Take the turning off Minto Bridge and youcome upon it, an old compound surrounded by a low wall and housing two—yes,two—graveyards. A lone mehendi bush stands at the heart of the largergraveyard, giving the place its name: Mehendiyan. It’s also the home of a sectknown as Jamiya Rahamiya. Begun by a migrant from Persia in the 19th century,I’m told, the sect died out when its founder passed away leaving nodescendants. The compound was then taken over by quite a different set ofpeople, but it kept its name.
Then came Partition, and all the Muslims there fled. Shortly after Partition, itwas reoccupied (‘kabza,’ as some of the residents will tell you) and its currentinhabitants now claim a genealogy that is probably false, as the later occupantssay.
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It’s a curious place: a small editorial office within is home to an Urdupaper. A large open space is home to a monthly meeting of a group called BlueRovers, comprising Sikhs, Hindus, Christians and Muslims, with a fair sprinklingof politicians.
Loud speeches about secularism greet you on the first Sunday of every month,with now a stocky man wearing vibhuti and saffron robes, and now a tall, elegantmaulvi.
In the shade of an old tree sits a healer wearing skullcap and dark glasses, hismobile number prominently on display. All sorts of people come to see him,"religion no bar" as he tells me.
Then, there’s Akbar, a tall Manipuri, long shoulder-length hair, dark glasses,shirt undone till the waist to display a hairless chest. Every evening aroundfour or five young boys pour out of the madrasa within, their shalvar kameezesflapping in the breeze, all manner of embroidered, crocheted skullcaps on theirheads. They walk along to the compound nearby where Akbar teaches them karateand other forms of martial arts, after which they play cricket. High above them,their fathers fly pigeons, small groups of them competing to entice the othersaway.
Mona, my hijra friend, who also lives there, and who has now become a name inDelhi, shows me around the graveyard inside. Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed was to comehere, she says, but then they did not allow him to (leaving me wondering who‘they’ were. Can she mean Rashtrapati Bhavan, I wonder). There are severalempty spots in the graveyard. What are these, I ask her. "Advance booking,"she tells me.
Once a year the compound fills up with goats. I watch them growing, tall andthen plump, fed on local greenery and all manner of food. I know what they donot, come Id and they’ll be carcasses, their skins sold or given away to thosewho have a use for them.
There’s much going on inside, but Mehendiyan shuts down early and if you’rethere after sunset on days when it does (festivals and weddings are exempt)you’ll wonder where you are. The twilit peace of the large tree, theoccasional light blinking overhead, the smell of wood smoke on winter evenings,and occasionally a glass of Scotch whisky in my hand—that is how my friendMona and I spend many a winter evening in Mehendiyan.
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This piece first appeared in Outlook Delhi City Limits, 15 November,2005
