My story must begin in the year 1300AD. It will weave you through medieval alleyways and dusty waiting rooms. You will meet one man of infinite genius; and one of iron apathy. You will hear divine music, you will glimpse hidden love, you will come to know the trials and grace of a life in modern Delhi. This is the promise of the story. Read on if you have the mind.
...
Seven hundred years ago, in Delhi, lived the great poet, singer, scholar, and philosopher - Amir Khusro. If you know of him, you are lucky indeed. If you do not, you ought to find out. He lived and wrote and sang and invented and served many Sultans of India in those long ago times. I cannot say much, but you may read this poem:
Seven days ago, I had a breakthrough with the Foreign Regional Registration Office (FRRO), in Delhi. I'd had a terrible time registering with this office. I'd visited four times, and faced utter confusion and solid brick walls each time I tried to register. Something wrong with this document, some need of that letter, some requirement for a police interview, some mysterious delay, and some forgetting of my file... it was extremely baffling, and increasingly exasperating.
But I was saved by the Sufi poet, Amir Khusro.
...
When I first arrived to Delhi, in July, I was eager to visit a place called West Nizamuddin. This is an old Muslim heritage part of Delhi. A knowing friend told me to visit there and hear the qawwali singing sometime -- in the evening, outside the Mosque and Tombs. The great Sufi teacher Hazrat Nizamuddin Auylia is buried there, and there is a very old Mosque there. At night time, especially on Thursdays, great singers sit on the floor, gathered with dozens (hundreds?) of patrons to sing divine Sufi devotional songs. I was eager to go and discover this music.
And I went to West Nizamuddin -- into the narrow and ancient alleyways - lined on either side with shops and vendors, incense smoke swirling around in the twilight, people shouting, children laughing, touts touting, and many many shop keepers entrating you to remove your shoes and leave them at their shop -- for only a small fee -- because really, you cannot wear shoes into the Dargha.
But I went to West Nizamuddin on the last Thursday night of Ramadan. The holy month of fasting for Muslims. But, I realized that they do not sing during this time. Not during Ramadan. I'd have to come back. But I did visit the Tombs and enter the Mosque, and observe the breaking of the fast.
...
My last trip to the FRRO was the most frustrating of all. At one point, I'd hired an agent to help me with the registration process. But he was completely useless, and I fired him. I took up the registration on my own, and with the assistance from our partner research institute here in India. They helped me to file the registration papers, and I was then following up with what should have been the final approval. The FRRO process is required for me to open a bank account, and to have my few boxes shipped to me from Singapore.
The FRRO was supposed to arrange a police or other officer "inquiry" into my purpose and status of living and working in India. I had visited the FRRO two weeks before and was told to return on Sept 20th. I returned on Sept 20th to find that NO PROGRESS had been made on my file. Effectively they forgot about me.
I asked five separate people what I should do next, what I needed to do. They pointed me in circles, passing me from one agent to the other. One guy even gave me a phone number to call, and when I dialed, it turned out to be the guy who was sitting next to him!!
In the end, on that day, they pointed me upstairs to the office of "Mr Anil". Ascending to the 2nd floor, I found him in the middle of his lunch. And I mean he was in the middle of his lunch! He had rice falling out of his mouth as he shouted at me not to bother him while he was eating and that he was on his way out of the office and that he couldn't possibly see me. He'd have to visit me 'tomorrow' instead. Like a mouse, I squeaked out of the room.
But this should be the last step. This man would have to interview me, and then I would be registered with the FRRO.
...
I have a friend, Aisha, who was visiting Delhi from the UK. We were quite good friends in Singapore. She is here to do a five month volunteer program in Gwalior. We met for dinner on Tuesday and made follow up plans to try going to West Nizamuddin on Thrusday night, to hear the qawwali music. She'd be leaving on Friday.
...
Thursday morning, by some kind of chance, I was chatting online with the original friend who had recommended hearing the qawwali music. She also referred me to read this poet called Amir Khusro. There are certain people who's suggestions one should take very seriously, and so I immediately began reading Khusro. Instantly I was impressed with the style and meaning of his poems. They were at once beautiful, and sad, and full of love, and divine. And yet they felt very modern. I was impressed. Moved, you might say. I read his poems online, and came to recognize the image of his face -- from so many ancient paintings and tapestries that are now reproduced on the internet. This poet struck me.
...
Thursday night I met Aisha and her friend (and fellow volunteer), Rebecca. We met at Humayun's Tomb, and then walked over to West Nizamuddin. We again passed through the narrow alleyways and collided with children in the street and beggars on the curbs. We weaved a thin line between shop fronts and stalls of fruits, and flowers, and silver plates for sale.
As we rounded one corner, I saw there, sitting on a shelf, the image of the great poet, Amir Khusro -- staring with downcast eyes and surrounded by the yellow book jacket border. Here, was a book of Khusro's poems, written in Hindi. I was magnetized. I approached the book, and decided to buy it. It was radiating something, somehow. [India is like this, believe it or not.] I had a short discussion with the bookshop keeper. He complimented me on my rudimentary Hindi and took an unusually long time to find change. I am certain he was hoping I'd forget the change and buy something else instead.
I bought the book, and we went and listened to the beautiful qawwali music -- it reached out and touched my toes in respect. It filled the night air. It pulsated against the Mosque walls. And then it was over. We were out again, walking through the narrow alleyways. Finding our shoes. And exiting into the Delhi night air.
But I had the book of Khusro under my arm. There was a new love in my heart. A new connection to this 700 year old poet.
...
Friday was my awful day at the FRRO. It ended with me squeaking away as the officer shouted at me and spit his lunch in my direction. I went home. Defeated.
...
Saturday, Mr Anil, the FRRO officer, said he would come for the interview. I woke up and it was raining. I read a book and it raining. I worked at my desk and it was raining. At 3pm Mr Anil called me to tell me that it was raining. He rides a motorbike, and he would not be coming for the interview today. Tomorrow morning. If it is not raining.
...
Sunday morning, I called Mr Anil. It was a bright and sunny day. The sky has never been so blue. I told him so on the phone. He told me yes, he'd be coming. He was at that time taking a bath, but he'd be to my place in about an hour. I was surprised he told me about his bath. But I happily agreed to meet him in one hour.
Four hours later, I called Mr Anil again. Yes, he was on his way. He'd be reaching in 30 minutes. And in twenty minutes, there was a knock at my door. I let Mr Anil in. His mood had not seemed to improve form the day before. He had rings around his eyes, and a grimace on his face -- no doubt the result of the indigestion I had caused him on interrupting his previous day's lunch. I offered him a glass of water. He said nothing. I poured him one glass, as a contingency. He sat in a chair, at my table. He demanded my passport. I fetched it and handed it to him. The interview had begun.
He was very suspicious. What was I doing here? Who was I working for? How long had I been here? Why hadn't I registered sooner? [ha! I wish] How much money did I make? Was I living alone? Etc and Etc. He was very gruff, and was not seeming to be satisfied.
There was a short break in the interview. He sat back slightly in his char and looked around. He was resting, or thinking of the next line of questioning. Then it happened.
Mr Anil's eyes landed on the yellow book laying off to the side, on the table where we sat. Amir Khusro's eyes were downcast, contemplating some unseen point in this universe. Mr Anil asked me if that was Amir Khusro. I said it was. He reached out and asked me to see the book. I handed it to him, proudly. I told him I'd bought it a few days before at West Nizamuddin. He asked me if I could read Hindi. I told him [in Hindi] that I can read only a little bit. He paused, and began flipping through the book. He suggested that I try watching TV, or listening to the radio. That way, little by little I'd learn more Hindi. I'm not certain, but I think he was smiling. Slightly.
The interview restarted, but was much lighter and shorter now. He began saying "Teek... Teek" a lot, and waggling his head. This is a very good sign in verbal-non-verbal Indian communication. He told me that I could just write down a few points about my job and my work here. He'd look again at my passport and visa. And yes, he felt that he'd be able to get the paperwork done by the end of the week. He drank the glass of water, stood up, and led himself to the front door. We parted ways, and he now seemed to be feeling the brightness of the day as much as I was.
...
And so, that is the winding story of how an ancient Sufi poet conquered the Indian bureaucracy and melted the heart of Mr Anil (as well as my own). There is magic yet in this world. We must believe it at times like these. And we must trust it and follow it and find it's hidden meanings. Thank you, Mr Khusro.
Poems from this site:
http://www.angelfire.com/sd/urdumedia/love.html
...
The cloud weeps, and I
become separated from my friend -
How can I separate my heart from my heart’s friend on such a day.
The cloud weeping – and I and the friend standing, bidding farewell -
I weeping separately, the clouds separately, the friend separately…..
How can I separate my heart from my heart’s friend on such a day.
The cloud weeping – and I and the friend standing, bidding farewell -
I weeping separately, the clouds separately, the friend separately…..
(trans. A. Schimmel)
...Seven days ago, I had a breakthrough with the Foreign Regional Registration Office (FRRO), in Delhi. I'd had a terrible time registering with this office. I'd visited four times, and faced utter confusion and solid brick walls each time I tried to register. Something wrong with this document, some need of that letter, some requirement for a police interview, some mysterious delay, and some forgetting of my file... it was extremely baffling, and increasingly exasperating.
But I was saved by the Sufi poet, Amir Khusro.
...
When I first arrived to Delhi, in July, I was eager to visit a place called West Nizamuddin. This is an old Muslim heritage part of Delhi. A knowing friend told me to visit there and hear the qawwali singing sometime -- in the evening, outside the Mosque and Tombs. The great Sufi teacher Hazrat Nizamuddin Auylia is buried there, and there is a very old Mosque there. At night time, especially on Thursdays, great singers sit on the floor, gathered with dozens (hundreds?) of patrons to sing divine Sufi devotional songs. I was eager to go and discover this music.
And I went to West Nizamuddin -- into the narrow and ancient alleyways - lined on either side with shops and vendors, incense smoke swirling around in the twilight, people shouting, children laughing, touts touting, and many many shop keepers entrating you to remove your shoes and leave them at their shop -- for only a small fee -- because really, you cannot wear shoes into the Dargha.
But I went to West Nizamuddin on the last Thursday night of Ramadan. The holy month of fasting for Muslims. But, I realized that they do not sing during this time. Not during Ramadan. I'd have to come back. But I did visit the Tombs and enter the Mosque, and observe the breaking of the fast.
...
My last trip to the FRRO was the most frustrating of all. At one point, I'd hired an agent to help me with the registration process. But he was completely useless, and I fired him. I took up the registration on my own, and with the assistance from our partner research institute here in India. They helped me to file the registration papers, and I was then following up with what should have been the final approval. The FRRO process is required for me to open a bank account, and to have my few boxes shipped to me from Singapore.
The FRRO was supposed to arrange a police or other officer "inquiry" into my purpose and status of living and working in India. I had visited the FRRO two weeks before and was told to return on Sept 20th. I returned on Sept 20th to find that NO PROGRESS had been made on my file. Effectively they forgot about me.
I asked five separate people what I should do next, what I needed to do. They pointed me in circles, passing me from one agent to the other. One guy even gave me a phone number to call, and when I dialed, it turned out to be the guy who was sitting next to him!!
In the end, on that day, they pointed me upstairs to the office of "Mr Anil". Ascending to the 2nd floor, I found him in the middle of his lunch. And I mean he was in the middle of his lunch! He had rice falling out of his mouth as he shouted at me not to bother him while he was eating and that he was on his way out of the office and that he couldn't possibly see me. He'd have to visit me 'tomorrow' instead. Like a mouse, I squeaked out of the room.
But this should be the last step. This man would have to interview me, and then I would be registered with the FRRO.
...
I have a friend, Aisha, who was visiting Delhi from the UK. We were quite good friends in Singapore. She is here to do a five month volunteer program in Gwalior. We met for dinner on Tuesday and made follow up plans to try going to West Nizamuddin on Thrusday night, to hear the qawwali music. She'd be leaving on Friday.
...
Thursday morning, by some kind of chance, I was chatting online with the original friend who had recommended hearing the qawwali music. She also referred me to read this poet called Amir Khusro. There are certain people who's suggestions one should take very seriously, and so I immediately began reading Khusro. Instantly I was impressed with the style and meaning of his poems. They were at once beautiful, and sad, and full of love, and divine. And yet they felt very modern. I was impressed. Moved, you might say. I read his poems online, and came to recognize the image of his face -- from so many ancient paintings and tapestries that are now reproduced on the internet. This poet struck me.
...
Thursday night I met Aisha and her friend (and fellow volunteer), Rebecca. We met at Humayun's Tomb, and then walked over to West Nizamuddin. We again passed through the narrow alleyways and collided with children in the street and beggars on the curbs. We weaved a thin line between shop fronts and stalls of fruits, and flowers, and silver plates for sale.
As we rounded one corner, I saw there, sitting on a shelf, the image of the great poet, Amir Khusro -- staring with downcast eyes and surrounded by the yellow book jacket border. Here, was a book of Khusro's poems, written in Hindi. I was magnetized. I approached the book, and decided to buy it. It was radiating something, somehow. [India is like this, believe it or not.] I had a short discussion with the bookshop keeper. He complimented me on my rudimentary Hindi and took an unusually long time to find change. I am certain he was hoping I'd forget the change and buy something else instead.
I bought the book, and we went and listened to the beautiful qawwali music -- it reached out and touched my toes in respect. It filled the night air. It pulsated against the Mosque walls. And then it was over. We were out again, walking through the narrow alleyways. Finding our shoes. And exiting into the Delhi night air.
But I had the book of Khusro under my arm. There was a new love in my heart. A new connection to this 700 year old poet.
...
Friday was my awful day at the FRRO. It ended with me squeaking away as the officer shouted at me and spit his lunch in my direction. I went home. Defeated.
...
Saturday, Mr Anil, the FRRO officer, said he would come for the interview. I woke up and it was raining. I read a book and it raining. I worked at my desk and it was raining. At 3pm Mr Anil called me to tell me that it was raining. He rides a motorbike, and he would not be coming for the interview today. Tomorrow morning. If it is not raining.
...
Sunday morning, I called Mr Anil. It was a bright and sunny day. The sky has never been so blue. I told him so on the phone. He told me yes, he'd be coming. He was at that time taking a bath, but he'd be to my place in about an hour. I was surprised he told me about his bath. But I happily agreed to meet him in one hour.
Four hours later, I called Mr Anil again. Yes, he was on his way. He'd be reaching in 30 minutes. And in twenty minutes, there was a knock at my door. I let Mr Anil in. His mood had not seemed to improve form the day before. He had rings around his eyes, and a grimace on his face -- no doubt the result of the indigestion I had caused him on interrupting his previous day's lunch. I offered him a glass of water. He said nothing. I poured him one glass, as a contingency. He sat in a chair, at my table. He demanded my passport. I fetched it and handed it to him. The interview had begun.
He was very suspicious. What was I doing here? Who was I working for? How long had I been here? Why hadn't I registered sooner? [ha! I wish] How much money did I make? Was I living alone? Etc and Etc. He was very gruff, and was not seeming to be satisfied.
There was a short break in the interview. He sat back slightly in his char and looked around. He was resting, or thinking of the next line of questioning. Then it happened.
Mr Anil's eyes landed on the yellow book laying off to the side, on the table where we sat. Amir Khusro's eyes were downcast, contemplating some unseen point in this universe. Mr Anil asked me if that was Amir Khusro. I said it was. He reached out and asked me to see the book. I handed it to him, proudly. I told him I'd bought it a few days before at West Nizamuddin. He asked me if I could read Hindi. I told him [in Hindi] that I can read only a little bit. He paused, and began flipping through the book. He suggested that I try watching TV, or listening to the radio. That way, little by little I'd learn more Hindi. I'm not certain, but I think he was smiling. Slightly.
The interview restarted, but was much lighter and shorter now. He began saying "Teek... Teek" a lot, and waggling his head. This is a very good sign in verbal-non-verbal Indian communication. He told me that I could just write down a few points about my job and my work here. He'd look again at my passport and visa. And yes, he felt that he'd be able to get the paperwork done by the end of the week. He drank the glass of water, stood up, and led himself to the front door. We parted ways, and he now seemed to be feeling the brightness of the day as much as I was.
...
And so, that is the winding story of how an ancient Sufi poet conquered the Indian bureaucracy and melted the heart of Mr Anil (as well as my own). There is magic yet in this world. We must believe it at times like these. And we must trust it and follow it and find it's hidden meanings. Thank you, Mr Khusro.
Tonight there came a news that you, oh beloved, would come –
Be my head sacrificed to the road along which you will come riding!
All the gazelles of the desert have put their heads on their hands
In the hope that one day you will come to hunt them….
The attraction of love won’t leave you unmoved;
Should you not come to my funeral,
you’ll definitely come to my grave.
My soul has come on my lips (e.g. I am on the point of expiring);
Come so that I may remain alive -
After I am no longer – for what purpose will you come?(trans. A. Schimmel)
Poems from this site:
http://www.angelfire.com/sd/urdumedia/love.html
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