The Sultan first addressed Nizamuddin. ‘Dervish, the ulema have complained that you make no distinction between Mussalmans and infidels; that you pose as an intermediary between god and man; that you use words which obliterate the difference between man and his Maker; that your followers indulge in music and dancing in the precincts of the mosque and thus contravene the holy law of the shariat. What do you have to say in your defence?’
Nizamuddin smiled and replied: ‘O mighty Sultan, it is true that I do not make any distinction between Mussalmans and Hindus as I consider both to be the children of god. The ulema exhort Your Majesty in the name of the Holy Messenger (upon Whom be peace) to destroy temples and slay infidels to gain merit in the eyes of Allah. I interpret the sacred law differently. I believe that the best way to serve god is through love of his creatures. As for the charge of posing as an intermediary between man and his Maker, I plead guilty. God’s Messenger (on Whom be peace) said: “Whoever dies without an Imam dies the death of a pagan.” We Sufis follow this precept and believe that he who has no Shaikh is without religion. The ulema know not that god often manifests himself in His creatures. They also do not know that Allah cannot be understood through knowledge of books or through logic. His Messenger (peace upon Him) when asked whether even he did not know god replied, “No, not even I. God is an experience.’”
The Sultan nodded towards the ulema. Their leader went down on his knees and kissed the ground in front of the throne. ‘Jahan Panah (Refuge of the World),’ he addressed the Sultan, ‘you who are the wisest and the most just of all monarchs do not need such insects as we are to expound the holy law. Your Majesty must know that this man, Nizamuddin, talks of love only to throw dust in the eyes of innocent people.’ He unwrapped a copy of the Quran, touched it to his forehead and read out a passage. The crowd broke into a chorus of applause ‘Wah! Wah! Subhan Allah!’ Few of them understood Arabic. Even fewer understood what the words meant when translated into Turki.
The Sultan turned to the dervish and asked him about his claiming unity with god. Nizamuddin replied in very poetic language, ‘O Sultan! And O you ulema learned of the law! And all of you people assembled here! Do you know what it is to love and be loved? Perhaps all you have known and enjoyed is the love of women. We Sufis love god and noone else. When we are possessed by the divine spirit we utter words which to the common man may sound like the assumption of godhood. But these should not be taken seriously. You may have heard of the story of the dove that would not submit to her mate. In his passion the male bird said, “If you do not give in to me, I shall turn the throne of Solomon upside down.” The breeze carried his words to Solomon. He summoned the dove and asked it to explain itself. The dove replied, “O Prophet of Allah! The words of lovers should not be bandied about.” The answer pleased Solomon. We hope our answer will please the Sultan Balban.’
A murmur of Wah! Wah! went round.
The Sultan asked the ulema for authority on the subject of music. The ulema opened another book (they had brought many bundles of books with them). Their leader again read of something in Arabic and then translated it into Turki. He looked back at the crowd and a section applauded Wah! Wah!
The Sultan again turned to Nizamuddin. The dervish had not brought any books. From memory he quoted a tradition of the Prophet about music and dancing. ‘When Allah’s grace enters one’s person it manifests itself by making that person sing and dance with joy. If this be a manifestation of being possessed by Allah, I say Amen.’
The Sultan pondered over the matter for a while. He brushed his beard and examined the hair that came off in his hand. The silence was terrible. At last he cleared his throat and spoke in a clear, loud voice, ‘We dismiss the ulema’s charges against Nizamuddin, dervish of Ghiaspur.’
The crowd broke into loud applause praising the Sultan’s sense of justice. Many rushed to the dervish and kissed the hem of his coarse, woollen shirt.
The next morning I asked the Kotwal Sahib about Nizamuddin. ‘He’s gone up there,’ he replied pointing up to the sky. ‘He has shown many infidels the true path. Go to him any Thursday or on the eve of the new moon and you’ll see what miracles he can perform!’
The following Thursday I hired an ekka to go to Ghiaspur which was more than a kos from Mehrauli. When I got to the hospice and asked an attendant whether I could see the man who was at the palace some days earlier, he replied, ‘Khwaja Sahib is meditating in his cell. He only recives visitors in the evening. You can go and eat the langar (free kitchen).
I went to the langar. It was crowded with Muslims and Hindus, rich and poor, clamouring for a leaf-cup of lentils and a morsel of coarse bread. I had to fight my way through the crowd to grab a chappati. I came out and sat in the courtyard where a party of qawwals were singing in Hindi. I was told that the song had been written and composed by one Abdul Hassan, who was very close to the holy man.
Late in the afternoon word went round that the dervish had emerged from his cell. People buzzed round him like bees round a crystal of sugar. I pushed my way through the throng and when I got to him I kissed the hem of his shirt. Suddenly tears came gushing into my eyes. The dervish put his hand on my head. I felt a tingling sensation run down my spine and the fragrance of musk enveloping my frame. He tilted my tear-stained face upwards and said, ‘Just as Allah has let my tunic drink your tears, so may he make your sorrows mine!’ As he spoke those words I felt as light as a piece of thistledown floating in the air.
‘Abdullah, my son,’ he continued, ‘you live near the mausoleum of Hazrat Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki. Go there every morning and recite the ninety-nine names of Allah. Your wishes will be granted. Come whenever your heart is heavy. The doors of our hut of poverty are never bolted against anyone.’
It was on my way back to Mehrauli that I asked myself, ‘How does he know that I live near the mausoleum of Bakhtiyar Kaki? How does he know that my Muslim friends call me Abdullah? And if somebody has told him who I am and where I live, is it that he does not know that I am a Hindu and may not know the ninety-nine names of Allah?’
I could not contain myself. Since there was no one else I could unburden myself to I told my wife all that had passed. For the first time since we had been married, Ram Dulari showed some interest in me. When I ran out of words she asked very timidly, ‘Why don’t you take me along one day?’ In my enthusiasm I took her hand. It went limp in my grasp.
On the first day of the new month of the Muslim lunar calendar I took Ram Dulari to Ghiaspur. Our ekka was one in a long line on the dusty road. We passed bullock carts loaded with women and children, the men striding along barefoot with their shoes hung on their staves.
There was an immense crowd. A whole bazaar of bangle-sellers, sweet-meat vendors, cloth-dealers and medicine-sellers had gone up. I feared Ram Dulari would not get a chance to have darshan of the holy man. I did not take her to the langar as she would not touch anything cooked by Muslims. We wandered round the stalls, watched jugglers and acrobats, dancing bears and monkeys We sat down under a tree. I began to despair. In an hour the sun would set and the ekka-driver would insist that we return to Mehrauli before it became dark. I was lost in my thoughts when a dervish came to me and said: ‘Abdul! Isn’t your name Abdul or Abdullah? The Khwaja Sahib has been enquiring after you.’ He led us through a door at the back of the mosque into a courtyard where the holy man was receiving visitors. The dervish forced his way through the crowd with us following close on his heels.
I kissed the hem of the holy man’s shirt. Ram Dulari prostrated herself on the ground before him. Khwaja Sahib stretched his hand and blessed her. ‘Child, Allah will fulfil your heart’s desire. If He wills your womb will bear fruit. Go in peace.’ That was all. The crowd pushed us away.
Her womb bear fruit? This man of god who was said to read people’s minds like a book had not read Ram Dulari’s. From the way she turned away her face I could tell she was embarrassed. On the way back to Mehrauli she avoided touching me. We got off opposite the Aul
iya Masjid. We walked home as if we had nothing to do with each other. I in front looking at the shuttered doors of shops as if I had never seen them before; she behind me enveloped in her burqa.
As soon as we stepped into our courtyard she lit the hearth to warm up food she had cooked in the morning. I lit an oil lamp in the niche and wrote down the events of the day. She gave me my meal and went back to the kitchen to eat hers. After I had finished I gave her my empty brass plate and went to the bazaar to get a paan-leaf.
By the time I came back Ram Dulari had rinsed the utensils and was lying on her charpoy with her face towards the wall. I blew out the oil-lamp and stretched myself on my charpoy. I could not sleep. I kept thinking about the holy man’s promise that we would have children. How could Ram Dulari have them unless I gave them to her? I wondered if she was thinking the same thing. After an hour of turning from side to side I called softly to her, ‘Ram Dulari!’
‘Hun!’
‘Are you asleep?’
‘No.’
The gong of the kotwali struck the hour of midnight. Once again I asked Ram Dulari if she was asleep; she said ‘No’.
Something said she might not be averse to my touching her. I got up and went over to her charpoy. ‘Can I lie with you?’ I asked, ‘I feel cold.’ She made room for me and replied, ‘If you wish.’
I lay beside her. The passion that I had stored up over the months welled in my body. Just as a torrent carries away everything that comes in its way my lust swept aside my fears. I fell on her like a hungry lion. I tore away her sari and tried to enter her. She spread out her thighs to receive me. But no sooner did I reach between them than my seed was spent. I felt ashamed of myself.
Ram Dulari got up to clean herself. She poured water from the pitcher into her brass lota. She put aside her sari and began to splash water between her thighs. Under the light of the stars I saw her pale body, the outlines of her rounded breasts and her broad hips. She dried herself with the same sari and wrapped it around her body. She hesitated, not sure which charpoy to go to. I stretched out my hand to her. She took it and let me pull her beside me. My passion was roused again. She let me remove her damp sari and warm her naked flesh in my embrace. This time I was able to hold myself longer. And she more eager to receive me. A cry of pain escaped her lips. I knew that I had at long last made Ram Dulari mine.
I re-lit the oil-lamp and helped her wash the stains of blood on the bedsheet. By the time we had finished our bodies were again hungry for each other. So passed the whole night.
I was woken by the sun on my face and flies buzzing in my ears.
Ram Dulari had bathed and cooked the morning meal. She was wearing the red sari she had worn when she had come to Mehrauli as a bride. She did not cover her face against me and blushed as she saw me get up from her bed. She ran indoors. I followed her and bolted the door from the inside.
Thereafter I could not have enough of Ram Dulari. I could not take my eyes off her. Every movement she made fired me with desire to take her. Every moment I was away from her was a torment and I hurried back home to be in her embrace. And she became coquetish, ‘Ajee, I am not a whore you can have anytime you like—not unless you pay me for it.’ I bought her a nose-pin with a red ruby; I bought her glass bangles of all the colours I could find in the bazaar. For some months our world was narrowed to a small charpoy on which we sported night and day.
Ram Dulari and I became members of a community which worshipped both in Hindu temples and in Sufi hospices. We celebrated Hindu festivals as well as the Muslim. At Dassehra we went to see Ram Lila, on Diwali we lit oil-lamps on the parapet of our house, at Holi we squirted coloured water on our Hindu friends. On Id we exchanged gifts with Muslims we knew; on the death anniversaries of Muslim saints we went to the mausoleum of Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki. And at least once a month we went to Ghiaspur and watched the sky at dusk to see if the new moon had risen.
Ram Dulari continued to dress as other Hindu women did. She wore crimson in the parting of her hair, a red dot on her forehead, and a mangalsutra (a necklace of black and gold beads). I continued to dress like a Turk with a skull cap and turban. Like the Turks I sported a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. And I spoke the way they did. If they said, ‘As Salaam-Valai-kum’ (peace be with you) I replied, ‘valai-kum-As-Salaam’ (and with you too be peace). If they asked me how I was, I replied ‘Al-hamdu-illah’ (well, by the grace of god). But if they asked me ‘Abdullah when will you become a true Muslim?’ I would reply, ‘Soon, if that be the will of god—Inshallah.’ If anyone asked me whether we were Hindus or Mussalmans, we would reply we were both. Nizamuddin was our umbrella against the burning sun of Muslim bigotry and the downpour of Hindu contempt.
So passed the days, weeks and months. By the end of the year Ram Dulari was pregnant and had to go to her parents in Mathura for her confinement. When news of the birth of a son was brought to me I sent plates full of sweets to the Kotwal Sahib and to all our Muslim and Hindu friends. After a few weeks I went to Mathura to bring back my wife and son. Ram Dulari’s sisters made a lot of fuss over me. They teased me, ‘Are you going to have the boy circumcized? Are you going to name him Mohammed or Ali or something like that?’ I let them say what they liked. I had great fun with them.
I did not have my son circumcized. I had his head shaved and got a Brahmin to recite mantras. I chose the name Kamal for him—it could be either Hindu or Muslim. In Hindi it meant the lotus flower. In Arabic, pronounced with a longer accent on the second ‘a’, it meant excellence. We took the child to Jogmaya temple and had the priest daub sandalpaste on his forehead. Then we took him to Ghiaspur and had the Khwaja Sahib bless him. I recorded my gratitude to my peer by having his name inscribed on stone as my benefactor and embedding the stone in the outer wall of our home.
Lodhi Gardens (From The Sunset Club)
My story begins on the afternoon of Monday, the 26th of January 2009, the 59th anniversary of the founding of the independent Indian Republic. Although India gained independence from the British on the 15th of August 1947, its leaders wisely decided that mid-August was too hot and humid for outdoor celebrations and late January was a better time of the year to do so. So they picked the 26th of January, the day they gave the country its new Constitution. They declared it a national holiday and named it Republic Day—Ganatantra Divas.
By the end of January, winter loosens its grip; by sunrise, foggy dawns turn into sunny mornings; the time for flowers and the calling of barbets is round the corner.
Republic Day is the biggest event in India’s calendar. It is the only one celebrated throughout the country by all of India’s communities—Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Sikhs, Jains and Parsis. In every state capital they have flag hoistings, and parades of troops, police and schoolchildren.
However, there is nothing to match the grand spectacle in the capital city, with its display of India’s military might and cultural diversity. Tanks, armoured cars, rocket launchers roll by; cannons boom; massed squads of soldiers, sailors, airmen march past, dipping their swords in salute; cavalrymen mounted on camels and horses are followed by floats of different states highlighting their achievements, with folk dancers dancing round them. People start assembling from the early hours of dawn, to line up along both sides of Rajpath. This broad avenue runs from Rashtrapati Bhavan—the President’s Palace—atop Raisina Hill, down the slope between the two huge Secretariat buildings, North and South Blocks, to the massive War Memorial Arch known as India Gate, which bears the names of Indian soldiers who fell in the First World War, the Third Afghan War in 1919, and the 1971 confrontation with neighbouring Pakistan. In the centre of India Gate burns a celestial flame all day and night, in honour of men who laid down their lives for their Motherland.
You may well ask why India, which prides itself as the land of Gandhi, the apostle of peace and non-violence, celebrates the national day with such a display of lethal arms and fighting prowess. The truth is, we Indians are full of contradictions:
we preach peace to the world and prepare for war. We preach purity of mind, chastity and the virtues of celibacy; we are also obsessed with sex. That makes us interesting. However, we do make up for the vulgar display of arms by having a Beating Retreat ceremony on Vijay Chowk (Victory Square) facing the Secretariat buildings. Here massed bands of the army, navy and air force bear no arms but trumpets, flutes, clarinets, drums and bagpipes, and march up and down the Square. The function ends with bells ringing out Gandhi’s favourite hymn, ‘Abide with Me’. A day later, on the 30th of January, the day we murdered Gandhi, our leaders assemble at Raj ghat where we cremated him, and strew flowers on a slab of black marble where we reduced him to ashes. That’s the kind of people we are. And that is why we are interesting.
Let me get back to my story. Around noon, the parade on Rajpath is over and crowds begin to disperse. Some go to the nearby Purana Qila, the Old Fort, to picnic on the lawns and doze in the sun. There are other ancient monuments which provide similar space and quiet. The most popular of them is Lodhi Gardens. It is within easy walking distance from Rajpath, and has a vast variety of trees, birds and medieval monuments. It is perhaps the most scenic historic park in India. At one time it was a scatter of tombs and mosques in a village called Khairpur. In the 1930s the villagers were moved out and the monuments taken under government protection.
Then the Vicereine, Lady Willingdon, who was somewhat batty and wanted her name to go down in posterity, had the scattered monuments enclosed within walls and an entrance gate erected on the north side, bearing the inscription ‘Lady Willingdon Park’ She also had a cinder track laid out for the Sahibs and their Mems to ride on. All that is history. No one now calls it Lady Willingdon Park, the cinder track has become a cobbled stone footpath, and the park is known as Lodhi Gardens because most of its monuments were built during the rule of the Lodhi dynasty. Today it has three more entrances. A second one is also in the north, with a small car park. People have to walk across an old stone bridge called aathpula (eight-spanned), over a moat which once guarded the walled enclosure of the tomb of Sikandar Lodhi, built in 1518, through an avenue of maulsari trees to the centre of the park. There is another entrance on the eastern side, along the India International Centre, and one more in the south, close to a palm-lined avenue leading to the oldest tomb in the complex, that of Muhammad Shah Sayyid, built in 1450.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 44
