Nizamuddin: A much awaited trip

You just can’t have enough of this city. There’s no end to the treasures it holds within its streets and by lanes. As I parked my motorcycle at the beginning of a crowded lane in the enigmatic Nizamuddin area of south Delhi, I was wondering whether this was something like the rabbit’s hole that led Alice from a familiar world to a wonderland. The feeling grew stronger as we waded through a sea of white-capped people, who were emerging out of the grand madarsa nearby or from the several small restaurants lining the lane on both sides. Some were returning from the dargah that this lane led to - my destination. An old monument caught my eye just as the row of eateries ended. The old building of red sandstone stood alone and in the dark, forgotten just like a tree by the roadside merges with the surrounding milieu. I kept staring at it for a few seconds and moved on, quickly allowing the next sight to grab my attention. We stopped at the tomb of Mirza Ghalib, wondering how he came to be entombed so far away from his residence at Ballimaran in Chandni Chowk. A lady was begging me for alms, to whom I said, “Aage jaao”. She replied, without a moment of hesitation, “Aage se hi toh aa rahi hu”. I carried on the conversation, saying, “Toh aur aage jao”. But she had the last word, as she went away telling me in the manner of a reprimand, “Aage jaao, aage jaao…Allah ke ghar me aaye hain, gharib ko kuch de nahi sakte.”

One is often tempted to give alms to beggars, but one doesn’t know what, actually, is the right thing to do in such situations: give alms at that instance and encourage begging, which has become an organised racket in most big cities, or shoo away the beggar with an “aage jaao” and risk committing the sin of not helping somebody who might be in real need of one’s help. As the poor woman went away, her chiding made me wonder that maybe she was actually in need.

But I digress. We went on and encountered two rows of innumerable shops, again on either side of the lane, selling several versions of the Holy Quran, trinkets, chaadars, flowers, incense sticks and a few other articles to be offered at the mazaar. They were ferociously vying for our attention, calling us on the pretext of depositing our footwear with them. My friend, not a first-time-visitor like me, selected the shop she was familiar with. We deposited our footwear with the shopkeeper, washed our hands, purchased the necessary items to be offered at the mazaar, covered our heads, and surged ahead. As the end of the rabbit hole neared, we could hear faint strains of a qawwali and the accompanying clapping. After paying obeisance at the tomb of Amir Khusrau, said to be the greatest follower of Nizamuddin Auliya - the great sufi saint whose tomb is the most famous one in the area and also after whom the locality is named – I saw the qawwals sitting in an open area facing the tomb of the saint.

They sat amidst listeners, comprising locals as well as foreign tourists. What they sang was barely comprehensible but people sat mesmerised. So did I.

Swinging my head to the tunes, I promised myself that I would come here some other Thursday and sit throughout the performance.

A brief visit to the baoli situated within the campus and we were heading out of the place, with me wondering that sometimes, how easily old wishes come true just like that. In order to go back home with a ‘complete’ experience, we also stopped by at one of the eateries and had some mutton biryani and chicken leg. My friend suggested we have some phirni too, but I was already full. And not just with the food.