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When balcony was the picture

The crowded balconies in Old Delhi were once a stage for beauty to draw attention, says R.V. Smith

There is a balcony in Chawri Bazar, which now forms part of the go-down of a shop but was the hub of much romantic activity in the pre-partition days in Delhi. For there dwelt the now forgotten Ameena Jan, a courtesan of note and rare beauty. Ameena belonged to Dholpur and seeing her beauty a dacoit gang had carried her away into the jungles, from where she finally managed to escape. She made her way to the Capital, where the only avenue open to her was the oldest profession.

Not being a hereditary courtesan, singing and dancing did not come naturally to her. But by sheer hard work she was able to learn both with the help of Munne Khan, a musician who had fallen on bad days. Ameena had lovely hands and feet and a face that made people miss a heart beat. Her hair reached almost down to her knees and her eyes, which were brown, looked deep-set because of the high brow and a nose that was delicacy itself.

Those were the days when the zamindars had not lost their lands and every evening many of them came to this particular "kotha" where Ameena Jan danced the night away. Being beautiful and acutely conscious of it, she did not bestow her favours easily. Money was no temptation for her, nor the aggressiveness of some of her admirers. But she did have a soft corner for a certain man from Bulandshahr, who was a nawabzada but had squandered his wealth rather early in life.

Joyous company

Whenever this man was around, Ameena's joy knew no bounds and she performed to near-perfection. The Kathak movements made her sway towards him every now and then, the nawabzada would welcome her gliding form with a hundred-rupee note. She would then sit before him and sing the couplet of his choice over and over again to the chagrin of the others around.

Ameena Jan vanished during the partition. The nawabzada was also not seen again. What happened to them is not known but a fair enough surmise is that they both crossed over to Pakistan, where surely Ameena was not known. Since she was not a courtesan by choice and could pass off as a well-bred woman, the two perhaps settled down to a honourable existence and a venerable old age. But now the balcony in Chawri Bazar alone is a reminder that Ameena Jan once danced there.

Not far from this balcony is another balcony where once a hotel owner held his evening mehfils. You can still see people in it but they are just birds of passage who come to visit Delhi from far away places. Some are pilgrims on their way to Ajmer, who break the journey in the Capital to visit the Nizamuddin Dargah and other shrines and then make a quick trip to Kalyiar Sharif in Roorkee, before proceeding to pay their homage to Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti. But one misses the bearded old men of the past. Besides Hajiji, there were Mohammed Mian Akbar, Master Sahib, Bhai Allah Rakha, Ustad Zahooro, the thin Mianji who looked like Aurangzeb and Bhai Alimo.

These men lived in the nearby lanes and by-lanes and were mostly shoe merchants who had their shops in Ballimaran. After spending the hectic day in the market they would congregate in this balcony to talk and partake of the evening meal together. There was plenty of curry available, as it came in a huge tiffin-carrier from the owner's house. The diners just had to order hot rotis from the dhabas downstairs, and this job was done for them by Nazir, a young man who acted as the caretaker of the hotel in the absence of the Haji and his sons.

The conversation of these old timers was replete with nostalgia as they discussed events long ago, like who all among them missed the lessons at the madarsa when Queen Victoria died or who watched the arrival of George V and Queen Mary at the Coronation Durbar in 1911 or how they ran home after the shops were suddenly closed following the bomb attack on Lord Hardinge, the Viceroy in 1912, at Chandni Chowk.

There were other memories too, of the theatre troupes, which performed at the Majestic Cinema the Fountain, the quawwali singers at Hare-Bhare Sahib's tomb, who enthralled the audience late into the night at the annual Urs and of the middle-aged begum who befriended young men after her husband's death. She was like the Wife of Bath, gap-toothed, as described by Chaucer. But these men had never heard of Canterbury Tales. One remembers joining them nearly every evening and enjoying their reminiscences and tales of the Mutiny they had heard from their grandfathers. Not one of them survived into the 21st Century.

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