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“Nehi, nehi sahib…nehi” murmurs the elderly man as I step into the marbled area that houses the saint’s shrine. I stop in my tracks, and he pats his head repeatedly while pointing at mine. I belatedly realize that I should have worn some sort of head cover in deference to Islamic tradition. I search my pockets for a handkerchief to use instead, but the man removes his white cotton skullcap and hands it to me with a smile.

I am at the dargah of Hizrat Nizzamuddin Auliya, a shrine of the revered Sufi saint. It is situated in Basti, reputedly one of the oldest continuously inhabited areas in Delhi. To reach it, I walked along labyrinthine medieval alleys amongst colonies of maimed beggars, stopped to admire the dexterous handiwork of a professional ear-cleaner administering his craft to a client, ambled past countless butcher shops with gory displays of goat carcasses, dingy kebab eateries, and ignored the well-rehearsed entreaties of stall keepers selling skullcaps, rosaries and religious posters of Mecca and of Islamic calligraphy.

Sufism is generally known as “Islamic Mysticism,” in which its adherents seek to find divine love and knowledge through direct personal experience of God. The position of mainstream Islam towards Sufism range from dismissing it as an inoffensive faction to considering it as a dangerous heretic movement because of its open embrace of people from all religions. Nizamuddin Auliya was a 14th century Muslim mystic who withdrew from the world and whose message of prayer, love, and the unity of all matters was admired and faithfully followed by Sufis in the Asian subcontinent and beyond.

Leaving my shoes at one of the stalls, I entered the outer periphery of the dargah, joining a crowd of pilgrims carrying large trays of rose petals destined to be strewn on the actual catafalque of the sainted man. Some of the pilgrims were whispering verses from the Quran, and were careful not to jostle each other as they made their way towards the shrine. People lined both sides of the long narrow alleyway leading to the heart of the shrine; some were asleep, others standing and a few sat, chatting with abandon.

A small woman, with sad eyes, sits quietly with her back to the whitewashed walls of the narrow entranceway. I engage her in conversation by smiling a lot and nodding at her responses. A man nearby serves as an impromptu translator, telling me that her name is Halima, that she is a penniless widow and that she is here for the free dhal and bread doled out daily by the shrine’s organization to the needy. In fact, all of the people around us are waiting for their only good meal of the day. A fierce-looking gray-bearded man glowers at me, probably resenting my intrusion. But it is Halima who captures my imagination and interest.

Further along on a marble platform, a lone woman is deep in prayer and genuflects towards Mecca. Women are not allowed within the inner sanctorum of the shrine, but many are busily tying colored strings and ribbons to the white marble trellis carved by early artisans, which surrounds the saint’s tomb. It is the traditional way for supplicants to request favors from the saint. I am told that some of the women are expectant, and praying for a male child.

Wearing my borrowed skullcap, I stand deferentially before the tomb of Hazarat Auliya. Contrary to more traditional teachings of mainstream Islam, pilgrims prostrate themselves on the floor, murmuring prayers and supplications. Petals of red roses are strewn over the green silk shroud covering the marble tomb. I circumambulate the tomb’s perimeter, and make eye contact with a boy of perhaps no more than six. Ali has an earnest expression, and seems very serious. He is clearly dressed in his best clothes; a burgundy blazer and a spotless white skullcap like mine. I try to speak with him, but he just stands there transfixed by the sight of my cameras. His father hovers nearby, demonstrably proud of his son. Everyone in this area appears to radiate an inner peace, calm and a tangible tolerance for others.

It does not last for long. As I turn to leave the tomb’s site, a khaddim advances towards me with an open notebook. The shrine’s often self-appointed guardians are aggressive in their soliciting donations from pilgrims and visitors, and more often than not, donations end up in the wrong hands. He gruffly asks me for a donation of no less than 5,000 rupees, and using a technique that must have intimidated tourists before, proffers the notebook to show me hastily scribbled entries of donated amounts.

I ignore the theatrics, and greet him with the traditional Muslim “Al-salaam aleikum.” The book quickly disappears from view as he asks me for confirmation that I am a Muslim. His eyes are already darting left and right in search for another mark, and when he gets the confirmation, he slinks out of sight, muttering excuses and apologies. In Islam, charity is largely voluntary.

The skullcap weighs heavily in my hand as I look for its owner. All I know is that he has a gentle smile and a small white beard. I walk up and down the main entranceway, in the various other subordinate shrines and passages, and look among the pillars. But to no avail, the man has vanished among the ancient alleys of the neighborhood, having gifted his knitted skullcap to a stranger. “

In The Fray Contributor