Magic, memory, history
In the middle of the driveway leading up from the main entrance to the stately buildings of the New Delhi High Court stands an unassuming structure, a circular building of bricks seemingly hastily glued together and whitewashed. A short wall runs around it, separated from the building by the narrowest of margins and punctuated by an entrance. A tree stands guard at the opening, its flowering branches gently scratching the roofs of cars as they move to its left into a parking lot.
My uncle, a lawyer, keeps an office at the court for his practice. On a visit to his chamber some two decades ago I learned, from one of his colleagues, that the circular structure was a mosque. I did not find out much about its origin but my imprecise curiosity, yet to be sharpened into academic focus, led me to an astonishing set of legends about the court, a tapestry of magical stories into which was woven the very existence of the mosque. That afternoon, over rounds of food from the court's first-rate canteen, visions of the supernatural life of the court, passed down and around by word of mouth, revealed themselves.