From the road, you walk along an elevated paved path, leading to a gate, beyond which is a staircase built inside the thick walls that surround the tomb. Climb up the steps, and you’ll emerge onto a grassy quadrangle. It’s small, not more than a few dozen feet on either side, and in the centre stands the tomb. Unlike the dull grey Delhi quartzite and plaster of the fort, there’s warm red sandstone here, embellished with bosses and filigreed screens of white marble. There are three graves inside: Ghiyasuddin’s, and two others, believed to be those of his wife and his son Mohammad bin Tughlaq. And unlike most tombs, this one looks like a miniature fortress: it’s surrounded by ramparts, complete with bastions and loopholes.

Incidentally, Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq’s death was foretold, in a way, by the Sufi mystic Nizamuddin Auliya, with whom the emperor had always been at loggerheads. The Sultan, while on a campaign, had received news of Nizamuddin’s growing popularity in Delhi, and utterly incensed, had vowed to do away with the mystic as soon as he reached Delhi. The story goes that when the threat was recounted to Nizamuddin, his only remark was, "Hanoz Dilli door ast" ("Delhi is yet far"). Ghiyasuddin was assassinated by his son Mohammad bin Tughlaq before he entered Delhi.

Whether you believe it or not, it’s a good yarn.

The tomb is open from sunrise to sunset. Entry tickets and parking are available at the Tughlaqabad fort across the road. The entry fee, which is $2, allows you to visit both the fort as well as the tomb.

Schoolchildren across India learn the couplets of Rahim as a part of medieval Hindi literature. Rahim’s poetry is simple, easily understood, and rich in metaphors, similes and alliteration. It is much more attractive, to children at least, than the more avant-garde verses of today. And what makes Rahim’s works even more interesting is the man himself.

Rahim (1556-1627) was not merely a poet. He was a scholar, a highly successful general, and the stepson of an emperor. Born in the household of the regent, Bairam Khan, Mirza Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan was left fatherless when Bairam Khan was assassinated four years later. The emperor Akbar, for whom Bairam Khan had been not just the regent but also a mentor and guide, married Bairam Khan’s widow, and Rahim became part of the imperial household.

In the course of a lifetime spent at court and in different provinces, Rahim won numerous battles for Akbar. He tutored his stepbrother Salim, and served him as governor and minister when Salim ascended the throne as the emperor Jahangir. In addition, Rahim was a talented scholar and poet in four languages: Persian, Arabic, Turkish and Hindi.

Considering Rahim’s stature, it’s hardly surprising that his tomb should be a fairly imposing one. Like Humayun’s tomb nearby, this one too stands atop a high plinth in the middle of a pleasant garden. A large dome surmounts the two-storied building, and all round the base of the plinth are arched cells, traditionally made for visitors and wayfarers to rest a while. The gate to the tomb faces away from the main road; you buy a ticket (Rs 100, or $2) at the entrance, then walk in and round the plinth till you come to the side facing the main Nizamuddin road. A short flight of steps leads up to the tomb, and you can see what remains: a very plain, platform-like cenotaph, some traces of beautifully worked incised plaster, and a shallow tank shaped like a many-petalled flower.

There are some traces of red sandstone and white marble, but otherwise the tomb looks very incomplete—the rubble and rough stone skeleton is rather stark. And interestingly enough, this isn’t a result of modern vandalism or the passage of time. Rahim’s tomb was stripped by Safdarjang’s poverty-stricken sons in order to decorate their father’s tomb. Safdarjang’s tomb, less than 10-minute drive from Rahim’s, is visited by a lot more people. Rahim’s tomb is quieter, more "back in time" less in the limelight.

But perhaps Rahim wouldn’t have minded that too much. He was, after all, a philosopher of sorts.

The Lodhi Gardens stretch across lawns, bamboo groves, and copses of margosa, silk cotton, mimosa and other trees. There are benches, jogging tracks, a small enclosure with some pretty bonsai (the enclosure’s very ambitiously named the `National Bonsai Park’). It’s a great place for a morning walk, a picnic with the kids, a jog with the dog, or some quiet sketching of the tombs themselves.

As you enter the park, the first tomb you’ll see, at the end of a long path flanked by tall ashoka trees, is called the Bada Gumbad (literally, "Large Dome"). Lodhi tombs were typically of two types: square and octagonal. The Bada Gumbad, like the Sheesh Gumbad to the north, is square. Nobody quite knows who’s buried at the Bada Gumbad, and though it’s fairly striking from outside, going inside is a waste of time. Instead, walk around to the back of the tomb and climb the steps to see the lovely Bada Gumbad Mosque that’s adjacent to the tomb. The mosque is a three-domed structure built in 1494, during the reign of Sikandar Lodhi. It has an exquisitely carved façade and interior, with Quranic verses following every arch and contour.

Beyond the Bada Gumbad is another unidentified tomb, the Sheesh Gumbad (the Glass Dome-a misnomer, because it’s nothing of the sort; the only possible connection with glass is that the blue tiles used to decorate the façade are enamelled). The blue tiles are bright but not of exceptionally elegant craftsmanship. In fact, the monuments of this period are generally not known for being elegant; that particular trait is more common to Mughal architecture. Part of the reason is that most pre-Mughal architecture used a hard grey stone known as Delhi quartzite. It’s frightfully difficult to work, so obviously one couldn’t do much with it in the way of flowing arabesques and delicate inlays.

The third tomb, and the most rewarding, lies to the west of the Bada Gumbad. Follow the path past the bamboo groves, to a stretch of undulating lawn circled by palm trees, in the middle of which stands the Tomb of Mohammad Shah. Mohammad Shah (died 1445) wasn’t a Lodhi, he was the third of the Sayyid rulers, predecessors of the Lodhis. His tomb is an octagonal one, and this is definitely one you should enter. Right in the middle of the ceiling is a vast circular design in crimson, deep blue and white, with Quranic verses and floral patterns interlacing each other. It’s a lovely bit of work, and enough reason in itself to visit the Gardens.

Entry is free. Try not to go on a weekend, it can be crowded.

History has little to say in praise of Safdarjang. He is regarded as a man of few scruples, and is even believed by some scholars to have betrayed Delhi to the invader Nadir Shah. Safdarjang was eventually dismissed by Ahmed Shah for trying to assassinate the chief eunuch. By the time he died, his days of glory were long gone, and his sons, looking for ways to give Daddy a smart tomb, resorted to Daddy’s none-too-lawful tricks (blood will tell!): they simply stole what they couldn’t afford.

Safdarjang’s tomb was built in 1754, mainly under the aegis of his son Siraj-ud-Daulah, who neatly stripped away white marble, red sandstone, and similar goodies from other tombs- Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan’s, in particular. All of it, along with lots of incised plaster and some buff sandstone, went into building the tomb, a madrasa (a college), a mosque, and three pavilions.

The end result, unfortunately is a bit of a damp squib. It’s been described as `promiscuous’, `disproportionate’ and "totally tasteless." Someone even said that the Taj Mahal is the feminine expression of Mughal architecture’ Humayun’s tomb is its masculine expression; and Safdarjang’s tomb is midway between neither. One look at the building, and it’s obvious: it’s too scrunched up horizontally; the domes are all wrong; and the white and buff patchwork on the domes is an obvious result of not being able to afford enough white marble.

But it’s not all bad. The gateway, a squinched arch with floral patterns in red and blue, is lovely. The gardens surrounding the tomb are peaceful and quiet; and Safdarjang’s cenotaph, when you climb up to it, is a beautifully worked piece of white marble, with an unusual "headrest" at one end. While inside, do take a look at the floor: it’s very apparent that bits and pieces of marble have been put in wherever they’d fit.

One of the few instances of anything approaching richness can be seen as you enter the central hall of the mausoleum. There’s a broad strip of pietra dura inlay work inlay let into the floor: white marble, with arabesques in semi-precious stones, all in rather poor condition. The eight-side chambers surrounding the central cenotaph have some lovely incised plaster, but that’s as far as you’ll be able to venture. The other buildings—the mosque, the madarsa, and the three pavilions—are closed to the public.

Open from sunrise to sunset, Safdarjang’s tomb can be seen for $2 or Rs 100. This may not be the most exquisite of Mughal buildings, but it’s been called the "last flicker in the lamp of Mughal architecture in Delhi", and that’s perhaps good enough.

Fourteenth-century Delhi was a city in decline. The Mongols were gearing up to attack; the city was in political turmoil; and the great spiritual leader Nizamuddin Auliya had died. The story goes that in the midst of a discussion in faraway Mecca, someone remarked that Delhi was now more or less sunk in darkness, and there was little hope for the city. The speaker was contradicted by another. "For there is" said he, "Nasiruddin Mahmud, Roshan Chirag-e-Dehli." Roshan Chirag-e-Dehli means "The illuminated lamp of Delhi," and to the many devotees of this much-esteemed Sufi mystic, the epithet seemed appropriate.

Nasiruddin Mahmud belonged to the Chishti silsila (fraternity), and his teacher was Nizamuddin Auliya. On his deathbed, in the tradition of Sufi fraternities, Nizamuddin passed on his legacy to his disciple. The legacy consisted not just of the many tenets and teachings that Nizamuddin had passed on; it consisted also of the physical symbols- his prayer mat, his cap, and his choga (robe). Chirag-e-Dehli, as he is best known, had, in his own lifetime, many disciples. None, however, were considered worthy of carrying on the Chishti tradition, and when Chirag-e-Dehli died (in 1356), the prayer mat, cap and choga were ceremonially buried with him. The Chishti silsila had, symbolically, ended.

The reigning emperor, Firuzshah Tughlaq, a devotee of Chirag-e-Dehli, built a domed tomb for the saint (the building was actually made 5 years before Chirag-e-Dehli’s death). The 18th century Mughal emperor Farrukhsiyar built a mosque alongside; and many others, in the fond hope that the mystic’s piety would somehow rub off on them, decreed that they be buried close to Chirag-e-Dehli. The result is that the courtyard is crowded with tombs, most of them crumbling structures of stone, rubble and brick. These are forgotten graves, unknown people.

Those who come here, come to pay homage to Chirag-e-Dehli. They stop at the two shops outside to buy chaadars- tinselled squares of cloth- to lay on the mystic’s grave. They bring a small tray of flowers, some puffed rice, and prayers. Everybody, irrespective of race and religion, is welcome. Ask anyone in Chirag Dilli the way to the dargah, and they’ll guide you here.

Chirag-e-Dehli’s tomb, unlike Nizamuddin’s, is a quiet place. Peacocks sit in the trees of the courtyard, and tortoiseshell cats pad softly around. You may find a small huddle of devotees sitting quietly near the mosque, and—as on the day we visited—there might be a single devotee, with a high, sonorous voice, singing hymns all by himself, the words echoing around the empty courtyard. There’s something very emotional about it, yet controlled and serene.

My last visit to Nizamuddin’s tomb was on a dry, dusty Sunday. Our walking group began at an early hour (7:30), but the neighbourhood, also called Nizamuddin, was already a hive of activity. The Nizamuddin Police Station was our starting point, and stepping into the narrow bylanes beyond it catapulted us back in time. The traffic—rickshaws, cycles, motorbikes—slow us down, and we gawk at the wares on sale around us. All along the right, men squat on the ground, with shoebox-sized wooden boxes in front of them. Neatly arranged atop each box are mathematically precise, tidy rows of pale brown sticks.

"Meswak," replies one of the hawkers, when we ask him what it is. Ah. Enlightenment dawns. Meswak is a shrub that’s reputedly excellent for the teeth. Chew a stick, they say, and you do your teeth a favour.

Other items on sale are more easily identified, which doesn’t mean that they’re common. A woman sitting at the corner has a large tray spilling over with shells, dried sponges, twigs. On top of the clutter sits a calcified starfish. We follow an unbroken line of stalls and shops, all pointing the way to the dargah. The projecting roofs of the stalls on either side cover the narrow lane to the tomb. The shopkeepers offer a very limited range of items, everything destined to be offered at the dargah. There are packets of lump sugar, known as bataashas. There are garish chaadars—sheets of polyester or nylon, invariably a garish red or green, with an image of the Qa’aba embroidered on it. And, most visible of all, there are chaadars made solely out of local roses. Full-blown, deep pink roses, strung onto thread, the resulting garlands woven into a fishnet-like sheet of blossoms.

Our group prepares to enter the dargah. Some of us buy the ubiquitous rose chaadars; nearly all of us take up the offer of the nearby shopkeepers to leave our shoes at their shops. Gratis.

We step into the large dargah complex. It’s very impressive, not just because this happens to be one of India’s most popular shrines, but also because of the history that surrounds it. Although he is known primarily as a Sufi mystic, Nizamuddin wielded considerable political influence (his feud with Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq is of the type you could write a story about and no questions asked). By the time he died in 1325 he was generally accepted as a saint, and that’s why the area around his tomb is chock-full of the tombs of other equally famous people.

The first of these, a structure of white marble with a roof that curves at the edges, is that of Nizamuddin’s dearest friend, the poet Amir Khusro. Khusro is considered one of medieval India’s finest poets, and his love for Nizamuddin was so deep that when Nizamuddin died, Khusro pined away in sorrow and died within a few months- at Nizamuddin’s grave. My sister, who’s leading this walk, hands over a chaadar of roses to the guardian of Khusro’s tomb. The man’s poetry deserves it.

From Khusro’s tomb, a short flight of steps leads down into the courtyard where Nizamuddin’s tomb holds pride of place. Before reaching the saint’s tomb, however, we edge up a couple of steps to the right, to the tomb of a little-known but interesting character called Mirza Jahangir. Mirza Jahangir was the elder brother of the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar II, and should (by rights) have been the emperor...his father, in fact, had nominated him the heir. Mirza Jahangir’s ascension of the throne was not to be, however; when he opposed the posting of a British guard inside the Red Fort, he was accused, on a trumped-up charge of having tried to kill the British Resident, Seton, and was exiled to Allahabad.

His distraught mother immediately began praying in earnest for her son’s return, and vowed that if his exile was revoked, she would go all the way from Nizamuddin’s tomb to the tomb of the mystic Qutubuddin Bakhtiar Kaaqi (in Mehrauli) to offer votive chaadars. Her prayers granted, she carried out her vow. Her trek between the two tombs is traced even today by a large crowd and is known as the Phoolwaalon ki Sair or the Sair-e-Gulfaroshaan (The Walk of the Flower-Sellers).

Down the steps, and we step across the narrow corridor towards the tombs of two very different people. Both royal, and both with very distinctive tombs. One is the tomb of the Mughal emperor Mohammad Shah Rangeela" (rangeela means colourful; and this man, with his unashamed love of debauchery, was nothing if not colourful). His tomb, as you’d expect, is an ornate, intricately carved one of white marble.

Next to Mohammad Shah’s tomb, and separated from it by a screen of carved white marble, is the tomb of the Princess Jahanara, daughter of Shahjahan. Jahanara had desired that, as a token of her humility, her grave be left open to the skies- in other words, not covered with an ornate cenotaph. Her tomb, therefore, is a comparatively simple one: there is white marble, and it’s carved, but all along the top, a panel has been left out, which is just plain earth.

In the centre of the complex is the main tomb- Nizamuddin’s. It’s in a hall, surrounded by pillars. The bright, freshly painted and gilded flowers decorating the pillars somehow seemed to detract from the beauty of the place, but to each his own, I guess. Dozens of people mill around here, praying, sitting and listening to discourses, or just coming in to see the saint’s tomb. There’s an imposing mosque right next to the tomb, made of red sandstone and white marble (both, unfortunately, painted over).

If you go past the dargah and out the other side, you’ll come to the baoli or stepwell that Nizamuddin had built here. Having been forewarned that it’s now pretty filthy, we gave it a miss and headed back the way we came. Back, past the tombs of Jahanara, Mirza Jahangir and Amir Khusro, past the first few shops- and then, instead of going right, we turned left and ducked under a strip of grubby sacking stretched across the lane. And there we were, at the amazing tomb of Atgah Khan.

The story of Atgah Khan is an interesting though tragic one. His wife, Jiji Anga, was the wet nurse of the Mughal emperor Akbar; and her arch rival was the other wet nurse, Meham Anga. A bitter rivalry existed between the families of the two women, and Meham Anga’s son Adham Khan, eventually murdered Atgah Khan. Akbar was so incensed at this act that he reacted with sudden (and one hopes uncharacteristic) brutality- he had Adham Khan thrown to his death from a high wall.

Atgah Khan’s tomb is a beauty, a lovely domed building sitting in its own little courtyard. The outside is decorated in red sandstone and white marble, both elegantly carved- and on the far side is a wall mosque. This is a pattern of arches, made of glazed tiles fitted on a wall: the simplest form of mosque there is.

At Atgah Khan’s tomb, our group is joined by a local tramp, wearing a scruffy T-shirt and knee-length pants. He’s obviously a little weak in the head, and prances gaily about, all across the tomb. Looking at him, I can’t help but remember the old "Walk like an Egyptian" song—his dancing is almost exactly like the music video. All of this is very incongruous.

He trudges along faithfully with our group till the next (and last) tomb on our walk, the tomb of Mirza Aziz Kokaltash, the son of the ill-fated Atgah Khan. The tomb, built in 1624 and known as Chaunsath Khamba ("Sixty four Pillars") is very unusual: it’s a flat-topped, large hall of 64 white pillars. The tomb is a combination of white marble and incised plaster, not extremely ornate, but definitely very large and roomy. Except for the heavily carved cenotaphs (not just Kokaltash, but various other members of his family are also buried here), it looks more like a large assembly hall than a tomb. Our voices echo here, and the man who’s tagged along looks a little sober.

The walk back to the Nizamuddin Police Station is short. So short, in fact, that it seems as if we’ve gone from the 17th century to the 21st in a matter of mere seconds.

Considering that Delhi was ruled by one Muslim dynasty after another for nearly a millennium, it’s hardly surprising that there are so many tombs in the city. Kings, queens, princes, princesses, generals, members of the aristocracy, mystics, poets—just about everybody had a fan following that was wealthy enough to spend a few thousand rupees, at the very least, on a decent tomb for the dear departed. In some instances, where people perhaps had the foresight to fear that those they left behind either would not be able to (or would not be willing to) afford a decent tomb, they built a mausoleum for themselves before death came calling.

So what’s so interesting about tombs? A lot, actually.

Firstly, there’s the fact that almost no tombs are ever marked. If you visit a tomb, even that of an important personage like Humayun who was, after all, a very powerful emperor, you won’t find any inscriptions that tell you who is interred under all those tons of marble and sandstone. The identification of most tombs, therefore, is the result of a painful process of intensive research, and the digging up of obscure references that might help in figuring out who’s buried where.

Secondly, tombs, like birds of a feather, flock together. Walk around an old tomb, and you’re sure to stumble across many other tombs, especially if the old tomb happens to be that of a Muslim mystic. This stems from the belief that the tomb of a holy man confers sanctity on the area surrounding it. The tomb of Delhi’s most revered Sufi mystic, Nizamuddin Auliya, is a case in point. Around it, within the same courtyard, are the tombs of the poet Amir Khusro, the princess Jahanara, the luxury-loving Mughal emperor Mohammad Shah "Rangeela," and the aspirant to the Mughal throne, Mirza Jahangir. Not within the courtyard, but within walking distance, are the tombs of the emperor Humayun, the poet Mirza Ghalib, and Atgah Khan, husband of the emperor Akbar’s wet-nurse. A lot of tombs.

Thirdly, nearly all tombs have some common features. The most meagre of them will be the marks- the takhti and the kalam- that identify the grave as that of a male or a female. The kalam is a longitudinal wedge that rests on top of the grave, and it signifies that the person buried below was male; the takhti, similarly, is a flat, decorative rectangular shape on the grave that denotes a female. The tombs of people who were wealthy, powerful, or religious, have other features. The tombs of Nizamuddin Auliya, Humayun, and Nasiruddin Mahmud Chirag-e-Dehli, for instance, have full-fledged mosques next to them. Others, like the tomb of Bahlol Lodhi, do not have a mosque, but there is at least a mihrab—a closed archway that marks the direction of prayer.

Fourthly, the backdrops of tombs differ. Razia’s neglected little grave lies in a cul de sac in the narrow streets of Old Delhi. The tombs of Iltutmish and Alauddin Khalji lie within the Qutub Archaeological area, next to the Quwwat-ul-Islam mosque. The tombs of Safdarjung, some of the Lodhi Sultans, and Humayun, lie in individual gardens, almost along a straight line (modern day Lodhi Road). While on the topic, the typical charbagh, or "garden tomb," of the Mughals, of which the most famous is the Taj Mahal in Agra, has a few examples in Delhi. For instance, the tomb of Humayun, considered the predecessor to the Taj Mahal, is a garden tomb. It sits in a square garden, bisected by water channels. The tombs of Safdarjung and Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan are also garden tombs, though not on as grand a scale as Humayun’s. The garden tomb was supposed to be a representation of paradise, but historians differ on what a garden actually meant in this context. Some hold that beautifully manicured lawns, flowerbeds, and fountains were the order of the day, while others believe that the gardens were more like wildernesses than anything else, with trees and shrubs allowed to grow unhindered.

Wander through Delhi and you can literally see dozens of tombs. Some are plain, some are grand. Some, like Humayun’s tomb, have been carefully restored by specialist conservation architects. Many have been lovingly, but misguidedly, maintained by being renovated with the help of concrete and whitewash. But there are plenty of them to see, and they are some of the top sights in Delhi.