of their flier. Some came to rest on the bamboo pigeon frames - horizontal slats of trellising raised on a pole - that several of the fliers had raised above their roofs.
Kabooter baz
In England the mention of pigeon fanciers brings to mind Geord ies and flat caps and Newcastle Brown Ale. In Delhi the sport has very different associations. It is remembered as the civilized old pastime of the Mughal court. Its laws were codified by Abu‘l Fazl in the A’in-i-Akbari and its delights and dangers were illustrated by the Mughal miniaturists. Its arts were mastered by, among others, the last of the Great Moguls, the Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar. It is still one of the great passions of the Old Delhi-wallahs, and one of the many habits which distinguishes them from their Punjabi neighbours in the New City.
Fardine took us to the edge of his terrace, where his own pigeons were kept in a large coop. He opened the wire-mesh door and scattered some grain on the floor. Immediately the pigeons began to strut and flutter out, billing and cooing with pleasure. As they emerged from their coop, Fardine pointed out the different varieties in his collection.
‘These are the Shiraji,’ he said pointing to two birds with reddish wings and black chests. ‘They are the fighter pigeons. This is a very good pair:
they have won many battles. And you see these?’ He was now pointing at some large pigeons, coloured very light blue-grey. ‘These are the Kabuli Kabooter. They are the strongest pigeons in Delhi. They are not very fast but they can fly very high for two to four hours — sometimes more. And these red ones: they are Lal Khal, along with the Avadi Golay they are the fastest of all kabooter.’
With a swift movement he picked up one of the Lal Khals and kissed it on its head. Then, turning it over, he pointed at the miniature bracelets he had fixed to its ankles. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘They wear ghungroos like a dancer!’
Fardine took out a tin can from a cupboard beside the coop. In it was grain mixed with ghee (clarified butter). This was obviously the pigeons’ favourite delicacy: at the sight of the tin can, the pigeons leapt in the air and fluttered above us waiting to dive down on the first grains; others landed flirtatiously on Fardine’s arms and shoulders. The boy threw the sticky grain up into the air and the pigeons swooped down after it. The birds on Fardine’s shoulders manoeuvred their way down to the edge of the can where they sat on its rim, greedily pecking at the grains. Others sat on Fardine’s open palm eating from his hand.
When the birds had eaten their fill, Fardine stood back and shouted: ‘Ay-ee!’ Immediately with a great flutter of wings the pigeons rose into the air and circled above the terrace. When Fardine whistled the birds shot off in the direction of the Jama Masjid; another whistle and they returned. Fardine waved his arms and the birds rose high into the air; at the cry of ‘Aao! Aao! Aao!’ they obediently returned. With another flutter of wings, the birds came in to land on their coop.
‘These tricks are easy to learn,’ said Fardine shrugging his shoulders. ‘But to become a master - a Khalifa - can take twenty years of training. A master can teach his pigeons to capture another man’s flock and drive it home like a herd of sheep. He can make his birds fly like an arrow - in a straight line, in single file — or can direct them to any place he likes, in any formation. There are perhaps five thousand kabooter baz in Delhi, but there are only fifty Khalifa.’
As Fardine spoke, there was a sudden report, like a loud explosion. Seconds later the muezzin of a hundred Delhi mosques called the Faithful to prayer with a loud cry of ‘Allaaaaah hu-Akbar!’ The sun had set. The fast was over. It was time for the iftar.
Dr Jaffery was prostrated on a prayer carpet, finishing his evening namaaz. Fardine went to join him. Uncle and nephew knelt shoulder to shoulder, hands cupped, heads bowed in the simple position of submission.
When he had finished, Dr Jaffery rose to his feet, brushed the dust off his pyjamas and came over to Olivia and me. He welcomed us, then added: ‘You looked at us strangely while we were praying. Do you never pray?’
‘I used to,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘Now ... I am not sure what I believe in, whether I’m an agnostic or ...’
‘You make God sound so complicated,’ said Dr Jaffery, cutting in. ‘God is simple. To follow him is not so difficult. Just remember the advice of Rumi: “Follow the camel of love.”’
‘But follow it where?’ I said.
‘To wherever it leads,’ replied Dr Jaffery. ‘God is everywhere. He is in the buildings, in the light, in the air. He is in you, closer to you than the veins of your neck.’
‘But...’
‘If you honour him and believe God is one you will be all right,’ said Dr Jaffery. ‘Come. The iftar is ready.’
He led us into the house and introduced us to his two nieces, Nosheen and Simeen. They were pretty girls, about sixteen and seventeen, dressed in flowery salwar kameez.
A sheet had been spread out on the ground, and around it had been placed a square of long hard bolsters. The iftar meal was laid in its centre. We sat down and Dr Jaffery handed us a plate of dates: traditionally the delicacy with which Muslims break the Ramadan fast. There followed a succession of delicious Delhi kebabs rounded off with fruit chaat: a kind of spicy fruit salad. While we ate, Dr Jaffery talked of the (then) impending break-up of the Soviet Union:
‘The Iranians are already broadcasting to Central Asia in Turkish,’ he said. ‘There will be a revival of Timurid Empire. Just you see. Before long there will be an embassy of Samarkand in Delhi.’
After we had finished everyone lay back on the bolsters. Dr Jaffery’s nieces begged him to tell us one of his Mullah Nasir-ud-Din stories and eventually he obliged.
He told how, on one of his visits to Delhi, the legendary Mullah Nasir-ud-Din arrived in the city in the middle of Ramadan. The mullah was very hungry and when he heard that the Emperor was providing a free iftar to anyone who came to the Red Fort he immediately tied up his donkey and went along. However he was so dirty from his ride that the Master of Ceremonies placed him in a distant corner, far from the Emperor, and at the end of the queue for food.
Seeing he would not be served for several hours, the mullah went off back to the caravanserai in which he was staying. He washed and dressed in a magnificent embroidered robe topped with a great gilt turban, then returned to the feast. This time he was announced by a roll of kettle drums and a fanfare of trumpets bellowing from the Naqqar Khana. The Master of Ceremonies placed him near the Great Mogul and a plate of freshly grilled lamb was put before him. But Mullah Nasir-ud-Din did not eat. Instead he began to rub the lamb all over his robe and turban.
The Mogul said: ‘Eminent Mullah. You must be a foreigner from a distant and barbarous land! I have never seen such manners in my life before!’ But Mullah Nasir-ud-Din was unrepentant. He replied: ‘Your Highness. This gown got me fed. I think it deserves its portion too, don’t you?’
After the story was finished, Nosheen and Simeen said goodnight and disappeared upstairs to bed. But Fardine, Olivia and I sat up with Dr Jaffery sipping tea and chatting until well after midnight. At first Dr Jaffery told more Mullah Nasir-ud-Din stories, but after a while the conversation became more serious.
I asked the doctor about Dara Shukoh and Aurangzeb, and soon the doctor was telling us about the civil war and the accounts given of it by Bernier and Manucci.
Throughout the 1650s the power and influence of Dara Shukoh continued to rise.
In the Mughal court great importance was always given to small details of protocol and privilege: the colour of a turban, the number of jewels in a noble’s dagger, the place he was assigned in the Red Fort: all these things had significance as subtle indicators to an omrah’s place in the ranking of the empire.
It was with a succession of such hints that Shah Jehan let it be known that his eldest son bathed in an ever-brighter glow of Imperial approval. Nobles attending the court were ordered to go first to the apartments of Dara Shukoh and there make their morning obeisance before going on to the Diwan-i-khas to greet Shah Jehan. Elephant fights were staged whenever Dara wished; his retainers were allowed to hold gold and silver maces in the durbar hall; Dara himself was assigned a small throne immediately beside that of his father. On two occasions Shah Jehan went so far as to declare Dara his desired successor, while adding that the matter rested in the hands of Allah.
Meanwhile the Emperor ordered that Aurangzeb should remain — unrewarded — on gruelling campaign against the empire’s enemies in the Deccan. It was against this background that the crisis of September 1657 was played out.
The emergency had a most unexpected cause. Shah Jehan’s extraordinary sexual appetites were always a matter of some speculation in the Imperial City, both to travellers and to native Delhi-wallahs. Many contemporary writers comment on Shah Jehan’s legendary appetites: the Emperor’s lust for his daughter Jahanara, his penchant for seducing the wives of his generals and relations, and the numbers of courtesans invited into the palace to quench the monarch’s thirst when his expansive harem proved insufficient. Manucci’s writings are full of more or less fanciful speculation on this matter:All the world knows that the Mohammedans, following the example of their master, Mohammed, are very licentious; wherefore the men among them do not content themselves with a few wives, but seek eve
ry method of gratifying themselves in this particular.
Shah Jehan, not contenting himself with the women he had in his palaces, forfeited the respect of his nobles by intrigues with their wives ... [Moreover] for the greater satisfaction of his lusts, Shah Jehan ordered the erection of a large hall adorned through out with great mirrors. All this was made so that he might obscenely observe himself with his favourite women. It is impossible to explain satisfactorily the passion that Shah Jehan had in this direction.
While the passing of time did nothing to lessen the Emperor’s appetites, it apparently did nothing either to improve his performance. It was rumoured that as the monarch’s virility grew less reliable he developed a habit of taking substantial quantities of aphrodisiacs. Whether they worked or not, the potions had a serious and potentially fatal side-effect: ‘these stimulating drugs,’ wrote Manucci, ‘brought on a retention of urine ... for three days Shah Jehan was almost at death’s door.’
Jahanara Begum moved into Shah Jehan’s apartments to nurse the Emperor herself. The gates of the palace were closed. In the city it was rumoured that the Emperor was already dead. In the Chandni Chowk shopkeepers boarded up their premises, buried their treasure and prepared for a long period of unrest. Meanwhile spies in the Red Fort reported the developments to each of Shah Jehan’s four sons, all of whom assumed that the long-awaited succession battle was now imminent. Each began to gather troops and to borrow money from usurers.
City of Djinns Page 24