Going In Style

Do not ever think that having a Platinum Card of an airlines means that you’ve arrived in life. You are no better than the doodhwala who wakes up at 4am, milks the cows, puts the same in huge canisters, hangs it on the bike as he drives down from one housing society to another delivering fresh milk…all this he wraps up early to make sure the children get their fresh glasses of milk as they set out for school. You Mr. Airmail man are no better…you too tick a number of check boxes:

ü  Wake up before the alarm rings and wakes up others in the family.
ü  Switch on the geyser.
ü  While the water is getting heated, finish with the brushing, shaving and the rest.
ü  Take a quick shower.
ü  Get into the clothes.
ü  Stuff your pockets with business cards, cash and your lifeline called smartphone.
ü  By now the cab you booked last night has arrived and you get a missed call.
ü  Pick up the bag and rush out of the door, making a sad face as you wave past your sleepy wife.

Phew…if that’s not enough, you pray the CISF man at the security check point is good and you do not miss the flight before you make it past the metal detectors. If you are lucky, you have time in hand and you walk into the lounge swiping your card for a 6 am breakfast. I am certain the doodhwala is happier when the ghar ki sundar si malkin opens the door in her flowery nightie to collect the milk. Don’t know what the flying mail man is out to chase as he keeps adding to the mileage points…happiness no way…that he leaves behind every day and every time he walks out of the house at unearthly hours.

Happiness is something he left behind long ago when he had little to flaunt.

Happiness was to pack everything you had into a magical piece of luggage called ‘hold-all’ and applying your life’s strength to tie the leather straps round it after you made a big roll of the bedding, food packets, shoes and clothes all stuffed inside.

For us Bongs there is no time like the Pujas when the Goddess Durga with her children Lakshmi, Saraswati, Ganesh and Karti come to her parental home every year.  Same was with us. The Ma Durga of the house would somehow manage to get train tickets through some tout and she along with her two daughters and son would head every summer to Calcutta to her brother’s place…Mama Bari for the children. Happiness was to put the hold-all atop the taxi and troop into the big fat Ambassador, which incidentally was the only car ride we would get in a year, as we drove into Old Delhi Station.

Happiness was to walk quickly behind the coolie who carried the luggage to the platform, haggling with him and saving those few coins that would provide for some extra fun during the long train ride.

Happiness was the expression when the son would take the brown coloured tickets to check the reservation charts and no sooner had they been put up on the designated platforms than a frenzied crowd would gather around them, each trying to jostle with the other in the effort to find their names first. Seeing your names there and finding the coach number against them was more than a lottery win…Happiness@Unlimited.

Happiness was to stand on the weighing machines, seeing the round red and white wheel come to a standstill and then pushing your ten paise coin in the slot and waiting for the small ticket to emerge. Reading the weight was fun but reading your horoscope given behind the weighing slip was an absolute delight especially when it said that it matched with that of actress Saira Banu whose sketch would also be printed as you compared it with the stars on the slips of others.

Happiness was to board the train and finding your berths and quickly occupying them before someone else put their bums and claimed it to be theirs. Quickly putting all the luggage beneath the bunk was also an art. Then pulling out chains and locking the suitcases and trunks so that no one stole them while you slept was a must. And when all was settled, going out to get a surahi or an earthen pot which you would fill with the tap nearby was like carrying lifesaving stuff. The times of filtered and bottled water were yet to arrive.

Happiness was when you showed your ticket to the Ticket Checker who would come in his ill-fitting black coat and seeing around you some sly ones without the tickets. How they managed the pan- chewing man with some cash that would be tucked away by the checker in the chor pocket of his trouser was art of another kind.

Happiness was to order the oily train food and then getting off in the next big station to pick up sabzi-puri, guava and toys and jumping back onto the running train in the nick of time. No one ever got left behind at an intermediate station, for that only happens on 70mm screens. As the train trudged along the iron tracks, drying your wet handkerchiefs or gamchhaas (towels) by putting your hand out as the wind and sun would do their job for you.

Happiness would be to get the wash room free at the first instance when you went there and delight would be to find it relatively clean. Now the second part was not easy in Sleeper Class trains and often the women of the house would have to practise bladder control that only they could manage while the little ones were made to stand beside the open door and asked to shower the bushes by the tracks as the parents made weird sounds….and the obedient ones would gleefully oblige.

Finally, the fastest train in those days, aptly named Toofan Mail, which after 36 hours of huffing and puffing  would crawl into Howrah Station . Happiness was to find your Mama and Mami waiting for you there but unable to identify you for all the smoke and soot had added an extra coat of darkness to the already not-so-fair skin. Hugging them tight and standing in a serpentine queue to get into a yellow cab that would take you finally to the much awaited Mama Bari was fun always. Mishtidoi, shinghara, daab….Mamas are the Best.

How will the last journey of life be remains a mystery but who can stop me from visualizing.

As the wooden logs burnt in full fury beside the gently flowing Yamuna Ghat, the I Me Myself vanished into ash and dust. The omnipresent soul remained and was shifted to a nearby space shuttle base. With a report card of life in hand, I stood in the queue.  The lady at the counter did a quick glance and issued me a boarding pass. Happy to find my name there I checked the gate and seat numbers. The ticket was checked one last time and I was asked to board from the front gate. Wow… the seat was 1A and was promptly ushered in by a lady far prettier than I had ever seen in my mortal days to the premium seat. Huge seat with all amenities…a business class for sure. Oh then my Platinum Card and mileage points did have an advantage now as well…hmmmm…I thought. Next to me came a person in commando fatigue and as he sat down warmly shook my hand.

I am John…he introduced himself.

A pretty much jovial fellow, I thought. As he saw the pretty looking hostesses he remarked, “We are definitely going to Jannat now and there it will be good times for us. I know for sure for I’ve been promised.” Sitting like a king on my huge premium seat, I sure felt happy that my report card was not as bad as I thought it would be. “Heavenly Father above, here I come.” I was truly and happily going in style.

As the space hostesses announced,” We are now ready to take off. Requesting all passengers to tighten their seat belts.”  And then the countdown began…10..9…8…7..6…5..4..3…2..1…..and a huge screen opened up in front of us and  we saw the blast off…the biggest I have ever seen, as we took off. As the shuttle began to settle down, we heard some children singing nursery rhyme…Johnny Johnny, Yes Papa. Our heads turned towards the back of the shuttle and we saw hundreds of odd little kids in their colourful school uniforms. A couple of ladies, who looked like their teachers, were seen conducting this Children’s Space Orchestra with their eyes and smiles.

As the children raised their pitch higher, I suddenly saw John beside me turning his face away and taking out a small towel to wipe his eyes. Soon the moist eyes gave way to crying openly and ended with almost howling. Unable to control myself, I asked my friend beside, “John, what is the matter? Why are you crying seeing these lovely kids?”

He kept looking down, unable to see me in the eyes and spoke softly, “These are kids from Army Public School at Peshawar. I drove my bomb laden truck yesterday into their school!”

You are Jihadi John? I spoke in amazement and horror. And he nodded his head and kept crying, “I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have done it!”

The flight attendant announced at that moment, “We are now going to break-up. The two halves of the shuttle will now open up into two parts. Both will be going to two different destinations. You can see the spectacle on the screen ahead. Enjoy the last stage of this journey till it lasts.”

What happened thereafter was absolutely spectacular. There were sounds of giant locks opening up around the middle of the shuttle with us in business premium class in front and the singing and laughing children with their teachers in the other half. As the two parts split open, the bottom half of the shuttle with the children went into a terrific spin and then there was a loud bang, the bottom half of the shuttle vanished as it broke up into smithereens of colourful petals which first covered the sky above and then slowly descended on the earth below. While we could not see where these petals finally fell but surely wherever they did the place would have turned into a sea of a heavenly vibrant colours and fragrance.

Now the frontal and remaining part of the space shuttle picked up great speed as it headed to the dark side of the moon. I remembered the lines of a song which read…

Your head is humming and it won’t go

In case you don’t know

The piper’s calling you to join him

Dear Lady, can you hear the wind blow

And did you know

Your stairway lies on the whispering wind…

SS

Dear Mister Postman

While Diwali brings in happiness and boxes full of sweets and dry fruits, it also is the time when two people diligently knock at your doors- the postman who brings you normal dak and the other who brings you Speed Post. In the world of email, Instagram and Whatsapp, when the art of using the pen is almost on the verge of extinction, these two folks truly are relics of the past. Recently I did catch my office mail room people off-guard when I wrote new year cards and put them in envelopes to be sent to a few people I work closely with. The person asked me,” Sir, iss mein kya hai?” When I said, “Greeting Cards,” the person had his eyes popping out and was completely shocked. Surely he must have had a good laugh with his smart department colleagues, “Yeh Uncle poora mental hai!” as they got on by forwarding posts on their smart phones.

The Postcard

My maternal uncle in Kolkata was suffering from the Emperor of Maladies. A fighter, he was, but it was possibly late 70s when it got detected and slowly his fight was giving way. I was a favourite of his and so Mom would ask me to write to him once in a while. He would be overjoyed getting my postcards, telling him about my school and checking on his health and family.  My mother, like most women, could be very nagging at times. So she kept on telling me to write to her brother since I had not done it for quite a few months. While I kept protesting and finding reasons for not picking up the pen, she lost her cool and put a blank postcard in my hand and made a face, which today tells me, was where Nike got its tag line-Just Do It! And I did. But all I wrote on the postcard was the address in front and on the reverse…

Dear Bara Mama,

HELLO

GOODBYE.

Love,

Shibu

In no time my mother got a reply from her brother and in it was written how pained he was to have got my postcard. I could see the tears in her eyes and realized my mistake. Without saying a word I decided to send an apology letter to the man. But before I was able to get the postcard from the post office, there came a telegram from Kolkata.

Never got a chance to write my sorry postcard. Sorry to this day am I.

RIP Postcard

The Telegram

A telegram arrived at my office at Kolkata on a day when I was missing from action with a bout of flu, resting at my in-laws place. A telegram in our times was the bearer of sad news in most cases and in a few cases, congratulatory. The concerned people at office quickly opened up the telegram and in it was typed and pasted,

BABA EXPIRED

BUDDHA

Fortunately, my wife was in the same office and they took the piece of sad news to her. She quickly identified the sender Buddha who was my closest pal at Delhi. Soon the whole office at 3, Middleton Street, Kolkata knew I had lost my father but before the news was conveyed to the sick son, there seemed some confusion. Is it S’s Baba or Buddha’s Baba who was no more? As luck would have it in the year 1990, neither did Buddha have a phone number to contact nor did my people at Delhi.

STD call was made to the Delhi Office of National Insurance, if they could send someone to my Chittaranjan Park residence to get a confirmation of which Baba. Jagadish Das or Jaga Da, as we fondly called him, had his sister living in the same colony. He contacted her and asked her to reach out to my house. While all this investigative work was going on, D in a sullen mood, left for home to break the sad news to me. Jaga Da’s sister immediately reached my house and saw an old man sitting on a chair in the winter sun and enjoying an orange. She started talking to the old man in general terms and soon realized the mix up Buddha had done to save on the cost of telegram, where every alphabet was charged for. Had my friend added MY before BABA, the whole of National Insurance Head Office employees would have got an extra day to work instead going on a wild goose chase.

My boss gave me a call and told me about the ruckus and confusion that had happened that day. D returned home late in the evening in a heartbroken state and didn’t know how to break the news to me. The mood immediately changed when I told her that I was aware of Buddha’s telegram and all was well at home. Today, there are no midnight wake up calls from the postman but the smart phone on the bedside table keeps us awake and even before you get the news, the world comes to know and the box is full of Heartfelt Condolences…many of them simply forwarded. Tragedy of another kind.

RIP Telegram

The Inland Letter

One fine day I got a call on the office intercom from the Head of Facilities Department at Kolkata, Mr. Subir Sen. He asked me to come down to his chamber. I was wondering why on earth would this man call me. I hadn’t asked for a new chair or complained about having a separate Officers’ Washroom in an independent and equality ridden country of ours. With many a question in my mind, I knocked and walked into his chamber. He was a fair man and today looked somewhat reddish….what had he done to turn red, sitting in a comfortable air conditioned room?  He held an open inland letter in his hand and said, “S, I think this letter is for you. Your mother has written to you. I opened it and read it, thinking it was mine as the inland was addressed to S. Sen.” I took the letter from him and walked back to my work station.

My mother would write inland letters to me. When she was in a good mood, she would write to my residential address and write in Bengali. Then she would write to me in English and post it to my office address, whenever she was upset and angry at Baba and many a times at me. So I knew what the letter contained and what Mr. Subir Sen would have read. As I took a look at the letter, I realized what she had done…she had written her fury letter this time in Bengali… something which Subir Sen could read, but I couldn’t. So I took it home and asked my wife to read it for me….more embarrassment followed…as she read out para after para about how after marriage I had changed, how I would write so often to her and now I address all my letters to Baba. In short, I didn’t love her. It went on to say how sick she was and she would die soon. Someone in the neighbourhood would do the last rites since I was not getting my posting back home at Delhi. Of course she didn’t forget to write one last paragraph on how my father was troubling her and it was impossible to live with him anymore.

Subir Sen, that day onwards, would give me a sly smile whenever he met me in the corridors. The inland letter had gone outland and exposed my story. Subir Sen, I could avoid, but there was no escape at home…kyonki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi…That was my mother and her inland.

RIP Inland

Last word: While D still gives the Diwali bakshish to the postmen without fail, I find myself going to the philately division of GPO at Delhi to collect stamps and First Day covers. We, too, seem to have become relics from the past in times of ‘You’ve Got Mail!’

SS

खुला बक्सा

उस दिन जब खोला हमने वो बक्सा
पुरानी चीज़ो को कम करने को था मन
निकला उस में से कुछ तुम्हारा सामान
सामान से जुडी थी यादें
और यादों में बसी थी तुम
जाने क्यों आखें हुई नम
और दिल गया थम

माँ तेरा वह बटुवा मिला

बटुवे में थी एक डायरी

जिसमें पाया तेरे हाथों से लिखे कुछ नाम 

तेरे बनाए हुए रिश्ते

जिन्हें भुला चुके हैं हम

खो गए बस तेरी तरह जाने कहाँ

सोचता हूँ फिर एक बार

कुछ तेरे उन डायरी में लिखे लोगों से जा मिलूं 

शायद मुझे तू वहीँ पे जा मिले

तुझसे मिलने को आज बहुत जी चाहता है

बटुवे में मिला एक छोटा सा आईना

शायद तुम उससे अपनी लाल बड़ी सी बिंदी

माथे पर ठीक किया करती थी

या अपना कॉम्पैक्ट निकालकर अपने को संवरती

आज वह आईना धुंधला सा गया है

ढूंढ़ता हूँ तुझे उसमें मैं

आईने के हर कोने से तुझे झाकते पाया

शायद मुझसे तू कुछ कहना चाहती हैं

तुझसे मिलने को आज बहुत जी चाहता है

बक्से के एक कोने में मिले एक प्लास्टिक का पैकेट

और उस में मिला एक छोटा डिब्बा 

डिब्बा पे लिखा था 'रवि सादी पत्ती'

और था सुपारी काटने वाला चमचमाता हुआ औज़ार 

तूने माँ पान खाना तो छोड़ दिया था अर्सो पहले

पर तम्बाकू चूने के साथ मुँह में खैनी रखना कभी न छोड़ा

डॉक्टर के कितनी बार मना करने पर भी

मैं तेरा एक डिब्बा ख़तम होने से पहले दूसरा ले आता था

अब ना पान है ना ज़र्दे की महक

ना आज तू है ना तेरी वह चहक

तुझसे मिलने को आज बहुत जी चाहता है

बक्से से तेरी कुछ साड़ियां भी निकली माँ

वह साड़ियां जो तुम्हें पसंद थी

उनमें वह सफ़ेद साडी भी थी माँ

जिसमें लाल काला बड़ा बॉर्डर था

और बॉर्डर पे बने सुन्दर डिज़ाइन

मिला तेरा वह खादी का चद्दर और वूल का मफलर भी

आज भी तेरे प्यार की गर्माहट को महसूस कर पाया इनमें

तुझसे मिलने को आज बहुत जी चाहता है

कुछ नये मोज़े मिले जो कभी न पहने तूने

समेट कर रखती थी तुम हर चीज़

यह सोच के कि किसी बड़े दिन  पहनोगी शायद

क्यों करती थी तुम ऐसा

पहन लिया होता तो आज ना मिलती तुम

न तेरी याद सताती मुझे

न तेरी याद रुलाती मुझे

मैं भी अक्सर नई चीज़ें संभाल के रख देता हूँ अर्सो तक

शायद मुझमें तू छिपी हुई है आज भी कहीं 

तुझसे मिलने को आज बहुत जी चाहता है

मिले कुछ नोट और कुछ सिक्के

सिक्के थे पांच दस पच्चीस वाले

जो अब चलते नहीं हैं

नोट थे पांच रूपए वाले

एक बार सोचा की रख दूँ इन्हें संभाल के

तेरी दी हुई आखरी बक्शीश समझके

पर फिर सोचा की कहीं इन नोटों पर कल कोई रोक लगा देगा

तो वे फ़िज़ूल कागज़ के टुकड़े बनके रह जायेंगे 

और सच पूछो तो

तुझे याद करने के लिए मुझे इन चीज़ों की ज़रुरत पड़े अगर

तो लानत है मुझपे 

यादों में तुझे ढूंढ लेता हूँ अक्सर

कभी भी कहीं भी

आज तुझसे मिलके जी नाच उठा है

ढूंढती होगी तुम मुझे कहीं

ढूंढता हूँ तुझे मैं आज भी यहीं

शायद कुछ तुझसे कहना चाहता हूँ

शायद कुछ माफ़ी मांगना चाहता हूँ

कुछ खुशियां बांटनी थी तुझसे

कुछ ज़ख्म दिखाने थे तुझे

सब कहूँगा सब सुनूंगा फिर कभी

आज बस इतना ही

बक्से को अब बंद करता हूँ

मिलती रहना तुम

कभी भी कहीं भी

SS

In Search of History

It was the end of October, a few days after Durga Pujo. The Pandals all stood empty- bare, barren. Ma Durga had been immersed in the Ganges. Only the bamboo structures remained. Perhaps the organizers had Kali Pujo in mind which was round the corner. There was a feeling of hollowness, of emptiness everywhere. At times in the forlorn lanes, which only a few days back had been teeming with people as they jostled their way to get a look of the Mother Goddess, the criss-cross of the bamboos looked grotesque. The city seemed desolate, almost lifeless , one reason being, I surmised, that many leave the city soon after the festivities get over, in search of something new .

I was coming to Kolkata, once my home, after more than seven years. My mother’s ashes had been collected and immersed by me, just a little over a month. I could identify with the mood only too well.

The Homecoming

Every time I came to Kolkata earlier (though I still prefer Calcutta), it was to visit my mother. I remember her standing at the door of our house as I walked in through the gate with my bags and my little one in tow. This is where I came every summer and winter, the only difference being that it would be for two weeks in summer against only a week in winter. Our vacations were always spent here until a few years back when her health failed and she came to live with us. From the clothes that we would change into, to the towels in the stand and the slippers to be worn indoors, everything would be in place. Not to mention my favourite dishes all spread out in the next few days along with the grandchild’s favourite chutneys and sweets. Even if I did not open my suitcase for the a few days, nothing would go amiss.  The toothbrushes and night suits would also be kept ready for us. That was my mother- painstaking, caring, immaculate. Every time we left she would wipe away her tears and wait patiently for our next visit. This was the first time I was coming to Kolkata when I had nowhere to go to.

I was apprehensive about how I would go about doing the rounds of the Banks and LIC offices, a routine which invariably follows in the aftermath of the death of a family member. I was not really looking forward to any of it but had to go about it. During the next four –five days that I spent in this city I was deeply touched by the warmth and hospitality shown by friends and family, many of whom I had not even been in touch with for quite some time. An aunt and uncle completely took me by surprise by arranging for lunch on both the days I visited the bank near their house. I was truly overwhelmed by their sensitivity for they had carefully chosen and prepared things in a way my mother would cook for me. Dishes like thor chhenchki, mochar ghonto, chochori, shukto, shak bhaja and the tiny mourala machh bhaja were on their way out and with the passing away of the last remnants of our earlier generation these recipes would belong to the annals of culinary history. The day we were leaving the city, a cousin packed huge amounts of sweets for us, despite our vigorous protests, insisting that we can never get such stuff in Mumbai. In a way it is true. Only this city can churn out sweetmeats and saris in such varieties and at such prices which are unthinkable elsewhere.

Since there was not much time in hand, one early morning we decided to go to the Dakshineshwar Kali Temple. Two reasons went behind this-my husband had never been there and it was also a place my mother liked going to. Though the new Skywalk was all eager to have us set foot on it, we were not allowed to by the authorities since Mamata Didi was yet to inaugurate it. This temple, on the banks of the Hooghly, dedicated to Ma Kali or Bhavatarini, was built by Rani Rashmoni . This is where the priest Gadadhar Chattopadhyay worshipped Mother Kali with all the innocence and adulation of a child. Gadadhar came to be known later by the name of Paramhansa Sri Ramakrishna. You can see the room he lived in for thirty years, the cluster of trees called Panchavati where he practiced Vedanta sadhana and attained samadhi, the tiny room which was his wife Ma Sarada’s abode. It was at this very temple that some of the greatest men of his time came to visit him. To even think that this place was once frequented by the likes of Keshav Chandra Sen, Girish Ghosh and Vidyasagar. There is a peace and serenity here that is unusual in most Hindu temples. Across the river is the Belur Math, the headquarters of the Ramakrishna Math and Mission, started by his favourite disciple, Narendranath Datta or more popularly known as Swami Vivekananda. The bathing ghats where Ramakrishna had met his spiritual gurus Tota Puri and Bharavi Brahmani still stand.

Calcutta-Kolkata/ West Bengal-Bangla- or whatever they may decide to re-christen her next- will always be my home, a place close to my heart. ..my safe haven.  After an interlude of seven years, the city looked smarter, cleaner and spunkier to me with all its flyovers, malls, ever increasing high rises, fancy streetlights, chic restaurants, broader and better roads, but as many old timers pointed out the city was but a shadow of its former glory, a bare bamboo structure devoid of its much acclaimed accomplishments. Another thing that stood out like eyesores to me were the huge cutouts of Didi, posing  in every nook and corner, which in other states may be very common, but not a familiar one to the Calcuttans of yore.

On the last evening, as I walked into Park Street in search of the mouthwatering Hot Kathi Rolls and the much loved Chelo Kebab of Peter Cat , the bright, decorative, festive lights of Durga Puja, which during the day looked like hideous skeletal remains from the past, the LED bulbs forming eerie shapes, both human and floral, against wooden frames, glowed in all their colourful hues. The city was once again gearing up for the Festival of Lights. The mood was definitely changing.

On our way back, in the narrow lanes of Kalighat, the bare, naked idols of the Goddess Kali, were getting their first coat of paint. In the next few days these unknown artists would bring to life this long line of clay and hay idols with their master strokes, only to have them immersed at the end of the festivity.

The countdown had begun.

Echoes from the Past

I needed to move on.

I missed my daughter and a much desired change from the familiar scenes and chores took me to her in Hyderabad.

While we are busy wiping out, whitewashing and re-calligraphing names, the voiceless stones have interesting tales to narrate. From the broken ramparts of the Shepherd’s Hill (Golla-konda) or Round Hill (Gol-konda) you get the best view of the city of Hyderabad, built by Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah, on the banks of the river Musi. Golkonda was built as a small mud fort on a granite hill under the Kakatiyas but it was rebuilt and expanded as a proper formidable fort over a period of sixty two years under the Qutb Shahi rulers. Here you hear the tales of secret passageways and underground tunnels. Our guide tells us that in the times of the Qutb Shahi rulers an underground passage led the Baadshahs and  Begums to the Charminar and the Laad Bazar , famous for its bangles. When a king died he would be secretly taken and laid to rest at the Qutb Shahi tombs through an underground route. The enemies would never get to know about the passing of a King. Tunnels and secret passages connected the main gate to the highest point in the citadel.

About the city of Hyderabad, the legend says that the Baadshah fell in love with a courtesan Bhagmati. So deeply was he in love that he named the new capital of his empire after her. It got the name of Bhagnagar or Bhagyanagar . Later, the lady love converted to Islam and she was given the name of Hayder Mahal or Hyder Bibi. The city was renamed as Hyderabad. There are other references about the origin of the name, one being that of Baghnagar (City of Gardens) and another that it was named Bagh Nagar( City of the Lion) after Caliph Ali Ibn Abi Talib, nicknamed  Hayder or Lion for his acts of bravery. I personally prefer the romantic tale and if Hyderabad becomes Bhagyanagar probably the nautch girl can still have the last laugh.

The eight Sultans of the Qutb Shahi dynasty ruled their empire from Golkonda, a 5km circular granite fort with an outer wall having a 7km circumference, till they shifted their base to a new city called Hyderabad to solve their water shortage problems. The Fort is an exquisite engineering and architectural marvel with excellent acoustics, reservoirs and plumbing lines that allowed for great ventilation, hot baths for the Begums and an unbelievable surveillance-cum-communication system. The Fort was invincible till a betrayal by an insider led to the gates being opened to the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb who had been laying siege around this impregnable citadel for months.

When the Mughal Empire was collapsing, their viceroy to the Deccan Suba declared his independence and a new dynasty of the Nizams of Hyderabad came to rule the city. It was under the Qutb Shahi dynasty and the Nizams that the name and fame of Hyderabad spread far and wide. It was known for its riches and splendor to the western world. The neighbouring Kollur mines of Golkanda were famous for their diamonds and emeralds. Its vaults once contained the priceless Koh-i-noor, Hope and Daria-i-Noor diamonds which are now part of Britain and Iran’s Crown Jewels.

Every stone in every monument and every artefact housed in the city’s museums breathes history.

It is up to us to ignore or acknowledge.

In Memoriam

History cannot be erased or wiped out. It is very much an integral part of who we are and what we have. The chapters can be taken out of the syllabus, some parts of it can be intentionally omitted, roads and stations can be renamed but essentially it remains in our culture, art and people. It can be buried for centuries under the sands of time, invisible to many, only to resurface in full grandeur.

My next halt was at Patan, a town about 125 km from Ahmedabad. An impromptu trip to this little known town unraveled a little known wonder.

The Archaelogical Survey of India , after decades of excavation since 1958, has  recently unearthed the Rani Ki Vav, a subterranean seven storeyed stepwell  built in the 11th Century AD by Queen Udayamati in memory of her husband  King Bhimadeva I of the Solanki dynasty . We have heard of monuments being erected in the memory of Queens or mistresses but this was a memorial to a husband. Interestingly, the image of this architectural masterpiece appears on one side of the new hundred rupee note released by RBI.

The stepwell, 64m long 24m wide and 27m deep, had been buried for nearly a thousand years due to flooding of the river Saraswati, which has also long since disappeared. In 2014 it acquired the tag of a World Heritage site from UNESCO. ASI archaeologists have painstakingly unearthed and discovered this thousand year old stepwell through careful excavation, de-silting and restoration work.  The entire structure is made of sandstone with exquisite carvings and sculptures of the Hindu pantheon of Gods and Goddesses- Indra, Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva , their consorts, the Dasavatars,  Laxmi, Parvati, Ganesha, Kartik, Kuber- along with demons and Rishis, Apsaras and Vishkanyas. Stepped corridors lead through pillared pavilions or terraces to the underground reservoir. Rainwater still collects in this well or vav and you can actually see it. The descent into the vav is a journey to another ethereal world beyond the ordinary. It can truly be assigned the title of Queen of Stepwells.

  

Before leaving Patan we had to see another of its wonder- the double Ikat handloom silk sari called Patola. It is a dying art today. Kumarapal, the ruler of Patan, needed to wear a new vastra for his Puja every day. In order to ensure that every dhoti was freshly woven he relocated 700 hundred families of weavers with the common family name of Salvi from Maharashtra to Patan. After 900 years only one of the 700 Salvi families is still in this trade. Rohitbhai Kantilal Salvi and Bharatbhai Kantilal Salvi along with their nephew Rahul, son of Shilpaguru Vinayakbhai Kantilal Salvi , their eldest brother, have still held on to this family trade. A double Ikat sari costs anything between Rs. 1.5 lakhs to Rs. 20 lakhs and a double Ikat handkerchief can cost a whopping 15K!! The Salvis still use natural dyes unlike other Patola weavers and a sari takes anywhere between four to six months to be hand woven. When you compare the geometric patterns and animal motifs on the saris with the carvings and sculptures on the temples and vavs in the area, you realize where the weavers get their inspiration from.

There was no question of returning empty handed after seeing the weaving process. So, finally, I settled for its paler cousin, the more popular single Ikat weave sari which, though more reasonably priced, is not regarded by the Salvis as their patented traditional Patola . A thousand year old craft is on the verge of becoming extinct as other Salvi members have moved on to newer and more lucrative professions. The art might be dying but it remains very much a part of the history of Patan, once the capital of Gujarat, and ruled by the Chavdas and Solankis.

Master Craftsmen Rohit & Bharat Bhai  with Double Ikat Loom

Now back home, I am happy to have a little bit of history as part of my wardrobe!

DS