Delhi’s Hidden Treasures

Jainism emphasizes the sanctity of all life, a tenet that’s exemplified most basically in vegetarianism. The respect for life can go to extremes, with some Jain sects wearing muslin `masks’ over their mouths and noses, so as to not inadvertently inhale insects. It’s therefore not really surprising that one of Delhi’s largest and most important Jain temples should have, as part of the temple complex, a hospital dedicated to healing birds.

I visited on a hot day in April, and must have been looking pretty unsure of myself. A young man talking on a cell phone saw me looking lost, and took time off from his phone conversation to tell me to climb the stairs to the hospital. He followed me up (he turned out to be an employee at the hospital) and then took me on a guided tour.

The Bird Hospital, which was established in 1929, is divided into wards. These range from large cages for sociable birds like parakeets and pigeons, to smaller ones for the pint-sized species: budgerigars, lovebirds, etc. Anybody can bring in injured birds, and it seems Delhi, with its huge avian population (supposedly the largest and most varied anywhere except Nairobi), has plenty of ailing birds. I was shown birds with fractured wings (neatly bandaged and with a splint); paralysed birds; birds with carefully covered wounds, and more. There were rose-ringed and Alexandrine parakeets, budgerigars, lovebirds, blue rock pigeons, fantail pigeons—many on the mend and waiting to be discharged. Incidentally, all are set free once they’re well. Although the hospital’s rules say they treat raptors and other carnivorous birds only as `outpatients’, they do seem to bend the rules occasionally. I saw two black kites and a shikra recuperating.

Another flight of steps, and I came to the pigeon ward. Delhi has a lot of pigeons, and the top floor of the Bird Hospital housed, on the day I visited, more than 3,000 pigeons. Although the hospital is kept fairly clean (considering that other than one vet and two assistants, there didn’t seem to be any other people around), this area ponged a bit. Okay, maybe it was just too hot.

By the time I’d finished peeking at the birds, I was feeling benevolent enough to leave a donation. The hospital’s run completely on charity (they don’t even charge entry fees), so anything you can give helps procure medical supplies and food for the birds. The hospital even accepts gifts in kind—outside the main door is a list of the grain they’ll happily receive: yellow mustard, moong beans, pearl millet, sorghum, etc.

Do stop by—this is an interesting place, and the people (and birds) are welcoming. And yes, it isn’t gory at all.

And although most shops in Kinari Bazaar sell kinari, that isn’t all. They also sell just about every conceivable thing you could need to decorate yourself, a stage, a temple, a wedding banquet hall. The shops here are crowded with garlands of fake flowers and fake banknotes, tinsel coronets and tiaras, theatrical costumes (we saw a tiger body suit with a papier maché mask), sequins, tinsel, lace, crochet work, costume jewellery, bootis (little motifs, usually floral, made of artificial gemstones, fake gold and silver, sequins etc; they’re used to add glitter to clothing), fake feather boas, and—well, anything. As long as it’s bright and glittery.

And while you’re in Kinari Bazaar, do duck into the tiny street called Naughara (or Naugharana), which goes off to Kinari Bazaar about five minutes’ walk from the Dariba Kalan end of Kinari Bazaar. Naughara—the name means `nine houses’—is a cul de sac which contains nine houses dating back to the late 18th century. The houses all have intricately carved stone gateways, and the cul de sac itself is separated from Kinari Bazaar by a gate, which used to be locked at night to keep the nine houses safe.

Since the nine houses of Naughara are all privately owned, you won’t be able to see inside, but the gateways are pleasing enough. Unfortunately, except for one home, all the others have painted the gates over, so what you see isn’t very traditional.

Once you’ve admired the gateways, walk till the end of Naughara and turn right, into the white marble Jain Swetamna Temple at the end of the cul de sac. You’ll have to take off and deposit anything of leather—belts, shoes, handbags, watches with leather straps—as well as cameras, at the reception. You can then climb to the first floor, where a lovely little glass-roofed courtyard floored with white marble leads into an arched prayer chamber that is painted all over. A riot of arabesques—beautifully curving tendrils, leaves and flowers—decorates the outer section, while the inside of the chamber is covered over with paintings of rulers worshipping deities; religious ceremonies; and stories out of Jain mythology. I must confess to not being a fan of Hindu and Jain temple architecture, but this is absolutely mind-blowing. Every inch of the prayer chamber is painted over, with the floral mouldings along every edge painstakingly gilded.

Entry to Naughara and the temple is free; you may, of course, leave a donation at the temple.

The Neela Gumbad was built in 1624-5 as the mausoleum for a nobleman named Fahim Khan. Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan, an able general, renowned poet, and the stepson of the Mughal emperor Akbar, was Fahim Khan’s master, and built this tomb for his attendant in recognition of his loyalty. Over the years since, Neela Gumbad fell into a state of neglect and was so completely surrounded by a slum that till a few years back, you couldn’t really visit this monument. Today, thanks to an increasing awareness about protecting our heritage, the slum’s been cleared and the tomb’s undergoing restoration.

There are no entrance fees for Neela Gumbad, so my husband, my sister and I simply parked our car and climbed a short flight of steps to the platform on which Neela Gumbad sits. This is an irregular octagon, which looks like a square building that’s had its four corners lopped off. Arched recesses—tall and wide on the wide sides, narrower and shorter on the narrow sides—adorn the tomb. The recesses on the narrower sides have an unusual pattern painted on in red and white: it looks as if the artist had tried to depict a brick wall.

But what really floored us was the exquisite tilework that decorates the front of the Neela Gumbad. Lovely geometric flowers, stars and others patterns march all up the front, on either side of the main arch. They’re a whirl of colour: bright green, royal blue, turquoise, deep yellow, and white. Long neglect has, of course, taken its toll and many tiles are missing, but there’s enough to make you wonder how splendid this must have looked around 400 years ago. This, incidentally, is a rare form of decoration in India; about the closest similar example is the Chini ka Rauza in Agra.

The other sides of Neela Gumbad are relatively plain, but the interior’s yet another work of art. The entrance archway has been closed off with a barred gate, and when we visited, this gate was locked on the inside and the none too conscientious guard was lying flat on his back, fast asleep inside the tomb. Discreet attempts to wake him having failed, we contented ourselves with bending over double and peering up towards the ceiling between the bars. The domed ceiling is covered with netted vaulting, a pleasing crisscross of incised plaster that merits another visit simply to see it!

The Sundarwala Burj is the tomb of one such unknown—a nobleman, obviously, since the tomb is richly decorated; but someone unidentified, nevertheless. It’s an early Mughal building, probably of the 16th or 17th century, and is fairly small: just about 4 metres on each side of its square structure.

To get to Sundarwala Burj, ask for Humayun’s Tomb—that’s the nearest major landmark. Facing Humayun’s Tomb, take the lane on your left (this leads, according to a sign alongside, to Gurudwara Damdama Sahib). A couple of minutes’ walk, and you’ll reach the government-owned and –operated Sundar Nursery. This is where you turn in, through the main gate of the plant nursery. If you look straight ahead, you’ll see a square building with a flattish dome atop it: that’s Sundarwala Burj.

Although the Sundarwala Burj is a protected monument that’s ostensibly open to the public, it’s a good idea to take permission. This consists of simply peeking in at the Sales Counter next to the main gate, grinning at whoever’s there, and asking if you may have a look at the Sundarwala Burj. Works like a charm!

Sundarwala Burj looks neat enough (if a little drab) from the outside; it’s when you reach the door and look up that you see why I’m counting this little-known monument among Delhi’s hidden treasures. I went in, and stood gawping for a couple of minutes before I whipped out my camera.

The walls and the domed ceiling of Sundarwala Burj are decorated with some of the best preserved incised plaster you’ll see anywhere in Delhi. The walls are mainly covered with patterns of arabesques—delicately curving leaves, flowers and tendrils, separated from the plain dado by a broad strip of plaster incised with Quranic verses that march right across the interior of the tomb’s walls. Above, the ceiling is decorated with a stunning pattern of six-pointed stars. Each of these, in turn, is filled in with arabesques. Absolutely exquisite.

If you’re at the Sundar Nursery, you might also like to pay a visit to the Sundarwala Mahal, another tomb which stands a few metres to the left of Sundarwala Burj. This one’s pretty dilapidated, and has little of ornamental value. Like the Sundarwala Burj, this doesn’t call for an entry fee, but `permission’ from the nursery is recommended.

The Daryaganj Sunday Book Bazaar has been in existence for close to half a century now, and deals largely in used books and low-priced editions. This, therefore, is where you come for bargains and for sudden, serendipitous finds—books loved by a previous generation, books once owned perhaps by former Indian presidents and prime ministers.

The books are almost always in English, though some of the booksellers also stock Hindi or Urdu (very occasionally other Indian languages, and sometimes even French, German, Italian or Spanish). And the variety is mind-boggling. There are books here on just about every topic under the sun. Computers and IT, mathematics, physics, chemistry, automobiles, gardening, cookery, pregnancy and motherhood, architecture, art, history, religion, travel, sex, humour, fiction—you name it, and you’ll be able to find a book on it. Some of the booksellers specialise: there are, for instance, some who only sell academic books, on (say) mathematics, physics or management. Some of these go one step further and sell only books that are supposed to help school students prepare for entrance exams for engineering, management or other college courses. No wonder, then, that high school and college students form a large part of the crowd that descends on Daryaganj come Sunday.

And then there are books that cater to hobbies or even to more offbeat professions. I remember having once bought an Illustrated Dictionary of Art here—a book that contained, in painstaking detail, steps on how to draw just about everything from an apricot to a zebra. It turned out to be a very useful gift for an artist friend, who loved it!

There is also, of course, fiction—just about everyone known, from old favourites like P.G.Wodehouse and Agatha Christie to Jeffrey Archer, Danielle Steele, Stephen King and Michael Crichton—and hundreds of others.

The trick to enjoying yourself here is to reach by about 11 or so in the morning (earlier, and the sellers are still setting up). Then, begin at one end of the road and work your way down. Go slowly, looking, savouring, searching and bargaining. You just may come across the find of a lifetime!

That, by the way, was only the start of trouble for the Zeenat-ul-Masajid. The mosque lay in the critical Daryaganj Cantonment area and in the days after the mutiny, the British made a concerted effort to ensure that an uprising of this nature would not recur. Part of this effort was to pull the fangs of local communities by systematically depriving them of places to assemble—which included mosques. Zeenat-ul-Masajid was taken over and converted into a commissariat bakery. About two decades later, it was returned to the Muslims of Delhi, but later visitors—as late as 1929—report seeing the mosque’s grounds being used as a stable for tongas (horsedrawn carriages), a wrestling club, and a tennis court.

Today, thankfully, Zeenat-ul-Masajid is back to being a mosque and nothing but. It’s an imposing building made chiefly of red sandstone, with a façade of seven cusped arches topped by three domes in white and black striped marble. A massive courtyard, now with grass poking up between the flagstones, stretches in front of the mosque. There are two sheds in the middle, each with its own row of water taps, meant for ritual ablutions. The original hauz or tank used for ablutions, now dry, stands opposite the central arch.

A broad staircase leads up to the mosque from the street outside. At the top, take off your shoes at the hand-lettered sign (alas, only in Urdu) before the courtyard. The mosque is in use, but fairly unfrequented on days other than Friday, so you’ll probably find yourself on your own. The beauty of this mosque (questionable beauty; many feel it exemplifies the decline of Mughal architecture) lies in its very spare ornamentation. The fluted columns and cusped arches of the façade, along with straight lines and geometric designs carved into the sandstone, are about all there is. Inside too, you’ll see some traces of vaulted netting and carving in the ceiling, but that’s about it. Look your fill from the outside—the façade is the best part of this mosque.

And yes, one last little titbit: Zeenat-ul-Masajid is also known as the Ghata Masjid, the `cloud mosque’. There doesn’t seem to be any reason for the epithet, but some historians suggest that ghata is a corruption of the word gadha (donkey). Since people following the same occupation often lived and worked within a separate neighbourhood with its own mosque, the fact that Zeenat-ul-Masajid was once surrounded by the homes of muleteers may have something to do with its name!