Categories
Slices from Life

Embracing the Earth and Sky…

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Saadat Ali Khan’s tomb. Photo Courtesy: Prithvijeet Sinha

In Lucknow, there’s a peculiar yet quintessential fascination with preserving the dead, ensuring that monuments to revere them are not only easy on the eyes but also constructed with a certain soulfulness. The sublime, inevitable poetry of mortality is hence the reason why multiple Imambaras and Maqbaras (resting places and tombs) eulogise the architects of a region that led the charge by invigorating secularism, architecture and employment to the masses.

The stunning Saadat Ali Khan tomb testifies to all these features with poignant grace till this present era. Built by Ghazi-ud-Din Haider, the crowned King of Awadh in the early years of the 19th century in memory of his father, the eponymous Nawab Wazir of Awadh, Saadat Ali Khan, it was a palace of refined craftsmanship that took on the sombre hues of remembrance and eternal memory by being rebuilt as a tomb. Such is the fervour of familial legacies. Those eternal memories of wives and children now rest in the vaults that have been preserved in the inner chamber of the structure in its rear end.

On his part, Ghazi-ud-Din Haider (1769-1827) was a man of poise and taste. But he was also operating at a time when colonial powers were shareholders of Awadh as much as any other part of the country. Being a ruler may have been as much a nominal position for him as it was for his father, Yameen-ud Daula Saadat Ali Khan II Bahadur (1752 – 1814). But they both walked on common ground as they ensured that administrative duties fuelled by colonial interests didn’t usurp the spirit of their homeland. Lucknow was much more to Ghazi-ud-Din Haider and his father than just a city. Hence, their architectural aesthetics came into play to build a monumental legacy. If father Saadat Ali Khan was the mind who gave Lucknow a large number of memorable monuments between the city’s fabled Kaiserbagh and Dilkusha corridor then son Ghazi was no flash in the pan himself. The majestic Chattar Manzil, the quietly captivating Vilayati Bagh (built in memory of his beloved English wife Mary Short/ Padshah Begum) and the impressive Shah Najaf Imambara (modelled after the holy Shia site of Najaf in Iran) are all beholden to his vision. They all occupy pivotal central areas of the city today and are a visitors’ delight. He was also the pioneer behind a printing press, employing English and local scholars who were versed in multiple languages and enriched his court with the compilation of an extensive Persian dictionary.

Saadat Ali Khan’s Tomb extends his legacy, it’s a stunning architectural design of a palace turned resting place for dearly departed retaining Lucknow’s exquisite stamp. The magnificent dome, arches, unbridled calligraphy of designs, decorative motifs and the pillars echo with two hundred years and more of all that the structure represents. The distinctive wash of yellow, brown and sometimes bleached lemon in the building are all captivating to discerning eyes. Under this dome and the parapets, one walks in circles and picks up the nuances of beauty that surround it. Chief among them being huge windows framed with nets, galloping squirrels and various potted plants covering the expanse.

Even more wonderful is the tomb of Mursheer Zadi, Saadat Ali Khan’s beloved wife, that stands parallel to his tomb. With its similarly constructed structure and darker tones, the confluence of dome, spires, parapets, inner chamber and decorative motifs become breathtaking. If the morning reveals these structures as enchanting dual partners, afternoons suffuse them with a time-honoured glow while the evenings bathe them with shades of devotion to this cityscape.

Visitors people the verandahs that surround it. At the Saadat Ali Khan Tomb and Garden, we relive the permanence of smiling flowers, the majestic architecture and the surreal power of its mystique. It’s a structure that seems to literally rise out of the earth and court the sky in reverence to both. We, in turn, understand its juxtapositions of mortality and muted grandeur as die-hard Lucknawis.

As scaffolds populate the tombs and restoration work ensures more renewed glint for its overall structure in the new year as also for its neighbouring Chattar Manzil, this site becomes the classical storyteller it has always been. Its saga is continuous, eternal. Its haunting understories are as soaked in legends and myths as is the wonderful city of Lucknow. The dead don’t just rest in peace here, they converse in whispers that become the wind and birdcalls.

Photo Courtesy: Prithvijeet Sinha

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Musings

Bibapur Mansion: A Vintage Charmer

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Writing about Lucknow’s fabled monuments has set me free to regurgitate images and feelings (‘ehsaas‘ as the Urdu equivalent goes) that call for effusive recollections. When the praxis of location and travel stand side by side, words flow out of the material foundations of structures that court our instant awe. Another fabled monument that rewrites the architectural-historical continuum of Awadh in that admirable vein is Bibiapur Kothi (Mansion); there’s just something sturdy about its presence in one of the most beautifully quiet corners of the cityscape.

Blessed by the legendary aesthetic choices of Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula, one of the most prominent architects of Lucknow, and built by architect Antoine Polier and his dedicated team in the latter part of the 18th Century, Bibiapur Kothi is a vision of grandeur. Legend has it that it was a favourite country retreat for the Nawabs as well as a centre for another arcane ritual from the past — hunting.

Like it always happens, visiting this site is like opening a door and entering the mystifying corridors of a past that can never be replicated. The neo-classical architectural style itself is easy on the eyes as spacious arches, halls, high roofs and round pillars — hypnotic ballasts of extreme strength – mesmerize the visitor. An enchanting spiral staircase divides this space into two storeys while the halls and Greek columns, beautifying its iconic exteriors, make us hark back to the glory days of interracial socialization that prevailed here. Lakhauri[1]betweenbricks and majestic stones’ sturdy network further arrests our undivided attention.

Imagine the masked balls, coronations (such as that of Saadat Ali Khan as the legend goes) and exquisite mehfils (musical/ poetic congregations) marked this mansion and its prominence for both for the native and colonial understanding of Awadh’s sensibilities, particularly Lucknow as the harbinger of urban sophistication.

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Even for a modern traveller who can visualise yesteryears’ customs and etiquettes, the place is like a replica for the way the people lived and loved the essence of Lucknow. One can hear the hooves of equestrian sentinels guiding elaborate carriages, imagine a nawab reminiscing of a beloved while beholding the moon from the second floor and guests spread out under these roofs and occupying the hall, deep in conversations that could make or break the cultural sphere of influence tied intimately to regional politics. So, it’s natural that the more credulous storytellers still believe in this space holding fort for ghostly travellers who, it seems, just can’t escape the thrilling sensibilities of this particular realm.

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Bibiapur Mansion is a visual delight. Its current locational axis generates awe for discerning visitors. Today, one has to take a straight drive from the Dilkusha corridor and nestled within the cantonment area beyond an old railway line is this architectural wonder. An army sentry guides us further as we enter the gateway and a world of trees, vegetation, cricket’s unified whispers, quarters and a granary beholden to the cantonment board fall in the pathway. Everything has old-world charm. The passage invites to the visitor like a transcendent experience. Surrounded by ancient trees, some with beautiful forms and thickets relaying the permanence of this area’s timelessness, is this fabled monument.

Sunlight lights up its walls and every now and then a langur(monkey) sprawling his long tail stands guard over the gates. The staircases, spacious compound, arched entryway and the glory of the Greek columns touched by the inimitable mix of lakhauri and current-day refurbishments awe us.

Here at Bibiapur Mansion, everything has a presence. Everything is accessible and iconic. In the absence of noise and marked by surfeits of wonder, we travel to the past while celebrating the immediate moments that brought us to this place.

Here, History and Wonder never sleep for long. Rather they awaken a new sentience.

Photograph by Prithvijeet Sinha

[1]Lime paint and plaster

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Musings

By the Banks of the Beautiful Gomti…

Prithvijeet Sinha muses…with his narrative and his camera

The chronology of monuments and historical continuum in Lucknow are affixed to the Nawabi realm, tales of opulence and benevolence or narratives that pivot around the First War of Independence in 1857 and its enduring imprints. All of these features mark the city. But they can also become dog-eared markers and signifiers that can prevent one from looking at modern marvels.

That being said, the most serene corner of Lucknow has yet to complete a full decade of its existence but has already become an indispensable part of the cityscape buoyed by nature and beautiful landscaping. For if mortal hands gave shape to beautiful, everlasting monuments of Awadh, modern visions have given the city the Gomti Riverfront Park.

Situated at the heart of the city just before unveiling the expanse of Gomti Nagar and intersected by Hazratganj and Cantonment on its primary stretch, it complements the River Gomti’s function as the city’s lifeline with remarkable fervour. It is easily accessible and is a personification of the natural beauty that Lucknow exemplifies for millions. In fact, in the current day and age, it serves as a common unifier for those many faces who visit it for leisure or as regular joggers, walkers and wanderers.

It has consistently maintained its pruned gardens, verdant slopes leading to its open avenues and the trees and plants cover this stretch. It’s not just about the idea of exemplary maintenance, the river is near some classical monuments facing it such as the Ambedkar Park, the majestic La Martiniere Boys College and the gorgeous Dilkusha Bridge. All this is already set in motion as rolling fountains, little dome-shaped pavilions serving as seating spaces and the red stone walls on its upper reaches welcome the visitor.

On a deeply personal level, Gomti Riverfront Park has something that leaves one swooning. It’s about the way the gardens are spread out, the song of the sparrows that can often be spotted here on some rare occasions and how the gulmohars shed their red flowers, leaving footprints of earthly vermilion as one takes a reprieve and beholds mynas with miles of yellow eyeline perched atop navy-blue lamps navigating left and right.

On many mornings in monsoon, I have been saved by the protection of the trees here and tasted the rain on my tongue. I have watched sprinklers rise like a spray of rejuvenation on the grass as a pretty wooden seat or those painted in green look on. I have seen joggers initiating a tryst with good health here, cyclists enjoy the joy evinced by these stretches and others practicing yoga to the soundtrack of birdsongs and rustling winds. I have felt myself breaking free from mundane rhythms and anxieties while traversing its meaningful miles and have composed many pivotal poems inspired by its imagery hence solidifying my omnibus of individuality in conjunction with the cityscape.

The Riverfront Park gives silence and tranquil charms in droves and moves far away from the urban bustle so that the green cover and unrestricted steps stretching all the way to the fabled Dilkusha Bridge dispenses with the conventional crowds and makes one experience true serenity.

There are many landmarks like Bibiapur Mansion, Vilayati Bagh a little far ahead. So, history wraps it all around but never to smother its unique identity. Marking the riverfront as a hub of activity and interior space for soaking nature’s humble bounties, this park has so much to offer all at once.  It marks the chronology of water and its neighbourhood of riches in the heart of Lucknow.

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Essay

Where No One Wins or Loses a War…From Lucknow with Love

Narratives and photographs by Prithvijeet Sinha

Talking about Vilayati Bagh as being an isolated cousin among the many gardens and monuments of Lucknow would be feasible given its elusive nature. I say elusive because it is nestled in the lush environs of the cantonment area and forested canopy that lies ahead of Dilkusha Palace which is one of the city’s many frequently visited wonders. Within this canopy lies Vilayati Bagh, “Vilayati”(foreign) referring in no small terms to not only a colonial past but also the stark fact that it is home to three tombs of erstwhile British officers who perished in the high noons of 1857’s First War of Independence. It was only a year ago that I, myself, had the opportunity to go there for the very first time. But that March morning changed everything. I have been there twice already to revel in its tranquility.

Its history is quite like other gardens and leisure spots of Awadh. It was built in the earlier parts of 19th Century by Ghazi Ud-Din Haider[1], the Nawab of Awadh, as a gift for his beloved European consort. During the revolt of 1857, it fell prey to shellings and other bombardments. But like most of Lucknow’s quintessential monuments, the spirit of renaissance did not elude it for long. In the present day, it is still tucked away in its quiet corner, slumbering and awakening for discerning eyes (and minds) who go there to capture crucial echoes of its unique identity.

Flanked by the Gomti close by and a cemetery in the middle of a spacious compound, the property begins its enchanting passage as one takes a straight drive (or walk) from Dilkusha Palace, approaches Kendriya Vidyalaya and then continues to move ahead to encounter a railway crossing, opposite which lies the cantonment granary, quarters and the grand and haunting Bibiapur Kothi. Taking a left turn from that location brings one to the verdure of old, huge trees, a moderately spacious road and pleasant sounds of cicadas and birds. In this pithy journey to Vilayati Bagh, the feeling of time-traveling to a gracious era of architectural elegance comes into sight the moment we reach its immediate premises. A beautiful Sufi dargah bathed in impressive green lies on the left and a few moderate homes of those who probably maintain this compound meet us.

Then the real journey begins. A sophisticated sense of the building blocks of this elusive garden are elucidated by its brown- yellow, almost auburn walls. The lakhauri[2] paint and plaster give it luster on a sunny day. These ramparts retain their history of age, war and past reckonings. Yet it’s the sun that designs their colour schemes in the most sublime shades.  Archeological Survey of India has restored its lost glory in recent years and the result is there for all to see.

The boundary walls have a sturdy presence and are enclosed by arrow-shaped iron structures painted in pleasant brown. As one explores the interiors of the garden compound, little monoliths, corrugated outer flanks that look like barracks emerge, the exposed bricks red and pink in their sublimity of skin tones. A Y-shaped drain also flanks them. There is an aura of extraordinary peace all around. This isn’t meant to be a tourist spot. This is the one for aesthetes and true aficionados of history. The mind wanders and is arrested by trees whose branches are shaped like pitchforks.

A dargah (miniature Sufi shrine) greets one at the outer end of the compound while a majestic gulmohar tree seems to appear like a tall fellow wearing red scarves. Arches and domes subsist in this sturdy network of walls.

The saga of Vilayati Bagh is one of beauty but the starkness of its melancholy is evident in the cemeteries that lie in a little distance from the main gateway. They belong to fallen English soldiers Henry P. Garvey, Captain W. Helley Hutchinson and Sergeant S. Newman. These tombs are made in the image of a wide basin, crypts depicting that no one side can win or lose a war. Everybody has formidable stakes, and the dead don’t preach the gospel of victory or sombre defeat. Flanking these resting places are miniature pavilions with domes; they are surrounded by white rectangles made from cloth supported by twigs — sobering symbols of lives lost and the unpredictable designations of mortality.

Despite this unique mixture of melancholy and beauty, sobriety reigns. Of course, the obvious euphoria of discovery overrides every other emotion. Lucknow is a city that lives and breathes in such possibilities where a monument or elusive corner of its expanse can prompt an awakening for its discerning residents. Going further than the limitations imposed by acquired knowledge is always a source of deeper reckoning. This garden that houses nature and ghosts of mortality in its inner sanctum gives me another reason to keep my curiosity intact.

[1] Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar Shah (1769-1827), The first King of Oudh and the last Nawab Wazir of Oudh. He started a line of kingship which ended with the exile of Wajid Ali Shah(1822-1887).

[2] Traditional natural ingredients, often dyes or pastes from plants, used for coating buildings in Lucknow

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Essay

This Garden Calls Out to Me: A Flaneur in Lucknow’s Sikandar Bagh

Photographs and Narrative by Prithvijeet Sinha

Sikandra Bagh

What if I tell you that History is my neighbour? It would sound like hyperbole to a lay person. But if you are a resident of the historic and expansively beautiful urban area of Hazratganj that is the heart of the city, it will seem a shorthand for reflections in time.

Hazratganj is a state of mind, not only a piece of land stretching across kilometres and hosting the best that humanity has to offer, whether natural or man-made, including the Imambaras, gardens and riverfronts and gateways that define Lucknow as also the mass of commercial institutions, cultural centres and culinary establishments elevating its profile as a diverse area of activity.

In this beautiful centre of a glorious city lives yours truly and one of the most evocative of the historic gardens dotting Hazratganj also happens to be a mere five-minute walk from his home. I’m talking about Sikandar Bagh, a garden complex that is a sight for sore eyes and retains history in its structure, with lime yellow walls of lakhauri[1], a beautiful gateway bearing the city’s fabled fish symbol and a pagoda style arch signifying the melange of influences in its multidimensional whole.

The domes and ramparts retain the haunting afterglow of history but also the dark days that led to its tragic unraveling.

Built around the mid 1840s by Nawab Wajid Ali Shah[2], the great aesthete and ruler of Lucknow, Sikandar Bagh was a private residence, a garden of elegance and a performance art venue made to honour his love for Sikandar Begum, his beloved wife. The intimacy of this saga of love and mutual respect shared between two life-partners is reflected in the way the place comes alive for any visitor. There’s nothing grand here. Yet there’s the gift of verdure, the protection of huge, dome-like trees and remnants of the original structure that reminds us of a place preserved in its handsome inception and prevalence down the ages.

But Sikandar Bagh is a cultural outlier because apart from its blessed beginnings and present serene state, it had also been scarred by the First War of Independence in 1857[3]. This was the site that was used by sepoys of Awadh (a hallowed title for the region comprising Lucknow and its neighbouring districts that continues to this date) to mount their rebellion against British supremacy. This was a private garrison and hiding place in those erstwhile days of November 1857 where the plotting of a historic rebellion took place. History was not kind to the rebels, and nearly all were slain by the colonial establishment. Knowing that the serenity here could hold so much ballast in its open space makes one ponder. To know about this is to understand that we are progeny of these brave and the remains of the walls facing this garden and continuing up till the Shahnajaf Imambara seem to take the toll of all that bloodshed and hurt that lies embedded within these bricks.

Of course, knowing the background is imperative but so is being inured to its beauty. I am an eternal walker, a flaneur, so for me Sikandar Bagh has been a favourite place to revel in the humbling and aesthetic aspects of Lucknow. Sikandar Bagh befits my desire to saunter and take in the bouquet of nature.

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It’s been my morning ritual to be comforted by the breeze, swayed and lulled to satisfaction with the lullaby of the trees within its compound and behold a distant beehive in the tallest Goliath among these ancient trees, looking at nestling birds and squirrels in the lower branches of their trunks.

As I write this after a brief stroll in this garden on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, the summer seems to have been evoked to spread its sunny yellow carpet with mellow repose instead of scorching us with humid darts and blows.

The thing with Sikandar Bagh is that history is alive here but also a natural companion. Always the silent, sturdy type, an occasional morning walker or casual passers-by make for rare sights inside its premises in the early hours. It always makes me feel like the chosen one, allowed to roam its length and breadth, making it a regular haunt.

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A lot of times while going from one place to another, I see young people seated on its green benches, relieving themselves of their pressures and sometimes enjoying a quiet meal here. I also look at people who, besotted by its unique beauty and structure, walk leisurely and photograph its stretches.  Their eyes register the special place it holds for them.

Today, Sikandar Bagh is overseen by the Archeological Survey of India. Around early 2022, it commissioned a refurbishment that restored its walls, ramparts with the lakhauri , a far cry from the concrete jungle that is an urban reality in the modern era.

It always comes down to these columns, frescoes, ramparts, a humble mosque within this secular compound, the pavilion signifying what once was an open theatre and the palatial remains, all blended in the unique textures and colours of centuries; worn out by time but never denuded of glory, a stark yet humbling reminder that Sikandar Bagh is a labour of love. Writing this, I am enchanted by its gateway’s peacock iconography, how they seem to call out to the actual birds who visit from the neighbouring Botanical Gardens premises facing this little slice of verdure and architectural wonder.

I inhale the sights, simultaneously rattled by the annoyance of traffic outside its main gate intruding upon its peculiar, unique position within the heart of the city. Yet I know it’s sealed by a dignified reserve, as if these domes and the gateway spell quietude and ubiquity like the red eyes of the pigeons flying near the roof and peering down its height.

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Honeybees on the tallest trees here go from the nectar of one season to the next and the sun shades this compound in moods invoking the spirit of a poet in me. It’s so easy to be wrapped in the peace and calm of this open space and its historical representation, so easy to know that creative inspiration fed by such a pleasant source is far from just a fictional device. It is a living, breathing ally to diurnal times.

Being in the lap of nature within cities can be a novel intervention. But my love affair with Sikandar Bagh – my own paradise — never waits for a distinct memento. It came to be from a place of love. It is my composite love for it that makes it stand out.

[1] lime paint and plaster

[2] Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was the eleventh and last nawab of Awadh. His kingdom was annexed by the East India Company in 1856 and he was exiled to Kolkata.

[3] Revolt of 1857: The sepoys – Hindus and Muslims – rose united in rebellion against the British Raj. As a result, the British adopted the weapon of Divide and Rule successfully, and the subcontinent continues to be scarred by the fanning of the same flame to this day.

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Review

‘A Journey Beyond Imaginary Borders’

Book review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Miss Samuel: A Jewish Indian Saga

Author: Sheela Rohekar

Translator from Hindi: Madhu Singh

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

India is perhaps the one country where the Jews have maintained their identity without ever being exposed to antisemitism at the hands of their host. Although representing a microscopic segment of the Indian population, the Bene Israel is one of the largest and oldest of the three major Jewish communities of India, the other two being the Cochin Jews of the Malabar Coast and the Baghdadi Jews of Bombay and Calcutta. The Bene Israels arrived at the Konkan coast, shipwrecked, and have lived in India for more than 2,000 years and claim descent from the ten lost tribes of Israel. After they had settled down permanently in the Konkan villages of Western Maharashtra, the Bene Israels were called ‘Shaniwar Telis’ or Saturday oil pressers – a relatively low-caste designation – by the local population because they refrained from working on Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath. Later, they also farmed their land, peddled produce, and took up petty jobs, with the majority working as clerks in government offices and private firms. With time, they adopted Hindu names similar to their Biblical names and took up Marathi surnames such as Rohekar, Penkar, Palkar, and Ashtamkar by adding the suffix ‘-kar’ to the villages and town they came from. They adopted Marathi, the local language, as their mother tongue, and to outsiders, became physically indistinguishable from the local population. But within the village society, the Bene Israels were clearly differentiated from others because they adhered to Judaism. Initially overtones of a caste system coloured the Bene Israelis but they changed with time. Intermarriages between other Jewish communities became common.

With the formation of the nation-state of Israel in 1948, the exodus of the Jews of India took place on a very large scale, and only a few hundred members were left in Gujarat. Initially the integration of the Bene Israels into Israeli society was not easy and many of them returned to India but re-emigrated to Israel later after 1964 when their religious status was finally accepted.

Miss Samuel: A Jewish Indian Saga is written by Sheela Rohekar, a Bene Israel Jew, who is probably the sole-living Jewish Hindi author, and she managed to recreate the distinct identity of her own community. Bearing across life histories of her ancestors, she seeks answers to those questions that troubled her in the novel.  Originally written in Hindi, it is aptly translated into English for the first time by Madhu Singh, a professor of English teaching at the University of Lucknow. The novel is narrated by Miss Seema Samuel, an almost 70-year-old Bene Israel living at an old age home called Parisar on the outskirts of Pune, and it portrays her unsuccessful struggle to fit into a majoritarian Hindu society along with the plight of being an unmarried woman in India. She tells the story of her community, of their trials and tribulations, love and loss, and their longing for ‘Aliyah’ — the return to the Promised Land of Israel. Shifting from the Konkani shores to the bustling streets of Ahmedabad (called Amdavad in the local parlance), and finally to the tranquility of an old-age home, each generation of Seema’s family grapples with the tension between their Jewish faith and Indian identity, struggling with their fear of persecution on the one hand and a yearning for acceptance on the other.

In the novel, apart from giving a macrocosmic view of the Bene Israel community which makes its members victims of isolation and alienation from mainstream Indians, and depicting their ancient history and present status, Sheela Rohekar also very deftly presents the microcosmic view of the extended family of her community along with the problems of cross-cultural liaisons and the problems each individual member of her family faces. She states: “But some images embed themselves in the mind, not in the eyes, and chase you – all your life. The role of time in fusing images is not much but the trick of a fading memory. They light up in a flash!”

Since her narration spans six generations and moves deftly backwards and forwards in time, in some places it becomes difficult for the readers to keep track of who’s who in the narrative and occasionally one must go back to the family tree chart at the beginning to place the characters in their proper perspective.

Miss Seema tells the story of Isaji Eloji, who, having married a Hindu woman named Narayani, is believed to have ‘blackened’ the Jewish name. Two generations later, burdened by his grandfather’s transgression, David Reuben stops at nothing to keep his Jewish identity pure, even poisoning his daughter Lily for loving a non-Jewish man.

Again, years later, his son Samuel David (Miss Seema’s father) finds that his Jewish identity makes him an outsider in his own country; and his grandson, Bobby, faces persecution of the worst kind – when he is murdered by a mob in Ahmedabad. It is through reading the loose notes and a long essay that Bobby had left behind that Seema manages to tell us the background history of their community. With his collection of yellow, crumbling newspaper cuttings about the Jews, old coins, badges, awards, certificates, degrees, and moth-eaten black and white photographs that were around 150 years old, Bobby tried to illuminate the path taken by the fellow members of his community – the Bene Israel, the pardesi, the foreigners – whom the people of Amdavad did not know in the twentieth century and believed to be Maharashtrians or converted Christians. The story of how his brother, David, and his Hindu wife. Jyotsna Prajapati, managed to throw Seema out of their apartment in Gitanjali Society also reminds us about such machinations that prevail in our Indian society in general. Through the different tales, the narrator remains a constant, and her memories commingling the past with the present are deftly handled by the novelist.

Further, Miss Samuel becomes a key novel to understand not only for its Indian-Jewish identity but also its multicultural Indian identity and its challenges in the present time. The old age home, Parisar, is not at all a closed space and it opens to new forms of solidarity among elderly abandoned women who, though belonging to different faiths and identities, abandon their frustration with the twists of patriarchal society to discover the meaning of friendship, love and solidarity.

Seema writes: “The campus where I live is surrounded by hills. There is silence, always. I can see residents of my age, some even older, shuffle from one room to another. Constructed at a distance of two hours from Pune, all stories seem to end up here, in this building.”  Parisar is thus a model of a tolerant society that not only accepts differences but even respects, maintains and transcends them at the same time. The translation is lucid, and the translator labels her endeavour as ‘interpretive performance’ and a journey beyond imaginary borders. A good read indeed.

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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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Categories
Musings

Quiet Flows the Gomti: A Monument of Tranquility 

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Chota Imambara. from Public Domain

A land known and globally recognised for its mannerisms, poetry and an old-world graciousness that never seem to be at odds with the churning that defines our supercilious modern lives, Lucknow is exuberant and mildly attuned to the speed of hurtling motions. Amidst its chaotic hustle of life, the Chota Imambara is like a syncretic island of serenity in the tumult that thrives around it.

Built by Mohammad Ali Shah[1] around 1838 as a religious congregation site, it is both a mausoleum and a monument. This spirited inter-dependence often springs forth from Lucknow’s erstwhile Nawabi realm as in the Chota Imambara. But above all, it offers a tranquility that verges on the sublime, in no small part because of its architecture. A mere five minute walk from the inimitable Bara Imambara, it is adorned with Quranic verses in impeccable calligraphy on its outer walls. Sunlight beams through its surface against the silvery backdrop like a revelation to the senses; the eyes trained to its humble beauty are no less transfixed by it than the other sites on its way, the historic expanse of the Hussainabad corridor converging in this final corner. The historic Hussainabad corridor is the crown of Lucknow as it’s suffused with natural beauty that is visible and transcendent. The cobble stone roads, erstwhile havelis (mansions), gateways, a picture gallery, the iconic Clock tower and bridges with characteristic craftsmanship, Teele Wali Masjid (the iconic mosque on a hill) and ancient temples invite instant awe, a continuum for those who dwell within the city to avidly become guides for the uninitiated.

When you look at this mausoleum in the afternoon shaded by the sun, the turrets and intricate design of its gateway welcome you first as if receiving a weary traveller, offering him reprieve from the heat and the crowds that have preceded his journey to the Bara Imambara and Rumi Gate, the legendary doorway that is a sight for sore eyes. There’s a beauty to the colour of the Chota Imambara’s gateway, the golden anemometer(a geographical instrument used to indicate the wind’s direction) in the shape of the fish and an Anglicised statue in the middle of this compound that’s startling and comforting. Then there are the pond and the fountains further ahead. Something about the water, especially shimmering during hot summer days, already prepares one for the holy glint there is in the entire structure or in the Taj Mahal styled miniatures on both sides, one of which bears Muhammad Ali Shah’s beloved daughter Asiya Begum’s tomb. The symmetry of the place hence doesn’t overwhelm but is subdued in subtle colours and muted moods of light and shadows.

*

It’s the inner part of the Imambara that is a burst of red, green, yellow, blue and white, their variations dazzling and sensuous on account of the distinctive placement of Belgian chandeliers and tazias (religious processional items of great significance especially during Muharram). Both attest to a paradox- of luxury and faith coalescing. Both come draped in these bold colour schemes that delight the onlooker who soon beholds them. There’s also a throne and mirrors in this hall — indicating a rich past and illusions of grandeur that have now become mists, the air filled with memories yet redolent of individual stakes.

*

In essence, the Chhota Imambara maintains its privacy at the further end of Lucknow and when looking at its almost moon-like silver glow, the promise of Sham-e- Awadh ( fabled evenings of the city) gets more romanticised. These evenings where food, cultural activities, long walks and conversations with animated strangers and friends alike take centre stage  diffuse its historic community where boundaries of faith and personal beliefs blur into a beautiful embroidered fabric.

 The Chhota Imambara’s peculiarity is that despite so many elements to its structure including a hamam (bath) in the outer realm, there’s a simplicity to it all. Nothing screams out for attention. Each aspect invites individual perspectives shorn of tacky symbolism or a mishmash of styles. Every colour, every inch ultimately soothes.

It’s all about the aesthetics of grace and charm which is particularly unique to Lucknow. At the end of the day, there’s no humungous historical backstory behind Chhota Imambara or a grave precedent to its place in the Awadhi pantheon, Awadhi relating to both the region within which Lucknow stands and which it shapes ceaselessly into joyful forms. But it has always been here, rescuing itself from elusive murmurs and forgetfulness daily. Yet never adhering to overexposure. That is its greatest gift to the city and its loyal custodians.

Every visitor is a beholder here and his spirit becomes as free and unburdened like the pigeons finding home in this structure’s spires and dome, a picture of harmony.

[1] Nasser-ud-daula Mu’in ad-Din Muhammad Ali Shah(1774 –1842), was the ruler of Awadh, the former name of Lucknow.

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

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Categories
Musings

As Flows the Gomti: A Palace of Benevolence

Narrative and Photographs by Prithvijeet Sinha

The Bara Imambara in Lucknow

Solitude hardly alienates us when our mind is at peace. It travels with us. It’s a profound pursuit when one embraces the solitude of a city like Lucknow. Our fates travel with the boat of time flowing on the languid currents of the river that flows through the town, Gomti.

As someone born and brought up here, it’s a great joy to walk in the footsteps of those who gave exquisite shape to its countless monuments, their chisels and hammers turning stones into works of art, adorning the city with centuries of hard toil that created exquisite beauty. This beauty hewn into the Bara Imambara enchants me anew everytime I stroll through the compound. Those limestone pillars, graded by years of construction in its classical heyday, are miracles of human hands that mesmerise. The golden paint adorning its architecture courts the sun and that great orb of light gives in to the invitation to be eternal friends for life.

The Bara Imambara, also bestowed with the title of “Asafi Imambara”, was made by the king Asaf Ud Daula out of benevolence. He commissioned the building in order to employ the drought-stricken populace of the city in the 18th Century. Very soon, this structural project expedited as a corollary to supplement the dwindling fortunes of the region became more than a philanthropic feat. Over the centuries, Bara Imambara became a royal palace, a seat of power and knowledge and a quintessential component of the Awadhi [1]identity. It’s convenient to say that it’s the axis around which the entire city revolves. It’s the architectural apex around which Lucknow sculpts its identity with each era.

Throngs of revellers travel across the city to savour its beauty and historicity. The Imambada keeps its tryst with timelessness sacred, giving every discerning eye moments to cherish, feel the same timeless energy course through their mortal bodies, giving them the gift of the spiritual. Then there’s the mystical side to it where on each visit tugs my heart. It’s as if from some intensely private part of the soul emerge these words, “Thank God, you are alive to see it. Thank God that you were born to witness such sublime beauty.”

The story of arches, pillars, doorways, the zigzagging mysteries of the Bhool Bhulaiya — its fabled labyrinth, hallways that make a single lighting of the match echo with precision across great distances and the cool atmosphere that envelops it even on muggy or scorching days make it a unique experience. But as the horizon spills its canvas around it and the panorama of life becomes a live orchestra of colours, the Imambara transcends its solemn sanctity as the abode of imams, transcends the rails of religion to diffuse faith to every corner. From some high point in the parapet, when you look straight at the city, each angle reflects the union of the divine and the mundane. It’s a grand gesture that this timeless solitude is something that can be felt even among millions of other feet and voices. It’s the solitude of the dark alleys and the baoli or stepwell within these enchanting premises. It’s this solitude gliding with the birds above the soaring pillars and dome of the Asafi Mosque, making the secular transport tangible in the mouths of those who drink in the air contained in the edifice of this monument.

I may be a dreamer but, in a city, where so many parts feel like a dream come true, the Hussainabad corridor hosting Bara Imambada is immune to modernisation’s whims or the gritty nature of our societal churnings.

As tongas[2] carry dignified visitors on cobblestone roads, Lucknow’s epicenter of culture beseeches us like a best friend to partake in the poetry of its eternal axis. Which is why I always like to walk towards it, crossing a stretch of the road that finds beautiful buildings, parks, wide roads and secular spots lead towards that most handsome of structures. Time stops here yet moves like ripples. Time is of the essence. A lifetime of meetings with the Imambada makes one reconcile with the inherent meanings behind one’s attachment to Lucknow and its Awadhi cheer. I’m fortunate to live and tell the tale, a modest man made to feel grander by these inflections of architecture, stillness and cosmic solitude that only this city has to offer. The Imambada absorbs all of these inflections and stands in good stead, telling me, “You are not a dreamer, son. Your sense of your world is intimate to a fault. Come to us. Come again. There’s so much to seek from each other…”

[1] Awadh was the ancient name of Lucknow

[2] Horse drawn carriages

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

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Categories
Review

I am Not the Gardener

Book Review by Ranu Uniyal

Title: I am Not the Gardener: Selected Poems by Raj Bisaria

Author: Raj Bisaria

Publisher:  Terra Firma, Bangalore

Here is a book that I have been waiting for.  In several sittings you go through these breathtaking poems by Raj Bisaria.  A book that needs to be read with patience and, if you have had the privilege of being taught by him, you read with a curious eye.  Soft and gentle – a touch of an artist gently goads you to read it loudly– as if you are in an auditorium reading out to an unknown audience.  Who will listen to this voice of a gardener who with I am Not the Gardener weaves seasons of delight “telling of one’s heart is not self-gazing” but divine contemplation? 

The book does not carry an introduction to the author.  It has forty-three poems with photos capturing moments with family and friends. A few pictures of the domes and spires from Lucknow too add a special meaning to the verses. As director, producer, designer, actor and professor, Raj Bisaria has left an indelible mark. Press Trust of India described him as “Father of the modern theatre in North India”. Raj Bisaria founded Theatre Arts Workshop in 1966 and Bhartendu Academy of Dramatic Arts in 1975 in Lucknow. He taught English literature for more than three decades at the University of Lucknow. He is the first to receive Padma Shree from Uttar Pradesh for his contribution to modern theatre.  As a theatre artist his contribution remains unparalleled.

The first poem in this collection is ‘The Curtain Boy’. The poem is a thoughtful mediation on the meaning rather meaninglessness of all our actions.  The poet writes “I am not the gardener, / Nor the owner of the garden. / My job is to do odd things/ To weed out little wrongs/ To keep the pathway clean”. ‘Odd’ and “little” acts of “watching” lead to an awareness of the burden of possession and the transitory nature of dreams.  And this is followed by a similar concern in the poem ‘To a Young Actor’ – “I was told once to discipline/ Imagination in the rhythm/ of iambs and trochees. Only I wonder / If external form will give / Meaning to chaos.”

The poet, artist, and the philosopher in him create a complex mirage of emotions that reflect the restlessness and the anxiety of a man who finds comfort in words.  “In your dying/ My love has found / A new lease:/ For beyond death / Only love goes on”, the poet expresses his love for his mother in the poem ‘Elegy’.  Like Hamlet he gives voice to his own fears and then affirms with a defining certitude “Love is a quiet secret, / The seed within the rose.” The images are drawn from garden to the sea and the mountains “And I learnt to be silent / with the unspeakable granite of the mountains.”

Travel as a motif binds his restless spirit and opens the unreachable corners of his heart.  Love and fulfilment are contraries in a world trapped in the mundane.  In his poem ‘Byzantium’, Yeats refers to “The fury and mire of the human veins”. An artist seeks perfection in this imperfect world. The desire to transcend the ordinary compels him to write. The debut collection of poems gives us fascinating insights as Bisaria draws us to a wide range of experiences with a cry for attention “Do not shut my words out.  It is winter.” Here in lies an assertion with a sad awareness that yes, life is ending.  The artist within and the performer without must often be traversing contradictory spaces.  Both are equally strong and vulnerable. 

Sometimes the voice of the performer seems to undermine the anguish of the poet.  “He who does not forgive himself/ Forgives others less.” These are poems of love, longing, grief, and interminable loneliness that invades an artist whenever he confronts his inner self.  Those familiar with Bisaria’s dramatic productions might find a different voice lurking behind these poems.  It requires courage to accept one’s vulnerabilities, to confront the inner daemons and to pour an array of emotions with a faith that only an eternal seeker can display.  “To your shrines I came my Lord, / But I came without faith; / To your people I spoke my Lord / But I spoke without love; …Yet give me Lord peace/ To bear my own emptiness, / And your silence /Quieten my doubting mind.” This is not just a poem with the title ‘Prayer’, but a plea that resonates with a quest for self-realisation. 

A sadness runs through these poems.  Read and receive every word, every glance, every touch of this mortal self where “Love comes slowly by and by…” and the poet firmly believes “Love’s life is more than time…”. “It is a flight in the freedom of self…”. Even if you try hard, it is difficult to run away from oneself.  Like a shadow your inner conscience follows you, here, there, and everywhere.   

Ranu Uniyal is a poet and a Professor from the Department of English and Modern European Languages, University of Lucknow.

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Categories
Poetry

Two Poems by Ranu Uniyal

GRIEF DOES NOT DIE  

it melts 
it runs 
it smells
and then 
it dissolves

grief
I am sorry to say 
is beyond shelf life 
it outlives us all.   

Please don’t be surprised 
if you see it smirking  
through your years  
pitching in moments of 
relentless tapping 
of bristling laughter 
unguarded affection 
and invincible ties.   

Grief asks you not to surrender.  
“I am here to stay,” it taps on your chest 
and keeps you agog at night.  

Grief walks in at odd times 
when you are just settling in 
it steps inside and howls 
like a cyclone Tauktae
bound by seasons of melancholy
it rips you open and as you 
chug along with crushed smiles 
for all to see and you to bear 
eyes, ears, lips, breasts 
the falling of tears 
and the stepping aside 
of strangers in a bus or 
the train compartment, at the 
shopping mall, roadside paan thela*, 
inside the classroom, in the middle of 
everywhere it stalks you, 
unattended, forlorn.   


*A cart selling betel leaves

HARD TO FIND   


I am good
Amma holds her heart 
inside her fist.   

It is a cold Sankranti* for her 
and my only son 
struggling with dysgraphia rattles 
the mobile number of his father.   

A lullaby whines and I see her  
riding in the submissive dark 
with eyes flipping at unknown bridges.   

There is water everywhere 
The sky is full of treasure  
and the earth has returned all her dues.  
To wind she had her smiles to offer,  

wings, furs, tapioca, coconut shells 
syllables, ragas, laughter, and stray wounds 
there is enough to last a lifetime, 

Till date nobody knows where she has stored that gift of fire.  

*Sankranti is a harvest festival

Ranu Uniyal is Professor of English at University of Lucknow.  She is a bi-lingual poet and Chief editor of Rhetorica, a literary journal of Arts. She has published four poetry collections:  Across the Divide (2006), December Poems (2012), The Day We Went Strawberry Picking in Scarborough(2018) and Hindi Poems Saeeda Ke Ghar (2021) and has read her poems at international literature festivals and conferences. She was on a Writer’s Residency in 2019 at Uzbekistan.  She can be reached at ranuuniyalpant@gmail.com.  Website: ranuuniyal.com

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles