Category: Delhi

Fairy frescoes

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It was cold, stone cold… like a glacial moraine miles high. The eyes were itchy, like sand grains moving under the eyelids – irritating and hurting. I couldn’t open the eyes. The head was heavy and hurting, a fluid colliding in it from temple to temple. The skull must have been open, for tidal waves were smashing inside the forehead and retreating – sucked by a turbulent whirlpool. There was no movement in the body. Something wasn’t right, there was no sensation. I thought of arms and hands but couldn’t move them. Nothing moved. From under the eyelids I could feel a faint light – like looking through mist and fog. It was blue and cold. The eyelids were making effort to move, to open, but something sticky was holding them back. And then, with some effort, I could sense a large space in which a blue streak of light, like a thin beam, ran from one end to the other. The eyes opened a little more but no other part of the body even twitched. The cold was crawling up all over me from somewhere I could not feel or perceive. Am I dead? One thought at a time was coming in slow motion and there was no counter thought. Linear and suspended, it felt having been transported to the another world, to the other.
Was I breathing? Not sure, but, I was thinking, contemplating, making an effort to move… so, a sub-conscious activity? Or, was I in a muddled state – unconsciousness? Can the dead think? For how long after death a brain works the same way as when the body has life?
It was so peaceful when the half-open eyes drooped. The sensation sending a signal to the stiff neck which I realised was connected to a head. With that thought alone, the lids opened again, gazing deep in the black all around – not left or right just straight, through the black – far away there were other colours – mauve, violet, bolt blue, fuchsia, crimson, scarlet, fiery red, soft orange, ochre and shiny emerald – all in a cauldron with a dark rim – thick and viscous in concentric circles. The colours heaved, as if someone had shaken the vessel – ripples separating and merging them – making chaotic shapes. The eyes were making effort to focus, but no – tired they drooped down lulling me back to nether world. Now it was for certain that I was dead. The colours came back to focus slowly and the view seemed like a garden with profusely colourful vines and creepers running amok, entwined and separating. Tiny, fragile geraniums and bunches of yellow camara swinging lazily on large floating lotus with droplets dancing over shiny leaves, and reaching out to seductive nymph-like water lilies in an aquatic dance. There were no trees, or if there were, they were growing in another direction away from me. I couldn’t see any tree trunks, roots, grass or moss. It was spring in full bloom wherever it was. There were no buds, all full-grown flowers of vibrant hues, open, big.
Was it Milton’s lost paradise or Donne’s ‘Twickenham Garden’ ? Why can’t I see trees? If it is the dark sky, why aren’t there no stars? What posture am I in? Am I standing, sitting or lying down? There was no sensation of either feet, legs or even a back? May be I was lying face-down, or simply floating, weightless or frozen. Does heaven or hell also adhere to the principles of science.. is their gravity here? Am I wasting time deliberating this non-sense?
By now my eyes were open, but I wasn’t awake – for no other sense was responding. If these really are flowers why there is no fragrance? If it truly is ripple of colours where is the water? If it was spring why was it so cold? Why was it dark all around with just a streak of heavenly-translucent blue?
A butterfly fluttered above or below. Involuntarily my eyes followed its shaky flight resting on the contours of a familiar shape. A pair of delicate pink feet peeping from the curling multiple pleats – ornate green border woven with gold thread which was precariously resting on a pebble-round heel – curvaceous like a crescent – the stressed toe was pushing out the silver ring – the anklet still stirring as if in the process of coming to rest after multiple swirls. Yet, there was no sound, no music.
It was an effort to move the eyes tracing the other end where a winking navel was resting in the middle of burnt-sienna-colour skin… resplendent, shinning… delicately holding the strings of a colourful skirt below it. Overlapping gathers of the fabric pouring down like a waterfall on a tender rock, precariously perched at an edge. The patch of skin was a thin waist, like a smooth wind-swept sand dune, partly covered by a mesh-like ochre odhini stretching right up to a puffed hair bun – a lock of hair curled behind the ear studded with sparkling sapphire.
Beyond this it was difficult to stretch the drooping eyes, for I was looking somewhere high above or in an abyss. The eyes rolled a trifle right and below to spot a face drowned in ecstasy, large mesmerising dilated eyes, head thrown back a little as if in haal. A pair of near-conical mounds encased in two-sizes small choli with the arms raised above – partly encasing the oozing beauty, turnip-like white tender elbows guarding the assets, the hands clasping colourful dandia-like-sticks midair at that point where they would have clanked. Where was the beat, the music? I tried hard, very hard, but no, no music or sound. She was not alone – there were many – in pairs but not in a group, face looking away. Each in a delirious state, near hypnotic.
It was certain, I was dead and for sure I was in heaven or hell with fairies, peris or houris (really houris?). The blue light was growing now, the pin hole expanding, becoming more tubular, widening more, as if a trap was opening. There was a lot more white mixed in the blue. And then there was distinct sound, a rustle, indeed, as if someone was treading softly over a jungle floor. Leaves, yes those were early fallen leaves, still not dry and then there was muffled squeal coming from a distance. My eyes locked on to those feet trying hard to decipher the movement. From feet to pleats and the vibrant surroundings were still, even the spotted queen butterfly had frozen on a stem. So those are the footsteps of an angel or a fiend.
Sure, she / he / they were coming for me. Ah, and then there was a touch, the first sensation in a long while. Something trickled along where my ear should have been, down to the neck. Was it blood or a drop of nectar? Either which way the end was near. A cold elbow nudged and poked, a streak of pain travelled up the spine and lodged itself in throat. I heard a cough, breathless, suffocated cough… the spell came to an end… sunken in soft and sagging mattress I was looking at the profusely yet garish painted ceiling above me in an ancient Rajasthani haveli where the fairies or peris had just finished their nocturnal dance. Sun had risen over the sleepy hills of humid Girwa valley in Mewar region. Sweat from my drenched body adding to the artificial lakes of Udaipur. Overdone wall and ceiling frescoes too can be nightmarish.

Mahatma Gandhi

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Prayer meetings in your name, at your samadhi, in front of your statues, two minutes of silence – and there after? Go out and kill. In the name of a faith, a caste, a food, a garb, or dissent, difference of opinion, any and every thing that doesn’t conform to “theirs”, to regressive interpretations, and doesn’t surrender to mob in political power. If you were here today they will kill you again for one reason or the other. You only decorate the advertisements, imprint on currency notes, coins and stamps where you just smile or on billboards and government propaganda in the company of those that spread hatred. Your message is relegated to quotes and end notes. A Mahatma they can use to cover and hide their violent acts. Ahimsa for them reads Aham Hinsa. Using your round large glasses for self-serving ends has blurred their sight. Gandhi, would you come back? Come back as a lawyer, a fighter for the oppressed, a messenger of peace, as a sane voice of secular reason and equality? Will you really invoke the true Vaishnavs? If not, I would rather forget the past. Peace.

Image: ‘Gandhi’ by Rangagandhi-by-ranga-1

Iftar at Jami Masjid

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Iftaar congregation at Jama Masjid, Delhi during Ramzan / Eid, 2016

Wonder if God listens to its faithfuls or not, but somewhere I feel it is very unfair on those who fast for an entire month, every single day for the month of Ramzan. But to us, kafirs, this month gives a limitless opportunity to gorge on delicacies from sehri (at dawn) to iftar (at dusk) day after day without having to fast. With no iftar invitation coming my way this year I called my friend Azhar and decided to enjoy an iftar evening at Jama Masjid. On Azhar’s asking I reached outside Delite theatre at Asaf Ali Road at 5.30pm from where he accompanied me through the busy lanes and bylanes of puraani Delhi. Although the day had been cloudy and sultry, by the time we reached Matia Mahal and crossed Urdu Bazaar there was a gentle breeze flowing above us giving much needed relief. On the crowded street though it was the vehicular smoke, dust and smell of  kebabs, tikkas, gosht being cooked in deghs and biryani  which was all encompassing. For the devout heading to end their day’s fast after the evening namaaz the smell of good food is the most difficult ordeal to go through. One is hungry & thirsty, counting every minute for that moment when one will be able to fulfil his roza and take a few swigs of sherbat or munch a khajoor (date) – at that time to pass through street where every inch of space is decked up with food, food and more food is a torture to even the strongest of beings. The road to gate number 3 of the Masjid was completely blocked from all  sides. It was even difficult to walk and find your way past thousands of people, rickshaws, scooters and cars.

The magnificent Jama Masjid, with its imposing red stone wall ran to my right. It was past 6.15pm when we reached that point where there was long queue at the security check. From outside I could see the last of sun rays shimmering through the southern minaret and lazily resting on the ramparts. Adjusting my bag in one hand and clutching my shoes in the other I ran past the crowd to land on the crowded square courtyard. Hundreds of families in their colourful attires had taken up each inch of available space. Somehow struggling my way through them I reached the central water pond where too there was a queue of people waiting for their turn to do vaju (ablution).  Past them I managed to reach the main entry facing Red Fort. Having positioned myself strategically facing the Masjid. I managed to catch the setting sun behind the western minar and the smaller dome on its side. The announcement for iftar (to end the fast) came as a loud bang of a fire cracker post which there was a call by the muezzin. I had found my friends Azhar, his brother and Shoaib comfortably positioned in a corner next to the main prayer area. Food had already laid, there were dates, fruit salad, banana fritters,  pakoras, kebabs, sherbat and chilled water. By the time we finished eating the call to prayers, next namaaz, had already been announced. Wow!!! what a scene it is. As the lights are lit over the largest mosque in the country, Shahjehanabad the city of the Mughals came alive. Thousands of faithful quickly took position in neatly formed rows to offer prayers as the Imam reads the scriptures. It takes all of 20 minutes for the prayers to be over and then it is time to gorge on more food as people scramble their way out of Jama Masjid to hit the colourful bazaars and food streets all around it offering lip-smacking delicacies. As I came out of the Masjid having thanked my friends and having made peace with the God I was amazed to see the jam-packed bazaar below the main gate, past the steps where a canal used to run till a few years back. With dozens of people crowding at every shop, it was difficult to negotiate way past the crowd of men women and children busy buying artificial jewellery, clothes, household goods, gifts, sevaiyaan and kebabs. Colourfully decorated streets on all sides of Jama Masjid were lit with strings of tiny LED lights had the spirit of festivity. Shimmering streamers and flags tied from one end of the bustling street to the other were like a low-hanging canopy of stars coupled with paper lanterns, a reminder of the times gone by.

Fasting and feasting, thats what Ramzan is all about to me.