Meeting Usha Chengappa
Usha and I agreed to meet Sunday morning in Lodi Gardens.
A thunderstorm woke me at 3:30 that morning as it roared across New Delhi. I opened my YMCA Hostel balcony door to watch sheets of rain pound the gymnasium and empty swimming pool below (Back Again: New Delhi YMCA Tourist Hostel). I wondered whether Usha and I would have to postpone our conversation. But by the time I’d eaten breakfast, overcast skies were clearing, puddles drying up, and humidity beginning to rise. Ah, I’m again in the subtropics.
I left at 9, looking for an autorickshaw. Sunday morning! Where usually a half dozen waited curbside, nothing! I flagged several meandering down Jai Singh Road, but they had passengers or were summoned elsewhere by mobile apps. I started walking toward Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. Suddenly, Bupinder Singh, saffron turban tightly bound, throttled out from the Gurdwara, screeched a tight turn, and braked in front of me. “I saw you as I left morning prayers. Where are you going?” We settled on Rs.200 (a bit high, but I’m angrez). He dropped me off at “the main gate,” which turned out to be Gate Four, on Subramania Bharti Road. Usha waited at Gate One, on Lodhi Road. “One of us will have to do some walking!” since the gates open to opposite sides of the gardens. “No,” replied Usha, “I’m driving. I’ll come round.”
I wandered over the bridge and down to the pond, then returned as Usha approached the bridge. We walked toward each other, perhaps a bit self-conscious in our greeting. She carried gifts for Susan. Fortunately, I had a small calendar for her. We sat on the bridge.
Usha immediately began to share her spiritual journey. Her fierce devotion to meditation held more force in person, however gentle her Chat posts. Her determination to follow its direction, accept new realizations, and share her understanding, humbled me. She was open, trusting, vulnerable, genuine, strong, and deeply human. Her Hindu faith gave expression and explanation to her path, as my Judeo-Christian heritage does to mine; her religious discipline seems completely natural. I value her friendship as a grace-filled privilege.
I listened carefully, commenting occasionally to check my understanding, encourage her to further explanation, and tell my own story. We shared our childhood experiences of joy and hurt, the connections and isolations that had shaped our sense of self and our surroundings, the different bridges we had crossed and were crossing. We wondered about the sources of our calls to art and service. We described our experiences of nature, especially in the Kumaon Hills (See Sat Tal (Seven Lakes) Christian Ashram for my experiences), which offered us so much spiritual nurture, then complained about abuse: “If I could have one wish, it would be the end of littering!” Usha exclaimed.
We were building our friendship on several years of social media conversations, thoughts, feelings, photos, quotations, events, and those family paintings (See Usha Chengappa). She noticed that “we are sitting on a bridge right now! Almost but not completely across. Nothing just happens. I had to come to your gate–and here’s the bridge!” We are kindred spirits.
Usha had another appointment. I asked whether I could give her a hug. We embraced, and then crossed the bridge in opposite directions. But we paused at the same time, looked back, and waved.
Paths and Gateways
I crossed our bridge, which was probably built over an affluent of the Yamuna by Nawab Bahadur, an official in Akbar’s court, sometime after the Lodi Sultanate. Called Athpula “Eight Piers,” its seven lovely arches are reflected by the pond. I would return several hours later to take another autorickshaw back to the Y, filled with joy at meeting so many wonderful visitors to the Gardens.
I took the path on my right, where a young woman waited for her companion to take her photo. This was the beginning of a theme for my visit: taking a photograph of someone taking a photograph of someone else! The over-arching trees and gentle breeze made for a lovely walk toward the old British bandshell–and a new one. (Whatever you built, we can build better?) Beyond the bandshells, a small arched gateway to the rose garden, perhaps Sikander Lodi’s. Beside it, a small, newly plastered, seemingly unused mosque. Was that a pond heron perched as if the filial?
I climbed the steps at the back of the gateway to survey the gardens, once enclosed by a wall. A mali was tending roses immediately beyond the archway. Summer heat had yet to scorch them. Standing on top of the gateway, I imagined I was a musician announcing the arrival of the sultan, and then, a young courtesan casting rose petals upon him as he entered. Ah, the precious life of a Lodi!
The Lodis were the fifth and final dynasty of the Delhi Sultanate. Founded by Bahlul Lodi in 1451 when he deposed Sayyid Muhammad Shah, it comprised only three rulers: Bahlul, his son Sikander Khan, and grandson, Ibrahim Khan, defeated by the Tamurid Babur at Panipat, 1526. Lodi Gardens contains the tombs of Sayyid Muhammad Shah, Sultan Sikander Lodi, and others whose names were cemented over by the British. Bahlul likely is buried in Chirag Delhi; Ibrahim, definitely in Panipat, where he was killed.
Tombs and Tourists
I walked through the garden gateway, taking paths across the rose garden, toward the huge Bada Gumbad (“Large Dome”) that dominated the landscape. Perhaps built by Sikander Lodi, it may be a tomb or a royal reception hall or the entrance to the attached mosque or a mehmed khana (guest house), or all four. The mosque carries an inscription declaring it of Sikander’s era. What looks like a madrasa lies on the other side. A raised stone platform connects all three.
As I was admiring the Qur’anic calligraphy over a mosque archway, I became aware of rustling behind me. Two young Japanese women in sequined sarees were beginning to pose for their male companion. They shuffled along as if they were wearing geta and kimono. The young woman in red, however, was having difficulty: her saree was falling off her shoulder! Fortunately, a caring Indian woman stopped to help, “Don’t you have any pins?” She rummaged about in her purse, came up with several safety pins, and ensured that no impropriety occurred. (I met her later and thanked her. “Well, I didn’t want her subjected to any young fellows’ rude remarks.”)
I watched till the photo posing was complete, then returned to the calligraphy. A small group of immaculately and traditionally dressed young Muslim men came beside me, scholars who would never accost anyone. I wondered what they were thinking as they read the inscriptions, but I failed to ask. I wondered whether Narendra Modi and L.K. Advani could read Arabic. Had they any appreciation for the high culture and beautiful structures these gardens presented and represented? How could anyone not? It’s ridiculous. As this heritage crumbles away, I thought of those who were trying to preserve both the memory and the monuments of Islamic India, a noble and somewhat melancholy task: Rana Safvi, Mehru Jaffer, Abdulla Khan, Mohammad Haider, and Swapnil Rostogi among them. Lucknow!
From the doorway of the Bada Gumbad I took a picture of the Sheesh Gumbad (“Glass Dome”) beyond. Its name comes from azure tiles that once covered it. Few remain. Who built it and who’s buried within are subject of conjecture, the graves having been plastered over. From there I looked back at the Bara Gumbad, then returned to the gardens.
Daisies, Dahlias, and Dancers
I wandered away from the Bada Gumbad, following the pathway to Sultan Sikander Lodi’s maqbara in the opposite corner of the garden. Here was a typical Sunday afternoon anywhere: families, couples, groups of young men and young women (often together), singles deep in thought, all enjoying explosions of blooms and scents, and each other in one way or another. My jet lag disappeared.
An embattled wall encloses Sikander Lodi’s mausoleum. A fairly typical gateway leads you into lush lawns. On the green to my right, a young woman danced before a video-camera while her companion sang. Both dance and song were being recorded. “Tik-Tok?” I asked after I approached and introduced myself as the father of a dancer (and showed them Lara’s ballet photo). “No. Instagram!” They checked the video recording after each routine, then took another shot, evidently not yet satisfied. I asked if I could photograph them as they created their post. Nickel and Ayushi agreed, and then Ayushi posed for me. I also took a video as she danced, but I’m not going to show it. You’ll have to find theirs.
Coming down from Sikander’s tomb, as I headed for the gateway, I passed a young Muslim man using a selfie-stick to photograph himself and his wife as she leaned out from another alcove. They turned out to be a happy Bangladeshi couple on vacation, who were thrilled that I’d been to Bangladesh. Shonar Bangla! Of course I took a picture of him taking a picture of her. Tradition.
My Sunday in Lodi Gardens was coming to an end. I sat by the pond to watch its ripples (though the fountain was now quiet) and the reflections of those who walked across its bridge. Usha and shadows of sultans. Japanese women learning to wear sarees with the help of a kind Indian matron. Muslims and Modi. Flower gardens for everyone. Social media entertainers. Vacationers. And a tired angrez feeling very much at home. Time to call for another autorickshaw. Alum took me back to the Y. We salaamed each other as we parted. As-salaam aleikhum Lodis.
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Except for the photograph of Usha Chengappa and the two from TripAdvisor, below, I took all photographs and videos in this post.
Please see Rana Safvi, The Forgotten Cities of Delhi; Book Two of the ‘When Stones Speak’ Trilogy. HarperCollins, 2018. Pages 269-279 describe these Lodi Garden structures.
That’s Sayyid Mahammad Shah’s maqbara on the left; Sultan Sikander Lodi’s on the right.
India Dreaming 