by Raza Rumi
We are with a small group of tourists. The old city is disappearing brick by brick. This is callous, inevitable destruction. I wonder what must have prompted Shah Jahan to leave Agra and return to this imperially jinxed city. Was it his passion for architecture? It must have been in 1639 when the orders were issued for the construction of the Red Fort. Within nine years, Emperor Shah Jahan and his son, Prince Dara Shikoh, held their inaugural court at Diwan-e-Aam.
It is believed that several decapitated bodies of ordinary mortals working on the site are buried under the foundations of Shahjahanabad. Perhaps it was Delhi’s resplendent fate to rise once again from amidst the corpses. The 3.8 mile-long2 city wall took four years to be erected; it had fourteen gates, the names of which represented the ethos of the time—Lahori, Turkman, Kashmiri—among others. Names for these gates were chosen for a variety of reasons—as satraps of the vast empire as well as for the directions which some of these gates indicated, showing a particular province or ‘suba’. An old canal was revived for water supply and one of its branches crossed Chandni Chowk, the city’s commercial centre, underlying the dominant urban aesthetic laid out by Shah Jahan’s daughter, Princess Jahanara. Another canal flowed through the Red Fort. The length, style, utility, route and aesthetic of this canal was inspired by the literal and metaphorical glory of a Mughal garden aimed at recreating; the Islamic ‘paradise’ reserved for the after-life, but glimpsed on the temporal earth through a ruling dynasty’s sovereignty.
Around 100,000 to 150,000 people lived here between 1800 and 1857—the last and defining period of Mughal India. It was definitely smaller than the other cultural haven, Lucknow. However, the small population made Shahjahanabad more manageable. It also facilitated the preservation of cultural integrity and communal harmony in Delhi, where a multi-class culture influenced by the Sufi tariqa flourished. In the words of C.F. Edwards, who was scripting accounts of old Delhi:
The intimate residence together, side by side, in the same city of Musalmans and Hindus, had brought about a noticeable amalgamation of customs and usages among common peoples… I have had more convincing and corroborative evidence of especially friendly relationships between Hindus and Muslims in old Delhi than I have had concerning any other factor.
The medium of Urdu and the commonly shared Delhi aadaab were the vehicles for articulating this bonding and understanding. By the 1850s, Khusrau’s project of creating a new language that was a blend of the local and the foreign, the ruler and the ruled, had fully penetrated the cultural ethos of Delhi. The Delhi College3, now known as Zakir Hussain College, was a fine seat of Indo-oriental learning, and represented this peculiar and delightful cultural nuance where scientific learning mingled with a wider cultural learning. It imparted an education of a comprehensive, old-world variety where manners mixed with reason and the spirit of inquiry, harmonized with traditional respect for teachers.
Cultural and recreational activities were also shared by all communities regardless of their religion and creed. The sandy slopes on the banks of the serene Jamuna near Delhi Gate, Mahabat Khan ki Reti, were used for kite flying and other matches. Pigeon flying was another popular sport and a swimming gala was an annual event. Wrestling clubs also flourished and Dastangohs4 spun stories on the steps of the Jama Masjid.
In the last days of Shahjahanabad, the city’s spirit was personified by Bahadur Shah Zafar. Zafar was a poet-musician, a keen builder, a regular chess player and kite flyer. He was the ‘Jahan Panah’ (protector of the world) in the eyes of the people of Shahjahanabad. But there was a deep decline in this introverted city which harboured an almost an unreal sense of complacency. The British were everywhere in North India and, very soon, events would lead them to this decaying world to destroy and rebuild it in order to suit imperial purposes.
I imagined the bustle of Chandni Chowk from Lahori Gate to the Fatehpuri Mosque. The shade of green trees would reflect in the Nehr-i-Bahisht (river of paradise). About half-way through, it would pass through a circular pool to reflect moonlight. The section from Lahori Gate to Dariba was known as Urdu Bazaar, catering to needs such as uniforms and items of everyday use of the imperial staff. Towards the Kotwali was a flower-sellers’ market. Adjoining bazaars would sell gold, jewellery and the finest of merchandises.
The Chandni Chowk of today is still a commercial centre, but quite uninspiring and run-down. The canal and the pool have dried up and disappeared, but all the names remain. Unrelenting noise is a constant irritant and the area is nothing but a trader-merchant slum now. The moonlight struggles to find a corner through which it can shine down but cannot find it.
From Kotwali Chabutra5, a street snaked towards Chandni Chowk, known as Johari Bazaar or the jewellers market with saraafs and mahajans. Further up, Chandni Chowk, the square where an octagonal pool measuring one hundred yards on each side reflected the moonlight, was Jahanara’s own feat of architecture and emerged in 1650 with a garden, bath, caravansarai and shops on all its sides. Records say that there were 444 double-storied shops. Fed by the flowing canal water, talaab or a pool was also improvised to reflect the moonlight. Towards the north, there was Begum Sarai and in the south, a hamam or public bath, while at the end of Chandni Chowk, there was the Bazaar Kalan near the Fatehpuri Masjid. Pavilions with gardens attracted birds. A slice of Mughal splendour for the ordinary citizen indeed!
Sarais or inns, precursors of today’s hotels, were located here. One such sarai, independent of ecclesiastical patronage, was Begum ki Sarai. Jahanara built this sarai between the Red Fort and the city. This double-storied inn was squarish in shape with arched private chambers adorned with contemporary paintings in the Indo-Persian style with great views on both sides. Wells were provided for. Bernier noted that this, the most imposing building in Delhi after the Jama Masjid, was a ‘rendezvous for the rich and the great, Persian and Uzbeg and other foreign merchants who were… accommodated… with personal security.’ Stephen P. Blake reports that the inn ‘contained ninety rooms, each beautifully painted and appointed… in the middle of the courtyard was a garden filled with watercourses, pools, trees and flowers.’6
Now the trees have disappeared and not even a bush stands there. The year1857 was a turning point not just in the inner life and grandeur of the old city, but also for its gardens, parks and trees; the easiest preys of modernity. On the first day of 1867, a train steamed into Delhi station north of Chandni Chowk. The station gobbled up acres of land where once Jahanara’s garden existed. In the twenty-first century, construction of the hi-tech underground metro has contributed to the large-scale uprooting of trees—a mere continuation of this merciless scheme of things.
At its zenith, Chandni Chowk was a fabled area frequented by local elites, Armenian and Turkish adventurers, Persian poets and Italian merchants. Just a little distance away, stood one of the world’s richest courts. Rumour had it that it required fourteen full years to evaluate Shah Jahan’s riches! There were bustling tree-lined boulevards with coffee houses for the rich, wafting aromas of the imported bean from Persia, and shops selling Chinese eye-glasses, jewellery, cheetahs and even eunuchs! Today, cheap Chinese consumer goods are sold here, bringing history to another kind of full circle.
Shahjahanabad boasted of high-end as well as the ordinary haveli as they tried to replicate the grandeur of the palace into their daily lives. Each of these havelis had a definite architectural style and contained gardens. Like havelis elsewhere, each one was a world within itself—quarters for women, guests and family, with carefully designed courtyards quietly breathing inside. The diwan khana and library were also necessary spaces. The inner sanctums—private studies, bedrooms and living spaces—overlooked fruit trees and fountains and enjoyed much light and openness. Verandas were another architectural feature, as were basements, particularly cherished as a refuge from the unsparing summer heat. High ceilings and terraces captured the purva or the eastern breeze that blew on summer nights; sleeping under the stars brought the skies closer to the edges of the
beds in Shahjahanabad.
Through the centuries, these havelis existed as sites of cultural patronage, especially of music and the sama associated with the city’s Sufi circles. A contemporary account of the later Mughal period mentions Zafar Khan Roshan-ud-Daula, whose house was like a mountain of gold, its walls and doors lavishly gilded and decorated with costly tapestry and hangings of gold and floors covered with carpets of the richest silk. Zafar Khan organized the celebrations of the Bara Wafat (the Prophet’s birthday) and the urs of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki on a grand scale. Once a week, Zafar Khan held a Majlis-i-Sama to which he invited mystics, saints, and eminent citizens of the city. Zafar would tear up his golden clothes while in a state of trance and distribute gold and silver pieces among the performers. At the end of the music party, the attendees were offered opulent meals served on gold and silver.
The gardens of these havelis have now been converted into more housing stock as the population grew; the once spacious residences are cluttered with bricks and humans. Ghettos, already scripted by history, now burst with the forces of demography. The Delhi Metro is continuing the drama that began more than a century ago as it rips through trees and green chunks of land, reeling under expressways and other traffic decongestants. An underground highway plan, a few years ago, had threatened a foray into Sundar Nursery in Sundar Nagar, potentially uprooting a thousand trees of more than a hundred species that may have been written and wailed about. Mercifully, the plan was shelved, but one is not sure for how long.
Congested and filthy, with an occasional tree dotting the roads, Shahjahanabad is the epitome of rampant and ugly commercialization. The beautiful havelis and their fountains have reincarnated themselves into camera shops, mechanic shops, banks, clothes stalls, and even an out-of-place McDonald’s outlet. Four centuries later, the eccentric Sadia Dehlvi went to Chandni Chowk to buy her cycle rickshaw as part of her activism to promote an environment friendly mode of local transport. Many go there to look for spare parts for their smoke-emitting vehicles. Splendour is just so transient.
Shahjahanabad’s architecture and cultural magnificence was not confined to this location. It extended beyond the immediate walled precincts of the city. Kuchas and katras multiplied over the years. Harbash Khan ka Phatak, Bangash ka Sarai, Haveli Haider Kuli, Qasim Jan ki Galli, Jarnail Bibi ki Haveli, Begum ka Bagh, Kucha Ghasi Ram, Namak Haram ki Haveli—these were some of the well-known structures mirroring the way of life that existed inside Shahjahanabad.
Mir Taqi Mir, the outstanding Shahjahanabad poet, distressed at the sacking of Delhi by the Afghan emperor, Ahmad Shah Abdali, wrote in 1748:
Dilli ke kuche na thay auraq-e-musavvir thay
Jo shakl nazr aaye tasveer nazr aayee!
The lanes of Delhi were leaves of an art album
Whichever face was seen, was a picture in itself
In the merciless heat of May 1857, three hundred mutinous sepoys—Punjabi and Pathan—entered Shahjahanabad and massacred every British resident they spotted and declared Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar as their sovereign. Zafar, caught between the rising power of the British and the discontent of the local population, found himself trapped in the leadership role. He must have known that the mutiny was doomed to fail but he had no choice other than to be a reluctant symbol of the old regime. A month later, Shahjahanabad was attacked by the British and thus began a siege of Hindustan’s Mecca that was to change its destiny forever.
During the following four months, the Mughal capital was besieged and destroyed by British artillery. The number who died was mind-boggling, and the suffering of the local population immense. Lack of water and food meant starvation for most of the city’s inhabitants. The sordid tale ended on 14 September 1857, when the British invaded and captured Shahjahanabad, looting, plundering and killing as the Nadir Shahi and Abdalian forces had done before them.
In the days that followed the capture of Zafar and the British takeover of Shahjahanabad, the city’s inner world splintered. Twenty-one princes were hanged in a single day. The Emperor was humiliated, treated like a common criminal, and exiled. The Lahori and Delhi Gates were renamed after Victoria and Alexandra. The Red Fort and Jama Masjid were used as barracks thereby trampling on centuries of culture; the palace rooms, so exquisite, were broken down or partitioned to create insipid, ugly-looking structures. Worst of all, the Fatehpuri Masjid was sold as private property to a trader, Lala Chunna Mal, and Zeenatul Masjid became a bakery of the Raj. Khas Bazaar and Khanum Bazaar were reduced to rubble, and a number of streets were erased from the face of Shahjahanabad.
Unfortunately, such brazen destruction of a culture and history has not been the subject of academic inquiry. There are accounts—secular and Muslim, nationalist and partial—but there are also political agendas between the spaces and full stops. Many years after the destruction of Shahjahanabad, when another monument, the Babri Masjid, was attacked and razed to the ground by Hindus in 1992, V.S. Naipaul, a Nobel Laureate and a wannabe white man, described the tragedy as ‘an expression of creative passion’! The white man’s burden remains alive to this day, resulting in, among other things, the periodical emergence of troubled ‘natives’ such as Naipaul.
There are many in Delhi today who advocate the preservation of havelis and the renewal of the old city and its character. But the world has moved on. The lovingly lived and planned Shahjahanabad has even lost its name. The makers of ‘New’ Delhi have named it ‘Old’ Delhi. Its ambience has been consumed and twisted by market forces. The lingering shadows of Partition have also bolstered the alien ‘otherness’ of this large ghetto, which is forgotten as India searches for its new confident sense of self and nationhood. If the historical dross has to be removed so that the present can shine, so be it. It is a small price after all; a few hundred monuments here and there, and a few centuries of culture.
If Princess Jahanara was to come back to life and visit Old Delhi, she would definitely refuse to own up to Chandni Chowk.
Much of Delhi’s past is defined by men. In fact, the annals of Sultanate and Mughal history, barring a few exceptions, are largely tales of powerful and quarrelsome men vying for power and patronage. The patriarchal societies of the day, influenced by Central Asian Islam, ensured the invisibility of women. Other than the ill-fated rulers Razia Sultan and Queen Noorjahan, who gave up purdah and participated in the brutal politics of men, a woman rarely rose to a position of authority or influence. Noorjahan was more successful, but her example was not the norm since she was Persian. She did not belong to the local Indo-Mughal aristocracy and her family had been favoured by Akbar. She was considered to be a wily player of power politics herself, much like South Asian female politicians of today who derive power from male relatives. As Emperor Jahangir battled opium and alcohol addiction throughout his reign, Noorjahan became the real power behind the throne and exercised rule with an iron fist.
After nearly a half century of women being faceless, Princess Jahanara (1614-81) broke the taboo and became a major power centre within the complex dynamics of the Mughal court. Shahjahanabad and its residents were familiar with Princess Jahanara who was a confidante of her father, Emperor Shah Jahan, as well as of the latter’s eccentric son Dara Shikoh. As the eldest daughter, she had a special role in the royal household as first lady—a position that fell within her control after the death of Mumtaz Mahal, the inspiration behind the Taj Mahal in Agra. Interestingly, it was the mystical path that provided a social and royal sanction for Jahanara’s high-profile public role. For Princess Fatima Jahanara was initiated into the Sufi ways along with her younger brother, Dara Shikoh. These young royals were inspired by the Qadri Sufi, Mian Mir, in Lahore. Mian Mir’s Sufi sister, Bibi Jamal Khatun, happened to be close to the Mughal siblings. Though Mian Mir was an adherent of the Qadriya order, Jahanara was also a devotee of the Chishti saints, especially Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya in Delhi and Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti in Ajmer. The princess travelled to Ajmer after recuperating from severe burns caused by her perfume
catching fire, and thanked the saint for saving her life.
This is perhaps why she authored the well-known biography of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti, the Munis-ul-Arwah. We learn of her pilgrimage to Ajmer in 1643 and the mystical ecstasy that overcame her one evening while she was circumambulating the tomb. Jahanara ordered the construction of a multi-pillared marble pavilion in front of the tomb. Appropriately, this porch is today called the Begumi Dalan, a name derived from her title, Begum Sahiba. After her death in 1681, she was laid to rest in the courtyard around the serene tomb of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya.
As a patron of mystical literature, Princess Jahanara commissioned translations of several works of classical literature, as well as erudite commentaries on these. Like Empress Noorjahan, Jahanara promoted the arts as well. She was a poet in her own right and her name was linked to various prominent men of letters of the time.
Thus we have a female voice, personal and direct, from the seventeenth century, in ‘Risala-i-Sahibiya’ (Madam’s Treatise). Here Jahanara documents her journeys into mysticism with the help of Mullah Shah Badakhshi. This is an elegant document that is interspersed with Jahanara’s verses and also highlights her political lineage originating from Timur. Sufism in Mughal Delhi during Shah Jahan’s reign created a relatively gender-less arena where Jahanara could nurture her spiritual inclination and identity herself as a Sufi disciple, and an artist and scholar in the literary and spiritual landscape of the seventeenth century. The patronage of Sufi rituals also enabled a diluted purdah regime and provided legitimacy to the public role of an unmarried princess as an active leader and contributor to the religious and cultural milieu of Delhi.