There used to be a time, when for certain reasons, I used to take the route between Hauz Khas and South Extension quite often. Since that was a time when the South Delhi leg of the Metro was being constructed, the entire stretch from AIIMS to IIT used to be completely choc-a-block with the sounds of horns – from the blaring of a load bearing Tata to that of the peeping of a mauve Estilo, from the flaring of a white Scorpio to the beeping of a yellow black cab. And of course, the humans inside and outside them.
In a bid to beat the traffic, I used to take the route from NIFT leading through one bit of a narrow lane and coming out on the other side at South Extension. A stone boundary wall with minarets jutting out of it was that one structure which always caught my attention, but then South Delhi has a lot of such sights. You can’t really keep on tracking each one of them.
Moth ki Masjid. That’s what it is called, and after which the Masjid Moth neighborhood in South Delhi is named. Legend has many variations on the myths which prevail around the reason why the mosque was named such. Each one of them having that one common theme of having to do with Sikander Lodi, one of his ministers, and a grain of moth (daal, lentil). By the time I reached, the gates had already closed, and there were a couple of men engaged in end-of-the-day conversations comfortably seated on the stairs leading up to the mosque in their baniyans and lungis. The gate was locked, and I thought I might have to retreat. One of the lungi men asked me randomly – Andar jaayenge? (would you want to go inside?), to which I said of course.
The door had a sort of a chain latch, the kind which is called kundi and it had a big lock on it. What followed again brought home the fact that you just can’t stop jaw drops while witnessing the jugaads in this nation. The man just lifted the kundi, lock included and pushed the door open. The door wasn’t locked; the lock was there only to give out the impression that it was.
The mosque, of course, was deserted. A wide open courtyard, with a few graves, and the main prayer hall at one end. The place did have a certain feeling of openness – strange, since it was surrounded by narrow congested 5 storied buildings. Since it was getting close to the time for Iftar, I stepped out and looked around for a mosque which might have been inhabited.
There is a small market right across, with a row of shops selling everything from poultry to electrical wiring to scrap metal to vegetables. The safest bet to ask for directions to a mosque was the butcher, whose identity was betrayed with those huge posters printed with verses of the Quran plastered behind him.
Arey baithiye bhai, hamare saath hi roza kholiye. O beta, jaldi se bhai ke liye paani le kar aao.
The neighborhood didn’t have any active mosques as such, so it was me and two butcher brothers who broke the fast. The skinned chickens were quite conspicuous by the absence of a layer of deep fried batter around them at that time.
The long hair, beard and camera still attracts a lot of attention. This time, the scrap metal dealer who came running when I was taking a picture of his balance set against the steely fluorescent glow of his shop.
Accha, aartisht ho aap. Sab sahi hai bhai sahab, yeh lo mangal hai, bajrang bali ka prasaad khao, aur mast raho.
I didn’t find any shops selling moth or daal or lentils in that market.