Another evening, another exit from a mosque. And another pat on the shoulder. Rather an arm around the shoulder. I was too busy looking at the image preview on my camera, so I didn’t pay much attention thinking it was one of the friends who was following me down the stairs out of the mosque. The voice which followed was something that almost made me drop my camera.
Joo phrom Nyu Jeeeeelayndh? Phrom Oushtraylian?
(Roughly translated into questioning whether my ethnicity was Oz or Kiwi. Yes, Indians only know nations which play cricket. Bloody racists, we are too.)
One look at the beholder of that voice, and turns out to be a simple skullcap welded guy trying to be friendly. I just smile back and say
Abey yaheen ka hoon
(No, I’ve landed here from Mars)
Both of us just burst out laughing. That’s what happens when a long haired bearded guy in baggy pants and a black metchul T-Shirt is moving around Old Delhi with a huge camera. Toorishts, we become. And I don’t blame him.
This was the day, the place that each preceding day of Ramadan had been building up towards. Sunday and Old Delhi, Purani Dilli. Or better yet, Shahjahanabad. Need to accord propah respect and all; after all that place is worthy of deification for all the marvels of history and gluttony it contains within its boundary walls.
Past Ramadans have always been filled with those trips post midnight or around Suhoor to Purani Dilli. But never did I have the opportunity to have Iftar in the area. The last time I tried, I made the cardinal mistake of trying to drive all the way up in order to find a place close enough to park and walk down. I ended up having Iftar with dates and bananas bought from a thela in my now-moving-now-stationary car. I just about made it in time for Taraweeh (the late night post Ish’a prayers).
That was in the pre-Metro era. Now you just breeze through the traffic (well not exactly breeze through, even on Sunday evenings, there is the possibility of you being squeezed in human traffic, getting squished is a privilege reserved for weekdays) as you move around in the underground Metro, which takes you as much as around 6 levels under the ground (I said levels, not feet), and you get out right in the middle of all the hullabaloo. Rickshaws, hand drawn carts, paan wallahs, day laborers lying sprawled out on the street after a day’s work, chai, metal, paper – you can see it all as soon as you take the last flight of stairs of the metro station. @Polgrim said we should walk up to Randi Masjid (no, not named after the sister of the Zuckerberg), which was supposedly named after a respectably named Mubarak Begum who was a concubine of some Britisher (you can trust @Polgrim to give out such quaint bits of trivia and information when it comes to history). A quick trip there, hop on to a rickshaw and finally towards THE destination.
Jama Masjid.
As it stands out from behind that maze of electricity poles, cables and dilapidated pieces of crumbling construction, a symbol of pure majesty. I had expected it to be bustling with activity, but as soon as I stepped inside, it was a literal human sea which would have needed nothing less than Moses to make a way through them. A huge picnic site with families sitting around their Iftar hampers on spread out bedsheets. I could’ve just kept sitting there, or walking around, just observing people. And kids. Kids, and again their disposition for running around open spaces. Some of them observing their fast and sitting around like pious ones waiting for the Azaan. Some of them decked up with garlands of genda (marigold), instantly giving out the fact that they were observing their first fast, and that it was a festive time for the family.
BOOM.
BOOM.
I almost misfired my camera’s trigger with those sounds of cannon fire. For a split second, the sound did make it feel like it wasn’t exactly the best decision to have made it to Old Delhi on a busy Sunday in Ramadan. A friend’s shaking hands till a good five minutes later stated the obvious. The times we live in. But it was time for Iftar, as the sound of Azaan wafted out from the loudspeakers. Like I said earlier, keep Iftar light. So you can indulge better later. Applicable more so when you are in Old Delhi. Kareem’s it was. Not exactly what we had in mind, because the labyrinthine lanes hold delights of gluttony which only those who care to veer into them know. Nonetheless, after a day spent fasting and thinking of food as sunset approached closer, even Burra, Badam Pasanda, Mutton Stew, Chicken Curry followed by Firni scraped clean out of earthen cups feels like manna. And I’m not mentioning the Nihari – I usually tend to give it a pass when I’m at Kareem’s – there is much better stuff outside the ahaata. Stuffed though we were, we still tried to walk down the crowded lane which leads towards Chitli Qabar. Didn’t end up reaching there, that was decided to be kept for one of the following Sundays. @Cheemra couldn’t help resist picking up some Shahi Tukda floating in desi ghee which, shamefully, I didn’t have the courage to partake of, after my shameless hogging a few minutes back.
The Shahjanabad adventures don’t end here. To be continued. Each Sunday. InshaAllah.
Big shout out to @Polgrim, @PranayD and @Cheemra (and his missus) for making it such a fun trip.
For the full set of images, click here. (Thanks for that!)