Chapter 5 – Jama Masjid

I guess the obvious place to start is by saying that this mosque is not simply another tourist photo-opportunity; it is a living and breathing centre. Entering the inner court of the mosque we removed our footwear, a sign of respect. All inside were barefoot. Some, like us, were wearing socks. I was unprepared for what I thought was a centre of prayer and holiness.

What I found was, instead, a place for people. Some were simply resting in the sunshine, sitting on ledges along the wall surrounding the courtyard, sitting on ledges around a central shallow pool in front of the main entrance where a prayer podium waited for call to prayer. Some of those found in the courtyard were sitting quietly, others were visiting with family or friends, some like ourselves were studying the architecture and taking photos – tourists, a few were stretched out sleeping on the stones.

Around the central pool, a few were washing their feet, a ritual that was to wash away the dirt of the outer world so that one would be purified before entering the holy place of prayer.

I wandered into the central building and found a hall that was open to the outside air, a hall filled with prayer mats. In one corner, a group were obviously engaged in prayer, in the opposite corner a few individuals were finding their personal way to their god through prayer oblivious to the shifting scenes of ordinary people engaged in everyday life within the courtyard.

At the end of the hallway, I was able to look out on a district noted for car parts, a place called Chor Bazaar or “thieves’ bazaar”. It is in this area that stolen cars are taken apart and sold for their parts. It was a busy area. Strange, how such a place was so industrious. Even with all knowing its role, it continued to thrive. Where was law and order?

Looking back from the Chor Bazaar to the steps leading back into the Jama Masjid, a curious gathering rested on the steps. Some were visiting while having a lunch; some were almost unclothed except for a few rags. These tattered, dirty and lost souls had a space around them like some sort of protective zone around which others flowed. A few of these unwashed, untouchables slept on the hard steps in the full sunshine. It was hard to understand, too hard. Turning aside and walking back towards our original entry, it was time to leave.

Descending the steps from the Jama Masjid, we entered Chandni Chowk. Not too far from the mosque we climbed into a bicycle rickshaw for a ride through Old Delhi. The rickshaw bounced over the uneven pavement, slowly threading a narrow path through the crowded narrow streets. Chandni Chowk was a warren’s nest crowded with pedestrians, bikes, motorbikes and the occasional car. Overhead, electrical wires and telephone wires appeared to be on the verge of falling into the streets below. How workers were able to sift through the mass of wires to do any repairs was beyond comprehension. The streets were just as chaotic as the wires nested above, as chaotic as it is possible to be and still have people move through it on the way to their various destinations. The rickshaw finally came to a rest, back at the base of the Jama Masjid.