Nizam-ud-din's shrine and qawwali

Travel Journal written October 26, 2006:

After a couple days in Delhi spent arguing with hotel managers and developing my taste for haggling with rickshaw drivers, on September 22, I found myself avoiding the sights and fed up with the dirty chaotic city. I had met up with my group with whom I was studying abroad, and the 18 students from the University of Washington, and our program director, Keith, were staying in a hotel in New Friends Colony in south Delhi with one more night free before we were to head up to Uttaranchal and our remote mountainous site where we would begin classes and projects.

Keith had mentioned qawwali- a devotional singing that happened every week in a muslim neighborhood of central Delhi, and two guys, Nate and Pat, and I decided to try and find it. Stuffing ourselves into an autorickshaw, Nate, who had taken a year of Hindi previously, tried to find the words to explain to the driver te neighborhood we wanted to go to. We got dropped off at the outskirts of the right area and began searching the streets, asking people for the restaurant that Keith told us was across the street from where we wanted to be. We probably looked lost, but it was my firset exposure to an all-muslim community and I was naively intrigued. I reflecte dall of the stares the passing people sent my way with a silly grin of an adventurous youth searching for life.

Eventually, and without too much difficulty, we found the restaurant we were lookig for, or at least the back of it, in a narrow, long, winding alley. Next to it we could see through a narrow gate what we thought might be our goal- the shrine of the muslim Sufi saint Nizam-ud-din Chisti who died in 1325. We found a way around to what we had seen, but realized when we got there taht the monument was devoted to someone else. We were still in the wrong place.

At this moment of realization, we apparently looked lost again, and a short man with a big smile introduced himself and asked where we came from and what we were doing here. He spoke a few words of English, but mostly Nate attempted to communicate with our new friend, who I will call Hassan, in his limited, but grammatically correct, Hindi.

After he realized where we wanted to go, Hassan led us through the neighborhood and down streets that seemed to get more and more narrow, dark and teeming with life. As we squeezed through the tight streets of a bustling bazaar selling CDs in arabic and flower petals, we were stopped by Hassan at a seemingly random spot and told to take off our shoes before proceeding. This made us a little worried and we all looked at each other carefully questioning the situation. Nate and I were the first to concede and remove our shoes but Pat was more apprehensive because his expensive shoes were more likely to be stolen than my 10 year old sandals held together by layers of duct tape. Eventually he was conviced and soon we were again following Hassan passed stalls selling the same scarlet-purple flower petals in small baskets. At one stall, Nate as conviced by Hassan to take one, knowing he had to pay for it later and still unaware of its purpose. Around a couple more corners, we stepped onto th marble tiles of an ornate court with a mosque to our left and two shrines set in the middle of the court in front of us.

Hassan moved us towards the shrines which were in small buildings with low doors and were surrounded by white gates. Men standing inside the gate saw us and waved us inside and motioned for us to continue through the small door. Inside was what looked like a coffin, only very wide, covered by a cloth with hundreds of the purple flower petals strewn on top and around. As instructed by another man in the shrine, Nate tossed his petals onto the coffin and we moved around the tiny room clockwise- as with all Buddhist and Hindu holy areas. There was barely enough room between the walls and the coffin in the center for two people to stand so we walked single file with the line of men in there with us.

All the other men in the shrine stopped at one point or more to face the coffin, close their eyes, raise their spread hands to within six inches from their chests, palms facing them, and pray. At one point our precession around the room was stopped because we stood awkwardly waiting for the men to finish their prayers and continue. While we all felt uncomfortable not knowing what to do, continue waiting or squeeze past them, Nate took the lead. He faced inward, raised his hands and closed his eyes in an imitation prayer. Seeing him, Pat and I quickly followed suit, assumed the position and faked it. After thirty seconds or so I looked up and noticed many eyes set on my face, questioning who I was and why I was praying like them. When the line was moving we all non chalantly finished our prayers and kept moving.

Exiting the first shrine, we were asked for a donation and were given a bag of small white candies in return. After following the same routine of fake prayer in order to fit in at the second shrine, Hassan brought us inside the mosque a few steps away. We sat on the floor and spoke with him and Nate produced paper and a pen to write on for easier communication in Hindi and English. This is when I learned to write my name, count to five, say "My name is Evan" and "What is your name" in Hindi. This last phrase I practiced on the growing group of boys and young men surrounding us. We opened up the circle and attempted to talk to them either in their broken English, with body language or through Nate's Hindi.

I produced my postcards and showed them around. I motioned for Hassan to choose and keep one, and he chose and kept one of each picture, five or six total, to which I was annoyed but too shy to protest against. We all interacted some more but soon the call to prayer was played loudly over speakers from the mosque and we were quickly ushered out while hordes of men filed in from the bathing sinks outside.

Some young men motioned for us to sit on the ground just outside the mosque and we did so. After a few minutes a man came by with a basket of the white candies mixed with the flower petals and handed them out to the waiting hands of those around us. We too extended our hands into the air and were rewarded. Watching those around us toss the entire handful into their mouths, we again emmulated our hosts and popped candies and petals together into our mouths. The flowers definitely added a distinct flavor to the snack and I found it was very sweet and and a satisfactory treat.

After a few more minutes prayers were over and Hassan again emerged from the mosque and gathered us on the ground in te marble courtyard. Nate sat spreading his legs out in front of him and was quickly admonished by Hassan for doing so. I had heard before that it was extremely rude and disrespectful to show the bottoms of one's feet to anyway and an elderly woman say in line with Nate's feet about 5 yards away. He was very embarrased but it quickly faded with what happened next.

We had been asking Hassan repeatedly if there was to be singing that night, and where and when but I was never fully aware of a direct answer to any of those questions. However, minutes later we heard music from the other side of t shrines and we moved our seats across the courtyard.

The music sprang from two sitting men dressed in conservative muslim garb, one playing a drum and the other a small boxed piano called a harmonium. The harmonium player also sang and his voice wailed loudly over the music in obvious anguish over the sadness of the death of the saints, while the drummer and another clapping man kept beat and sang more in the background.

We three Americans sat in a line, crosslegged on the marble floor surrounded by local muslim Indians and realized we had again come across something special. The rhythms and powerful emotions of the qawwali tickled our ears and mixed in our mides with the surreal setting.

After about ten minutes, Hassan asked if we wanted to leave but I was adament that I wanted to stay longer because I was thoroughly enjoying the pleasures to my senses. Finally, upon Hassan's second request we all stood up, dropped some rupees in the harmonium box and made our way back outside the courtyard, through the narrow streets, passed the stalls to where our shoes and sandals awaited our return.

All of us were hungry and Hassan led us to a local restaurant filled with people who looked like they hadn't seen a white person there for years. It was busy, dirty, and loud- exactly what I look for in a restaurant. Pat and Nate began to say something about going to the popular restaurant that we were looking for earlier, but I assured them that this is where we wanted to eat.

The waiter came by and Hassan asked us if would eat chicken for by saying, "Chicken?! Chicken?!" repeatedly until we agreed loudly. However, hhen the food came, we found chapati and mutton curry. We ate and talked with Hassan some more and he asked how much an airplane ticket to the U.S. costs. We told him about 50,000 Rs and he tried to ask Nate if he could get him a visa and a ticket if he gave Nate the money. It toko awhile but eventually we were able to convey our uselessness in this regard and Hassan gave up the issue.

After some rice pudding with silver flakes for dessert, we left the restaurant and I took a quick picture of Hassan, Nate and Pat- along with some local kids who wanted in- before we said our goodbyes, expressed our gratitude and again piled into an autorickshaw.

Back at the hotel, we told the story of our night to our new American friends who had spent the day sightseeing in a cab. After looking at pictures and video of the singing and hearing the details, they expressed their honest jealousy of our adventure. This is another example and more testimony to the kindness of strangers and the adventures that can be had if you keep your eyes open, and are willing to take te risk of confronting new and uncomfortable situations.