Delhi by Khushwant Singh

replied. ‘Khwaja Sahib is meditating in his cell. He only receives visitors in the evening. You can go and eat at the
langar
(free kitchen).’
    I went to the
langar.
It was crowded with Muslims and Hindus, rich and the poor, clamouring for a leaf-cup of lentils and a morsel of coarse bread. I had to fight my way through the crowd to grab a
chappati
. I came out and sat in the courtyard where a party of
qawwals
were singing in Hindi. I was told that the song had been written and composed by one Abdul Hassan, who was very close to the holy man.
    Late in the afternoon word went round that the
dervish
had emerged from his cell. People buzzed round him like bees round a crystal of sugar. I pushed my way through the throng and when I got to him I kissed the hem of his shirt. Suddenly tears came gushing into my eyes. The
dervish
put his hand on my head. I felt a tingling sensation run down my spine and the fragrance of musk enveloping my frame. He tilted my tear-stained face upwards and said, ‘Just as Allah has let my tunic drink your tears, so may He make your sorrows mine!’ As he spoke those words I felt as light as a piece of thistledown floating in the air.
    ‘Abdullah, my son,’ he continued, ‘you live near the mausoleum of Hazrat Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki. Go there every morning and recite the ninety-nine names of Allah. Your wishes will be granted. Come whenever your heart is heavy. The doors of our hut of poverty are never bolted against anyone.’
    It was on my way back to Mehrauli that I asked myself, ‘How does he know that I live near the mausoleum of Bakhtiyar Kaki? How does he know that my Muslim friends call me Abdullah? And if somebody has told him who I am and where I live, how is it that he does not know that I am a Hindu and may not know the ninety-nine names of Allah?’
    I could not contain myself. Since there was no one else I could unburden myself to I told my wife all that had passed. For the first time since we had been married, Ram Dulari showed some interest in me. When I ran out of words she asked very timidly, ‘Why don’t you take me along one day?’ In my enthusiasm I took her hand. It went limp in my grasp.
    On the first day of the new month of the Muslim lunar calendar I took Ram Dulari to Ghiaspur. Our
ekka
was one in a long line on the dusty road. We passed bullock carts loaded with women and children, the men striding along barefoot with their shoes hung on their staves.
    There was an immense crowd. A whole bazaar of bangle-sellers, sweet-meat vendors, cloth-dealers and medicine-sellers had gone up. I feared Ram Dulari would not get a chance to have
darshan
of the holy man. I did not take her to the
langar
as she would not touch anything cooked by Muslims. We wandered round the stalls, watched jugglers and acrobats, dancing bears and monkeys. We sat down under a tree. I began to despair. In an hour the sun would set and the
ekka
-driver would insist that we return to Mehrauli before it became dark. I was lost in my thoughts when a
dervish
came to me and said: ‘Abdul! Isn’t your name Abdul or Abdullah? The Khwaja Sahib has been enquiring after you.’ He led us through a door at the back of the mosque into a courtyard where the holy man was receiving visitors. The
dervish
forced his way through the crowd with us following close on his heels.
    I kissed the hem of the holy man’s shirt. Ram Dulari prostrated herself on the ground before him. Khwaja Sahib stretched his hand and blessed her. ‘Child, Allah will fulfil your heart’s desire. If He wills your womb will bear fruit. Go in peace.’ That was all. The crowd pushed us away.
    Her womb bear fruit? This man of God who was said to read people’s minds like a book had not read Ram Dulari’s. From the way she turned away her face I could tell she was embarrassed. On the way back to Mehrauli she avoided touching me. We got off opposite the Auliya Masjid. We walked home as if we had nothing to do with each other: I in front