KHIRKEE VOICE
WINTER EDITION
ISSUE #8
Hidden in Plain Sight
12 PAGES
The Sinister Spirit of Hauz Khas
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S E A S O N A L REPORT F E B R U A RY - A P R I L 2 0 1 9
ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST
Murielle Ahoureé
Supported by
Hidden gems Stories from of Mehrauli Village Matriarchs
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MEETING THE
KEEPER OF
RECORDS
WARM & OVERCAST WITH SCATTERED T-STORMS
DELHI, INDIA
Chitra V is h w a n a t h é
Villages nestled in the sprawling edifice of our city are inextricably linked, especially through the archives of traditional Record Keepers. Ekta Chauhan tells us about these keepers of history and their fading traditions. Ekta Chauhan
COOL AND DRY, GETS HOTTER BY APRIL
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
Queen Soraya
COLD WITH RAIN, WARMER BY APRIL
KINSHASA, CONGO
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s a student of history, I had tried several times to find out about the history of my village. The community takes immense pride in its history, its founder and its culture and traditions, but I could never find anything except for some reading material on its monuments. There was absolutely no record of the community anywhere except for a Delhi Government list that shows the settlement as an “urbanised village”. After months of searching
online and in various books on the city, I asked my father; ”gaon ki history mujhe nahi mil rahi, aap logo ko kaise pata hai?” (How do you know so much about the history of the village, when I cannot seem to find anything). As it turned out, I had been looking for answers in all the wrong places. The community in Khirkee Village, and in other villages of the region, maintain their genealogical records quite meticulously through Bhatts. The Bhatts are a wandering community of record keepers who travel from village to village, tell-
The oral history archival project “Dilli ki Khirkee” is being done in collaboration with the Citizen’s Archive of India Right: Nathuram Bhatt reading from his pothi. Below: Pothi for Khirkee Village in Chakarvartin script.
Arlette Soudan-Nonault
ing stories and documenting family trees. The current Bhatt for Khirkee, Nathu Ram Rai, had visited the village in 2010 to update his records. I, like most others of my generation, was completely oblivious to his visit. But now that I had learnt about these custodians of history, I knew I had to find him. He lived in Jhakholi village near Sonipat, so I set out in search of him. He was sitting on a cot, smoking a beedi when I reached and immediately took out the pothi from under the sheets. He had several such pothis, each dedicated to an individual village under his charge. His home doubled up as his record room and
WARM & OVERCAST WITH SCATTERED T-STORMS
LAGOS, NIGERIA
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
WARM, PARTIALLY SUNNY, OCCASSIONAL SHOWERS
MOGADISHU, SOMALIA
Dr. Hawa Abdi Dhiblawe
inspiring women illustrations: aru bose
CITY VILLAGES
WARM, PARTIALLY SUNNY, GETS WARMER BY APRIL
PATNA, INDIA
Asha Khemka
WARM AND DRY, GETS HOTTER BY APRIL
he apparently had rooms full of such records. But since an individual was allowed to see only her own village’s record, he had taken out Khirkee’s pothi for me. The notebook was bound with a kalava and the cover was decorated with a swastika making it look like a holy scripture. The first thing that caught my eye was the unique script of the pothi. I expected it to be Devanagari but instead, to my surprise it turned out to be Chakarvartin, a script so obscure that it does not even find mention in state records. Nathu baba learnt the script from his father and is now teaching it to his young son. The script borrows elements from 8
BOLD WOMEN FROM ACROSS THE WORLD Aru Bose
I
f you were to imagine a different world, a parallel reality or even a unique world leader, what is the image that pops into your head? More often than not, for many of us, our imagination doesn’t stray too far from our reality and what we already know. Thus, Gandhi, Nehru,
Madiba or Martin Luther King would be the images that would creep into our imagination. What if I were to share with you stories of unique women, who imagined a different life for themselves, influencing the lives we can now imagine for ourselves – Queen Soraya from Afghanistan was the first consort to become part of Afghanistan’s
policies both nationally and internationally, way back in the 1920s. Then there’s human rights activist and physician Dr. Hawa Abdi Dhiblawe, who has been instrumental in shaping the healthcare of women in rural Somalia. Nigeria’s Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is a feminist author who was awarded the McArthur Grant in 2008, and is known
for her fierce feminist prose such as ‘Why We Should all be Feminists” and “Purple Hibiscus”. The current Congolese Minister for Tourism and Environment Arlette SoudanNonault was also a leading journalist and news anchor, before entering Congolese politics. Murielle Ahoure is a leading athlete from Ivory Coast, who has not only represent3
KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018
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HIDDEN VILLAGES
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OF GURUGRAM TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY LOKESH DANG
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rban villages are pastoral villages that were urbanized as the city expanded around them. Sixty percent of the Indian cityscape is built beyond the premises of formal architecture, away from parallel lines, right angles, and smooth surfaces. Gurugram is one of the fastest growing metro cities in the world, with about a million citizens, growth here has doubled in just the last dacade. There are more slick office complexes, housing estates and shopping malls per square mile than anywhere else in the country. Unfortunately, the city has not been able to handle this rapid pace of growth and as it is now, infrastructure is nowhere near the standards required. The city is a glimpse into the future of India – with skyscrapers dominating the
skyline. It has been really interesting for me to see how this rapid development has transformed the urban fabric of the city and its surroundings. New pockets have cropped up where there was nothing before, and even spaces that were like slums before have evolved. This has largely been the result of government policies and the improving economic status of the people who inhabit these spaces. Photographing urban villages made me delve into the ‘in between’ of what used to be and what is. But the fascinating thing that I found was that irrelevant of the dwelling type or size or lifestyle, they all somehow spoke about the same things – condition of roads, sewage systems and polictics. To see how strongly and
dedicatedly Chhat Puja is carried out in these urban villages was a refereshing change of perspective. Chhat Puja is about worshipping and paying gratitude to the sun and the newly weds, dressed up as brides, did so with much pride. Spending time with people that inahbit these spaces that are transiting between two worlds or perhaps have settled with the right balance between them, really makes one think of the difference between growth and development. While high rises come up around them at a marathon pace, they carry on their agricultural practices. This exestential contrast and perhaps, some conflict, is starkly visible in the unapprochable wall against an international school, or the lives of the urban village on display against the modern built environment.
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1. Mustard fields of Behrampur Village against the highrises of Gurugram. 2. The settlement of Ghanta Village foregrounds highrise developments. 3. A man performs a ritual Parikrama around a pond during the annual Chatt Puja in Basai Village. 4. Elderly village women relax in front their house and smoke a beedi in Basai Village. 5. Village laundry against city laundry in Sikandarpur Village. 6. Newly married women dress up in their wedding finery on the occasion of Chatt Puja in Basai Village. 7. The village commons, fenced by the walls of an international school, Basai Village.
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Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE
THE
ARCHITECT HATING SPIRIT OF THE
HAUZ KHAS MADRASSA Ram Rahman
M
y father, architect Habib Rahman, took Bharatanatyam dance photographs of my mother Indrani in the columned colonnade of the Qutub Mosque in Delhi in the late 1950s. The pictures became very popular as posttcards. The pillars were from demolished Hindu temples there. In 1970 he was taking photographs of the brothers Devi Lal and Durga Lal in the arches at the Hauz Khas Madrassa when he stepped back, fell and broke his spine. But there is a story behind this. The Hauz (lake or tank) was initially excavated by Sultan Ala alDin Khalji 1296 -1316. Most of the buildings and his own tomb were built by Sultan Firuz Shah, who was buried there in 1388. Firuz Shah was famed for his interest in architecture and built extensively across Delhi. After the sack of Baghdad, the Madrassa at Hauz Khas was regarded as the greatest centre for Islamic learning and studies in the world. The riches of Delhi were always an attraction for invaders, and when Timur invaded Delhi in 1398, his army camped at the Hauz before he defeated Sultan Mahmud and sacked Delhi and slaughtered a rumoured 100,000 citizens. In Timur’s own words: “When I reached the city’s gates, I carefully reconnoitered its towers and walls, and then returned to the side of the Hauz Khas. This is a reservoir, which was constructed by Sultan Firuz Shah, and is faced all round with stone and stucco. Each side of that reservoir is more than a bow shot long, and there are buildings placed around it. This tank is
BOLD WOMEN
/ from page 1
ed her nation internationally at the Olympics, World and African Championships, but has won numerous accolades as well. Chitra Vishwanath is an Indian architect based in Bangalore who works on themes related to ecology and architecture. Asha Khemka, from Bihar, recently retired as Principal of West Nottinghamshire College, United Kingdom. In 2017, Khemka became the recipient of ‘Asian Businesswoman of the Year’, for her work in the field of Education. Let’s populate our lives with the stories and journeys of courageous and bold women from across the world, through history, across various disciplines who dared to imagine their own lives and the world differently.
filled by the rains in the rainy season, and it supplies the city with water throughout the year. The tomb of Sultan Firuz Shah stands on its bank”…(Tuzuk i Timuri) In the 1960s it was still easy to get permission to photograph or even have performances at the site. My mother was photographed dancing there by Kishor Parekh at an evening organized by the American ambassador. The same year, she was photographed by the famous New York fashion photographer Hiro for Harper’s Bazaar magazine. Hauz Khas was still a village surrounded by mustard fields. Most interesting in the photo is the lake behind with the cows and buffaloes of the farmers. The city had still not overwhelmed these villages and Delhi was still dry with few trees. In January 1970 my father took her and the kathak dancers Durga and Devi Lal to be photographed in the arches for their upcoming tour to France. There was a drop behind him and he stepped back and fell, his canon camera breaking his tooth. Devi Lal rushed to the edge and saw him about to fall further. A dancer with strong legs, he jumped down twenty five feet and stopped his further fall. He had broken his spine and was paralysed from the chest down. The three dancers in full costume rushed him to Safdarjung hospital where he was treated for six months to a partial recovery. His fall was covered in the newspapers and then the story of the architects and the Madrassa started becoming a myth. Two previous architects had fallen and died at the spot before. One, who was Indian I cannot find information on
now. The other, Frenchman Andre Bloch, was visiting Delhi, fell and broke his neck and died on the spot in 1966. Bloch was cofounder with Le Corbusier of the famous architecture journal L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui. A myth came up in the village of a Jalali Buzurkh (an angry spirit) which haunted the Madrassa and had a hatred of architects and pushed them to their deaths. My father, who was not religious or superstitious, recalled that at an earlier evening there he was doing his Martha Graham imitation dance in one of the Chattris, when a henna bearded elderly gent rushed in enraged and said it had been a grave, not any longer visible!! Maybe the spirit was from that? This should serve as a warning to architects who visit the Madrassa.
Above: Collage by the Author Right: My Mother, Indrani Rahman, Bharatanatyam performance in the Hauz Khas Madrasa, 1966. Yes, it was possible in those days. Unseen gelatin silver print by Kishor Parekh. My father Habib fell and broke his spine at the same site taking Photos of Durga Lal and Devi Lal in 1970.
Left: My mother Indrani models for Harpers Bazaar in 1966. Shot by HIRO at the Hauz Khas ruins (the Hauz in its natural state can be seen behind with buffaloes). It was coordinated by Anna Kashvi, Marlon Brando’s ex wife. Hiro used broken mirrors to cast highlights on her. He gave me my first Beatles 45’s (I still have them!)
https://s3.amazonaws.com/ media.archnet.org/system/publications/contents/3354/original/ DPC1013.PDF?1384774373
HOW DELHI GOT ITS URBAN VILLAGES Malini Kochupillai
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ot long ago, before our city became the noisy, cantankerous monster it is today, Delhi was a land of green pastures and sweeping farmlands. Less than 50 years ago, vast swathes of our city were fields tended to by farmers living in villages that pre date the many governments, dynasties and colonisers that staked claim to these lands. The farmer communities that tended these lands lived in village Abadi areas, so called housing enclaves that consisted of homes with yards for cattle and the village commons including grazing grounds, village squares and water bodies. These
villages were often established along the natural drainage canals that criss-cross our city- instantly recognizable today by their putrid stench. A historical map of Delhi from 1807 shows villages that are called the same today, albeit in heavily anglicized nomenclature. When the city started developing rapidly post independence, and land agencies started acquiring farmlands by the acre to build the new city, village abadi areas were left untouched, and unaffected by the building bylaws designed for the newly developing city. Demarcated as ‘Laldora’ areas, these villages also developed rapidly, expanding and densifying into what we call the ‘urban
villages’ of today. Most so called ‘unauthorised’ colonies are spaces that were originally the commons of these erstwhile villages, which were gradually encroached upon and occupied by various members of these communities who staked claim through one means or the other, resulting in the dense, lively chaos we see today. This demarcation is starkly visible in Khirkee, where Khirkee Village, the originally marked laldora area, retains some of its rural fabric, even as it fades quickly; while Khirkee Extension, the ‘unauthorised’ extension that cropped up in the last few decades, changes as rapidly as the city around it, paying little heed to history or tradition.
Detail of a Survey of India Map from 1807
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KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018
EXCLUSIVE SERIES
FORCED INTO THE OCEAN 8th installment of an Artist’s rendition of his great grandmothers forced migration.
Escaping a Coup D’etat TEXT + ARTWORK ANDREW ANANDA VOOGEL
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uriname was in chaos and Mala’s sister had fled back to Guyana the day before. As Mala was deeply sleeping in Mr. Joshi’s mango grove, guerilla forces had taken the capital causing widespread panic amongst the people. Most of the outlying villages had been looted as the military forces made their way towards the capital. Those who hadn’t fled were in hiding. Mala’s eyes opened as dawn began to peek through the mango grove. She looked around and found that she had managed to nestle into a pile of drying leaves while she was sleeping. She had found herself under the overhanging branches of a tree laden with ripe mangos. The beating heart that sat in her chest began to gently pound as pushed her torso upright. Her eyes admired them momentarily and she wondered why they hadn’t been picked. Then she remembered the previous days events, and realized that most people from her village would have fled due to the violence. Including Mr. Joshi, who hadn’t tended to his mango crop the day before. Mala loved to sneak in early in the mornings before Mr. Joshi and his family arose to pick a couple mangos on her way to work. It seemed strange now to be lying alone in his grove, with no one to scold her or to greet her mischievious stare as her eyes began to covet all of the unattended
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mangos. She looked down the into the grove towards the jungle where the morning light was just beginning to touch the tops of the trees. Beneath, the ground was dark, with the occasional strands of light glistening along the pathway. As she rose, Mala dusted off the bits of earth and small insects that had decided to keep her company through the night. The captive mangos were in her sights and she plucked the nearest with the quickness of a striking panther. She pulled two more from their branches and began to make her way out of Mr. Joshi’s grove. As she peered out of the grove back towards the village, her eyes made out the silouhettes of stilted homes bathed in bright morning light. She cautiously moved closer to the road out of fear the militias would still be roaming the streets. Her eyes scanned across the dusty abandoned road, but she did not see a soul. Except for a few of the street dogs that were roaming around, her village was empty. She wondered what had happened, if the coup took place, if her family was safe and what she was going to do with herself. She leaned on Mr. Joshi’s fence and bit into one of the mangos. She ripped the fleshy skin with her teeth and spit it to the ground. The mango skin sunk into the soft ground and small hoards of ants began to form around the sweetly discarded memento. She bit straight into the mango and the
juice flowed from her mouth and dripped to the ground. As she consumed the mango, the strange silence of the empty village began to take over. She had never heard it so still and so silent. She thought momentarily and figured that without knowing what was happening, she would have to make it somewhere safe. Mala’s thoughts raced and she remembered that there was a nunnery that sat about a five kilometers walk from her village. The nunnery was on the outskirts of the city and was protected by gates and
notoriously unfriendly nuns. Mala thought this plan may work and began to pace out of her village on the recently abandoned road. She stayed close to the tree line as not to be noticed in case any militia were hanging around. Thinking through her nighttime dreams, Mala felt they were strange and somewhat mysterious. The man in her dream was so unlike anyone she had ever come across and the sari shop was also unlike anything she had seen in her life. She wondered where it all came from, but as she paced
forward, thoughts of the previous night’s visions traded places with the shakiness of her current situation. As the morning sun beat down, beads of sweat began dripping from her forehead and into her eyes. Mala looked around and saw that many of the local shops had been smashed up. She ran into the corner shop where she often purchased a soda after work and saw that the door had been broken and the shop looted. She was lucky that she had been able to slip into the mango grove, otherwise who
knows what would’ve become of her. The shop, a place that sold fish fry ups, cola’s, sweets, flour, milk and cigarettes was all but empty. Mala saw the stem of a cola bottle hidden under some broken glass. She picked it up and luckily the bottle was unscathed and the sweet, syrupy liquid inside of it remained unharmed. Mala broke the cap off and quickly guzzled down the bottle. All and all not a bad morning, she thought. Free cola and some fresh mangos! At this point, she was almost out of the village and she would be on the open road for the remainder of the journey until she got to the nunnery. The open road wasn’t safe, not only did she never walk it by herself when days were normal, now with the whole country in chaos, she was sure it would be much more treacherous. Luckily alongside most of the roads were deep irrigation ditches for the farmers to transport water. Instead of walking along the road, she hugged the inside wall of the ditch and even though it made the journey much more difficult, she kept a brisk pace, hopping along the steep dirt walls. Every few minutes she could hear a truck sputter by, but she dare not look up in case it carried soldiers. She feared that if she was caught she would surely be questioned, or worse. Traversing through the muddy trench, her heart was thumping wildly through her chest, partially out of fear and partially out of excitement of the unknown.
As Mala pushed through the muddy trenches, she thought to herself about a story her nani told her when she was much younger. It was a story about her grandmother’s own journey down a long and dangerous path. That path took her nani from the small village of Gajiyapur in Uttar Pradesh across many seas and into the jungles of South America, where she was cast into the endless green of the sugar cane fields. If her nani could endure crossing many seas, she herself could surely make it to the nunnery she thought. The silence of her thoughts broke as she heard the brakes of a car come to a screeching halt. Her mind raced as she feared she had been discovered. A shadow came over the sun and she looked up. A man’s face appeared, it was creased and folded with soft wrinkles. His face appeared kind, but his eyes were sharp and she began to feel nervous. “Hey gyal, what are you doing?” he shouted. Mala slowly mustered the courage to reply. “Nothing sir, me juss a go for a walk.” He shook his head unimpressed. “Okay then, where you going,” he responded. “Me go for walk, down to the nunnery,” Mala cautiously replied. The man reached out his hand. She grabbed it and he pulled her out of the ditch and onto the asphalt. Mala was still nervous, but she saw the man had children and his wife in an old beat up van. “We’ll drop you,” he said. Mala hesitatingly accepted and she got into the overstuffed van.
Facing page: Untitled, 2018 Facing page, Below: Suriname Village, circa 1970’s Below: Mala, Age 17, 1973
mahavir singh bisht
Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE
ARE YOU A VILLAGER? Mahavir Singh Bisht Singhania
translation: Vedika
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n Indian satellite is deployed to look for signs of water on Mars. Perhaps our government could create a satellite that could find water in the drought-hit areas of Bundelkhand, Vidarbha and Punjab or tell the farmers living in the village about the mood of the weather at the right time. Then, over one lakh farmers wouldn’t have to march towards the Parliament, criticising ill-executed government policies. Meanwhile, a car was forced to pull over because of the rally. A man peeped out of the window, irritated, he said, “These farmers, they hail from villages, they should have some common sense at least. Don’t they know how much time is worth in the cities?” With frayed eyebrows I glanced at him as he rolled up the windows of his car. I continued to walk along with the rally. I wondered if this Honda Citi owner and his family only consume canned food. This rally neither evoked a sense of fright in him, nor empathy. He must be one of those urban babus who make a fuss over slow-moving cycles at traffic signals, but readily wait for VIP cars to pass them by. Anyway, the rally reached Parliament Street and packed it with people. There was barely any space to rest one’s foot. Police and RAF personnel stood behind water cannons and barricades, lest the crowd went into a frenzy and escaped towards the Parliament. Their faces were full of doubts, some were disturbed and others in dilemma. I asked one about his opinion of this farmer’s march. He replied, “As long as it is done in a peaceful manner, it is fine. We are also from villages, we understand. What we do here is solely our duty.” Following the speech of the leaders of various farmer organisations, towards late evening, leaders of national political parties like Congress and AAP also merged their motives and agendas under the guise of sympathy. I left the rally and headed to-
wards the Central Secretariat Metro Station to get some tea. A group of workers were standing around an open drain near the tea stall. Some were half-naked and others were holding ropes in their hands. A few shovels and buckets were also lying around. I tried to eavesdrop as I sipped my tea. They were talking in Bhojpuri, so I couldn’t comprehend their conversation. A little while later, a young man about the age of twenty-four or twenty-five pulled himself out of the open drain. Clad in clothing only sufficient to hide his modesty, the rest of his body was covered in grime. He didn’t utter any word and moved gingerly towards the now vacant stage, head tilted and hanging low. He seemed intoxicated. He walked for some eighty metres and then crossed the road moving towards the Parliament House. His pace had now changed. This time his walk seemed stronger, and strides were more confident. As the sun dawned, his silhouette could be seen against the background of the Parliament as he stared at it. I moved towards the metro and stopped to buy myself some chewing gum at a tapri nearby. The shop stocks miscellaneous food items like chips and cold-drinks etc. They also provide catering services to government offices nearby. The owner of the shop seemed quite bossy. He sat on an elevated platform and threw instructions at the young lads who worked at his shop. I sometimes feel he might be working with an intelligence agency. A bunch of boys seated on their haunches were cleaning saucepans, strainers and other paraphernalia required to run the shop. I snooped into their conversation. One of them said, “This western toilet is of no use, it barely cleans the whole belly,” giving others a graphic demonstration of how Indian toilets worked better instead. Sound of crickets could be heard from a distance as moon shone over the guard’s post. Like everyday, the metro was over-crowded today as well. “Are you a villager, you vagabond beast!” suddenly I heard a shrill voice. An
elderly woman was shouting at a young man dressed in unkempt clothes. “I am sorry, please accept my apologies”, he responded as he took stock of his tattered rucksack. He turned around and stood facing the metro gate. The lady secured herself a seat. I felt a tap on my back. I turned around and saw a familiar face grinning at me. “How are you? It has been a while,” the young boy said. I couldn’t place his name. “I am fine, just the usual. How are you?” I asked. “Not much, I secured a job with the MCD. The cleaning staffs were on a strike today. I am returning from there. I received my salary on time; however, a friend hasn’t and was upset. I went to give him some solace.” “Really, why?” I asked. “He is a contract employee, the government hasn’t released funds. Poor thing!” he went into in deep contemplation. “Today is my birthday too, as per my certificate” he said. “As in?” “I have two birthdays; I was born in the monsoon season. My mother couldn’t place the date correctly. When I came to the city, my uncle enrolled me into a government school. Hurriedly, he put August 14 as my birth date,” he explained. I extended my wishes and bade him farewell as the metro entered my station. The next morning I had to meet Rekha for an interview. Rekha was the coordinator in an NGO at Madanpur Khadar. The area is a rehabilitation colony between Delhi and Noida. There is a lack of basic amenities like water. The air is filled with a stench and stacks of garbage lie around. The houses are undeveloped and stacked against one another. I entered one such establishment. Only recently, the quality of education has improved in this area. Rekha helps young children and teenagers get admission in schools. “Hello, how are you? Will you take a tea or cold drink?” Rekha asked. Suddenly, a little boy indicated at me to call Rekha. “Give me fifteen minutes, I have to give him a document,” Rekha said and strolled away into the quaint street holding the young boy’s hand.
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KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018
The SPECTACLE that is MEHRAULI
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clothes staring back at us from the windows of showrooms like Rohit Bal, Sabyasachi, Gazal Gupta among others. But do not mistake these for the treasures of Mehrauli. The real treasure starts just a little bit off from the showrooms. There, where every bus heading to Mehrauli reaches its terminus. The moment you enter, you are greeted by a humongous poster of Ramesh Kumar Kullu Bhai (President of Mehrauli Block Congress Committee), greeting you according to the festive calendar. Whether it be Diwali, Eid, Lohri or Christmas, this intersection of Mehrauli Terminal is always witness to the celebrations of these festivals. And this is where the diversity of Mehrauli starts to appear. Mehrauli today is as diverse and colourful as its past has been. On the right side is the tomb of Adham Khan. Yes, the
same Adham Khan whom Akbar, played by Hrithik Roshan in the movie ‘Jodhaa-Akbar’, had ordered to be thrown off the walls of the Agra Fort head first. Every time I look at this monument, I think of the movie, and I remember Adham Khan’s name. Otherwise, people only know it as Bhool Bhulaiya. Anyways. Now, let’s turn left. One street goes towards the Christian colony. Take a short walk and you will find a truly unique building, called Saint John’s Church. But if you look carefully, you will find that it is much more than a church. Its uniqueness lies in its architecture. Its dome is like that of a temple. The doors and windows remind you of Islamic architecture. Infact, there is something written in Arabic above the door. But the moment you enter the building, it becomes a
church. The local Pastor, Reverend Dr. Bhaskar explains: “We think all the Britishers did was come here and enslave us. But that’s not true of all of them. Some came here just to serve humanity. This church was made for this purpose. When it was made in 1907, Reverend S. S. Allnutt, who was a Britisher, became the first Priest here. He was also the Founding Father of St. Stephen’s College. Since that time upto now, people of all faiths come here. In fact, our Sunday Mass is also delivered in Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu and sometimes Sanskrit.” There are many other religious places in Mehrauli, like the Yogamaya Temple. Interestingly, in 12th-century Jain texts, Mehrauli has been given the name of Yoginipura. Mughal emperor Akbar Shah (II) renewed it. At present, the temple building is completely
new. There is no evidence of its antiquity in any part of it. Besides this, Mehrauli is also the place of the Dargah of Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki, who was a Mureed (follower) of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer Sharif, and succeeded him as the leader of Chishti clan after his death. Baba Farid became his disciple and Hazrat Nizamuddin became the disciple of Baba Farid. This dargah is the main center of “Phoolwaalon ki Sair”, a procession that also passes through the Yogamaya temple. You can go to Zafar Mahal after coming out of the dargah. There, you will be welcomed by a grand mesmerizing door. But do not expect that anyone will ever open this door. There is a small opening at the bottom, where the door is broken, just slide yourself in. Once inside, you will be astonished and
Top Left: Qutub Minar hovers over the roofs of Mehrauli Top Center: Groups of old men play cards in the ruins of Zafar Mahal Top Right: The graves at the Hijron Ka Khanqah Center Right: Shri points out his name at the entrance to the Khanqah Bottom Right: JP Wahal at his mansion, Mor Wali Haveli Facing page, below: Adham Khan’s tomb at the Mehrauli bus terminal Below: Kids play at a neighborhood park Left: The architecturally unique, St. John’s Church
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PHOTOGRAPHY VAIBHAV BHARDWAJ
wo sisters live in Delhi, Purani Dilli and Mehrauli. They have as much in common, as they are different. From a historical perspective, or for its spectacles or in the general mood, Mehrauli is the elder of the two. Older than Old Delhi, she is more patient and hence, maybe less popular (in my opinion). But she’s been carrying a burden of so many deep memories for too long now. So today, we talk about Mehrauli. Whenever the story of Mehrauli is told, it starts with Qutub Minar. But visible from every rooftop of Mehrauli, this tall, unique building overshadows all the other treasures buried here. Which is why today we will go beyond the Qutub. When we go further, we find ourselves in the dazzling glittery world of fashion designers, with sparkling
TRANSLATION KUNAL SINGH
TEXT PRAKRITI KARGETI
Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE
confused at the same time. This was the castle of Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last light of the Mughal empire. A couplet written by him while jailed in Rangoon(Burma), “kitna hai bad-naseeb ‘zafar’ dafn ke liye do gaz zameen bhi na mili koo-eyaar mein” Zafar wanted to be buried near the graves of his forefathers. But he could not. But there is an empty grave there, with Zafar’s name on it. His body might not be, but his desires are buried here. But you will also find people here, unknowingly reducing the despair of this palace, Zafar Mahal. Especially elderly people playing cards. On Sundays, you can find three to four different groups. If you talk to them, you’ll get to know that many of them came from Pakistan after the Partition of 1947. They bought houses from Custodians in Mehrauli for peanuts and made them their home. All of them served in different government departments. Then, as is now, their entertainment regime includes coming to Zafar Mahal to play cards. When I asked: ‘Chacha, how long have you been coming here?’ before
he could reply, the other one said in jest: ‘hah, he’s been sitting here since ‘47’. Immediately the first guy quipped: ‘Yes, we are here from ‘47. And this guy has just come out of a grave here.’ This reminded me that in Mehrauli, a grave does not represent death but instead is a symbol of life beyond death. This becomes more apparent once you visit ‘Hijron Ka Khanqah’. Outside on the grounds, there are 50 graves of Kinnars, buried here in the 15th century during the Lodi dynasty. What makes it different and special is that it’s been taken care of by the Kinnar community for the past century. This place is very special for the Kinnars, who come here in groups to offer prayers and flowers on graves and light ritual incense. This place is a quiet oasis, completely at odds with the hustle and bustle outside. Shree, who without being asked tells me that he’s actually Hindu, has been taking care of the place for the last 35 years. “I happily take care of this place. It has given me a lot in return. I have six children, four of them boys.” He adds with pride, “and also, my name is written on its walls!”, he points towards the fragments of tiles pasted near
the entrance door. One of the broken pieces has Shree written on it. He considers it his destiny to take care of this ‘Khanqah’. However in Mehrauli, public places are not the only ones with history. Some of the Havelis owned by local families are a sight to behold. One of them is a Haveli owned by the Wahal family. J.P. Wahal and his family still live here. Built in 1924, the mansion was known as ‘Mor Wali Haveli’, because of the peacock shaped weather vane that was once installed on its rooftop. The Haveli is hard to miss as you roam around Mehrauli. J.P. Wahal points out, “The government has given heritage status to the mansion but does not do anything towards its maintenance and won’t lets us do anything either. For the repair of our own house, we need to get the approval of the government”. Explaining further, “during my father and grandfathers times, we rented this mansion to the government. There used to be a government office in it. We almost cried when they moved out and we moved back. They had left the building in ruins.” Wahal sahib also tells us another aspect of this scenario. “The 9
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KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018
THE KEEPER OF RECORDS /from page 1 Hindi, Urdu, Sanskrit and Punjabi and is now only used by a handful of Bhatts and Pandas1. Even though I could not understand a word, I could feel a belonging, a closeness to these letters. I could not believe that these dusty and faded pieces of paper carried in them over 900 years of history. The pothi I looked at was entirely dedicated to Khirkee Village and had its history recorded right from its founder till my youngest cousins uptill 2010. Though the records were maintained on Bhojpatras2 earlier, these have now been copied onto paper. According to the records, Khirkee village was founded by Khoobi Singh in 1150 AD, when he migrated from Indore to Delhi along with his clan called Bhals. He is referred to as a “Raja”, probably only a title taken on by a zamindar of the time. The Bhatts being the Kulgurus to the Kshatriya 1 Brahmin Pandits in Haridwar who function as professional genealogists for Hindus. Bhatts and Pandas are very similar, except that Bhatts visit their patrons while patrons have to go Haridwar to get registered with Pandas. 2 Birch Bark. The Birch tree is widely found in North India and sheets made out of its bark were used to write before the advent of paper.
“Raja”, followed him in his journey, recording and singing his tales of accomplishments. Apart from being a diligent record keeper, Nathu baba is also an intriguing storyteller; a trait acquired after years of training. Each Bhatt is the Kulguru of several villages and visits them periodically. Nathu baba has over 150 villages scattered over Delhi, Uttar Pradesh and Haryana. The visit of the Bhatt is celebrated like a festival at the villages, where he is hosted by different families each night and is showered with gifts, especially by families who have been blessed with new-borns. In earlier days, the village would gather each night to listen to Bhatt’s tales of the lives and experiences of their ancestors. This form of community gathering and storytelling have now sadly been replaced by modern forms of entertainment. Lamenting the loss of culture and his livelihood, Nathu baba recalled how all his jajmans would gather around him every evening upon returning from their farms and treated him with the utmost respect. In our current fast-paced life, most of his jajmans have either moved out of their native villages or are no longer interested in listening to his tales. The exercise of recording genealogies has become more mechanical and mundane, losing much of its charm. I wondered how long could he carry on this tradition.
A NEW START... ONCE AGAIN Murwarid Paiwand
I
always loved to watch Madhuri Dixit’s movies and whenever I would watch them I used try to to copy her. The funniest thing was that I would take my mom’s dupatta and wear it as a saree and then dance like Madhuri. That time I had very short hair, so I used to take another dupatta and wear it like a long hair wig on my head. Because of these things, I stopped paying attention to my studies and I would get scolded by my teachers and my elder sister. And as I was progressing to higher classes, my subjects were also getting difficult. The hardest subject was Sindhi but the good thing was that my
Sindhi teacher was loving towards me and she understood my difficult situation - that I was not a Pakistani child and Sindhi was difficult for me. She really loved me and I still remember her beautiful name: Maruma. My school days were going very well but our Urdu teacher was very strict. She would address students with tites like duffer, begairat etc. and would even beat students. But, at that time I couldn’t care less about what she was doing. But as I started to grow older I started thinking, why she does behave like that or why she is like this….? I have a strong childhood memory of Fridays. I would go to my uncle’s place, who has four
paloma ayala
daughters and together we would roleplay characters from different Hindi dramas like, Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, Kasauti Zindagi Ki and others. When it came to food, we always loved Nihari, Halwa-Puri, Gol Gappe, etc. These were our favourite delicacies from Pakistan. I was growing up with all these interesting things around me. As I was starting to understand and getting accustomed to the education system and methods of Pakistan, we suddenly got a call from an uncle who was living back home. He had called to invite us for his daughter’s wedding in Afghanistan. My father, who missed home, finally found a good reason to go back to there. By this time, the situation in Afghanistan was also much better. It was peaceful and Afghani people could go back and live there like before. At that time, I was in fifth standard and no one except my father knew that we will not be returning to Pakistan after the trip. All of us thought that we we will come back and continue with our life here in Pakistan. After the wedding ceremony got over, we started to pack for our return. This is when my father told us that no one is going back to Pakistan now. We all started crying and my mom disagreed. They argued. My mother was thinking about our education and our future. But, my father did not listen to us and we had to stay back. Once again, we began to start a new life there... Left: A childhood in Pakistan
A GAME WITH NO RULES
A Brides photoshoot on the steps of Khirkee Masjid
Paloma Ayala
K
hirkee village rains and thunders. The street, as a river, carries away the surplus of economies and humans. The vegetable-selling rickshaw moves away towards the temples, where one can hide from the unpredictable storm. The tailor puts the sewing machine inside his tiny shop. The man of the paratha stand, closes it down. No one wanders around without reason. One cannot say that Khirkee is a planned endeavor. The narrow alleys make the GPS system hard to connect to. Navigation, oh gosh. One requires a good sense of direction and visual memory to get through.
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I invariably return defeated by the neighborhood. I try to win, though. I check where I want to go before actually going, so not to get easily lost. I assess if walking or taking a tuktuk is better, often motorized means succeeding over feet, no matter the distance. I think of how much to pay the driver, ready to haggle, though I very well know that I will end up paying more. I keep eye contact with every single man around me that stares back or attempts to touch me, and end up ruining valuable interactions by having an annoyed grimace. I cover my nose and mouth with a scarf, which far from being self-censoring, is to stop the pollution from causing unwanted headaches.
My good friend Jyothidas explained that Khirkee grew as a response to a non-stop process of colonization of rural lands, and migrations from farmlands to cities. I suspect that there are more people than space, and this makes pockets of the city somewhat resistant to gentrification processes. Numbers empower the population against the norms of architecture and urban planning. All sort of DIY solutions organically appear to any problem, transforming any artificially imposed structure. If my suspicion is true in Khirkee village, if indeed the numbers of humans overpower certain regulatory systems, then the presence... or in this case the absence of women in the public spaces, raises questions like: for whom are outside spaces important? Who cares for them? Who creates and makes use of them? A more obvious question would be: where are the women? The void of female bodies on the streets leads to an air of female mistrust upon safety, value, and position. How do women insert themselves in the community economy if all the jobs that one sees are occupied by men? How is invis-
ibility affecting the group of young school-aged girls that visit Khoj every Wednesday, their creativity, self-perspective, where and how do they play? And what about the integration of the immigrant women living in the neighborhood? The problems that I had to deal with in Khirkee were, I realized, created by the ways in which I constructed a relationship to the space. The interactions that could lead me to answer my questions were not happening by walking and moving around as a tourist. I bought myself a kurta, stuck a bindi on my forehead, and roamed around some more. I hoped that this brown woman from Mexico would pass for Indian and that I would skip xenophobia or the distance that sensing an ‘other’ produces. I tried to start conversations with the ladies sitting on walk ways or outside the temple, as if this superfluous game of camouflage would open ways of communication. It did not work. I tried to imitate my friend Prerana in the way she chooses vegetables and bargains with the sellers. I learned basic words in Hindi. But I could not create spontaneous conversations, sit at a park to ob-
serve and take photographs, walk to the nearest market area alone. The time when I should have been trying to relate and learn, I spent stressed about getting lost or afraid of being harassed. So I changed my movement to more domestic, enclosed spatial contexts, towards creating closer encounters. The women that I met through Prerana allowed the artistic project to be realized inside an all-female dormitory in Jawaharlal Nehru University, JNU (www.palomaayala.com/in-view-of-the-normalcy.html). I learned more about issues of psychic health, spatial orders of unequal access, representation of social relationships and mobility that the young students are dealing with. It confirmed that the stress and fear I felt was extendable to my new girlfriends, that our relational strategies were developed mostly for protected or securitized perceived environments. The question of how do we inhabit space (as in modify, occupy, perceive, imagine, activate, create) as women, and how the space inhabits us, became linked to the idea of domestication of the public space.
Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE
SPECTACLE OF MEHRAULI /from page 7 current state of ‘Mor Wali Haveli’ makes it so real that the mansion has become a character in its own right. You may call her old and worn out, but that also gives her cinematic beauty.” J.P. Wahal often rents the haveli for film shoots and commercials. In fact, Bollywood’s famous film ‘Rockstar’ was shot right here. Wahal sahib recalls, “yes, Ranbir Kapoor was being driven out of the house. That scene was shot right here.” My house is also in Mehrauli. Every time I come home from work, the cabbies get scared when I say Mehrauli. Their only fear, “Mam, please not the narrow streets, I’ll get stuck there forever.” Their fears are not misplaced. The streets here are really narrow, or should I say have become really narrow. Khanqah’s caretaker Shree says, “I used to drive a bull cart here. The streets were wide enough for two buses to pass each other smoothly where even driving a car is a nightmare now. People have encroached most of the space and now there’s always a traffic jam.” So in the Mahrauli of this century, the old and new intersect constantly. This is just how it is, in this Spectacle that is Mehrauli.
he street was staging itself in tumultuous motion as the sun was setting. The gesticulation and the gaze expressed the inexpressible concealment in the situation. The guilt of knowing everything and the fear of being absorbed created a pandemonium of emotions producing a silent scream. (In front of the tea stall people have a dialogue over Ashfaque) Person 1: It cannot be him. He can never do this. Person 2: Those rascals have tried him for nothing. It is easy to handcuff him; he was the weakest amongst all, so they did it. Satya: But what happened? And Who? Why is Ashfaque not with you guys? Person1: It is about him. He is in police custody! There is a watch worth Rs 10000 which went missing. They suspect that Ashfaque did this. Satya: But who in this world can afford a watch worth Rs 10000? Person 2: It is regular business for the people visiting the castle. They drink tea worth Rs 250. Satya: That is the total you pay me for the month. But leave that, what about Ashfaque? Person 1: Those bastards. Security Guards! They too live in this Khirkee, they too like many of us do not have a khirkee, and still they don’t feel anything for us. Person 2: They miss no opportunity to harass us. Today, these people stripped us naked to check for the watches. Satya: That’s seriously ridiculous. Person1: What do you say? Person2: Let’s go to the police station? Satya: I will just close my shop. Let’s go.
Every step trembling with terror; they could feel their hearts throbbing, like a train crossing over a bridge. The only power they had was the absence of power, the real strength of weakness. The contract laborers are not here intending to be champions of justice. For it might require a Hercules, the son of Zeus, to combat the fierceness and violence of law. The first image which flashes over when thinking of justice, perhaps appears to be the lady justice with scales of justice. However, a tired wobbly man in brown uniform, with moustache and husky voice to assert his authority, happens to be the first encounter in order to achieve justice. (People enter the police station and find a situation where two police men are speaking) Senior Officer: You guys are a total burden to this system. Couldn’t you guys be more careful when checking cars at night? Police Officer: Sir that car was literally dancing over the road, and the people in it were very high. Senior Officer: Didn’t you see the color and texture of that car, he was certainly son of a wealthy man and anyway his dad would have rescued him. Police Officer: Sir many junior officers were also there, we had to stop them and investigate. Senior Officer: All fools! You know how many calls I have been receiving since last night for your stupidity. He is the son of well known Minister, and if not that you are well aware about how things works, it has been so long time. Just take care of things from next time and look who these people are, and I am leaving tomorrow I have a parent’s teacher’s meeting to attend.
Act Two of a play in Four Acts, written by Steven S. George Based on the lives and experiences of our migrant population Police Officer: Okay Sir. Sorry Sir. (Senior Officer exits, Police officer directs himself towards the three people who have just entered) Police Officer: What casualties made you arrive at this place? Satya: Actually, a friend of ours has been captured for a crime he has not committed, his name is Ashfaque. Police: Oh! That bloody terrorist!!! Person1: Sir I think you are thinking of someone else, he was caught today from the Castle. Police: You all are his friends, where are the guns kept? Whom are you thinking to assassinate? The Prime Minister? Satya: I think there is confusion here officer. He is our friend, worker in the Castle. Police: Yes I know well. About whom you are talking! But I don’t think you know who you people are talking about. He is an illegal Bangladeshi immigrant. These people are trying to enter our country, increase their population and want to rule over us. These guys are robbing away our jobs, taking away all our economy. Why do you think our own citizens are sleeping hungry and the youth is unemployed? Because of these fucking immigrants and a bunch human rights activist, who are urban supporters of these programmes. They all are getting funding by big terrorist organization and foreign agencies for the entire plot. Satya: Sir, he is a friend, a contract labor with wage less than Rs 300 for a day. He has been daily drinking tea from my stall and lives in the same area. They don’t even know how to read, they can’t even think of harming a mosquito.
Police: You don’t know these people; they look like us, live with us. The entire country is flooded with 40% of these people, we need to be alarmed. That’s why government is linking everything with Aadhar. Don’t you guys see the news channel, nowadays you getting everything on whatsapp as well. Maybe, you are also one of them. What is your name? Satya: Satya Police: Your full name? Satya: Satya Chamdolha. Police: Oh you fucking untouchable. You guys are also thinking for an uprising! You guys are the care keepers of these terrorist organizations. Satya: No Sir, I have not been doing anything. Police: Get out. Run or I’ll put you inside too. The formidable persona of the police station and the authority can detered the entire being of Satya in few seconds, by reducing him to his caste. Outside the Police Station, haziness has engulfed the subject and the subject area. Person 2: You never told us you are an untouchable. Person 1: Can you just shut up & let’s think what can be done for our friend? Person 2: I know everything now. He is no friend or anything. Didn’t you hear him saying, what he is? Person 1: Don’t tell me you believe him. He is the same person who 10 days back took money from another immigrant from Khirkee in exchange of identity proofs for Aadhar Card. Person 2: Anyway, I am not getting into it. Our people are suffering so much because of them. Person 1: You really think, Ash-
faque, we don’t know what they’ll do to him? Satya: And what about the watch? They picked him up for theft, now he is suddenly a terrorist. Listen to me at least. Person 2: I don’t want to know. We will be going against our Nation, if we try to indulge in anything more. What do you have anyway, to save him? Do you have the money, time to visit courts for him or lawyers, anything? I am out! You should be too. In a unison the three start moving towards Khirkee. There was a disquieting silence between them, there walks floundering, thoughts dwindling and their body’s shivering in the freezing winter breeze. People in the street cannot move away their eyes, estranged by the numbness in their walk. thought doodle by author
IDEM T
Mor Wali Haveli nestled in the hustle bustle of Mehrauli
In a moment, thousands of thoughts flicked across every mind. What happened to Ashfaque? Why are they behaving in such a strange manner? What will happen next? Is what the police officer told true? Who knows the truth? We can find out in the next edition of Khirkee Voice, in the Act 3.
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KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018
I MUST WRITE DOWN MY
SEEKING SOLACE IN CHAOS
PROBLEMS IN ORDER TO THINK OVER THEM ONE BY ONE...
TEXT & ARTWORK BY:
MOHIT KANT
DO YOU HAVE THE SONG JANAM SAMAJHA KARO?
OH, ALL THIS NOISE! I CAN’T EVEN HEAR MY
NO BHAI! I ONLY HAVE LOVE SONGS
OWN THOUGHTS!
PAPA PAPA!
HEY! LOOK
HURRY UP!!
BEGUN LE..
I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!! SIR SHOULD I POUR YOU SOME TEA?
HEY YOU! SHOW ME THAT OR I’LL LEAVE!!
LOOK AT THAT PATAKHA NUMBER!!
AT THAT!!
ARE, KHAN SHAHIB, WHERE TO?
MAYBE THE MALL ?
UNCLE A LITTLE FASTER!
OK OK AUNTY!
MAYBE THE PARK...?
ANYTHING TO SKIP THIS TRAFFIC..
MY BRAIN IS GOING NUMB!
THE MAN MADE GOOD TEA, BUT RIGHT
THANK YOU, NOT NOW..
TO THE MALL
THEN, I WAS LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO THINK OVER MY PROBLEMS, AND THIS
AND SOLACE..!
WAS NOT THE PLACE.
EH! WHAT KIND OF PARK IS THIS!
THEY SHOULD CALL IT A PARKING LOT!!
COME ON... MUST FOCUS ON WINNING THIS ROUND...
HE LOOKS ANGRY!
NICE CATCH HERO UNCLE! COME PLAY WITH US!!
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NAH, HE
LOOKS AFRAID!
I NEED TO TEACH THESE KIDS A LESSON!
HAHA! HE’S SWEATING!
NAH! HE’S FINISHED!
Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE
DISCOVERING THE STORIES OF
K H I R K E E ’ S M AT R I A R C H S Kamla Chauhan at her animal shed, circa. ‘95-’96. Photo: Courtesy the Author
Ekta Chauhan
G
rowing up In Khirkee, especially for a girl, is full of dichotomies. Our world in the village community was far removed from the rapid changes happening in the “city”. As women, we are always battling, struggling and trying to catch up with our peers of the “city”; one step at a time. Every generation of women has had a different struggle; from access to safe toilets to battling domestic violence, from choosing to go for higher studies to having male friends, and from freedom from purdah to driving. Women of Khirkee have been strong, resilient and often rebellious. These are not organised protests and rebellions of the kind that grab news headlines, these are everyday acts by women. Over the past year, I have been involved with Dilli Ki Khirkee, an oral history archival project in collaboration with The Citizens’ Archive of India, that aims to capture these beautiful journeys and stories (of both men and women). Khirkee Village is a small community of around 90 families, residing in the heart of Delhi and yet carrying their age old customs, beliefs and practices. According to the village’s traditional record keeper, a man by the name of Khoobi Singh migrated from Madhya Pradesh to Delhi along with his brothers in the 14th century and established the village. The dominant Chauhan community considers Khoobi the father of the village (we are yet
to find out who the mother was). For the last 700 years, the community has occupied the same space, witnessing the ebb and flow of empires, independence and modern governance. I belong to this medieval community; I am their daughter (you are never your parents’ child here, you are the village’s child). I grew up with rather rebellious women; an agriculturalist grandmother who was deeply spiritual, and an educated mother who balanced her maiden and in-law families with utmost dedication. While these might not seem much like achievements, they had to be fought for. They had to fight to dedicate time to God or to the family they had left after marriage; these were outside their assigned roles, and thus frowned upon. I had grown up listening to maaji’s (Grandma) stories of her struggles and her dreams. While I lost her 4 years ago, the archival project gave me an opportunity to interact with other dadi’s and amma’s of the village. When I started the archival project, my first few interactions were with men. I had asked my father for a list of elders who might be willing to share their experiences. I got a list with only men’s names. I asked every woman I knew for an interview, but was constantly denied. Women’s world was impenetrable even to me. Some of them didn’t want to talk, perhaps they had never been heard. Others thought their stories were not “worth the internet” (“meri kahani kaun padega?”). But once they were made comfort-
able, asked to forget to camera and talk to me as their poti, the stories started to flow. Angoori maaji, shared with us how she barely spoke or socialised with other women of the village while her mother-in-law and husband were alive. She tried to put her opinion forward once but was slapped by her mother-in-law. This came as a shock to me, outspoken, opinionated and loud as I am. Her own daughter-in-law and granddaughter of my age, have quite a reputation (both positive and negative) for their chattiness (it is almost impossible to pass their house without aunty stopping you for a little tête-à-tête), driving (both of them ride a scooter and are often the subject of male gaze) and dress-sense (they are often mocked by fellow women for wearing churidaars and jeans instead of salwars). Listening to her I couldn’t help but wonder, the fight she must have had to put up to enable the next generation of women in the family these little freedoms. Krishna dadi came as a complete surprise to me with her progressive thoughts. I had never met her before, but when I went to her house for an interview, it felt like I had always known her. She was good friends with my grandmother and through her knew all of us. She had never been to school, not because of social pressure but by personal choice. She was admitted to a local school back home in Haryana, but left within a couple of months as she didn’t like it. Clearly, she had a lot more to learn outside mundane
classrooms. Her house now is next to Khirkee Masjid, a 14th century mosque which lays depilated and ignored by both locals and the government. While most people see a heritage monument as a liability, Krishna maaji believes our heritage is our asset. She summed up the entire concept of heritage preservation in one line: “aisi imarat toh bachni hi chaiye. Hamare bacho ko bhi pata chalega ki pehle kaisi imarat hoti thi. Ab toh aisi imarat ban hi nahi sakti. Abhi Sarkar ki koi rok tham nahi hai yahan. Ache se saja kar rakhe toh hamare bache yahan khel sakte hai, pad sakte hai” (Such monuments should be saved. Our future generations should see how monuments were constructed. It is impossible to even construct such monuments now. Currently, the government has no control. If they maintain it well, our kids can play and study here.) Apart from everyday battles in their homes, women of Khirkee village have also survived larger wars. Memories of the 1947 partition are still raw in the minds of an entire generation of the community. Misri Devi, now 92 years old, is one of the oldest women in the village and remembers partition hazily. With time, the matriarch’s memory has faded and she tends to mix up some events of her past. Her husband was “killed” but she can’t remember clearly if it was during the partition violence or later (her son clarified that he was not killed during partition but much later). What she does remember is how the women and children of Khirkee
hid for 11 days in the neighbouring village of Chirag Dilli when the riots broke out. Misri Dadi was one of these women, huddled like cattle and uncertain of their future. With rapid development of the city, the village has become an “urban village” and is no longer a small homogenous community. The village’s outcrop Khirkee Extension has grown quickly and is now even larger than the old village. The area was once the village’s grazing grounds, and is now dotted with narrow lanes occupied by a diverse group of migrants. The relationship between the two is that of a mother and daughter. The old mother wants to hold onto old traditions for as long as possible (even if they are sometimes outdated and oppressive), the young daughter is ready to spread her wings and fly. As is the case with my family, relationships between the old Khirkee walas and its newer occupants is often fraught with tensions. And yet, one cannot live without the other. The women of the village, clad in their sarees and ghunghats, often blame the “new girls” for corrupting the minds of young women. But at the same time will tell you, “ye ladkiyan sheher mein kuch banane aayi hai. Hamari responsibility hai ki innko safely rakhe aur encourage kare. Hamari beti jaisi hi hai” (these girls have come to the city to fulfil their dream. It is our responsibility to keep them safe and encourage them. They are just like our daughters). Notes: The last quote was by my mother, Premlata Chauhan.
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Kalkaji to Khirkee An Aural Exploration of Space
Ashim Bery, playing the Ved in a Vaishti at his terrace in Kalkaji
that Kalkaji never sleeps, I recently discovered a panwaadi who is open at 3 am, making recording sessions all the more worthwhile. This spot has now become our ‘adda’ for a garam chai and a cigarette, the best way to distress after a long night of recording in the studio. Khirkee on the other hand is still new, and reveals itself in new and surprising ways everyday. I have
Visionary C
V
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Visi o
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“Our Visionary Leader is Right!” Vote for a Dream... Vote for Tomorrow!
iis onary Leader
“Our Visionary Leader is A Leader!” Vote for a Dream... Vote for Tomorrow!
“Our Visionary Leader Knows Best!” Vote for a Dream... Vote for Tomorrow!
Edited by Malini Kochupillai & Mahavir Singh Bisht [khirkeevoice@gmail.com]
e fo
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r ro w
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ty
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on Par i s i V
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“Long Live Visionary People!!” Vote for a Dream... Vote for Tomorrow!
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and Khirkee are stark and many. I have started to notice the small details lately, the sounds, the crowds, the rhythm of the streets in the two neighborhoods beat just a little differently. This coming out of my shell, and letting in all these experiences has opened up a whole new world for me. I encourage you to try it!
si ionary Secreta V r
President y r na
Layout design by Malini Kochupillai
come to love the narrow bustling lanes of the neighborhood, as they always show me something novel and unseen and unheard of before. While problem abound in the neighborhood, what stays with me is the energy and the resilience of the people in the face of it all. I take in all of it and it comes out in the form of notes and beats. The differences between Kalkaji
mo
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rowing up cushioned in and surrounded by privilege, it wasn’t until a couple years back that I felt the need to explore this city beyond the limits of familiar, posh enclaves. My life changed completely in 2016 after I graduated from college and joined work at an environmental not for profit. Besides taking life a little more seriously, I have started to realize some of the things that make me tick… Over the years, I feel as though I have started forming a fixation for different spaces. Spaces I may have visited before, some familiar, some not so, and even some that I may have only dreamt of. I get the feeling that spaces that have long been familiar to me, somehow have started to communicate with me. I find myself talking to plants in cozy balconies, almost like I was in a therapy session, the plants listening patiently. And then there’s my love for music, why I’m writing this today in the first place. It seems my love for music has converged with my fixation for spaces. Recently, while working on compiling a solo project, I realized how spaces that I am familiar with and spaces that I have grown to love fondly, have shaped my music and often influenced my work in many ways. In fact the title track from my debut album is es-
sentially inspired and born from an auto journey from Kalkaji to Khirkee. Another track, titled Landour Ki hawa, is an ode to Landour and my journey there in 2017. ‘Bodhgaaon Bulaaye’ is an ode to this beautiful village in the hills of the Aravalis in 2016. I even have unique names for each of my instruments, every one of them part of a little family I’ve built for myself. ‘Laila’ my first buddy, is from Goa. ‘Meera’ got her name from an amazing evening spent under a tree in Vasant Kunj, engaging with community members at a community concert. ‘Machchlu’ gets his name from a tea stall in Dalhousie, my second home. ‘Ved’ my newest companion, is named after my grandfather, my biggest cheerleader over the years. Both ‘Kalkaji’ and ‘Khirkee’ are my workstations. My friends say that I lead a dual life- “day time activist and educator and night time musician” they call me. I trace this ‘dual identity’ back to my roots. Where is the music being made? Where is the inspiration coming from? What drives me to the life of an activist and educator. The answer lies in the spaces. It lies in the underlying conversations, the sources of inspiration drawn directly or indirectly from these two spaces. Kalkaji is unfamiliar to me in the daytime as most recording sessions happen later in the day. But I do like
Rosy
Ashim Bery
amala dasarathi
KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018
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Supported & Published by KHOJ International Artists Association