All posts by Jajabor

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About Jajabor

My best memories have always been my journeys. Observing people, places, nuances, customs, food habits, clothes, and little idiosyncrasies—that’s my favorite pastime. Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I fell in love with traveling. And no, I’m not talking about the packaged kind with fixed itineraries and hurried photo stops. I’m talking about unraveling a place—layer by layer. Because the best memories of a trip are rarely from what’s printed in the brochure; they’re born from the moments beyond it. For safety, I might let a tour operator book my hotels, but the rest? That’s mine to discover. I read about the place, strike up conversations with locals, and follow history’s faint whispers down winding lanes. There’s a certain thrill in peeling back a place’s layers—its stories, its silences, its soul. I hope, through my words, I can share that thrill with you.

Bidding Adieu to Maa: Dashami

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Durga Puja is not just a festival—it is an emotion. It is five days of togetherness, rituals, food, and celebration that culminate in a bittersweet farewell on Dashami. This year, as always, the last day carried the weight of both joy and sorrow.

The Morning Frenzy

The day began early. Perhaps it was the thought that Maa would soon leave us that stirred everyone out of bed early. The morning saw the house buzzed with unusual urgency.

As part of the ritual, a yellow cloth is cut to make áparajita bands to be tied at the end of the day. But the cloth was nowhere to be found. We searched every corner, a mild panic building, since on Dashami most shops remain shut. Just when we thought we’d have to improvise, one cousin dashed to the market nearby—and to everyone’s relief, found one open shop. The yellow cloth was procured, and with it, calm returned.

Preparing to Welcome and Bid Farewell

Tradition has it that on Dashami, Maa is treated like a daughter leaving her paternal home. The customs reflect this deep symbolism.

A boron thala was readied—filled with sindoor, dahi, dhan, durba, paan, and sweets. What made the moment especially endearing was watching a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law prepare it together, bridging generations through ritual.

Meanwhile, my sister-in-law reminded us that the kolabou from the puja mandap would be brought inside. A spot had to be decorated with rangoli. Not being the best rangoli artist, I began hesitantly until one of my nieces joined me. Together, we managed something that, if not perfect, passed muster with cheer.

The Last Arati and Bhog

At the mandap, the final arati took place, filling the air with conch shells, incense, and the mingled emotions of farewell. The bhog of the day was humble yet deeply comforting—siddho bhaat, rice with boiled vegetables, served with ghee and chura, dahi, and gur.

This meal carried a personal memory too. Growing up, whenever we returned from holidays from my maternal uncle’s house, my mother would like to eat siddho bhaat, believing it was the best way to reset the body. Eating it again on Dashami felt like a return to roots.

Before the farewell, a large mirror was placed in a bowl of water, positioned so that Maa’s face was reflected. We were asked to bid adieu as we looked into the reflection. The symbolism was powerful, and the moment left everyone quiet, reluctant to let go.

Sindoor Khela and Procession to the River

Soon after, the mood shifted to festivity. Married women gathered for sindoor khela, smearing vermillion on each other in a celebration of womanhood, prosperity, and joy. Laughter rang out, faces turned red with sindoor, and the air carried a lighter note.

The kolabou was ceremonially brought inside, and preparations began for visarjan. The idols were carefully loaded onto a mini truck, followed by a convoy of vehicles. Children, especially, were excited at the thought of walking to the Barak River, three kilometers away.

But the skies had other plans. As we left, a drizzle began, soon turning into heavy rain. A tarpaulin was pulled over the idols, and we scrambled for cover. Eventually, many of us found shelter in the vehicles, though the rain and the rush meant the journey became chaotic. Yet, in its own way, this chaos carried its charm.

At Sadar Ghat: The Immersion

After nearly an hour and a half, we reached Sadar Ghat, the town’s main immersion site. Trucks rolled in one after another, and idols were transferred onto wheeled platforms before being taken to boats.

The sight was surreal—the rhythmic movement of idols, the chants of “Bolo Durga Mai ki… Jai!”, the synchronised immersion as each idol was pushed gently into the river. Everything happened with clockwork precision, and just like that, Maa was gone.

There was not a dry eye as we turned back.

Holding on to What Remains

Durga Puja is fleeting, but its aftertaste lingers. In a day or two, everyone will return to routine life, schools and offices, deadlines and duties. Yet these five days of togetherness, the shared meals, laughter, rituals, and even the frantic searches for a missing cloth, are memories that remain etched forever.

As we bid adieu to Maa, we carry with us the assurance that she will return again next year, and until then, her blessings stay with us.

When Maa Comes Home – Navami

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Navami dawned with a quiet urgency. It was the last full day Maa would be home with us, and I wanted to soak in every moment. So, dressed in my puja finery, I made my way to the mandap, where the goddess seemed to hold court amidst fragrance, light, and laughter.

Durga Puja, for Bengalis, is more than a festival. It is the homecoming of a daughter. Every offering, every ritual, every sound and flavor carries the symbolism of how a daughter is pampered when she returns to her parental home. Navami, coming after the solemnity of Ashtami and the intensity of Sandhi Puja — when the goddess is believed to have slain Mahishasur — is lighter in mood, filled with a sense of celebration but also tinged with an approaching farewell.

Discoveries at the Mandap

As I entered, something unusual caught my eye — a neatly made bed placed at the mandap. Curious, I asked my sister-in-law, who explained it was an offering to the goddess. Like a daughter who has come home after a long time, she must be cared for, made comfortable, and indulged. Standing there, I realized how much one can learn by simply watching the rituals closely: the goddess is not distant; she is family.

The air vibrated with familiar sounds — the dhak, the clash of kasor, the rhythmic ululations, and the deep resonance of the shankh. Each day I had tried, and failed, to blow the conch shell. But on this morning, almost to my surprise, the sound emerged clearly. It was fleeting, for when I tried again, it eluded me. My aunt, of course, then stepped in to demonstrate her flawless skill, as if reminding us that these rituals are not just sacred — they are also playful, communal, full of laughter and learning.

The Sacred Fire

After the arati and pushpanjali, preparations began for the havan. A metal kund was filled with sand, rangoli patterns were drawn, and small wooden twigs were stacked carefully before being lit with the chanting of shlokas. Watching my family gather — the elders with folded hands, the younger ones capturing the moment on their phones, and children gazing on with wide-eyed curiosity — I felt how rituals create a tapestry of generations. Each of us participates differently, yet all are bound by the same flame, the same prayer.

The havan stretched into the afternoon, its rhythm slow and meditative, until the sacred fire gave way to another ritual no less holy for Bengalis — the bhog. Plates of steaming prasad were served, and we descended with eagerness. With a puja at home, every meal was vegetarian, but the variety revealed the richness of Bengali vegetarian cuisine — a tradition often overshadowed by our famed fish and meat dishes. Each bite was a reminder that food, too, is devotion.

The Evening Glow

As twilight approached, the mood softened. Navami evenings are bittersweet. They are filled with joy, for Maa is still with us, but also with an unspoken sadness that the festival is nearing its end. The dhunuchi dance, the laughter, the casual adda — everything seemed brighter, livelier, because we knew it would soon be over.

Durga Puja is not just about rituals. It is about the coming together of family, the blending of the sacred and the everyday, the music and the meals, the stories and the silences. It is about homecoming — not just of the goddess, but of all of us, returning to roots, to belonging, to shared memories.

Carrying the Light Forward

When Maa comes home, everything brightens. And yet, as her departure nears, I realize that the beauty of Durga Puja lies not only in her presence but also in the light she leaves behind. The mandap, the dhak, the laughter of family, the taste of bhog — all of it becomes memory and meaning, carried within us until the next autumn when the daughter returns again.

Durga Puja, in its essence, teaches us that joy and impermanence walk hand in hand. That even departures are sacred, for they remind us to cherish the moments we have.

And so, on Navami, as Maa prepared to leave, I understood: she never truly goes away.

When Maa Came Home – Ashtami

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Last night, word spread through the house: Mangal Arati at 4 a.m. sharp. This was the sacred hour to wake Maa on Ashtami morning. At that hour, someone gently nudged me awake. True to my nature, I turned, muttered something unintelligible, and went back to sleep. I do love my sleep, perhaps too much.

As a child, Ashtami meant a kind of magic. I remember watching clothes, fruits, and sweets being laid out before Maa, offerings that seemed larger than life to my young eyes. Pushpanjali was always the heart of the day—Bengalis in their finest new clothes, palms folded, flowers in hand, chanting in unison. It was a ritual that seemed to stitch devotion and identity together.

This morning, I found myself again in the role of the family’s saree-draper. It’s become an unspoken responsibility: draping pleats for cousins and younger members before the puja begins. Oddly enough, it fills me with joy. There’s a kind of generational continuity in the act—like passing down a secret language without words.

After the prayers came the easy camaraderie: photos snapped in half-serious poses, bursts of adda, the gentle chaos of laughter filling corners of the home. Lunch was a feast, as always, with a steady stream of guests braving not just the festive crowd but also the sweltering heat of the afternoon.

But it is the Sandhi Puja that transforms the day. That threshold moment when Ashtami gives way to Navami, when the sacred is marked with 108 lotuses and 108 diyas. This year, nature seemed to conspire with the ritual. Just as we prepared, a thunderstorm rolled in—lightning tearing across the sky, thunder echoing like a drum, and rain draping the world in cool relief.

Then, in fresh clothes (yes, yet another round of changing), the family gathered again. One by one, the diyas were lit. There is something indescribably moving about watching flames multiply in the dark, each light a small prayer, a small connection, and doing it together as a family turns it into something eternal.

And just like that, two days of Puja slipped past in a blink. The festivities, the laughter, the rituals—they always feel too brief. Yet they leave behind something lasting. The memory of a saree draped, a diya lit, a storm cooling the air, and the simple joy of being together.

These moments remind me that festivals are not just about tradition or ritual—they are about memory-making, about weaving together the ordinary and the sacred into stories we carry with us long after the drums fall silent.

Maa Comes Home: Saptami

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After two days of endless running around, I slept like a log. No one woke me up—or perhaps I was simply too tired to hear anything. When I finally opened my eyes, I realized with a jolt that the crucial ritual of Kolabou Snan was to take place that morning. Had I overslept and missed it?

Half in panic, I rushed towards the puja mandap, only to find that the ritual was just about to begin. Relief washed over me. This is the very first ritual of Saptami—the bathing of the kola bou, the banana plant that is ceremoniously transformed into a symbolic form of the Goddess.

With elaborate chanting, the kola bou was bathed. What fascinated me most was the next step—draping a saree around the plant. I don’t think I had ever seen this ritual so closely before. A face was drawn on a fresh banana leaf (kola pata), carefully placed, and the saree was adjusted. With the aanchal gracefully covering her head, there stood before us a new form of Maa, so simple yet so divine.

But there was little time to linger—pushpanjali was at 10 a.m. and the house was abuzz with last-minute preparations. My two nieces, brimming with excitement, had decided they must wear sarees for the offering. The problem? They had no idea how to drape one. One of my uncles insisted that his granddaughters must do pushpanjali in saree, and suddenly I found myself cast in the role of saree-dresser. Their hurried, uneven attempts soon gave way to my hands pulling pleats and adjusting pallus—just as my elders once did for me. It was one of those tender, everyday moments that define a Bengali household.

The day flowed on with arati, bhog, laughter, and photo sessions. But the evening held a special thrill—the dhanuchi nach. A clay pot was lit, smoke curling upwards in the mandap, the rhythmic beat of the dhol filling the air. As a child, I never had the chance to try the dhanuchi nach, living too far from community pujas. This time, something inside me stirred. I picked up the earthen pot, still uncertain of my two left feet. Yet, in front of Maa, hesitation melted away. The beat took over, and before I knew it, my steps found rhythm, my body moved in sync with the drum, and I was dancing—smoke, fire, and devotion all mingling in that fleeting moment.

Saptami was a day of rituals, but more than that, it was a day of family, of shared laughter, of discovery and tradition blending seamlessly. It reminded me that Maa doesn’t just come home in the idol—she arrives in these lived moments of togetherness, joy, and courage.

Indeed, Maa does wonders.

Maa Comes home: Sashti

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The day began at sunrise. My brother woke us up, reminding us that Chandi Puja was scheduled to start at 6 a.m. The quiet of the morning soon gave way to the rhythmic chants of shlokas, and with that the day unfolded into one steeped in devotion, tradition, and togetherness.

The Young Purohits: Tradition in New Hands
This year’s puja carried a unique touch — the rituals were conducted by a group of young purohits in their twenties. It was both heartening and reassuring to watch tradition being carried forward so earnestly. What struck me most was a young Purohit, a student doing his masters, reciting the Chandi Path with impeccable diction and clarity.

As I listened, memories came rushing back, of my childhood, when my eldest uncle would perform the Chandi Path. That sound had long been my only reference for this sacred recitation. Watching the next generation step into that role was a reminder of how rituals survive through continuity, transforming into lived heritage.

The Sacred Offering: Bhog-er Prasad
Around noon, it was time for the bhog-er prasad. This is not a meal in the conventional sense but a divine mash-up of everything offered to Maa — from lemon to Anna bhog to payesh. The mix, though unusual, always tastes heavenly, not only for its flavors but because it is sanctified as Maa’s blessing.

Evening Rituals: Sashti, Kola Bou and Pran Pratistha
The evening brought with it the rituals of Sashti and the preparation of Kola Bou, symbolizing the nine sacred plants or Nabapatrika. Kola Bou reinforces our eternal connection with nature, reminding us that the festival is as much about celebrating divinity as it is about honoring the earth that sustains us. This was followed by the elaborate ritual of Pran Pratishtha, when life is invoked in the idol.

Beyond the Mandap: The Joy of Togetherness
But puja is never just about rituals. It is about everything that happens around the rituals — the pranks, the eagerness to dress up, slipping back into the cool AC room after braving the heat of the mandap, and the endless adda sessions that spill over from morning to night. These moments are what bind families and generations, adding warmth to the devotion.

A Day to Remember
Chandi Puja is said to be an integral part of Durga Puja, yet for me it has always carried the memory of one elder’s voice, one family moment. Experiencing it in this way — led by the young, shared in the company of many, and accompanied by laughter and joy — made the day unforgettable.

Durga Puja is not just worship; it is living culture. It is where tradition meets memory, devotion meets joy, and Maa comes home in a thousand little ways.

When Maa Comes Home – Panchami

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Durga Puja is special for every Bengali. But this year, it turned extra special. This year, Maa came home.

What does it feel like when Maa comes home?
It feels like months of planning and tons of shopping. It feels like chaos that somehow turns into joy. It feels like generations coming together—airport meetups filled with hugs, endless food, dressing up in silks and kurtas, and continuous adda sessions that carry through the night.

For me, Durga Puja has always been a community festival. My most vivid memory was from Kolkata, when our apartment complex organised the Puja—collective, chaotic, and deeply rooted in togetherness. I had only read about ghar-er pujo—Durga Pujas held at home—or seen them recreated in films. So when my cousin decided to organise one this year, I knew I had to be there.

And let me tell you, to call it “challenging” is an understatement. Durga Puja is often described as a Rajashik puja—one that kings performed. And here, a family carrying on this grand tradition at home.

I woke up before dawn, ran across airports to catch connecting flights, and landed in the sweltering heat and humidity of Silchar. It was Panchami—the fifth day of Navratri—and time for the first ritual, Bodhon, where Maa Durga is ceremonially invited.

The evening was filled with frantic activity when a power cut threatened to plunge everything into darkness. Out came our mobile phones, lighting up the puja mandap in a glow both modern and makeshift. But Maa, it seemed, wasn’t amused by this arrangement. The power cut lingered, and finally, generators whirred to life, bathing the mandap in light once more. Just when we thought we would melt away in the humid heat, the electricity returned—as if Maa had decided it was time to ease our troubles.

And then it began. The sounds of the conch, ulu, and dhak filled the air, announcing what our hearts already knew—
Maa had come home.

The Voice That Heralds Durga Puja: A Personal Journey Through Mahalaya

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Conversations at Work and Cultural Crossroads

One of the joys of being in a diverse workplace is the daily discovery of traditions, rituals, and stories that colleagues carry with them. Over cups of tea or during lunch breaks, conversations turn into cultural exchanges — each person explaining their customs, sometimes teasing one another in their mother tongue, and often leaving everyone a little wiser.

A few weeks ago, I overheard a conversation between two colleagues — a Bengali and a Punjabi. The Bengali was explaining Mahalaya to the Punjabi. For most, Mahalaya simply marks the ending of Pitru Paksh across India. But for Bengalis, it means much more: it is the dawn that ushers in Durga Puja, the most awaited festival of the year.

The Unmistakable Voice of Tradition

For anyone who is not Bengali — and has never heard Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s baritone narration — it is difficult to explain what makes Mahalaya so special. Since its first broadcast in 1931, All India Radio’s iconic programme Mahishasurmardini has become synonymous with the day. Scripted by Bani Kumar, set to music by Pankaj Mullick, and enriched with devotional songs by some of Bengal’s finest singers, the programme’s heart lies in Bhadra’s voice reciting the Chandi Path.

Generations of Bengalis have woken at dawn on Mahalaya to listen to this. The music, the chants, and above all, Bhadra’s voice signal that Durga Puja is just around the corner.

Childhood Rituals and the Magic of Radio

My own memories of Mahalaya go back to childhood. A day before, my father would carefully tune the radio to catch the AIR frequency and then place it by the bedside. An alarm was set for 4 a.m., and when it rang, I would awaken not to the sound of a bell but to Bhadra’s sonorous voice filling the room.

Later, when cassettes of Mahishasurmardini became available, families eagerly bought the two-cassette set. It meant one could listen anytime, without waking up before dawn. Yet, the cassettes never quite captured the magic. The ritual of rising in the pre-dawn darkness, with the crackle of the radio and the collective stillness, held its own irreplaceable charm.

When Change Met Resistance

Technology wasn’t the only agent of change. In the late 1970s, when Uttam Kumar reigned as the Nayak of Bengali cinema, All India Radio attempted to recreate the programme. With narration by Uttam Kumar and music by Hemanta Mukherjee, the new version was expected to captivate audiences. Instead, it sparked a massive backlash. For listeners, replacing Bhadra’s voice felt like sacrilege. The experiment failed, and AIR never tampered with the original again.

For my family, this story carried its own humour. My mother, a devoted Uttam Kumar fan, was disappointed, while my father — who never cared much for Uttam’s acting — recounted the “failure” with a gleeful chuckle every year. Decades later, the controversy found its way onto the silver screen in the 2019 film Mahalaya.

Rituals in a Changing World

Today, the world is very different. Technology has transformed how we consume tradition. Yet, Puja is the anchor of a Bengali’s calendar. Yesterday, I went to CR Park, the hub of Bengalis in Delhi, and it was almost as if I had been transported. A book fair, a saree mela juxtaposed with cultural performances seemed to signal that Pujo had begun.

This morning, I found myself using the Spotify app at 4 a.m. and beginning my day with Bhadra’s immortal narration. The medium has changed, but the ritual remains.

As Uttam Kumar’s character says in the film Mahalaya: “Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s voice is Durga Puja.” Indeed, for Bengalis everywhere, the festival begins not with the idol-making, not with the lights or the pandals, but with a voice — deep, resonant, and timeless — announcing that the Goddess is on her way.

‘Maa asche’

A Sunday Morning in Hauz Khas: Walking Through Layers of Time

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Hauz Khas has always been that buzzing South Delhi address — synonymous with nightlife, chic cafés, designer boutiques, and a medley of world cuisines. For me, it had long existed as that happening urban village, where the city comes to unwind. Someone had once mentioned there were “some old monuments” tucked away there, but then, Delhi has monuments scattered like punctuation marks in its long, layered history.

So when an email from INTACH dropped into my inbox about a heritage walk through Hauz Khas, curiosity nudged me to sign up. That is how, on a quiet Sunday morning, I found myself standing with fellow history enthusiasts at the gates of the Hauz Khas mosque — ready to peel back the centuries, guided by the brilliant storyteller Ratnendu Roy.

Stepping Into a Medieval Campus

Hauz Khas was originally built by Alauddin Khilji and reached its pinnacle under Firoz Shah Tughlaq. As we walked into the mosque and madrasa complex — complete with hostel cells once meant for students — it was easy to imagine its glory days: serene gardens, the expansive water tank shimmering beyond, and scholars breathing life into its stone corridors.

Tucked within the complex are several tombs, the most prominent being that of Firoz Shah himself. Legend has it that the surrounding village grew as an ecosystem around this premier centre of learning. Even today, gazing out from the madrasa’s colonnaded windows towards the hauz (reservoir), the scene feels remarkably tranquil — as if time has paused just for a moment.

From Forgotten Village to Trendy Hotspot

Hauz Khas village lay largely forgotten until the mid-1980s, when designers and café owners “discovered” its rustic charm. Boutiques sprang up in old village homes, and the area morphed into Delhi’s go-to party destination. Yet behind the neon signs and polished façades, you can still spot the original mud-brick houses — a whisper of the village it once was.

A short stroll led us into the lush Deer Park. It is one of those rare green islands in Delhi where city sounds dim into silence. Joggers, families, and groups of friends dotted the winding paths. Within its leafy expanse stand two medieval gems: the Lodhi-era Bagh-e-Alam ka Gumbad, said to have taken inspiration from Firoz Shah’s tomb, and the diminutive Kali Gumti, whose cenotaph has vanished into history’s mists.

Munda Gumbad and the Whisper of the Wind

The walk ended at Munda Gumbad — literally the “headless dome” — a pleasure pavilion once located on an island in the middle of the reservoir. Encroachments have since pushed the water’s edge far back, but the charm lingers. Climbing the short steps, I was met with a 360° panorama: the green canopy of the park, the stone silhouettes of monuments, and the glimmering water. A soft breeze wrapped around us, and I found myself imagining an earlier time — boats gliding across the water, ducks splashing, and royalty reclining under the dome to escape the summer sun.

As we were walking towards the Munda Gumbad, a sudden rustling and cacophony above made us look up — a massive colony of bats hung like dark fruits from the branches overhead. I had never seen so many at once; they seemed like watchful guardians of the place’s secrets.

Threads Between Past and Future

Along the walk, our conversations meandered — from vandalised monuments and encroached heritage zones to the challenges of restoration, the scarcity of funds, and the lack of public awareness. It struck me then: history is not just an episode of the past. It is a thread that connects us to the future — a legacy to be understood, protected, and cherished.

A Sunday morning, well spent. A city rediscovered.

Sculpting Stories from Scrap: A Morning at ONGC ATI, Goa

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Long weekends often slip away under the weight of work commitments, leaving behind a quiet sadness. I’ve always wondered about those who thrive on such relentless dedication—how they cope when personal time is devoured by professional demands. But then again, sometimes one has to do what one has to do.

This weekend, however, I wasn’t lamenting. Instead, I found myself walking through the serene campus of ONGC’s Advanced Training Institute (ATI) in Betul, South Goa—where the Sal river meets the Arabian Sea.

First Impressions and the Green Campus

My first visit to ATI Goa was in 2007. The lush green campus struck me instantly, and over the years, every visit has carried the same charm. The institute is known for its specialised safety trainings and regularly hosts trainees from across India and abroad.

Reimagining Branding Through Mythology

In 2023, ATI underwent a major overhaul of its facilities. Around the same time, I joined ONGC’s Corporate Communications team in Delhi, which was entrusted with the challenge of re-imagining the campus branding. Depicting oil and gas creatively is never easy, and this time we were told to look beyond hydrocarbons—to weave in elements of Indian culture alongside ONGC’s operational identity.

After several brainstorming sessions, inspiration came from Samudra Manthan—the churning of the ocean in Indian mythology. The idea resonated because it reflected both struggle and discovery, much like ONGC’s journey in exploration. To make the concept tangible, we decided to create sculptures of treasures from the ocean—Ucchashrava , Shankh, Kurma, Dhanvantari, and even the Panch Tatwa—crafted entirely from ONGC’s operational scrap. Each sculpture bore a note of the percentage of scrap used, a small but symbolic nod to sustainability.

A shout out to the incredible team of Debasish Mukherjee, Gagandeep Aneja, Bagmishree, Chandrali Mukherjee, Nikita Chiripal and Arthat Studios, who gave shape to the concepts.

A Walk Among Sculptures and Memories

These sculptures were installed by December 2023, but I hadn’t returned to the campus since February 2024. This morning, walking under the early sun, I was greeted by the chirping of birds and the quiet roads of the leafy campus. The sculptures stood proudly, glowing in the golden light, narrating the story of re-imagining branding for an oil and gas company.

As I walked past them, memories of brainstorming sessions, wild ideas, the race against deadlines, and weekends sacrificed came rushing back. Two years later, standing before the very sculptures that were once sketches on paper, I felt an odd but fulfilling sense of satisfaction.

Sometimes, the reward of lost weekends is not the time you sacrificed, but the legacy you are part of.

A special shout out, once again, to the incredible team of Debasish Mukherjee, Gagandeep Aneja, Bagmishree, Chandrali Mukherjee, Nikita Chiripal and Arthat Studios, without whom these concepts would never have come alive.

Purana Qila and Me: A Sunday Rediscovery

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The Rant Before the Romance

Let’s get this out of the way — navigating to Purana Qila or even the Delhi Zoo is a task that tests patience. You’d imagine that such landmark institutions would be well-marked, but no. The absence of clear road signage makes you meander through a confusing network of turns and traffic. You arrive more relieved than excited. Rant over.

First Glimpses, Lasting Impressions

My relationship with Purana Qila began from a distance. I first came to Delhi in 2003. Living in Noida and working in Connaught Place, my daily commute via Mathura Road brought me past those imposing fort walls. Every day, I’d glance at them and wonder — what stories do those stones hold?

But like many things in life, wonder didn’t translate into action. During those five years in Delhi, I never crossed the threshold.

A Scorching Start

Years later, Delhi called me back. This time, I finally entered the fort — albeit during one of its infamous blistering summers. The heat was relentless, and the visit brief, rushed, and largely overshadowed by the lure of an air-conditioned retreat.

This Sunday: A Walk Through Time

Last Sunday, I joined a heritage walk with Enroute Indian History. The experience was different — thoughtful, immersive, and filled with the kind of stories that give walls a voice.

Purana Qila, they said, was built on the ruins of history itself. The Mughal emperor Humayun built his capital, Dinpanah, here. His rival, Sher Shah Suri, later took over, expanding and fortifying the structure into what we now see — layers of ambition etched in sandstone.

The Talaqi Darwaza Mystery

We stopped at the Talaqi Darwaza — a magnificent gateway sealed shut for nearly 200 years. The River Yamuna used to flow next to the fort, and one can still see the boat landings at the Talaqi Darwaza and Humayun Darwaza. We were told no one had walked through it in generations. And then, as if summoned by our collective curiosity, a small pedestrian door in the grand gate creaked open. A workman stepped through. Our group rushed toward the passage, only to be gently turned away by the guard. Restoration work, he said. The door may have opened, but not for us.

A glimpse of the forbidden. A tease of time.

Qila-i-Kuhna Mosque: Geometry and Grace

We moved next to the Qila-i-Kuhna Mosque, a corner masterpiece built by Sher Shah. Its intricately carved arches and calligraphy revealed a confluence of power and piety. The upper floor — once reserved for women — hinted at a forgotten intimacy within this public space of worship.

The Baoli: Secret to Sustenance

To counter Delhi’s relentless summers, the fort holds a baoli — a deep stepwell, once connected to the royal hammam through terracotta pipes. It whispers of ancient engineering and the luxury of cool retreats.

Sher Mandal: A Tragic Legacy

Near the baoli stands the octagonal Sher Mandal, once used by Humayun as a library and astronomical observatory. Ironically, this beautiful tower is where he met his tragic end — falling down its steps after hearing the call to prayer.

Traces of the Lost Village

Few today know that a village once thrived within these very walls. The British cleared it out, leaving no trace. Just open lawns and an eerie sense of absence.

Kunti Mandir: Myth Meets Stone

And then, a mythic interlude. Within the fort stands a modest Kunti Mandir, said to link the fort to Indraprastha of the Mahabharata. Not well-preserved, yet quietly potent — a link between epic pasts and empirical history.

From Wondering Outside to Wandering Inside

What was once a fleeting glance from a car window is now a lingering memory. From the outside to the inside, from myth to masonry, from stories overheard to stories remembered — Purana Qila finally revealed itself.

And with that, my Sunday was well spent.