ALAM E ARWAH - DELHI KARAVAN CHRONICLES

चल बुल्लेया चल ओथे चलिए 

जित्थे होवन सारे अन्ने।

ना कोई साडी जात पछाने,

ना कोई सानू मन्ने।

Baba Bulle Shah says let's go to a place where everyone is blind. A land where no one could recognize us with our cast and creed, and no one appreciates us based on who and what we are.

Every walk I have attended with Asif Sahab has an intrinsic value in my life. It is difficult to describe that in words, but you might see a reflection somewhere in between my writeups. Every walk satisfies my appetite in one way or the other. Some quench my thirst for listening to endless stories. Some enrich my awareness of the people, places, and things which existed in some other era. And then there are some which satisfy my wild curiosity.

The last walk I attended was a cocktail of all of those.

We were sitting on the large rocks of the long-lost Aravalli, just behind the tomb of Azim Khan. The gigantic Qutub Minar was in the view. The Sun was about to bid adieu for the day when Asif Sahab began.

'There was a time when we all were formless and shapeless. It was when there was no religion, no caste, no creeds.

It was then we were in "Alam E Arwah", that we were as one soul. We know each other long before entering into this world.'

His words were enough to kick-start my never-ending imagination. I couldn't control my mind at that moment, nor I can control my hand right now.

And then the Almighty took one big bowl of clay and started shaping each of us with his bare hands. Writing the roles one has to play in this physical world. And then we all fall softly one by one on the face of the earth, just as a feather kissing softly the ground. 

'And this world - which you and I call physical is 'Alam E Dunya'.

A crucial thing happens between the journey from Alam E Arwah to Alam E Dunya. Somewhere in between that journey, we lose our memory. We can't recall what all happened there. We can't recognize the souls with whom we were together. All those memories wash away like the blackboard before the next class begins.

I could imagine my soft landing on the earth. 

Yes, I was there once. I must have been conscious at first when I was shaped into this body. I must have been alone for the first time. I must have been overwhelmed when I commenced my journey to Alam E Dunya. 

And then on one alien turn, I must have seen a tunnel of light. By passing through it slowly, all the memories must have vanished.

And then I must have touched the face of the Earth. I must have seen some strange faces looking at me smiling and sobbing. But little did I know that I was trapped under certain labels and identities. I was recognized by a name. A caste was attached to it. A religion must be attached to it. A certain financial status was attached to it. I was identified by the color of my face - my ethnicity must have been important to many.

I was taught quite well to hate people who fall under different labels, recognized by different identities. I was trained to believe that the path I'm following is superior to the others. 

When you zoom out on this scenario a little bit, you start seeing that we all are differentiated with barbed wires from the people whose paths are totally different. I was taught to have a super Ill feeling towards them and they must have thought likewise.

All this drama of labels, identities, and recognition goes on and on when something magical happens.

A day comes when someone enters your life and you suddenly travel before the time when the tunnel of light comes into the journey. At his or her first glance you feel that you know that person quite well. You feel that you can trust him with all that you have. Conversation or no conversation, you still feel that there is something between that person and you that can't be described in this so-called physical world 

That is the person who was once your companion soul in Alam E Arwah.

And sometimes an incident happens and you start seeing some pattern in it. Some conversation, some colors, or some scenarios. Slowly you start recognizing that pattern and you understand that the exact thing has happened at some other time, some other place.

Yes, we term it as DejaVu today. But terms, theories, and equations have majorly no answers to so many 'stupid' questions that come across our minds.

Some other time...

Some other place...

'Is Jannat (heaven) a time or a place?' Asif Sahab asks us. 

After mixed answers, he started explaining about a place called 'Alam E Barzakh'. That is where we all will go when we leave our mortal body and our role ends in Alam E Dunya. 

It is difficult for me to describe that but about one thing I'm quite sure about. A light tunnel will again be there on the route to Alam E Barzakh. When I pass through that tunnel, it will be more like a feeling of waking up from a deep and dreamy slumber.

You know the words which I was listening to were more like deadly bullets shot towards me.  They were hitting me with an enormous force that the damage it had caused was visible to me. I could see a bloody puncture near my heart. The blood that was oozing out of it was dark, almost black.

When nothing was left to ooze out of that wound, the light started entering into it.

'Alam E Arwah'

I think Baba Bulle Shah must have mentioned Alam E Arwah when he said these lines -

चल बुल्लेया चल ओथे चलिए 

जित्थे होवन सारे अन्ने।

ना कोई साडी जात पछाने,

ना कोई सानू मन्ने।

Love, Laughter, and Peace 

HRN

Hazrat's Sandals - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

Image Source

I heard somewhere that there are three thumb rules to good storytelling... unfortunately, no one knows them.

I'm an anti-format person since childhood. Be it a coloring book or my monthly budget, I've always missed the boundaries. There is no harm in coloring an elephant's eyes little grey, in case you miss that little boundary of its oval-shaped eyes.

I may not know the thumb rules of storytelling, but I can tell you the kind of stories I enjoy. 

Firstly, they should be long enough to be in that zone for a while.

They should carry expressions.

And yes, they should not carry a particular format - A storyteller should not stick to the beginning, middle, or end, or anything hard and fast. He or she must feel free to tell a story, a story within a story, or a story within a story within a story... or maybe crossovers. Ahh! I'm listening to all of that.

Asif Sahab told this story to us on many walks - Sometimes individually - Sometimes as a story within a story (or within within, you got that)

And this story is too close to my heart.

So take a bellyful of breath, hold it to the count of five, and release it.

Shall we begin?

It was a foggy winter morning when a middle-aged man came to the khanqah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. Just like many other fariyadi and devotees, he was expecting something from Hazrat. The khanqah was filled with too many people that day. He was worried as the days were approaching and a lot of arrangements need to be made. His only daughter is about to get married. And like every responsible father, he had to take care of everything. His family was going through a major financial crisis at that time. He heard a lot about Hazrat and that he never send anyone empty-handed. 

He waited calmly in the queue, trying hard to control his shivering, partly from the spine-chilling weather, and partly from worries on his head.

When he entered the room, Hazrat smiled at him. The man offered him his respectful salam and sat near him. Hazrat's aura was such that he couldn't utter a word. He kept staring at his feet for a while. He had faith that Hazrat will understand his situation without him saying anything.

As other people were waiting outside, he stood up and went out of the room. He planned to stay at the khanqah that night, expecting that Hazrat may call him and offer some help for his daughter's marriage.

The night passed. Without any such luck, he decided to leave for his village early so that he could reach there before dusk. He went to Hazrat to ask for his permission. Hazrat gave his blessings, looking directly into his eyes as if he is reading something. The man tried to look somewhere else but couldn't. When he turned to leave Hazrat told him to stop.

"There is pair of sandals kept right next to the door. Keep them with yourself. May the Almighty be with you."

The man obeyed, though doubted his decision of coming to the Khanqah in the first place. 

Heavy rainfall greeted him in the afternoon and he couldn't cross even the city when the Sun started to set. He decided to spend the night in a Sarai (motel kind of structure).

He changed his clothes, made his bed, and kept Hazrat's sandals near his head. 

It was around midnight when he felt someone's presence near his head. It was too dark. He woke up with a thud. A man in his mid-forties was squatting near his head and weeping. He was wearing an embroidered angarakha, just like someone from the royal family wears.

'What happened sir, have I committed some horrifying mistake?' He asked.

'From where have you got these sandals, my dear friend?' The man who was weeping countered his question.

'I got this from Khanqah of Mehboob -E - Ilahi, Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. He gifted this to me himself.

'

'Can you give me these? I'm ready to pay any amount you want.' He stood up in a hurry and took out two moderate size cloth bags filled with gold coins. He handed over both bags to him, spilling a few coins on the ground. 

The man was numb. He felt like he is still in his deep slumber. That coins were enough even if he had to make arrangements for the marriage of ten more daughters. He watched that man keeping his head on the sandals, wiping them with his sleeves, keeping them on his head, and marching out of the Sarai.

He was still in a state of shock when he heard two young men talking.

"Wasn't he Amir Khusrow, The court poet in the darbar of the Sultan?"

"Call him Tooti -e-Hind Amir Khusrow."

The next morning when Hazrat woke up, he felt like a celebrated baarat, a musical procession heading towards his Khanqah. He saw that Khusrow is walking towards the Khanqah with Hazrat's sandals on his head. Hundreds of people were following him, singing praises of the Almighty. Some were dancing in all trance, some were weeping, and some were just filled with joy.

Khusrow bowed slowly towards Hazrat, one by one he slipped both his sandals on his holy feet and stood back up.

'Oh Turk, how much gold coins you bartered for my sandals?' Hazrat used to call Khusrow Turk lovingly.

'I just gave what all I had. If he asked for my life, I would have gladly given that too' He said with moist eyes, still looking at Hazrat's feet.

'Ahh! you got them at an extremely cheap price.'

Whenever this story ends, I try to notice other people's smiles. It's like a universal way of responding to that story - Reason? I'm not sure but the story might give the listeners a sense of bliss and contentment.

See, I just catch you smiling too. What a lovely smile you have.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

ps - I tried to recite this story a couple of months back. Though It's nothing like Asif Sahab tells us this story. He is just mind-blowing. If you still wish to listen you can click here. Thank You.

Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

Picture Source - Praveen Sir's Facebook Profile

 

You know what, almost all my childhood stories started with 'Once there was a King'. And I always imagined Sultans and Badshahs - with a ghoul on his back or one with a magic carpet. But on the last walk I attended with Delhi Karavan, I understood a different meaning of true Kingship.

When I started attending walks with Delhi Karavan, my imagination started becoming more vivid. Slowly I could see different characters right in front of my eyes. I started sensing my imagination adding different colors to the characters - weaving garments with the magical threads as Asif Sahab provides more and more details.

Of all the walks I have attended, the last one was different. Though it's brutal to compare one walk with the other, the last one was closest to my heart. 

It was one dark summer evening that lightened my soul.

I'll keep all the details of the walk reserved for some other article, for now just imagine a group of about twenty-five people sitting in the courtyard of Khanquah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, With Asif Sahab sitting almost in the center. A candle is lit in front of him.

 Khanquah is a place where Sufis commence their holy practices of unification with the Almighty. They stay there and spend years and years with the sole motive of making a connection with the Almighty. And Hazrat was the Sun among the stars when we talk about Sufism in Hazrat-e-Dilli.

The place where I was sitting has watched centuries after centuries, the establishment and destruction of various Sultanates. But Asif Sahab made me imagine everything with stories containing high intrinsic values. I cross my heart and say that I could imagine Hazrat right in front of my eyes. Though no writer is capable enough to describe his personality in mere words. Some might also consider it as blasphemy. On the other side, I felt him so close to me that his details are so vivid in my mind that I couldn't stop myself from writing them.

I would request you to take a bellyful of breath before reading ahead. 

I imagine a dark evening. If you look at this place from a decent distance, you will see multiple oil lamps lit, flickering as the evening is a little windy. There are dozens of small chambers. In each chamber, a Sufi is sitting doing different holy practices. Some are reciting different names of the Almighty. Some are looking at the sky without blinking their eyes. Some are whispering something, inaudible to human ears, loud enough to reach the kingdom of the Almighty.

The rickety staircase was leading us above the structure. A wooden structure was erected there. There is a small room on the backside of the structure.

 Hazrat is sitting in the leftmost corner of the room.

A small earthen lamp was lit right in front of him. One could sense the heavenly fragrance of multiple incense sticks, but it is difficult to locate even one.

Hazrat has a lean frame as he is not much dependent on food. A Sufi doesn't crave food. Hunger can't make him its slave.

He has a pair of pretty long arms. If you see him standing, you can notice his hands reaching the level of his knees. His eyes are sinking deep into their sockets, making his cheekbones look higher. His jawline is sharp. His hair is long and matted. His beard is bushy, long, and unkempt. His lips are turning white, dry as the desert. He is wearing an oversized white kurta, which definitely has seen whiter days.

He remains silent most of the time. He is sitting with his back placed softly against the wall. His head is up, staring up toward the sky - as if he is having a silent conversation with the Almighty. Now his head has turned down as he is asking for mercy from the maker. Sometimes there is complete silence in the room, one could hear his own breath. Sometimes there are sounds of giggles and chattering. 

But  Hazrat is indifferent to any such noise. He remains in a meditative state most of the time.

All through the course of the day people visit him with their Fariyads, their requests. He smiles gently at everyone. He listens to everyone. Speaks only when it is more than necessary. He bestows his blessings, requesting the Almighty to give Fariyadi whatever he desires. He is 'Mehboob-e-Ilahi', the beloved of the Almighty.

I was busy imagining all that when something crossed by my sight. I was sitting behind Asif Sahab, facing the Khanqah. There was a shadow or something dark which crossed between us. I'm not sure whether it was something tangible or I was just imagining. I have mentioned before that  I have a quite vivid imagination, which turns wild sometimes. But I don't mind whirling upon stories I'm listening to. And my imagination makes it effortless for me.

As the walk ended, I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I just wanted to keep that feeling clenched tight in my fists, making sure it doesn't slip. Only then I can place them close to my heart.

It was more of a trance state - Intoxicated with... I don't know what. But with all that intoxication I turn socially awkward. I really can't help it. I just turn a little more silent. But it's worth it.

I'll take your leave with a little message. If you like what's written above, don't forget to give a big thumbs-up to Delhi Karvan and Asif Sahab. It would be even more lovely if you could come and attend any of their walks.

If you are offended by anything while reading this, I deeply apologize, as I'm solely responsible for it.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

Dil, Dilli, Dastan - A Year filled with stories, warmth, and love...

It was October 2021, when I was roaming inside the campus of Humayun's Tomb with a dear friend of mine. It was an experience that I can safely characterize under the head "Majestic". Looking at that larger-than-life structure gazing at me is an experience in itself. I have had a strong appetite for stories since my childhood - All kinds of stories. Stories about people who are alive and about the ones who have left this mortal world. Stories about people who are famous and about the ones who are not so famous. Stories about the Emperors who have won the war and about the ones who died in the battle. Oh! I enjoy them all...

And yes, Stories about Seas and the Rivers, rocks, and the hills. Alas! they can't speak. I really wish they could. 

I really wished that there should be someone who knows the secrets - All the dark and white.

The secrets of the Emperors and the slaves, of the rocks and the caves. The stories of Love and hatred. The stories which are said and which are unsaid. 

That night I asked my friend 'Google' about some unsaid stories of Dara Shikoh. He gently smiled at me. held my hand, and took me to his girlfriend 'Youtube'. There, that lovely lady showed me a video called "Sons of Shahjahan".

And that night I discovered this gentleman who bridged that gap between those unsaid fables, and my super-strong appetite to hear them all. That very night I found a true storyteller. 

A storyteller gives more importance to the flow of the story, rather than just putting up facts in front of his or her audience. He or she emphasizes more on the emotions of the characters, instead of judging them.

That night, I discovered Asif Khan Dehlvi Sahab and Delhi Karavan. Not only that, I discovered Jahanara Begum, Rana Dil, and a whole new side of Aurangzeb. I discovered a lot in that eighty minutes, short video. 

I searched more about Delhi Karavan and the Silsila of Heritage walks. In a few minutes, I was successfully peeping into Asif Sahab's Facebook account. I couldn't stop myself from dropping him a text that how much I enjoyed his video and requesting him to give an intimation for any upcoming heritage walk.

And that night... nothing more happened that very night.

But the next morning  I got a reply from him 'Zaroor :) See you soon.' 

Next week I got a confirmation from Delhi Karavan that my seat is confirmed for the upcoming walk.

Wait.

It was somewhat like this.

Khoshamadeed Musafir

We have noted your registration for the upcoming walk on 23d Oct 2021. Your seats are confirmed...

Looking at you, but not looking at you...

I was before the mentioned time, waiting at the ticket counter of Purana Quilla (Old Fort). Wearing a Pink color T-shirt (I hate wearing T-shirts, especially pink ones) and a pair of jeans, I was feeding broken biscuits to a dog who was curled up near a pole. I texted Asif Sahab that I'm there at the ticket counter. I have this fear that what if they start without me or what if I misread the mail and waiting at the wrong venue? There are more 'What ifs' ringing in my head when I got his reply.

I'm reaching in five minutes.

Phew...

There were no more biscuits left in the packet and the dog sat quite near my feet.

Suddenly, people who were looking scattered part of the crowd unified when Asif Sahab walked in.  I remember nodding at him when he asked 'Are you here for the walk?'

Yes Sir :-)

A Storyteller is someone who is looking at you while telling you a story without looking at you. He is in some distant land, watching events happening. A storyteller is the one who holds your hand and you can safely give him the sacred responsibility to take you with him with mere words into that distant land. Where there are Emperors and slaves, Rocks, and caves - and they all tell a story. And the storyteller beautifies it and gives that story the right words, and conveys it to you with utmost care - Umm... Like Koh-I-Noor on Taqht e Taus.

A storyteller is a healer who heals your unattended, invisible wounds with his words - Words that are justified, expressive, and deep.

Phew...I'm imagining speaking this in a single breath. I feel tired.

Wait, I have some more.

And I found all these impeccable storyteller qualities in Asif Sahab. The Walk started with the Royal dinner of the Pandavas and ended with the heartbreaking story of partition and the refugee camp - I could feel some of my unattended wounds heal.

For me, That walk never ended. It stayed with me like a close friend. I can tell you the minutest details possible of that walk, but it will increase the length of this multi-folds.

The next morning, I wrote every detail in my journal. And the first line of that entry was - 

Yesterday, I went to the land of stories...

It's been a year that I'm associated with Asif Sahab and Delhi Karavan - Silently attended about a dozen walks - Without saying much to anyone. Without making much of physically visible friends. Yes, I made a few imaginary ones. Just listening to lots and lots of stories. Losing myself again and again. Finding myself again and again - Whirling on the tunes of stories.

I need to stop because I just imagined myself actually whirling. I look funny. But, I'm happy. 

Let me whirl...

Let's end this with two lines I wrote some years back

जिस काफिले में जुंबिश कम और रौशनी ज्यादा होगी,

जिस काफिले में हर अल्फाज महकेगा

मैं, वहीं मिलूंगा तुम्हे...

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

And It all started here... at Humayun's tomb...
pc chitr_grapher