The Dargah

We finally arrive at the end of the narrow lane our noses full of the scent of rose blossoms. Here, two men sit taking the shoes of those who wish to enter the precincts of the dargah. Only when I bend to take off my shoes and socks, do I realize that both men are legless and sitting on small wheeled platforms so they can move about. Their faces are radiant and they smile sweetly at our children, seating them on their laps and helping to remove their shoes. We tip them a few rupees and turning left, enter the narrow passageway toward the dargah.

To our surprise, beggars are sitting all along the lane, their palms outstretched silently beseeching alms. Some of them are noticeably crippled or deformed, some old, some with babies in arms, some begging for no apparent reason. Although their mouths remain closed, their eyes say all.

I am aware of the feeling of the dirty street below my feet and feel vulnerable and uncomfortable. There is something dreamlike about our movement now which is contributed to by our bare feet, as though we might be sleepwalking. Taking off my shoes in these streets is not something I would ever consider doing. I am worried about the children, about cutting ourselves or picking up some disease. We tread gingerly and finally the passageway opens into a marble walled courtyard, quite elegant in appearance. I take it in at a glance, the intricate stonework, the tiled pavement, the canopied structures.

We descend a few steps to enter the courtyard and a man approaches us. He is dressed in typically Indian style with a sleeveless vest over a gray kurta which reaches to his knees and wearing a thin cloth cap. He is smiling broadly beneath his graying mustache and welcoming us. He asks where we come from as he begins to conduct us on a tour of the grounds. I am struck by his natural and dignified bearing. I explain that we have come to visit the tomb of Inayat Khan. "The singer man." he replies, "Yes, I will have someone take you there after I have shown you around here." Something in the way he speaks triggers in me the feeling that Inayat's tomb is not the main center of attraction here.

He escorts us to a smaller domed structure away from the central, largest one, which he says is the tomb of Amir Khusrau but the name doesn't ring any bells with me, as I still don't know the history of this place. At the entrance is a small donation box and he asks that I put whatever I feel into it. I put in a five rupee note. He asks that Karen and the children wait outside and that I go in alone.

I am not sure what I am going inside for but the interior of the tomb is compelling. Everything is red on the inside and effect augmented by the mounds of roses and rose petals distributed inside, mainly over the coffin. I kneel down and begin to say a prayer, since I don't know what else to do. A minute or so passes and for no apparent reason I am suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of immense sadness. I begin to weep copiously. I can't understand what has come over me. After about five minutes the crying has stopped and I step out into the bright sunshine of the courtyard. I feel inexplicably refreshed and relieved. Karen looks at me strangely, asking what happened. I reply that I don't know.

Our guide leads us now to the main structure where a large carpet has been spread and where some people are sitting in prayer or mediation. There are maybe seventy or eighty people mingling in the central courtyard, coming and going at random and against a far wall a lone drummer is seated, playing and singing steadily.

Our guide, who has now told us his name is Sayyed Ali Moosa Nizami, suggests that I offer some of my music in front of the tomb. The whole family sits down comfortably and I unpack my guitar from its case. As I sit cross-legged to play, the drummer against the far wall stops playing. A crowd gathers to watch. Some with cameras begin to take pictures of me. Shannon plays with a garland of roses, poised peacefully nearby but from where I sit I can no longer see Karen and Nika. I am self-conscious as this is already clearly one of the strangest performances I have done.

As I start playing I become aware that I have neglected to take off my back-pack but decide against stopping to do so. I play a raga-like song called The Green Water which I composed in London years before. When I am finished, people politely applaud as though this is a formal concert. A young man steps down from the entrance to the tomb to tell me to please play some more.

I do another song called Inside, still feeling slightly uncomfortable and not yet fully drawn into the mood of the music. Again the polite applause and more camera clicking and then our guide reappears to ask me to come and see the inside of the tomb. The same ritual is followed with the collection box at the entrance and the family asked to remain outside. I go in to kneel at the graveside and this time there are about a dozen other men all kneeling, praying, offering flowers. For the first time it dawns on me that this is what the flowers are sold for in the bazaar.

When we were coming in, we'd purchased a few garlands which Karen playfully draped around our necks. She'd done that when we visited Hawaii several years earlier and so she repeated the ritual here. I am still wearing my garland around the neck and have forgotten about it entirely. A young man with an angry expression on his face approaches me. "Did you remove this from the tomb?" he asks. I tell him no, that my wife has given it to me in the bazaar and immediately he apologizes and backs away. However, I feel immediately embarrassed that I have not realized what the flowers are meant for.

After a short prayer I emerge to be greeted by Sayyed Ali as I have started to call him. This time I experience none of the emotion I had in the first tomb. He asks me to sit with him and several other men at a little table where he produces a huge account book. Pen in hand and with the other men looking on he asks me point blank, "How much would you like to contribute?" Now I am really taken by surprise. What is this, a huge tourist trap? They must note my look of surprise but he continues smilingly, "It doesn't matter how much. Whatever you like to give. Five hundred? A thousand?"

Caught by surprise I explain I can only afford fifty rupees. They are ready for that. Sayyed Ali writes in the amount in the appropriate ledger column and then asks "...and how much will you contribute for..." My glance falls on the pages of the ledger and I see that there are about 10 separate categories to which I am going to be asked to donate. They have me!

After that it is not difficult to separate me from several hundred rupees. In retrospect, I see that this was an old and exact science and also a necessary one in that the dargah only existed through its own efforts at survival and not through any government support. At the moment, however, I feel I have been royally fleeced.

My sense of unease is short-lived however because the moment Sayyed Ali puts the ledger down he becomes our guide again devoting all of his energy to our need. He summons an old man to whom he speaks in his native language and then tells us that the old man will take us to see the tomb of Inayat Khan. "Be sure to come directly back here," he says, "because I would like to invite you and your family to join my wife and I for tea."

With all of the activity here the possibility of finding him again seems remote but we agree and set off in the wake of the old man who leads us out of the dargah through another gateway and along more back streets. We follow him wordlessly although again I am plagued by the fact that we are still barefoot and now being led down streets that look even dirtier than the ones leading into the dargah.

Avoiding mud puddles, piles of human and animal waste, broken glass and who knows what else we walk for maybe a half mile more.  People look at us in amusement as we pass on near tiptoe in white bare feet, like the first bathers of summer out at the beach. All the way  I am reprimanding myself again and again for allowing the children to be placed at risk by this childish desire to visit the grave site of a holy man I've only read about.

In the midst of this unease we arrive at the gates of the dargah. The huge heart and wings on the wall, the symbol of the Sufi Movement and the Sufi Order in the West, would be the first indicator that we are at the right location. In the stone wall is a huge wooden gate. The old man knocks and waits. No answer. He knocks again several times and finally shrugs and walks away without looking at us.

Have we come so far only to be locked out? I overcome my inclination to leave and push the gate which swings wide open revealing an empty courtyard. We cross into it and climb a set of stairs leading upward to a door in the main building. A young woman with a French accent answers and points out that Inayat's tomb is on a nearby rooftop. "We have a library inside too" she says, "if you'd care to come and take a look?" I thank her but reply that I haven't come all the way to India to read more books.

Mounting another staircase, we find ourselves at the rooftop graveside of Inayat Khan. The place is serene and deserted with no one to say who can come in or out, male or female, adult or child. This is a relief after the ordeal at the main dargah. From the rooftop we look out over the roofs of the poor looking neighborhood. Inayat's sepulcher is surrounded by stone plaques with some of his writings. There are a few lonely, dried flowers on his grave.

We light incense, kneel to say a prayer and then join hands to circle his tomb. I feel that all of us are children of the same age. There is a feeling of joy and innocence about this, no overpowering feelings about having reached our goal. We take a few photos. Then we depart.

Another old man who we meet in the street guides us willingly all the way back to the dargah and as we walk in, just as before, Sayyed Ali is striding smilingly up to meet us.