There's something strangely sacred about Jamali Kamali. Perhaps it's the unsure walk through the overgrown forest of the Mehrauli Archaeological Park that takes you there, or the simple shock of coming up against the other monuments tucked into the forest's folds, dotted carelessly, forgotten. Of all of those monuments in the park, Jamali Kamali's by far the most arresting.
The structure is simple – a mosque, and a tomb adjacent to it. The tomb is mostly locked, sometimes before closing hours, even, so it's difficult to enter, unless you're adept at jumping gates. But the mosque remains open, often with only a sleepy security guard for company. Inside, it's a picture to remember. High, vaulted ceilings, intricate carvings, motifs that repeat themselves over and over again, and bats flapping their wings, mostly silently, high up where the domes of the ceiling taper out into pointy tips. It's an interesting place to sit in solitude, or even with a friend; though any attempts at conversation are met with echoes that can, depending on your stomach for the paranormal, start creeping you out pretty quickly.
The origin of the complex isn’t too well documented. The sign outside the tomb declares that Jamali, the sixteenth century poet, is interred in one of the tomb chambers inside. But who's in the other one? Many say Kamali was Jamali's wife, or perhaps a disciple. But several historians hold that, going by the symbols carved on both tombs, Kamali was male, and in all probability, Jamali's lover. Which really throws you for a toss – because this means that this could be one of the earliest documented displays of queer love in Mughal India.
Jamali Kamali, like most other monuments and heritage sites in Delhi, has fallen prey to rumours of haunting. It's spooky, certainly, but we can't confirm if they're true. If they were, we might not have lived to tell the tale.