Trust - The first lesson of Sufism - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

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While taking walks with Asif Sahab, my favorite part is when everyone just sits down and allows themselves to engross completely in the story he is telling. It's fun watching grown-ups cupping their chins, their facial expressions almost dancing to the tunes of stories.

I have written too much about the last walk I attended. Trust me, my expressions are just the tip of a massive iceberg - It's so minute compared to what I actually feel.

The scenario is still the same. We all are sitting around Asif Sahab when he told us this story.

Wait. Don't forget to take a bellyful of breath, Sit back, and relax.

Shall we begin?

Once upon a time, there was a soldier who came to the small room where Hazrat Nizammudin Aulia was sitting against the wall. His right leg was folded, his thigh pressing his belly softly. He was staring at something with his eyes half closed. The soldier greeted him with his humble Salam and sat right in front of him. It was a hot afternoon. The scorching heat was making everything too uncomfortable. But Hazrat was smiling at him.

"Nizam Saheb, I have a humble request. You have never sent me back without listening to my fariyads, my requests. I'm not capable enough to offer you anything. With your blessings, my wife has conceived. I really don't know how to bid my thanks to you." He took out a little piece of cloth bundle from his pocket. The soft sound of the jingling of coins made the silent room animated for a second.

"Please accept these on my behalf. This is just a little gift that I would like to present every month."

Hazrat was just smiling, staring at something on his right. He closed his eyes for a while, humming an inaudible prayer. When he opened his eyes back, there was no one in the room, just a little bundle of shiny cloth kept near Hazrat's foot.

The much-awaited shower turned the whole environment melodious. It was a great opportunity for each Sufi to come out of their chamber and remember the Almighty together. The whole evening was lit with the 'Sama'. It was known to everyone that Hazrat enters into a trance state listening to all the poetic offerings other Sufis have to offer in the holy kingdom of the Almighty. He generally raises his right hand towards the sky, shivering at a phenomenal pace - Denoting a strong connection between him and the Almighty, as if he is holding his hand.

But that evening it was just not happening. Everyone was just waiting for it. And Hazrat was so upset with this. When your beloved denies holding your hand as he used to, that feeling is synonymous with death.

He closed his eyes and a vague image of that shiny bundle of cloth flashed right in front of his eyes. He called that soldier and returned him that bundle.

I was confused, unable to understand the correlation between the two events. How connection with the Almighty and that shiny bundle of coins connected, which will be coming right at his feet every month.

Asif Sahab then came to the rescue of my confusion.

A Sufi should not be dependent on any kind of regular source of income, in any form. It's actually a symbol of distrust toward the Almighty. The one who has sent you on this planet is capable enough to take care of you in every sense. He will take care of all the arrangements which are required for your well-being. You just need to trust him. 

And here I'm, spending so many sleepless nights, thinking about how will I manage in such a cruel world Blah! Blah! Blah!

How much do I need to accumulate for shady days Blah! Blah! Blah!

Trust - from now on I consider this as the first lesson of Sufism... and life as well.

The above story came to me like a bullet, hitting me so hard that I felt like some serious physical destruction. But I'm relieved and happy about that destruction.

With prayers and hope that you also face this kind of destruction.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

Revisiting a Childhood Story - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

 

The year must be 2002 and I was coming back from Agra. My Mother and my brother, both had enough of my useless talks. They indirectly told me to shut up. I was looking out of the window of the Intercity express, counting those desolated stations, where hardly any train stops.

My Father was waving at us. I saw him first, before everyone. My brother denies this, but trust me I saw him before. He lifted the bag I was holding in my hands. He was always on time, no matter how late our train gets. He had a magic number he used to punch in our landline telephone  And a lady used to give information to him about the timings of our train - with a standard postscript - Asuvidha ke Liye Khed hai. She is the same lady who announces the timings of the train at railway stations too. I recognize her voice by heart - Taddam... Kripaya dhyan dijiye ...  

I sat comfortably in the backseat of our red color Maruti 800. We had our dinner at Bangla sweets in Bangla Market. I was a quick eater. And Obese too. So I had my meal and came outside to have some fresh air - and also, I was not in the mood to share my ice cream with my brother. 

When I came outside I saw this old man, wearing age-old spectacles, selling worn-out books, calendars, and magazines. He was sitting comfortably on the footpath with a trunk behind him and a pile of books on his right. 

And then, I found this book peeping at me quietly.

It was a thick paperback with a beautiful image of one elderly couple and a few kids printed on its cover page. How joyfully they were smiling at me. I can't forget that image till the last day of my life.

The book was called Dada-Dadi ki Kahaniyan.

While coming back home, I tried to read the contents of the book in the beams of streetlights and headlights of the other vehicles, passing in a rhythmic pattern.

Wish I could find the same red cover

After a while, we become good friends - or rather, more companions than friends.

But that companionship ended on a bit sad note.

I was in a small city in Maharashtra, where my cousin and I got into this argument, which escalated so much that he tore my book which was lying on my bedside.

I don't remember how many punches and kicks I showered on him. My vision was all blurred with uncontrollable tears flowing down my cheeks. And with that blurred vision, I saw that torn cover of the book, lying in a terrible condition on the bed. 

I miss that book and those 101 stories in it. Every story had warmth, wit, love, and some long-lasting lessons. One such story which I read during a train journey stayed with me. It goes somewhat like this -

Once upon a time...

There was a merchant who used to travel from his village to a city to buy clay toys, which had a humongous demand in his village. One evening, he was roaming in the bazaar of that city, handpicking each toy himself, and negotiating as much as he could.

The market was filled with peddlers and vendors, selling various products. There were snake charmers and bangle sellers. Food stalls filled with roasted peanuts, Sherbet, and Kebabs.

The kebabs were the local delicacy - soaked overnight in a mixture of turmeric, curd, and some selected spices - served smoking hot - dissolving in no time in your mouth.

But that day a lot of people were gathered in front of that stall - Not to buy kebabs.

When the merchant got a bit closer, he saw that the kebab seller was holding the tattered shirt of an old beggar who was sitting on the floor, begging for mercy. His begging bowl was lying upside down by his side and about a dozen coins were all scattered around him. 

When the merchant asked the kebab seller what the matter was, he explained "This rascal was having his chappatis with the fragrance of my kebabs. I noticed him enjoying both his stale pieces of bread like a dirty pest, I saw everything right from my stall. When I asked him to pay, he refused. That's how these dirty beasts are, they want everything for free.

The merchant looked blankly at the face of the kebab seller, which was all red with anger. He thought for a while, and then bent to collect all the scattered coins lying near the beggar. The beggar was watching everything, helplessly, and hopelessly. The Kebab seller was watching everything with an expectation of a gentle reward for the fragrance of his delicious kebabs.

The merchant held all the coins between his cupped palms and brought them near the right ear of the kebab seller, letting him hear the jingle of the coins. The Kebab seller smiled at him and extended his palm to collect the coins. But the merchant refused with a witty smile.

He said, pointing toward the beggar "He enjoyed the fragrance of your kebabs, and you enjoyed the jingle of his coins. All dues cleared." and handed all the coins to the beggar.

The story stayed with me, unexposed somewhere in the dark corner of my mind - afraid to come out.

Till the day it saw a bright ray of light...

Last week Asif Sahab told the same story in the context of some other story. But it brought out all my childhood right in front of my eyes. 

And after that, I didn't listen to the stories as a grown-up. All my so-called maturity vanished into thin air. I became an eight-year-old obese, quick-eater kid, who loves listening to stories with an open mouth and chin cupped between his palms. I could see that red cover of the book which I really miss, smiling at me.

I wrote a couple of traits of a storyteller in one of my earlier write-ups, but all those traits came out after a bit of brainstorming. Now let me tell you an element that my heart deeply wants to share with you all.

A true storyteller will always try to nurture the child in you - No matter how ignored and unattended it is. He or she will always give you the freedom to listen to the stories with an open mouth, chin cupped in palms, and with that little twinkle in your eyes.

And I find that trait in Asif Sahab.

Please ignore me plucking neem leaves at the back. I love chewing them.

So, my dear reader friend, never let your childhood die - Never, Never, Never...

Never

And what's a better way to nurture it than to listen to the stories?

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

Dissection of Storytelling - A walk with Asif Sahab

This is an entry from my journal I wrote after one of my initial walks with Asif Sahab. After filling a dozen of pages in my journal, I tried to analyze certain value points, which may benefit a storyteller. I can update the entry and add many more points,.but it will make things complicated and you will scroll down. So, I will stick to the basics and I will try to give some rest to your thumbs (those little creatures, genuinely expecting some mercy from you). But, I will not spare you with my bracket commentary. I love doing that. (You can imagine me showcasing my devil smile).

Let's get started.

27/10/2021- 23.15 hours - Wednesday - New Delhi

Storytelling

What I learned in my last walk with Asif Sahab, comprises certain elements of storytelling.

The first and most crucial element is Gestures (to make your listener/ audience imagine). When Asif Sahab said " Abhi hum Babar ko Kabul mai rakhte hai" he used his left hand, rotated his wrist, and gestured to take a pause from a story and jumped to the other story, which probably running parallelly somewhere else. And then he started explaining about Ibrahim Lodhi, his uncle Daulat Khan Lodhi. Now, these gestures help the audience to bifurcate one story from another. Without these gestures, your words will fall flat and your story will disappear in thin air.

As a listener, it was easier for me to imagine that time and era - All the happenings and mishappenings - I could see everything happening in front of me.

(Imagine, Babur, coming with his troop, family, and kin - all the way from Uzbekistan to India. And just with rotation of a wrist, Babur froze in Kabul - not physically though - and, Ibrahim Lodhi was preparing his army of over one lakh men. That's the power of appropriate gestures in storytelling. It strongly induces imagination in the listener's mind.)

The other element is the Language of the storyteller. The words he or she uses adds beauty to the story. There should be an intrinsic value to every word he or she uses. The words should not be everyday words that we use casually. They must tickle the listener's mind so that he or she demands more such words. And yes, It must induce some visual imagination into the listener's mind. The Hindustani language contains innumerable such words which can help you imagine. If I talk about Asif Sahab, Tassavur is my favorite. And using Beharhal often helps my mind to stick to the core of the story, after wandering in different directions. By the way, Tassavur itself means to imagine. (Don't disturb my dear friend google for this).

The last one is an element with which I personally share a bitter-sweet relationship. Bitter, because sometimes it wants to become the main lead instead of providing assistance. Sweet - good storytelling itself makes it sweet. I'm talking about the third and last element I discovered - Facts.

You are roaming in a monument that carries a historical value, and you are telling stories related to a particular period. The facts will undoubtedly add charm to your storytelling - But (ahem!) emotions should always overlap the facts - and the facts should gladly allow emotions to come forward. When facts come forward, the soul of your story is lost. 

(The first battle of Panipat happened back in 1526 AD - The soul is lost. 

Babur, who came from the lineage of Taimur Lang, was all set with canons, trained soldiers, and yes, charming tactics. The ground of Panipat was all red with blood, as the Babur's army of twenty thousand men defeated over one lakh men of the Lodhi army. The price was not only the decapitated head of Ibrahim Lodhi - Dilli was now in Babur's hands. - I hope it finds the soul again?)

(That's what a twenty-eight-year-old me discovered about storytelling. The twenty-nine-year-old me has discovered a few more things. I will discuss that some other time. 

For me, imagination is the key. You can't imagine blank facts. You need a base of gestures, pitch, voice modulation, and whatnot. Just like you can't imagine my devil smile - because you don't have a base. Either you haven't seen me physically, or you might have not given much attention to me. Even if you know me personally... I don't smile devilishly.

Oh Please! )

#Statutarywarning - Storytelling can't be concluded in an article, a single book, or a documentary. It's a stream of cool and refreshing water - flowing and will keep on flowing till eternity... and maybe beyond.

Gratitude, Love, and lots of Happiness Asif Sahab and Delhi Karavan. A lot has been left to listen, observe, and feel. So let's keep on flowing :-)

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

Picture credits

Praveen Sir

Aaliya

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