In The Heart Of Old Delhi, History Lives, Poetry Thrives

(...The world is the body and Delhi its soul.)

“Dil-o-Dilli dono agar hain kharaab/Pa kuchh lutf is ujde ghar mein bhi hain”—Mir Taqi Mir

(My heart and my Delhi, though both are ruined/There's some delight in this wrecked house too.)

Ghosts and stories: Old Delhi is home to plenty of both. On a warm Sunday morning, Chandni Chowk shimmers in the sunshine. Dust swirls; the air thrums with traffic noises and the hum of human voices. Crowds overflow on the streets, the narrow lanes, the narrower alleys. There are hawkers and shoppers, food carts and flower sellers. Rickshaws ferrying people to temples, dargahs, masjids, gurdwaras. Havelis looming like sentinels; horse-carts trotting by at their own pace. The past and the present stroll arm in arm here. Ghosts and stories hover at every turn.

Right opposite the Lal Qila Metro station, the Lal Mandir glows red, true to its name. But the revered Jain mandir in Shah Jahan’s walled city, Shahjahanabad (Old Delhi today), has had other names before. Once upon a time, it was called Urdu temple because it stands very close to the Urdu Bazaar. The idols in the temple are from the 1400s. The temple and the city stand on the banks of the Yamuna—the stoic witness of history. In the heart of the walled city, there are many architectural marvels. The Jama Masjid, Delhi largest mosque, filled with throngs of believers and tourists. There is Shahjahan’s magnificent Red Fort, which he built after shifting the Mughal capital from Agra to Delhi over 300 years ago. From the peacock throne installed in the fort, the emperor ruled over his realm.

Chandni Chowk never tires. There are lanes and lanes filled with silver merchants who’ve set up shop here for generations. Food carts dot these lanes. There are jalebiwallas and kachori sellers who will regale you with stories and throw in a quote from Ghalib as you bite into a crisp jalebi or its grander Mughal avatar, the imarti. Electrical goods of every kind known to man are on sale in one part of the market. In another, stores hawk brick-red ghagras embellished with tiny mirrors and sherwanis fit for kings.

Chandni Chowk, the ‘Moonlight Square’. Shahjahan’s daughter Jahanara Begum had conjured up a marketplace that had room for beauty and commerce—a rarity in Mughal times, a rarity in our time too. A pool, whose waters reflected the moon in all its glory, lay at the marketplace’s central avenue. Canals crisscrossed the market and mirrored the blue sky. Even though the pool and the canals have vanished, it’s easy to imagine them glimmering as you walk down these streets. Even though commerce has captured the lanes and sidewalks, it’s easy to picture how beauty used to roam these streets too.   

In Dariba Kalan, the scent of Ittar overpowers you when you step into Gulab Singh Johrimal’s perfume shop. Johrimal moved to Delhi about 200 years ago and soon grew more prosperous than all the other merchants in the walled city. He was the Badshah of scents: the official supplier to the Mughal zenana. Poets and lovers swooned over the fragrances his perfumery extracted—like the exquisite and super-expensive Rooh-Gulab (soul of the rose). Fragrances permeated Urdu poetry as naturally as light pierces clouds.

Ahmed Wasi wrote:

“Wo kare baat toh har lafz se khushboo aaye/Aisi boli wohi bole jise Urdu aaye”

(When he talks, every word has a fragrance/This is possible only with those who know Urdu.)

Not far from Chandni Chowk, in the neighbourhood of Ballimaran, stands Mirza Ghalib’s haveli. It’s a heritage site now and there is a guard at the entrance who loves to chat. “Ghalib loved to eat,” says the guard, waxing eloquent about the poet’s love for Old Delhi’s signature dishes. He talks of Ghalib with such familiarity as if the two of them used to be close friends in another lifetime. “Do you like his poetry?” I ask. The guard smiles. “Shayar the,” he rolls his eyes. “Mashhoor aadmi the”. I am tempted to quote Ghalib’s lines on fame and its ephemeral nature, but I refrain. There is a time to speak and a time to be silent and listen to the stories the haveli’s walls have to tell.

Onward to the Jama Masjid. Red sandstone, white marble, the sun shines brightly on the Masjid-i-Jahan Numa. There is a crowd here, as always, but there is peace too. The mosque looms tall, dwarfing us humans and our petty concerns. The scale of the structure and its architectural daring inspire awe no matter how many times you have been here. Children scurry about, playing a game they have invented on their day out. There is shouting and laughter, much excitement. The sound of the azan fills the air. A gentle breeze blows over the crowd; the bleached blue sky stretches above us all—believers and non-believers, the faithful and the sceptics.