Tag Archives: travel

Through the Sacred Corridors of Mathura and Vrindavan

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Day two of my sudden visit to Vrindavan began early. I wanted to make the most of the morning calm and planned to cover Mathura before the crowds swelled. The lanes grew narrower as I neared the Krishna Janmabhumi Temple — ancient walls closing in on centuries of devotion. A man pointed me toward a parking spot and casually suggested taking a guide who, he promised, would show me not just the temple but also Gokul. I agreed.

At the entrance, I had to surrender my bag and all electronic devices. The security rule was firm: no cameras, no phones — no distractions. As I stepped inside, I noticed the resident monkeys, confident and curious. I tightened my grip on my glasses, prompting my guide to chuckle, “Vrindavan ke bandar padhe likhe hain” — the monkeys of Vrindavan are educated; so they snatch glasses!

The temple complex opened into the garbha griha, the Yogmaya Mandir, and finally the Bhagvad Bhawan, where the main idols of Radha and Krishna are enshrined. My early start paid off — I reached just in time for the Mangal Aarti, the first offering of the day that wakes the deity. The chants, the incense, and flickering lamps created a rhythm that seemed to dissolve the boundary between ritual and reverence.

As I stepped out, the domes of the Shahi Idgah Mosque gleamed across the complex — a reminder that Mathura’s story, like India’s, is layered with shared histories.

Across the Yamuna: Gokul’s Cradle of Legends

Though my next stop was supposed to be the Dwarkadhish Temple, my guide gently reminded me of my promise to visit Gokul. We crossed the Yamuna — that mythical river Vasudev once forded on a stormy night carrying baby Krishna.

Gokul’s lanes were humble yet alive with myth. The centerpiece, Shri Nand Mahal, stood adorned with vibrant murals and a cradle for little Krishna. Watching people do so with gentle reverence made the mythology come alive in the most tender, human way.

Dwarkadhish Temple and the Call of Vishram Ghat

Back in Mathura, the Dwarkadhish Temple awaited at the end of another labyrinth of lanes. A rickshaw helped me glide through the festive chaos — Diwali shoppers, sweet sellers, and vendors adding color to the air. Inside the temple, serenity prevailed. I had a clear darshan of the idol and a brief, grounding silence amid the bustle.

Just a few steps away lay Vishram Ghat, the sacred stretch where Krishna is believed to have rested after slaying Kansa. My guide seemed mildly disappointed when I declined a puja, preferring instead to watch life unfold — priests lighting lamps, pilgrims taking a dip in the Yamuna, and boats plying. When I pulled out my phone for a photo, he sighed, “Aajkal sab picnic ban gaya hai.” I smiled quietly and said nothing. Sometimes, observation is devotion too.

Vrindavan Again: The Marble Glow of Prem Mandir

By afternoon, I was back in Vrindavan. The crowd at Prem Mandir looked overwhelming, but curiosity won. The line for women moved swiftly, and within minutes I stood inside a vast marble complex where devotion and architecture met in perfect harmony. Tableaux from Krishna’s life lined the approach to the temple — scenes from Govardhan, Rasleela, and Kaliya Mardan — each carved in intricate detail. The crowd no longer felt like a crowd; it felt like community.

The Curtain Falls at Banke Bihari Temple

My final stop was the Banke Bihari Temple, where the playful aspect of Krishna is worshipped. The idol, believed to have appeared in Nidhivan, is known to be so charming that the priests periodically draw a curtain — lest devotees lose themselves in his gaze.

Navigating the lanes took effort, and I nearly lost my way back, mistaking one identical shop for another while trying to retrieve my juttis. The small confusion felt fitting for Vrindavan — a town where divine playfulness extends even into mundane moments.

Evening Reflections: A City That Chooses You

As I walked back, the sound of kirtans filled the streets. Monks from ISKCON sang “Hare Krishna” in unison, their cymbals echoing through the festive air. Shops and homes glittered in Diwali lights, and everyone greeted one another with a gentle “Radhe Radhe.”

Some places you plan to visit; others seem to summon you. Vrindavan, I realised, had chosen me for this long weekend — to remind me that faith isn’t always about ritual. Sometimes, it’s about rhythm, stillness, and surrender in a place where every corner hums with devotion.

A road trip to Vrindavan: Of Chance Journeys and Quiet Realisations

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Do places choose us, or do we choose them? I’m not a psychic, but that question kept circling in my mind as I drove down to Vrindavan. I am not someone who visits temples often—especially the crowded ones that feel more like fairs than places of prayer. So, why was I headed there?

Diwali falls on Monday this year, making it a long weekend. Having just returned from a Durga Puja break, I had no plans. But as friends and colleagues began sharing theirs, the idea of doing something started tugging at me. I almost decided on Benaras, until I realized that if I went there, I would have to travel on Diwali day just to reach the office by Tuesday. That didn’t feel right.

And so, without much deliberation, the plan seemed to make itself. Saturday morning, coffee in hand, I casually searched for short drives from Delhi—and just like that, Vrindavan and Mathura appeared on my screen. A few clicks later, the hotel was booked. By Sunday morning, I was on the road.

Leaving Delhi and Gurugram behind, I cruised along the Delhi–Vadodara–Mumbai Expressway before turning onto the Western Peripheral Expressway and then NH44. The road stretched out smooth and bright, flanked by bursts of bougainvillea in pink and orange. There was even a man with his pet monkey performing tricks by the roadside. The blanket-sellers confirmed what I already felt in the breeze—that summer had finally loosened its grip.

Less than three hours later, I reached Vrindavan. My first greeting: “Radhe Radhe.” Here, Krishna is not just worshipped—He is woven into every breath, every sound, every conversation.

After a short rest, I took an e-rickshaw to explore. My first stop was the ISKCON temple. Before I got down, the driver advised me to remove my glasses—Vrindavan’s monkeys, he warned, were expert snatchers. As if to prove his point, one sat nearby watching me intently. I quickly slipped my glasses into my purse—a precaution that became routine for the rest of the day.

From ISKCON, I headed toward Kesi Ghat, stopping at Nidhivan on the way.

According to legend, Nidhivan is where Lord Krishna performs his Raas Leela with Radha each night, which is why the grove is closed to visitors after dusk. It is said to hold 16,000 kinds of tulsi plants. My rickshaw driver suggested hiring a guide, but I declined—only to find one walking beside me moments later. After some friendly persuasion, I agreed, and I’m glad I did; the lanes were narrow, winding, and easy to get lost in.

The guide led me through a series of small temples, each echoing with the soft rhythm of bells and chants. One was dedicated to Swami Haridas, a revered devotee of Krishna. By the time we reached there, I had run out of small notes. When I offered a hundred-rupee note instead, the priest smiled and handed me not only charanamrit but also a besan laddoo. I couldn’t help but laugh as I walked away, nibbling on the sweet.

Another memorable stop was the Vrindavan Bihari Dauji Maharaj Temple, its walls covered with marble plaques dedicated by devotees—including one from Lalu Prasad Yadav and Rabri Devi.

As evening approached, I made my way to Kesi Ghat. I’ve always known the Yamuna as a polluted river, so it was a pleasant surprise to see it in better shape. The sky glowed gold and lilac as people around me floated tiny diyas in the water. I joined them, releasing one that drifted gently downstream—a small offering of light.

Nearby, preparations were on for the Sandhya Aarti. I waited for over an hour, watching lamps being arranged, the air thick with anticipation. At one point, the priest scolded a woman for using a plastic plate under her diya. “If we think only of faith and not of nature,” he said, “then our prayers will bear no fruit.” His words struck me as profoundly true—for perhaps that’s the only way India’s rivers can be saved.

After another half hour of waiting, the Aarti still hadn’t begun, and I finally decided to return.

On the way back, the soundscape of Vrindavan surrounded me—kirtans from nearby temples, devotees quietly counting rosaries as they walked, and everywhere, the soft greeting of “Radhe Radhe.”

In that moment, I realized: perhaps we don’t choose places. Maybe they choose us when we need them most.

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: 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.

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.

Walking Through Time: Mehrauli Archaeological Park

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Delhi is often said to be a city of seven historical cities, each founded by different rulers and woven together to form the capital as we know it. Among them, Lal Kot or Qila Rai Pithora is believed to be the first city of Delhi, located in present-day Mehrauli.

This Sunday, I joined a walk by Enroute Indian History inside the Mehrauli Archaeological Park. Spread across undulating terrain, the park houses nearly 55 archaeological monuments—some documented, others fading into obscurity, their stories lost to time.

Jamali Kamali Mosque & Tomb

Our walk began at the Jamali Kamali mosque, dedicated to Shaikh Fazlullah, also known as Jamali—a courtier of Sikander Lodhi who later fought and died for Humayun.

Beside the mosque lies a locked chamber, believed to be the resting place of Jamali and Kamali. The identity of Kamali is cloaked in folklore; some accounts call him Jamali’s beloved. Both are said to be buried together in this compound, a rare tale of intimacy and companionship from medieval Delhi.

The land itself was a grant from Sikander Lodhi, and the mosque reflects syncretic architecture—kalash motifs, inverted lotuses, and temple-like details—likely owing to local craftsmen more used to building temples.

Rajon ki Baoli

Next, we descended into the quiet depths of Rajon ki Baoli, a stepwell built in 1510 by Daulat Khan, the military commander of Ibrahim Lodhi. History records that it was this very Daulat Khan who invited Babur to India, setting the stage for the Mughal dynasty.

The four-storey stepwell is flanked by rooms used for bathing and washing, fitted with terracotta pipe outlets that ensured fresh water circulation. Yet, curiously, the baoli is not remembered by its builder’s name. Instead, after Partition, it became home to raj mistris (masons), and so the name Rajon ki Baoli endured.

Dilkhusha: Metcalfe’s Retreat

We then arrived at the picturesque ruins of Dilkhusha, once the country house of Sir Thomas Metcalfe, a civil servant of the East India Company and agent of the Governor General at Bahadur Shah Zafar’s court.

The first structure is a quaint boat house, curiously perched atop a Lodhi-era tomb. Though Metcalfe’s residence was later dismantled to restore the tomb, traces of its outer walls remain. From here, one can glimpse the soaring silhouette of the Qutub Minar.

The estate was built around the tomb of Muhammad Quli Khan, the foster brother of Emperor Akbar. Like many Mughal-era tombs, it was repurposed into a colonial residence, perhaps to establish distance between the ruling elite and the ordinary people.

The complex also houses what was once described as a “honeymoon suite”, complete with a fireplace and private pool. Today, it functions as a small museum, but in its day, it was rented out as a luxurious retreat.

Echoes of a Forgotten Past

Much of the park lies in decay, its walls slowly surrendering to time and nature. Yet a walk here feels like time travel—through the Sultanate, the Mughals, and the British Raj—when Mehrauli was alive with kings, saints, travelers, and storytellers.

It is a reminder that Delhi is not just a capital city but a palimpsest of civilizations, each layer shaping its destiny.

History at Krishna’s Doorstep

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Do most people love hoarding things? Even the ones that don’t work anymore? I certainly do. But space is finite, and eventually, sentiment has to bow to practicality.

One casualty of this weekend’s decluttering was my old point-and-shoot camera — long kaput, yet faithfully carried through every house shift. In its final moments, it gave me a parting gift: an SD card with forgotten photographs.

They took me back almost a decade, to a time when my mother and I were enthusiastic long-weekend travelers. And to one trip in particular — to Krishnanagar in West Bengal — born out of nothing less than maternal blackmail.

Blackmail in the Name of Travel

The culprit? My mother. The crime? Forcing me — almost at gunpoint — to accompany her to Mayapur, ISKCON’s headquarters. Her partner, my aunt.

Never keen on religious tourism, I dug deep for excuses. She countered with an irresistible teaser: “There’s more to Mayapur than just ISKCON.” And as they say — “Tujhe sab he pata hai, na Ma.”

A little research revealed that the area was steeped in history. Soon, my resistance melted into curiosity.

The Journey Begins

Mayapur lies at the confluence of the Ganges and Jalangi rivers, in West Bengal’s Nadia district, about 130 km from Kolkata. It’s near Navadwip, the seat of Vaishnavism, and is considered the birthplace of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, regarded as Krishna’s incarnation.

We booked ISKCON guesthouse rooms through their Kolkata office, checked in, and immediately set off for our first stop: Palashi — better known as Plassey.

Palashi — Where History Changed Hands

On June 23, 1757, Palashi witnessed the Battle of Plassey — a turning point in Indian history. Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah’s forces fell to Robert Clive’s East India Company, paving the way for British dominance in Bengal and eventually the subcontinent.

Arriving at the site, we found nothing but green fields. A paan shop owner confirmed, “Yes, the battle was fought here… but now we grow crops.” No plaques, no elaborate memorials — just paddy swaying in the wind.

My driver refused to let the anticlimax stand. Guided by an elderly local, we eventually found a small, plain monument marking the spot. For a battle that altered India’s destiny, the simplicity was striking.

Krishnanagar — Churches, Palaces, and Clay Dolls

From Palashi, we headed to Krishnanagar. Our first stop: the Roman Catholic Church — an elegant cathedral housing 27 oil paintings depicting the life of Jesus Christ, alongside intricate wooden sculptures by Italian artists.

Catholic missionaries arrived in the region as early as the 17th century, and the current church was built in 1899 by Bishop Frances Pozzi.

The mood shifted when we visited the Rajbari of Raja Krishna Chandra Rai. Once a royal showpiece, the palace now serves as a parking lot and fairground. The grandeur has faded, its arches and courtyards bearing the scars of neglect.

Ghurni, however, brought back the charm. This neighbourhood remains a hub for Krishnanagar clay dolls, a tradition championed by Raja Krishna Chandra himself. The lifelike figurines, some no taller than a thumb, seemed to hold entire stories in their painted expressions.

Ballal Dhipi — Unearthing the Past

The next day took us to Ballal Dhipi in Bamunpukur village — a 30-foot-high mound spread over 1,300 square feet. Excavated in the 1980s, it revealed a massive brick complex, stucco heads, terracotta figurines, and copper utensils — dating as far back as the 8th–9th centuries, with later structures attributed to the 12th-century Sena dynasty ruler, Ballal Sen.

Standing there, with the wind carrying whispers of centuries past, it felt like touching the layered skin of Bengal’s history.

A Line on the Map

On our way back to Kolkata, a roadside sign brought a geographic surprise: “You are now crossing the Tropic of Cancer.” Not many trips let you straddle history and geography in the same breath.

And Mayapur?

That tale will need another trip — and another story.

As for this one, the blackmail was worth it. My mother loved the historical detour, even if she missed the spiritual one she had planned. And I walked away with a camera full of memories I’d only rediscover years later.