Shashank Shekhar Sinha

The Travelling Pillar

The ancient iron pillar standing in Delhi’s Qutb Minar complex is popularly described as a ‘trophy of conquest’. In fact, it marked the cultural continuity of a royal practice in ancient and medieval north India, of re-using and re-inscribing pillars erected by predecessors.

When a historical artefact travels across space and time, it often creates multi-layered meanings that add to the richness of the contexts it inhabits.

The history of the Mehrauli iron pillar offers an interesting case in point. The small and modest looking structure currently standing in the courtyard of the jami masjid or congregational mosque in the Qutb Minar complex has a long and multifaceted past. Its multiple journeys and lives – straddling dynasties, geographies, cultures and time periods – present a fascinating tale.

A lay person visiting the Qutb complex, which is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, may not get a sense of the pillar’s intriguing past for several reasons. Its location between imposing structures, representing the art and architectural traditions of the Turks, tends to obstruct its visibility.

Also, narratives of local guides taking tourists around the Quwwat al-Islam (‘Might of Islam’) mosque, as the jami masjid is now known, are largely soaked in tales of destruction of the 27 Hindu and Jaina temples and the building of the congregational mosque by the Turks.

The guides do not, however, forget to mention that the pillar has remained corrosion resistant and rust free in more than 1600 years of its existence. Scientists attribute this unique distinction to the pillar’s high-phosphorus and low-sulphur content and to the significant advances India had made in the field of metallurgy and casting in ancient times. No wonder the image of the iron pillar is the emblem of two premier scientific organisations dealing in metals – the National Metallurgical Laboratory and the Indian Institute of Metals.

The pillar has had a more popular constituency, stemming from its perceived identity as a bringer of good luck. It was believed that if a person standing with her back to the structure could clasp her hands while putting her arms around it, her wish would be fulfilled.

R. Balasubramaniam, a noted archeo-metallurgist, who has worked extensively on the Mehrauli pillar, says this popular belief was prevalent even before J.D. Beglar, assistant to Archaeological Survey of India’s first director general Alexander Cunningham, got a base for the pillar constructed in the late 19th century.

Balasubramaniam mentions a free-hand sketch of the pillar by an artist named Mirza Shah Rukh Beg, in Sayyid Ahmed Khan’s Urdu book on monuments of Delhi Asar-al-Sanadid (1847), which shows people trying to clasp the structure.

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The belief persisted afterwards too. For those visiting the Qutb complex till about the mid-1990s, it was a common sight to see people thronging the pillar site to try their luck. Fearing that the historical structure might get corroded by the physical touch of innumerable visitors, in 1997 the site administration decided to erect a fence around it. Interestingly, the fence has heightened the visibility and presence of the structure and the curiosity surrounding it.

The pillar and its early history

The pillar weighs over six tonnes and is around 23.6 feet (7.08 metres) tall, of which 3.6 feet (1.08 metres), is buried below the ground. It is surmounted by an inverted lotus capital over which there are three fluted discs (amalaka) supporting a square pedestal. There is a deep hole on the top of the pillar which possibly supported an image of the legendary bird Garuda, regarded as the vehicle of Lord Vishnu.

The oldest and longest inscription on the pillar, which is in Sanskrit, records the military prowess and achievements of a king named Chandra. The translation and transcription of the complete inscription can be seen on the wall in the northern gallery of the mosque. The English translation of the inscription’s concluding part reads:

“[The pillar was erected by] that king who acquired Supreme sovereignty on earth for a very long time by his own promise [and] who, having the name Chandra and the beauty of countenance resembling the full moon, having fixed his mind with devotion on Vishnu, this lofty standard of the Lord Vishnu was set up on Vishnupada hill (emphasis added).”

One of the inscriptions associated with the original installation of the iron pillar. Photo: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Historians and archeologists have identified king Chandra with Chandragupta II (c 375-413/15 CE) of the Gupta dynasty. The king is referred to as Chandra in his coins, particularly his gold coins where his short name appears alongside his full name and he is depicted as an archer.

The Guptas ruled over large parts of north India between CE 300-600. The core empire of the Guptas included modern Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and Bengal, the highlands of central India and parts of the east coast. Historian Upinder Singh clarifies that, through successful military campaigns, the Guptas established a network of political relationships of paramountcy and subordination over a large part of the Indian subcontinent.

Singh says Delhi seems to have formed a part of Chandragupta II’s empire and the Mehrauli pillar inscription suggests that he also fought against a confederation of enemies in Bengal and led a campaign into the Punjab. However, Delhi does not have a location which approximates to the description of Vishnupada giri (hill) mentioned in the inscription. So, the pillar was probably brought from somewhere beyond Delhi.

Conflicting accounts about the pillar

There is no unanimity of view among scholars as to where the pillar was brought from and when. Some say it was brought from either Mathura or Haridwar. Others say it was brought from somewhere near river Beas in the Himalayan region. Based on metallurgical, archaeological and iconographical evidence, Balasubramaniam argues that the pillar was originally located at the Udayagiri caves (near Vidisha in Madhya Pradesh). This theory has gained acceptance in the academic community.

Balasubramaniam explains that the pillar originally stood in front of Cave no 5 which contains a bas-relief depicting one of the ten incarnations (avatars) of Lord Vishnu as mentioned in the Puranas, namely the varaha, or boar. In this avatar, Vishnu is depicted as the divine boar who lifted the earth from the depths of the primeval ocean, where it had been dragged by a demon called Hiranyaksha.

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Balasubramaniam and scholars like Michael Willis and Meera I. Dass argue that the location of the Udayagiri caves on/near the Tropic of Cancer (23 ½ degree north) had a special astronomical significance and that the iron pillar had a specific location within this astronomical diagram. The location was such that on the summer solstice day, the early-morning shadow of the pillar would fall along a specially cut passageway in the direction of the varaha bas relief.

From the Gupta coins and inscriptions, it is easy to establish that their rule extended into Malwa and western India and included the Vidisha region. Balasubramaniam points out that the Udayagiri cave temples also possess the unique distinction of being the only works that can be personally associated with Chandragupta II.

She explains that the king’s connection with Vaishavism is well known and the term parama-bhagavata (indicating a very close association with Lord Vishnu) became a common imperial title for the Gupta kings from his reign onwards. In an article in The Wire on the Pillar of Heliodorus, I had discussed how Vidisha, an important centre of trade and religious activities, had become associated with the Vaishnava cult even before the Gupta period.

The Iron Pillar and the Rajputs of Delhi

Who brought the pillar to Delhi, and when? At some point of time the pillar was moved out of Udayagiri and Vidisha, but we don’t know when. Around the middle of the 11th century, a Rajput ruler called Anangpala, belonging to the Tomar dynasty, is known to have erected the pillar in front of a temple when he developed a fortified settlement, Lal Kot (literally red fort) in the Mehrauli region.

A legend, killi-dhilli-katha (the story of loose nail/pillar) mentioned in the epic poem Prithviraja Raso, popularly attributed to Chand Bardai, a courtier of the Chauhan king Prithviraj Chauhan, connects the pillar with the Tomar Rajputs.

According to the killi-dhilli-katha, a learned Brahmin once told the Tomar king Ananagpala (also known as Bilhan Deo) that the pillar was rooted deep in the ground and rested on the hood of Vasuki, the mythical serpent king who supported the world from below. The Brahmin had prophesied that as long as the pillar stood firm, the king’s dominions would remain safe.

A curious Anangapala apparently ordered the pillar to be dug up only to discover that the base of the pillar was smeared in Vasuki’s blood. The nervous king then ordered the pillar to be restored. However, despite several efforts, the pillar (killi) could not be fixed; it remained loose – dhilli.

Killi tau dhilli bhayi
Tomar bhaya mat hiin

(The nail has become loose
The Tomar’s wish will not be fulfilled)

According to a popular tradition based on this legend, the name Dilli, as the city was known in early medieval times, is derived from the story of dhilli killi. Interestingly, a short inscription on the iron pillar credits Anangapala with the establishment of Delhi as a city around 1052 CE.

The Turks and the politics of appropriation

Who brought the pillar to its current location in the congregational mosque, and when? It is conventionally held that the Turks, after their conquest of Delhi, brought the pillar from the main temple in the Lal Kot complex to its current location in the jami masjid. In the process of re-assembling, Balasubramaniam highlights, a part of the pillar, which was initially buried underground, was placed above the ground level. Since then, the pillar has stayed in this state in the mosque complex.

The iron pillar stands in front of the central arched screen built by Qutbuddin Aibek. Photo: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Who, among the Turks, brought the structure to its current location? Until the time when historian Finnbarr Barry Flood put forth his thesis, the assumption among most scholars was that it was Qutbuddin Aibek (reign 1206-10), the slave and commander-in-chief of Turkish ruler Muhammad Ghuri, who after conquering Delhi from the Chauhan Rajputs towards the end of the 12th century, installed the pillar as a ‘trophy of conquest’ in the city’s first jami masjid – as a sign of Muslim victory over a conquered Hindu population.

Flood clarifies that there are problems with this kind of a popular assumption. He draws our attention to a mid-14th century text Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi, written by Shams-i Siraj Afif, according to which it was Aibek’s successor Iltutmish (reign 1210-36) who re-erected the iron pillar to perpetuate the memory of his own rule. It was re-erected probably in the late 1220s/early 1230s, around the time the new ruler was extending the area of the congregational mosque.

Flood argues that lltutmish’s re-installation of the pillar in the jami masjid did not amount to installing a ‘trophy of conquest’. On the contrary, it marked a cultural continuity of an existing royal practice, as also a symbolic attempt to connect with the pre-Muslim kingship. Kings in ancient and medieval north India, he explains, not only erected commemorative pillars but also re-installed, appropriated, re-used or re-inscribed those erected by their royal predecessors.

Historian Catherine Asher also says that the reappropriation and reuse of the Allahabad Pillar was a part of a deep-rooted Indian tradition. Currently housed within the Allahabad Fort, the pillar was first inscribed by the Mauryan emperor Ashoka who ruled during the third century BCE.

In the fourth century CE, Samudragupta of the Gupta dynasty inscribed a list of his achievements and those of his predecessors on the structure. In the 17th century, the pillar was inscribed again by Mughal emperor Jahangir.

The iron pillar that now stands in Mehrauli, as discussed, had been taken from its original location and re-installed within a temple complex in Lal Kot, built by the Tomar king Anangapala. It was reinscribed at that time as well.

According to Flood, Iltutmish’s installation of the iron pillar could have motivated the Delhi sultan Firuz Shah Tughlaq (reign 1351-88) to relocate and reuse several Ashokan stone pillars. The Delhi-Meerut pillar was brought from Meerut and was re-erected near the sultan’s hunting palace, kushk-i shikar, on the northern Ridge.

The Delhi-Topra pillar was brought from Ambala and re-erected on a three-storeyed structure in the sultan’s fortress, Firuz Shah Kotla. Both pillars contain edicts of Ashoka.

Like Mehrauli’s iron pillar, the Delhi-Topra and Delhi-Meerut pillars also traversed complex journeys, across time and space, to become an integral part of Delhi’s cultural landscape. And today, they narrate a fascinating story of Delhi’s past – multi-layered, multicultural and pluralistic.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha is the author of Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri: Monuments, Cities and Connected Histories (Pan Macmillan, 2021).

Book Excerpt: Negotiating Monuments in a New Light

An excerpt from ‘Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri: Monuments, Cities and Connected Histories’, which highlights the need to move beyond a monument-centred vision and treat heritage sites as repositories of a wider historical and cultural legacy.

Monuments, like museums, are critical sites for public consumption of historical knowledge. In fact, they constitute sites where people come closest to the idea of experiencing history. The depth of this experience, however, is based on the extent of one’s knowledge of these sites. As a discipline based on evidence and context, which systematically studies the role of time and space, the relationship between the part and whole, and engages in a creative dialogue between the past and present, history has an enormous potential to contribute to public understanding of heritage sites.

However, there is a conspicuous lack of such material on such sites, either in the form of books or knowledge platforms. For one, academic books and resources either do not reach heritage sites or even if they do, they are not very accessible to the layperson. Hence, people tend to rely more on travel websites, guidebooks and tourist guides for their understanding of monuments and connected histories. The problem is that the content of such guidebooks available at/around/about the sites are not regularly updated. Most travel websites, too, churn out the same generic and outdated material, albeit with minor modifications. Heritage walks, and light and sound shows are restricted to a few cities/sites. And most tourist guides available at the sites are not trained by historians but by tourism and hospitality management institutes. They are not adequately trained to deal with sensitive historical matters.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha
Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri: Monuments, Cities and Connected Histories
Macmillan (September 2021)

Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri: Monuments, Cities and Connected Histories (Pan Macmillan) underlines the need to have more accessible histories. It also calls for a more inclusive conceptual framework which moves beyond a monument-centred vision and treats heritage sites as repositories of a wider historical and cultural legacy. In such a framework, monuments’ larger geo-cultural connections, their afterlives, and the role of individual structures and artefacts play an important role. The book also underscores the need for a critical but creative engagement with elements of popular history rather than being summarily dismissive about them. In a context where the gap between academic and public understandings of history is progressively increasing and where heritage sites are fast becoming sites of identity and sectarian politics, it is important to restore monuments to their rightful place, in history and in the public domain, in an informed but interesting way.

Red Fort after Shah Jahan

The fortunes of the palace-fort started dwindling after the death of Aurangzeb in 1707, the process of disintegration of the large Mughal empire had already set in during his reign. The post-Aurangzeb phase of Shahjahanabad witnessed battles for succession, rise of ambitious nobles and king makers, invasions from abroad, attacks by regional powers and natural calamities. However, the city and the court also experienced artistic and cultural efflorescence during some periods. Muhammad Shah (regnal years 1719–48), one of the later Mughal emperors, patronized Urdu language as well as musical performances particularly qawwali, spiritual music sung by Sufis, and khyal, a kind of Indian classical vocal music. Paintings of Holi (festival of colours) celebrations of his period are quite well known.

The Red Fort and its Lahori Gate which now forms the public entrance. The barbican (fortified outer structure) around the Lahori Gate was constructed by Shah Jahan’s successor Aurangzeb. Photo: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

In 1739, Nadir Shah, the Turk ruler of Iran, crossed Afghanistan and Punjab and defeated the Mughals at Karnal, located around 120 kilometres from Delhi. In the subsequent display of power, Nadir Shah’s name was proclaimed as the sovereign in the khutba, the sermon during the congregation Friday noon prayers, in the mosques of Shahjahanabad.

Nadir Shah also got Muhammad Shah to receive him at the palace-fort where he symbolically returned the throne to the defeated Mughal emperor. On March 22, 1739, infuriated by some minor attacks on his army, Nadir Shah ordered a massacre of citizens of Delhi and witnessed the barbarity sitting on the roof of the Sunehri Masjid near Chandni Chowk. He also plundered the palace-fort and the city and carried away a booty with an estimated value of 700 million rupees, including the peacock throne and the iconic diamond, Koh-i-Noor. The throne was brought to Iran. Nadir Shah died in a campaign against Kurdish tribesmen in 1947.

In the ruckus that followed, the tribesmen dismantled the throne and distributed the precious stones and metals amongst themselves. The peacock throne however became the insignia of the Iranian monarchy and its reproductions continued to be made for later rulers including those from the Shah and Qazar dynasties. It is held that one of these reproductions is housed at Topkapi Palace, Istanbul. The Koh-i-Noor, on the other hand, changed several hands before coming under the possession of the British. From Nadir Shah the diamond passed on to one of his lieutenants, Ahmad Shah Durrani (also known as Ahmad Shah Abdali). Later, Shah Shuja Durrani, a descendant of Ahmad Shah Durrani, gave the diamond to Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the ruler of Punjab, for helping him win back the throne of Afghanistan. After the British conquest of Punjab in 1849, the Koh-i-Noor finally passed into the hands of the British. It currently forms a part of the Crown Jewel collection displayed at the Tower of London.

Meanwhile, the destroyed Mughal city and the plundered empire were further weakened by the raids – by powers like the Marathas, the Sikhs, the Jats, and the Gurjars as well as the Rohillas and Afghans – between mid-to late-19th century. The Marathas captured Delhi in 1759 to lose it to Ahmad Shah Durrani, the Afghan ruler who succeeded Nadir Shah, in the Third Battle of Panipat (1761). They recaptured the city in 1771, made Mughal emperor Shah Alam their pensioner, and stationed Maratha troops in the palace-fort.

Some scholars say that the Marathas took down and melted the ceiling of Diwan-i Khas, made in silver and inlaid with gold, and used the metal to make coins then worth 23 lakh rupees. The wooden ceiling one sees now in the structure was painted by the British in 1911, around the time of the Delhi Durbar.

The Diwan-i-Khas, which once housed the peacock throne adorned with the Kohinoor diamond. Its gold and silver ceiling was later taken down by the Marathas and melted to make coins. Photo: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Later, the Rohilla chief Ghulam Qadir captured Shah Alam (regnal years 1759–1806) in 1788 and imprisoned him in Salimgarh Fort. He asked the emperor to show the place where Mughals hid their treasures. When the impoverished and helpless emperor failed to show any such place, an infuriated Ghulam Qadir blinded him and dug up the floors of the Diwan-i Khas looking for hidden treasures. The Marathas soon regained their control over the city and the palace-fort and Shah Alam became their puppet again.

The Mughal Empire as an imperial raj or a political entity ceased to exist in the 1750s. But the ‘imperial’ aspect of the emperor and his distinctive social status as the foremost resident of Delhi ensured that his position remained central to the identity of the city and the palace-fort even after the British occupation. In 1803, Lord Lake defeated the Marathas near Patparganj in Delhi and gained control of the Ganga-Yamuna plains and the Delhi-Agra region. Administratively, the city of Shahjahanabad became a part of the North-Western Provinces and was governed from Agra. A British Resident was stationed in Delhi. He started functioning from the building known as Dara Shukoh’s Library. This is a building on Lothian Road in present day Delhi, on the right bank of the Yamuna close to the imperial palace, and is named after Aurangzeb’s eponymous elder brother.

The early decades of the 20th century, described as the ‘English Peace’, were also the period of the ‘Delhi Renaissance’. This period was characterized by the writings of literary greats such as Mirza Ghalib, Hakim Momin Khan, and Sheikh Ibrahim Zauq; the intellectual endeavours of the faculty at the Delhi College and its English Institute; and, the coming into circulation of printing presses and newspapers. This intellectual and cultural efflorescence was disrupted by one of the most serious challenges to the British colonial rule, the rebellion of 1857.

The barracks, to the right of the Sawan Pavilion in the photograph, were constructed by the British after their suppression of the 1857 rebellion. Photo: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

The year 1857 witnessed armed revolts in parts of central and northern India, leading to a loss of British control over these regions. Recent research shows that the rebellion was more widespread than thought earlier. It began with a mutiny of sepoys but soon acquired a civil and popular character in parts of northern India. The rebel sepoys showed a tendency to converge or congregate at Delhi. The Red Fort thus emerged as a focal point for the rebellion. Under pressure from the rebels and his own princes, the reluctant 82-year-old Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar (regnal years 1837–57), became the titular leader of the rebellion.

The palace-fort soon became the seat of the rebel power and, Bahadur Shah a symbol of the rebellion. There were attacks on Europeans, Christians and those connected with the British government. British officers and army took refuge in the forested ridge around Delhi University and waited for reinforcements from Ambala. Once the British army started gaining control of the city, it went on an offensive against both Hindus and Muslims. Most residents of Shahjahanabad were driven out. They took shelter in areas around the Qutb and the Nizamuddin. The ousted residents could not re-enter the city before the following year. Mosques were also taken over. After September 1857, the British forces unleashed a reign of terror that saw indiscriminate shootings, court martials and summary hangings. Meanwhile Bahadur Shah escaped the Red Fort via Yamuna and took refuge in Humayun’s tomb. He was soon arrested by the British forces along with three princes. The latter were killed on the way back near the Delhi gate of the city by Major William Hodson.

Bahadur Shah returned to Red Fort as a prisoner of the British.

He was tried in the Diwan-i-Khas in 1858, and exiled to Rangoon, Burma (now Yangon, Myanmar), on October 7. British officials were not content with deporting the emperor and killing his descendants. They also unleashed their anger on the palace-fort which had been the citadel of power during the ‘Great Indian Rebellion’. More than two thirds of the inner structures were destroyed. Henceforth, structures in the palace-fort served as quarters for the British garrison and the famed Diwan-i Aam as a hospital.

The buildings south of the Diwan-i-Khas were found to be ‘of little architectural interest’ and were declared suitable for troops. Most jewels, precious stones and artworks of the Red Fort had already been looted during Nadir Shah’s invasion. The aftermath of suppression of the rebellion saw further looting. Several existing Mughal structures were demolished, including the harem courts and gardens to the west of Rang Mahal, the royal storerooms and kitchen to the north of Diwan-i Aam and the Mahtab Bagh. New structures including army barracks, hospitals, bungalows, administrative buildings, sheds and godowns soon came up in the palace-fort complex. The rebellion also ended the rule of the East India Company, and an act passed in the British Parliament in August 1858 made Queen Victoria the sovereign head of British India.

Excerpted with permission from Pan Macmillan India.

How the Red Fort Became the Site for India’s Independence Day Celebrations

At the Red Fort, on August 15, 1947, the past and the present had coalesced to mark a newly independent nation’s step towards the future.

This piece, originally published on August 14, 2017, is being republished on August 15, 2020.

Known by different names at different points of time, such as Qila-i-Mubarak (the Fortunate Citadel), Qila-i-Shahjahanabad (Fort of Shahjahanabad) or Qila-i-Mualla (the Exalted Fort), the Red Fort remains one of the most iconic representations of anti-colonial resistance and India’s Independence Day celebrations. Since 1947, on every Independence Day, successive prime ministers have hoisted the national flag here and addressed the nation from the rampart adjacent to the Lahori Gate, which now forms the public entrance to the fort.

Constructed by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan between 1638-1649, the Red Fort, which derives its name from its massive red sandstone walls, represented the political and cultural grandeur of the Mughal empire. It was designed as the fort-palace of the new Mughal capital, Shahjahanabad, literally ‘the abode of Shah Jahan’.

A painting of Shah Jahan. Credit: Wikipedia

After the reign of Aurangzeb, Shah Jahan’s son and successor, the fortunes of this bastion started dwindling as the later Mughals proved to be very vulnerable. Nadir Shah, the Turk ruler of Iran, attacked Delhi in 1739. He plundered the fort as well as the city and carried away a massive booty, including Shah Jahan’s iconic Peacock Throne and the Koh-i-noor (Mountain of Light) diamond. Subsequently, raids by the Marathas, Sikhs, Jats, Gurjars, Rohillas and Afghans from mid to later 18th century further weakened the Mughal stronghold. In fact, during the time of Shah Alam (1759-1806), it is said that Mughal rule extended from the Red Fort to Palam in Delhi.

Az Delhi to Palam

Badshahi Shah Alam

(From Delhi to Palam

Is the realm of Shah Alam)

The early 19th century saw the British influence growing in the region. After the capture of Delhi in 1803, the British started taking control of the fort and the city. The early half of the 19th century was relatively quiet for the city, dubbed as years of ‘English peace’.

These were also years of the ‘Delhi Renaissance’, marked by the presence of Ghalib, Momim and Zauq, and the Delhi College, and soon to be overtaken by the rebellion of 1857. In the circumstances that unfolded, Red Fort gained a new identity as the most important symbol of resistance to the might of the British. Once again the Mughal emperor found himself being referred to as the ‘Emperor of Hindustan’.

The 1857 rebellion

The year 1857 witnessed an armed rebellion in parts of central India and northern India leading to the loss of British control over these regions for a while (new research suggests that the uprising was far more widespread than hitherto believed). Red Fort and its occupant, Bahadur Shah Zafar, became the most important symbol of the rebellion.

Historian Eric Stokes writes that the rebel soldiers showed a “centripetal impulse to congregate at Delhi”. Pressured by the rebels, a reluctant 82-year-old Mughal emperor became the leader of the rebellion while real power was exercised by rebel soldiers, princes and nobles.

The fall of Delhi sparked off mutinies and uprisings; the rebellion acquired a civil and popular character in parts of north India. With the coming of the rebel troops from Bareilly to Delhi, led by Muhammad Bakht Khan, a government was formed combining civil and military administration.

Muhammad Bakht Khan was nominated Sahib-i-Alam Bahdur (governor general) and he functioned with the help of an administrative court. Historian K.N. Panikkar points out that the court conducted the affairs of the state in the name of the emperor. He was recognised as an emperor by all rebel leaders. Coins were struck and orders were issued in his name.

A retreating British army took refuge in the Delhi Ridge area while waiting for the reinforcements from Ambala. Historian Rudrangshu Mukhjee writes that their aim was to regain control of Delhi which had become the focal point of rebellion. Other centres of revolt were soon suppressed.

After gaining control of Delhi around September 1857, the British resorted to harsh reprisals marked by summary court martial and hangings, blowing rebels from the cannon and indiscriminate shootings. Bahadur Shah Zafar, who had escaped by the Yamuna river route to take refuge in Humayun’s tomb, was caught along with three princes. The arrested emperor was brought back to the Red Fort as a prisoner while the three princes were killed by Major William Hodson near Delhi Gate. Bahadur Shah Zafar was tried in the Diwan-i-Khas (Hall of Special Audience) and exiled to Rangoon (now Yangon) on October 7, 1858.

“Capture of the King of Delhi by Captain Hodson”, steel engraving. Captain William Hodson captured Bahadur Shah II on 20 September 1857 during the Sepoy Mutiny. Credit: Wikimedia

The aftermath of 1857

British officials were not just content with deporting the emperor and killing his descendants, they also unleashed their anger on the fort which been the citadel of power during the ‘Great Indian Rebellion’. More than two-thirds of Red Fort’s inner structures were destroyed. The palace was converted into quarters for the British garrison and the famed Diwan-i-Aam (Hall of Public Audience) into a hospital. The buildings south of the Diwan-i-Khas were allotted to the troops.

Precious stones, jewels and artworks adorning the palaces were looted. Several existing Mughal structures, including the harem courts, the gardens to the west of Rang Mahal, the royal store rooms and kitchen were demolished. British buildings such as army barracks, hospitals, bungalows, administrative buildings, sheds and godowns came up in the former Mughal bastion.

The suppression of the rebellion was accompanied by major administrative changes. The rule of East India Company came to an end and Queen Victoria was made the sovereign head of British India. The office of the Secretary of State was created to rule India.

The new power equations were reinforced by imperial durbars held in Delhi in 1877, 1903 and 1911. The Coronation Durbar of December 1911 also marked the visit of the British King George V and Queen Mary. After the event at the Coronation Park, the royal couple decided to make an appearance from a jharoka (balcony) of the Red Fort on December 13. The jharokha darshan (Audience from the Balcony) was a symbolic appropriation of a practice which only the emperors of Hindustan were entitled to.

The 1911 durbar also saw a surprise announcement – the transfer of British India’s capital from Calcutta to Delhi. Mukherjee points out that the decision to shift the capital to Delhi was also motivated by the symbolic importance of the city and the hold the Mughals had over the minds of the people of north India.

Bahadur Shah Zafar, on his death bed. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

While the British appropriated the imperial symbolism related to the Red Fort, they did everything to prevent any news about Bahadur Shah Zafar coming out in public. Historian Amar Farooqui writes that the exiled emperor and his family lived in complete obscurity till the end of the 19th century, with the colonial state ensuring that no definite account of the Mughal family became available to the public.

Nevertheless, the rebellion and its heroes continued to remain in public memory and later in the nationalist imagination. As Panikkar writes, even in failure, the rebellion of 1857 served as a source of inspiration for the freedom struggle in later decades.

Rangoon, the Indian National Army and the Red Fort

Almost a century after 1857, the Red Fort emerges on the horizon in the years preceding Independence, with the circumstances of the freedom movement in the 1940s rekindling interest in the lives of the seemingly-forgotten Mughal emperor and his family.

Farooqui, however, argues that the choice of the Red Fort as the site for India’s principal public event “was not directly the outcome of a desire to set right, symbolically, the historical wrongs of 1857” – rather it was “indirectly that latent memory of the suppression of the uprising (that) determined the selection of what was the most prominent non-colonial structure in the capital of the British India Empire”.

According to the historian, what triggered this memory in the 1940s was the setting up of the headquarters of the Azad Hind Fauj or the Indian National Army (INA) provisional government at Rangoon in Burma. Subhas Chandra Bose, the ‘Netaji’ of INA reportedly visited the shrine that had come up around the unmarked grave of Bahadur Shah Zafar and his famous call Chalo Dilli (March to Delhi) invoked both the emperor and the Red Fort and was also linked to the idea of the recapture of the fort –”(O)ur task will not end until our surviving heroes hold the victory parade on the graveyard of the British empire, at the Lal Quila, the Red Fort of ancient Delhi”.

Netaji’s intervention, writes Farooqui, played a decisive role in “overcoming the forced collective amnesia about the history of the brutal reconquest of the city”.

The INA trials (1945-1946) put the spotlight on the Red Fort once again. After the Second World War, the captured officers of the INA were put on public trial at the Red Fort in December 1945. Three officers, namely Colonel Shah Nawaz Khan, Colonel Prem Kumar Sahgal and Colonel Gurbaksh Singh Dhillon, were housed there for the duration of the trial. The chambers within the baoli, or step-well, believed to pre-date the Red Fort, were converted into a prison.

Jawaharlal Nehru addresses the nation from Red Fort on Independence Day, August 15, 1947. Credit: Wikimedia

There was a “mass upheaval” of campaigns, protest meetings and all-party demonstrations showing signs of remarkable communal harmony. “Never before in Indian history,” Nehru admitted, “had such unified sentiments been manifested by various sections of the population.”

According to historian Sekhar Bandyopadhyay, there were many factors behind the mass upsurge, including the fact that the trial took place at the Red Fort, which appeared to be the “most authentic symbol of British imperial domination” – it was the place where the last Mughal emperor and the acclaimed leader of the 1857 revolt was tried and exiled.

Farooqui writes that the nation-wide campaign for the release of the INA officers further reinforced the public perception of the former Mughal fort-palace as the symbol of anti-colonial resistance.

Finally, in August 1947, the first Prime Minister of India Jawaharlal Nehru raised the Indian national flag above Lahori Gate. Nehru’s speech made a special mention of Netaji, regretting his absence on the occasion. Farooqui argues that the act of replacing the British flag with India’s national flag, a day after the swearing in of the first cabinet on August 15, amounted to reclaiming this contested site for the nation.

It is a site where the past and the present coalesced to mark a newly independent nation’s step towards the future. On every Independence Day, as the prime minister speaks from the rampart of the Red Fort in what is a formal, choreographed event, the site itself shimmers with the sheen of an inclusive memory, like a talisman.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha has taught history in undergraduate colleges at the University of Delhi. He does independent research on tribes, gender, violence, culture and heritage.

What Really Ails the Taj Mahal?

After spending so much time and effort and several resources, it is still not clear whether we are asking the right set of questions.

Built by Shah Jahan in the memory of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj Mahal continues to remain one of the most emblematic and iconic visual representations of India. However, this internationally renowned World Heritage Site, which also figures among the recently declared ‘New Seven Wonders of the World’, has been in the news for less palatable reasons in the last few decades – either as a site of divisive politics or as a monument under grave environmental threat.

The storm unleashed by these two trajectories have given rise to a barrage of existential questions about the 17th-century architectural marvel – is the monument a tomb or a temple? Does it belong to the Sunni Waqf Board or the government? Does it represent India’s culture? Why is the Taj turning yellow? Why are brown and green spots appearing on the structure? Is the Taj likely to sink? For the first time in its history, the 400-year-old monument has been dragged to court over some of these questions.

While questions relating to the Taj’s origins and ownership are unlikely to subside as long as it remains a site of polarised politics, making it difficult to provide answers acceptable to all sides , the situation is not so bleak with regard to addressing questions regarding the environmental threat to the Taj, in the light of significant advances in science and technology and related conservations methods. At least one hopes so. And, it is also possible to prevent further damage to its structure, if not reverse the damage already done.

What is causing the discolouration of the marble?

The most visible sign of deterioration is the discolouration of the main tomb’s marble surface for which air pollution is offered as the cause. However, when it comes to pointing out the specific pollutants, the explanations have kept changing.

The idea that air pollution was a severe threat to the Taj first gained ground in the 1970s when the Indian Oil Corporation set up an oil refinery at Mathura, 40 kms from Agra. Environmental activists and conservationists argued that the marble surface of the monument was getting discoloured and corroded by the refinery’s sulphur dioxide emissions and the resultant acid rain. In 1982, the government of India declared the formation of the Taj Trapezium Zone (TTZ) – a trapezoid-shaped area of 10,400 sq km around the monument where setting up or expansion of polluting industries was prohibited.

In 1984, M.C. Mehta, a Supreme Court advocate and environmental activist, filed a public interest litigation (PIL) against the government for failing to protect the monument from airborne pollutants being released by industries and vehicles in the area around. Meanwhile, reports by various committees/agencies, such as the S. Varadarajan Committee (1978), the New Delhi-based Central Board for the Prevention and Control of Water Pollution (1981-1982) and the Nagpur-based National Environmental Engineering Research Institute (NEERI, 1990 and 1993), recommended, among other things, the reduction of sulphur emissions from the Mathura refinery, the use of natural gas as an alternative fuel, the setting up of a green belt and the shifting of polluting industries outside the TTZ.

In the 1990s, the debate on the locus of pollution shifted from the Mathura refinery and thermal plants to rest on the small-scale industries of Agra and Firozabad – foundries, glass units, ferro-alloy industries, as well as rubber processing, lime processing, engineering and brick factories.

Meanwhile, the Uttar Pradesh Pollution Control Board reported that the levels of suspended particulate matter (SPM), which had declined in the period 1991-1994 following the closure of coal-based industrial units and the shifting out of a thermal power plant, had begun to rise after 1994. According to the Board, this was owing to emissions from the Mathura Oil Refinery, increase in the number of vehicles, and the use of diesel-based generators during power cuts following the shifting out of the thermal power plant.

In 1996 came the landmark judgment of the Supreme Court of India. Responding to Mehta’s writ petition, the apex court banned the use of coal and coke in industries located within the TTZ and ordered a switch to clean compressed natural gas (CNG). Industries which failed to meet this criterion were to be relocated or shut down.

In 2010, a NEERI study pointed out that the Taj Mahal was once again becoming vulnerable to rising air and water pollution. This was despite an investment of Rs 220 crore in 1998 by the Central government to improve the environmental quality of the TTZ. In particular, the study found that the levels of nitrogen dioxide (NOX), which has the potential to discolour marble by acidic corrosion, had shown a declining trend till 2002 after which it started rising again, crossing the levels of 1996. NEERI attributed this to the rise in human and vehicular population.

In 2014-2015, a team of researchers from the Georgia Institute of Technology, University of Wisconsin and the Indian Institute of Technology, Kanpur, found that the burning of fossil fuels and biomass (like firewood and farm waste) releases black and brown carbon particles which, along with light-absorbing dust, are responsible for the discoloration of the surface of the monument.

In May 2018, taking strong note of the overall yellow hue of the marble and the black, brown and green patches on the monument, the Supreme Court pulled up the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) for failing to prevent its discolouration. One of the immediate responses of the Union Ministry of Culture was to declare that it would set up a committee to scientifically assess the original colour of the Taj. This is not going to be an easy task.

The Taj Mahal around evening: a luminous shade of gold and orange. Credit: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

What is the original colour of the marble used to build the Taj?

Most accounts of the monument talk about its aesthetics, architecture, beauty or symbolism. Very few have mentioned the colour of the marble. Lahauri, a historian at Shah Jahan’s court, gives a detailed account of the Taj complex on the occasion of its formal completion (1643, when the tomb and gardens were complete), on the 12th anniversary of Mumtaz Mahal’s death. He uses the expression “white marble” several times to describe the façade, platform and the dome. The British Viceroy, Lord Curzon, who first saw the Taj in 1887, found it to be a “snow-white emanation starting from a bed of cypresses, and backed by a turquoise sky…”

According to historical sources, the marble (sang-e-marmar) that was used for the construction of the Taj, was sourced from Makrana in Rajasthan. This marble is considered to be white (some say milky white) with grey or black streaks. Art historian Ebba Koch, who has authored The Complete Taj Mahal, says that due to its capacity to transmit and refract light, the white marble reacts differently to different atmospheric conditions at different times of the day. The Taj thus appears pinkish in the morning, dazzling white at noon, golden orange in the evenings and another kind of white at night. In his work, Marble in India, scholar Coggin Brown emphasises the point that white marble’s translucency makes it react very interestingly to atmospheric changes. Perhaps the Mughal poet Kalim also noticed it:

….Nay, not marble: because of its translucent colour (ab-u-rang)
The eye can mistake it for a cloud….

The whole idea of ‘white’ is relative in the case of the Taj. The colour of the marble varies according to the hour, day and season, and this phenomenon adds to the mystical aura of the monument. In any case, not only has the marble undergone a natural wear and tear process over four centuries; the climatic conditions too have changed.

Is the question about determining the original colour of the marble then the most relevant question to ask at a time when the monument is crying for attention? Apparently, there’s a plan to trace the original colour by comparing current photographs of the monument – once it has been cleaned, that is – with vintage images that are over 100 years old. How ‘original’ will that colour be, and at what time of the day? Say, the committee’s finding is accepted unanimously, but what of it? Will that offer any permanent solution or stop further degradation of the structure?

Is discolouration the only problem?

Predictably, the debate on the colour of the marble has once again sidelined the many real threats being faced by the Taj – what is the state of the sandstone which constitutes a large part of the monument complex? How is a polluted Yamuna affecting the monument? How and why are green spots appearing on the Taj? How is increasing tourist traffic impacting the complex?

The waning strength of sandstone and increasing footfalls

The façade of the Taj is not being affected by discolouration and corrosion of marble alone. “The condition of sandstone”, Koch points out, “has got less attention, though it is in a more precarious condition due to porosity.” Its surface is also getting flaked. In addition, there are related problems of slabs cracking and breaking. Even the walkways in the garden, terraces and buildings are getting affected because of the increasing tourist traffic.

That the Taj was always designed to attract tourists is evident by the fact that bazaars and caravan-sarai formed a part of the larger complex, says Koch. The idea was to finance the maintenance of the monument with the revenue accruing from the shops and from providing shelter for travellers and their animals.

Over the years, the number of visitors has increased manifold, making one wonder about ‘its carrying capacity’. On most weekdays, the Taj attracts over 10,000 visitors, with the number going up substantially over the weekends. During the peak tourist season, mostly between October and March, it receives over 60,000 visitors on certain days. According to the Ministry of Tourism, four to six million tourists visited the Taj Mahal every year between 2010 and 2015.

Linked to this is another issue, namely that many a tourist has an irresistible desire to touch the marble. Why just tourists, some guides unthinkingly do the same while explaining aspects of the monument to visitors. Moreover, in the age of digital photography and the selfie culture, a larger number of visitors are spending more time in the complex and giving way to the temptation to be tactile. The touch, often with moist or greasy hands, leaves marks on the monument which only aggressive cleaning substances can wipe off. In places, the ‘monument of love’ has been defaced by graffiti as well.

Further, the humidity caused by human presence in the inner chambers has led to the discolouration of their interiors. The ASI is now considering a move to restrict the number of tourists to 40,000 per day.

How important is the Yamuna to the Taj?

What is not so well-known is the fact that the Yamuna River forms an integral part of the architecture of the Taj and also of the total visual experience of the complex. A particular stretch of the river, where it bends sharply, was consciously chosen for the construction of the mausoleum. The idea, points out Koch, was to create an earthly replica of the house of Mumtaz Mahal in the gardens of paradise.

For that matter, even Humayun’s tomb was designed to be a paradise garden. However, in the case of the Taj, there was a significant design departure. Unlike the earlier imperial tomb gardens, where the tomb was placed at the centre of the char bagh (four-fold garden), the mausoleum at the Taj was placed at the end of the garden.

Garbage is seen on the polluted banks of the river Yamuna near the Taj Mahal. Credit: PTI

In her work Paradise as a Garden in Persia and Mughal India, art historian Elizabeth B. Moynihan points out that the tomb once stood between two char baghs separated by the Yamuna, the other garden being the present-day Mehtab Bagh located on the other side of the river. When viewed from the river-front pavilion on the opposite bank, the Taj gave the appearance of an ethereal tomb floating on sacred waters. The mausoleum and its image, Moynihan argues, united the two char baghs and symbolically stood at the centre of an ordered universe – the paradise ideal.

The setting up of the tomb complex on the Yamuna was a particularly complex exercise and for that, the sand on the river bank had to be stabilised. Koch draws attention to Kalim’s verse which offers a unique technical account in a lyrical manner – of foundation wells encased in wood and filled with rubble, mortar and iron. His account, she says, is also supported by excavations of the foundations of the Taj carried out in the 1950s.

Interestingly, a new debate has now surfaced regarding the foundations and structural stability of the monument. R. Nath, an expert on Mughal architecture, and some environmentalists have reportedly pointed out that the wood used in the foundation wells requires a constant flow of water to remain firm. When constantly moist, according to experts, the wood fibres retain their dimensional stability – that is, the ability to maintain their original dimensions when subjected to a change in humidity and temperature. However, seeing the constantly depleting water levels of the Yamuna, it is only a matter of time before the wood in the foundation wells starts to decay. The Taj, Nath says, therefore “has a natural tendency to slide or sink into the river.” It’s quite another matter that this aspect has never been systematically discussed or debated in the relevant circles.

In addition to depleting water levels, the Yamuna is beset by the massive problem of pollution. Archaeologists have recently pointed out that the green-black spots appearing on the marble surface of the Taj are due to the greenish-black excrement left behind by aquatic insects called Chironomus Calligraphus. These insects thrive on algae and increasing phosphorus levels in the river. More than 50 drains reportedly flow into the Yamuna, releasing vast quantities of sewage which is very conducive to the growth of algae. Garbage dumps along the banks of the river also add to the pollution.

The presence of phosphorus, on the other hand, is attributed to the ash released in the course of cremating bodies at funeral grounds near the monument. The burning of biomass at cremation grounds has also been linked to air pollution in the area (which, as studies have pointed out, contributes to the discolouration of the Taj). In addition, the washing of cattle in the river has been found to increase the pollution levels.

That is not all. Recent studies have shown that the burning of municipal solid waste (MSW) releases particulate matter in the atmosphere. Some of this unsegregated waste also finds its way to the river through the drains and sewers where it is dumped.

Has science failed us or have we failed science?

Clearly, the threats to the Taj are complex and multi-layered. However, the responses to these issues have been more than uneven. On the one hand, following the Supreme Court’s concern about the discolouration of the Taj, the culture ministry immediately announced its intention to set up a committee to debate the original colour of the monument.

On the other hand, there seems little evidence of a concerted attempt to analyse and correlate the arguments that have been advanced over the years to explain the discolouration of the marble or examine the other serious problems affecting the Taj. The explanations for the discolouration of the marble have shifted somewhat linearly over the years – in the 1980s the focus was on emissions from the Mathura Refinery, coal-based industries and thermal plants; in the late 1980s/early 1990s, the spotlight was on the pollution caused by small-scale industrial units in Agra and Firozabad; in the mid to late 1990s, attention shifted to emissions from diesel generators and vehicular pollution, followed by the degradation of the Yamuna, and the more recent explanation of dust and carbon particles.

Scaffolding around one of the minarets of the Taj Mahal. Credit: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

What are we to make of all these explorations? Do they indicate ad-hoc initiatives or a well-thought-out trajectory of attempting to neutralise one set of pollutants and at the same time being alive to the possibility of ever new variables triggered in the wake of the ongoing urban explosion? Some quarters have even questioned whether all the orders/directives issued by the Supreme Court for the protection of the monument have been duly implemented or not.

In the meantime, new debates have arisen. For instance, the loss of employment and displacement caused by the shifting out of industries has fuelled an issue of ‘man versus monument’ – some organisations and activists have asked if it was prudent to displace people without knowing for sure that pollution caused by those industries was the real cause of discolouration. Meanwhile, some sections of business interests and people affected by displacement have issued a call, Taj Hatao, Agra Bachao (remove the Taj, save Agra).

On the other hand, the ASI’s attempt to clean the monument, earlier with an ammonia-based chemical solution and distilled water, and chemical coatings, and later with repeated mud packs (using Bentonite clay or Fuller’s earth), has met with its share of criticism. Critics have argued that while the repeated cleaning of the monument takes away its shine, the scaffoldings erected to place mud packs on the marble runs the risk of causing structural damage. In fact, in an earlier study (1987), the National Research Laboratory for Conservation of Cultural Property, Lucknow, held an acrylic coating applied as a preservative by the ASI to be partly responsible for the marble’s discolouration.

Close-up of the scaffolding around one of the minarets of the Taj. Credit: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Most would agree that the problems affecting the Taj require interventions on multiple fronts – monument conservation; addressing the issue of a polluted Yamuna or industrial and vehicular pollution; planning for sewage treatment; creating a green cover; studying urban planning and land use patterns, the tourist traffic and the public water supply. This, in turn, requires multiple skills and levels of expertise.

There have been many actors, departments and ministries working on issues connected with the Taj – sometimes independently and sometimes within the same authority as in the case of the Taj Trapezium Zone Pollution (Prevention and Control) Authority. The TTZ case is very illuminating: while the TTZ was formed in 1982, the Authority was created only in 1999, beginning with eight members which went up to 18 in 2015. The composition of the Authority was impressive, boasting members from civil administration, the ASI, Central and State Pollution Control Boards, Agra Development Authority, the ministries of environment and forest, and petroleum and natural gas. There was just one problem – the Authority had no administrative set-up and mechanism, budget or support staff to implement its decisions.

This brings us to a fundamental question. Why does the Taj continue to be in such a sorry condition despite manifold efforts by different actors, departments and ministries? In 2015, this question bothered the Parliamentary Standing Committee exploring the problems affecting the Taj as well. In fact, experts are of the view that the absence of a long-term action plan with clearly-defined responsibilities and accountability for various participant actors is the crux of the problem. A nodal agency to spearhead and coordinate a multi-pronged intervention over a period of time, with clear powers and responsibilities, resources, mandate and accountability is certainly the need of the hour. Also, an agency which can clearly delineate potential threats to the monument; draw up a long-term action plan; assign specific roles and responsibilities; and periodically review the progress through ‘state of the monument’ reports, sourcing international expertise if required.

The critical question is this: who shall comprise that nodal agency – an agency which is able to see the importance of a holistic, sustainable and long-term approach to managing heritage rather than knocking at the doors of a burdened Supreme Court every time a similar issue crops up. To reduce a monumental marvel to a problem of monumental proportions – is that the only choice at hand?

Shashank Shekhar Sinha taught history in undergraduate colleges at the University of Delhi. He does independent research on tribes, gender, violence, culture and heritage.

How the Historic Pillar of Heliodorus Became Khamba Baba

The story of the Khamba Baba presents a fascinating account of the cultural anthropology of the site in Vidisha.

Some time ago, when I visited the Buddhist site of Sanchi in Madhya Pradesh, on an impulse I decided to travel to Vidisha, about 10 km away, to fulfil a childhood dream. I wanted to see the famous Pillar of Heliodorus (2nd century BCE), a name which inexplicably captured my imagination the very first time I heard it in school and saw its image in my textbook. Heliodorus was an ambassador of Antialkidas, the Greek king of Taxila (now in Pakistan), in the court of the local Shunga prince Bhagabhadra, in Vidisha.

On reaching Vidisha town, I made enquiries about the location of the pillar at the first market I happened to see. Some of the locals I asked seemed a bit unsure, others were plain perplexed. Finally, an old man asked me in a helpful tone, “You mean you want to see the Khamba Baba?” Since the word ‘khamba’ means pillar, I sensed that my Heliodorus Pillar and the old man’s Khamba Baba were one and the same. I followed the directions the old man happily gave me.

One moment you are walking down a congested lane near the northern banks of the Bes River, and then suddenly your range of vision clears – in an open area that has now been fenced in, is the pillar. Khamba Baba, as the over 2,000-year-old pillar is now locally known, is actually a major historical signpost: a witness to the development of India-Greek diplomatic relations; an indicator of the popularity of the cult of Vasudeva; a marker of the development of pillar architecture in India; and a pointer to flourishing trade in the peninsular region.

Vidisha was an ideal site for the pillar in more ways than one. It was a trade hub at the confluence of two important rivers, Bes and Betwa. The place was connected with routes to Pataliputra in the east, Mathura in the north and to the flourishing trade in the west coast. It was also the capital of the western dominions of the Shunga dynasty. The pillar is located next to a Vishnu shrine belonging to the late 3rd century BCE at a place formerly known as Besnagar. The inscription on the Pillar is therefore famously known as the Besnagar Inscription.

Some votive pillars were also found around the site, which, art historian Percy Brown argues, form the earliest known monuments of stone associated with the Hindu religion. They also reflected an understanding of the principles of design. The most important of these is the Pillar of Heliodorus. Historian Upinder Singh says that the Besnagar Inscription reveals “that the Shungas continued the Maurya tradition of entertaining ambassadors from the Greek court.” Interestingly, there are very few instances of the names of Shunga kings being recorded in inscriptions – the pillar inscriptions happen to belong to that select club. Pushyamitra Shunga, who founded the dynasty which replaced the Mauryas, is mentioned in several sources including the Puranas, the Divyavadana (a Sanskrit anthology of Buddhist stories), Tibetan Buddhist scholar Taranatha’s accounts and one brief inscription, while his successors Agnimitra and Vasumitra find mention in Kalidasa’s drama Malavikagnimitra. Otherwise, as historian A.L. Basham says, the Shungas mostly find mention in the jumbled list of kings in the Puranas.

The Archeological Survey of India plaque at the Pillar of Heliodorus. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Found in its original location, this free-standing votive pillar, measures around 6.5 metres above ground level. It consists of three parts − a faceted shaft, a bell-capital and an abacus which is now in a damaged state. At the base the shaft is octagonal; the middle part is 16-sided, and the top has 32 sides. It shows signs of ornamentation which acquired sophistication in later columns. Brown points out that the carvings on the pillar include festoon designs, a border showing pairs of geese and Hellenistic motifs such as bead-moulding and honeysuckle. He further says that the Besnagar Pillar marks a “definite departure in the treatment of the abacus, which now appears as a large square coffer between the capital and its superstructure.”

Two inscriptions have been found on the pillar. They are mostly in Prakrit and written in the Brahmi script. According to scholar Richard Saloman, the translated text of the first and the more famous inscription reads as follows:

“This Garuda-pillar of Vasudeva, the god of gods, was constructed here by Heliodora [Heliodorus], the Bhagavata, the son of Diya [Dion], of Takhkhashila [Taxila], the Greek ambassador who came from the Great King Amtalakita [Antialkidas] to king Kasiputra [Kashiputra] Bhagabhadra, the Savior, prospering in [his] fourteenth year.”

A very interesting feature of the inscription, as Singh says, is “that Heliodorus describes himself as a Bhagavata – that is, a worshipper of the god Vasudeva Krishna and that he set up this pillar in honour of this god.” The bird Garuda is regarded as the vehicle of Vishnu. The cult of Vasudeva Krishna had originated in the Mathura region and spread swiftly. There is epigraphic evidence indicating the prevalence of the cult, in some form or other, in present-day Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh and Maharashtra as well. Soon after, Vasudeva was identified with Vishnu, the benevolent Vedic god. Historian Suvira Jaiswal points out that the history of Vaishnavism involved the gradual coming together of the initially independent cults of deities such as Narayana, Vasudeva Krishna, Samkarshana Balaram and Shri Lakshmi. As the worship of Vishnu developed, it also incorporated the cult of the divine boar prevalent in the Malwa region and seen in its classic form at the Udayagiri Caves close to Vidisha.

The inscription also shows that the cult of Vasudeva Krishna was being patronised by the ruling classes and even foreigners − in this case, the Greeks too were adopting it. Not much information is available about the history of Greeks in India. What is known about them has been learnt mostly through their coins and the legends they bear. The Greeks were denoted by a generic name Yavanas which was possibly borrowed from Persia. In general, we hear about Greek influences on astrology, medicine and drama. One of the Greek kings of Punjab − Milinda or Menander − finds special mention in Buddhism as a patron of the philosopher-monk Nagasena. The Besnagar inscription, however, testifies that sometimes they were even willing to support orthodox sects. Conversely, it also shows how India’s orthodox sects were willing to accept converts.

The story of the discovery of the pillar and its inscriptions is very interesting. When the pillar was first discovered in 1877 by Alexander Cunningham (the first director general of the Archaeological Survey of India), the two inscriptions, on the lower part of the column did not get noticed because of the presence of a thick layer of vermilion smeared on it by the devotees of Khamba Baba. Archaeologist D. Bhandarkar discovered in the course of a visit to the site during 1914-1915 that the pillar had assumed religious significance from the early 19th century onwards when it was connected to the legend of an “original Baba” associated with a Saiva ascetic called Hirapuri.

As the pillar continued to attract explorers, archaeologists and other enthusiasts, around the beginning of the 20th century, H. Lake, an engineer with the Bhopal Princely State, noticed some lettering on the lower part of the column. Upon clearing the vermilion paste he discovered an important lithic record. Later, as scholars Jack Hebner and Steven Rosen point out, John H. Marshall and Lake jointly wrote about it in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society in 1909. Marshall argued that Cunningham was wrong in assuming that the pillar belonged to the Gupta period and that it was erected much earlier, in the 2nd century BCE. Hebner and Rosen underscore that the dating of the Pillar also set to rest speculations made by some Indologists like Max Weber and N. Macnicol who, based on similarities between the stories of Krishna and Christ, had argued that Vaishnavism was an off-shoot of Christianity. According to them, the pillar constituted “conclusive archaeological proof that Vaisnava tradition antedated Christianity by at least two hundred years.”

Decorative elements on the pillar. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

The story of the Khamba Baba also presents a fascinating account of the cultural anthropology of the site. Gerda Theuns-de Boer, affiliated to the Kern Institute in Leiden, drew upon photographic prints of the pillar available at the institute and in Bhandarkar’s archeological reports to write about the site’s ritual life. In his first report, Bhandarkar traced the beginnings of the cult to an intriguing story of the Saiva ascetic Hirapuri being visited by a person of high distinction. When the ascetic requested the visitor to stay with him permanently, the latter, enchanted by the request, readily agreed to do so – he converted himself into a pillar. Hence the name ‘Khamba Baba’ (literally the pillar saint).

Theuns-de Boer points out that Hirapuri was succeeded by Chandanpuri and then Pratap-puri Gosai, both of whom were pujaris (priests in charge of rituals and offerings) as opposed to their ascetic predecessor. Gosai, who lived on the site during Bhandarkar’s excavations, apparently claimed ownership of the pillar and the area around, saying it was an inam (reward) received from the Gwalior Durbar. Bhandarkar found that Khamba Baba was especially popular among the so-called lower castes, who apparently came to the Baba to seek blessings for the birth of a healthy son. The offerings to the Baba included a mix of red lead and oil, liquor, and, on special occasions, a ram.

The pillar continued to be worshipped in the 20th century as well. Theuns-de Boer points out that Bhandarkar had to clean the column again during his visit in 1914-1915, as is evident from one of the photos at the Kern Institute. Further, he also investigated the part of the pillar which was underground and its foundation by getting the original platform of the structure removed. The tree which grew from within this platform was also cut down. On the basis of another photograph in the institute’s collection, Theuns-de Boer indicates that a new platform was constructed for the pillar. It was like a new monument coming into being. Much later, another archaeologist M.D. Khare excavated the site around 1963-1965 and after demolishing and clearing the pujari’s house he discovered the foundations of an old Vishnu temple belonging to the late 3rd century BCE.

The pillar now falls under the list of protected monuments and the area has been cordoned off a bit. It stands tall and dignified, reminding visitors of the glorious history of the site, the message etched in the second inscription on the pillar adding to its majesty: “[These] three steps to immortality, when correctly followed, lead to Heaven; control, generosity and attention.”

However, among the local inhabitants, the pillar still continues to be popularly known as Khamba Baba, the favourite deity of the fishing communities of the region, especially the Bhois and Dhimars.

Both the Pillar of Heliodorus and the Khamba Baba continue to co-exist in a terrain of multiple narratives, as if knowing that there would always be takers for all its stories – some looking for homely vignettes of devotion, others nursing a lifetime’s fascination for the cadence of the name Heliodorus echoing through time.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha taught history in undergraduate colleges at the University of Delhi. He does independent research on tribes, gender, violence, culture and heritage.

The Lesser Known Journey of Buddhist Relics – from India to UK and Back

Archaeological exploits of the colonial government took Buddhist relics from the Sanchi and Satdhara stupas to museums in UK. These sacred remains of important Buddhist saints were returned after a prolonged battle.

The very mention of Sanchi, located about 50 kilometres from Bhopal, brings to mind a place where one can see the beginnings, efflorescence and decay of Buddhist art and architecture – from the 3rd century BCE to 12th century CE.

What is less known about Sanchi is the fact that it was also a site for an interesting and prolonged ‘battle of relics’ fought across continents. A number of relics and artefacts excavated by British archaeologists in India and elsewhere in the late 19th or early 20th century, eventually found their way to museums or personal collections in Britain. While some campaigns to get back Indian artefacts, such as the Amravati and Elgin Marbles, have received a great deal of publicity, other successful efforts, like the one to retrieve the Buddhist relics, stayed below the public radar.

The manner in which the relics and reliquaries of Buddhist saints Sariputta (Sariputra) and Moggallana (Maudagalayana) were discovered at the sites of Sanchi and Satdhara (about 10 km west of Sanchi) and eventually sold to the Victoria and Albert Museum (V & A Museum) in England the protracted agitation by the Maha Bodhi Society in England, Ceylon and India which succeeded in getting them back from England; and the way in which the relics were taken on a tour of Asia before getting re-enshrined at Sanchi in 1952, makes for a fascinating story. More so because it highlights the interplay of several significant trajectories – colonial archaeology’s project of creating and museumising a ‘historical’ Buddha by excavating sites connected to the life of Buddha, the rise of subcontinental Buddhist nationalism, and the nation-building project.

The place of relics in Buddhism

Here it is necessary to delve into some significant questions – how are relics venerated in Buddhism? Why are relics of these two saints considered important? How did their relics find their way to Sanchi and Satdhara and then later to the United Kingdom?

Art historian Vidya Dehejia is of the view that in contrast to Christianity, the Buddha’s relics are not intended for public viewing. They are interned in a stupa and devotees visit the stupas to “experience proximity to the Buddha”. The relics are believed to contain Buddha’s living essence. They “are thought to retain and be infused with the quality that animated and defined the living Buddha.”

Sariputta and Moggallana were Brahmanas and were regarded as Buddha’s most favourite disciples after Ananda. Both had died near Rajagriha (present-day Rajgir in Bihar) and their remains had been interned in stupas built in the region. Historian Torkel Brekke says that the return of their relics was treated as an occasion as important as the homecoming of the remains of the Buddha himself.

Unravelling the journey

Alexander Cunningham, the first Director General of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), mentions that the two celebrated Chinese pilgrims, Fa-Hien (399-411 CE) and Hieun-Tsang (also Xuan zang or Hsuan Tsang, 629-41 CE), who had come to India to visit the sacred sites related to the Buddha had reported that the relics of these two saints were also enshrined in a stupa in Mathura. Cunningham believed that these relics were as widely scattered as those of the Buddha himself and were distributed and enshrined in other stupas as well.

Two things become clear here – by the time Stupa 3 at Sanchi was constructed (around 2nd century BCE), relic worship had become very prevalent in Buddhism and relics other than those of the Buddha were also being worshipped. What is not clear is how the relics in question reached Sanchi. Basing himself on the Buddhist source Asokavadana, Cunningham argued that the Mauryan emperor Ashoka had opened up the original eight stupas constructed immediately after the death of the Buddha and redistributed the relics between the several thousand stupas he built across the subcontinent. In the process, some may have reached Sanchi.

How the relics reached England

In 1849, Captain Fred C Maisey and Alexander Cunningham were employed by the Government of India to prepare illustrated reports on the stupas of Sanchi. In 1851, they excavated Stupas 2 and 3 and found relic caskets of Sariputta and Moggallana in Stupa 3. The caskets, made of steatite, were placed in two stone boxes, each containing a small bone fragment, a garnet bead, lapis lazuli, crystal bead, and pearls. In addition, Sariputta’s casket contained two pieces of sandalwood, presumably from his funeral pyre. A similar set of relics of the two saints was found enshrined in Stupa 2 at Satdhara as well.

Chetiyagiri Vihara, Sanchi, where the relics of the two Budhhist saints, Sariputta and Moggallana, were finally re-enshrined. The vihara is managed by the Maha Bodhi Society of Sri Lanka. Credit: Shashank Sinha

According to historian and Indologist Michael Willis, Cunningham and Maisey divided up the finds according to their tastes— while the former preferred the relics with inscriptions that were of archaeological interest, the latter took the pieces which were of greater artistic value. Cunningham transported his reliquaries to England on two ships, one of which reportedly sank near Jaffna. Maisey made separate arrangements for the reliquaries in his possession to be shipped to England.

There is a debate among scholars on whether the reliquaries of the two Buddhist saints which were returned to Maha Bodhi Society and re-enshrined at Sanchi had been discovered there or at Satdhara. Some scholars believe that the reliquaries taken from Sanchi had gone to Cunningham, which means they sank along with the ship that was carrying them. Art historian Gary Tartakov and Willis have argued that the relics that were eventually returned to India by the V & A Museum were those taken from Stupa 2 at Satdhara.

However, based on records related to filing and documentation of the concerned relics at the museum and Cunningham’s correspondence with the Sinhalese monk Subhuti (1835-1917), Brekke argues that the relics brought back to Sanchi had neither formed a part of Cunningham’s collection nor were found at Satdhara. According to him they were part of Maisey’s collection from Sanchi which were initially lent to the South Kensington Museum in 1866 (it became the V & A Museum in 1899), with his son’s niece, Dorothy Saward, selling the reliquaries to the V & A Museum for 250 pounds in 1921.

The battle for the relics

On April 17, 1932, on behalf of the Buddhist Mission (the British Maha Bodhi Society) one G.A. Dempster wrote to the director of the Indian Museum (the Indian section of South Kensington Museum which officially opened in 1880 and was popularly referred to as Indian Museum till 1945). He requested the museum to hand the ashes of Buddha’s most famous disciples to the custody of the Mulagandha Kuti Vihara established in Sarnath, near Banaras. Brekke says he was evidently inspired by the recent news of the return of the Buddha’s relics to India which had been re-enshrined in a purpose-built edifice in Sarnath.

Dempster was informed that the Board of Education was unable to authorise the V & A Museum to comply with the request. On October 18,1932, E.W. Adikaram, honorary secretary of the Buddhist Mission, approached the V & A Museum to allow the Buddhists to worship the relics on the 2476th death anniversary of Sariputta, falling on November 13, 1932. He requested that the relics be sent to the Buddhist Mission headquarters for a few hours on the designated day. The museum authorities acceded to the request on the condition that the relics be venerated at the Indian Museum itself.

After a seven year-gap, in 1938, the V & A Museum received a request from a British Buddhist named Frank R Mellor, requesting the museum to set up a seat in front of the relics for the Buddhists to worship. When his request was denied, Mellor, who became a “headache” for the museum authorities, followed up with a flurry of letters demanding that the relics be handed over the to the Buddhists. Archaeologist and historian Himanshu Prabha Ray points out that in March 1939, the trustees of the Shwedagon Pagoda in Burma also lodged a strong protest with the British government for allowing the relics to be exhibited in a museum rather than enshrining them in a pagoda. There were similar representations from other British Buddhists. Soon the issue started attracting media attention.

In 1939, the museum received a letter from the India Office which, in turn, had received a letter from the Government of India, inquiring about the possession of such relics and the possibility of their return to the Maha Bodhi Society. The letter enclosed a resolution unanimously passed by the Buddha Society of Bombay, appealing for the return of the relics to the Maha Bodhi Society of Calcutta (now Kolkata). With this letter, Brekke argues, the case assumed a new level of significance as the Government of India spoke on behalf of the Indian Buddhists; the English Buddhists got sidelined.

The issue regained momentum after the Second World War. On February 20, 1947, the relics were handed over to the Maha Bodhi Society representative, Daya Hewavitarne, by the Secretary of State for India. They were carried to Ceylon where they received a regal reception and were put on public display for two years. Soon it came to light that the relics that had been handed over were actually plaster casts of the original caskets. In June 1948, India’s high commissioner to Britain wrote to the under-secretary of state of the Commonwealth Relations Office, asking for the return of the original caskets containing the sacred relics of the two saints. On October 8, 1948, Sir D N Mitra, the high commissioner’s legal advisor, received the original caskets on behalf of the Government of India. The relics were sent to Ceylon and from there to India to be presented to the Maha Bodhi Society.

The act of wresting the relics from Britain, Brekke argues, represented “a mix of religious piety and a strong desire for international recognition for the case of Buddhist revival in Asia” from the end of 19th century. It also generated a struggle for power and authority in the interface between British archaeology and Buddhist religious revival—a struggle between British administrators, collectors and museum authorities, and Buddhist leaders.

Journey of the relics in the subcontinent

The Prime Minister of Ceylon handed over the relics to India’s high commissioner in Colombo on January 6, 1949. Within a week’s time they were received on the naval vessel HMIS Tir by the Governor of Bengal, K N Katju. The occasion was marked by the paraphernalia of a state ceremony including a procession, guard of honour, cultural performances and a 19-gun salute. The relics were installed on a temporary altar at the Government House in Calcutta and the prime minister of newly-independent India, Jawaharlal Nehru, unveiled them before a gathering of diplomats, monks and senior politicians.

The following day, a grand reception ceremony was held at the Calcutta Maidan during which Nehru handed over the sacred relics to Shyama Prasad Mookherjee, president of the Maha Bodhi Society. In an evocative speech, Nehru highlighted the message of peace and goodwill and ahimsa preached by the Buddha and Gandhi. Brekke argues that the relics of the two saints “were used by the governments in both Ceylon and India to legitimate [legitimise] state power”. Further, “Nehru used the Buddhist relics in his programme of secular, multi-religious nation-building from Independence in 1947.”

On the other hand, scholars like Philip C Almond and Ray point out that Brekke misses the core issue of the involvement of the colonial state and the ASI in its project of creating a ‘historical’ Buddha. This project was further legitimised through the archaeological excavations relating to the time of Mauryan ruler Ashoka who played an important part in the spread of Buddhism and is credited with the distribution of Buddha’s relics among 84000 stupas. Ray argues that in the search for relics and statuary, Cunningham and the ASI “filled museums with collections of sculptures and coins, but left the stupas as heaps of rubble”.

After being displayed in Calcutta, the relics were taken on a tour of South and Southeast Asia– Ladakh, Orissa, Bihar, Assam, Sikkim, Tibet, Nepal, Burma and Cambodia. They were brought back to Calcutta on March 22, 1951 from where the relics were taken by a special train for a tour of several parts of the country. In November 1952, the relics were finally re-enshrined at a special vihara built for the purpose.Every year in November, a special fair is held at the spot where the relics are displayed. And, as the journey of the relics of Sariputta and Moggallana is relived, it offers yet another opportunity to understand the making of such stories against the backdrop of constantly evolving junctures.

Shashank Sinha taught history in undergraduate colleges at the University of Delhi. He does independent research on tribes, gender violence, culture and heritage.

The Taj Chronicles: Tracing Attempts to Appropriate Its History

Amidst the current controversy of an ideological narrative that views the Taj Mahal as a site of contestation, Yogi Adityanath visited it on October 26. The monument’s history is full of fascinating attempts to appropriate its aura, be it in politics or popular culture.

Amidst the current controversy of an ideological narrative that views the Taj Mahal as a site of contestation, Yogi Adityanath visited it on October 26. The monument’s history is full of fascinating attempts to appropriate its aura, be it in politics or popular culture.

In the last few decades, the monument has become a site of political contestation and debate. Credit: Reuters

Variously described as the ‘grandest monument of love’ and ‘a tear on the face of eternity’, the Taj Mahal is undoubtedly one of the most emblematic and iconic visual representations of India. This World Heritage Site, which is regarded as the finest specimen of Indo-Islamic architecture, is also one of the most visited tourist destinations in the country.

In the last few decades, the monument has become a site of political contestation and debate. And, particularly in the last few months, it has become a battleground for divisive politics, branded as a ‘blot’ on Indian culture by a representative of the political party that rules the state of Uttar Pradesh where the monument is located. In more than 350 years of the ups and downs of history that the Taj has been witness to, this is a first.

Until now, i.e., from the time of the construction of the Taj (built between 1631-1648), there have been attempts galore to lay claim to the aura of aesthetic and architectural heights that the monument commands. For the first time now we are witnessing efforts to repudiate that idea and brand the monument as a stigma.

Shah Jahan, Taj and the West

Chroniclers of the Mughal period, on the other hand, credit the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan with the design of the complex. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

From the time the Taj was unveiled before the world, there were all manner of efforts to appropriate the accomplishment it exemplified. One of the first salvoes came from the West. Foreign travelers to India suggested that such a grand architectural marvel could not have been accomplished without the involvement of a western/foreign architect. Sebastian Manrique, who visited Agra in 1640-1641, gave credit to the Italian jeweller and designer Geronimo Veroneo, while William Sleeman, who visited India in 1810,was partial towards the Frenchman, Austin de Bordeaux.

This trend continued well into the 19th century and modern times as well. Scholars like W. E. Begley and Z. A. Desai point out that the 19th century manuscript, Tarikh-i Taj Mahal, regards Isa Muhammad Effendi of Turkey as the architect of the monument. Some modern historians also ascribe to this theory of ‘European involvement’ in some form or other.

Chroniclers of the Mughal period, on the other hand, credit the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan with the design of the complex. Based on a reading of Mughal sources, most historians of that period, as well as now, suggest that Shah Jahan (regnal years 1628-1658) himself designed the concept plan, which was executed to the last detail by a collective of architects including Ahmad Lahori, Mir Abdul Karim, Ustad Hamid and Maulana Murshid of Shiraz. This happens to be the most commonly-accepted academic view today.

Some modern scholars have added a new layer of complexity to the history of the monument by arguing that Shah Jahan built the mausoleum not just as a commemoration of the memory of his wife, Mumtaz Mahal but also as a reflection of his power and glory. D. Brandenburg argues that the placement of the char bagh (four-fold garden) at the head of the mausoleum was part of a particular cosmological diagram where the Taj represented the ‘Throne of God’. In a similar vein, Begley propounds that the mausoleum was meant to exemplify the perfection and authority of Mughal leadership. He saw the ‘Garden of Paradise’ as setting the location of the ‘Throne of God’ on Judgement Day.

British rule, Lord Curzon and the politicisation of the Taj

After Shah Jahan’s death, the Taj gradually faded from Mughal history. Scattered evidence points to some repairs under the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb and to the fact that it was raided by many, including the Sayyid Brothers in 1719, the Jats in 1761 and the British and others during the 1857 Rebellion. The Sayyid Brothers are supposed to have taken away imperial treasures, among them a pearl chadar (sheet) which originally covered the cenotaph of Mumtaz Mahal, while the Jats are believed to have taken away the doors. In various raids before and during the 1857 Rebellion, the Taj was also robbed of many precious and semi-precious stones that once adorned the surface.

The monument regained prominence once again during the colonial period. The East Indian Company gained control of north India towards the last quarter of the 18th century. In 1803, Lord Lake took control of Agra after the Second Maratha War. With the British gaining political ascendancy, Western travellers, artists and officials started visiting theTaj. The monument sometimes functioned as a guesthouse for visitors or served to entertain ‘British ladies and gentlemen’. While important guests would occupy the Mihmankhana (guest house) on one side of the Taj, or tents pitched in the gardens, the soldiers or attendants would stay in the Jilaukhana (forecourt). Gradually, the Taj started featuring in ’Company drawings’ or ‘Company paintings’ and in Orientalist depictions of India.

Also read: The Uneasiness of Self-Appointed Messiahs With Historical Facts

With the British also came the idea of repair, restoration and conservation – efforts which became more systematic after the formation of the Archeological Survey of India (ASI) in 1860-1861. However, the formal monumentalisation of the Taj, as Hilal Ahmed, a scholar who has worked on the politics of monuments, points out, began in the early 20th century, particularly under Lord Curzon. Unlike his predecessors, who were obsessed with the mausoleum, Curzon focused on the entire complex including the gardens and the outer courts.

A massive restoration project was undertaken, which Ahmed underscores, tried to:

Accommodate Indian feelings and perceptions – permissions were granted to the local community to use the mosque and tomb space for religious/ceremonial purposes; a particular kind of ‘Mughal’ dress [white suitswith a green scarf and a badge] was given to the attendants of the ASI at the Taj; and a decorated lamp [Saracenic style Mamluk lamp procured from Egypt] was installed inside the main chamber of the tomb in order to show the intrinsic link between [the] Mughal past and the British present.

Curzon’s correspondence and speeches, Ahmed argues, seem to suggest that the Taj was symbolically employed to show a historical continuityunder British rule. The monument was also invoked “to demonstrate the achievements of his administration in India.”

From the time of the construction of the Taj (built between 1631-1648), there have been attempts galore to lay claim to the aura of aesthetic and architectural heights that the monument commands. Credit: Flickr Commons

Nation-building, business and popular culture

This colonial politicisation of the Taj, Ahmed says, was opposed by nationalist leaders, particularly Jawaharlal Nehru, independent India’s first prime minister. For him, Indo-Islamic sites, especially the Taj Mahal, were “a symbol of India’s composite culture” and he “worked hard to translate this interpretation of India’s past into a serious policy discourse.” Accordingly, the Taj Mahal was “declared a monument of national importance” and “publicised as an official symbol of India’s contribution to world heritage.” Ahmed argues that this “official portrayal of the Taj purely as a ‘heritage site’ and/or a symbol of ‘eternal love’ got established as the most reliable and uncontested meaning of this building in later years.”

The influence of the Taj Mahal went beyond the official discourse. As art historian Ebba Koch points out, it has been used as a metaphor for excellence and deployed in advertisements to sell products least connected to its reality of being a tomb – from jewellery, teabags, Scotch whisky and liqueur to beer. Whether it is the Tata Group of hotels in Delhi and Mumbai or Trump’s Taj Mahal (his casino resort in Atlantic City, New Jersey which closed in 2016), in taking the name of the monument they were basking in the glory of the monument as a symbol of grandeur. Numerous restaurants across the world append Taj to their names to showcase their association with India. Besides, models of the Taj Mahal comprise among the most popular souvenirs of India alongside marble plates, boxes and table tops carrying the monument’s characteristic peitradura design (inlaying of marble with precious and semi-precious stones).

Koch also draws attention to instances of the world of music being influenced by the Taj – the rock-blues singer from Massachusetts, Henry Saint Clair Fredericks, adopted ‘Taj Mahal’ as his stage name. ‘Inside the Taj Mahal’, Paul Horn’s flute session recorded in 1968, became very popular as a work of new age music and sold more than a million copies. In 1997, Greek singer Yanni staged a concert within the Taj premises despite strong opposition from the heritage enthusiasts. It received worldwide attention.

In 1997, Greek singer Yanni staged a concert within the Taj premises. Credit: Youtube

The monument is a staple presence in Bollywood films and songs, popular histories and tour guides’ narratives. Almost every tourist guide narrates with relish the story of how the architects and workers who built the Taj were killed (other versions say Shah Jahan chopped off their thumbs or had their eyes pulled out or had them thrown into the dungeons of Agra Fort) so that they could not replicate the Taj. Some say he signed a contract with them that they would not build another structure of its kind. Another very popular story, first floated by Jean Baptiste Tavernier during his visit to Agra in 1665, deals with Shah Jahan’s project of a ‘Black Taj’to be built on the other side of the Yamuna in Mahtab Bagh, but his sons opposed the plan and Aurangzeb finally abandoned it. None of these tales are backed by credible historical evidence but, over a period of time, they have become an integral part of the popular history and atmospherics of the site.

Communities, parties and governments

In straight contrast to the ubiquitous presence of the Taj as an enduring popular icon, is the manner in which the monument has been sought to be projected in the public domain through the tomb-temple conflict. This conflict derives much of its intellectual substance from P. N. Oak’s thesis. Founder of the Institute for Rewriting Indian History in 1964, he floated the theory that the Taj Mahal was originally a Shiva temple. His book Taj Mahal: The True Story claimed that the monument’s current name was a corrupt form of the Sanskrit term Tejo Mahalaya.

This idea caught on with some right-wing politicians who claimed it was a Hindu temple; some asserted that Shah Jahan purchased a part of temple’s land from Raja Jai Singh. The controversy gained a lot of ground in Uttar Pradesh (UP) where the Taj is located. In June 2005, the Uttar Pradesh Sunni Waqf Board declared that the monument was a waqf (endowment) property and demanded that it should be given back to the board for protection, conservation and management.

Such contestations have become chronic in recent times. In June 2014, the then minister for Urban Development and Minority Affairs in UP, which had a Samajwadi Party government, demanded that the monument should be handed over to the Sunni Waqf Board since it was a mausoleum of two Muslims – Mughal emperor Shah Jahan and his wife. In April 2015, a law suit was filed by six lawyers in the Agra Civil Court claiming Taj was a Shiva temple called Tejo Mahalaya. This claim was contested both by the Union culture ministry and the ASI. The former clarified in the Lok Sabha (in November 2015) that there was no evidence to suggest that Taj Mahal was a Hindu temple of Shiva, while the latter, in a written reply to the court in August 2017, categorically stated that the monument was a tomb and not a temple.

Recent months have witnessed a slew of pronouncements and claims that are disturbing for the manner in which they seek to repudiate the very idea of the Taj. In June 2017, the chief minister of the newly-elected Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) government in UP created a controversy by stating, “Earlier when foreign dignitaries visited the country they were gifted replicas of Agra’s Taj Mahal or some minar with which Indian culture has nothing in common.”

UP chief minister Yogi Adityanath at the Taj Mahal. Credit: Twitter/Yogi Adityanath

Earlier this month, the Taj was taken off the state government’s booklet promoting tourist destinations in UP. Further, BJP legislator from UP, Sangeet Som, claimed that the Taj was built by ‘traitors’ and was a ‘blot on Indian culture’, while Haryana Minister Anil Vij described the monument as a ‘beautiful graveyard’.

The uproar over these comments forced both the UP and Central government to get into damage control mode. The UP chief minister hailed the Taj Mahal as the ‘pride of India’ saying that the “sweat and blood of Indian labourers” had gone into its making. The prime minister of India also made a statement that the Taj was a part of India’s cultural heritage and Indians were proud of it.

Meanwhile, in Kerala, which is ruled by the Left front, Kerala Tourism’s official handle recently tweeted: ‘God’s own country salutes the Taj Mahal for inspiring millions to discover India’. It does not seem likely that the arguments and counter-arguments will end anytime soon.

However, the Taj has a historical resilience which has enabled it to transcend individuals, dynasties, communities and perhaps even the nation. While India debates the place of the Taj Mahal in the country’s cultural heritage and history, it is being embraced wholeheartedly by the global community. Replicas of the monument have been made in places such as China, Bangladesh, Malayasia, United Arab Emirates and even New Jersey. Moreover, the Taj has already made its way into the official list of the ‘New Seven Wonders of the World’, on the strength of more than 100 million votes, as an exemplar of global heritage throughout history. In a world going through intense churn, what better way to deal with prejudice and rancour than with a monumental ode to love.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha has taught history in undergraduate colleges at the University of Delhi. He does independent research on tribes, gender, violence, culture and heritage.

Lutyens and Baker: A Friendship That Faltered on Raisina Hill

The long-standing friendship between Edwin Lutyens and Herbert Baker turned sour during the course of building of the Rashtrapati Bhavan and the North and South Blocks, which affected the way the ‘power corridor’ ultimately shaped up.

The long-standing friendship between Edwin Lutyens and Herbert Baker turned sour during the course of building of the Rashtrapati Bhavan and the North and South Blocks, which affected the way the ‘power corridor’ ultimately shaped up.

Underlining the tale of designing and construction of New Delhi’s crown jewels is a story of a long-standing friendship turning sour. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

The buildings along India’s ‘power corridor’ – Raisina Hill – are among the finest specimens of colonial architecture in the subcontinent as well as one of the most visible legacies of British rule in the region. The names of Edwin Lutyens, architect and designer of the imperial capital of Delhi, and leading architect Herbert Baker are indelibly linked with the construction of the crown jewels of New Delhi – the Viceroy’s House (now Rashtrapati Bhavan) and the twin secretariat buildings (now the North and South Blocks).

The making of the new imperial capital was a complicated affair complete with marathon debates and discussions, bureaucratic hassles, power struggles, personality and ego clashes and cost and time overruns. Underlining this complex tale is an intriguing story of a long-standing friendship between Lutyens and Baker turning sour, which affected the way the ‘power corridor’ ultimately shaped up.

It was at the Coronation Durbar of 1911 that the British monarch George V announced the transfer of the seat of government from Calcutta to Delhi. A town planning committee was formed immediately with Lutyens, John A. Broodie (an engineer) and S. C. Swinton (municipal issues expert) and members. Reversing an earlier decision to build the colonial capital in the area north of the 17th century Mughal city of Shahjahanabad, they chose a rocky outcrop called Raisina Hill as the new site.

Old friends become colleagues

Once Lutyens (1869-1944) won the contract for designing the new capital, Sir Thomas Holderness, the permanent secretary at the India office, persuaded him to share the commission with Baker (1862-1946). Lutyens was more than happy to bring on board an old architect friend. They had first met each other at the office of Ernest George and Peto in London where Lutyens worked as an apprentice and Baker as a draughtsman. The two had gradually become friends and kept in touch through letters even when they moved to different professional locations.

Herbert Baker. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Baker arrived in India in February 1913. According to the agreement signed between His Majesty’s Government and the two architects, Lutyens would design the Government House (later called the Viceroy’s House) and the overall layout of the city and Baker would take care of the twin secretariat buildings. The two architects were to be paid a fee of 5% of the total cost of the project and a body called the Imperial Delhi Committee was set up to collaborate with them. The two architects, based in different locations – Lutyens in London and Baker in South Africa – were required to visit Delhi at least once a year for the period deemed necessary by the committee.

The two old friends, now colleagues, brought together different experiences, perspectives and skill sets. While Lutyens had designed private and country homes in England, Baker had worked on a wide range of buildings in South Africa, Australia, France, Belgium and England. They were, however, strongly united in their assertion that classical architecture was far superior to Indian architecture.

Edwin Lutyens. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Lutyens was known for his uncompromising adherence to European classicism. To him, as historian Thomas R. Metcalf points out, the line of descent of architecture was straight and clear – emerging from the Greeks to the Romans to the Italians to the French to the English via the acclaimed architect Christopher Wren. Lutyens regarded Indian architectural interventions as mere ‘spurts by various mushroom dynasties with as much intellect as there is in any art nouveau’. Indian buildings, according to him, reflected a childish ignorance of even the basic principle of architecture. He also firmly believed that in countries outside of Europe ‘without a great architectural tradition of their own, it was even more essential to adhere strictly to the canons of the architectural style’.

Baker too felt that Indian architecture did not have the ‘constructive and geometric quality necessary to embody the idea of law and order which had been produced out of chaos by the British administration’. However, as Metcalf points out, Baker was of the view that the design was neither going to be Indian or Roman or English but purely imperial – ‘The new capital must be the sculptural monument of the good government and unity which India, for the first time in history, has enjoyed under British rule.’ Further, ‘British rule in India was not a mere veneer of government and culture. It is a new civilisation in growth, a blend of best elements of East and West. The new city had to embody this synthesis in its style and layout.’

The then viceroy, Lord Hardinge, played an influential role in the planning of the new capital. He finally decided upon western-style classical architecture with details being filled up by Indian motifs. Lutyens and Baker found sufficient common ground to create a harmonious set of buildings on the Raisina Hill.

Differences in architectural styles

The difference in their respective architectural perceptions manifested in the buildings they designed individually. Baker’s twin secretariat buildings combine European-style columns and Renaissance-like dome with Indian architectural elements like the use of red sandstone, jalis (perforated screens), chajja (eaves), chhatris (canopies) carved brackets as well as elephant-heads on pillar capitals.

Lutyens’s Viceroy House, on the other hand, looks more classical with not so much of a conscious blending of the West and the East. He was perhaps more keen on creating a new architectural form. The great dome at the Viceroy House came in for particular praise from Robert Byron for its ‘individuality, its difference from every dome since the Pantheon’.

Their differences came out in the open on several occasions. One such project was the council house (now parliament house). It was originally meant to be located within the Viceroy’s House but for the Montagu-Chelmsford reforms (1919) which expanded the representative machinery and created the need for a new building.

Baker’s first plan was to have an equilateral triangle with three sides housing the three chambers – the Council of State (now Rajya Sabha), the legislative assembly (now Lok Sabha) and the Chamber of Princes – linked to a central imposing dome. Lutyens, however, insisted on a ‘circular Colosseum design’. Baker later admitted to being ‘declared out’ and reduced the grandeur scale and proportions of the building.

Rashtrapati Bhavan. Credit: rashtrapatisachivalaya.gov.in

Lutyens and Baker also differed on the location of the Columns of the Dominion of the Empire presented by the Commonwealth countries including Canada, South Africa, New Zealand and Australia. Lutyens wrote: ‘Baker has collated the emblems of the Colonies for his babu court [area in front of the secretariat buildings] instead of my Great Place [Vijay Chowk].’

Fault line in friendship begins to emerge

One place where their differing perspectives took an ugly turn was the location of the secretariat buildings vis-à-vis the Government House. By the time Baker had arrived, several key decisions regarding the new capital had already been taken – the focus of the plan was to be Viceroy’s House on its citadel at Raisina Hill. The hill was seen as an Indian acropolis with Viceroys’s House as the Parthenon. Baker agreed with the idea of an acropolis capital which was congruent with his classical sentiments.

However, he insisted on one major alteration, namely that the secretariats be moved up on to the acropolis with the Viceroy’s House. It should form ‘one high platform expressing the importance of the unity of the viceroy with his government’, he said.

Vijay Chowk with North and South Block in the backdrop. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

What implications would this have for the overall layout of the capital? First, it meant that the Viceroy’s House had to be pushed further back and away from the top of the Raisina Hill. Lutyens agreed though it entailed additional costs in clearing and flattening a larger area to accommodate the twin buildings. Second, the gradient leading up to the hill had to be gentle to give a harmonious and balanced effect to the altered architectural scheme.

However, Baker, who oversaw the construction of the slope, allowed for too steep a gradient. This created a situation which Lutyens later described as his ‘Bakerloo’. As one looks at the Raisina Hill buildings from Vijay Chowk, the Viceroy’s House disappears and only its dome is visible. Lutyens had always wanted it to stand on top of the hill so that it could dominate an otherwise flat landscape. However, Baker’s twin buildings, originally meant to stand at a slightly lower level, got in the way.

As one looks at the Raisina Hill buildings from Vijay Chowk, the Viceroy’s House disappears and only its dome is visible.

Lutyens had seen the perspective plan of the buildings earlier but had failed to take adequate notice of the gradient. When he discovered it finally, it was perhaps too late. Lutyens wrote to his wife Emily: ‘I am having difficulty with Baker. You remember the perspective showing the secretariats with Government House. Well, he has designed his levels so that you will never see Government House at all from the Great Place. You will [only] see the top of the dome.’

Loss of ‘trust and confidence’

Expressing his helplessness at the issue, Lutyens targeted Baker directly in a letter dated July 4, 1922: ‘….I realise that the present financial crisis in India makes it impossible to reopen a question which involves spending of some thousands of pounds in repairing a mistake. But this in no way alters my opinion that a colossal artistic blunder has been made, and future generations will, I am convinced, recognise this and condemn its perpetrator.’

Further in the letter, he says: ‘I used to count you as one of my best friends and a man I held in great affection, but I cannot help feeling that a great deal of my work in Delhi has been wasted and spoilt because I trusted to your loyal cooperation; and that this trust has been misplaced.’

He concludes the letter saying: ‘We have to continue to work together, and I am willing to do my best’ and then quoting Robert Browning he says: ‘but where trust and confidence has once been lost, it can never be glad confident morning again.’

In a reply dated July 14, 1922, Baker accused Lutyens of reopening a ‘closed controversy’ and ‘flogging a dead horse’. He wrote: ‘… [I]f, as you say, there has been a “colossal artistic blunder”, it is one for which you must share the responsibility.’ He reminds Lutyens about how the plans and general features had emerged out of a joint initial conception accepted by the viceroy and his government. He also talks about ‘Lord Hardinge’s judgment at a later date on your appeal to change the design of the Processional Way [Raj Path].’

Lutyens tried very hard to get this remedied but could not succeed. The capital was inaugurated in 1931 amidst lot of pomp and show. It was finally built at the cost of Rs 13 crore as opposed to the original budget of Rs 9 crore. It was only much later in 1944, when Lutyens died, that Baker admitted to a fault line in his friendship and ascribed it to their different perspectives of art.

In an obituary published in The Times (London), he talked about ‘a friendship which survived the sunshine and storms of a long association’. He wrote: ‘But looking after these many years – and the capital buildings of Delhi stand united in conception together, and are, I think I may say, acclaimed by all – I can see more clearly that our personal differences had their roots in our natures and outlook on our art. He [Lutyens] concentrated his extraordinary powers and immense industry on the abstract and intellectual values to the sacrifice sometimes, I considered, of human and national sentiment and its expression in our buildings. Is it not a natural difference of outlook and one which is inherent in an eternal conflicting dualism in all the arts?’

The Raisina Hill buildings continue to attract thousands of visitors from across the world for the sense of grandeur they project. To those in the know, Lutyens’s ‘Bakerloo’ is not only a reminder of a friendship that soured during the designing of India’s power corridor but also a reflection on how grand designs of empire play out. For many who see Rashtrapati Bhavan in the here and now, its location may seem to embody its place in the working of the Indian republic.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha has taught history in undergraduate colleges at the University of Delhi. He does independent research on tribes, gender, violence, culture and heritage.

How Delhi’s First Friday Mosque Went From Being a ‘Sanctuary of Islam’ to the ‘Might of Islam’

While the Qutb Minar is celebrated as a historic and architectural icon, the Quwwat ul-Islam is seen as haunting evidence of destruction, trauma and fanaticism.

Pillars from former Hindu and Jain temples which were re-used in the Qutb Mosque. The arrangement forms a good example of the pillar and beam construction. Credit: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Located within the Qutb complex on Delhi’s southern fringe is one of the most complex and controversial monuments of its kind, the Quwwat ul-Islam mosque. While its immediate neighbour, the Qutb Minar boasts of its towering presence, the mosque is infamously seen as a reminder of a violent and communal past. There is a remarkable contrast in the relative public positionings of the minar and the mosque. While the former is celebrated as a historic and architectural icon, the latter is seen as a haunting evidence of destruction, trauma and fanaticism. Guides escorting the visitors around the mosque take them on a graphic tour of the Muslim conquest of Hindustan and destruction of Hindu kingdoms and Hindu temples. Part of the mosque’s negative imagery is related to the complex circumstances under which it was constructed while the other part is connected to its nomenclature—the Quwwat ul-Islam or ‘Might of Islam’ as the mosque is officially known. The most controversial part of this structure is the foundational inscription placed on the eastern gate which now forms the main public entrance. Attributed to Qutbuddin Aibek, it says that 27 Hindu and Jain temples were destroyed to build the congregational mosque.

Masid-i Jami or the Qutb Mosque, which is incorrectly known as the Quwwat-al-Islam or the ‘Might of the Islam’ Mosque. Credit:Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Most visitors to the site do not know that it happens to be Delhi’s first Friday mosque (masid-i jami). Still few know that it was never known as Quwwat ul-Islam in its medieval past. So, how did the name (and the associated haunting legacy) come into being? The answer lies in the monument’s history and historiography.

The foundations of the congregational mosque

After defeating the Rajput ruler Prithviraj Chauhan, Muhammad of Ghur (from Afghanistan) returned home leaving behind the control of Delhi and Ajmer to his army commander (also his favourite slave), Qutbuddin Aibek. Upon Ghuri’s death in 1206, Aibek became independent and laid the foundations of what later came to be known as the Delhi Sultanate. Delhi became the capital of Hindustan. One of his first and foremost tasks was to create a congregational mosque. The new conqueror chose the former bastion of the Hindu rulers, Rai Pithora, as the site. The plinth of the earlier complex was enlarged to around twice its original size to build a platform to accommodate the structure. The spolia of the temples provided the ready-at-hand material to build the rectangular open courtyard, the pillared cloisters and the qibla wall (which indicates the direction of Mecca). Pillars from Hindu temples, preferably those carrying floral motifs, were used to build the colonnades. Upon a closer look, one can still see the remains of divine and human sculptures on the pillars in the prayer hall.

Qutb, Delhi and Qubbat al-Islam

Interestingly however, the name Quwwat ul-Islam does not occur in any extant inscription or any chronicle of the Sultanate. As historian Sunil Kunar points out that this name is probably a modern corruption of an older name, Qubbat al-Islam that meant ‘Sanctuary of Islam’ or the ‘Axis of Islam’. He says that the term Qubbat al-Islam was at first ambiguously used by the contemporary chronicler Minaj-i Siraj Juzjani for Iltutmish’s Delhi and later applied to define the spiritual domain of the popular Sufi saint Bakhtiyar Kaki. Thanks to Monghol invasions around 1220s, a large number of Muslims from Afghanistan, eastern Iran, Transoxiana and Central Asian Steppes migrated to north India. Claiming that Iltutmish (Aibek’s successor) had brought people from all parts of the Islamic world to Delhi, contemporary chronicler Juzjani describes the capital of Hindustan in glowing terms as “the keeper of the Muslim faith”, “the dais of the Muslim community” or “the Sanctuary of Islam” in the eastern world. The other tradition related to Qubbat al-Islam is ascribed to Bakhtiyar Kaki who was greatly respected by Iltutmish as his spiritual master. Qutb Minar is also mentioned in contemporary accounts as Qutub Sahib ki lath after the saint’s staff (lath). His staff was believed to pierce the sky and, like the pir himself, connect the heaven with earth. In popular cosmology, he was regarded as the Qutb, the ‘axis’ around whom the world revolved or, sometimes by extension, Qubbat al-Islam – the Sanctuary of Islam.

How did the term Quwwat ul-Islam gain currency?

In 1847, the famous Muslim social reformer and educationist, Sir Syed Ahmad Khan published his first major work, Asar-al-Sanadid (The Remnant Signs of Ancient Heroes). This book on Delhi was strongly grounded in the positivist/factual tradition. Syed Ahmad Khan believed that only ‘correct facts’ could present an objective and scientific history. His work was therefore seen as an authoritative and factual and soon became (together with his editions of other Persian chronicles) a standard reference for later archaeologists and historians.

In Asar-al-Sanadid, he refers to the Qutb mosque by three names – Masjid-i Adina Dehli ya, Masjid-i Jami Dehli ya or Quwwat al-Islam – but does not discuss the origins of these. Since then one of the names, Quwwat ul-Islam, stuck. After all, it was congruent with the dominant image of Aibek as a military commander who defeated the Hindu kings and established a new Islamic polity – one manifestation of which was the mosque built out of the rubble of Hindu temples.

This kind of approach also found sympathy with the colonial scheme of Indian history, where, as historian Romila Thapar says, the ancient Hindu period was followed by a medieval Islamic period followed in turn by a period of British modernity. In such a scheme, the transition between the Hindu and Muslim period was marked by an antagonistic rupture and characterised by acts of iconoclasm. Colonial politics of a specific linear periodisation of history was both divisive and communal and the mosque played an important site in this scheme. Art historian Barry Flood says that the reused pillars of the Qutb mosque were cast in plaster and shipped (in the 1870s) to London for display as a part of the representation of the subcontinent in the architectural courts of the South Kensington Museum. This served a strategic purpose. Flood says that the narratives of conquest, decline and violence surrounding the mosque were instrumental in drawing colonial-era contrasts between the ‘Muslim’ and ‘British’ rule.

Guides and books on Delhi and Qutb prepared around the early twentieth century (including those by H.C. Fanshawe, Gordon Risley, J. Horowitz and J. A. Page) also adhered to the Quwwat ul-Islam nomenclature and framework thus adding to the mosque’s ‘violent’ legacy. Syed Ahmad Khan’s scholarship figured prominently in J.A. Page’s reports related to the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) in the 1920s. Quwwat ul-Islam gradually became the official name of the congregational mosque. Interestingly, even ASI’s more recent publication, Qutb Minar and Adjoining Monuments (2002) draws heavily on Page’s work. Syed Ahmad Khan’s writings and the mosque’s new name also informed post-Partition scholarship of the site and the Delhi Sultanate. It has stoked populist and nationalist sentiments as well.

The Eastern Gate of the Qutb Mosque which carries the controversial foundational inscription. Credit: Shashank Shekhar Sinha

Towards a multi-layered history of the Qutb

At a time when there are plans to re-project the Qutb complex in the tourist world through the construction of an ambitious first-of-its-kind skywalk, there should also be efforts to restore the mosque in a larger historical context. That the core of the original mosque has been built out of temple remains is something which is well-known. What is not so well-known is that some parts of the structure were also newly constructed as were the subsequent extensions. The involvement of Hindu artisans and craftsmen and deployment of Hindu motifs and ornamentation also enriched the site. Flood examines the form of the foundational inscription – which talks about the temples being destroyed – and the related chronological and linguistic anomalies and adds a new twist to the tale saying that it should be attributed to Iltutmish rather than Aibek.

The spolia of the temples’ forms, as Kumar points out, is only a part of the multi-layered history of the Qutb complex. Its history also includes stories of independent and competing commanders (Muizzi Amirs) like Bahauddin Tughril who attracted renowned persons and merchants from different parts of Hindustan and Khurasan and constructed a similar mosque in Bayana; Sufi dervishes such as Nur Turk and his followers who condemned the ulama and even attacked the Qutb mosque; the popular veneration of Bakhtiyar Kaki; later Sufi saints such like Nizamuddin Auliya; and, how the writings of Syed Ahmed Khan influenced the later generation of archeologists, scholars and visitors. Qutb also forms the site of one of the finest experiments in Indo-Islamic architecture and provides insights into the socio-political evolution of the Sultanate. Such accounts would not only make the narrative more engrossing and lively but also more evidence-based.

Shashank Shekhar Sinha has taught history in Deshbandhu and PGDAV College at the University of Delhi. He has authored the book Restless Mothers and Turbulent Daughters: Situating Tribes in Gender Studies (2006) and now does independent research on tribes, gender, violence, culture and heritage. He is currently writing a series of articles on the World Heritage Sites in India.