God Will Hunting in New Delhi

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

A U-turn, more stubborn cows and unkempt kids on way, I finally saw the red façade of the Masjid that has weathered mist, slanting rain and the sharp sun for centuries. I think of a day nearly 400 years ago when Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan commissioned the construction of what is now the largest mosque in India; I think of the onomatopoeic sound of the horse's hoof and the languorous movement of a bullock cart wheel....

Not many mornings do I get squeamish about my agnosticism, but not every morning does the paraphernalia of religion swallow me either. But that morning when one cousin got busy counting the rosaries, another hurriedly stitched a golden appliqué on the goddess's dress and yet another looked for the most auspicious time to say that special prayer, I looked so odd sipping coffee and reading the love poems of Pablo Neruda. That morning, I decided to meet god, somewhere, anywhere in Delhi.

But even before the gods could come my way, there fell my way the unruly traffic at Daryaganj- the stubborn cow would not move, the rickshaw scraped the car's grey and the bus almost nudged me off the street. And every redlight the dishevelled kid stretched his soiled hand for alms. I was heading towards Jama Masjid and in the mayhem took a wrong turn. Ah! My rendezvous with god is jinxed, I thought. A U-turn, more stubborn cows and unkempt kids on way, I finally saw the red façade of the Masjid that has weathered mist, slanting rain and the sharp sun for centuries. I think of a day nearly 400 years ago when Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan commissioned the construction of what is now the largest mosque in India; I think of the onomatopoeic sound of the horse's hoof and the languorous movement of a bullock cart wheel, I hear the shovel digging the earth's womb, I see Ustad Khalil, the chief architect, juxtaposing red sandstone with stripes of white marble. But when a raucous parking guy beckons at Gate No.3, I return to the present with a thud. That's the only available parking, he insists. I knew I would not find another one, so I settle for it.

I lug my bag, hitch my flowing skirt a little, wear my skull cap and walk past the metal detector. Once the bags are checked, I hurry up the 39 steps. I am not the only one in search of gods, there's an old blind man crawling up, there's a kid in frills hopping with gay abandon and yes, there are the curious tourists expressing awe in a thousand different languages. Of course, there are the pigeons that have made the Masjid their home. It is almost prayer time, but the old keeper at the huge gate tells me women are not allowed to join the mass prayers. I ask a why, I beg, I plead…But the answer is no. "But I am here to see God," I finally blurt. The bearded old man is not ruffled. "If you have faith, you will find him," he smiles beatifically. I know that. I walk in to look at the mosque that has three ornate domes, two lofty minarets; there's the prayer hall that has 11 arched entrances and there are the white marble plaques with inscriptions in black.

As I run down the stairs and see walking out of the prayer hall having had communed with god, I wonder why I was not allowed in…Why are men so proximate to god, as a woman I am not? Nobody answered that… Looking for answers I head towards Sacred Heart Cathedral at 1, Ashok Place.
The red church peeps from behind the large hedges and palms of the circular garden; from one corner the smell of espresso coffee wafts in the air; from another you can hear the hymn. In the centre stands John in a kiosk, selling books, trinkets and knick-knacks related to Biblical characters. A dainty Mary Magdalene lamp catches my eye… But before I could pick that up from John I can feel palpable peace. Nobody seems to be in a hurry, nobody is loud, there is no tumult… Inside, the pew is long and books are arranged on the desk for the mass; at the marble altar, there's Jesus flanked by six candles. No, you cannot walk up to the Lord, you kneel from far away, you gaze at the painted wall - all from a distance. Away from the altar are photographs of Jesus and sculptures of other saints, you can touch these and light your candles…

Father Luke of the Tuscan Province of the Capuchins came to Delhi in 1919 and it was because of his efforts and the generosity of Lady Willingdon that the Cathedral was spared the insult of being a mere appendage to the Post Office building. Money poured in as an interest-free loan of Rs 60,000 from the Government of India and Rs 15,000 donation from a Japanese devotee. The foundation stone was laid by Dr E Vanni, Archbishop of Agra in 1929 and when the cathedral was completed the Carrara marble altar was donated by Sir Anthony de Mello and the Dr Vinni gifted the bell, the vestments and altar furniture. And its moment of glory arrived when the Pope John Paul II said a prayer in this Cathedral in 1986.

This time I wondered why Jesus was so far way from me….Why could I not walk up to him, kneel and say my prayers? Why?

That day my rendezvous with the gods had too many glitches; but I wanted to give it one more try, perhaps this time the gods would meet me. Perhaps…. It was getting dark and I was speeding amidst evening traffic to reach Bahai Temple. From far off I could see the 27 petals gleaming in the dark and I thought maybe this time the gods would not disappoint me. But they did. When I reached, the doors to the Bahai Temple had been closed and they would not open until next morning. I cling to the iron gate and think of the gods again…

I drove miles searching for them, why were they so elusive? Or, is it that they are everywhere, I just need to look more carefully? I don't know…. At the end of the day I was completely jaded, I put my feet up again, sipped coffee and read Neruda again.

Tonight, the gods would walk into my dream. They can't spurn me forever….

Published in The Times of India, November 2006

Contact: Preetivermalal@gmail.com