“Nehi, nehi sahib…nehi” murmurs the elderly man as I step into the marbled area that houses the saint’s shrine. I stop in my tracks, and he pats his head repeatedly while pointing at mine. I belatedly realise that I should have worn some sort of head cover in deference to Islamic tradition. I search my pockets for a handkerchief to use, but the man removes his white cotton skullcap and hands it to me with a smile.

I am in the Dargah of Hizrat Nizzamuddin Auliya, a shrine of the revered Sufi saint, which is situated in Basti, reputedly one of the oldest continuously inhabited areas in Delhi. To reach it, I walked along labyrinthine medieval alleys, amongst colonies of maimed beggars, stopped to admire the dexterity of a professional ear-cleaner administering his craft to a client, ambled past countless butcher shops with gory displays of goat carcasses, dingy kebab eateries, and resisted the well-rehearsed entreaties of stall keepers selling skullcaps, gaudy green cloths to cover the saint’s tomb, fragrant roses, incense, rosaries and religious posters of Islamic calligraphy. Amidst a dizzying swirl of colors, indeterminate smells and frenetic activity, I photograph as quickly as I can. Anticipating crowds, I kept my photographic gear to a minimum, just a Canon 1D Mark II, a 28-70mm f/2.8 lens and a flash. Not exactly street photography gear, but the quickness of the Mark II’s buffer will allow a rapid succession of shots for spontaneous portraiture.

Muslim mystic
Muslims from all over India, and from abroad, thread their way through the narrow lanes towards the dargah, to consult with holy men, known as pirs, who claim the saint as their ancestor. Before reaching the shrine, pilgrims are harassed by salesmen pressuring them to buy meals for the expectant beggars crowding the stalls.

Sufism is generally known as "Islamic Mysticism," in which devotees seek to find divine love and knowledge through direct personal experience of God. The position of mainstream Islam towards Sufism ranges from dismissing it as an inoffensive faction to considering it as a dangerous heretic movement. Nevertheless, it was the Sufis who converted Indians to their brand of Islam, which includes devotional music and rituals not too different from those practiced in Hinduism.

Nizzamuddin Auliya was a 14th century Muslim mystic who withdrew from the world, and whose message of prayer, love and the unity of all matters was admired and faithfully followed by Sufis in the Asian subcontinent and beyond. The khanqah, or centre, established here has been a centre of spiritual inspiration and pilgrimage. It is also a welfare centre, distributing food and clothing to the needy.

Leaving my shoes at one of the stalls, I enter the outer periphery of the dargah, joining a crowd of pilgrims carrying large trays of rose petals destined to be strewn on the actual catafalque of the sainted man. People line both sides of the long narrow alleyway leading to the heart of the shrine; some are asleep, others are chatting with the arriving pilgrims.

A small woman, with sad eyes, sits quietly with her back to the whitewashed walls of the narrow entranceway. I engage her in conversation by smiling a lot and nodding at her whispered responses. A man nearby serves as an impromptu translator, telling me that her name is Halima, that she is a penniless widow and that she is here for the free dhal and bread, or sometimes biryani, doled out daily by the shrine’s organization to the needy. In fact, most of the people around us are waiting for their only decent meal of the day. I spend some time with her and her group, allowing her to get accustomed to my presence. When I feel it’s appropriate, I ask permission to photograph her. She is not used to such attention, but after a while she relaxes and laughs at her friends’ encouragements.

Further along on a marble platform, a lone woman is deep in prayer and genuflects towards Mecca. Women are not allowed within the inner sanctorum of the shrine, but many are busy tying coloured strings and ribbons to the white marble trellis carved by early artisans, which surrounds the saint’s tomb. Their heads are covered, and their lips repeat silent prayers. It is the traditional way for supplicants to request favors from the saint.

Wearing my borrowed skullcap, I stand deferentially before the tomb of Nizzamuddin. Contrary to more traditional teachings of mainstream Islam, pilgrims prostrate themselves on the floor, murmuring prayers and supplications. Petals of sweet-smelling red roses are strewn over the green silk shrouds covering the marble tomb. Along the tomb’s outer perimeter, I see Muslim grandmothers in black chadors from Bengal, Sikhs from the Punjab, Hindu women from Tamil Nadu with large red bindis on their foreheads, all coming to pray to the saint, all coming to implore Nizzamuddin for his intermediation with God.

Serenity and charity
Despite efforts by extreme politicians to disrupt religious harmony between Hindus and Muslims, I see men attired in Sikh and Rajasthani turbans face down in supplication. Everyone in the area appears to radiate an inner peace, calm and a tangible tolerance for others.

The serenity is short-lived. As I turn to leave the tomb’s site, a khaddim advances towards me with an open notebook. A few of the shrine’s often venal and frequently self-appointed guardians are skillful in soliciting donations from foreign tourists, and more often than not, these donations end up in the wrong hands. Purring like a well-fed cat, he asks for a donation of no less than 5000 rupees, and using a technique that must have embarrassed tourists before, proffers the notebook to show me hastily scribbled entries of donated amounts ending with many zeroes.

Pointedly ignoring the theatrics, I greet him with the traditional Muslim ‘al-salaam aleikum’. The book quickly disappears from view. His eyes dart left and right in search of another potential donor and, tweaking his yellow sugar-loaf cap, he slinks out of sight, muttering excuses and apologies. In Islam, charity is largely voluntary.

A crowd of beggars has now formed around a large cauldron of steaming biryani that had just been carried in to feed the poor. The man involved in its distribution deftly balances portions of rice and chicken on pieces of bread, and presses them in the outstretched palms. In one of the corners of the courtyard, an Islamic teacher and his young students are discussing the teachings of Islam. In his immaculate white robe and black hat, Imam Muhammad Ilyas cuts a fine figure. He proudly tells me that he comes here everyday to share his knowledge of the Qur’an with his son and these students. He is also a muezzin, and calls Muslims to prayers five times a day. His son is somewhat shy of my presence, and affectionately cuddles up to his father as I photograph them. It strikes me that the dargah is a communal and religious beehive, where everyone knows everyone.

The sun is setting and the skullcap is heavy in my hand as I look for its owner. All I know is that he has a gentle smile and a small white beard. I walk up and down the main entranceway, in the various other subordinate shrines and passages, and look among the pillars. But to no avail, the man has vanished among the ancient alleys of the neighborhood, having gifted his skullcap to a stranger.