Houses of the holy

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

While walking through one of the back lanes of Safdarjung Enclave, we almost missed seeing the ancient monument, rearing sullenly over a vast mound of garbage.

"Doesn't it look as if it is actually sitting atop that hill of plastic bags?" asked my son innocently. Long lines of laundry stretched from the old neem tree nearby, crisscrossing the structure, part obscuring it from view.

"It's obviously Islamic," said my husband knowledgeably. I agreed: its domed roof was similar to the many Mughal tombs one sees all over Delhi.

Then we did a double take. On either sides of its two doors were tiles bearing images of Hindu gods. We gingerly climbed up the garbage hillock to look at it from close quarters. The old neem shaded several charpoys, a litter of mangy puppies and more garbage. It seemed pretty deserted, so we went up to the door of the monument.

A plaque above its doorway declared that this was a Shiva temple, established in 1971 by a trust. But the structure looked more dated than that. Then we peeped through the iron barred door, and saw a bare room with some arbitrary-looking pictures of Hindu deities.

It was swept clean, which was in complete contrast to the filthy surroundings. Oblivious to the garbage beneath, and the monument nearby, people slept in the sun, under the laundry flapping in the wind.

A more unconvincing temple we'd never seen before. Behind it was a small hutment, and a woman emerged to stare curiously at us. "Is this the priest's house?" I asked her, and she laughed. "Priest? There's no priest here. Nobody ever comes here to pray, so there won't be much for a priest to do, would there?"

Her name was Shanti, and she and her family had been staying there for fifteen years as tenants (the land was owned by a Jat family in the adjoining Humayunpur, she said). They had nothing to do with the temple, she said, they just happened to live next to it.

"We like living here, though the Rs 500 we pay as rent does pinch. But I have grown-up daughters, and this has a little privacy compared to the nearby slums," said she.

I asked her what she knew about the temple. "Well, it was a Muslim tomb at first, here ever since anyone remembers. Then some people from the Jat community here in the village took it over, and established a temple here," said she.

"Nobody ever comes here, so I tend to it, sweeping it clean. In fact it was my son who put up all the religious pictures you see on the walls," she added. Had she seen any grave there, I asked, wondering how she knew it had been a tomb. "No," she replied, "but people have told me that."

The tomb-temple sometimes drew curious people, if not devotees, said she. "Some have taken pictures of it, others like you just want to hear its story. I tell them whatever little I know," said she, adding, "some Muslims come here too."

I asked if they knew the background of the tomb-temple. "Of course they do!" said she, "one of them requested me to light incense here every Friday, which I do."

That, ironically, seems to be the only religious activity in this temple. To me (though Ram Mandir enthusiasts in Ayodhya would probably disagree), that seemed strangely fitting.