It is not everyday, and everywhere that one sees the privileged interact most happily and hungrily with the average man.
The world is sadly as polarized today as one can stand it to be. Inequality has risen to epic heights around the world. Separating people into an ugly world where the haves and have-nots live apart, with nary a care, respect, or even a thought about the other.
And so, it should hardly be surprising that the demagoguery of the likes of Donald Trump has become de rigueur. Humans have been divided by geography not just by race and religion, but also wealth, furthering the chances of derisive division.
If it were not bad enough that we hate the other because of race and religion, now we can also throw in fortune, both of luck and hard work, into that mix.
Such is the ugliness that holds true, when people are separated by walls, boundaries, neighborhoods, and lack of access for those under privileged and less fortunate.
That they are all from Maharani Gayatri Devi Public School in Jaipur, only part of the story, and what made me call them Maharanis.
It is their innate goodness, their hunger for travel, to help fellow man, to put their hours awake, to good use, and their commitment to fight for social equality, that has made them long time friends. The noise that one hears about communal discord and such, is true, especially in these times. Right wing nuts parade around as leaders of civil societies today, when in reality they extremely fascist demagogues.
On Monday morning, as we arrived at Hazrat Nizamuddin Basti, disharmony was the last thing we felt. Fear was nowhere to be seen. Hate did not lend its underlying smell add sulfurous stench to Delhi's hot summer.
On the contrary, it was humanity innate goodness that were the clarion brilliance of the day.
With Raashid Siddiqui at our side, we began our tour of the Hazrat NIzamuddin Basti. Raashid works with Sair E Nizammudin, a group that Aruna and Anjana work with and support.
Basti is the Urdu word for a neighborhood or settlement. Like Urdu that has borrowed greedily from many languages words that would make its spoken accent sweeter, this Basti sweetens its energy by welcoming all people that come its way.
Ninety percent of the neighborhood's population happens to be Muslim, five percent Christian and the other five Hindu. Hundred percent of the population feels safe, comfortable and at home. A feeling of harmony between residents, that goes beyond racial, religious and communal divides, makes this Basti a most wonderful haven of amazement. An idyll in these days of sharp demarkations between people who see each other, simply as others.
The photos above are of us meeting with Raashid at the Urs Mahal.
A palace if you will, where for 3 days every year, thousands gather to celebrate the reunion of the Sufi Saint with God. The passage of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya is not marked as a death anniversary, but rather a wedding anniversary. His finding his most sought after love, his fulfillment of his life's only desire, that of his union with God.
A late 18th/early 19th century site, it now hosts a grand langar (feast for all, especially the hapless hungry), qawwali and mushairah.
A gathering where man can connect, honor, regard, respect and contemplate another human, the Sufi Saints, and of course life and God.
it is the palace of the celebration of all things wonderful about life. What is life without music, food, and humanity? Nothing worthy of living for.
Urs Mahal, situated in a predominantly Muslim community, hosts people from across the world. Devotees who come to honor Sufi Peers and Qawwals alike. 60 percent of the visitors to the area are non-Muslim. All welcomed with open hearts, big gorgeous smiles, haunting sounds and delicious tastes.
At the Chaunsath Khamba, the Mausoleum of Mirza Aziz Koka, our math skills are put to the test. Calculating and counting can be challenge when presented with optical illusions.
The mausoleum built in 1623, is the burial site, and also a testament to the architectural genius of the minds of the 17th century builders. Built in the early 1600's and as sound in structure as the human body.
Mirza Aziz Koka was foster brother to Maharaja Akbar. They played together as kids. Best of friends from their childhood years. Koka was also a well respected and legendary swordsmen (Talwaar Baazi).
He was the son of Shamshuddin Atka Khan, foster father to Maharaja Akbar and a Regent to his army.
My companions on this adventure through Basti Nizamuddin were who I call Maharanis or TriDevi. No less than the legendary Sridevi in their stature and personal accomplishments and style. Each one as strong as one can imagine a capable human of being. Each one has risen above all challenges presented by life. Each one has given back to community and been of service to others. Walking through the Basti with them, was an honor and privilege. One I did not take lightly.
The colors, sounds, sights, smells, curiosities, beauty and discovery that I found during our time in the Basti, reminded me of the layers and layers of brilliance that I have discovered about these women, each time I get to bask in their company.
Each one of them as colorful as the roses and textiles as one found in abundance in the galis (lanes) of the Basti.
What is broken, does not always get fixed. Especially in a nation as populated as India. As staggeringly poor as India. As large as India. As multicultural and diverse as India.
Heritage and culture take back seats when poverty and welfare of humanity are rightly, bigger issues to be grappled with and addressed. Issues that are on the table, even if not always addressed as they ought to. But who can argue about the plight of a heritage site, when in sight of abject poverty. Poverty that stares one, without hate, without question, yet exists in plain sight. Waiting to be seen. Not demanding anything, Yet, for that peaceful resignation of its reality, hitting harder than usual, and demanding of those awake and aware, to rise about personal greed, and get into action to take seriously the condition of fellow man, fellow citizen, fellow human with feelings, dreams, aspirations, hopes, and most of all a life and dignity.
And so, as we arrived at the Tomb of Ataga Khan, the father of Mirza Aziz Zoka, it was a feeling of pride that enveloped me. I was thrilled to see that in a land full of so much to care for, and so many struggles to relieve, there was some work being done to also preserve our national heritage.
This mausoleum that was the burial site for Emperor Akbar's foster father, a minister in his court, a regent in his army, the father of his foster brother, who was also his best friend, is being restored by the Aga Khan Foundation.
"The AKDN works to impact architecture and human habitats in a number of ways. It works directly on projects that improve housing, particularly design and construction, but also village planning, natural hazard mitigation, environmental sanitation, water supplies and other issues that affect living conditions. It undertakes urban regeneration projects that include the restoration of historic structures, the creation and rehabilitation of public spaces, parks and gardens, and supports community-based planning and upgrading projects that spur social, economic and cultural development."
Raashid Siddiqui, our most able guide for the Basti, and the sites we visited in the Nizamuddin area, is part of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.
One of four kids, Raashid has grown up in Nizamuddin Basti. He has his bachelors degree in Fine Arts. He is a graphic designer and enjoyed doing computer aided design. With the AKTC, he works on taking the motifs and designs found in the Basti sites and monuments and using those patterns to form the foundation for items that help give area women employment and also an outlet for sharing their own creativity and finding vocations that are at once part of their heritage, in their neighborhood and do not compete with their life choices and commitments. By day he helps his fellow residents of the Basti as well as those like us that come with curiosity about it, and by evening and in spare time, he works to further his aspirations in design and the arts.
It is men and women like Raashid, who are given the tools to embrace, cultivate and discover their full potential, that have the ability to affect and realize change. Change that can better society and make the world a more civilized place for all to live.
Raashid showed us in confidence, restoration work in progress. Work that the foundation is invested in to restore the Tomb of Ataga Khan, as it commits itself to restore the dignity, pride, confidence, comforts, and heritage of the greater Nizamuddin Basti and the Humayun's Tomb complex and neighborhood.
Youth empowerment, women empowerment, secularism, arts and crafts, architectural heritage, and culture as a whole - are all being invested in through the largesse of the Aga Khan Foundation and the grand and inclusive vision of its leader.
It is a shameful indictment of the Nobel Prize that the Nobel Prize for Peace has not already been given to His Highness the Aga Khan.
Alfred Nobel said that prize was given, "For the greatest benefit to humankind", and yet, His Holiness the Aga Khan, whose foundation has greatly benefited humankind across the world, without thought given to religion, caste, color, nationality or creed, has yet to be even nominated, let alone awarded the prize.
Lets hope the Nobel body wakes up to this oversight sooner than later, and absolves itself of its own smallnes of thought and service to humanity. I hope that it rises above its mortal failures and shines again by recognizing the inclusive brilliance rarely seen in humankind that is shown by His Highness the Aga Khan, and awards him the Nobel Prize for Peace.
The chaddars (blanket) and the phool (flowers) that I was going to put on the shrines of Khwaja Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusrau were being carried for me, the photographer of our motley mix, by Dr. Bansal. I actually felt wonderful seeing her effortlessly take them from me, and feel nothing about it. Usually, anyone around me, will almost instinctually know that I am as naughty as an imp, but also deeply circumspect. Not sure why and how I allowed Manjulaji to take the offerings from me, but it happened and it seemed most natural. Luckily, I was able to take photos, that have made this blog happen.
"Nizamuddin Dargah is the dargah (mausoleum) of one of the Sufi saints, Khwaja Nizamuddin Auliya (1238 - 1325 CE). Situated in the Nizamuddin West area of Delhi, the dargah is visited by thousands of pilgrims every week.[1] The site is also known for its evening qawwali devotionnal music sessions. The descendants of Nizamuddin Auliya look after the whole management of dargah Sharif."
I put the chaddars on the shrines of Khwaja Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and also made the offering of flowers. Did the same also at the shrine for Amir Khusrau. The Sufi mystic and poet who is often called the "voice of India" and "father of Urdu literature". He was also a most beloved student of Khwaja Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. Khusrau died in October 1325, six months after the death of Khwaja Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. Khusrau's tomb is next to that of his spiritual master in the Nizamuddin Dargah in Delh
The love between the teacher and student is most celebrated and people ascribe all sorts of conjecture to it. It is said that the Saint had suggested that if scripture would have allowed him so, he would have buried Khusrau alongside him at death. But the next best thing was to have a site for him at his side. And that Khusrau passed so soon after his masters death, adds to the curiosity of their most devoted love and respect for each other.
The gentleman that Raashid had asked to take me in to the two shrines, suggested I enter with respect for the Saint and his disciple. Enter knowing what wish I wanted from them, and then cover the shrine with the blanket and the flowers.
Always uncomfortable about asking wishes at places of worship and divinity, I did what I always do, I wished for peace across the world, for harmony between disparate people, for love where there was hate and fear of the other, and health, happiness and hope for all across the world.
I was overwhelmed with joy seeing the diversity of the kinds of people that had flocked to these two shrines. That plurality was shining at their monument, not surprising given the message of inclusion that both the Saint and his most devoted student espouses. It was rather a hopeful reality to contemplate, and hope that it could become viral and infect every inch of this planet.
As we found ourselves at the Nizamuddin Ki Baoli (swimming hole), a 14th century shrine to the powers of divinity, and the miracles performed by Saints, I was hoping that the elections in India, and that the 2020 elections in the US, could show us some magic, which derails the demagoguery of the governments in power in both our nations.
If Sufi Saint, Nizamuddin Auliya could have lived to see his student bring a torch to flame with immersion at the source of the spring that fed this swimming hole water, it is my hope that we can bring an end to the hateful politics that is ruling India and the US by dividing the populace along lines of race and religion.
Nasiruddin Chiragh Dehlavi, who succeeded Saint Nizamuddin Auliya, got the word "Chiragh" added into his name because of the miracle that at the behest of his master, the Sufi Saint Nizamuddin Auliya, had him render water into fuel to help keep the devotees working at night, with help of oil lamps to create this watering hole, that now is a popular and beloved swimming hole for the kids of the Basti.
Miracles happen, but they also happen to those and around those, that have the good sense to dream, want, crave, respect, and support what is correct and not just easier and popular.
It is always easier to be selfish and think only of self, ones own family, ones own community, and those that are most similar to ones own race, religion, nationality and disposition.
The best amongst us are those that are least selfish, and think first for what will positively affect those that have the least amongst us. Saintly are those that strive to give voice to the voiceless. Those are real men that defend the rights of the least fortunate and most marginalized. Leaders and true elders are those that say what is correct rather than gaining popularity and respect by doing what is easy and easiest for all to follow. Not always is the path of least resistance the path one should follow or lead others to. Dangerous times call for true humanity and courage to be shown.
Economies can be rebuilt and broken homes can be salvaged. Jobs lost to mistakes in calculation of risks and through wrong calculations, rectified with reflection and correction. What takes millennia to heal is those hearts and minds that are broken beyond repair when man is taught to hate, kill and loot fellow man. Generations can be lost and no healing found. Such is the danger of civil wars that are fomented and planted by demagogues seeking popularity and power by dividing their own people for short term personal gain.
Such were the thoughts crossing my mind as I was watching the reflections of the building on the water at the Baoli. The carefree energy of the kids diving into the suspect water, had me least concerned about their medical health, but had me worried about how much more time they had to live in this freedom, before the ugliness of the devious agendas of the demagoguery of our leaders unleashed terror in their lives, and those of their children and theirs.
As we left to head back home after a beautiful morning spent discovering the sites, sounds, smells, and brilliant diversity that made Nizamuddin Basti a most precious place, I was grateful that such civil idylls still existed in this planet.
I was thrilled to see mom and pop stores that sold most everything that one might need in a jiffy, and had the feel and charm that belonged to their particular neighborhood and brought money back to the area.
Seeing the food stalls, made me hungry, and also played metaphor to how much there was for us to chew on, as we traversed peacefully, and without fear through the Nizamuddin Basti, about the beauty and bane of our lives and our existence. How our words and our votes matter. How easily we can lose our humanity to those evil demagogues who come cloaked as decent men, bringing us Godly decency, when the only thing they really are bringing us, is hateful anger and spiteful disdain against fellow man. Brought out by appealing to our popular desires and prejudices.
By espousing the cause of the common, they pretend to be working for the masses, whilst rhetorically exploiting issue after issue for their own political gain.
Rabble rousers and hate mongers ought to have no place in our lives. When support of the masses is won by exciting the most base emotions of the voters, a leader elected is hardly a leader of any moral standing. Rather, such a creature is morally bankrupt and a danger to the very existence of humanity as humans ought to celebrate and cherish.
The Maharanis, the three ladies who brought me to the Basti, might have gone to an elite school, but in the arc of their lives, through the work they invest their time in, and with the largesse of their hearts, they bring out in the actions that goodness that ought to be pervasive and most common.
If being elite is to be aware of the dangers of demagoguery, be committed to civil societies, show respect for fellow man no matter what their color, caste, religion or creed might be, to work for the betterment of fellow man, to sweat in service of the poor, to dream of an inclusive society - then give me more elitism and give me more courage to fight the hate mongers that come clothed as the Saints of the Common Man.
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