“I often visit the historical sites around Hauz Khas and Mehrauli, and almost always stop at the tomb of Jamali and Kamali,” says Eric Chopra, a 23-year-old historian from Delhi. “It’s usually locked. You can only stand outside, looking in.”While lingering around the site in the evenings, Eric recalls being repeatedly warned by the phoolwalas who sit nearby. They would tell him to tie his hair and remove his perfume -advice that puzzled him—lest the djinns come after him and slap him. In Islamic lore, djinns are spirits believed to be born of smokeless fire, occupying a space between the visible and invisible worlds. Eric’s fascination with Delhi’s layered past led him to start an Instagram page in 2019, at the suggestion of his father to document forgotten monuments and stories that live on through whispers. That interest has now taken the shape of his debut book, Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments, which explores the folklore, history, and hauntings associated with five of the capital’s most evocative sites-Firoz Shah Kotla, Jamali-Kamali, Khooni Darwaza, the Mutiny Memorial, and Malcha Mahal-blending archival research with lived belief.Among these, the tomb of Jamali and Kamali holds a particular pull for him.
Jamali was the pen name of Shaikh Fazlullah. He was a celebrated Sufi saint and poet who lived during the Lodi period and early Mughal rule. He was an important figure during his time. It is known that he had a wife and two children and was deeply respected in his lifetime. His children later played in important role in court politics. Kamali, however, remains an enigma. Historical records are silent on who Kamali was: a disciple, a close companion, a lover, or perhaps even a woman whose identity was later coded as male for burial. The shared tomb, with two graves placed side by side has sparked decades of speculation about their bond. That Kamali was a male is testified by the presence of a pen box, which was carved only in mail tombs.Located within the Mehrauli Archaeological Park, the Jamali Kamali mosque and tomb complex was built around 1529, with Jamali laid to rest there in 1536. It is an important monument from archeological point of view, a transition between late Lodi and early Mughal styles. It is beautifully adorned with domes, arches, glazed tiles, and delicate floral motifs. Apart from archeology and historical value, this place has come to hold deeper meaning for many—especially within the LGBTQIA+ community, who see in the shared burial a rare, tender suggestion of queer intimacy preserved in stone.
But it was one particular night that stayed with Eric.“I had always found the tomb locked,” he says. “One day, by sheer luck, I found the guard there. Since I’m a regular, he recognised me, and we began talking.” The guard asked him, “Can you smell the agarbattis around the tomb area? When Eric replied in affirmation as the smell was very distinct, the guard said, ” I smell it every day in the evening but have never seen anyone who came to light them!” When Eric asked if he could see the tomb from inside, the guard agreed and unlocked the door.
“What I witnessed felt almost ethereal,” he recalls. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, falling directly onto the two graves. They seemed to glow softly, suspended in light. The space was filled with a deep, undisturbed silence—peaceful, but powerful. “I suddenly felt like an intruder, as though I was disturbing the privacy of something sacred.”Overwhelmed, he stepped out almost immediately and asked the guard to lock the tomb again. “My heart felt full—of love, not fear,” he says. “And no, the djinns did not slap me.”
