February 19, 2012 Delhi Agra Weekend Episode 6
From Humayun's tomb, we proceed to the first great symbol of Muslim rule in Delhi, the Qutb Minar! Qutb ud din Aibak started its construction in 1198. The capital of those dynasties are quite far from the Purana Qila.
On the way, All India Institute of Medical Sciences, easily the most famous hospital complex in India. Sort of a living memorial of several modern Indian VIPs. After the AIIMS comes the IIT of Delhi. While the AIIMS has been attracting patients and doctors from abroad because of its expertise, of the top of my head, I cannot think of foreigners flocking to the IITs for engineering consultancy.
Past the Haus Khaz area with its walled and watchman-towered bungalows, the neighborhood rapidly descends into economic backwardness. Narrowing roads cause close shaves for our car. Santoshji becomes more aggressive. Looks like many drivers think that the rear view mirror is for make up purposes.
The ticket counter and cloak room are across the crowded road in front of the entrance to the Qutb Minar complex. This road, with its incessant flow of taxis, cars, buses, autorickshaws, bikes and bicycles, is more formidable than any moat the sultans might have intended around the complex.
I had read that there are several ancient Jain temples in the area, but in our hurry to overtake a big ground of Chinese tourists, I don't have time to look for them. Besides, Santoshji had told us that if we make it out of this area by 4pm, we can still make it to Indira Gandhi's Safdarjung museum before it closes at 4:45.
But I guess the greatest factor that accelerates our feet is the inexplicable attraction of the stupendous tower we can already see. It rises a lighthouse in the deep and dark sea of Delhi history.
800 years. I gulp trying to comprehend that distance in time. The minarest of the minars.
The structure had withstood a few earthquakes. It underwent repairs. Clearly, anyone who had come under its spell understood the need to preserve it. The collapsed and collapsing structures around it offer the humbling contrast of the sturdy, smooth elegance of fluted sandstone and marble. Even after eight centuries, the chipping away of the carved Arabic and Nagari letters forming the verses of Koran, is not much.
As we approached the minar, the afternoon sun was behind it offering an otherworldly aura. The view from the other side with the stones dazzling in the sun was breathtaking. Since Amma had been here before and needed some rest, she sat on a stone bench in the shade beside the Minar. Achan and I walked towards the collapsed gateway arches (that were intact in sketches of 1835), defaced black domes and mud and stone skeletons of once impressive walls.
I run my hands through the cold, hardened clay and mud between stones. The little pebbles glitter. A million narrow streaks on the mud. A million hands over time?!
Iltumish's tomb is dome-less today. The dome collapsed twice. The inner walls with its numerous niches are richly covered with carving. Majority sandstone used makes the marble niches stand out. A young couple from Tamil Nadu were trying to get their little baby, "Narain", to look into the camera and pose inside the tomb. Without the roof, Iltumish's cenotaph basks in the afternoon warmth.
Outside the tomb, bits and pieces from the collapsed structures have been gathered. History's junkyard. There are pieces that resemble the templar's cross. Dan Brown might get inspired.
Alai Minar, aptly described by Rajeev as "still born monstrosity" comes next. Iltumish intended it to be twice as wide and twice as tall as the Qutub Minar. Death had other ideas. Now it looks like a ruined stupa. Does the word stupendous comes from the stupa? What about stupid?
Informative engraved stone tablets have been erected by the side of each monument. As I reach the entrance to Qawat-ul-Islam mosque, the first mosque built by the Delhi Sultans, I see a young lady use her finger to emphatically underline for her friend the part in the information tablet that says pillars and other structures transported from Hindu and Jain temples were used in the construction of this mosque. Was the India of majority rule planning on corrective action?
After repeated suicide attempts and some success, access to the top of the Minar is now denied to the public. Vayalar writes in his book about the tiring climb of the 379 steps all the way to the top. That was the 1960s. He also writes about his taxi driver who told him that the Qutb Minar was the handle of the mace of Bhima from the Mahabharata which has been left there after the great war by that mythological Pandava prince. The massive head of the mace is underground. When Vayalar laughs at this suggestion, the driver insists that he knows it is the truth because 'learnt', religious,scholarly folks had told him so. After I posted this note on facebook, a friend pointed out that this beautiful song was filmed inside the Qutb Minar.
I had completely forgotten about the "miraculous" Iron pillar till Amma mentions it. It is bang in the middle of the mosque inner yard. This location used to be inside the complex of 27 Jain temples that Qutb Aibak destroyed. The miraculous non-rusting character comes from the phosporus content. But the pillar is ample proof of the incredible smelting skills of Indian blacksmiths who were at least thousand years ahead of the rest of the world. Nevertheless since modern India is more into miracles than science, it was believed that standing next to the pillar and hugging it by bending arms backwards brings luck. Since this was causing problems to the structure, there is a short fence around the pillar nowadays.
Commissioned by Kumaragupta in 4th century AD, the pillar was moved to Delhi from Udayagiri by the Tomar kings who also named the area Dhili in the 10th century. The inscription on the pillar in Brahmi talk about the "moon faced" king Chandragupta. Originally, in Udayagiri, the pillar seems to have served a sundial. Udayagiri, located on the Tropic of Cancer, was famous for its astronomy centers.The Qutb complex does have a smalled sun dial called Sanderson's dial on one of the gardens. It was showing 3pm when we reached. We checked our watches to realize that the sun was one hour late. But it also meant we were cutting it close to Santoshji's deadline.
Right outside the complex walls, brisk business of lemon soda which comes in thick glass bottles sealed with marbles. Santoshji assures us that we can still make it to Safdarjung road museum. Achan seemed to be obsessed about the spot where Indira Gandhi was gunned down. On the way back, I notice that this original, ancient Dhili is now very poor. An old lady was selling 'Roti-Chole' for Rs. 10. Men were waiting their turn to get hair cuts and shaves from the barber who operated under a neem tree. From the narrow roads of this old capital city, it took us less than half an hour to reach the wide, tree-lined, national capital designed by the British and occupied by the democractic dynasties of today.
We make it into the Safdarjung museum 10 minutes before closing time. Though we were speeding down the roads, we managed to read a few more nameboards at the gates of the identical bungalows: Sachin Pilot, Vayalar Ravi, P. Chidambaram, Kapil Sibal.
The walls of the front rooms of the the 1, Safdarjung Road house in which Indira Gandhi stayed while she was first the minister for broadcasting and then the prime minister, have been covered with framed newspaper clipping of the significant events of her grand political career. As the curator hurries us through, there is just enough time to recognize that 'Mathrubhumi' is the Malayalam newspaper whose clippings have been used.
In the next room a big glass cube inside which neatly folded the faded, blood stained sari she wore on the final day along with her shoes and a cotton cloth bag. More trinkets in the next room. A beautiful jewelry box that husband Feroz had carved for her, her honorary diploma from Moscow university and so on. Her dressing room, study, library, living, dining, pooja and bedrooms have been preserved. The picture of Bharatmaata (mother India) as the main piece in the tiny puja room looks a bit corny. But then thats what politics is all about.
Lush, spacious lawn with a pond forms the backyard. We walk through the path there to the point where the final path she took towards the gate breaks off. It has no been relaid with fibre glass to give a sense of fluid time. Near the gate, a clear glass square marks the spot she fell after taking 31 bullets.
At the end of the wall, a modern sculptor by Anjolie Ela Menon urging tiger conservation. Along with it is displayed a letter Indira wrote to young Rajiv Gandhi about how she finds the tiger skin in their living room, that they received as a gift, disturbing. She would rather have the skin on its living muscular tissue of the magnificent beast. She urges her son to always stand for protecting the tigers of India.
As we leave the premises, Amma asks, "Doesn't it make you want to enter politics?" "What?! Getting assassinated?" I exclaim. "No, these wonderful homes and surroundings...!" "....where one can live in constant worry of political manipulation and perpetual fear of assassination"
A Buddhist monk in deep red robe walks down the wide footpath shaded by Neem, Gulmohar and Mast trees. A symbol of renunciation and detachment at the heart of corruption and powerlust.
Sunday market at Karol Bagh achieves the impossible. Twice as many people have converged into an area that I thought was pretty much bursting at the seams on Saturday itself. Twice as many cars as well. And they are parked in two and some times three rows on the road itself leaving a narrow lane for thoroughfare. These double and triple parking, obviously illegal, is executed by an army of wallet parking boys. The exorbitant parking fees collected make their way up in the police department and apparently all the way to the top of the political machinery. So not a single policeman to even express nominal concern about such blatant illegal violations and misuse of public roads. People have been used to all these. They curse and spit and take it out on their vehicle's horns. The stray dogs continue to sleep peacefully on the dividers.
We have tea at Saravana Bhavan. The waiter is a Malayalee, so extra helping of chutney with the dosas. Back at the hotel, we freshen up and decide to try some other place for dinner. The "Deal or No Deal" episode starts. A Mary Francis from Alapuzha is the contest hoping to make 50 lakhs.
Back on Saraswati Marg, we decide to follow a line of foreign tourists being led by an Indian guide to a restaurant named Temptations. They have a menu along with an usher outside. One look at the menu and it is clear why the foreigners have been herded into that place. A chapati costs over Rs. 60. Across from "Temptations" is Suruchi restaurant. We are ushered in by a magnificently mustached usher in classic Rajasthani turban. The menu here features on Thaali meals: Rajasthani, Gujarati, Punjabi. Other than that there are only Pav Bhaji and Vada Pav. We are not hungry enough for Thaali. So we decide to explore the area more.
"Spirit: Bar and Restaurant" offers North Indian, Mughalai and Chinese dishes. Foreigner presence in the area clues us about the pricing. Menu confirms our doubt. We begin to wonder if Saravana Bhavan is our sad destiny. Then we notice a white lady walking quickly down the street with what looks like a food parcel. Our eyes retrace her path to land on the board that says "Flavors of Punjab: Take Away". We thank the stars that are invisible in the smog above the thin slice of sky visible through the space not yet occupied by sign boards.
Half chicken curry at Rs. 120 and chappatis Rs. 8 each are ordered to be ready in 20 minutes. They are ready to deliver in our hotel room, but we decline. We walk around the narrow street called Guru Nanak Market in those 20 minutes. A salesman sucks us into a sari shop. Amma asks for cotton sari. He shows us something in polyster and claims it is "Dhaka cotton"! Back on the side alleys, Kannad, Telugu and Tamil voices mingle. A bunch of men stand around outside the rusted gate of a dusty, deserted building and share a small bottle of Indian whiskey.
Indulging in the half chicken curry and tandoori rotis back in the room, we find that Mary Francis has already lost any chance of 50, 25, 10 or even 5 lakhs in "Deal or No Deal". At the end of the episode she manages a little over 1.5 lakhs. Achan and Amma go off to sleep. I check out Comedy Central which has recently started airing in India. Heavily censored content. Even the word 'bra' is skipped in the closed captioning. The ridiculous Indian censoring actually makes SNL hosted by Ben Stiller funnier.
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