Mehrauli
A post is not enough to write about it and a day seems too short to explore the place. But I tried the later and am now trying the first.
The ruins of Mehrauli showcases the childhood of Delhi and after the visit I have no shame in saying that I won’t mind being called a paedophile. Once Mehrauli was Delhi, won by Ghori from Prithviraj Chauhan. Then she was a child, young in years but old in wisdom. As years passed by, the Slave dynasty rulers nursed it, later caressed by the Lodhis, and finally Delhi blossomed in the Mughal era.
Today only the ruins speak of the past glory of Mehrauli. They are very much there, facing weather, negligence, encroachment and everything else. What makes them survive? Love. I don’t think so. Delhi does not love anyone. I have asked her a hundred times and she maintains a deafening silence. Now I’ve stopped asking that. The rendezvous of these monuments has been going on for the past few centuries and it seems the thrill is very much there. And that leaves me mesmerised.
Qutub Minar
Aibak wanted to make a mark on this city. He wanted to show the world that he has won her. What else can a man do to show that he possesses a woman? He erected a stone phallus. 14.32 metre long with 379 steps. But Delhi has her own way to treat idiots like him. The man who relished his daughter completed his grand monument. Aibak died while playing chaughan (medieval polo) and his son-in-law, the next king completed the structure. Some say that it was for the revered saint Qutubbdin Bakhtiyar Kaki, whose hospice is just a stone throw away. Some centuries later, Firuz Tughlaq added an another floor to it.
Another moron, Allaudin Khilji tried to outdo Iltutmish. He had grandiose plans of constructing another phallus, twice the length of Qutub Minar. All his life, in his attempt to be fair, he was cruel to my city. Delhi does not like such characters. His dream was nipped in the bud. Today ‘Alai Minar’ looks like a small wrinkled penis. Only the first floor was completed and he died. I am surprised, why Delhi gives herself to such blockheads and professes her love. She is unfair to me but then that’s the way it is.
Then there is the Quwwatul-Islam mosque. It has been constructed over what was once a Jain temple. Even today in the pillars you can see Hindu gods, whose images have been desecrated by cutting of their nose and so. Does that mean Delhi was vanquished? I looked at her, like always her lips are curved. I cannot make out if this is a smile or a face representing pain. It is like someone has done something, a relationship got broken – a parting. But she will not tell me, for her I’m just one of her admirers.
Dargah Qutubbdin Bakhtiyar Kaki
Like all religious places this dargah has also fallen prey to business. From the entrance till the mazaar, you will find people selling flowers, namazi topis (caps), symbols of Islam and another strange set asking for donations. The beggars will follow you till the end of road. If you meet an old man waving a big cloth fan don’t forget to give him a rupee or two, among all he seems the most deserving case.
Jahaaz Mahal
It is said that the last Mughal king Bhaduar Shah Zafar used to come here and write poetry. It is also said that the lake use to touch the palace and there was an open court in the middle of that there was a small pool in which the lake water use to come. In times of monsoon, it sometimes overflowed. Today the lake looks more like a sewer. I don’t know but the state in which this place is explains that in what state of penury the last king was living. Of all what I saw here was some old people playing Chopar (an old ludo sort of game). Somehow the old guys reminded of Zafar. Toothless, gumless but nevertheless enjoying. Basking in the glory of their past.
I think, I would die like Zafar. Delhi will treat me the same way. I will be exiled to a foreign land where no one will know me. But then back at the mazaar of Bakhtiyar Kaki, I saw an another mazaar of Hzt. Sheikh Aziz Bistani for which Kaki bought land from his own meagre savings. I think I deserve that. Like Lak Baksh (Aibak) I will not die in her arms, like Zafar I will not be separated from her. May whatever comes, I’ll be there, buried in her soul, continuing my rendezvous…..unsuccessfully.
