Tuesday, April 24, 2012

if graves could speak

I am not much of a doting history sort of guy but it was again my dear friend Chaudhary, who lured me in desultory for another day. Very near to Vasant kunj, there is Tomb of Sultan Garhi. It can be easily accessed if you heading from Vasant Kunj Marg towards Vasant Kunj. Right after Masudpur near C-block, there is a narrow road going in towards this fort. The first thing that comes to mind as you enter here is another monument in the face of Delhi. but as we pranced along the way towards the inside, we could see the ruins of one time. It was built as a Mausoleum for the Death of his beloved eldest son, Nasir ud din Mahmud by slave king Iltumish.  

There is nothing baroque but ruins, but somewhere in the middle when you sit there glancing at those gleaming stones being hit by sunlight, you see somebody's past, their memoirs. the locals here take care of this monument as it is important from religious point of view. there is a Dargah inside where everybody prays despite their religion or ethnicity. It marks an important point of unity and alacrity.

I sat for a moment to see people moving out to bivouac to perform evening ablutions and some just trundling to nowhere and felt peace in the heat and emetic stench of air outside. I guess we become a little secure in our world looking at people practically living in dolorous and shit (sorry for the use, but reality) and still making most of it. You can see it in their flippant faces when they smile back in little badinage asking you to take their picture, knowing they would not be able to see it any day.

To mark our presence here we played few notes of guitar and that attracted friends, some short, some tall, some could speak, some dulcet sounds. As the sun went down playing little streaks of red and orange over us, so did we over our mates, a little of blues though came as surprise from my dearest friend, Chaudhary :-).

I captured few structures still standing tall after being subject to shredding up in the war of human race.

From here after a whiff of self satisfaction and beatitude on our little shoulders, we went to pay our homage in Dargah. cameras are not allowed inside, but it was dank and I felt a little warm inside doing silent prayers in such serene alcove of Dargah. Although in my mind played little Sherlock Holmes when I thought of my shoes outside. Reality bites, but I guess living in this city makes you somewhat skeptical about entire countrymen. Again I feel guilty for that. On coming outside and finally being reunited with my shoes, I felt relieved with Lodz and Lodz of shame.

This tiny bird was kind enough to let us take some of her poise.

So as we hit the road, I took some of that orange turning into black and thought for a while about those people who were doughty and had the humongous patience and will to build civilizations that inspires all of us to do that little extra in our little worlds. If their macabre gravestones could speak, would they have liked/ tolerated what we have done to their microcosm?

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