It is not every day that someone makes a tryst with history. My moment came in June 2007 when I went to Delhi for the first time. I really cannot describe the excitement I felt when I went exploring the most romantic city in the world. Delhi, the old Mughal capital, the city Mirza Ghalib passionately wrote poems about. The high point obviously was the trip to Old Delhi. It was indeed an experience to see the modern high-rise buildings, fast food outlets and shopping malls slowly fade away to the charm of the Red Fort, The Jama Masjid and Humayun’s Tomb.
Due to lack of time, the only place I could visit was the Jama Masjid. Walking through the busy Sunday bazaar of Chandni Chowk, I saw the elevated structure doggedly braving time, yet, majestically towering over the street. I tried to conjure up an image of the Jama Masjid as it was during the Mughal times. I could imagine Theophilus Metcalfe and his infantry run up that very road I was walking on to capture the jehadis who were based in the Jama Masjid during the siege of Delhi in 1857. Chandni Chowk still retains the charm of the old world. The narrow lane leading to the Mosque and the street vendors on either side of the road calling out to prospective customers seemed no different from how it might have been a century and a half ago.
While entering the lofty tower-like gateway, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer majesty of this building of red sandstone. It has been nearly four centuries since it was built. Of course, it would have had its share of stories to tell me and I was listening. Climbing up the worn out steps up to the northern gate, I walked into this sanctuary with reverence for those who built it and for the religion that inspired its construction.
Once inside the Jama Masjid, I walked to the wide open courtyard. There were people sitting beside the reservoir in the middle of the courtyard and cooling their feet. I was taken back to a time when Delhi was the abode of Emperors. I could see the Princes, the Nobles and the common folk of Mughal Delhi offering their prayers, I could see the jehadis hiding from the British and the Sikh Regiment setting up camp in that very courtyard after the siege in 1857.
Despite the sweltering summer heat and the crowd inside the Masjid complex, I silently lived my moment through history. I stood in awe of the massive domes and the hall with its Islamic arched entrances under these domes. On its walls of white marble were inscriptions inlaid with black marble narrating the story of the building of the Mosque and words glorifying the reign of the monarch who built it-Shah Jahan.
As I stepped out of the Masjid, I realized how detached our generation is from the history and heritage of this country when my friend commented that despite being in Delhi all his life, he had never been to the Jama Masjid until that day. I turned back one last time and stood for a moment in respectful silence to the men who built it and in respect to the four hundred years of history this majestic Mosque has seen. Shah Jahan has rightly named it “Masjid-i-Jahan Numa” (the Mosque commanding a view of the world).
Due to lack of time, the only place I could visit was the Jama Masjid. Walking through the busy Sunday bazaar of Chandni Chowk, I saw the elevated structure doggedly braving time, yet, majestically towering over the street. I tried to conjure up an image of the Jama Masjid as it was during the Mughal times. I could imagine Theophilus Metcalfe and his infantry run up that very road I was walking on to capture the jehadis who were based in the Jama Masjid during the siege of Delhi in 1857. Chandni Chowk still retains the charm of the old world. The narrow lane leading to the Mosque and the street vendors on either side of the road calling out to prospective customers seemed no different from how it might have been a century and a half ago.
While entering the lofty tower-like gateway, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer majesty of this building of red sandstone. It has been nearly four centuries since it was built. Of course, it would have had its share of stories to tell me and I was listening. Climbing up the worn out steps up to the northern gate, I walked into this sanctuary with reverence for those who built it and for the religion that inspired its construction.
Once inside the Jama Masjid, I walked to the wide open courtyard. There were people sitting beside the reservoir in the middle of the courtyard and cooling their feet. I was taken back to a time when Delhi was the abode of Emperors. I could see the Princes, the Nobles and the common folk of Mughal Delhi offering their prayers, I could see the jehadis hiding from the British and the Sikh Regiment setting up camp in that very courtyard after the siege in 1857.
Despite the sweltering summer heat and the crowd inside the Masjid complex, I silently lived my moment through history. I stood in awe of the massive domes and the hall with its Islamic arched entrances under these domes. On its walls of white marble were inscriptions inlaid with black marble narrating the story of the building of the Mosque and words glorifying the reign of the monarch who built it-Shah Jahan.
As I stepped out of the Masjid, I realized how detached our generation is from the history and heritage of this country when my friend commented that despite being in Delhi all his life, he had never been to the Jama Masjid until that day. I turned back one last time and stood for a moment in respectful silence to the men who built it and in respect to the four hundred years of history this majestic Mosque has seen. Shah Jahan has rightly named it “Masjid-i-Jahan Numa” (the Mosque commanding a view of the world).
1 comment:
True to the blog title... a mysterious, nostalgic feel of the gothic... and what makes the gothic seem a little eery is the fact that history cannot be fully documented
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