...Of Rememberance

The narrow lanes run helter skelter, almost as if on an eternal quest to spirituality...the sides are lined with tiny shops selling things of this world. Bright coloured Chadars hang in most, with trays of red roses melting away to the heat. Colourful rosaries wait to be prayed on. Fat packets of sweet meats sit piled on one another for a vulnerable customer. Stacks of audio cassettes stand lined up for those searching for an audio spiritual high, some playing age-old qawwalis in loud, throaty voices. Hasty feet, tired of the constant pestering, rest their shoes under over populated shelves. The remaining journey must be traced bare foot. Shoulders jostle as duppattas and skull caps draw to cover bare heads at the sign board that orders a display of such modesty in 3 different languages. Nimble feet tiptoe over dirt, graves and beggars to catch a glimpse of the dome of the Hazrat Nizamuddin dargah. A colourful tapestry of the toiling millions covers the courtyard in front of the tomb. Burqa clad women sitting with kohl-eyed, underfed children, waiting for their men to return from their tributes to the great Sufi saint, bearded old men with rosaries in hand who eye the donation box more than they pray, young boys with rolled up jeans in last minute bargains with God before exams, men with families with rose garlands in hand praying for a promotion or a pay hike, tourists with cameras clicking away to glory, feeling completely out of place, young girls in salwar kameez, desperately looking for their boy friends....

And in the middle of all this lies he...he who has been forgotten in all this mayhem, with a board hanging outside his door to keep women out. Hardly any of the thousands that visit him everyday remember what he really stood for. Beneath all the gold embroidered chadars that people bestow on him, lies a man who lived the life of an ascetic, who had given up on every worldly love for the love of God. Would he really have appreciated if he were to see the rosary armed men outside waiting for money to drop into the donation boxed? He was a man who stood for love, compassion, peace...and all he is now is a commodity, visiting whose grave is seen as a tourist attraction, an entertainment of sorts. Where is the spirituality? Where is the love for God and for humanity that had earned him the title 'Mehboob e Ilahi"?

And where is the devotion of a disciple like Amir Khusrau who for his beloved Shaykh had said,

"Jo kuch maange rang ki rangaii, mera joban girvi rakh le,

Tu toh Sahib mera, Mehboob e Ilahi, mohe apne hi rang mein rang le"