A Very Special Shrine

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A Very Special Shrine

It was like walking in to see a revered old friend, only to find her violated

and left to die. I am talking about a Sufi shrine that breathed gently behind

Humayun’s tomb in Delhi which I discovered years ago.

My mother had read about it in an obscure Urdu magazine and was struck by its

miracle aura. The shrine, my mother told me, drew its strength from an

800-year-old tree under which a Sufi Baba meditated an entire lifetime... When

he “went behind the veil” he was buried under that tree.

Those who came to pray by his grave, also prayed inadvertently to the tree that

shaded his resting place. With the years the belief grew that if you eat a leaf

of the blessed tree, your wish would be granted.

Those who found their wishes fulfilled returned to offer silver leaves in

gratitude. The shrine came to be identified with the tree and was referred to

as Pattewali dargah (The Shrine of Leaves).

Every time I visited the shrine I too ate a tiny leaf and made a secret wish.

The moment to return with a silver leaf never arrived. But that did not deter

me. I found in the place a serenity and calm that I found nowhere else.

The old man who took care of the shrine kept the place free of anything that

could threaten its peace — no makeshift shops selling chadors, flowers or

incense; no beggars and no tourists.

Austere but warm, the old caretaker lived in a tiny room in the shrine. He would

work hard the whole day on the premises and at sundown, he would sit on the

stone bench, smoking his hookah .

I would sit with him and listen to his endless repertoire of Sufi stories. Over

the years, we became friends. He looked forward to meeting me on Thursdays,

when I visited the shrine.

I never knew his name. “I’m always here,” he would say. And he was. Sweeping the

autumn leaves, watering the old trees and the shrubs he’d planted and feeding a

stray cat. His activities matched the spirit of the shrine.

One day I did not see him by the green door. I learnt that he’d been hit by a

car and taken back to his village. Some months later he passed away. I could

not write to his family as I did not have his address nor did I know his name.

 

In the months that followed I saw the place change. The young man who claimed to

be the mutawali of the shrine began making changes — “progress”, he called it.

He uprooted the shrubs the old man had planted and built cement benches for

visitors. He brought in a man to sell rose petals. The box for donations by the

grave was painted a bright, gaudy colour.

I tried to talk to him once but he turned his sullen gaze elsewhere, signalling

his disinterest. My visits to the shrine became less frequent. The ambience had

changed all of a sudden.

On an early November evening I went back to honour the memory of the old man who

always wanted me to share his austere iftar with him. I walked in and found the

place vandalised. The green wall around the tree had been smashed.

The quiet hall meant for prayers had been demolished and in its place was a

large, grey cement space bereft of character. The taps meant for wazu set

discreetly along the side were now conspicuous in front. There was cement

everywhere. No peacock sat on the once green wall.

There was no one at prayer. A man sat reading a newspaper that carried election

headlines. I left without the customary prayer, feeling desolate — without

eating a leaf of the old tree.this article is by Anees Jung source

indiatimes.com

Arun Reddy Nukala

+44-7946-595063

+44-2085-695116

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