Jasmine and Jinns Read online

  Eventually assimilating with the local culture, Urdu became the language of the Saudagaran community. However, some colloquial expressions and words like pinda, nukkad and hawka from the old Saraiki vocabulary are still in use.

  It is believed that our community was invited to Delhi by Emperor Shah Jahan on the advice of his wazir, prime minister, Saadullah Khan, who came from Chiniot. His family belonged to the Saudagaran biradari and he was aware of their expertise in trade. A plague had ravaged Delhi in 1656, destroying half its population. Shah Jahan wanted to revive the economic life of the city. His minister offered official assurances and privileges to the community, which they accepted. Led by Saadullah Khan in 1657, a caravan of about 350 people including men, women and children arrived in Shahjahanabad – Delhi’s seventh city.

  Resistant to change and extremely particular about safeguarding their traditions, the Saudagaran migrated along with their dom, men who carried invitations from one home to another, and domni, professional women who sang at festivals and weddings. They also brought with them their jarrah, men who did circumcision and nursed small wounds, nai and nayan, barbers and matchmakers. Most importantly they migrated with their khansaama, professional cooks!

  On their arrival in Delhi, Shah Jahan allotted the Saudagaran a piece of land near Kauriya Pul, where the British later built the Dufferin Bridge. This area was once known as Punjabi Katra. In later centuries, a few families moved to Kanpur, Agra, Bareilly, Lucknow, Moradabad and Kolkata. However, most stayed on in Delhi. A prosperous city, it presented countless business opportunities. The Saudagaran did economically well through the centuries and their trading skills earned them the title Malik ut Taajar, Kings of Trade.

  There is a story that once Bahadur Shah Zafar took ill and required rare herbs prescribed by the royal hakim. When the herbs were nowhere to be found, someone informed the emperor that the Saudagaran might have them. Senior state officials visited the community elders and the herbs were provided. The emperor recovered from his illness and expressed his desire to reward the community. The Saudagaran did not want money, they asked for three concessions from the royal court. These were granted to them.

  The first concession was that the state judiciary would refrain from interfering in their family disputes. To this day, family disputes rarely go to the civil courts and are settled through arbitration of respected community members. The second concession prohibited the police from entering their homes. The third grant allowed the community to keep their dom and domni in their mohallas.

  Wedding celebrations in the community usually began at least two weeks prior to the actual marriage ceremony. The domni sang and entertained guests, sitting between the dehleez, threshold, of the home and the gali, lane, an area called devdi. Since these women went singing from house to house, they knew all the families. With their knowledge of boys and girls who had reached a marriageable age, these women doubled up as matchmakers.

  At the time of the last Mughal emperor, the Saudagaran mohalla extended from Kaudiya Pul to Kashmiri Gate. This area is around where the Delhi railway station stands today.

  Following the uprising of 1857, the English occupied Fatehpuri Masjid and Jama Masjid, banning Muslims from praying in them. The mosques were used as stables for the British cavalry. It was said that there was a proposal to turn the mosques into churches. The British sold the Fatehpuri Masjid to Lala Chunnamal, a rich banker from Chandni Chowk. Rumours put this sum as anywhere between `20,000 and `60,000.

  Steps of the Jama Masjid, Delhi

  Photo: Vaseem Ahmed Dehlvi

  In 1862, Sikander Begum, the ruler of Bhopal, came to Delhi to meet Lord Canning. She convinced the governor general to return the Jama Masjid to the Muslims. Sikander Begum participated in the cleansing of the mosque and supervised the resumption of prayers. Later, Lala Chunnamal returned the Fatehpuri Masjid to the Muslims. In lieu of this gesture, the British apparently gave Lala Chunnamal four villages around Delhi in Nangloi and Gurgaon.

  As punishment for the 1857 uprising, the English had deprived Delhi of a railway station. Trains bypassed Delhi, the closest station to the city being Ghaziabad. Seemingly forgiving Delhi’s citizens for their active participation in the uprising, the station began to be built near Chandni Chowk. Finally, it became operational in 1864 with a single broad gauge train from Calcutta. The residential areas near the station, including the Saudagaran mohalla, were destroyed in the process.

  Ballimaran, a mohalla close to Chandni Chowk, got its name from the wooden balli, poles, that were made here for use in the construction of the Red Fort and Jama Masjid. It had been home to the Muslim nobility, many of whom were massacred by British forces following the uprising. When their havelis were sold, most of these were bought by members of our community. These included Haveli Hissamuddin Haider, Mahal Serai, Ahata Kaley Sahab and Baradari Nawab Wazir. Restoring some of the old structures, the Saudagaran made their homes in these mohallas. A large wooden phatak, gate, was put at the entrance of each mohalla. Those living in Beriwala Bagh, Sheedipura and other outskirt areas shifted to mohallas such as Phatak Habash Khan.

  Having moved closer to the centre of town, community members brought shops in Sadar Bazaar. Before Partition, almost all shops in Sadar Bazaar were owned by the Saudagaran. They had a monopoly over the wholesale trade in the city. Many families lived in Mohalla Kishanganj, near Baada Hindu Rao and close to Sadar Bazaar.

  Hindu Rao, a wealthy noble, had a baada, cattle yard, known as Baada Hindu Rao. The Saudagaran bought the baada and the neighbouring small gardens called Baghichi Acha Jee and Baghichi Ishwari Prasad and built their homes there. In the same vicinity, they also bought a bungalow from a slender, dark and eccentric Anglo-Indian lady who was nicknamed Chuhiya Mem by the residents. The building continues to be called ‘Kothi Chuhiya Mem’.

  Several Saudagaran families still live inside these gated mohallas. The increasing congestion, traffic and pollution have led many to move to New Delhi. During the Partition, almost half the number of families migrated to Pakistan. Most of these settled in Karachi, where they have excelled in manufacturing and trade. In Pakistan, they continue to be called ‘Dehli Saudagaran’. As of now in India, there are about 8,000 of us in Delhi, with about another 40,000 community members spread across Kolkata, Kanpur, Moradabad and some other cities.

  A closely-knit community, the interaction between families remains constant. In the mohallas, the news of deaths and weddings were earlier conveyed by the chowkidar, gatekeeper, who went from door to door. Despite many families having moved out, deaths of community members and funeral timings are still announced in the mohallas. This tradition is called hawka lagvana. Nowadays, masjid loudspeakers are used for this purpose.

  Saudagaran families continued to prosper in Delhi through the twentieth century. Business accounts were kept in baikhata, large leather bound registers. These were written in a unique language that was a mix of Saraiki, Hindi and Urdu. No one from outside the community could decipher it. The community had their own munshi, accountants. Education imparted to the boys of the community remained basic, with the focus on acquiring business acumen.

  Women were mostly confined to their homes and strict purdah was observed. Shopkeepers came home to sell jewellery, clothes, and other such requirements for the women. These were shown to them from behind a curtain or by the men of the house. There was a mardana, a designated area in the house for men to entertain their male guests. Only close male relatives were allowed in the zenana, women’s quarters. Even hawkers were not allowed in our mohallas, other than when the men were home. Except in the immediate neighbourhood, women ventured out in a doli, palanquins lifted by four men, who were called kahar. Wealthy families kept a bughie, horse carriage, in which the curtains were drawn to conceal the women travelling in them.

  On reaching puberty, male children were handed over to fellow community members for apprenticeship in business. They were not paid for work as the exercise was aimed at acquiring experience. After
this training, boys joined their family business. Men were discouraged from having active social lives outside the community. Government and private jobs were disapproved of, for as public servants they would still be naukar, servants, even if it be for the government.

  Girls and boys were generally married at a young age. Marriages took place strictly within the community, often amongst first cousins. These customs continue to the present day.

  The signs of a thorough gentleman in those days were that his life revolved around ghar, masjid aur dukaan, home, mosque and workplace. Girls learnt to read the Quran and were trained in domestic skills. They were brought up to be dabi dabai, docile and submissive, so that they would make good wives. Once upon a time, it was said that if girls learned to write, they would begin writing love letters to boys! The thought of girls studying jughrafia, geography, was even more terrifying as they could discover ways of running away from home.

  Women were taught just enough Urdu to enable them to sign their names on property deeds. Saudagaran families made large property investments. Apart from trade and property, money was generously spent on weddings and food.

  Mamoo Abdullah

  Mamoo Ilyas and I

  Lifestyles of the Saudagaran and other Dilliwalas largely revolved around food. Girls were taught culinary skills before marriage. Women who were not well versed in the art of cooking were perceived as careless homemakers and it was presumed that their men would go astray. I often heard the refrain, ‘Aadmi ko pet ke zariye jeeta jata hai,’ men’s hearts are won through their bellies.

  Punjabi Paranoia

  Mamoo Abdullah, my mother’s older brother, happened to be a fascinating storyteller. He spent most of his time in libraries and walking around the city. I learnt much about Delhi and family histories from him. His sharp intellect and wit made him everyone’s favourite uncle. Seeing all the kids hang around him, Mamoo Ilyas, his older brother, gave him the title ‘Commander of the Picnic Empire’.

  A witness to the tragedy of the Partition, Mamoo Abdullah saw the Punjabi sharanarthi, refugees, as they were then called, rebuild their lives in Delhi. In echoing the response of most Dilliwalas, he often blamed them for eroding the city’s language, food and culture. Ammi, my mother, too, remained paranoid about these influences on our lives. Phrases picked up from my Punjabi friends such as ‘Mai ney bola’ resulted in immediate admonishment. The elders would say, ‘Insaan kehtey hain, janwar boltey hain’; subtleties of Urdu that are difficult to translate.

  If I said, ‘Dupatta dal liya,’ Ammi would say, ‘Dupatta odha jata hai. Kapda sirf murdey par dala jata hai,’ meaning that you drape a scarf and cover a corpse! When referring to food kept in the fridge or kitchen we could not use the Punjabi expression, ‘Khana pada hai.’ Food commanded respect, and the correct way to refer to it was ‘Khana rakha hua hai.’ Looking back, the paranoia about Punjabi culture taking over seems rather exaggerated.

  Even today, when my mother attends parties at my home and finds the food short of perfection, she invariably comments, ‘Tumhare Punjabi doston ke liye theek hai, lekin main jaanti hoon ke behtar ho sakta tha’. For Ammi, anyone not from Delhi is a Punjabi. Ammi then explains in detail what she found lacking in my cooking. The criticism ranges from less salt, lack of chilli powder or too much garlic. Ammi remains hardest to please, and I am perpetually scared of her scrutiny.

  One of the oldest shops that sells savouries on Chandni Chowk, Delhi

  Mamoo Abdullah on his part remembered Delhi as the leisurely city, one in which shopkeepers pulled their shutters down to celebrate the monsoon rains. He thought the marketing skills of the Punjabis to be harsh, unlike the softer tones of the Dilliwalas. Mamoo often said, ‘Walk through Chandni Chowk and you can tell the difference between an old Dilliwala shopkeeper, Muslim, Hindu, Jain or whatever and a Punjabi migrant shopkeeper. Dilliwalas never beckon you to their shops from the street and do not haggle about prices. They consider such behaviour improper and remain content to sit back and wait for customers.’ Once Mamoo made me conscious of this difference, I found that it still holds true.

  The original Dilliwalas found it difficult to appreciate the dynamism of the Punjabis during early interactions. They prided themselves on making time to enjoy the finer aspects of life and simply couldn’t comprehend those who did not. Eventually, they had to give up their leisurely lifestyles to compete with the hardworking Punjabis.

  Daalbiji from Kanwarji’s

  Kadhai milk being sold in the streets of Matia Mahal in the old city

  The Mystique of Shanjahanabad

  Once upon a time, the markets of the old city had a carnival-like atmosphere. Hawkers came up with ingenious ways of grabbing customer attention. Cart vendors selling cucumbers called out, ‘Laila ki ungliyaan, Majnu ki pasliyaan, khaao taazi kakdiyaan,’ Laila’s fingers and Majnu’s ribs, eat fresh cucumbers. Those selling digestive tablets repeated, ‘Lakad hazam, pathhar hazam,’ digest wood and stone.

  Mamoo told us about dastangoi, the story-telling traditions of the city. In the evenings people gathered around the dastango, the storyteller, on the steps of the Jama Masjid. After listening to the riveting stories of conquest, romance, jinns, flying carpets and magic, they enjoyed freshly barbecued kebab. Masita Kebabi was one of Delhi’s legendary kebabwalas. One can still relish some of the finest kebab and tikka in the old city.

  On festive occasions, affluent families barbecued whole dumba, hill goats from Khorasan in Afghanistan. This was common till their disappearance in the late forties. Dumba, with their high proportion of fat, needed no cooking oil and the aroma of the melted fat was supposedly addictive.

  I looked forward to visiting Old Delhi, fascinated by its sights, smells and sounds. Phupijan, my father’s younger sister, lived in Haveli Hisamuddin Haider, Ballimaran. Inhabited mainly by the Punjabi Saudagaran. Part of this mohalla is known as Punjabi Phatak. Mamoo Ilyas, my mother’s elder brother, lived in the neighbouring mohalla, Ahata Kaley Sahab. We called on them often and they fed me with delights not available elsewhere.

  The habshi halwa sohan from Hanif, whose shop is at the entrance of the Punjabi Phatak, is still my family’s favourite mithai. As a young boy, Hanif had worked as a domestic help with the Chatriwaley, a Saudagaran family. When he became older, they helped him establish a milk supply business. Later, they taught him how to make the habshi halwa sohan with their family recipe and assisted him in setting up this small shop. Prepared with milk, sugar and desi ghee, the halwa is available from October to March. The summer heat melts the ghee that binds the habshi halwa.

  Natraj Dahi Bhalla Corner

  Aloo tikki at Natraj

  Dahi bhalla at Natraj

  Jalebi from Old Famous Jalebi Wala

  I remember relishing daulat ki chaat, made in winter from doodh ka jhaag, milk froth, that was served on leaves. I enjoyed malai ki baraf, layers of frozen cream that vendors carried it in quaint looking wooden boxes surrounded by ice.

  Family favourites are the sunheri gajar halwa, prepared with golden coloured carrots and gheeghwar halwa made with aloe vera from Sheeren Bhavan in Chitli Qabar. Both are winter specialities made with desi ghee. Among other popular and delicious mithai and savouries are Chaina Ram’s sev ki mithai called sevpaak, and karachi halwa. Sending mithai on festive occasions from Chaina Ram was considered a sign of prosperity. Desi ghee kachori and daalbiji from Kanwarji are another addiction. It’s an old street side shop on Chandni Chowk at the entrance of Paranthe Wali Gali. I am not a fan of the parantha from this iconic gali as they are deep fried. Besides, these eateries are not as old as they claim.

  The famous jalebi wala at Chandni Chowk

  A visit to the old city is never complete without the thick round desi ghee jalebi from the Old Famous Jalebiwala, whose shop is in Chandni Chowk at the corner of Dariba Kalan. A plate of dahi badey from Natraj, the small corner kiosk is another must. The shop is adjacent to the Central Bank, so these were called ‘Central Bank key dahi badey’. On hearing ab
out these as a child, I often wondered why the bank was selling dahi badey. Shiv Mishtan Bhandar is another shop at the entrance of Kucha Ghasi Ram that has been known for bedmi aloo poori, kachori and other savouries made with desi ghee.

  In our part of the world, it is said that Muslims are not good at making mithai and namkeen, savouries. My relatives who migrated to Pakistan crave for these and it’s the best gift one can send them.

  Savouries from Kunwarji’s

  A well-known food stall at Chandni Chowk

  Photo: Vaseem Ahmed Dehlvi

  After dinner, my cousins would bring home milk from the large kadhai. Piping hot and served with heaps of pistachio and almond garnish in abkhora, clay bowls; the fragrance of the earth fused with milk is extraordinary. The clay absorbs the excess moisture of the milk and it turns thick. Stalls selling this milk are in Matia Mahal, which is close to Jama Masjid. Having a cup of hot kadhai milk after dinner continues to be a popular tradition with Dilliwalas.

  Favoured breakfasts in the old city consist of aloo poori, sliced potatoes with herbs and deep-fried poori. Small eateries in Ballimaran and Maliwara are famous for them. Chaina Ram serves delicious aloo poori from eight to eleven in the morning.