The rest is noise. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] It is world-famous for its qawwalis, the sufi shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. The dargah’s most special night in the year falls tonight. The qawwalis will be offered at the marble courtyard from late night to early morning, to mark the 809th Jashn-e-Wiladat, or birthday celebrations, of the shrine’s patron saint. The performers will include all the eight chowkiya, qawwali troupes, of the dargah. Visitors to Hazrat Nizamuddin’s shrine are naturally most thrilled on spotting Chand Nizami. Leader of the dargah’s Nizami Bandhu troupe, he famously appeared in a blockbuster cinema qawwali (“Kun faya kun”) filmed in this same courtyard with actor Ranbir Kapoor. But reader, as you tonight attend the classics

An oasis. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Hill, trees, bushes, grass. And to top it all—a temple at the top. Being here is like a get together with solitude and peace. People travel to sacred seclusions in the Himalayas, such as Amarnath and Kedarnath, to pray,, to rejuvenate. That same quest must also take them to this place, in Delhi’s heart. Perched on the flattened heights of a low hill, the little-known Shiv Mandir in Jor Bagh is that rare spot in the capital region where you escape from the gravitational pulls of daily anxieties. All you have to do is to mount a simple flight of stairs. It takes a minute to climb, after which you step into a tension-free

Commemorating a legend. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] Attention please. Now is the most important time in the calendar of Delhi’s poetry aficionados. Usually, a person’s birth anniversary is celebrated. In poet Amir Khusro’s case, it is his death. The reason is his connections to Sufism, in which a mystic’s death anniversary — known as Urs, the Arabic for wedding — symbolises the union of the lover with the beloved, God. Tomorrow (May 7) is the poet’s 719th Urs. The celebrations will begin on Sunday evening in central Delhi’s Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah, the site of Khusro’s grave. Belonging to 14th century Delhi, Khusro died at 72, six months after his mentor Nizamuddin’s passing. He was buried across the courtyard from Nizamuddin’s grave.

A blessed street. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The lane is alive with the sound of a man singing a bhajan. Everything else this afternoon is quiet, as if to keep the sanctity of the sacred lyrics. The singer is an elderly gentleman in white kurta pajama, sitting cross-legged on an elevated niche, overlooking the cramped lane. The space within is diffused in a lamp’s gold glow. The Durga Mandir is in the backpackers’ district of Paharganj. The singer is the temple’s priest. The temple has a shivling, a statue of Ganeshji, while Durgaji is perched on a roaring lion. Dressed in red, she has genda garlands draped round her neck, the flowers emitting an intensely strong scent. A young woman

A historical destination in a time of change. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Old graves are getting a makeover. The ones that had sunk into the earth, reduced to being a wrinkle on the ground, have been raised, their aged bricks replaced with new, plastered with a fresh coat of cement. Here is one of the most haunting spaces in the entire Delhi region. With more than 50 graves, this is not a graveyard. It is a sufi shrine, but not very well-known outside the sufi circles, remaining mostly sparse. Even so, it gives its name to a well-known south Delhi locality, and is one of the most significant dargahs in Sufism, worldwide. Hazrat Chirag Dehli’s shrine is snuggled deep within

House of faith. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The lady in blue sari is walking down the lane of Inder Walli Galli, here in Old Delhi. At each step she pauses and takes a deep breath. She stops in front of a building of old-fashioned lakhori bricks, walks to the wooden door, and turns the key in the lock. The door opens, creakingly. Pitch darkness within. She turns on the lights. Brass bells materialise. This turns out to be a temple. Bankey Bihari Mandir “is more than a hundred years old,” she mutters, pulling apart the curtain of the central shrine. “Bhagwan Kishenji” comes into view. His sculpted face is black, his lips are deep red, and he is in

Peace island [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] The air is viscous with traffic sounds. The afternoon light is hard on the eyes. Such is the sense of the day, here at the H block Outer Circle in Connaught Place. Suddenly, one pauses by a curtained door. On pulling apart the pink drapes, another world is revealed. The hall is quiet. So quiet, as if the clocks had stopped. Rows of benches are lying on both sides, with a narrow passage going further ahead. A young man is sitting on a chair towards the far end, tapping something on a laptop. On stepping deeper into this space, calmness drips into the weary senses. The noises outside seem as remote as watching