This January end we do a John Denver. Our destination on this journey is Indore M.P., for the periodic appointment with our dhanwantari and we lament the neglected
looks of the roads and दरिद्री
looks of the spaces which are almost clad with discarded plastic carry-bags.
Indore is a pathetic and poor city inhabited by
rich people because of the fondness, not just tendency, of the
public to look the other way when bureaucrats and politicians pocket public
funds meant for civic facilities. Agra Bombay Road cannot be widened on account
of a temple, a masjid and a gurudwara coming in the way. Kyaaaa bhiyo...?
But all said and done, the Mother of
all Homes, that is Mother’s Home is @ Indore and the gutsy lady is quite
cheerful. Lot of furniture work got done by her. She’s 80. Missus asks us to
delve into the piles of paper, says थोडं मंथन करा त्या कागदाचं ....परत तो घोटाळा नको , return ची कॉपी इंदोर ला राहिली कि बंगलोर ला कि गुवाहाटी ला कि पुण्या ला , .... वगैरे वगैरे ..
We
discover something startling, which we thought was lost treasure- a yellowing
envelope from ‘Bennett Coleman and Company’ which yields tidings of a Rs. 1,000.00
(Rs. one thousand only) cheque ...and a 1999 newspaper cutting from the Sunday Chimes
of India, an article written by Carl von ‘Bailiff under the pseudonym Sanjiv
Bokil, God bless him- the context is a PIL filed in the SC by none other than
Fali S. Nariman, a closet shair, just
like YT, and bears repetition:
THE TRAIL OF TWO TOMBS
It
is heartening to note that the Supreme Court has turned its attentions to
historical monuments like the mazaars
of Mirza Ghalib and Zauq and one hopes their greatness will be resurrected form
the dead. Godspeed to the SC. And here, hangs a tale.
It
was about a decade back. My friend Najmi Haidri was visiting Delhi, our home-town.
Alone at his hotel on a Sunday, he called me over the phone. Let’s go
sight-seeing, but added, not the usual places. Since he happened to be a history and shayari buff, my choice fell upon two sites unseen by me- the tombs
of Razia and Mirza Ghalib. My companion being holed up at Hotel Ranjit,,
Razia’s resting place was naturally the first port of call. In those winding
lanes of Old Delhi, you would ride only a cycle-rickshaw, or a bicycle or a two-wheeler. So armed with
that giant map of Delhi published by the Surveyor General of India, astride my
rickety blue Vijai Super, we left on what turned out to be a little voyage of
discovery.
Our
scooter sputtered along steep narrow lanes, filling them up with metallic
decibels. We were quite a sight we suppose, two prim gentlemen, the one on the
pillion, with head buried in the giant map. It was a hopeless mess, and even
getting out of the tangle of lanes would demand a lot of direction. So we
parked the scooter and started with pooch-taach.
“isse aasan to jannat me unse milkar aana
hota..” said Haidri...”wahan se
waapsi ki koi tikat nahi hai huzoor” was the obvious reply.
With
his chaste urdu my friend struck instant
rapport with the public. There was no kabristan
in the area, we were informed. And who was this Razia ? She was a historical
figure we said. Razia Sultan and her mazaar
did exist somewhere around here, at least according to this map. We were taken
to a senior citizen who told us and our local guides that the place was behind bulbulkhana which was a stone's throw
away.
I
would advise Delhites to really go and see the place. It is a stark courtyard
paved with grey stone. A blue Archaeological Survey of India board stands
sentinel at the narrow entrance, followed by a short stone inscription. The
rough hewn tomb stands forlornly though with an unknown companion, in the
middle without even a tree for shade. She was on the wrong side of the ulema when she was killed, my friend
explained. It was a tale in stone which spells despair.
How
the past brushes shoulders with the present in those narrow lanes of the walled
city! Children had drawn three wickets on the platform below the tomb and a
regular cricket match was in progress, God bless Razia... Of course the
children didn't know whose tomb it was or indeed, who was Razia Sultan. Hema
Malini's film had not been made by then...
Our
next destination was on the other side of the city. There was a wager between
the two of us- how tough will be Quo
Vadis? The map was folded back into
its original folds with great difficulty and put away, for after all we had
simply to reach the dargah of
Nizamuddin Aulia and anyone would show us the way to mazaar of the greatest of shairs
or so we thought. But we, the bhardralok, it seems, live in a
world apart. We parked our scooter at the entrance of the dargah but no one was able to tell us where the mazaar- which we were dead sure was only
a minute away somewhere –lay. Of course everyone had heard of Ghalib, he had starred
in a number of movies. His mazaar was
at Agra one lad in skull cap informed us much to the chagrin of our shair. “shakl-o-surat se tum Muslim bachche dikhte ho, itna to urdu shayari ke
baare mey maloom hona chahiye...!” he exclaimed. A few steps away, fortunately,
we spied a board saying ‘Aiwan-e-Ghalib',
and entered its precincts. The mazaar
was beside the building, but was locked. By the ‘Government' we were told. Of
course we were free to look over the gate and pay our respects.
My
friend sadly surveyed the decrepit tomb and the dilapidated structure,
vegetation appearing from every crevice. Fali S. Nariman had quoted the ‘huwe mar ke ham jo ruswa' couplet in the
petition to the SC. The one uttered then by my pensive friend was just as apt,
written by the great shair with foresight
and characteristic impishness:
“Ugg raha hai dar-o-deewar pe
sabza Ghalib, hum biyabaan me hain aur ghar mey bahar aayi hai!”
Greenery
sprouts on the walls, on the doors Ghalib, we trudge in the wilderness and
spring it is at home...!
(PS: 1999 vs. 2012: minor changes in style noted, foremost, sun sets over first person singular)
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