Winter Notebook - The World Is Not A Wish Granting Factory

Merry Christmas people! Wish you a great one.

Wishful thinking. That is what I am indulging in for now. I have realised, negative emotions make me write more than positive ones do. Is it the same with you? The world, including me, needs to take a serious course in 'Count Your Blessings'. However, the pathetic state of humanity we are all living together in, we cannot all help but ponder constantly over that one grand moment which will come in our life and set it all right. Reality check - it does not happen that way. No. Your life, as well as my life, will remain a constant tussle between the highs and the lows, the goods and the bads, the brights and the darks. I also think I am descending into the thought patterns which tells me only sorrow is real - happiness is but a break from it. Something like how only darkness is real and all.

Among the many stupid things I keep thinking about, one is recurrent. I am talking about wishful, idiotically optimistic thinking. Every time someone cancels a plan, or expresses his/her inability to meet me, at some deep corner in my heart, I am convinced (foolishly, of course), that the cancellation is a mere decoy to give me a surprise! I hope to be that special for everyone. This happens every single time. If my friend says I am not coming to office/college tomorrow, I always travel in the morning in the hope of seeing the same friend waiting to surprise me with a hug. If a friend cancels a lunch date, I am hopeful that the same friend will barge into my house and carry my favourite food and we'll have the time of our life. I hate being surprised, but I still keep planting these scenarios in my head. This is what keeps me going.

I guess the easiest way to be with people in inside my head. Very few of us realise that sometimes, a casual promise, casually uttered, is something our dear ones are hanging onto, with dear life. Cancelling plans, treating promises with scant respect is a way of life, you see. When I look pleadingly into the eyes of a friend and say, 'But you promised...', the same friend looks back at me incredulously, as if the logic I am basing my argument on is long dusted away under the covers of Grimm's Fairy Tales. But what to do, the world is something you still believe in. People are something you still believe in. Your wishes are tied down to moments of togetherness, of love shared and concern showed.

So, is there a way out? Sure there is. I mean, as far as I have been able to crack, the only antidote to 'The World is not a Wish Granting Factory' statement is becoming material in your wishes. Yes. Then all you need to do is earn enough money. Lots of money. Or pass on this list to a friend. Trust me, friends find it convenient to parcel you a (material) gift of your choice. It is best if it can be found over Flipkart (and the likes). Ease of ordering and delivery - now that, is precious.

Anyway, the five things that would make me super happy this Christmas are the following. Feel free to gift in dozens :)

1. Mittens!
I love the ones with fingers open, but, then, do they serve their purpose well?

2. Ring - this one!

Source - BoredPanda

3. All things Silver
You can start at this for reference.

Source - Etsy

4. Books
Romance, that is what is lacking in my thinking.

Source - Ubbcluj

5. Hugs and Gossip and Coffee
The most expensive item on my list, but I hope I get a lot of it :)

You know why I particularly love winters? Because this is the season of funny hats and funnier feelings. More on that, on the next page of my notebook. Share your wishlist with me, and I will try my best to be your Secret Santa :)

The Assassin's Song by M. G. Vassanji

Where should the bird fly after the last sky – Mahmoud Darwish

M. G. Vassanji is a known name in the genre of postcolonial writings who has dealt with demanding affiliations that manifest themselves at emotional, cultural, ethnic, linguistic, or political levels. In The Assassin’s Song, he places his protagonist in the context of harrowing identity investigation and a constant flux of experiences and values. As a Canadian writer with roots in what the West chooses to call the Third World, one notices in Vassanji’s works a striking preoccupation with shifting boundaries, his protagonist caught in the in-between world, and confused at the very premise of what to assert his belongingness to. In this quest, his narratives plunge into an investigation of the past, because it is from those nether lands of time that one snatches elements to complete the mosaic of his identity.

One way to look at The Assassin’s Song is as a bildungsroman narrative. It is essentially the story of Karsan Dargawalla, so is the son to the guardian of a Sufi shrine in Gujarat, called Pirbag, and is also its heir apparent. He is poised to take over his father’s role as ‘Saheb’ or ‘Lord’ of the shrine. The story traces Karsan’s struggle to come to terms with this pre-ordained fate of his. Like any other child, he has his interest zones – cricket being mentioned as one. However, the words of Providence come sealed in iron for him, and he is forced into reconciliation with his future as the Saheb, also in the face of a difficult relationship with his distant father. Karsan breaks free from his restricted, stifled existence at Pirbag when he receives an offer to study at Harvard.

Karsan finds himself enjoying the new life in a new land, where he is given a greater chance to discover himself, his interests. It is also in this new life that he develops a different and closer relationship with his father through numerous epistolary exchanges. He discusses Keats with his father, who sends caveats enclosed in envelopes for him. In a sense, it makes one feel, as if the son is trying to expose to his father the vast expanse of unexplored land around, and the father is trying to rein the child within the secular, secure and sacred confines of the domestic space.

Karsan emerges in the novel as the figure of a wanderer – much like Nur Fazal, his divine ancestor was. Also in the wandering spirit, one can see the autobiographical imprints of Vassanji, who has also located and relocated, from Kenya, finally living in Toronto. In the image of Karsan, thus, one can see the personal conflicts faced by most native as well as diasporic members of postcolonial societies. Thus, woven into the fabric of Karsan’s personal struggles for identity are universal echoes emerging from postcolonial sites.

Among other things, The Assassin’s Song is about the danger of taking a neutral position in a world that demands certainties. The faith followed by Karsan’s family, the keepers of the Pir’s flame, is neither Hindu nor Muslim, but this doesn’t count for much in the heat of communal riots, when convenient labels have to be put on everything. The Assassin’s Song, in more ways than one, comes out as a novel which is fiercely secular, but not secular in isolation. What the novel does beautifully is to problematize the neutrality of someone who does not align himself to any one religion. The narrative puts to test the idealism ensconced in the notion of secularism by holding it as a source of conflict in the mind of Karsan when it comes to surviving in a world so vehemently bent upon demarcating itself into cocoons of narrow sectarian identities. Vassanji, an Ismaili Muslim, here draws on his own experience of belonging to a small religious community.

This bildungsroman story culminates in Karsan’s return. He comes back to that very place, and perhaps that very fate which he had desired so much to evade. In a sense, the novel reveals that all freedom is illusory. Even while travelling beyond his native realms, he was, somewhere deep down, the heir of Pirbag, the one entrusted to carry forward the secular legacy of Nur Fazal. After the devastation wrecked by clash of faiths, Karsan returns to his domain – the place which was his – and it is with ease peppered with slight anxiety that he takes on the role of the next Sahab of the shrine.

In this end, Vassanji doesn't tell us what to believe; he merely shows us the various stages of a person's exploration of self. At the conclusion, though the prodigal son returns, there is no sense of finality that a reader may get after journeying through various geographical and psychological terrains with Karsan. It can perhaps be said that exploration of self is a continuous process. Identity evolves with experiences. It is not to be found at the place of one’s beginnings, but can often be located in a faraway land, where distances come to signify affiliations in a stronger manner. Often, identity demands acceptance. Karsan’s moment of greatest disillusionment came, perhaps, when he discovered that the eternal lamp illuminating Nur Fazal’s dargah was not a manifestation of miracles, but a fraud of sorts in which his mother was complicit. But later, Karsan understands the necessity of miracles to sustain faith. To conclude, a quote from the first chapter would be apt, where words and sentences combine to give a sense of what form would Karsan’s quest for identity acquire as the novel proceeds.

“That is the important question I had to learn. What lies beyond the sky? What do you see when you remove this dark speckled blanket covering our heads? Nothing? But what is nothing?”

The author

Verdict? Very strongly recommended. Never did this before, but this novel takes 5 on 5 stars. 

(The above article is an exerpt from a paper I wrote in college, as a part of my course on Postcolonial Literature)

When Colours Turn Muddy

Is Holi really the festival of colours? Well, in some imaginative, idealistic notions, it must be. However, as a non-participant on Holi festivities, yesterday I saw less of an iridescent display of colours, and more of black faces, muddy water and police patrol-plus-barricading, enough to give a feel of an imminent curfew. Is that what the festival of Holi has come to mean and symbolise?

Within the comfort of my house, I smeared colours on the faces of a handful of neighbours. Not for once did I feel like stepping out. Not alone, at any cost. Why? Because Holi has come to mean a threat to me and my body. I am sure a lot of girls would agree with what I am trying to convey here. There are so many outstation girl students I know, who, if devoid of a large and protective friends’ circle, lock themselves up in their rooms, too scared to venture out till late afternoon, when the Holi festivities have subsided. What kind of a festival is it which restricts a girl’s mobility or makes her feel unsafe ?

It doesn’t start (or end) on the Holi day. It begins much before. A week in advance, suddenly, the guys of your city get a free licence to accost your bodies with water-balloons, often also filled with colour dyes. Now, I am not saying that girls are their only target, but perhaps my exposure has only been limited to that aspect of their festive mischiefs. An innovation I recently came to know off, via troubled rantings of a college friend is stuffing water balloons with eggs and then using them as a harmless Holi weapon. How cool? Right? No. It is not. It is harassment, to say the least. On our way from college to an all-girl’s market trip, I and two other friends of mine were hit by two water balloons in a moving auto. I know the pain and the impact it created on my arm, and can only imagine how my other friend, who was hit on the cheek, would have felt. All this in the name of festival fun. Needlessly said, the girl’s day out had to be cut short, for who would want to roam around in market places with wet clothes, clinging to one’s body. The world is not short of ogling men now, is it? Oh, and it was not some innocent five year-olds who had played Holi with us in their own twisted way, but lanky teenaged lads. I wonder where do they adopt this tradition from, if it can be called that. One more water-balloon assault later, I decided to stay away from travelling to college till Holi gets over.

What perhaps I have dictated is a minor ordeal, if one may even call it that. The pain my arm experienced subsided in no time. There are, however, many hideous tales of Holi molestations I have heard from here and there, which stay on to pain girls till years later. Holi is a licence for men to touch, run and even maul a female body. Have you ever felt a male hand touching you at inappropriate places under the pretext of colouring you up because that is what the tradition demands? Have you ever seen men, ostensibly your family members, first drench you in front of a crowd, and then admire the shape of your body as the intoxication of bhang strengthens? I am not claiming this is the rule. I am only saying that this happens too. I have been lucky it never did with me. But many of my acquaintances have not been so fortunate. Even worse, many, I am sure, are not aware how an excuse of Holi is used by men to intrude into what is their space, the threshold of which should only be crossed upon gaining consent.

All these thoughts came running to my head after I saw a large gang fight break out in a slum dwelling visible from my house. All faces were painted black, the only difference perceivable being in the shape of bodies distinguishing men from women. Intoxication and loud music perhaps gave a fillip to whatever the argument was about and fight of the muddied faces kept on getting stronger. What caught my attention in this madness was a woman caught in the exchange of blows, who could only manage to wriggle free when she was thrown outside the fighting group to land on her haunches on the wet ground. The next I noticed was a police van hauling up the ruffians (that’s how they all looked) and dead silence returning to the field of frenzied celebrations.

May be this is not the way the civil classes celebrate Holi. They have their other civil ways of making this a festival of fun, amusement and entertainment. Holi is said to be the festival which is a great leveller. All faces, coloured in similar hues, are made free of distinctions of caste and class. The one distinction that does remain, however is that of gender. Perhaps that is the reason why a DU girls’ hostel had to seek a ban on a Holi procession, alleging obscenity in the all-male parade taken out in Delhi University’s North Campus every year. The girl residents claim that crude remarks and indecent gestures made by those boys amount to harassment, and this despite being accompanied by police each year. This is the condition of our education eden, infiltrated, of course, by some who are labelled ‘anti-social elements’.

Amid all these harrowing feelings about Holi, what gives me pleasure is the soft touch of my ten-year old nephew’s fingers applying variegated hues of gulal on my face. It gives me pleasure to see sweet gujias being exchanged among neighbours and relatives who scarce find an opportunity to meet in their otherwise hectic schedules. It also gives me pleasure to see the sweet playfulness dissolve and dissipate, for one day, hierarchies within families. And the best piece of news I heard was from Benaras, where the widows this year celebrated a floral Holi. Radha and Krishna, whose Holi celebrations shade our legends and folk songs, would be happy to see a dash of colour in the lives of those consigned to colourlessness. It were the sufi peers who saw Holi as the coming together of communities and smearing on each other not just gulal, but love. I wonder where the spirit of Radha Krishna, of the sufi traditions of Holi is lost.

Still, I do hope you all had a wonderful Holi, which was safe, vibrant and full of mirth!

Image Source - Photographs by the hugely talented Snigdha Manoli Menda. Used with permission. 

Revenge of the Naked Princes by Oswald Pereira - A Review

Just when you thought its over, the best deal, it is not! It leaves you craving for more, by giving you thrill, adventure, blood-curdling details and by closing at a point you least expected. These were my first thoughts as soon as I shut the book, and raced into my blogger account to type out this review.

Author and veteran journalist Oswald Pereira had already entered my list of favorites with his debut novel - The Newsroom Mafia, published in late 2011, which I had the amazing fortune of reading and reviewing. I was bowled over by the author's prowess at story-telling and engaging his audience. What Mr. Pereira has done with his second book - The Revenge of the Naked Princess - is that he has concretized and validated his position on my list of authors to reckon with, or to look forward to. Why am I more impressed this time is because while the earlier novel's premise drew from his field of expertise - journalism - this book's plot is one which focusses on his creative imagination and dedicated research to churn up story which is haunting, and extremely engaging.

Revenge of the Naked Princess is a period thriller, set in the 16th century, around the time when Christian missionaries had begun coming to India to pursue their goal of adding numbers to Christ's kingdom. Drawing from this premise, the novel sketches the story of the tribe of Yehoorwada, which was subjected to the brutal madness of conversions by a Portuguese mission led by Brigadier Braganca and his ecclesiastical partner, Father Francisco. Together, in the name of Christ, they unleashed on the locals a reign of indescribable cruelties, combining acts of physical, psychological and sexual violence to make them toe the holy line. The tribals of Yehoorwada were fighters, led by their able and fiery princess, Darshana Kamya Kathodi, a skilled archer, who is subjected to the worst kind of humiliation at hand hands of Braganca and his men - she is stripped and raped till she dies, and her wounded spirit ascends to heaven only to return one day in her macabre form to wreck revenge on all those who brutalized her community, her body, and her soul. What unfolds then is a tale of fury, of corruption, of hypocrisy, of exploitation and of fantastic adventures which make this book an absolute page-turner.

The book begins with action - hooking on a reader from the word go. Then falls the great onus on a writer of sustaining his audience's interest as the story progresses. This is an area in which Oswald Pereira does not disappoint, because with every new chapter you start, the story just keeps getting better. The tale makes you writhe in anger at the kind of atrocities which in the name of religion are perpetrated on indigenous tribes, not sparing even women and children. While most of the novel is full of gory details of conversion rituals, and the exploitative culture which is established by the so-called devout Christians, the book also does have its amusing moments, captured in the realm of fantasy, to which the novel travels during the latter half. That is the beauty of this work - it is where facts and history meet imagination and fantasy.

Mr. Pereira is excellent, yet again, at creating characters which persist in your imagination. Whether it is the two-faced Father Francisco, the ruthless Brigadier Braganca, of the traitor-convert Joseph Lawrence Pereira, all glow in their distinct characterization. And how can one ever forget the picture of naked protagonist, dark but radiant, coming back to seek her revenge, whose eyes are full of both, innocence and fury. By focussing on her nakedness, the author, I believe, has done his bit to make naked the ugliness which persists below the shiny veneers of religiosity. That religion is not something to be imposed from above or to be practised in rituals is a theme repeated in the novel time and again. It is something to be cherished and observed at the deepest level, for God resides not in external relics but in the observer's heart.

This book is a 3.5 star book for me. It has all the makings of a perfect read. Easy language. Short chapters. Lucid narration. Thrill inducing episodes. Extremely engaging plot. Freshness of concept. And so much more to discover when you actually pick it up from the stands. Strongly recommended!

Ice Candy Man by Bapsi Sidhwa - A Review

 "I feel so sorry for myself—and for Cousin—and for all the senile, lame and hurt people and fallen women—and the condition of the world—in which countries can be broken, people slaughtered and cities burned—that I burst into tears."

There are important strains of narrative which often history forgets to recollect. There are voices of countless millions which are muffled in discourses which tell us of our past. Thankfully, for the readers today, where the historian fails, the literary writer emerges and succeeds. It is a writer who dares to construct a parallel track of history which talks not of politics, or war, or heroes, or leaders, but of the silent sufferings of the oppressed masses who are most affected by events which can be considered watershed moments in history. 

One such watershed moment in the history of not just India as we know it today, but the entire sub-continent is the Partition. Scholars have remarked that partition is one of those events which has not died, which continues to live on in the hearts and minds of people - which is an inseparable part of the story of the birth of our modern nation. However, partition was not just about Jinnah, Gandhi, Nehru or Mountbatten. It was not an event which can be surmised in statistics of death and destruction. The partition had many stories behind it, one of which Bapsi Sidhwa, is her acclaimed novel - Ice Candy Man - has tried to unearth. 

Ice-Candy Man is a novel which shows you the pre-partition and post-partition world through the curious, innocent and observant eyes of Lenny - a 10 year old daughter of a Parsi household. Ridden with a deformity in her leg, Lenny is under continuous care of her Ayah - Shanta - who is perhaps the most influential person in her life. Ice Candy Man is essentially Ayah's story. It is the story of her world - the one of domestics - and of her  many harmless affairs with men belonging to her social strata. Of the many who admired her and had particularly obsessive-possessive tendencies towards her was the titular character - the ice candy man. Ayah, after flirting with ice candy man, finds comfort in the warm and affectionate presence of another of her admirers - the masseur. Our titular character does not take Ayah's transgressions lightly, and wrecks revenge on her in the worst possible way. 

Besides the story of these individual characters, the story of a nation is taking shape in the background. India is on the verge of partition, and Bapsi Sidhwa, in her novel, has unravelled the impact the impending partition was going to have on the Parsi community in Lahore - a community which can be called the minority of the minorities. This community has a history of mixing within the cultural landscape of place like sugar in milk - but with an event as large as the partition looming large in front of their eyes, they could not remain totally detached from the fanaticism of communal politics being played out in front of them. One of the most powerful characters of the book, in fact, is a Parsi matriarch, called Rodabai - Lenny's Godmother - who represents a very firm and progressive facet of Parsi women in the pre and post-partition society. Ayah, being a Hindu residing in Lahore was one on whose body the frenzied destructive dance of partition had been performed - whatever little salvation could come her way came from Rodabai.

Bapsi Sidhwa, herself being a Parsi, has written a novel which is so credible in its delineation of characters and events, that it is not difficult to believe that a Lenny, or Rodabai, or Ayah might have existed in Lahore in 1947, to see their land being ravaged by the forces of communal hatred. This novel had earlier been published under the title 'Cracking India' - to signify the cracks which had occured not just on India as a geographical entity, but to emphasize on the fragmentation which had occured in psyches, cultures and among people. There are strong autobiographical tones in the novel, for Sidhwa also had a limp in her leg - identifiable with the narrator of the novel. The narrative dwells on not one, but many issues - political, communal and sexual. She does a wonderful job particularly of reflecting on the female condition. Even better is Sidhwa's prowess at characterization. The character of Ice Candy Man had been one of the most interesting and complex characters I have come across in fiction - and his psychology has been the toughest to decode. 

This novel was also adapted into a film by Deepa Mehta, called 1947 Earth. A great cinematic experience, the film however does not do justice to the novel's narrative, because it foregrounds the love story between Ayah, Ice Candy Man and masseur, leaving out the portrayal of many important issues Sidhwa dwells upon in the book. 

The language of the book is comprehensible - the only problem a reader might face while reading is in terms of the continuity of narrative. The book follows a simple linear narrative technique, but takes a lot of leaps between scenes which make it difficult to keep pace. However, it is a novel to make you cry, to make you think, and to stay with you till long after as a blatant, but sensible reminder of all that was not considered important enough to be reported by historians. A 3.5 star book for me, but strongly recommended. I would have tagged this at 4 stars, but I read a few partition books in quick succession, and a few turned out to be a tad more amazing than this one. 

I would also like to recommend two more works by Bapsi Sidhwa - Water and The Pakistani Bride - both of which take up serious social issue and present them to you in a manner which makes you sad, angry and finally leaves you in a contemplative zone. 

The Smile Which Went A Hundred Miles - Guest Post by Anamta Rizvi

Sophie sensed the tangible pandemonium around her. Mystified by the utter baffling crowd, she pretended to be calm. But this pretension made her fiercely anxious. She just had to move from Central Secretariat to the Govind Puri station but the stuffed crowd was surely being a catalyst in her angst and was fuelling her claustrophobia. She told herself,” Just step in the metro and that is it”. Pacifying herself was now the only option. Coming from a small town, metro seemed a humongous deal. She noticed her insignificant presence around. Nobody bothered where she came from. Nobody cared for her claustrophobia. Nobody had time to even look up at her.  Leave alone to help her. Unwelcoming is Delhi.  Being pushed and pulled and shoved, she entered to experience her first ever metro journey. Sophie stood terribly shaken in that callous ambience. Familiarity was not even a tinge close in those indifferent faces. Amidst the cacophony, she noticed the girl across her. Their eyes met and a meaningful smile was passed by that girl. That little curve that goes up towards the eyes unveiling bliss and lightening one’s features, that smile was a profound solace to Sophie. Among the strangest of the strange faces, that smile in the moment of her weakness gave her an uncanny secure feeling. She smiled back with the same cheer in her eyes. Just at the moment when that girl was stepping down at Lajpat nagar, Sophie happened to glance at the locket that she was wearing which said Aliena. Sophie smiled and the metro moved forward.  

It was indeed a big day for Aliena. Half an hour before time, she once again checked the order in which she had filed her published articles. This job was horribly needed. Not only that it would just pay the heavy rents and bills but it will help her to carve a niche for herself. It was just not a job for her, it was WRITING. She waited in the magnificent parlour of that publishing house. The calmness of that atmosphere, the essence of the teak wood furniture, the magnificent tranquillity certainly got on her nerves. She knew her experience was way too less than many others but she was well aware that her skill and dedication were her strengths. On being called, she gathered her stuff, settled her coat and carefully walked ahead. As she stepped on the elevator, she felt someone’s presence right behind her. Just casually turning, she was welcomed by a smile. That smile made her smile and it miraculously made that incessant thudding of her heart ease. It reminded her of her own magical power. Her own beautiful smile! She turned again to acknowledge him but just heard someone greeting him by the name Rishabh. Aliena smiled and moved forwards.

Today’s pending work yet again was added to his already plethora of work. Driving back home, Rishabh was figuring out how he will manage the whole schedule for this work packed coming week. Not only were his incomplete targets taking a toll on him but the coming Wednesday was his wedding anniversary. An off in the middle of the week would surely cost him a lot. But his continuously nagging wife was a bigger issue than most of his important tasks. The Axis bank board reminded him to pay the fees of his seven year old son. Too weary to go through the formalities today, he thought of delaying it for tomorrow. Tomorrow would be impossible; hence he did the bank duty. He recalled if he had to pay any other bill and that reminded him of a series of regular errands. It was nine in the night now. His endeavour to reach home early was yet again in vain. Waiting for the green light at the signal, he observed the unending buzzing of his city. Glancing outside, he happened to see a lean fellow on his bicycle and the pillion rider was a young anorexic girl in a sari with her brightly coloured bangles. Holding in her hands was probably their infant who seemed amazed by the surroundings. That man looked back at him and gave him a smile; a smile that made Rishabh smile back. That smile of the lean fellow was impregnated with sheer bliss, and in spite of his dark skin, he saw a tinge of blush and his thick moustaches smiled along too. Honking of the cars made him realise that the light had turned green. Rishabh smiled and moved forwards.

On the way Rishabh recalled an article that he had read on the power of smile. The author said, ”How under rated is this half moon curve on our face. Apparently, we all have it but are deplorably stingy to use it. What harm if you give it to someone once a day. What harm if that curve on your face can make a terrified soul relax. What harm if that uplifting of your cheek make and angry being cool down. What harm if that semi circle of your lips breaks the ice between two strangers. What harm if that beautiful thing on your face ends the animosity between two persons. What harms if that movement of your muscles helps you relax the tension of your own body. The million dollar smile has been taken too literally I believe. Hey my miser readers, you are not actually paying those dollars. So stop being Uncle Scrooge and smile away to glory. Smile to celebrate every moment. Smile to give happiness around. Smile to drive away sorrows. As a matter of fact, Smile is the world’s simplest phenomenon to impart happiness. Smile, to be aptly noted, is a one syllable word and has been deliberately meticulously chosen to make it light weighted, easily spelt and most importantly widely and effortlessly functioned. Why are most of our pictures with smiles our favourites? Because my dear readers we look beautiful when we smile. It makes the world around us smiles. This reminds of a couplet... Ghar se Masjid hai bahot door chalo yun karlein/ kisi rote hue bachche ko hasaya jaaye. So let us pledge to smile to the ‘knowns’ and to the ‘unknowns’.”

Recalling these words from an anonymous author, Rishabh smiled and reached to his Smiling Home. 

By Anamta Rizvi

Anamta Rizvi was the first friend I found at Jamia Millia Islamia - much before I even knew that I would be taking admission to this university situated at the end of the world for me. To have her around is to have sophistication and exuberance showered on you each moment. She is a fabulous writer as well, and I am blessed that I have her as a classmate, a co-worker, and as an amazing friend. 

Don't Kill Him - A Memoir By Ma Anand Sheela

"Everyone was so crazy for enlightenment and so zealously anxious to be without ego and to be meditative that they could do anything for it. The sanyasins took part in sexual encounters, emptied their pockets and proved their devotion (through) expensive gifts. This exploitation was dirty, ugly and repulsive, especially coming from Bhagwan."

I have devotedly steered clear of foraying anywhere near the influence of any self-styled spiritual Guru, or any self-proclaimed God. As a matter of fact, the Baba culture in India (and perhaps elsewhere) has been seen by me as a charismatic con profession, thriving on the innocence and helplessness of an easily believing public. However, perhaps my blog is the place to admit, that the only figure from this exclusive club that I have felt like exploring is Osho Rajneesh. In the last book I read, I was given precisely the chance to do that, albeit from a very different angle.

"From Sex To Superconsciousness" - this book was my only marker of identification for Osho Rajneesh; but, an autobiographical account written by Ma Anand Sheela, once Osho's secretary, has revealed to me much more about his life. These revelations have been fantastic, fascinating, disgusting, eye-opening and confusing, all at the same time. Written in two parts, this book conveys the various highs and lows of the journey which Ma Anand Sheela undertook along with Osho - her Bhagwan, who mesmerized her, then exploited her, accused her, but who, till the very end, remained her Bhagwan.

In the first part of her memoir, Sheela recounts the details of her voluntary separation from both, Osho and his commune in Oregon. This separation was precipitated by Osho Rajneesh's erratic, exploitative, whimsical and harsh behaviour, which, despite extreme devotion, became difficult for Sheela and her other colleagues to tolerate. Their leaving did not spare them the ire of their Bhagwan, because they were then accused of having eloped from the commune with stolen cash. A round of harassment at the hands of law followed, because of which Sheela had to also spend time behind bars. She was let out for good behaviour later. In the second part of her book, Sheela revisits her first rendezvous with Osho, how she was intoxicated by him, how she and her husband joined his commune in Pune and how she ascended up to the position of Osho's secretary, virtually responsible for running the whole commune. She also describes in great depth the shifting of Osho's commune from Pune to Oregon and the craziness which went into establishing Osho at the position of power he was.

Among the many things this book does, it reveals the most scandalous aspects of Osho's life. It depicts him as a shrewd, exploitative and manipulative Guru who had fetishes which made my eye balls pop out. How can I forget the legendary statistic - with 96 Rolls Royces in his backyard, one fine day, Osho wanted 30 more! His indulgences do not stop there. It has also been alleged in this book that Osho also had amorous relationships with sanyasins in his commune. Osho's apathetic attitude towards his Indian followers has also been elaborated upon. A deep contradiction lies in the narrator's own voice when she elucidates in with painful detailing the way she faced harassment at the hands of Osho, yet, he remains her object of devotion, love and divinity.

My favorite parts of the book were the italicized tales of sufi and zen adventures. I loved this book from the first page, when it introduced me to the concept of 'khidr' - a kind of inner voice. It is a tale told with sheer honesty - at least that is what comes across - because the author has not shied away from sharing the most personal details from her own life. This book claims to be the telling of the story of the relationship which existed between Sheela and Osho, but it goes way beyond being just that. It is an investigation of the psychology which runs and sustains such spiritual congregations. It dwells from a fresh dimension on the most curious of Indian mystic Gurus, if one may call Osho that. Entertaining and, as I said, eye opening - this book is a 3.5 star book for me.

(Reviewed on request from the Fingerprint)

An Image of Buddha - Guest Post

By Raghav Mimani

I am holding on to a black statue of Gautam Buddha in my hand. It’s about three and a half inches long; majestic, calm, impassive and smiling; and I am staring at it. And as I am doing so, it appears as if an entire narrative is unfolding itself in front of me. The princely Siddhartha leaving away all his riches and comforts of life to find the ultimate truth; now walking through the forest following crazy levels of austerity starved with his buttocks looking like a camel’s hoof and limbs like bamboo stems. Listening to and learning from the then established Gurus on meditation and salvation; sometimes debating on the philosophies of the world and at other times questioning the very purpose of our lives but still never appearing ‘holier than thou’. There is something about this man of ideas which has drawn countless folks in the past and continues to draw many a soul searching curious traveling beings even today as I write.

http://culturalpropertylaw.wordpress.com/2011/03/01/10-years-without-the-bamiyan-buddhas/

I am now looking at his Gandhara School of Art hair design; thinking of the moral revolution he experienced in his life journey. And I see in the backdrop Jawahar Lal Nehru’s ‘The Discovery of India’, which I have been meaning to read for quite some time now. So I lean forward and pick the book up looking for any text about Buddha that I may come across. And I do end up finding some. Two sub headings in the title-sake chapter 4 are devoted to him.  And it isn’t really a surprise for India’s history and its ‘discovery’ can never be completed without the Buddha. We may know of our world history through tales of wars and kingdoms and he may be an anomaly in that respect – being the ideas guy that he was. Yet his teachings and principles form the very essence of the future kings and the common public for the next many centuries; and still do even in contemporary times – Ambedkar anyone? And thus fittingly so, what I find in there makes for an apt description of the statue I am holding. “Seated on the lotus flower, calm and impassive, above passion and desire, beyond the storm and strife of this world, so far away he seems, out of reach, unattainable. Yet again we look and behind those still, unmoving features there is a passion and an emotion, strange and more powerful than the passions and emotions we have known. His eyes are closed, but some power of the spirit looks out of them and a vital energy feels the frame. The ages roll by and Buddha seems not so far away after all; his voice whispers in our ears and tells us not to run away from the struggle but, calm-eyed, to face it, and to see in life ever greater opportunities for growth and advancement.”

Images flutter within as the narrative gathers pace. I can see a glory hunting Ashoka at the blood ridden battlefield of the Kalinga War appalled by his desires fulfilling themselves at the expense of more than two hundred thousand lives. Ashoka, the Great! I can see the headless statue of one of the greatest but unfortunately not much publicly talked about kings of Indian history - Raja Kanishka of the Kushan Empire. How he embraced Buddhism, built magnificent Stupas and encouraged obsessively the translations of Buddhist literature in traditional Chinese. I think of the Taliban militants as they went about destroying many of the great treasures and artifacts of that age in their bid to impose their own ideology. The Buddhas of Bamiyan catch my attention as they are dynamited out of existence for one Mullah Omar found it idol enough to be against the principles of Islam. Even before him, the earlier so called lords of the land had thought it best to remove only the head of the statue for it had in some other way offended them. As if, the arts offending people can only be justified by people destroying art. Rulers after rulers, empires after empires have striven to rewrite history as they saw fit. Not writing it as one would hope they would be interested in but rewriting it. And so they have thought it best to demolish evidences of the actual events which took place before their time and instead give the world a view of history which they would like the world to have. Most of the times for glorification of their own ancestry; and at other times to establish supremacy of their selves over the common folks and those others around the world of whom they knew nothing about but only that they themselves are far superior to them others. The divine kings and queens, so to say, exercising God’s will. Unthinkable volumes of blood have been shed over this; innumerable places of worships and leisure have given their way to newer places and different forms of worship and leisure; and countless statues have seen the sculptor’s art go for a toss. And still the Buddha sits on his lotus throne calm and impassive, smiling as “the world renews itself every day”.

http://gautamabuddha.dev.wiseattention.orghttp://gautamabuddha.dev.wiseattention.org

The Pale Blue Dot Theory is running wild in my head but I won’t go there for it’s a tale of some other time. Lots of talk about India – China is going around these days given the fifty years anniversary to the 1962 War. And somebody mentioned to me during one of the discussions about two ways of looking at history. One is to embrace it for it really happened whether one likes it or not – which is what India did at least partly. We are a proud and integral member of the Commonwealth for crying out loud; and most of our Central Government establishments in Delhi are a continuation of the British Raj with almost nothing changed. Rashtrapati Bhawan, The Parliament and the India Gate are but a few of the examples. Not to get carried away in any sense we do have a lot to hide our faces about as well – partition being one painful example but again it’s another tale for some other time. The other is to start off completely afresh from a clean sheet of paper disregarding what happened earlier. This is apparently what China did. Their boundaries were redrawn the way they saw it right having their hearts in the Middle Ages. The entire culture was revisited and unfitting pieces were thrown out. Glorification and other procedures followed. I am not advocating for any of the two. I do believe sometimes it’s needed to have a clean slate and at other times it’s equally important if not more to be duly aware of and emotionally invested and later disinvested to be objective about the past experiences. What I instead want to do is to look into our own selves. Don’t we collect memorabilia and souvenirs wherever we go? Click pictures at the drop of the hat? Sometimes to upload it on facebook and at other times to look back and smile at and adore our brilliance. Let’s face it! We are all hoarders and we like to collect memories most of them all. And many a times we want them to be better than they really are or were. And here you see is the genesis. As we want an exaggerated version of our happiness and glories to show it to our very own selves and of course also to show the world of our supposed awesomeness, we stop being honest with ourselves. Evidences of truth give way to what suits the narrative. The horrible dish at the restaurant is not mentioned because of that amazing looking sundae. All of us are escaping from something which I believe differs from person to person. But many of us are very much escaping into our own la la lands. And don’t you dare talk about it being a bubble! I wish to pass no judgment on this for I can’t. I am as much a part of this as anyone else. And I believe that the truth, whether it is ugly or beautiful, uncomfortable and frightening, nerve-wrenching or blissful, no matter how hard we try to dress it up in cloaks of well fabricated lies, our heart knows of it – our conscience knows of it - and at least we should accept it and embrace it. Buddha, I believe, would have advised for the same. I am quite sure of it as his statue sits gracefully in front of me. Or at least I can pretend to be. In fact, I am; again creating a debate for a larger duration.

To his last journey then. And I have to borrow the following words from Michael Wood, one of my favorite documentary makers, as I am far too impressed upon by them to be able to write something similar of my own. “‘Be your own lamp,’ he said. “Seek no other refuge but yourselves” “Let truth be your light” For me, it's one of the never-failing miracles of history, that a human mind from so long ago can still speak to us directly in his own voice and mean something now in our time of change. But then his was a time of change, too. Buddhism is a system based on pure morality, what we would call universal values. Trust, truthfulness, non-violence, that sort of thing… And those ideas were very attractive to the rising class of merchants and traders in the cities of the Ganges Plain. But it's also atheistic. The logic of the Buddha's message is that belief in God itself is a form of attachment, of clinging, of desire, and in the land of 33 million gods or is it 330 million? That eventually would prove a step too far. ‘But all things must pass,’ as he would say. No one in history was clearer about that. No promise of heaven, no threat of hell. He's an old man now, around 80. This was his last journey; among the scavengers and the dispossessed, with their unending struggle for mere survival. Around 486 BC, according to the traditional date, he headed back across the plain towards the Himalayas. Now he's heading north, back to the land of his childhood. Perhaps he was consciously heading home. He knew he was going to die.  The Buddha's story ends in an endearingly scruffy little town on the Ganges Plain, Kushinagar. One of the Buddha's faithful disciples begged him to hold on a bit longer and not die here. ‘It's a miserable, wattle-and-daub little place stuck in the jungle, in the middle of nowhere,’ he said. ‘Couldn't you die in a famous place where they could give you a great funeral?’ And the Buddha said, “A small place is fitting.” He took some food in the house of a blacksmith, pork. Like most ancient Indians, the Buddha was a meat-eater. And he fell ill. Again the tradition marks the very spot on the edge of Kushinagar. At the end, his disciples can't bear to let him go. “What more do you want of me?” he says. “I've made known the teaching. Ask no more of me. You're the community now. I have reached the end of my journey.” There are several versions of the Buddha's last moments. One of them says that he made a gesture and exposed the upper part of his body to show how age and sickness had wasted it, to remind his followers of the human condition. But all versions agree that his last words were these.

“All created things must pass. Strive on diligently.”

I would like to end this with an old adage among the Buddhist folklore I presume. “If you find the Buddha on the road, kill him!”

*********

Raghav Mimani is a friend of a friend, and a person whom I have come to admire over the last many meetings we have had. It is a privilege to hear his thoughts and ideas, even as a mute audience, for there is much to learn and gain from his opinions. This article is but one glimpse into the way he strings his thoughts and presents them for others to peruse. Rather, relish. It was a privilege having him contribute for Nascent Emissions. 

The Luck That I Am

Aadya had visible creases on her forehead. She stood pensively in one corner of the Rajiv Chowk Metro Station, eyes staring intensely at the metro tracks. Someone, she remembered reading in newspapers, had been received by these very tracks a few months back with an open embrace to escape the rigours of life. Was Aadya contemplating the same course of action? No. Not quite. She was contemplating a course of action which takes her away from these destructive thoughts. However, nothing today was helping her cause. Not her thoughts. Not her surroundings.

She kept still as a metro creaked to halt in front of her. A girl was hurrying in her direction, face lit up with smile, eyes lit up with love. Her smile widened as she approached Aadya, however, in a dazed state, Aadya realized, the smile was meant for the guy standing next to her, leaning stylishly against the wall which Aadya's limp body was falling over. The anonymous, gleaming girl came and eased into a hug, pressing herself passionately, yet carefully against the guy. Their hug might have lasted for an eternity. Aadya felt repulsed at the open display of affection. Why, you ask? Ah, well. It was the same embrace Aadya had been dying for. Not from a boy necessarily. From anyone. Anyone whose one hug could for sometime dissolve her worries - her family, the fights, the miscommunications, the stress and the directionlessness. Wishful thinking, she knew.

Half an hour later, Aadya saw herself staring at a strange, bustling crowd. Heads covered in humility, eyes deep with faith, numerous faces headed in the same direction. Far down the alley, disappearing behind the bend. Aadya felt scared, but she had heard of this place and its wish granting powers. She had heard of the golden domed Dargah, nestled in the midst of winding alleys, of Delhi's most loved sufi saint - Khwaja Nizam-ud-din Auliya. However, it was not his', but the name of Hazrat Amir Khusrau which had caught her fancy. Only recently, Aadya had come across these lines -

"Saajan aisi preet na kariyo, jaisi lambi khajoor

Dhoop lage toh chhaon nahi, bhookh lage phal door."

The desires Aadya had allowed to take root in her heart had a queerly similar quality to the object of love warned against in the above lines. Her love, her desires, were simply not coming true. Standing outside the mesh which protected Hazrat Khusrau's tomb, Aadya contemplated how sad her life is. She concluded, her life is perhaps the saddest of everyone standing around. She stood there, head covered in a fuschia hued dupatta, when she felt her left foot flinch as if a rat had scurried over it. She jerked her leg as a reflex, and ended up hitting a little human figure huddle near her on the floor, She regretted her action even before she had completed it.

Clad in a dul pink T-Shirt and shorts, an almost balding girl sat near her, peeping into Hazrat Khusrau's dargah through the net carved out in stone. Aadya's hands were still raised in a dua, but her eyes were transfixed on that strange looking, little girl. She could tell that the balding kid was a girl solely on the basis of that one smile which Aadya received in return of the unintended kick. That was the only time that girl had looked up, and despite the visible, insurmountable stiffness in her arms and legs, her feminine attributes had been vividly coloring her tired, colorless face. The little girl secretly stole Aadya's heart away. And then, the same little girl caused a tear to trickle down her cheek. The tiny feminine bundle near Aadya's leg was sick. How, she did not know. But sick for sure.

A lady dressed in humble shades of brown appeared out of nowhere, and pushed her pink clad daughter to kiss the stone carvings outside Hazrat Khuswau's tomb, and ask him to make her fine. "Chalo Sabeena, deewar ko choom lo. Aur peer saab se bolo ki humein theek kar dein. Taaki hum khoob khel sakein, iskool ja sakein, and apni mummy ka dhyaan rakh sakein. Chalo, jaldi se dua karo. Pata hai, yeh sab theek kar dete hain." Her, Sabeena's mother whispered into her ears. What caught Aadya's attention were not so much the words, but the infectious smile on Sabeena's mother's face. Her pretty daughter was in a sorrowful state, or so Aadya thought, but here, the mother and her daughter seemed far from grieving. It seemed, that with the dua for getting better, they were also sending via Khusrau, words of gratitude to Allah, for giving them whatever they have, and for looking over them. Such faith!

Aadya gently sat down, giving little Sabeena all her place to play and soak in the sacred air around the dargah. May be the influence of the place reverberating with so much faith was therapeutic. Aadya could not be sure. She closed her eyes, and burst out crying, uncaring for who was or was not seeing her. No one was. It was as if the place understood that grieving is a personal activity, not to be intruded upon. She would have cried for a long time, for she only stopped when her eyes ran dry. As the smell of incence wafted up her nose, Aadya felt as if the burden of a million tonnes had been lifted of her chest. Her mind, which was ready to implode was now throbbing with pain, but with signs of life. Resuscitated, she lifted herself, and walked out slowly from the dargah.

While slipping on her shoes, she was promising herself to smile. She had not a wish left in her heart out of the numerous she had come to seek the answering of. On an impulse, she wanted to wish for pink-clad-blading Sabeena's well being and happiness. But no, she decided against asking for that. She decided in favor of having faith. Through the gestures of that tiny rat whose hand had caressed her bare feet to draw her attention, Aadya had witnessed a lifetime's lesson. No worry seemed insurmountable now. A tiny farishta was all it took to lend her some faith. In our world, sadness coexists with bliss, melancholy with mirth. Experiencing both is necessary to experience life. A little faith and gratitude in our hearts is all it takes to balance those two emotions, and to be able to find the best learning out of the worst situation in life. It is necessary to thank, insane to blame, now understood Aadya. There was a conscience screaming to be heard inside her. There were thoughts waiting to be turned into actions. Everything she needed, she had it within her.

May be she understood all this by herself. May be little Sabeena was actually a divine messenger.

Blasphemy by Tehmina Durrani

Was this woman me?
Who was she?
Who was I?

Some books are written to shed the veil of goodness which a brazenly hypocritical society covers itself in to deceive its innocent occupants.
Some books are written to shed light on that darkness no human dares to transgress onto even at the peak of noon.
Some books are written to shake us out of that ignorant slumber which shows dreams of lasting goodness and faith in the world.

Blasphemy, true to its name, is a prime book belonging to that category.

This book is written by acclaimed Pakistani novelist and women's rights activist, Tehmina Durrani, who took the world by storm after publishing her autobiography, titled, My Feudal Lord. A very strongly recommended book, My Feudal Lord was my first tryst with this woman of enormous courage and substance. In it, she tells the story of her marriage ridden with abuse and violence and oppression to the man who was called the Lion of Punjab (Pakistan)- Mustafa Khar. An eye opener and a deglamorizing expose on the political and personal life of Pakistan's elite, the book was a sharp attack on a system which perpetuated atavistic feudal ideals to the detriment of women and as treachery to the society at large.

However, this post is about Blasphemy, Durrani's third novel, also hailed as her re-entry to the world of controversies. Blasphemy narrates the heart wrenching story of Heer, a teenager married to a Pir who was more than double her age. Pir, or Pir Sain, as he is referred to in the book is a Man of God, revered and worshiped dearly by people. Pir Sain and his Shrine are the only religious authority in an unnamed place where Heer dwells after her unfortunate marriage to him. Pir Sain, though claiming to be a direct descendent of The Prophet (PBUH) has the most convoluted understanding of Islam. While to the world outside he is a holy man, within the confines of his hujra, he is nothing but a compulsive erotomaniac. Before going onto detail the cases of physical and sexual violence which fill Heer's life upon her betrothal to Pir Sain, the book makes an important expose of the business that has been made out of religion; a business running not just on money but on mad drive for pleasures. Exploiting the weak in the name of their God is the most hideous deed, but is performed with nonchalance, pride and authority by Pir Sain.

He exploits the weak outside and within his home. Imposing strict norms of purdah upon the womenfolk of his haveli, it is the same purdah his rips off with indefatigable mad zeal each night, each afternoon and sometimes thrice in a day. Victimized by his tormentor early in her teens, Heer sees the worst kind of sexual, physical, mental and emotional agony as she tries to coexist with Pir Sain in his household as nothing more than a lurking shadow. Pir Sain is depicted in the novel as a man devoid of any emotions. To such extents spreads his stone heartedness that he ends up causing death of his own heir and does not shy away from attempting incest with his own daughter. A mother's relentless battle to protect her children and a women's unending fight to save whatever scrapes of honor she can to face Allah on the Judgement day form the essence of the story of Heer- one that is going to pierce right through you.

More chilling than the gory contents of the book is a single line in the beginning, which proclaims that this novel has been inspired by true life incidents. I don't know how many times while reading this novel have I found myself whispering to whatever divine power exists out there- Let that claim by the author be fake. How can a woman suffer so much violence? How can a man inflict it with such brutality? How can people deceive people with such blatant impudence? How can people deceive their own God, their Allah?

It was not a tale that moved me. It was a take that shook, stirred and angered me. It revealed to me those numerous satanic elements which exist in our society covered in a 'chaddar with 99 names of Allah on it'. We are not completely out of those ages where women were considered nothing but a burden and a commodity to pleasure men. There still exists cultures in our world where a marriage of a daughter is not celebrated because it is shameful to celebrate giving away of a daughter to someone else's bed. Deflowering a girl is an existing mad passion which infests many a twisted minds, and closer home, till date, a girl has to fight one extra battle (at least) if she is to claim what should rightfully be hers. Women are owned, controlled and passed on from hand to hand- as if the whole society has prepared a schematic to forever forbid them of an exclusive identity of their own. Men and women themselves are equally guilty of perpetuating this tradition of insufferable oppression.

I know there exists positive sides in the world. But for now, the quill of Durrani has done its bit to anger me. Written with a simplicity meant to break your hearts into a million pieces, this books shows you how in our world, black is white and white is black. For all the crusaders of women's rights and empowerment out there, this book is very strongly recommended. For those who believe in the rosy picture of life, this book is recommended still- It is always nice to gain an alternate, real, hard hitting perspective on things. For those with weak hearts, stay away from this book. Though not graphic, still the descriptions of sexual violence in this book are so grotesque that they might make your heart scream in horror. I am one with a weak heart and I had to suffer a nightmare. So despite the fact that I am all ga ga over this book at present, a caveat is definitely in order from me.

I don't know if it is apt to rate this book, but I would give it 3 on 5 stars. I just felt somewhere the book had a potential which could not be exploited, from a purely story teller's point of view. Rest, for bringing out such a story to public eye- Bravo!

A Ruhani Sojourn

"Gori sove sej par, mukh par daare khes.
Chal khusro ghar aapne, saanjh bhai chanhu des."

Nestled at the heart of alleys bustling with religious books, flowers and chaadar for worship, food shops to feed the lesser privileged, and beggars hauling you from all sides is one of the most inspiringly spiritual places in all of Delhi- The Dargah of Khwaja Nizam-ud-din Auliya. Whether you visit his dargah with the faith of a devotee, or the curiosity of an explorer- the unmistakable aura in the air flowing through its sacred precincts will touch you in a pleasantly memorable way. Each visit of mine to this dargah has been a mystic experience. Here, I've always experienced tranquility and clarity of thoughts; and an urge to explore the ruhaniyat experienced in Auliya's presence a little more. 

Hazrat Khwaja Syed Nizam-ud-din Auliya was a sufi mystic belonging to the Chishti Silsila (meaning a chain or lineage) of Sufism, the other known name from the same silsila being that of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer Shareef fame.In Delhi Nizam-ud-din Auliya is arguably the most venerated sufi peer, with the largest list of devotees thronging his dargah each day of the week, at all hours of the day. My luck was shining bright the day I made my first visit to his dargah. While I was lost in the magnificent golden hues which reflect off the dome of the main shrine, some enamouring sufi music greeted my eager ears, and I squatted down for close to two hours on the cold marble floor of its courtyard, soaking in the beauty of the whole atmosphere. Maati ke tum deevare, jo suno hamari baat...

One of the gravest anomalies in my life is that I have not found myself touched by spirituality or divinity in the slightest measure. That was precisely the reason why I explored the whole courtyard of Auliya's dargah with a childlike curiosity and amazement. I was informed of Auliya's almost filial love for his mureed, Amir Khusrau, the last in the line of great peers to have consecrated our land with their presence. Auliya willed that a devotee first pay obeisance at Khusrau's dargah (lying in the same complex) before he proceeded to worship at his own shrine- such was his love for his devoted student. Sufi diaries are filled with fables of  the interactions between Auliya and Khusrau. The dance of dervishes first manifests in one of such fable. Listening to these fables in an erudite company while staring at humble heads bowing down in prayer at Auliya's doorstep is an experience I may not be able to put fairly to words.

I do distinctly remember this very fair, middle aged lady, dressed in a rich black fabric, sitting on the right side of the main shrine from my first visit to the dargah. She had her forehead pressed to the wall lining the inner sanctum on which were engraved some religious words in Arabic script which I obviously could not decipher. Upon close scrutiny I realized that she is mumbling something. On closer scrutiny I realized that she is cring softly, huge beads trickling down her cheeks. I checked myself immediately, for it felt grotesque to be intruding in someone's personal moment of connection with her Lord. But I did settle down myself near her. She was reciting one of the chapters of Quran, the Sura-e-yaseen. Did I say reciting? No, she was singing it in a lovely husky but muffled voice, stopping only to kiss the Arabic calligraphy decorating the wall. I sat for almost as long as she did, listening intently to her, not understanding a word, but experiencing something overwhelming. The last thing I remember from that day is some tears in my own eyes before I left the sacred courtyard.

Ever since, I do feel overwhelmed when I visit this dargah. Devotion, faith, amity, honesty, miseries, smiles, desires, gratitude, divinity-all of these are palpable in the very air of this place. Since spirituality is not my domain, I end up shedding soft tears, sometimes in confusions, at others in relief when there. Each time, it is an overwhelming, yet liberating experience of its own kind. There is so much still for me to understand about things which are not easily perceivable. The only thing I understand as of now is that Auliya preached a message of love, patience, tolerance and secularism while he was making his important contributions to our city's rich history around 13th century AD. Tolerance and patience are virtues I am attempting to imbibe in. Love is what I make sure to carry within myself each moment the way Auliya and other sufi mystics preached it. When it is to that love that one surrenders, the peace and bliss we so yearn for can be the only natural thing to follow.

Do visit the Nizam-ud-din dargah complex if you still have not. There are lot of other historically significant sites in the vicinity, more on which I would perhaps write later.

Sultan-ul-Mashaikh Nizam-ud-din Auliya's mysticism is all that has charmed an amateur Delhi explorer's quill as of now.

Notes.
1. The couplet at the beginning was composed by Amir Khusrau at the time of Auliya's demise. Succinctly, yet hauntingly it captures Khusrau's crestfallen state when his object of devotion had escaped from his mortal body.
2. Sultan-ul-Mashaikh is an epithet for Nizam-ud-din Auliya, often used as a prefix before his name. It toughly translates as the "King of spiritual guides".
3. A rickshaw ride from the Jangpura Metro Station on the purple line is what you would need to have your own personal rendezvous with Delhi's greatest sufi peer, and also his mureed.