The Far Pavilions.. Tales of Badshahi Bagh

Year 2009

The first assignment in any profession is often the the most difficult and challenging seemingly. Add to it the fact that one is posted in an outlying rural sub-division and has no idea of how to go about dealing with people's expectations in such a remote and inaccessible corner of the state (if not country), and one feels one is doomed to fail miserably. With these innumerable apprehensions and the pain of being away from family and friends for quite some time to come, I decided to test my luck as the Sub-Divisional Magistrate in Agra's Fatehabad. With a rickety jeep to take me around and a dusty country road winding through endless row of farmsteads, I embarked upon my journey to begin the first chapter of my professional life. 

           

The irony of the situation however remains the awe it evoked whenever my parents would mention Fatehabad. To the minds of common people and millions of tourists across the world, Fatehabad meant the eponymous Fatehabad Road which houses some of the best and the most luxurious hotels in this part of the world. How were I to explain that beyond that 10 km of urban fringe, a completely different world awaits to tell a story only a minuscule fraction of people come to know of.

I still remember that Tuesday of 18th August, 2009. While the journey seemed to be a trial of sorts with the clouds of dust billowing in from the sides and the risks of driving on a country road where numerous modes of transport ply according to their own timetable the only thing I remembered was when the driver swerved the vehicle on a small arterial road outside the tiny township of Fatehabad and massive walls of a fort-like structure greeted us from a distance. 

I was super-excited to know about the existence of a historical fort in my sub-division. Only that the next moment, as the jeep entered through the magnificent front-gate of the fort was I made to realize that this very walled campus serves as the office of the Sub-Divisional Magistrate (SDM). And it not just serves as the office of revenue establishment (of which SDM is a part), but also that of Police, Judiciary, hundreds of advocates and to top it all, houses a Community Health Center too! With my city-bred sensibilities and then little knowledge of the parameters which govern the protection and preservation of our heritage as per law, I expressed my outrage and disgust at the gross neglect and misuse to which the wonderful structure was being subjected to.

Over the course of next few weeks, I had to dig deeper into the history of a place left forgotten in the middle of nowhere. Soon I learnt that it was here in May 1658 that Aurangzeb defeated his brother Dara Shikoh in the battle of Samugarh and usurped power from the Mughal Emperor Shahjehan.

In his book 'The Peacock Throne: The Drama of Mogul India', Waldemar Hansen writes:
"For India, Samugarh was perhaps the most decisive military engagement that had ever been fought and lost. Far from settling a petty family dispute over a crown, the disaster presaged three hundred years of vital events: British conquest, the ultimate division of Pakistan and India, Hindu Moslem feuds, and endless bloodshed. Medieval Mughal splendor had ended; the so-called age of Akbar, with its liberal coalition of Moslem and Hindu, its fused nationalism in politics and art, was gone forever. Aurangzeb would see to that".

            

Even as we strived in our own little ways to preserve the structure and prevent further damage by increased activity inside the premises, when we downloaded a Google Earth satellite image to lend credence to our case, I was mesmerized by the perfect square of green which looked like an oasis in an area which is otherwise largely dry. Back then too, availability of water was a huge concern and was taken care of by the four wells which exist till date outside the four corners of the walled campus. There was also a beautiful pond with chhatris at a short distance from the fort and if not for the ever-expanding encroachments, it might be still existent. Even the residence where the Tehsildaar resided at a distance from the campus, was of Mughal vintage and had served as the stables of Maratha Daulat Rao Scindia for a couple of decades in the early 19th century.

As a new entrant into service, I wrote an agitated email to to the senior members of the service seeking guidance about the possible avenues of conservation of the historical structure. Back then while a lot of members extended advice, INTACH and ASI expressed their helplessness in view of an almost non-existent tourist potential. While I got transferred in April 2010, I continued to harbor a hope for the revival of the place and made it a point to share the same with whoever might care to listen.

                

Fast forward to the year 2014

Its been five years since I left the place and anybody ever mentioned Fatehabad again. Somewhere deep down inside, I too had reconciled with the current state of neglect of our heritage in most parts of the country. My stint in Bundelkhand had already bled my heart to the extent that I would shiver to visit a forgotten monument ever. Yet, on a completely unrelated visit to the office of my the then boss in Agra, on this fine morning of 4 September, 2014 here in Lucknow, he hands me a document enlisting the details of historical monuments in Uttar Pradesh, INTACH has decided to conserve in near future. My heart skips a beat to find a mention of Badshahi Bagh, Fatehabad in the list and while it seemed to have been erased from mind and memory, I once again glimpsed the familiar pavilions of Badshahi Bagh. While my contribution to the chain of events might be non-existent altogether, the fact that somebody had decided to take notice of a magnificent ruin in the vast hinterlands of the city of Taj is heartening enough and felt like a personal achievement of sorts. While I believe in a magic which makes things move in this universe, was it just a coincidence that the news was shared with me by the same person who was just as churned up as I was back then in Agra in 2010?

 "But why, you ask me, should this tale be told

To men grown old, or who are growing old?

It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late

Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate."

-Morituri Salutamus

 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

House This!!!

House This!!!

All these days I have been trying to take some time out to be able to pen down a few thoughts for my blog but the election fever in the state, A's posting to Odisha on Observer duty and my own transfer on the day he left meant little respite for days to follow. Little N has shown understanding well beyond her years (she's not even 14 months as I write this!) while Mamma discharges the election duty and stays away for hours on end. Once again as I find myself in complete solitude after the day's work and as little N sleeps peacefully after chasing peacocks all day, my thoughts wander back to the days when A was still in Tripura and I endlessly pursued a zillion hobbies to keep my hopes from fading and my energies creatively channelized. 

I had brought along with myself M-i-l's book EASY EMBROIDERY by Lis Paludan and had wanted to start on some work of my own too. The way her book is written, it seemed like a matter of patience and practice before even a novice could embark on embroidery project of sorts. One of my two initial choices was the embroidered houses which seemed simple enough to begin with.

During the recent visit to my parents' house in Delhi, as I looked at the houses I had made, I reminisced about the winter evenings I spent confined to my Agra house all by myself and doing embroidery for hours on end. My dear friend P made an interpretation of the same work too and if it were not for the countless happenings in her life these days, I could have showcased her work too.

The work comprises of 11 houses stacked in three rows of 3-4-4 respectively. In the bottom row for example, the outline of the houses is done with black running stitch, the rooftops are done in pink asymmetrical running stitch, blue satin stitch, yellow chain stitch and dark pink and red chain stitches respectively from left to right. The doors are mostly in chain stitch while the daisy flower petals are done in french bullion knots. The marigold flower and the windows of the second house from left are done in buttonhole stitch.

The Bottom Row

The Middle Row

The middle row too comprises four houses done in outline black running stitch. The roof of the first left house is done in a mix of buttonholes and french bullion knots while the windows are outlined by chain stitch in two colors. The chimneys of all the houses are done in chain stitch. The roof of second house has a double outline done in chain stitch and filled with satin stitch, windows are filled with buttonhole circles and double chain stitched door is adorned with french bullion knots. The third house from left is a classic example of chain stitch and buttonhole stitch while the herringbone roof of the last house lends a real touch to the depiction.

The three houses in the top row are largely a mixture of chain stitch and buttonhole stitch used in tandem.

The Top Row

While I truly hope I have tried my best to preserve the beauty and color scheme of Lis Paludan's work,the unavailability of certain colors' threads and my own lack of discipline coupled with the fact that the project was completed in over six months in different cities with different states of mind, meant a melange of ideas on the fabric. The left panel is my work and the right is the original depiction as given in her book. I really hope my sister M loved her long promised gift when she saw this!

There was something in the air in the city of Taj..

There was something in the air in the city of Taj..  From the very beginning, or perhaps because this was the first independent assignment, it felt DIFFERENT. The familiarity of Delhi, the smugness of Saharanpur and the mellowness of Mussoorie all seemed to be present and yet hidden in the narrow bylanes and winding streets. And yes there was Taj in all its grandiosity to overawe and stun..

The view of the city from across the river, near Chini ka Rauza

 

Red Taj, the tomb of Col. John William Hessing. His epitaph reads: ”When Colonel John William Hessing departed from this world, he left hundreds of scars of separation. By person he belonged to Holland and was born in that country. He gained fame in India, by the Grace of God.”

Nothing could match the first whiff of Chambal air and the labyrinthine ravines. No words could describe the peace and positivity as Yamuna takes a hairpin turn around Bateshwar temple complex..

A tranquil sunset on the Ghats of Bateshwar, Bah

During the rains it seemed as if the city had acquired a fresh lease of life.. The brimming waters of the river, the moonlit Taj, the Arti performed by the residents of Kailash Colony to abate the floods, the numerous highways which run through the city like veins and nerves performing essential life functions, the privilege of sitting in a 100 yr old tehsil, the musty smell of the countless files in the record room, the taste of agra-chaat in the Sadar Bazaar- all these precious memories seem perfectly fossilized in some safe corner of my mind.

The facade of the 100 year old Tehsil Sadar, Agra

My first house, the lovely neighbourhood, my first experiments with the DSLR, fiddling with the micro-wave and naive attempts at cooking. It was a charmed life. Had little yet everything. My heart still leaps up with joy when the thoughts of those days come to the mind. The little garden in the front could produce everything for my needs and so much more. Have never been able to get over with the taste of fresh and free home grown vegetables. Those lovely poppies to cheer one's heart in the warm summer sunshine and compelled one to feel the same as Wordsworth for Daffodils..

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth 

It was an exposure unlike anything one could experience in life. My brief stay of a year and half seemed to have acquainted me with the myriad mysteries of the place and yet it feels so much has been left unfinished and unexplored.. Many a afternoon could be spent in admiring the bear and gazelles at Keetham and the innumerable birds who flock to Keetham in winters. Few would perhaps know that Keetham incidentally is also the largest Bear Rescue Facility in Asia.

The Foundation stone of the John's Mill in Agra

 Next time, I get the opportunity to be in Agra for long, it may be a changed place. The looming citadel of John's Mill is fast paving way for the malls and apartments. Yet my fascination for "the chimneys" of the Mill remains strong as ever and can't help fantasizing about the times when Yamuna was navigable from Allahabad to Agra and 'the chimneys' must have been the first sign of civilization to greet the travelers on their visit to the city. The elaborate planning of an entire spinning township remains inimitable and impressive even to this day.

Medical College, Agra

The superb structure of the Medical College remains pretty much unchanged to this day and on a day with little traffic, could easily give the feeling of being in a colonial township, that Agra once was.

And so is the charm of Old City Station which must have formed the heart of the city once. The underground tunnel and the french windows beckon travelers from far and wide and tell the story of an era long gone by.

Agra City Station

Various travelers to Agra could interpret the story woven by the history and milieu of Agra in their own ways but to me, it continues to amaze and surprise on each visit and yet there seems to be an never-ending  relationship with this place beckons people from unknown lands since times immemorial. Not much seems to have passed since the visit of John Mildenhall in year 1603, whose tombstone mentions his meeting with Emperor Akbar during the heyday of the Mughal Empire.

The railroad track is miles away, 

And the day is loud with voices speaking, 

Yet there isn't a train goes by all day 

    But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by, 

    Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, 

But I see its cinders red on the sky, 

    And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with friends I make, 

    And better friends I'll not be knowing; 

Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, 

    No matter where it's going.

Travel   

by Edna St. Vincent Millay