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THE STONE 'MAHAL' OF FATEHPUR SIKRI AND INDOMITABLE RAIS MIYA

by MIHIR SRIVASTAVA

Ayazuddin Chisti, popularly known as Rais Miyan, is the 18th direct descendent of Hazrat Salim Chishti, the Sufi sage of Fatehpur Sikri.


In his mid-80s, he embodies an aura of calm and warmth. A figure of composure, even his anger is laced with love. A repository of the living history of Fatehpur Sikri, he’s wise, intuitive, inquisitive to know and willing to tell.


The resting place or the mazar of Hazart Salim Chishti--called Baba with much affection--in Fatehpur Sikri is a place of faith for both Muslims and Hindus. Housed in a large enclosed citadel, on top of a hill, its main entrance is the magnificent Bulanda Darwaza—the largest gateway in India.


Faith rests here with Baba. Not just the faith, this place evokes a sense of history. Rais Miya is the spiritual head and holds the title Sajjadanashin like his ancestors.


Baba lived in a stone house built by local stone miners on top of the desolate Sikri hill.


This was before the Mughal emperor, Akbar the Great (5 October 1542 – 27 October 1605), came beseeching Baba to bless him with a son and heir to the throne. Jodha Bai, Akbar’s Hindu wife, lived here in the stone house to give birth to Jahangir (30 August 1569 – 28 October 1627).


Akbar shifted the capital of the Mughal Empire from Agra to Fatehpur Sikri. It remained the seat of power for 16 years. An emperor came and built a fort, ruled from here, and left, since centuries have passed, Baba’s descendants continued to live here in the stone house for all this while, generation after generation. The stone house is addressed as Mahal–or the palace--by locals.


Rais Miya, his two sons, and a larger entourage who have been serving his family live here. People have served Baba's family for generations. A sizeable part of his entourage are Hindus. They work for him out of affection, and his affection is their reward. Trust is unquestionable, akin to faith here.


We are seated in a barren room on the first floor, wall painted white with chuna–lime stone powder–with red carpet spread out wall to wall. The stone wall heats up during the day but now there’s an air conditioner to keep the room cool. In the front courtyard, grass is growing out of the crevices caused by time on the surface of the stone slabs. Nostalgia hangs low and thick in the air like trapped heat.


Standing in the courtyard, thanks to the graphic description by Rais Miya, I imagine Akbar frantically pacing up and down the stone-paved path, anticipating the birth of his heir. Now, chickens run amok as the sun descends behind the crumbling edifice. I’m told the room in which Jahangir was born is rubble.


Akbar must have been so overwhelmed. The Mughals had an heir. He was grateful to Baba. Akbar shifted India’s capital to Sikri, and named the city Fatehpur Sikri–the city of victors. This was his love for Baba, Akbar wanted to live under his shadow. An emperor was a humble servant of the sage. He named his son, Jahangir, Salim, after his master, and that was the reason he would never call his son by his name. The members of the Chishti family held high positions in the Mughal court for generations to come. Sufism's profound influence has a role to play in Akbar founding a syncretic religion --Dīn-i Ilāhī l, based on the Timurid concept of Yasa-i Changezi or all sects are considered as one.


Mahal, big and humble, red and barren, is a witness to the making and unmaking of history.

Rais Miya connects the dots on the timescale of generations. My introduction was not confined to my name but included my place of birth and my family name. He mentions a few families that I should be knowing, we are related. Many of the names he took were familiar to me, they were of the people long dead. He talks about people from the past in the present tense, including Baba and Akbar.


It was Bakra Eid. The senior most qawwal is performing at Kacheri, an open courtyard, with arches on one side, overlooking the mosque with three domes, beyond the mosque is the mazar. Baba would meet visitors here. Time has been a visitor here for a long time. I’m a regular visitor, too.


The elderly qawwal was not more than ten years younger to Rais Miya. As a matter of practice, all the Sufi sages are remembered before starting the rendition of qawwalis. He forgot to remember a distant cousin of Baba, and Rais Miya was furious, “you will remain a bhand (a petty singer who performs to entertain), not a qawwal,” he said in Hindi, loud enough for all present to hear. The elderly qawwal bowed his head down like a child chided by his father. He did the remembrance again, and a lesson was learned. He at one point entered into trance singing, and so did Rais Miya. “Wah wah!” Rias Miya said with joy unbound.

Rais Miya lives in his own world, which is very real to him. He doesn’t subscribe to the written history–that he calls a ‘British interpretation’. The reasons for things to happen in the way it does has a spiritual (ruhani) coefficient. The occult is reality. It is felt and not seen. He gets irritated when confronted with certain descriptions as Historical, like Birbal’s house is located behind Jodha Bai’s palace or for that matter Akbar shifted his capital back to Agra because of the paucity of water. He has compelling reasons to differ.


We walked behind Rais Miya to the mazar from the family door—not the Bulanda Darwaza. Devotees, hundreds of them beeline every day, to have a glimpse of Baba's mazar. There are no hierarchies here. Baba and the mureed or the seeker. People bow down and give way to Rais Miya as he ambles towards the mazar across the courtyard.

There are many graves around the mazar and a mausoleum. Rais Miya's ancestors rest in these graves in the company of each other. He extends his right arm to point at the gate on the far end, ‘Akbar enters from that gate,’ he says, as if Akbar was here yesterday, and is expected to come at any moment. Past is continuous here, all of the 450 years seem to have happened yesterday.


We follow him to the marble sanctum where mazar is housed, light sieving through the intricately carved mesh on a single marble stone, various geometrical patterns are mesmeric. Here being a rationalist seems like a myth. For this space is charged with energy, obscure yet enigmatic, beyond reason, and profoundly endearing. A cumulative faith of centuries is embodied by Baba. I surrender my reason effortlessly and become faithful. I reasonably stop questioning. The question is the answer. An experience. I stood still, joy sores inside of me. I feel blessed.


Every aspect of the sanctum—structure and objects—is a story. Rais Miya is a great storyteller. He prays (dua) for our welfare.


The curse of childlessness ends here.


Rais Miya’s son–Arshad bhai–is a dear friend. I’m grateful to him for opening a new door unto me.


I had nothing specific to seek. So I uttered a few words, ‘Baba you know me, what ails me, what prevails in my life. I thank you for knowing my plights and delights. It helps me that I know you know. I thank you for a friend who is instrumental in bringing me to you. I’m here because you wanted me here. That’s an honour.’

I wanted to climb the Bulanda Darwaza as the sun was setting behind the citadels, leaving the sky dusty carmine. Rais Miya discouraged me, “at dusk, the spirits of my ancestors congregate here. They will get disturbed.” We went the next morning. The images from the past—the glorious past—came alive as if watching a bioscope. Rias Miya is the living shadow of Baba.

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