Tombs, love nests, and bucket showers

With two heritage walks, this week's share of wonder has been generous. For our first Delhi exploration, Swapna took us through a “backdoor” walk of the Sufi Dargah (“venerated tomb”) at Nizamuudin (mentioned in an earlier post as one of the more fierce spaces in Delhi, both for its red carpet of the most destitute and its overpowering energy, colors, and smells). Instead of taking us to the popular Nizamuddin Dargah complex where the tombs of Nizamuddin Auliya (A famous Sufi saint), Amir Khusro (An Indian musician, scholar, and poet, regarded as the “father of Qawwali”), and Jehan Ara Begum (Daughter of the Mughal emperor, Shah Jehan) lay, we sauntered through back allies, exploring the more residential areas of this Sufi neighborhood, as well as one of the most beautiful tombs I have ever seen.

While most of Delhi’s tombs stand as the city’s oldest relics, this more contemporary Dargah of Hazrat Inayat, dating about a century back, affected me the most. Unlike all the other Dargahs I’ve seen in Delhi and Agra, this one did not appear to be a commercial enterprise. There were no tourists, no merchants, no beggars. In fact, we were the only visitors there. And unlike other tombs (especially Akhbar's gloomy cell), this tomb was ablaze with sunlight from all sides, and a large hole in the white ceiling through which a tree has been making its way up towards the sky, along with the airy walls, welcomes fragrances from surrounding flower bushes into the space. Gardens surrounded the walls, while poetry carpeted them with beautiful Sufi words of "religious intoxication." Hazrat seems to have achieved the kind of immortality that the ancient pharaohs, emperors, and kings could only dream of; I could not imagine a more peaceful and everlasting resting place. The contrast of this space with the billowing crowds of beggars and sickly mortals on the other end of the neighborhood was reflective of Delhi's polar dials; it masquerades, the onion layers that stood in random order, which reveal the presence of heavens and hells on earth.

In addition to the serene and meditative atmosphere of the Dargah (as, I suppose, Dargahs were intended to be), Hazrat Inayat had left behind a social organization that still lives today, engaged in activities that focus on the development and welfare of the people in the neighborhood; running a school, health care, and even a bakery for women from conservative families to earn some income. As we walked through the streets behind the Dargah, piles of kid shoes waited by the entrance of buildings, and I could hear the hubbub of enthusiastic children reciting Quranic verses inside. Like the tree living within the walls of Hazrat’s memorial, walking through these lanes and witnessing the outcome of a social welfare system that had developed out of this religious hub reminded me that religion is not always the source of conflict and destruction. This scene drew a more graceful illustration of the ways in which a religious community may provide the framework necessary for social development. It embodied the true spirit of a "sacred space."

Another site we visited this week was Haus Kauz (translates to “Royal Reservoir”), an ancient complex housing an Islamic seminary, or Madrasa, a mosque, and Feroh Shah’z tomb- all tracing back to the 14th century of Delhi’s Sultanate reign. To our surprise, these beautiful remnants, particularly the Madrasa, with ancient stones nesting green peroquets and Kingfisher birds, turned out to be a hot spot for Delhi’s lovers. I climbed into the ruins (literally, climbed: holding, grappling, awkward butt position, falling, trying once again, and finally succeeding), only to realize that the abandoned “student cells,” the old chambers of the seminary’s students, were now housing couples and young teenagers making-out and smoking hash. A worn condom I noticed by the Munda Gumbad (“Headless Dome”), a stone structure that overlooks the entire complex (including the mosquito-infested water reservoir), made it clear that there was more than kissing and smoking hash that lived up these ancient grounds. As we strolled around the ruins, we were approached by a strange middle-aged man with stone rings covering eight of his ten fingers, who had paused his jog, and began to talk to us: "I will tell you a secret," he said. "You live only in the present. Don't think too much about the history." These Indian youngins seemed to agree with him.

A paradox of old seminaries turned into sex grounds, Sufi quarters functioning as a system social welfare, and the overarching wonder that has accompanied it since prehistoric times, in my book, religion fills the blank for unknown answers. In his book “The Art of Pilgrimage," Phil Cousineau writes, “We speak of gods and geniuses and heroes and sacred sites, but these are only names for the ineffable mystery of the force behind something our souls long to be in touch with.” Which brings me to my Independent Study Project. The time has finally come and I have chosen the subject that I will be studying: Pilgrimage, the traveler's ultimate search for this "force."

Intrigued by Cousineau’s book, and wanting to skedaddle on an adventure, I, along with two or three other friends, will be journeying on the Chota Char Dham, an important pilgrimage circuit in the Indian Himalayas, each with a project topic to tackle. Storm-Ji, the academic director whom I have come to love and hate all at once, has agreed for me to submit an academically based travelogue of this journey, along with a short video project. If our projects are officially approved, we will be starting from Varanasi, the city of death that I had mentioned in my previous post (also regarded by Hindus as the center of the earth), taking overnight trains around that area to explore neighboring religious centers, then renting a car and journeying up the Himalayas towards the four sacred spaces of Badrinath, Kedarnath, Gangotri, and Yamnotri, and finally retiring to put our work together in Mussoorie, a hill town situated in the foothills of the Himalaya ranges. Prof. Rana Singh, a Pilgrimage Studies connoisseur based in Varanasi who has published over 190 research papers and 63 books (is that even possible??) has agreed to be my advisor. If all goes according to plan, we will set off on our pilgrimage around April 1st.

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A bit on a tangent here, but today, I realized that bucket showers are my favorite tastes of "honey in the hive." Now that temperatures have gone up and showering has become feasible after dark, I’ve overcome my need to “sunset shower,” and realized that walking out into the darkness of a rooftop terrace is one of the greatest feelings in the world. Although the defective roof-terrace bulb decides on which days it wants to glimmer and on which to just sleep in, walking out into a darkened balcony overlooking Delhi in nothing but a towel has proven to be such a liberating experience. After actively cleaning my body, a work-out which consists of bucket filling and bucket pouring, scrubbing skin and washing hair, I pour what's left of the green bucket overhead, wrap a towel around myself, and walk out onto the pitch-black terrace, under the sky, under the stars, under a phosphorescent crescent in the sky (non-metaphorically looking like it's smiling down); a scene fit for a dream. In line with the findings of popular astrologists, the wedding season has been ignited, and fireworks blast from every corner of the sky. The beeps of Delhi’s immortal traffic still buzzes in the distance, but not in the oppressive way they used to. Now, they've become a hum, a distant echo, a reminder of city's sleepless breath. Bon Iver was a perfect accompaniment to this night (“Roslyn,” maybe?). Or, better yet, Our house is a very very nice house. After going through our host-parents' wedding albums (which, alongside the beautiful garments and jewels, basically consisted of hundreds of photos of guests stuffing food down the newly-weds' mouths, no joke, no exaggeration), Rachel and I discovered that we'll be going to a wedding on the 27th.

A tsunami swallows Japan’s coast, an earthquake kills 25 in China, and music plays in the deserts of India. The earth shrugs its shoulders, and a folk music workshop in Jaisalmer sounds like a great reminder that life goes on. Leaving Sunday, gone for a week.