01-17-2006, 06:11 PM
<!--QuoteBegin-->QUOTE<!--QuoteEBegin--><b>The Muslim within </b>
Pioneer.com
Wrought with inner conflict, Radha Vij illustrates how a visit to Jama Masjid is more than meets the eye
To visit Jama Masjid in New Delhi is an exercise of travel through time and space. From the outer perimeter of the mosque to the inner walls of the marketplace, the narrow lanes are consumed with Muslims in Kufi-cap negotiating prices in Urdu.
There is a striking absence of women. Though the mosque is in the centre of Old Delhi, a walk in the Jama Masjid complex hints at what Saudi Arabian life might have been like in the 1920s. The place is both living testament to the diversity of India and poignant reminder of the segregation such diversity generates.
As a 23-year-old agnostic (with Hindu parents) American-born NRI living in India for the first time, my curiosity often overpowers the arbitrary need to adhere to social convention. For this reason, I decide to enter Jama Masjid for the evening call to prayer. Climbing up the epic mosque steps, I use my black shawl to cover my head and what I can of my western outfit, disregarding impolite comments that warn me the area is closed to all non-Muslims during prayers.
<b>I tell the subaltern men working as unofficial guards that I am an Indian only here to observe, respectfully. They tell me to leave. I remove my shoes. They turn away to shoo other foreigners from the complex.</b> I enter the mosque and sit down, quietly, on the outer walkway. My head is down; I am not making eye contact for fear that whoever's gaze I meet will tell me I am unwelcome.
A noise emanates from the inner room. Men rush to prayer as guards appear for one last sweep of the area. <b>They approach me again and tell me, "No Hindus allowed." Then they ask me if I am Muslim. I hesitate. Both men stare in disdain; they are anticipating a "no". I say "yes". They stare harder. I say, "Please; I am Muslim," and put my head down. They say, "Okay, leave her." Feeling a brief victory - a slight adrenalin rush - I raise my head only to meet curious glares.</b>
The call to prayer transforms hostile feelings in the air. The sound of namaz echoing is so beautifully melancholic - almost primal in its sense of despondency - that it ever so subtly leads the listener to a forlorn place of introspection. Men rise and fall in unison to the vibrations created by some celestial force. The mosque seems to breathe alive and stop time all at once as it stands in the sunset, larger than life, one hundred birds flying in rhythm to its song.
This is a space full of contradiction and beauty within a city wrought with tension and hurt. The call to prayer beckons sullen contemplation: An almost eerie sense of stillness. But the rush of men's feet hurrying out of the mosque is a time-starting signal that ends the definitive moment of prayer. It is back to the mundane, the earthly and the real.
Now, I begin to internalise the fragmented aspects of what I've just seen:<b> Women sitting far apart from men, the elderly sitting far from the young. There are so many layers of meaning within this call to prayer, but as I sit contemplating these, another guard asks me if I am Muslim. This time I do not answer.</b> For some reason, I want my last moments of peaceful contemplation to be honest. I turn around and start to leave.
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Pioneer.com
Wrought with inner conflict, Radha Vij illustrates how a visit to Jama Masjid is more than meets the eye
To visit Jama Masjid in New Delhi is an exercise of travel through time and space. From the outer perimeter of the mosque to the inner walls of the marketplace, the narrow lanes are consumed with Muslims in Kufi-cap negotiating prices in Urdu.
There is a striking absence of women. Though the mosque is in the centre of Old Delhi, a walk in the Jama Masjid complex hints at what Saudi Arabian life might have been like in the 1920s. The place is both living testament to the diversity of India and poignant reminder of the segregation such diversity generates.
As a 23-year-old agnostic (with Hindu parents) American-born NRI living in India for the first time, my curiosity often overpowers the arbitrary need to adhere to social convention. For this reason, I decide to enter Jama Masjid for the evening call to prayer. Climbing up the epic mosque steps, I use my black shawl to cover my head and what I can of my western outfit, disregarding impolite comments that warn me the area is closed to all non-Muslims during prayers.
<b>I tell the subaltern men working as unofficial guards that I am an Indian only here to observe, respectfully. They tell me to leave. I remove my shoes. They turn away to shoo other foreigners from the complex.</b> I enter the mosque and sit down, quietly, on the outer walkway. My head is down; I am not making eye contact for fear that whoever's gaze I meet will tell me I am unwelcome.
A noise emanates from the inner room. Men rush to prayer as guards appear for one last sweep of the area. <b>They approach me again and tell me, "No Hindus allowed." Then they ask me if I am Muslim. I hesitate. Both men stare in disdain; they are anticipating a "no". I say "yes". They stare harder. I say, "Please; I am Muslim," and put my head down. They say, "Okay, leave her." Feeling a brief victory - a slight adrenalin rush - I raise my head only to meet curious glares.</b>
The call to prayer transforms hostile feelings in the air. The sound of namaz echoing is so beautifully melancholic - almost primal in its sense of despondency - that it ever so subtly leads the listener to a forlorn place of introspection. Men rise and fall in unison to the vibrations created by some celestial force. The mosque seems to breathe alive and stop time all at once as it stands in the sunset, larger than life, one hundred birds flying in rhythm to its song.
This is a space full of contradiction and beauty within a city wrought with tension and hurt. The call to prayer beckons sullen contemplation: An almost eerie sense of stillness. But the rush of men's feet hurrying out of the mosque is a time-starting signal that ends the definitive moment of prayer. It is back to the mundane, the earthly and the real.
Now, I begin to internalise the fragmented aspects of what I've just seen:<b> Women sitting far apart from men, the elderly sitting far from the young. There are so many layers of meaning within this call to prayer, but as I sit contemplating these, another guard asks me if I am Muslim. This time I do not answer.</b> For some reason, I want my last moments of peaceful contemplation to be honest. I turn around and start to leave.
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