Sultan Garhi, A Sultan’s tomb, rather a crypt. It stands apart, a distance away from the mushrooming blocks of DDA buildings and the Vasant Valley School on a part of the Delhi Ridge that is being encroached upon inexorably. The historical monument and the Ridge, each have their appeal and make Delhi a distinct city with a charm all its own. Among the more beautiful capital of the world, it rivals Rome and Vienna as a centre of history. May be Istanbul comes close, with its old and the new intermingling as they can do only in the Orient. There is nothing to compare with Delhi’s tree-lined avenues, Jamun, imli, shimul, shatut, neem, above all neem – now in great demand by Western drug companies apparently for its curative properties – form a stately canopy, occasionally obliterating the sky. And in season, the flowering amaltash and gulmohar splash the city in hues of yellow and red. A drive up the Rajpath to South Block an the President’s residence brings alive the British legacy, the imperial past and the books that coloured it in my youth – Kim, The Hill of Devi, A Jewel in the Crown, Bhowani Junction…. But it is the Muslim legacy that captivates, Sultan Garhi: Iltutmish, who built it in grief and despair for his favourite son Nasiruddin, was a slave. Yet thanks to his abilities (military in the main), a little cunning, and a good marriage (his wife was Qutbuddin Aibak’s daughter), he became the first Turkish Sultan to sit on the throne of Delhi, thus founding what has been termed the slave dynasty. Nasiruddin’s father wanted to build him a grand tomb, but being of a religious temperament, the son left instructions that after his death his body be thrown into a pit, for as the sinner he saw himself to be, he felt he ought to be designed to one. Islam required that his body be buried under the ground. But Nasiruddin’s has been placed on top of it in a cavity in the earth and over his body a tomb has been built. Hence Garhi, which in Persian means a pit, or crypt. As one descends into it, the bats take flight: in the dark of the pit their sudden movement is unnerving. These are not tree bats but micro bats that inhabit caves, old monuments and preserve them by keeping them free of insects. A single bat may devour a couple of thousand each night! Apart from bat droppings, the odour of milk, ghee, gur, turmeric and flowers pervades the crypt . These are the offerings of Hindus and Muslims who visit Nasiruddin’s grave. Sultan Garhi is one of Iltutmish’s several contributions, the best known being the Kutub Minar, though it was his father-in-law who laid its foundation. While Iltutmish was the greatest of the slave kings, they were all a ferocious lot; they had to be, having to contend with the Mongolian hordes led by no less than Changez Khan. The Khilji rulers who succeeded were no softies either. Ala-u-din, repelled several Mongol invasions and put to the sword one and all of his kinsmen in Delhi to ensure no one was around to plot and grab his throne. In comparison, the medieval British Plantagenet kings’ behaviour towards their kith and kin – remember the Wars of the Roses, 1455-1485 AD – appears to be gentle. In my memory, the Tughlaks and the Lodis stand out, as I grew up in bungalows on roads named after these rulers. Wrestling with Linty, the missionary’s son, in the garden of our house on Tughlak Road to determine who was the strongest man in the world and playing cricket on the lawns of the Lodi Estate house….the Tughlaks and Lodis. Muhammad Tughlak became known for his hare-brained schemes. He ordered the evacuation of Delhi and removed its residents to Daulatabad. One of the Lodis who followed the Tughlaks, after the brief Saiyid interlude, too did not care overmuch for Delhi. Sikander Lodi (thanks to this dynasty we have among the loveliest gardens this, or that, side of the Suez) was the first king to make Agra his residence. His quarrel with the nobility led to Babur’s intervention, and the Mughal era commenced with Delhi at his heart. Whether the Mughals or the slave kings, they ruled from Delhi because the Aravalis (The Ridge) on one side and the Yamuna on the other provided an ideal place for settlement. The Yamuna today is heavily polluted, and the portion that flows through the capital can sustain neither fish nor any other form of life. As for the Ridge, it is systematically being destroyed by “planners” and the construction lobby to house commercial and residential complexes. But the Ridge, such as it is, still enchants. Not more than a month ago, we spotted a herd of nilgais. Having suddenly come across them in a secluded patch of Sanjay Van, we started at each other. We held our breath, not wanting them to catch fright and vanish. A couple made as if they would resume chomping the vegetation. Then quickly one darted away, and the rest followed. On the Ridge, you can be startled by starlings that spring form under your unsuspecting feet. The Red-vented Bulbul, Wren Warbler, White Breasted Kingfisher and the Red Start, among many, many others appear to nest in the trees and even the shrubs. The foot-paths, hidden under the dense undergrowth during the monsoon, may lead to a sudden clearing where a shaft of sunlight pierces through the vegetation. Another may emerge on a water-hole where the birds slake their thirst and the purple, pink and pale yellow butterflies flitter from plant to plant. There is also the glory of a golden amaltash amidst it all, taking one’s breath away; or a blooming red gulmohar, a patch of the Ridge on fire. Is all this vanishing? Are the Ridge and our historical heritage in stone, doomed to disappear? For me they have reflected the essence of Delhi. No matter how long I have been away, to boarding school in Dehra Dun, university in Britain, a job in Bombay, when I return, a glimpse of a minaret, the dome of a tomb through the trees, the amaltash in bloom, there is that sharp, sudden ache and the thought, this is where I belong, this is my city. q |
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