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Of Forts, Faith, and a Final Encounter

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I usually take my last day in any place a little slow. My stay at Ranthambore National Park was no different. Before arriving, I knew there was a fort here, but what I hadn’t realized was that Ranthambore Fort is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. That, of course, made it unmissable.

Trying to stay ahead of the heat, I set out early. My first surprise, there was no entry fee. The fort houses three temples, and most visitors seemed to be heading there for prayers. As I stepped out of the vehicle, I noticed the absence of eager guides, a rarity at monuments. I’ve always been wary of half-baked historical narration, but as I approached the gate, my driver introduced me to Harphool Gurjar, who would be my guide for the morning.

Before he could begin, I told him that while I would visit the temples, my interest lay in the fort and its history. The fort has seven gates, though only four, Navlakha Pol, Hathi Pol, Ganesh Pol, and Andheri Pol (or Toran Dwar), are accessible; the others lie within the core of the national park. Rising from the rugged folds of the Aravallis, the fort stretches across nearly seven kilometers of formidable walls.

We began our ascent through Navlakha Pol towards Hathi Pol. There, I noticed a peculiar stone carving, a face, a torso, a hand. It represents Ranmal, a general who is believed to have betrayed King Hammir Dev Chauhan to Alauddin Khilji in 1301. Locals still throw stones at the carving, a symbolic act of contempt for betrayal.

At Ganesh Pol, my guide pointed out markings on the wall, said to be the hoof prints of the king’s horse. What followed was a story layered with drama. According to local lore, Hammir Dev Chauhan had, in fact, won the battle and sent his generals to inform the queen to stop the royal women from committing jauhar. The generals, however, conveyed false news. When the king realized, he rushed back, only to be blocked at Hathi Pol and Ganesh Pol. In desperation, he urged his horse up the steep walls, but it was too late. The women had already committed jauhar. His daughter, too, is said to have leaped into a kund. Overcome with grief, the king is believed to have taken his own life.

I could not say how much of this is historically accurate, but it certainly carried the weight of a cinematic narrative. The better-known jauhar of Rani Padmini at Chittorgarh Fort occurred in 1303, lending the tale a broader historical resonance.

Taking a less-trodden path, we reached Badal Mahal. Before I could take in the view, my guide led me through a narrow passage that opened onto the rooftop. The reward was immediate, a sweeping panorama of Padam Talao and Zone 3 of the park below. Back inside, I paused in the cool interiors, imagining queens seated on swings that once hung from the hooks still visible on the ceilings, looking out over the same tranquil waters.

We moved next to the 32-pillared cenotaph, built by Hammir Dev Chauhan in honour of his father, Rao Jaitra Singh’s 32-year reign. Beneath it lies a Shiva temple. The steps are aligned so that the first rays of the sun fall directly on the shivling, a quiet interplay of architecture and devotion. Langurs had claimed the space as their own, but seemed entirely indifferent to our presence.

At the Trinetra Ganesh Temple, devotion took centre stage. Dedicated to Lord Ganesh, along with his consorts Riddhi and Siddhi and sons Shubh and Labh, it drew a steady stream of visitors. Further ahead, near the Laxmi Narayan and Jain temples, I noticed stacks of small stones. My guide explained that devotees build them as symbolic homes, praying for a house of their own. It reminded me of Mount Mary Church, where wishes take physical form in offerings.

After nearly two hours, I returned, saving some energy for my final safari.

The afternoon was unforgiving, 42 degrees and rising. As we entered Zone 4, the guide mentioned it was known for good sightings. A Rufous Treepie greeted us at the Singh Dwar checkpost, as if curious about yet another hopeful entrant. Most animals had retreated into the shade. We saw the familiar spotted deer, sambar, and at one point, two stags locked in combat.

But the focus, inevitably, was the tiger.

A tigress had reportedly made a kill at Malik Talao earlier that morning, and vehicles were converging there. By the time we arrived, vultures had already taken over the carcass. The tigress was nowhere in sight.

We turned back. Soon after, word came of a sighting of Durga, the tigress, near the Berda area. We reached just in time to see her resting in the shade by a body of water, composed and unhurried. After a while, we moved again, this time towards Jamun Deh, where cubs of tigress Shakti had been spotted.

Two cubs lay quietly near the water. Cameras clicked in unison. One cub rose, took a few tentative steps, and settled under another tree. Almost immediately, a sambar’s alarm call rang out, sharp, insistent, continuing until the cub disappeared into stillness once more.

As the safari neared its end, we began heading back. Not far from the exit, a small crowd of vehicles had gathered. A sloth bear ambled across the track, indifferent to the attention, offering one final, unexpected sighting.

We exited the park, only to hear that a tiger had been spotted on the road just ahead. Curiosity led us there, where a crowd had already formed. In the midst of it all was Malang, the cub of tigress Sultana. Forest officials worked to clear a path as the young tiger walked calmly along the road before slipping back into the forest. My three days at Ranthambore could not have ended on a better note.

As I left, I realized that Ranthambore had offered more than sightings. It had revealed itself in layers, the stillness of the forest, the stories etched in stone, the quiet faith of those who visit, and the unpredictable rhythm of the wild. Not every moment was dramatic, not every search rewarded, but perhaps that is the essence of the jungle. It gives you just enough to return with wonder, and leaves just enough unseen to make you come back again.

A Medieval Icon, a Modern Nation

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There is something about the Red Fort—maybe because every time I have seen photographs or a telecast of Independence Day or Republic Day, it is the Red Fort that comes into view: stately, majestic, almost like a witness to everything that has unfolded around it.

So when an INTACH email landed in my inbox about a heritage walk at the Red Fort this Sunday, I had to join. Delhi Metro is the best bet to reach anywhere on time. The crowd I encountered while changing trains at Kalkaji should have warned me of what was to come. At Lal Qila, I emerged from the gate and realised it was almost a sea of humanity. Somehow, manoeuvring through it, I made it to the entry near the Lahori Gate.

Our walk leader, Javeria, had to shout just to make herself audible. Unfazed, she led us through the crowded spaces, sharing insights not only about history but also about architecture. We entered through Chatta Chowk—one of the earliest covered markets of its time—crossed the Naqqar Khana, and reached the Diwan-i-Aam.

Whenever I visit forts, I find myself wondering how people lived there. How was each place used—really used, day after day? The Diwan-i-Aam is stately, and the contrast of red sandstone with the highly embellished throne stands out. But it was a small detail that shifted everything for me: hooks on the ceiling outside, used to hang curtains—muslin or velvet depending on the season. That single observation triggered my imagination more than any grand façade could.

As we paused at the corner of the Diwan-i-Aam, the fort’s hierarchy became visible in stone. The areas meant for nobles and royalty were built in Makrana marble. The fort is said to have been constructed at a cost of six lakh rupees—a princely sum, and a sizeable figure even today. But we are speaking of a period when the Indian economy was possibly booming in ways we rarely pause to remember.

The first marble building we encountered was the Rang Mahal, a palace for the emperor’s concubines. An elaborate fountain system—run only by gravity—greets you there. I found myself wondering who the architect of the fort was. Imagine my surprise when Javeria mentioned it was the same architect associated with the Taj Mahal. And then the old story surfaced in my mind: wasn’t his hand chopped off so he could never build anything again? Apparently not. History, like memory, collects myths the way monuments collect dust.

We moved on to the emperor’s sleeping quarters. There is a barricade on the steps so people don’t climb them now, but you can still see a depression where the marble has slowly worn down with regular use. These quarters were never meant for mass entry. Today, most of the marble spaces can only be seen from outside—beauty held at a distance.

The lawns were being readied for an evening programme, ticketed. The security guards were almost shooing everyone out. But then, they underestimated our curiosity. We stopped near the pavilions to look at the Zafar Mahal: a red sandstone structure constructed by the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar. It stands out for its bare, un-embellished walls—a quiet testimony to the loss of power of the Mughals.

On our way out we saw the barracks built by the British after 1857 to house soldiers. The question came automatically: where did soldiers stay earlier? Javeria pointed out that rooms within the fort walls were used for them. What struck me even more was another fact: only the emperor stayed in the fort. Even his sons and daughters were not allowed to live there. The power of intrigue, deceit, and politics—clearly—has existed in all times.

By the time we left, the crowd had thinned. For the first time that day, one could stand at the entrance and simply marvel at what the fort must have proclaimed in its heyday.

I looked up at the lit ramparts and realised the fort would pull me back again. The child who watched Republic Day parades on television, spellbound, is not yet satisfied. Until the next time, the Red Fort will remain what it has become for me: a medieval icon adopted by a modern nation.

A Walk Through Tughlaqabad: Heritage, Haze, and the Strange Comfort of Continuity

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It was during a birthday celebration for a senior colleague that the conversation inevitably drifted to Delhi’s abysmal air quality. Amid complaints about AQI, someone turned to me and asked, “Aren’t you the one who posts about heritage walks in the city?” It was an amused, almost affectionate observation. The history enthusiast in me, forever trying to nudge colleagues into discovering the layered stories of Delhi, felt seen.

The next question followed immediately: “Are the walks held even in this pollution?”
I nodded. Yes. Many of them, I said, lead us to some of the city’s most extensive green patches, pockets of nature where Delhi briefly remembers the ecology that once supported its many empires.

Returning to Tughlaqabad

This weekend’s INTACH walk took me to Tughlaqabad, one of Delhi’s seven historical capitals. As I approached the massive fortifications, I found myself slipping back to another winter afternoon, possibly January 2006, when a friend and I first tried to explore Tughlaqabad. I had just bought my first car. We parked casually at the entrance and wandered inside, unaware of what awaited us.

The fort walls that day were crowded with groups of young men. There were no guards in sight. Two women alone in an unfamiliar, isolated space, we exchanged a brief glance, turned around, and left within minutes. That aborted visit stayed with me.

This time, everything was different. Surrounded by fellow history enthusiasts and led by the brilliant Ratnendu Ray, the experience was a complete reversal. We discussed everything from medieval weaponry to the economics of the 14th century, pausing often to take in the scale of Ghiyas-ud-Din Tughlaq’s vision.

Walls Built to Deter Eternity

The fort announces its presence long before you reach the gate. Even in their dilapidated state, the enormous stone walls, spanning over six kilometres in a half-hexagonal shape, retain a quiet arrogance. They were once meant to intimidate enemies, withstand sieges, and hold power. Today, they are softened by shrubs, wild grass, and the slow generosity of time.

We heard stories of the Tughlaq dynasty, of Ghiyas-ud-Din’s famously strained equation with the Sufi saint Nizamuddin Aulia, and the curse that supposedly doomed the fort soon after its completion. The palace area once had a deep baoli, a hamam, and a small mosque; the walk leader showed us older photographs, and it was sobering to see how much the site has eroded. Even thick, defiant walls cannot withstand the patience of centuries.

Haze Instead of History

We climbed to one of the highest points for a panoramic view of Adilabad Fort and Nai-ka-Kot. But all we could see was haze—Delhi’s new, stubborn skyline. Even the tomb of Ghiyas-ud-Din Tughlaq, barely across the road, was a ghostly silhouette.

On the way down, we wandered into a quiet corner where rocks lay piled along the fort wall beside a mound of used diyas. A local legend speaks of a pir, revered by both Hindus and Muslims. The fort may have been abandoned by royalty, historians, and tourists at various times, but the local community has gently folded it into their everyday spiritual landscape.

A Tomb in a Garden

Across the road, the ruler’s red-sandstone tomb sits inside an unexpectedly well-maintained, manicured patch of green. It also houses the tomb of a military commander named Zafar. With little historical detail available about him, we found ourselves imagining scenarios that could explain how a commander earned a resting place beside a king.

Driving Home With Impermanence

After more than three absorbing hours, as I drove away, a familiar thought settled in.

Empires rise, rulers command, forts stretch stone by stone toward the sky, and then, quietly, they collapse into stories, legends, and vegetation.

Power is temporary. Architecture is temporary. Even memory is temporary.

And yet, the act of walking through history, of witnessing its ruins with others who care, felt strangely grounding. In a city battling pollution, noise, and restlessness, these remnants remind us that everything is transient, but nothing is ever entirely lost.

Walking Through Memory: From Ugrasen ki Baoli to Jantar Mantar

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It began, as many good things do, with a conversation over nostalgia.

About a month ago, a colleague who had started his career with me reminisced about our old office in Connaught Place, New Delhi. That memory sparked a half-hour exchange of stories — about coffees and milkshakes, thalis and biryanis, the food at various State Bhavans, and those impulsive lunch-hour shopping sojourns.

We were in our mid-twenties then, discovering what independence truly meant. So when an INTACH walk from Ugrasen ki Baoli to Jantar Mantar popped up in my WhatsApp feed, I knew I had to join. My first five years in Delhi — and at Connaught Place — had left me with some of my fondest memories. This walk, I thought, might help me know a little more about the city that once shaped my days. And with Ratnendu Ray leading it, there were bound to be stories worth walking for.

Setting Out

The email had advised us not to bring vehicles since the start and end points were different. But, true to my contrary instincts, I drove anyway. I parked opposite Barakhamba Road, found no attendant in sight, and left the car neatly in a corner so as not to inconvenience anyone.

It was a crisp morning, and I decided to walk to Hailey Road, where the Baoli stands. The roads were largely empty — the kind of quiet Delhi rarely offers. The footpaths were uneven, sometimes absent, sometimes grimy, but the city already felt alive in its own unhurried way.

The Baoli and Its Backstories

Nestled among high-rises, Ugrasen ki Baoli is remarkably well-maintained and ever popular with tourists. Our group gathered in the soft winter sun, listening to tales of Maharaja Agrasen, the Aggarwal Samaj, and the care of Delhi’s monuments.

As we left the site, someone asked who “Hailey” was — after whom the road was named. That led to the story of William Malcolm Hailey, Governor of Punjab and Delhi’s first Chief Commissioner. His work on the Jhelum Canal, which boosted agriculture in undivided Punjab, earned him a knighthood. Interestingly, what we now call Jim Corbett National Park was once Hailey National Park.

It struck me that the naming and renaming of roads — so often seen as a modern exercise — have always reflected changing eras and ideologies.

Glass Elevators and Forgotten Doors

Leaving Hailey’s history behind, we reached the Ambadeep Building — a striking landmark and the first in Delhi to feature external glass elevators. I must have passed it hundreds of times, marvelling at its mirrored façade, yet it was only today that I noticed its courtyards, terraces, and mosaic tiles.

A little ahead, as we turned toward Janpath, a locked old doorway caught our attention. Above it hung a faded board that read Martin Burn Limited. To most Bengalis, Martin Burn is synonymous with the construction of the iconic Howrah Bridge. What I hadn’t known was that the company was co-founded by Sir Rajendranath Mookerjee and Sir Thomas Acquin Martin — and that they chose the name “Martin” to sidestep the racial bias that Indian firms faced in securing British contracts.

Sometimes, the smallest details in a cityscape open windows to vast forgotten worlds.

Architecture, Emporiums, and Echoes of Communication

On Janpath stood Jawahar Vyapar Bhavan, home to the government emporium. I’ve always found the building intriguing, but I learnt that its design blends Japanese “Metabolism” architecture with Mughal influences — reflected in its material and rhythm.

Just ahead loomed the ageing MTNL building, its façade dulled by time, and in front of it, the bust of Rafi Ahmed Kidwai — India’s first Communications Minister. Today, when we take overnight deliveries and instant communication for granted, it’s easy to forget that Kidwai was the one who introduced night mail flights between Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, and Nagpur — an innovation that once shrank the country’s distances.

Further down, Eastern Court stood in quiet resignation. Once, along with its twin Western Court, it had housed legislators. While the Western Court still serves as an MPs’ hostel, the Eastern Court was converted into offices for the Post and Telegraph Department. The building’s fading grace seemed to mirror the slow decline of the postal era itself — a reminder that communication, too, has its ruins.

Temples, Protests, and Time

Our next stop was a small, almost hidden temple of Batuk Bhairav, located behind Jantar Mantar. It once formed part of the same complex. We often forget that the land the British chose for their capital wasn’t empty — it was dotted with villages, shrines, and habitations. A sizeable portion belonged to the Maharaja of Jaipur, which is why this temple is still maintained by the Rajasthan government.

As we neared Jantar Mantar, the sound of chants grew louder. Protesters were gathered near the monument, many nibbling at roadside snacks between slogans. I’ve always wondered how this spot became India’s favourite protest site — perhaps that’s a story for another walk.

At Jantar Mantar — and Beyond

Jantar Mantar itself needs no introduction. The site, once neglected, was restored by the British. Its sandstone instruments, though outpaced by modern technology, remain astronomical marvels — precise, poetic, and quietly monumental.

The walk ended, but the city’s spell didn’t. I decided to take a slight detour to buy shoes. After trying several shops, I discovered that none had my size — everything was meant for larger feet.

So much for the saying, “Good things come in small packages.” The package, alas, still needs shoes.

Epilogue: The City as a Companion

Delhi often feels like a living palimpsest — each layer of its architecture, every old signboard, a trace of time refusing to fade. That morning’s walk wasn’t just a lesson in history or urban design; it was a quiet reminder of how cities hold our stories long after we’ve moved on.

Walking through Delhi, I wasn’t just revisiting its streets — I was revisiting myself, the twenty-something with coffee in hand and dreams in her eyes, finding independence one Connaught Place lunch break at a time.

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.