Tomb of Ibrahim Khan Lodi in Panipat

These weathered metal sculptures of medieval warriors and a large artillery carriage, supposedly celebrate Mughal victory over Sultan Lodi in the First Battle of Panipat, 1526. 

In tatters, rusted and ill-maintained, today these sculptures are in a pathetic condition. The hands of two warriors are broken, while the turret of the artillery gun lies damaged on the ground; they look morose and tired. Maintained by the Municipal Corporation of Panipat (MCP, is their acronym), the park itself is unclean and in a sad condition. Considering the fact that this is the tomb of Ibrahim Lodi the last Sultan of Delhi, couldn’t it have been maintained better.

Ibrahim Lodi, the last ruler of his dynasty – a draconian king, rests here in the soil of Panipat. His open to sky tomb is on a double platform at a park in Tehsil Camp. The tomb, marked by a rectangular grave on a raised platform, was built using Lakhauri bricks. An inscription on a niche near the grave declares that it was repaired and restored by the British in 1867 AD. 

There must be something special about the plains of Panipat that it saw three major battles – the First Battle of Panipat was fought on April 21, 1526, between last ruler of Delhi Sultanate Ibrahim Khan Lodi and the Mughal Zahir-ud-din Babur. Ibrahim Lodi, the was killed in this battle. Babur used his artillery to emerge as the victor.

The Second Battle of Panipat was fought on November 5, 1556, between Akbar (under Bairam Khan) and Hemu Vikramditya, the last Hindu emperor of Delhi during which an arrow struck Hemchander in the eye causing his army to retreat, following which Akbar won the battle.

The Third Battle of Panipat was fought on January 14, 1761, between the Marathas led by Sadashivrao Bhau and Ahmad Shah Abdali. The Marathas suffered a devastating defeat in this battle.

Though the sign outside the park says it is Protected Monument of National Importance, the fact remains that there was not one attendant in or around the Tomb. The main gate was locked and parked inside the gate was a garbage collecting cart beyond which was a big waste dump of leaves and other junk material. I wondered what is the purpose of the double level circular platform from which one couldn’t see more than 200 meters ahead. Groups of people were seen smoking and playing cards inside. Someone had left washed clothes to dry on the grass; food and leftovers were scattered in another corner while the entire grass patch was littered with cigarette butts, bidi stubs and empty matchboxes. A matchbox named after a leader lay there in dirt under an Ashoka plant.

From a distance it looked like any other children’s playground with plastic-ki slides and swings though partially broken and dirty. As usual it was ill-maintained, unkempt, with garbage and waste dumped around. But for the blue ASI sign you would miss the tomb easily. The main gate to the so called ‘monument’ is permanently locked which faces an open sewage drain that spreads the stink for meters ahead. In the narrow side lane cars and scooters are parked of the residential habitat touching it. The side gate to the tomb/park is designed for hurdle race practice that can only be cleared by athletic bodies – possibly keeping in mind the Lodis or the Mughals.

‘Mughal Sarai’ of Gharaunda

Gharaunda sounds like a dainty toyhouse or a dollhouse-like nest, offering the safety of a mother’s hug. I wonder who named this small town in Karnal district as Gharaunda—a town desperately trying to unhinge itself from its past and join the mainstream madness of our stunted cities. Located on NH44, the town is choking not only with dense habitation and heavy traffic but also with the petroleum fumes that permeate its air. 

Nearly 400 years ago, the Tughlaqs, the Lodis, and then the Mughals cleared part of the dense jungle to create a road connecting Bengal to Afghanistan and from there to Uzbekistan, Iran and beyond. Along the road they built Kos Minars, piaos, and Sarais. While some of the Kos Minars still survive, most of the sarais have scummbed to time or illegal occupation. 

One dazzling Sarai defied all and has stood tall through the centuries – in fact it looks as fresh as the day its three stories were constructed. It is one of the finest examples of decorative brick structures that have survived the test of time and the onsualght of expanding urban areas. 

The ‘Mughal Sarai,’ as it is called, is a protected monument under the Archaeological Survey of India, though it is ill-maintained. A narrow lane leads to the vibrantly amazing structure; however, the front facade of which can’t be seen or photographed in totality because there is very little depth available. Crane your neck hard to see the tall circular turrets on each end of the gateway. The western portion of the Southern gateway, part of which has fallen apart, appears to be an Ebrahim Alkazi theatre set where a Mughal dastan is set to be played.

Built in 1637 AD by Feroz Khan during the reign of Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan, this quadrangular Sarai (rest house) naturally came to be named after the Mughals. The historic site of Gharaunda, where the Sarai stands, also served as a campsite for Babur prior to the First Battle of Panipat. 

Today, two of these three-story gateways still stand within the area, positioned roughly 100 metres apart along the remains of the Northern and Southern walls. Constructed from traditional Lakhauri bricks, these structures feature an enclosed design with cells lining all four sides of the quadrangle. The surviving gateways are highly ornate, decorated with intricate panels, balconies, rounded towers, and angular flutes.

A must visit site if you are passing by Karnal or surrounding areas.

Ma and my school

Ma escorted me to school ‘only’ on days when one of my shenanigans crossed the limits of discipline and I had to be reprimanded by everyone, including her. Recalling conversations with Ma, Rajni made this poignant pencil drawing of the most gentle human connection: a bond of trust and protection that she conveyed every time she held my hand irrespective of my mischiefs. Who will accompany me to school now that Ma has been gone?

Ma escorting me to school
Ma escorting me to school, as visualised by Rajni

On Ashok Pande’s बीस प्रेम कवितायेँ

Sometime in 1972 (a year after the Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to Pablo Neruda), an Indian artist named Vivan Sundaram met him in Chile. Although Neruda was expected to visit Mexico (where Vivan was) around that time, for some reason  he couldn’t. A committed Communist, Vivan returned to India the next year and created a series of pen-and-ink drawings of Neruda’s poem The Heights of Machu Picchu. These artworks were exhibited in the Faculty of Arts at Delhi Unviersity. I learnt about the exhibition much later, around ’77 or ’78, when I was studying Neruda at DU. As life or luck would have it, Safdar Hashmi brought Vivan Sundaram face-to-face with me. Sometime in the year 2000 Sahmat digitally reproduced those artworks together with lines from the poem. I was lucky Vivan asked me to design the posters, but that is not the reason I am writing to you, nor am I attempting to show off.

Reading your amazing Hindi translations of Neruda’s love poems my mind kept returning to that major poem, The Heights of Machu Picchu, which, while being political, social, and revolutionary in nature also contains powerful elements of love. I wonder why you didn’t include that poem in your anthology? How else would one define the lines… “the lightning unleashed by a kiss” and “my nuptial homeland” from the poem as anything other than love and to an extent even erotic? Thanks none the less for this wonderful wonderful work “of art”. My favourite of your translation is लिख सकता हूँ आज की रात (Tonight I can write) – मैं उसे और प्यार नहीं करता, ये तय है, पर कितना प्यार उसे मैंने किया – I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her. Feeling sad why didn’t i order this book before.

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​The Guardians of Dabwali on the Road to Suratgarh

Her name is Raksha Kaur. She stands firm, guarding her precious corner at the tri-junction of Haryana, Punjab, and Rajasthan along NH 54 in Dabwali. In a corner of her house, Raksha runs a tiny store selling ‘Maniyari’ items; maniyari roughly translates to cosmetics and jewellery for women. Face cream, powder, lipstick, plastic pearl strings, rings with colourful stones, ear tops and cheap plastic toys sit on a sagging cot. Across her house two large banyan trees, older than Raksha, stand guard over her brick house and provide much-needed shade in this near-desert land. As a light drizzle and a cool breeze make for a pleasant drive, we witness a quieter battle unfolding at this bustling cross-roads.

Here, Raksha’s son, Pappu Khatri, runs a rudimentary tea stall on a prime plot of land. It is a piece of history; Raksha’s husband bought these 500 yards back in 1955 for the then-princely sum of ninety rupees. Decades later, when the highway cut through their property, more than half of their house was acquired, leaving them with a meagre compensation of just 5,000 rupees. Now, the real-estate mafia eyes the remaining land – prime corner property on the highway. The mother and son are currently battling a court case built on fictitious claims designed to dislodge them. Armed only with meagre resources but boundless resilience, this feisty duo refuses to back down.

Leaving Dabwali behind, the countryside opens up into amazing vistas as the excellent highway stretches toward Hanumangarh and Suratgarh. We are heading to meet my ailing aunt, but our journey will also take us deep into the past at Kalibangan. This 4,000-year-old site was once a provincial capital of the Indus Valley Civilization, perched on the left bank of the now-dried-up Ghaggar River. Today, this seasonal, monsoon-fed river has changed its course, flowing 50 km further west along a firm bund that stretches from Himachal Pradesh before finally terminating in the sands of the Thar Desert.

Once summer gives way to the monsoon and a cooler breeze flows over this rugged land I will come back and spend a day or two with these people to learn more about their lives and write a story about them. Till then, take care, Raksha ji and Pappu Khatri. The tea was precisely to my taste, deliciou​s – for which Pappu Khatri refused to take money.