A sly naughty smile from a friend. Who hasn’t had anything to do with politics or movements, not that he cares much either. Yet, the presence of fellow human beings, and countrymen, all around him, wearing caps proclaiming their identity in a bid to support a moniker that has assumed a proportion more than being just that – a name – evoked a reaction from him. Quite a major achievement at that.

I am Anna.

That’s what was written on all of those caps, in case you still haven’t figured. And if you thought that referred to a blonde bombshell who briefly courted the racket and caused more news waves for her intimacies with a wailing Latin crooner, I’d be damned trying to understand how you might have landed up on this page in the first place.

Connaught Place has a spattering of mosques across the Inner Circle area. Most of them dating back to a time at least relevant enough to have made Lutyens weave them as part of the Delhi he created behind the lattice of those white columns. I’ve spent my time in most, probably all of them, at varying points in time. But the one to which I’ve paid the most visits, and which I could term as my ‘regular’ mosque is situated right across that haven of delectable baked goods, the mention of whose name evokes memories in the mind of any Dilliwallah who’d know that Danish doesn’t just refer to someone who’s a descendant of the Nordic Vikings. Yup, Wengers. That and the fact that I prefer walking, just walking, around the Inner Circle having nothing better to do but breathe in the spirit of the air, as opposed to dragging my feet in the controlled environment of all the shopping malls which have jutted their presence in this city. As with most things that you get familiar with, that mosque developed a sweet spot for fond memories of times spent walking around the Circle, and stopping at the call for prayer while making your way through life. Life!

Moti Masjid – the board outside says that it dates back from 1941 – doesn’t really speak much in the manner most of the other mosques I’ve been to this month spoke through their walls. It spoke through the manner of the people who frequented the mosque, giving it the air of a working class mosque, with men (and on occasion, women too), coming in with a hurried pace while taking a break from their jobs to remember the Creator and get back to earning their livelihood again. Such was the case over Iftar too. Everybody present there had the bearing of one who is on the move, away from the warmth of family, and yet working hard to keep the family warm.

As I got out after Maghreb prayers, my eyes caught those Gandhian caps again.

I started toying with the idea of getting caps made which said – I am Imam. After all, I could be one for myself, only for myself, couldn’t I? A brief thought of contemplation,  and my mind told me yet again that it wasn’t time enough.

Complete set of Ramadan images here.

Photo kheench lo jitni chahiye sir. Lekin please yahan par namaz nahi padhiye.

That was the sudden change in tone from friendly to pleading, as the security guard saw me bring out my prayer rug ready to be spread out for performing Maghreb.

I couldn’t help but give out a smile. Not at the security guard, but at the irony of the situation.

Yaar, log yahaan par daaru pee sakte hain, juaa khel sakte hain, ganja phoonk sakte hain. Aur masjid main namaz hi nahi padh sakte?

Everyone just laughed out as I said this. The sound of my laugh betrayed a sardonic character.

That’s what Begumpur Mosque is. Situated behind the South Delhi neighborhood of Malviya Nagar, the locality is better known as Begumpur Village, and has an assortment of lanes running through with congested housing on either side. A striking feature in the village is the presence of a large park right at the entrance of the village, which quite naturally is the hangout spot of the kids and youngsters of the area, amongst others being the happy-to-do-nothing variety. Ask around, and the folks are helpful enough to point, even lead you to the mosque. Maybe seeking some sort of faux pride – in being neighbors with the heritage of that structure, and having grown up under the shadow of its walls – as they welcome an outsider and lead him in its direction.

An imposing prayer hall, and a huge courtyard, the size of a football field. Dating from around the mid 14th century, the Tughlak dynasty had this as one of their landmark constructions, and at its peak, the mosque is said to have served as a madarsa, an administrative center, a hub of social activity, and even a treasury.

The structure was in ruins. Shambles. The majesty, however, was still intact. Even if it meant that the sections of the roof had caved in at places, and the domes made way for the sun to shine through and light up the rubble on the floor. After all, it never is the rickety low end car which has a sun roof.

Unlike the park at the entrance to the village, the mosque compound was a hangout of another sort. Empty bottles of cheap booze, disposable glasses, wrappers of munchies and snacks were to be found lying almost uniformly across. I caught a whiff of folks smoking pot while I passed them. And I’m pretty sure I would have found used condoms lying around in corners too. Except that the corners smelt of human piss, and I didn’t have the courage to go around looking either.

At the sound of the Azaan, all I could think of looking around was for space to say my prayers.

Full image set here.

Situated at the end of the bustling main Chandni Chowk road, Fatehpuri Masjid can be made out by the presence of its entrance gate, apart from which there is hardly anything that gives out the presence of the mosque from the outside. After all when one is walking through the middle of one of the busiest markets in Delhi, where each step you take has the potential of your stepping on somebody or vice versa, you don’t really go around searching for clues. Although that evening, Chandni Chowk had donned a completely different look. Because of Independence Day, the entire length of shutters along the lane were closed, and all of a sudden you realize that there is actually a road beneath your feet as well. Oh, and on either side of you too, yes, there is a road. If nothing, a national holiday did allow me to make a realization about the public resources available around me.

Iftar at Fatehpuri Masjid was a quiet affair, which came to me in quite stark contrast compared to the experience I had last week at Jama Masjid.

I-Day, and rains. Didn’t exactly make for the best combo to trip through the lanes of Ballimaran. Nonetheless, I made the most of whatever I could manage while navigating my way through the muddy slushy lanes of Gali Qasim Jaan to dip into some Nihari, and then jumping over puddles as I found my way to the dairy which sold my favorite Habshi Halwa, only to find out that they were out of stock. The kids there directed me to another shop in Ballimaran, and I must say I was quite impressed with the blend there. Yes, I’m a bit choosy about where I have my Habshi Halwa, even when I’m in Purani Dilli.

Full image set here.

Such was the case this Saturday when it was decided between @Polgrim and me to spend our evening at the Lodi Gardens and break our fast there. Home to one of the finest manicured greens in Delhi, which house the very dead remains of the Lodi dynasty, the gardens are one of the few settings which provide a sense of calm to anyone who goes searching. Families out on a picnic with kids leaping around trying to catch frisbees, lovers sitting on secluded benches while awkwardly trying to weave an imaginary drape around themselves to provide shelter from prying eyes, middle aged bureaucrats, diplomats and bureaucrats out to take a walk and ‘talk philosophy’ (yes, that was overheard by @Polgrim), travelers taking a tour of the lawns with their travel diaries and cameras in tow, amongst folks like us who wouldn’t like to have anything more than just drowning ourselves in this collective atmosphere set against the backdrop of the architectural structures.

With the sun setting behind the Sheesh Gumbad, we took up a place on a terrace adjoining the Bada Gumbad, which gave us the best possible ‘bird’s eye view’ of the lawns, if the view could be called that way. Simple Iftar with goodies from the neighborhood baker, as we looked at the birds making their flight back home, their silhouettes flying over the domes of the dead against a dramatic skyline which changed color from grey to fiery orange to a bright yellow before going dark again. The sky turned black, and for a moment it seemed like the outlines of the birds and their chirps were eaten up by the dark of the graveyard.

Time for Maghreb prayers after Iftar was had, and I was a bit confused about where to pray. Of course, the natural thing to occur to mind was to just say my prayers at the terrace itself. I took out my phone and checked the Qibla (the direction of the Ka’aba in Mecca towards which Muslims turn to in order to say prayers) app to confirm the direction. Looking in that direction, I realized the three domed mosque right across from where I was, at the other end of the Bada Gumbad. Of course, the mosque is now abandoned, but I slipped downstairs and quietly performed prayers behind a pillar of the mosque as the light from a sodium streetlamp began to cast longer shadows in the hall. And I still feel amazed at the accuracy with which people could ascertain directions even five centuries back.

Did someone say dead men don’t tell tales?

For the full image set of the One Lunar Month, you can have a look here.

Fridays. In another sense, they still retain their meaning for me in the manner they always have, and will hopefully continue to do so too. The day when you wake up with the knowledge that you have to dress up in your Friday best, and make it in time for the Khutbah to the mosque for the afternoon prayers, make your way through the rows of the faithful to find a place for yourself, possibly in a spot which has some likelihood of a shade if it’s the Delhi summers to avoid scalding the soles of your feet (specially important if you manage to make it to the mosque just in time for the Khutbah), and then being jostled out of the mosque after the prayers get over, in peak rush hour Delhi Metro style.

Which specially make Friday an extremely busy day. And I have nothing else to blame other than my own self for not being able to go out and spend time to explore a mosque like I’ve been doing till now. But then just when I was thinking I might have to give things a miss, and go to one of my regular mosques which I may have already covered, I found out where I’d be breaking my fast.

I was crossing Hauz Khas, Gulmohar Park to be precise when I was reminded by a close friend about this mosque in there. Abandoned mosque, and not much of a mosque either – it’s just a wall mosque. Very small structure in the middle of a lush green park, which finds an assortment of South Delhi walking around the pathways in pricey sporting gear. The last time I was there, I hadn’t ‘graduated’ to digital, and had shot a few frames of the mosque on B/W film. Then the mosque was in really bad shape – vines climbing all over, thick shrubbery undergrowth, and walls covered with moss. Which is why it was nice to see it being restored by the ASI. The markings around it said it was called Darwesh Shah ki Masjid. Legend has it that the founder of the Lodi dynasty, Bahlol Lodi paid a fakir named Darwesh Shah who asked him if he would be interested in buying the kingdom of Delhi for a certain amount of money. For all we know, the Lodi dynasty may just owe their name in history to this mosque alone.

As the sun went down, I picked up a spot on one of the many park benches under a tree, and broke my fast watching boys playing football in the lawns. Wonder what kingdom was up on stake as prize money for the boys.

Window. Khirki.

A quaint village tucked within South Delhi, Khirki has in recent times, owing to its proximity of location, also emerged as a resident neighborhood of choice for a lot of folks. Situated right across that stretch of shopping malls in Saket, there is a lane which leads in towards Khirki Village, and opens itself upon a structure which resembles a mosque. In quite an unusual manner actually, because with the natural undergrowth of greenery around it, it feels as if it has a natural moat surrounding it, making it look more like a mini fortress at the first look.

It was getting dark, along with the impending possibility of a downpour, going by the manner of an overcast sky and the sound of distant drumrolls. Going up the stairs of the mosque, I really couldn’t manage much courage to walk into the mosque. The sense of smell becomes very acute when one fasts, so one can well imagine my condition at being encountered with a whiff of the choicest cocktail of all manners of animal piss right at the entrance. (A recent trip to the neighborhood baker did tell me how well qualified I was these days to take over the job of any of those sniffer dogs that bomb squads have as part of their posse). Visibility wasn’t very good, since the mosque was a covered structure mostly, and because I could hear all manners of chirping, squeaking, squealing animal sounds, I thought best to keep my visit to explore the place further for a brightly lit sunny day trip. I was supposed to break my fast in a few minutes, not become the unwitting victim for ending someone’s possible starvation spree.

Right beside the erstwhile Marriott Hotel (now ITC) at Saket, the mosque has been one which I used to visit quite often around the time I used to travel to Gurgaon for work. Those were the times before the highway opened up, so it was the MG Road, and driving from my part of town I used to cross Saket too, which made the mosque a pretty natural place for me to stop by specially for Maghreb prayers on the way back into town. I just rushed into the mosque as the drizzle started getting heavier after whatever I experienced at Khirki Village.

I got a few minutes late in navigating my way through the rain and traffic to reach the mosque, so while the main Iftar proceedings in the courtyard were over, I was guided by some kids to an upper level where some men were having Iftar. Post prayers, I looked around for someone I could speak with to get more information about the mosque. I had after all noticed a tomb in the center of the inner prayer hall since the first time I visited the mosque. Turned out that this mosque is believed to have been around since the time the Tughlaq dynasty built the Khirki Mosque across the road. Over rounds of chai, the mosque elders shared stories of how they and the earlier generations of their families had been engaged in ensuring that the mosque stayed intact. Something which had become critical in the recent past, as the mosque had reached the possibility of a threat to its existence after the plan for the adjoining shopping malls was passed by the DDA. The mosque still continues to stay in its place, has in fact grown and undergone renovations for expansion. All of this while housing a madarsa for kids, around 120 of which have the mosque as their home and center of learning.

I had a tough time saying no to the persistent offers from the elders of the mosque to join them for dinner.

Poor guy. Someone took his shoes.

Standing outside a mosque once prayers are over, one can witness a breadth of expressions – the old chacha with the bent back and the tasbeeh (prayer beads), the young and restless who are in a hurry to get out as soon as Assalamalaikum-Wa-Rahmatullah is uttered at the end of prayers, the young corporate who is already busy with his Blackberry while putting on his shoes at the steps, the caring father with the kid by his arm making his first steps towards making the mosque a part of life – and amongst them, it’s quite likely you will find that one guy who is walking out barefoot.

Of all manners of perversions, it is probably a fetish for nicking shoes which stands out at almost all places of worship (barring Gurudwaras, in my experience). Yes, you may have your occasional mobile phone enthusiasts, or the hardcore ones who prefer hard cash – but by and large, such instances remain fairly limited.

The drab morose expression that gentleman had on his face as he came out bare feet, made me feel some bit for him. No, I wasn’t outraged at this happening during Ramadan. I’ve had one of the most expensive pair of shoes I had, disappearing during a past Ramadan – and I’m sure most of us would have similar stories to recount from our times spent at places of worship.

Empathy wasn’t exactly required in this case though. The gentleman got into his car, dusted his feet, pulled out his shoes, and drove away. Smart, eh! Well…shoe smart, more like it.

Nestled within the Masjid Nursery near Khan Market, the Pandara Road mosque looks like it has been around for a really long time. Only that not much is known about its exact history, though it is quite evident that it must have been quite a prominent mosque in Lutyens’ giving its location and size. Some stories abound that it was built by Babur, while another school of thought mentions Farrukhsiyar – nonetheless, it is quite certain the mosque has a heritage from the Mughal Period. One look at the walls of the inner prayer hall, and you can get a quaint feeling about the heritage of the mosque, although now the prayer hall has a carpet which gives way to almost half an inch under your weight. And oh, not to forget mentioning the split ACs – yeah baby, we got ‘em here too now.

The courtyard had been made ready for Iftar with rows of dastarkhwan ready with plates of simple stuff which make up the quintessential Iftar at a mosque – dates, some fruit, some deep fried stuff, and disposable glasses of Rooh Afza – as the faithful waited for the signal to take their places around the dastarkhwan. The muezzin said the prayer for breaking the fast into the microphone, and that’s it. One more evening brings end to another day. Time does fly by faster in Ramadan.

In a bid to beat the traffic, I used to take the route from NIFT leading through one bit of a narrow lane and coming out on the other side at South Extension. A stone boundary wall with minarets jutting out of it was that one structure which always caught my attention, but then South Delhi has a lot of such sights. You can’t really keep on tracking each one of them.

Moth ki Masjid. That’s what it is called, and after which the Masjid Moth neighborhood in South Delhi is named. Legend has many variations on the myths which prevail around the reason why the mosque was named such. Each one of them having that one common theme of having to do with Sikander Lodi, one of his ministers, and a grain of moth (daal, lentil). By the time I reached, the gates had already closed, and there were a couple of men engaged in end-of-the-day conversations comfortably seated on the stairs leading up to the mosque in their baniyans and lungis. The gate was locked, and I thought I might have to retreat. One of the lungi men asked me randomly – Andar jaayenge? (would you want to go inside?), to which I said of course.

The door had a sort of a chain latch, the kind which is called kundi and it had a big lock on it. What followed again brought home the fact that you just can’t stop jaw drops while witnessing the jugaads in this nation. The man just lifted the kundi, lock included and pushed the door open. The door wasn’t locked; the lock was there only to give out the impression that it was.

The mosque, of course, was deserted. A wide open courtyard, with a few graves, and the main prayer hall at one end. The place did have a certain feeling of openness – strange, since it was surrounded by narrow congested 5 storied buildings. Since it was getting close to the time for Iftar, I stepped out and looked around for a mosque which might have been inhabited.

There is a small market right across, with a row of shops selling everything from poultry to electrical wiring to scrap metal to vegetables. The safest bet to ask for directions to a mosque was the butcher, whose identity was betrayed with those huge posters printed with verses of the Quran plastered behind him.

Arey baithiye bhai, hamare saath hi roza kholiye. O beta, jaldi se bhai ke liye paani le kar aao.

The neighborhood didn’t have any active mosques as such, so it was me and two butcher brothers who broke the fast. The skinned chickens were quite conspicuous by the absence of a layer of deep fried batter around them at that time.

The long hair, beard and camera still attracts a lot of attention. This time, the scrap metal dealer who came running when I was taking a picture of his balance set against the steely fluorescent glow of his shop.

Accha, aartisht ho aap. Sab sahi hai bhai sahab, yeh lo mangal hai, bajrang bali ka prasaad khao, aur mast raho.

I didn’t find any shops selling moth or daal or lentils in that market.

If you’re wondering why you don’t see any pictures on this post, that was in fact the reason why I found myself in a situation which turned unsavory enough.

For a really long time, I think it’s been like some 7 years since I first came across it, I found the mosque in Defence Colony a very enchanting place. For starters, it is HUGE. To find a structure so big, and belonging to a place of worship in one of the poshest localities of Delhi was something I always felt intrigued about. But then I only stopped by there for the occasional Juma (or Maghreb) prayers while passing the surrounding area, so couldn’t delve into the details either. The original structure of the mosque has a dome which gives out the fact that it has some bit of a medieval historical association, which always added to my curiosity.

Go to this mosque during any off peak hours (read as in between prayers) and you’d see rows of kids poring their heads over the Quran, humming and moving their torsos in harmonic motion as they memorize the book. Yes, the mosque also houses a Madarsa for kids, who are mostly from remote parts of Northern India, sent by their parents who may not exactly be in the best financial position to support their upbringing.

So I was going around with my camera taking pictures. Climbed up the stairs to take pictures of the dome against the sunset, chatted up with a kid who was from a village in Bihar, and who had memorized 18 chapters of the Quran, at the age of what, he looked like ten? Before then, I tried locating the Imam to speak to him and explain why I wanted to take pictures. He was reciting the Quran, so I spent some time waiting for him to get free, and though he did notice me, since he was busy I thought best to leave the talk for later.

Then the inevitable.

I had a feeling all along that there might be some places where cameras may not be as welcome. Which is why I try to be discreet when inside a mosque’s premises with the camera, and try to only take images of the external structure. It was much the same case here till now too, and I would have asked the Imam before taking pictures of the proceedings of the Iftar.

All of a sudden, I see this group of like 8-10 people running all around the mosque compound, while I was getting down the stairs. It didn’t take me much to realize who they were looking for. ‘Yeah, right, and so it begins’, was what immediately came to my mind. Though I still thought that I should be able to explain things and it should be sorted, after all there was nothing wrong in taking pictures of the external structure.

With like five people in my face asking my name, profession, reason for being there, and with me answering all of them, I reached the Imam and sat in front of him. I introduced myself, stated my purpose, why I was there. What followed was something that I would simply say was as good as putting my head inside a millstone.

The Imam simply refused to listen to me.

Hum kya jaanen aap kaun hain, yahaan kya karne aaye hain (how do we know who you are, and what your intentions are). I introduced myself again, someone asked for my ID, I passed on my business card. Now my business card is a plain white card with just my name and contact details, simply because after saying good bye to my ex-corporate avatar, I didn’t feel the need for any flashy logos or fonts on my card which spelt w-e-i-g-h-t. Unsurprisingly, the card just evoked smirks and guffaws from the crowd. Is par toh kuch bhi nahi likha hai!

I was beginning to lose it by then. Which is something that still makes me feel sick in hindsight. Not losing patience as a practice when you are fasting definitely doesn’t come easy in the real world.

I tried to be as polite as I could be, explained what a blog meant, told the Imam that I wanted to talk to him, had come to him earlier if he had noticed, that I wanted to know more about the history of the mosque.

Hum kya jaanen aap kaun hain, kahan se aaye hain. Agar masjid ke baare main aur jaanna hai toh Sir Syed jinhone Muslim University banai thi, unki likhi tareekh main sab hai. (How do we know who you are, etc. And if you want to learn about the mosque, read the history text which was written by Sir Syed who founded the Muslim University).

I told him that I had passed out from the same university he was talking about, and which history text by Sir Syed do I need to refer to? The Imam didn’t pay any attention.

Koi kisi ke ghar main aise ghus kar photo thodi leta hai. Aaj hamare ghar ki photo le rahe hain, kal hamari bahu betiyon ki photo lenge. (Nobody takes pictures like this inside anybody’s house. The next we know is that pictures of our daughters would be getting clicked.)

I just couldn’t make the bahu beti connection. And I felt like asking him whose house was it anyway. If anything, I was part of that house’s admin as much as anybody else.

I calmly told the Imam that I’ve taken pictures at Masjid al Haram, both of them. As usual, the Imam didn’t pay attention.

It just went a bit too far when voices started asking the Imam whether they should break my camera. I had half a mind of telling them, look, this cost me 90 grand, pay up, and you can do whatever you please with it. Didn’t do that, just asked in an assertive tone about the necessity of breaking the camera. Someone asked me to delete the pictures, to which everyone agreed. So yes, in full view, I pulled out each image on the preview screen and deleted every one of them.

Yes, some bit of me also got erased. But I think we are possessed with regenerative powers, so I shouldn’t think much about it.

With those glaring eyes around me, I just didn’t have any reason to have stayed back. Nobody asked me to stay back for Iftar, knowing that I had mentioned specifically that I was there to break my fast. Did it break my heart? To be honest, yes, it did. It became evident when I sat on the boundary wall of the park around Defence Colony market and broke my fast alone.

Now do I blame the Imam for the way he acted? No, and yes.

No, because I do understand that we live in trying times. He might have become scared, there might have been some background to his knee jerk reaction and I may have acted as a trigger. After all, there are numerous stories of clandestine ops being conducted in mosques. But then I didn’t need to carry a full blown DSLR to take pictures if I needed to do that? Wouldn’t I have been subtle if I had another objective?

Yes, because I still don’t understand the way he simply wasn’t looking me in the eyes while talking, and just raising his voice looking towards the mob of people for support in what he said. Because he was just not listening, not wanting to listen to what I was saying, let alone try to understand what I was saying. And as an Imam, I think he is supposed to be more open that that. An Imam, after all, literally means a leader of men. And most of all, even if I was up to something unacceptable, it still doesn’t take away the fact that nobody offered once to make sure I had Iftar when I walked away with like 2 minutes remaining for the due time. And for this, I would want to question the folks there, more than the Imam.

I feel bad, I really do at having had to bare this side of things too. Considering that the past few experiences have been very enjoyable. And I could have chosen not to talk about this. It’s just that this is purely a product of the times we live in, and the times we are building for ourselves by not trying to understand our environment, which is what compelled me.

I’m still going around with my camera to mosques. After all, each one of them is my house too.

And I’m not playing the victim here. The victims were the ones who confronted me at the mosque.

Another evening, another exit from a mosque. And another pat on the shoulder. Rather an arm around the shoulder. I was too busy looking at the image preview on my camera, so I didn’t pay much attention thinking it was one of the friends who was following me down the stairs out of the mosque. The voice which followed was something that almost made me drop my camera.

Joo phrom Nyu Jeeeeelayndh? Phrom Oushtraylian?

(Roughly translated into questioning whether my ethnicity was Oz or Kiwi. Yes, Indians only know nations which play cricket. Bloody racists, we are too.)

One look at the beholder of that voice, and turns out to be a simple skullcap welded guy trying to be friendly. I just smile back and say

Abey yaheen ka hoon

(No, I’ve landed here from Mars)

Both of us just burst out laughing. That’s what happens when a long haired bearded guy in baggy pants and a black metchul T-Shirt is moving around Old Delhi with a huge camera. Toorishts, we become. And I don’t blame him.

This was the day, the place that each preceding day of Ramadan had been building up towards. Sunday and Old Delhi, Purani Dilli. Or better yet, Shahjahanabad. Need to accord propah respect and all; after all that place is worthy of deification for all the marvels of history and gluttony it contains within its boundary walls.

Past Ramadans have always been filled with those trips post midnight or around Suhoor to Purani Dilli. But never did I have the opportunity to have Iftar in the area. The last time I tried, I made the cardinal mistake of trying to drive all the way up in order to find a place close enough to park and walk down. I ended up having Iftar with dates and bananas bought from a thela in my now-moving-now-stationary car. I just about made it in time for Taraweeh (the late night post Ish’a prayers).

That was in the pre-Metro era. Now you just breeze through the traffic (well not exactly breeze through, even on Sunday evenings, there is the possibility of you being squeezed in human traffic, getting squished is a privilege reserved for weekdays) as you move around in the underground Metro, which takes you as much as around 6 levels under the ground (I said levels, not feet), and you get out right in the middle of all the hullabaloo. Rickshaws, hand drawn carts, paan wallahs, day laborers lying sprawled out on the street after a day’s work, chai, metal, paper – you can see it all as soon as you take the last flight of stairs of the metro station. @Polgrim said we should walk up to Randi Masjid (no, not named after the sister of the Zuckerberg), which was supposedly named after a respectably named Mubarak Begum who was a concubine of some Britisher (you can trust @Polgrim to give out such quaint bits of trivia and information when it comes to history). A quick trip there, hop on to a rickshaw and finally towards THE destination.

Jama Masjid.

As it stands out from behind that maze of electricity poles, cables and dilapidated pieces of crumbling construction, a symbol of pure majesty. I had expected it to be bustling with activity, but as soon as I stepped inside, it was a literal human sea which would have needed nothing less than Moses to make a way through them. A huge picnic site with families sitting around their Iftar hampers on spread out bedsheets. I could’ve just kept sitting there, or walking around, just observing people. And kids. Kids, and again their disposition for running around open spaces. Some of them observing their fast and sitting around like pious ones waiting for the Azaan. Some of them decked up with garlands of genda (marigold), instantly giving out the fact that they were observing their first fast, and that it was a festive time for the family.

BOOM.

BOOM.

I almost misfired my camera’s trigger with those sounds of cannon fire. For a split second, the sound did make it feel like it wasn’t exactly the best decision to have made it to Old Delhi on a busy Sunday in Ramadan. A friend’s shaking hands till a good five minutes later stated the obvious. The times we live in. But it was time for Iftar, as the sound of Azaan wafted out from the loudspeakers. Like I said earlier, keep Iftar light. So you can indulge better later. Applicable more so when you are in Old Delhi. Kareem’s it was. Not exactly what we had in mind, because the labyrinthine lanes hold delights of gluttony which only those who care to veer into them know. Nonetheless, after a day spent fasting and thinking of food as sunset approached closer, even Burra, Badam Pasanda, Mutton Stew, Chicken Curry followed by Firni scraped clean out of earthen cups feels like manna. And I’m not mentioning the Nihari – I usually tend to give it a pass when I’m at Kareem’s – there is much better stuff outside the ahaata. Stuffed though we were, we still tried to walk down the crowded lane which leads towards Chitli Qabar. Didn’t end up reaching there, that was decided to be kept for one of the following Sundays. @Cheemra couldn’t help resist picking up some Shahi Tukda floating in desi ghee which, shamefully, I didn’t have the courage to partake of, after my shameless hogging a few minutes back.

The Shahjanabad adventures don’t end here. To be continued. Each Sunday. InshaAllah.

Big shout out to @Polgrim, @PranayD and @Cheemra (and his missus) for making it such a fun trip.

For the full set of images, click here. (Thanks for that!)