So it was my last day in Delhi, the city of Djinns and the golden owl and I laughed and laughed like a madman as the five hundred years old Lodhi tombs, wet in morning dew, towered above me.
It was only last night when I was lost in Rajhistan and the rains came down in torrents and Shahji had forbidden me to utter anything untill we reach Mathra and finally in the dead of the night we did manage to reach Mathra and eventually Delhi. I had my last laugh in Lodhi gardens and then returned to my abode in India International Centre where good old Vinod was waiting for me to show me the sights, which I had missed so far. We went past the residence of golden owl of Delhi who I am sure was having a nap after prowling the Mughal ruins throughout the night.
During my stay in Delhi I had noticed that photographs of a saintly figure dressed in a single robe with a long white beard appeared on the back of the three wheelers, taxis and in some shops. When I inquired, I was simply told that this saint is, “Sain Baba.” As always, Vinod came to my rescue.
“Sain Baba was a devout Muslim, praying five times a day and during the night very few people saw him resting; he was always in sajda. He spent his whole life in a single chadar, blessing whosoever came to him. The Hindus revered him as a great saint. When his devotees became numerous and he wanted to be left in peace, he went to Orissa and settled there. When he died in 1922 his followers built a huge temple on his grave and erected his statue there. He is still worshipped throughout India and people believe that even in death, he is capable of showering his blessings on those who visit the Sain Baba mandir.”
“You Hindus are a strange lot Vinod, you own everybody who comes your way.”
“Not everybody Tarar Sahib, if a person is full of love for humanity without any prejudice of cast and creed what is the harm in owning him even if he is a devout Muslim? You know that I revere Nizamuddin Aulia and Salim Chishiti, we have even adopted your national poet Iqbal because for all practical purposes. Sare Jahan se accha Hindustan Hamara is our national anthem. So much so that we own the great Bulleh Shah to such an extent that he is buried near Missori.”
“Now that is the limit Vinod,” I laughed. “It amounts to body snatching, Bulleh Shah is buried in Qasur for heaven’s sake.”
“Well he is in Missori also,” Vinod said in earnest. “You know I have a house in Missori; year before last while going there I saw a sign board near a small village which read “Mazar Bulleh Shah”. Naturally I knew that Bulleh Shah is buried near Lahore in Qasur so I was intrigued. I stopped the car and went inside a small tomb. An old man was the caretaker and I asked him “Baba whose grave is it?” and he replied, “Bulleh Shah.
“I asked which Bulleh Shah and he replied Enayat Qadri wala Bulleh Shah.”
Now this information was amazing as Bulleh Shah’s murshid was indeed Shah Enayat Qadri.
Vinod continued: “According to the old man, once upon a time a king of Afghanistan came to Missori and fell seriously ill. So much so that he was almost on his deathbed, he requested somebody to inform Bulleh Shah of Qasur about his illness as the king considered him to be his murshid. Bulleh Shah then came to Missori, prayed for the health of the Afghan king who recovered miraculously and then Bulleh Shah decided to stay here. Here he died and a mazar was built over his grave. Every year his Urs is held and people come from distant lands to pay tribute to this great Punjabi saint.”
Is there any shred of evidence that Bulleh Shah ever visited Missori? If not then who is buried there? Perhaps Shafqat Tanvir Mirza of Punjabi themes can solve this riddle.
We were going round the old walls of Tughlaqabad but did not enter the citadel as we were heading towards Mehroli to visit the Qutab Minar. Like the Taj, no photograph or description can do justice to the mighty Qutab Minar and its magnificent red stone carvings of the Holy Quran. In its grandeur it is no less than the Taj, only its awesome beauty has a different shade. Vinod was unaware of the fact that Qutubuddin Aibak, the builder of this Minar, lies buried near Anarkali in Lahore where he had fallen from his horse while playing polo.
In my childhood days Aibak’s grave was located in a dingy and dirty street and I remember that through its old roof seeped dirty water from the houses built on top of it and fell on the unkempt grave. Then some history conscience people took notice, cleared the street, demolished the houses and let the great Sultan breath. The mausoleum was decorated with red stone carvings similar to Qutab Minar. The calligraphic portion was executed by the master calligraphist Hafiz Yusuf Saddidi and it is a treat for the eyes.
Underneath the Qutab Minar there is this small courtyard of Masjide Quwatul Islam, built mainly from material confiscated from Hindu and Jain temples. Suddenly one of the carved pillars of a temple drew my attention; many a years ago I had seen a photograph of a stunningly beautiful woman leaning against this very pillar, I could never decide who was more beautiful, the exquisitely carved pillar or the perfectly proportioned contours of that woman? Standing there she looked like a demigoddess, this was the very pillar which was once touched by the magic of a beautiful woman.
One of the main attractions in the courtyard is that amazing mythical iron pillar of Prithiviraj Chuhan, which according to the legend, was placed here to crush the brother of a snake king so that Chuhan’s empire may not disintegrate. But it did anyway.
We had to rush back to the Centre, we had to pack our bags and catch the evening flight. That is why we just passed near the tombs of Altamash and then Humayun, although with a heavy heart that I did not have enough time to visit them. I had also planned to pay my regards, in person, to three of my favourite Delhi personalitites. I missed Annie Apa’s invitation because that very same day I was going to Agra. Mr Khushwant Singh had very kindly invited me to have dinner with him tonight, but regretfully I was leaving in the evening. So I planned to see Amrita Pritam at least on my way to the airport. In the meantime I told Vinod that if ever I have the chance of going to Mumbai I would like to meet Dilip Kumar, Naseeruddin Shah, Gulzar and A.R. Rehman in the same order. And guess who I spotted, during my lunch at the Centre, sitting near a window of the dinning room with his white beard glistening in the sunshine? Naseeruddin Shah!
Vinod approached him and introduced me and I had the pleasure of listening to his magical Ghalib voice for a few moments. He was in Delhi for a theatre performance and he invited me to watch his play as his personal guest — tonight! I remembered Napoleon’s words: “Not tonight Josephine, not tonight.” It was indeed a misfortune to miss Khushwant Singh and Naseeruddin Shah because I was leaving — tonight. I sent my regards to Gulzar through the good offices of Naseeruddin Shah and asked him the eternal question as to what he was doing these days. He told me that he was trying to make a film for the past two years but the finances were hard to come by.
“Even Naseeruddin Shah has to try to finance a personal film?” I asked.
“Tararji, anybody who wants to do some creative work has to try, even Naseeruddin Shah,” and he laughed.
I asked Ahmad Faraz to accompany us in Vinod’s car to the airport as he was also leaving on the same flight. On our way I told Faraz that en route, we will call upon Amrita Pritam and then proceed towards the airport.
“Tarar you have never met the lady before, I suggest that you do not meet her now, her mental state is such that, she does not recognize anybody, totally bed ridden and lost. You will be pained to see the great poetess in such a state of misery, why spoil the image you have of Amarta?” So with a sense of great loss and remorse I dropped the idea.
Finally when we boarded the PIA plane it was like homecoming. Sare Jahan se accha Pakistan hamara. Delhi was great, true, but Lahore is Lahore!
So it was my last day in Delhi, the city of Djinns and the golden owl and I laughed and laughed like a madman as the five hundred years old Lodhi tombs, wet in morning dew, towered above me.
