VISIT KOCHI

The Chinese fishing nets, Jewish synagogues, Portuguese churches, Dutch palaces and British village greens appear like punched impressions left by those that settled and invaded Kochi. It should not be surprising that the port absorbed these often-violent incursions into its framework to create a patchwork quilt of cultures when its birth was itself the result of a flood in 1341. A sleepy fishing village was transformed into a natural harbour and Kochi suddenly had new value as a trading post to the royal family and to the Arab, Chinese, Dutch, British and Portuguese spice traders. Though pepper is no longer the black gold it once was, the southern peninsula of Fort Kochi and Mattancherry and the islands of Willingdon, Bolgatty, Gundu and Vypeen still contain one of India’s largest ports and a major naval base.
Any important building in Kochi will tell the history of this ‘Queen of the Arabian Sea’, if you listen. Mattancherry Palace, where the royal family held their coronations, was built in 1555 by the Portuguese and so the tale unfolds in stone of Vasco da Gama’s arrival in 1502. He came in search of a sea route to India and seized Kochi as a lucrative trading post. Later there were ‘negotiations’ where a ‘gift’ of the palace was made to Raja Veera Kerala Varma in exchange for trading rights. The palace is popularly known as the ‘Dutch Palace’ and in the misnomer lays another tale, of the second invaders, the Dutch. Lured by Kochi’s spices and ivory they came in 1602 and, after seizing control in 1663, renovated the palace so that the large white, red-roofed structure came to represent both Dutch and local architectural styles.
Inside, it is now only a museum with musty coronation robes, roped off palanquins and admittedly still sensual murals, like the one of Krishna, his many arms simultaneously at work on eight delighted gopis. For me though, the museums are often the last place I go to see. It’s not where the soul of a place is. I know these things need to be removed from pollution into glass cases so we can see them and learn from history, but when they are removed from their environment they lose their purpose and become only objects. History explained on neat typed museum cards.
For me heritage survives if it can and does reinvent itself. Then it is still part of the fabric of a place—living heritage. The beauty of St Francis Church, believed to be the first European church built in India in the 16th century, is for me its continued use so that what once was can be imagined while you’re in its heart and not at the careful sidelines behind ropes. Sitting under the British ‘punka’ fans, with the clacks of the administrator’s typewriter echoing off the Portuguese and Dutch tombstones embedded in the walls, I wondered how St Francis had lived to tell the tale of all its conversions. Christians can be pretty unkind to other Christians, as Ireland proves, and so its endurance through its transformation from Catholic Portuguese to Protestant Dutch, to British Anglican (they took control in 1795) and now to the Church of South India is extraordinary. There are still services on Sunday and some of the tourists crossed themselves before taking a photograph of the interior, but it was in the 1557 Roman Catholic Santa Cruz Basilica that I felt like an intruder into faith. There wasn’t an office enquiry desk, or the noise of Rev P.J. Jacob checking his mobile phone for messages as at St Francis. In the colourful Indo-Romano-Rococo interior, to the drifting hallelujahs of the Basilica Malayalam Choir practising next door, nuns and the faithful spoke to their God.

There are hardly any Jews left in Kochi to pray at the Pardesi (white Jew) Jewish Synagogue, but I liked the conversational sense of worship with the brass pulpit in the centre, that is until I was told the women had to sit separately up in the gallery. Still the oldest Jewish synagogue in the Commonwealth speaks of the unusual tolerance for the medieval dispossessed children of Israel. The Jews came to Kerala; some say in 587, fleeing from Nebuchadnezzar’s occupation of Jerusalem, others that they came in the 11th century in King Solomon’s trading fleet. Either way they were accepted and settled, trading in spices in Cranganore north of Kochi. When the Portuguese Inquisition arrived in early 1600, carrying out their persecution and burning Jews at the stake in Goa, the Raja of Kochi gave the Kerala Jews a parcel of land near the palace from which the community thrived during the great trading period. That perhaps is closer to the point. Kochi was inclusive because it thrived on trade, and business is business. The Jews were valued as traders, who spoke Malayalam, and they were successful as evidenced in the Belgian and Italian chandeliers that hang from the ceiling of the synagogue and the delicate willow-pattern floor tiles, each hand-painted and brought from Canton in 1776.

After the British left, the Jews were offered free passage to Israel in the 1950s and many of those who had run the spice warehouses around the synagogue in Jew Town emigrated. But trade continues as wafts of the scent of ginger and pepper leaking out onto the streets attests. In amongst the colourful tourist shops are the unassuming Indian Spice Trade Association, the Oil Exchange and the Pepper Exchange, which still hums with trade but men now sit in booths dealing on phones. It was another kind of world with strange codes, like a secret language, on notice boards for the sales of ungarbled pepper and ready garbled pepper.

Many of the old spice houses have however changed their trade to the export of antiques. Room after room of teak boxes, Rajasthani doors, Chettiar enamel tiffin carriers and Chinese pots wait in the half light ready to be shipped anywhere in the world. In amongst these large warehouses, that are part museum to those that can’t afford it and part shop to those that can, are the smaller tourist traders. “Hello, hello, hello,” they call, “looking is free”. Mirrored belts glint in the sun, alongside lacquer boxes, oldish bronze statues and black and white photographs of grandfathers, grandmothers, mothers and sons. Strangely, little is from Kerala or Kochi for that matter, whether it is new crafts or old. Browsing these stores I meet the new invader, the tourists.

The sheer size of the influx makes a mockery of the sign in the renovated dark wood and whitewashed hotel, the Old Courtyard—‘You are walking on history, kindly tread lightly.’ Tell that to the hordes of international and local tourists down at the iconic cantilevered Chinese nets, brought from the empire of Kublai Khan. Here fishermen still sell the morning catch of live crabs, red snappers, shark, prawns and pearl spot but they have to jostle with the tourists, the piles of seaweed and those trying to sell mini nets, wooden snakes and fish that they will clean and cook for the tourists on the spot. The nets themselves, which look like lace handkerchiefs that have just gently been dropped by a lady’s hand, are still in working order. I doubted it at first but huge tankers passed me proving the depth and dolphins barely a hundred yards away showed the rich sea life in what seemed like a small river. The place though was comical, as tourists stood at the nets taking pictures of a passing spice boat, except on the boat were more tourists taking pictures back at them of the nets.

Even as the sun set and a boy danced in the waves as though he were alone and free, I felt trapped in a tourist merry-go-round and so headed back into the medieval settlement of pastel houses and narrow alleys. Walking around I realised even the street names mapped out the history of Kochi. Down Dutch Cemetery Road, Rose Street, Princess Street, Calvetty Street, Church Road and I came across the house where Vasco da Gama lived and died. It was now a homestay, tourist information stall and café, and I thought ‘this is living heritage’. I asked to see inside and found school children doing their homework in the blue glass portico. Excited I entered the main room but it had been split by a new wall and a toilet had been added in a corner of the room. I winced at the insensitive conversion and asked the owner when he bought it to make it a hotel. No, he said, his family has lived there for four generations. “I only charge seven hundred and fifty rupees. If I were a palace in Udaipur I would charge five thousand. Seven hundred and fifty is enough for me to maintain the heritage and my survival. Some people don’t like it. They say it is not cute. Whatever, I have lived here for 43 years and I will continue to do so tomorrow, if I am alive tomorrow, if I survive.”

Business is still business then in Kochi, though the nature of it might have changed. The port moves with the times reinventing it and trying to swallow its new invaders, though they plunder its resources, then spices now water. Still any philosophical debate about tourism or what makes good ‘living heritage’ and what doesn’t, for me another tourist, suddenly felt arrogant standing in front of a man who was simply finding the best way to survive in modern Kochi.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
The Nedumbassery airport is an hour’s drive from Fort Kochi on the Ernakulam Bypass. An Indian Airline Level 4 ticket from Delhi will cost you around Rs 8,000. Jet, Sahara, Paramount and Kingfisher also fly to Kochi. Mangala Express and Kerala Express are the two daily trains from Delhi. The Trivandrum Rajdhani (Rs 2,330 on 3A) runs twice a week. 

WHERE TO STAY
There are good and cheap hotels on the mainland town of Ernakulam, but stay in the old town if you can. Most attractions can be reached on foot and the streets are worth a wander. The Taj Malabar on Willingdon Island (0484-2666811/2668010; Rs 5,000-14,000) and the Malabar House (2216666; Rs 5800-11,900) are beautiful properties. Kimansion (2216730, Rs 2,500-4,000) is a picturesque homestay on Napiers Street.

ATTRACTIONS
St Francis Church is open from 6am-7pm and the Santa Cruz Basilica is open from 9am-1pm and 3-5pm. The Pardesi Synagogue is open from 10am-noon and 3-5pm. The Synagogue is closed on Friday, Saturday and Jewish holidays, as it is still a working Synagogue. The Mattancherry Palace is open between 10am and 5pm.

WHEN TO GO
The best time to visit Kochi is between September and May.

WHERE TO EAT
The Kashi Art Café is in a lovely ramshackle building and has great coffee and cakes. Malabar Junction is a chic restaurant with a seafood-based fusion menu. Cheaper, but without the ambiance is the Elite Restaurant, where you can get good fish. For the best biryani in town, go to Rahmatullah Hotel, better known as Kaikka’s after the chef, in Mattanchery.

VISIT DAULATABAB

I have become a lover of footnotes, and of footpaths. Of marginal roads that branch off from the rumbling juggernaut of the high-ways of national history, anddisappear into the uncleared undergrowth of the past: forgotten, ignored, unconsidered.

I am in love with this brief aside to a long and involved tale of royal intrigue in Delhi and Gujarat. Sometime in 1307, in the time of Alauddin Khilji, an army from Delhi camped on the banks of a river, a farsang from Devagiri, now known as Daulatabad. Three or four hundred Turkish soldiers asked, and were granted permission, to see the famous temples of Ellora.

Almost exactly seven centuries later, as one of a few thousand people visiting the stunning rock-hewn shrines of Ellora daily, I wish that these soldiers were remembered somewhere. There aren’t many places in the world, I would think, with records of their first tourists going back 700 years. Why should the ‘history’ of a place not include the breathless presence of all those who have gaped at it over the centuries? Why should the history of Ellora, as told in the signage and the guidebooks, not tell us that, in a letter recording a visit to Khuldabad, Daulatabad and Ellora, Aurangzeb described the Kailash Temple as “one of the wonders of the work of the true transcendent Artisan”?

To get a true sense of what Aurangzeb was talking about, you have to climb a steep footpath up the cliff side into which the Ellora caves are cut. As you walk up the side of the cliff suddenly you are level with the top of the very inaptly labelled ‘Cave 16’, the Kailash Nath temple. It is breathtaking when seen from ground level, with its monumental proportions and exquisite, alive carving. You can feel Ravana’s 10 heads screaming with the effort of trying to shake Mount Kailash. But you can also get thrown by the women in burqas posing with him. But from on top, the people and their clamour echoing in the carved spaces a hundred feet below fades away, and there is nothing to distract you from the awesome magnitude of what’s been achieved here—in panoramic wide angle top down view.

The Kailash Nath temple is an almost complete paradigm shift from the 15 caves that come before it. It is sculpture on a gigantic scale. From the top, many thousands of tonnes of basalt rock were removed and the remains chiselled into the exquisite beauty of this, the largest monolithic structure in the world. What is even more remarkable is that though it is said to have been started in the reign of the Rashtrakuta King, Krishna I (756-774), the vision was carried forward over a hundred and fifty years till its final adjective crunching execution. 
The footpath carries on, along the top of the cliff, a shortcut from the village of Ellora/Verul to the walled town of Khuldabad, where Aurangzeb lies buried. As you walk along, through scenery of rolling hills and no tourists, you come to a group of dark stone tombs gathered on a grassy plain, on the edge of a cliff. The grandest of them all, with the most exquisitely carved jaalis, is that of Malik Ambar.

Malik Ambar was a habshi, an Ethiopian slave brought to India via the slave markets of Baghdad to serve the Deccan sultanate of Ahmednagar. In time he rose to become the leader of the resistance to the Mughals. Eighty years before Shivaji, his soldiers called him Peshwa. He never lost a battle. Today, he lies completely ignored, his tomb an echo chamber amplifying the cricket game played by its side.

It is only appropriate to pay homage to him before proceeding to the mazaar of Aurangzeb, in the compound of the dargah of Shaikh Zainuddin, in the time-stopped town of Khuldabad. He lies buried in a simple earthen grave, with a tulsi plant growing out of it. A blind man recites his litany. This is the only place where Aurangzeb found peace. Towards the end of his life, he could already foresee the end of Empire, the fighting among his sons—‘yak anar, sad beemar’ is attributed to him in these last days, still master of the pithy Persianism.

Khuldabad. Abode of heaven. Also known as Karbala, the valley of the saints, for the sheer density of 14th-century sufi shrines here. Including that of Zainunddin, the Aakhri Khwaja, the last disciple in a long line of sufis, all disciples of Nizamuddin Auliya of Delhi, all spread out on the road between Delhi and Daulatabad, as travelled by Mohammad bin Tughlak when he transferred his capital and his subjects. The sufis came south with him, and though the stories say that he marched all the people back again, the sufis stayed back. Here, in the abode of heaven, this still peaceful place, 10 kilometres short of the abandoned city of Daulatabad. Zainuddin, Burhanuddin Gharib, Zar Zari Zar Baksh...

This has to be sacred ground. Khuldabad is less than two kilometres away from the caves of Ellora, sacred to Buddhists, Jains and Hindus. Where Tibetan refugees still tie white scarves around the hands of seated Buddha idols in long abandoned monasteries. And Daulatabad, before Mohummad bin Tughlak made it the abode of wealth, was Devagiri, the hill of the gods.

‘...Wall upon wall, battlement upon battlement, black, immeasurably strong, mountain of iron, gate of steel, tower of adamant...’
When Daulatabad first heaves into view, it’s very hard not to think of Tolkien’s description of Sauron’s Dark Tower.  Three massive rings of fortification, black basalt rock thrusting teeth into the sky. A slender tower almost as tall as the Qutub Minar. A conical hill 200 metres tall, with its sides cut sheer to fall away into a massive moat excavated out of the rock, a feat of engineering on the same vertiginous scale as Ellora.  Once past the moat, you reach the Andhari, the only way up to the top of the fort, a dark tunnelled labyrinth where the only illumination is torches, and where the defenders could pour everything from pitch to boiling oil on those who had managed to get this far. And then a hard steep climb up up up, long and steep enough to be a pilgrimage. On top, finally, where a cannon sits on the very pinnacle of the hill of the gods, with many, many Kims astride it, and cellphones ringing.

The first time I came here the monsoon rains had just begun, and I trudged up alone through the drizzly afternoon, all alone at what seemed to be the end of the world. The walls that once surrounded a whole bustling city stretched all the way to the rain green hills around. But the city itself was gone, reduced to the stalls selling guavas to the tourists at the base of the fort.

How long does it take to build a city? How little does it take for it to disappear? Even with the raucous chatter of school kids all around, being atop Daulatabad Fort induces deep melancholy. There is a scene in Tughlak where Girish Karnad imagines Mohammad bin talking to a young soldier guarding the battlements of this fort at night, and lamenting that his world had grown old, and bereft of beauty and possibilities. Tughlak’s empire broke apart when the Bahmani dynasty of the Deccan seceded. Then Daulatabad became part of the sultanate of Ahmadnagar, defended by Malik Ambar. After his death it was captured by Shah Jehan, then it became part of the Nizam’s dominions, with a brief two year interregnum under the Marathas. Even the most impregnable of forts can’t save you from being laid low by politics and treachery.

There is a mosque at the base of the fort, built by Qutbuddin Mubarak Khilji in 1318, when he conquered Devagiri and annexed it to the Sultanate of Delhi. The mosque is said to have been built on the remains of a Jain temple. On the 17th of September, 1948, immediately after the accession of the Hyderabad Nizam Shahi to the Indian state, an idol of Bharat Mata was installed in the central mihrab of the mosque, a year before the idol of Ram Lalla was placed inside the mosque at Ayodhya. A pujari blesses those who visit the eight-armed idol, remarkably like an idol of Durga, bearing a sword and a snake and a bowl of fire.

It feels like a desecration of this sacred ground. My country doesn’t need to be worshipped through revenge for historical wrongs, whether real or imagined. I bow my head to “Mother India”, sadness welling in my heart. I ring the bell, rubbing the tika from my forehead. I walk out into the courtyard, the broken stunted pillars are rows of sundials, casting long shadows in the sun, marking the passing of time. I yearn with what cannot be nostalgia—for I have never known what I know I have lost. I yearn to know the innocence of being an incidental tourist at Ellora, circa 1307.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By air: Indian flies from Mumbai and Delhi to Aurangabad (fares as low as Rs 2,300 one-way on economy class, full-fare: Rs 9,735).
By rail: There are trains from Mumbai (Tapovan Express: leaves at 6 10am and arrives at 1 30pm; Rs 1,379 on CC) and Delhi (Amritsar Express: leaves at 1 35pm and arrives at 11 25am; Rs 1,793 on 2A).
By road: There are regular state transport buses from Pune and Nasik and overnight services from Indore and Mumbai. MSRTC and MTDC (022-22026713, 22027762; www.mtdcindia.com) offer luxury overnight buses from Mumbai.

Daulatabad is 14km from Aurangabad and Khuldabad is 25km away. Ellora lies 28km to the northwest of Aurangabad. The MSRTC runs daily buses that leave Aurangabad at 8am. The last bus returns from Ellora at around 7pm. The MSRTC offers a tour of Ellora, which includes sightseeing in Aurangabad and Daulatabad as well for Rs 86. The ITDC offers the same tour for Rs 140. The tours start from the MTDC Holiday Resort (0240-2331513) and stop at major hotels.

WHERE TO STAY
To visit Daulatabad and Khuladabad, you will have to be based out of Aurangabad.
Luxury hotels: Ambassador Ajanta (Rs 2,500-6,000; 0240-2485211-13) is located near the airport on the Chikalthana-Jalna Road. The Taj Residency (Rs 2,500-5,500; 2381106-10) is located on the Harsool Road. Welcomehotel Rama International (Rs 2,300-4,500; 2485441-44) even has a mini-golf course. Quality Inn The Meadows (Rs 2,000-8,500; 2677412-21) has non-smoking rooms, activities for kids and pick-ups and drops. 

Mid-price hotels: MTDC’s Holiday Resort (Rs 750-1,000; 2331513) is located near the railway station. Amarpreet (Rs 1,099-3,000; 2332522) is located on Jalna Road, but offers limited services.

Budget hotels: Natraj (Rs 200; 2324260) is located on Station Road. Hotel Raviraj (Rs 475-725; 2352124-5) is centrally located. 

If you choose to stay at Ellora, Hotel Kailash (Rs 700-1,200; 02437-244446/543) is your best option. They have self-contained cottages and rooms facing the caves. The Vijay Rock Art Gallery (Rs 250-350; 02437-244552, 0240-2358032) offers basic facilities.

WHAT TO SEE & DO
·  Daulatabad: Within the fort there is the 100ft high, pink minaret, Chandminar and the Jama Masjid. The mosque is well preserved and has 106 pillars plundered from Hindu and Jain temples. Apart from these, there are the tunnels in the main citadel, Bala Kot. But the passages are pitch-dark and a guide will be necessary. The fort is open from sunrise to sunset. The entry fee is Rs 5. Still cameras are free but there is a fee of Rs 25 for video cameras.

·  Khuldabad: Sights include the tomb of Malik Ambar and Aurangazeb’s grave. The Mughal emperor is buried in the courtyard of the Alamgir Dargah. The Robe of the Prophet is said to lie in this building. It is revealed to the public once a year, on the 12th day of the Islamic month of Rabi-ul-Awal. The 14th-century Dargah of Sayeed Burhan-ud-din is across the road from the Alamgir Dargah and is said to contain hair from the Prophet’s beard.

·  Ellora: The Buddhist caves, numbered 1-12, are the oldest and date back to 500-750 AD. The Hindu caves numbered 13-29, date between 600 and 870 AD. But the oldest cave, number 13, is in ruins. Caves 30-34 are Jain caves and date back to 800 AD and the late 10th century. Of these, Cave 5 is the largest and grandest single-storied cave. Cave 6 has two of Ellora’s most finely sculpted figures. The Hindu caves are more dynamic than the restrained Buddhist caves. Cave 15 has a sculpture of Shiva in the Nataraja form. Cave 25 has a striking frieze of the sun god, Surya, who is shown hurtling in his chariot towards dawn. But of all the caves it is the Kailash cave that is the most striking. The Jain caves are much smaller, but have extremely detailed work. Tourists can visit the caves from sunrise to sunset; the entry fee is Rs 10. 

·  Aurangabad: There are many interesting sights like Bibi ka Maqbara and the Paan Chakki. The Aurangabad Caves, though not as spectacular as Ellora, are still worth a visit. 
·  Ajanta: Ajanta is just 104km from Aurangabad. The caves contain some of India’s most sophisticated ancient paintings. The first caves date back to the 2nd and 1st centuries BC. The lush paintings, inspired by the jatakas, are rich in their detailing. 

·  Shopping: Aurangabad is famous for its brocades. The hand-woven Himroo shawls are made of silk and cotton threads and are extremely soft. They cost between Rs 200-1,000. You can get bidriware, which is a smooth dark brass work with intricate designs inlaid on its glossy surface. You can also get exquisite but expensive Paithani saris at the State Weaving Centre at Paithan (52km from Aurangabad). They can take between one month to a year to weave and can set you back by Rs 8,000 to Rs 50,000.

VISIT VARANASI

I was walking from Assi Ghat to Manikarnika, the burning ghat, when I heard a man yelling Hindi swear words with intense energy. He walked briskly on the stone steps that fronted the river. He was tall, bespectacled, built like a wrestler, and only slightly dishevelled. There was light stubble on his face and over his shoulders he wore a blanket draped like a shawl. I noticed first the distressed white cotton of his kurta-pyjamas, bright in the dazzle from the river. There was so much noise on the ghat it took a while for it to register: he was yelling at the top of his lungs. He looked straight into the noonday sun and shouted obscenities, mostly to do with sexual humiliation and disputed parentage. And he made what sounded to me like a pun: “Sun of a bitch!”

He was about to pass me when our eyes met. I didn’t look away quickly enough and for a moment he looked directly at me as he shouted his tirade, as if I were the source of his anger. The momentary eye contact had its effect. He stopped shouting. When he spoke, in English, it was in a quiet, reasonable tone. “So many people coming here. Why they want to come?”

I said, “I don’t know. Maybe they’re looking for God?”
He dropped to the ground and sat cross-legged beside a pile of uncleared garbage. There was a dog sitting in the debris and he put his big arm around it and stroked its ears.
“What they are wanting to find? Everything in this place is rubbish! Pollution! This is city of death and dirt.” He stopped caressing the dog and returned his gaze to me. 
“You are lost.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are lost.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”

We could have gone on this way. I had nothing special to do. And, truth to tell, I was even beginning to enjoy the weird exchange. But then I saw his agitation. I saw the truth of it: he was lost. And he’d lost interest in me. He was talking to the dog in a patois I couldn’t follow. I walked on and soon I heard him start up the yelling, he was back to shouting his obscenities to the sky.

Now, some of the men on the parapet were also shouting. They were telling him to shut up. Someone cursed, but softly, without conviction; most watched him with understanding. The man got up and headed toward Assi, his pace furious. One of those sitting in the sun told me his story. He’d lost his six-year-old son when the boy was hit by a truck while cycling to school. He came to Banaras after the accident, from Patna, and ever since he had wandered the ghats, shouting out his grouses against God. In a way, he’d become part of the life of the riverfront. People knew him; he wasn’t considered especially crazy. Not in a town of eccentrics, seekers, characters.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the ghats crowded with colour and life. Whole families were bathing in water that had turned the colour of sludge. If you looked to the sandbank on the far side of the river the water was clear, but here, near the ghats, it was dirty with sewage, plastic, household refuse, and other dangers.

I was tired of walking and I hailed a boat, a low vessel that sat comfortably in the water. At one point, we came alongside a friend of the boatman’s. He was a boy of about 16, in a small boat the size of an armchair. He’d made the boat himself, of blue plastic mineral water bottles that had been cut and melded together. He was parked on the river, in his plastic boat, and he was examining something he’d found in the water: a used syringe floating on the tide. “Throw it away,” I told him. “It’ll make you sick.” It was my mistake. He threw the syringe and its exposed needle back into the river, not far from where the bathing families splashed each other.

The ghats receded from the water in tiered stages crowded with umbrellas, drying clothes, bathers, yogis, tourists, vendors, temples, a dizzying visual history of Indian antiquity. There was the Babua Pandey Ghat, with its sickle moon inlay; the elaborate Buddhist ghat, pagodas dark in the sun; the leaning temples of Reewaghat; the candy-striped approach to the Vijayanagram Ghat; and there were notices in Japanese, English, Hindi and Sanskrit. ‘FORTUNATE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO RESIDE ON THE BANKS OF THE GANGA’, said a sign on Harishchandra Ghat. But it was at the  burning ghat of Manikarnika that I stopped the boat and got down.

Manikarnika was marked by an absence of colour and of women. The men here had come from far away to perform the last rites for their loved ones. There were four fires going, two with bodies on them. Wood was piled above and below each muslin-wrapped corpse. The surrounding buildings had turned a shade of dark brown from long years of wood smoke. I wandered into the gullies behind Manikarnika and found a street of firewood merchants, and I spoke to a woodcutter and his boss. They were small men, muscular but prematurely aged. Though it was still early in the day, both smelled of strong drink. I wondered if the alcohol helped them to work. And I asked how much wood they cut each day. “Depends on how many dead people there are,” said Narayan, with the brittle humour of a man who worked in the vicinity of death. He pointed to the pile of wood he had already cut that morning—800 kilos, or 8 quintals. And how many dead would the pile cremate? “Oh,” he said, laughing a little, “maybe 40, maybe 50.”

The ritual of cremation was unchanging. The body was washed in the Ganga. Butter and sandalwood powder was placed above the corpse, and a special agni below. Spirit was squirted on the flame to make it catch. And when the fire moved into their bones, men burned differently from women. “With men, the chest bones don’t burn, and with women the spine doesn’t burn,” Narayan’s boss told me.

As if in confirmation of the law that death sharpens one’s appetites, there was a Korean restaurant in the gullies behind Manikarnika. It was as authentic a Korean eatery as it may be possible to find in the back alleys of a Hindu holy town. Because it was situated in the vicinity of the burning ghat, it wasn’t considered auspicious. Few Indians ate there. But the low tables were filled with Korean backpackers who spoke very little English and no Hindi. The food was fresh, unexpectedly hearty. I ordered vegetarian sushi and kimchi served with sticky rice and a fried egg. There were small bowls of chicken stew, pickled cucumbers, glass noodles, and I washed down the meal with a mug of steaming ginger lemon tea.

Banaras is three cities in one—the modern Hindu city of Varanasi; the colonial cantonment town of Benares; and Kashi, an ancient place more myth than reality. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the last of these dwellings, and I found scenes and images there that seemed to have existed for as long as the city had.

It was already dark when I began to head back to the hotel. Everything had changed. The crowds were gone and on the river sat a thin fog like the smoke from the fires of Manikarnika. The ghats were abandoned; now they were nothing more than landing stages for long-gone spirit visitors or new ghosts. And, except for stray dogs and those men and women who had no homes to go to, the streets too were deserted. It was as if Banaras had returned to its true aspect of timeless dread.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
A full fare economy ticket between Delhi and Varanasi costs Rs 6,630 on Indian and Jet Airways. But ‘easy fares’ on Indian are available from Rs 3,084. Of Varanasi’s three railway stations, Varanasi Cantt and Mughal Sarai are the best connected to Delhi and Kolkata.

WHERE TO STAY
The Taj Ganges (Rs 3,500-6,500; 0542-2503001, www.tajhotels.com) is set amidst 12 acres of greenery. Clarks Varanasi (Rs 4,310-4,994; 2501011,clarkvns@satyam.net.in) is a heritage hotel, offering stays in either the haveli or in the modern wing. Pallavi International Hotel (Rs 850-2,000; 239012/13) is close to the ghats. Hotel Haifa (Rs 550-1,500; 2312960, www.hotelhaifa.com), originally a restaurant, has good food, serviceable rooms, and it’s around the corner from Assi Ghat.

THE GHATS
A string of about 80 ghats stretches along the western banks of the Ganga. Most of them are used for bathing but there are also several burning ghats, which are used for cremations. The ghats extend from Assi Ghat, near the university, northwards to Raj Ghat, near the rail and road bridge. The best way to see the ghats is to take a one-hour boat trip from Dasaswamedh Ghat, one of Varanasi’s holiest spots, to Harishchandra Ghat and back. Some of the other important Ghats of Varanasi are: Assi Ghat, at the confluence of the Assi and Ganga rivers; Tulsidas Ghat, the oldest ghat; Manikarnika Ghat, a large burning ghat; Man Mandir Ghat which was built by Raja Jai Singh II of Jaipur, complete with four Jantar Mantars and a massive sundial; and the Panchganga Ghat, where, as its name suggests, five rivers are thought to meet (the Alamgir Mosque which dominates the ghat was built by Aurangzeb).

EATING 
Apart from the numerous shuddha shakahari restaurants and mithai shops, pushcarts here sell aloo-puri, pithi-ki-kachori and chaat, all of which are worth trying. For the main course sample a thali of puri, sabzi, dal and rice. Jalyog on Dasaswamedh Road is legendary for its samosas and puris. Don’t forget to try their Kashi-ka-laddu and rabri, and finish off the meal with a Banarasi paan.

WHAT ELSE TO SEE & DO 
Some of the temples in Varanasi are worth a visit—Vishwanath Mandir, dedicated to Vishveswara, is the most important temple in Varanasi. The current temple was built in 1776 by Rani Ahilya Bai of Indore. The small Durga temple on Durgakund road was built in the 18th century in the North Indian Nagara style, with a multi-tiered shikhara.

The Ramnagar Fort and Museum (2339322) on the eastern banks of the Ganga is also worth a visit. The crumbling 17th-century fort has a museum which houses palanquins, astrological clocks and other collectibles.

The Banaras Hindu University, one of the most important centres for the study of Sanskrit, has a large tree-lined campus. On the campus is the Bharat Kala Bhavan (2307621), a museum with a large collection of miniatures, as well as 12th-century palm-leaf manuscripts

VISIT BHOPAL

One of my enduring images of Bhopal was formed during a visit to the city a couple of years ago when, after picking my way through the dusty chaos of Sultania Road, I stumbled upon a political demonstration in Shahjehan Park. As happens often in this city so deeply wounded by the catastrophic chemical disaster of two decades ago, effigies of Warren Anderson were being burned and furious graffiti scrawled on the walls that edged a patchy green. But what sticks in my memory is the sea of women that filled that very public space, some incandescent in red, gold, green and ochre, others silhouetted by the soft, sometimes shiny, black folds of a burqa. And all with fists clenched and arms aloft and voices raised. What had inspired these women to be so defiant in the face of their brutal injustice?

The clue comes in the name of the park. And the road on which it stands. And the dozens of other designations that litter the streets and institutions of the city. The names of four Muslim women who ruled Bhopal as a princely state for over a hundred years from the early 19th century into the 20th: Qudsia, Sikandar, Shahjehan and Sultan Jahan.  Facilitated by a lack of male heirs on one hand and a seeming propensity for administration on the other, they moulded Bhopal into an oasis of female agency and power within India’s patriarchal order. Schools for girls were established, mina bazaars built, women trained as hakimas, texts written to guarantee women’s rights, circles of female poetesses and prose writers patronised, and staunch activists gathered from across the subcontinent to participate in some of the earliest women’s organizations in India.
It is this past that brings me back to Bhopal again and again. I return to have the unflinchingly academic history that I write about enlivened by walking the streets of the city accompanied by apparitions that, in my mind’s eye at least, seem to rise out of the yellowed, crumbling pages of my sources in the local archive.

This time, however, I come with my parents who are visiting from Canada, eager to observe this place of which they have heard me speak so often over many years. In their honour, we stay not in the compact warrens of the old city—my regular haunt—or the glossy new hotels of T.T. Nagar, but at Noor-Us-Sabah, the former palace of the state’s last heir-apparent, Princess Abida Sultaan, who migrated to Pakistan shortly after Partition. Recently reclaimed for WelcomHeritage, it is gentility personified: whitewashed walls rising out of the Koh-e-Fiza over Bhopal’s Upper Lake, smart waiters adorned with the fish and shield of the state’s sky blue crest, long lines of perfect arches melting into the temple-topped hills beyond.
Inspired by the poetry of the palace’s name, I rise at dawn on our first morning to wander alone out of the gates and along a rough drive to the single-minareted masjid less than a kilometre way. I’m pleased to see a signboard outside with a brief history—explaining that this simple mosque was built by the last nawab of Bhopal, Hamidullah Khan, to accompany his mother’s grave—alongside a number denoting the site’s inclusion in the city’s recently conceived Heritage Walk. Finally, it seems, Bhopal’s rich history is being recognized, largely due to the efforts, I find out later, of a new commissioner of archaeology, archives and museums, Pankaj Rag.
There at the mosque, before I tackle anything else, I pay my respects to the last begum of Bhopal, Sultan Jahan. Her simple grave, adorned only with a small plaque in English and Urdu and a few flowers, sits beside that of her son, the building’s patron, and, with no one there but me—an experience still possible at many of Bhopal’s heritage sites—I revel in the cool morning air lifting off the lake and the smooth marble beneath my bare feet.

An hour or two later, we set out again on foot, along the recently completed VIP road towards the city. Constructed with Japanese money as part of the Bhoj Wetlands Project, this relatively empty thoroughfare offers a quick route for political dignitaries, businessmen and tourists alike from the airport to Bhopal’s attractions, as well as the opportunity for a languid promenade along the shore of Upper Lake. As we pass submerged temples, sinking rowboats and a rising Sufi shrine, we are greeted vociferously by honeymooning couples, shrouded women astride scooters and two curious boys on a bicycle who nearly topple off in their enthusiasm to wave at us.

Our first view up towards the old city reminds me that, whatever the efforts of the new commissioner, what one finds primarily in Bhopal is heritage falling down. The first begum’s palace, Gohar Mahal, still stands defiantly by the lake in a proud fusion of Mughal and pre-Islamic styles, but it is festooned with posters, in need of a paint job, and, most seriously, crumbling. Behind it, Shaukat Mahal, mixing Islamic design with Occidental idioms, is perhaps in an even worse state of disrepair, having been appropriated by the Indian government at Independence and now sporting broken beams through disintegrating plaster. Only Sultan Jahan’s hall of public audience, Sadar Manzil, seems to have attracted some restorative attention. As we drift through its scalloped arches and elegant garden, I can almost look beyond the uncivil scrum in the government offices to imagine the crowds of women—poor, privileged and princely—that used to congregate here, their ruler’s purdah guaranteeing unfettered access not available even to male relatives.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the begums’ religious edifices have survived rather better than their palaces and public buildings. Looking across the Maidan—a once sedate space that is now adorned with a tatty modern sculpture of what appears to be an oversized bird’s nest—we are faced with Sikandar’s Moti Masjid. It is an uncompromising structure in deep red stone that is fortified by two somewhat squat minarets topped by golden cupolas. Though wreathed in power lines, in its solidity, it seems to evoke its female patron—an Amazon-like figure who, in her youth, was reported to have gone into battle against her own husband on horseback. Later, she was also responsible for establishing Bhopal’s pragmatic reputation for loyalty by refusing to rebel during the 1857 uprising.

Moti Masjid is also our entry point into the meandering lanes of the Chowk, and, for a time, we follow them somewhat aimlessly past once prestigious state schools, graceful, if faded havelis, and crammed Urdu bookshops. It is the bustling bazaar surrounding the Jama Masjid, however, that especially charms my mother, filled as it is with boisterous crowds of colourful and black-swathed women—as in the park on that day of protest—and we linger to choose glass bangles in a jealous green and exultant turquoise. Here, we also find further evidence of Bhopal’s unique past in that many of the narrow shops are hung with beaded handbags and other handicrafts. Some of these skills were introduced by the last begum after visits to Europe and other parts of India to give the women of her realm the means to earn a livelihood—and, hence, the promise of economic independence.
Emerging back into the choking traffic, we head vaguely north until we hit the clogged Hamidia Road, then turn left to pass a rambling garden containing the grand, but neglected tombs of early begums and their nawabi consorts. Many restful hours could be spent here, exploring overgrown corners and deciphering inscriptions, yet, on this occasion, we push on further until we come to the spiky marble mausoleum of Shahjehan’s second husband, Siddiq Hasan. A leading figure in the reformist Ahl-i-Hadith movement of the late 19th century, he continues to be venerated—as the rather well-kept state of his grave suggests—with the sober style of Islam that he advocated even gaining increasing influence in Bhopal in recent years over the begums’ decidedly more tolerant approach.
Dodging Bhopal’s omnipresent three-wheeled tongas, we continue along the city’s northern artery until we pass through a battered, if still impressive, ceremonial gate into Shahjehan’s Taj Mahal and Benazir palace complex. In an even worse condition than those buildings in the centre, admission demands that one scramble over piles of rubble where the front entrance has collapsed entirely. I can only guess at what it might have looked like when Lord Landsdowne, visiting the state in 1891, described it in a letter to his mother in England as “bright and pretty”. Another of the commissioner’s numbered signboards gives hope that, in time, some concrete attempt may be made to find out through sympathetic restoration.

By this point, my parents are being carried only by my own enthusiasm. Still, they cannot help but be awed as we curve through another majestic gate to see the Taj-ul-Masjid, crown of mosques, seeming to float on a glistening lake before us. Hailed as one of the most beautiful mosques in the world, it was commenced by the third begum, Shahjehan, in the late 19th century, but completed only in the 1970s with the help of private donations after her successors redirected state funds into public services and municipal infrastructure. Its four citadel-like walls, three bulbous white domes, two soaring minarets and one vertigo-inducing front staircase make it perhaps India’s largest mosque and, as the sun sets behind it, I am reminded, not for the first time on this day, of the breadth of the begums’ vision. It is the strident echoes of Bhopal’s remarkable dynasty of Muslim queens that continue to claim me. For them, the city should be remembered not just as the city of lakes or the city of mosques, but as the city of indomitable women.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By air: Regular flights with Jet Airways and Indian Airlines connect Bhopal with Delhi (begin from Rs 2,535), Indore (Rs 2,955) and Mumbai (from Rs 3,195). All fares on Indian Airlines for one-way economy class. 
By rail: Bhopal is conveniently located on the main Delhi-Chennai line. From Delhi, take the Shatabdi Express for the shortest journey time (leaves New Delhi at 6am, arrives Bhopal at 2.10pm; Rs 840 on CC).

WHERE TO STAY & EAT
Noor-Us-Sabah Palace (Rs 2,900-11,000; 0755-5223333,www.noorussabahpalace.com) is, as their own literature proclaims, ‘the best address in Bhopal’. All rooms have private balconies overlooking the lake—a great place to take in the sunset. Breakfast can be taken on a terrace with the same view, as can be dinner at the Sunset Barbeque, though Dynasty is also a great Chinese restaurant.

Jehan Numa Palace Hotel (Rs 2,200-6,700; 266110,www.hoteljehanumapalace.com) is also a fine place to stay with some rooms being organized around a pleasant enclosed garden and others having balconies over the palm-lined swimming pool. The bars and restaurants, including Shahnama, La Kuchina, and Under the Mango Tree, are particularly good.

Hotel Sonali (Rs 200-500; 2740880; sonalinn@sancharnet.in) is the best option in the Hamidia Road area. It is great value for money, offering many of the 24-hour services desired by tourists and business travellers, along with clean rooms and friendly service.

The New Inn in T.T. Nagar is a favourite place for a quick lunch, offering tasty North and South Indian dishes served by an army of smartly turned-out waiters.

WHAT ELSE TO SEE & DO
Bharat Bhavan: an impressively-designed and picturesquely-located complex for the visual and performing arts that exhibits contemporary folk and tribal paintings, sculptures and carvings, as well as organizing festivals and concerts of dance, music and theatre.

Rashtriya Manav Sangrahalaya: an expansive museum dedicated to celebrating the culture, art and religion of India’s tribes. Especially impressive is the open-air exhibit of tribal dwellings located in reconstructed village settings.

Van Vihar Safari Park: a good place to see lions, tigers, leopards, bears and crocodiles if you can’t observe them in the wild.

VISIT THANJAVUR

Like the classical civilisations whose golden ages we celebrate, the Thanjavur valley has shown how prosperity fuels high art, but here good living has also led to right living. In this season, after plentiful rains, the legacy of ancient good governance is particularly visible, in the tanks and the wells and the Chola-era Grand Anicut Canal that make the most of the five fingers of the Cauvery River. The fields are all planted with rice, some just germinating and some yellowed and ready for harvest, and elsewhere the sacred grain is being dried on the roads.

The day after Pongal, some families are continuing their rice worship, making little balls to feed the crows before cooking three types of rice for lunch again. In the afternoon the cows will be washed in the river and their horns painted afresh. They will be hung with garlands and marked with a tilakam before being shown to the gods at night.
I get into a wide-bodied, large-windowed bus that would please the Chola kings, distracted by the fragrances from a flower seller in my wake, and prepare for a ride into the heartland. The driver puts on ‘Poomaalayil Ormalligai’ (a jasmine in the garland says I am the nectar ...), stirring the hairs on my scalp and perhaps a long-diluted race memory in my blood. Having squirmed out responses to “You are originally from which place?” all my footloose life, I would claim an ancestral toehold in Thanjavur if I dared, but its reputation rises sheer and formidable against such presumption. The people here are learned, well-spoken, musical, discriminating, and capable of unstinting but just criticism. Or, depending on your point of view, they hold their noses in the air and make a virtue of having lived here always.
But continuity, after all, is the essence of Thanjavur culture. The Chola, Nayak and Maratha rulers who used it as their capital gained and lost territory, picked up and dropped alliances, but their devotion to the arts was faithful.
Every year, the hamlet of Thiruvaiyaru, 15km outside Thanjavur town, buzzes with preparations for the Thyagaraja Aradhana, a musical homage started by aged disciples of the 18th-century composer-saint. The devadasi Bangalore Nagaratnammal started an alternative festival in the 1920s to accommodate women performers and others who were in those days not allowed on the main stage. By 1940, the two events merged and this is the 159th year of the Aradhana. The music Thyagaraja composed crowned centuries of bhakti poetry that gradually acquired a system and a grammar, the whole process sheltered and sustained by generous kings. 

The composer’s house is rubble, but the musical ethos of the place lives on. On the same street, students stop at their teacher’s house to seek a blessing before singing the inaugural song at the Aradhana. The white-haired musician sits in a vast, arched hall supported by fat Nayak pillars and furnished with the barest essentials. He discusses matters musical and administrative with a friend. As his guests move on to the festival tent on the sands of the Cauvery, he voices a soft lament for the Utsava sampradaya kirtanais of Thyagaraja, which he rarely hears these days.
Music flows around the bathing, cooking and telephone- answering at the home of Professor R. Kausalya, principal of Thiruvaiyaru’s music college, scholar of Tamil, documenter of folk arts, and all-purpose source of cultural history. While a patient student waits to continue a veena lesson begun two hours ago, a neighbour drops in for an earful of Mohana ragam from a visiting niece.

On this inaugural day, silks and diamonds are less evident than the spirit of homage. Everyone sits on the bare sand here, the VIPs up front but as sandy as the rest. The locals own the festival and yes, they take it for granted, coming as they are, answering calls on their cellphones, feeding their infants dinner from a dabba. While the main artiste sings, the percussionist winks at his granddaughter, who is making funny faces at him. Neighbours catch up on chitchat and talk of who showed up and who didn’t. But the atmosphere is far from casual, and musicians actively seek to perform here. N. ‘Manna’ Srinivasan, talent-spotter, music critic, and Aradhana regular since his childhood, says this festival “has come to represent the state of the art of Carnatic music”. He also talks feelingly of the vibrations of the place, before shooting off to catch up with the eminent mridangam artiste who just gave a speech on the subject of continuity.

The more obvious monument to continuity stands in the heart of Thanjavur town, enclosed by high walls and a moat. The Brihadeeswara temple is a thousand and two years old. Originally called Rajarajeswaram, it was built in six years under the supervision of Chola emperor Raja Raja I. The emperor endowed it with lands for income, as well as 400 dancing girls, 100 instrumentalists, 50 hymn singers, Tamil and Sanskrit musicians, and actors of Sanskrit drama, according to the Old Tamil inscriptions at the base of the temple walls. He roped in his ministers, his army and his villagers to maintain it all. But many of the ornamental carvings were left unfinished when the emperor died. Centuries later, the Pandyas added the Devi shrine and Nayak rulers added several others, including the gigantic Nandi, variously described as the largest, second largest, third largest, and one of the largest in India. The Marathas added a Ganapati and tinkered with some steps. They all painted the walls lavishly.

The sculptures of the Cholas are a dialectic of restraint and power. The monolith dwarapalakas hold up one finger to show that devotees are to leave behind other thoughts as they enter and keep their minds on Shiva. Most of the figures are prayerful, and it is the lord who dances. Inside the upper story of the sanctum are sculpted 108 dance poses of Shiva, visible for centuries only to the dancing girls who tossed down flowers from here and the kings who patronised them. Now they are reproduced and displayed in the temple’s museum, as are the enchanting Chola frescoes that were hidden from the public first by Nayak paintings and then by authorities concerned about their deteriorating state.

More parts of the Nayak palace in the old town are now open to public view. A royal museum has been added to the many sights here, but the most impressive of sights is still the Art Gallery’s superb collection of over 300 Chola bronzes and stone sculptures. Curator S. Venkatraman recounts the origins of the gallery. When a visiting curator of a Calcutta museum sought permission to acquire a 12th-century stone Brahma he found lying around, the locals strenuously objected. The collector of Thanjavur then worked to start a gallery in the town, in which such finds could be preserved and displayed. Many of the artefacts here were donated by temples, but many were brought in by people who unearthed idols when digging wells and foundations.

Everyone here seems to be a curator of something. K. Raju, a dadari, stops at each house after Pongal to collect a small baksheesh and give a blessing in turn. The dadans are “appointed by the gods,” he says, to sing throughout the night in the streets during the Tamil month of Margazhi to drive away evil spirits. They accompany themselves on a small gong, beat a rhythm on a dasarithappattai and blow a conch. Raju says he has a day job ringing bells at temples and he also acts in street theatre, but he hopes to pass on his real vocation to his grandson.

A hardy fossil is the Thanjavur veena, an instrument little changed since ancient times. It is a vexatious medium of music, dropping its sruti with every change in the breeze. Getting a fluent melody out of it takes years of practice, and purists demand that it should sound as smooth as the human voice. Such melodies are heard, usually in closed rooms rather than in concert halls, and sometimes you can hear the voice of God.

The proper way to buy a veena is to place an order in Thanjavur and come back after a month. P. Jagadeesan is a fifth-generation veena-maker in a lane off South Main Street. He and his brother do the carving, drying out and assembling themselves, and all the finishing work of laying the wax base and the brass frets, even to the carving of the dragon’s face at the end. Jagadeesan can also repair any kind of damage at all and has restored many long-neglected veenas and tampuras.

One family on Varagappiar Lane off West Main Street has preserved the Pattabhirama idol worshipped by Thyagaraja himself in the 18th century. Some years ago a posse of famous musicians offered to build a suitable temple for it, but the family declined to hand over their sacred charge. Rama will survive quite well on the same kanji that we drink, they said.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By air: Thanjavur has no airport. The nearest is in Tiruchirappalli (54km/1.5hr). Indian Airlines flies to Trichy from Chennai (fares begin at Rs 1,765); Thiruvananthapuram (from Rs 1,765); and Kozhikode (from Rs 1,875).
By rail: There are few direct train connections to Thanjavur, unless you’re travelling from Chennai, in which case take the overnight Rockfort Express from Egmore station (Rs 744 on 2A).

WHERE TO STAY
The best stay option in terms of service, location and economy is Hotel Gnanam (04362-278501, Rs 600-2,250), but book early. The costlier Hotel Oriental Towers (Rs 1,100-2,700; 230850, 231467, www.hotelorientaltowers.com) has more rooms but poor service. TTDC’s Hotel Tamilnadu is a bit tatty, but it’s centrally located and rooms are large (AC rooms for Rs 550; 231325).Upmarket options further away from the temple are Sangam (236695, Rs 1,800-2,900) and Hotel Parisutham (Rs 1,700-5,400; 231801, www.hotelparisutham.com).

WHERE TO EAT
Thanjavur has excellent vegetarian and non-vegetarian eating options. On Gandhiji Road, have vegetarian meals at Ananda Bhavan. Swagath is good for mutton fry and parottas. Outstanding coffee is to be had at the Coffee Palace (on Eliamman Kovil Street), and at New Coffee Palace (Kasi Kadai Street). Most of the hotels listed earlier have reliable restaurants.

WHAT TO SEE & DO
The Brihadeeswara temple and its newly renovated and expanded museum are stunning. Catch a guide at the east gate (Rs 150 and up).

In the Palace complex nearby are several places of interest, including the Art Gallery with a stunning collection of bronzes and stone sculptures (Rs 5 adults, Rs 2 children, 9am-1pm, 3-6pm) and the Sarasvati Mahal Library (entry free, 10am-1pm, 1.30-5.30pm; www.sarasvatimahallibrary.com).

Visit R. Govindarajan, on Kuthiraikatti Street, who has a house full of antiques and collectibles from the area; and Swaminathan’s, opposite Thanga Sarada Nursing Home, to see the craft of Tanjore paintings

The Thyagaraja Aradhana is held in the third week of January in Thiruvaiyaru (15km from Thanjavur). Entry is free and the ride offers lovely views of the Cauvery.

VISIT MURSHIDABAD

Imagine a single railway track stretching to eternity. Imagine mustard and paddy fields bisected by a straggling ribbon of asphalt. Imagine a cluster of thatched-roof houses. Where imagination fails and wonder takes over is the derelict mosque with the three broken dome, where it is forever afternoon. Forgotten by the faithful, the towering mosque now watches over three children and a dog who run their heedless ways through the columns of sunlight and the pillars of shadow.

It is a mild winter day in Murshidabad and we are standing at the only spot undisturbed by tourists. Pestiferous day-trippers and picnickers, many of them carrying portable sound boxes, which will eventually be installed close to the river, overrun the rest of the erstwhile capital of the Nawabs of Bengal. A fire will be lit, a huge saucepan full of water will be put to boil and remixed dance tracks will play over and over again. In the distance, the boat office loudspeaker will try to entice picnickers to cross the Bhagirathi and visit the enchanted Khosh Bag, the last resting place of Alibardi Khan.

Much of such tourist activity in Murshidabad is likely to be observed in and around the sprawling Hazarduari complex. This is roughly two kilometres from the city outskirts, or more correctly, from the tollbooth that levies a surcharge on all tourists and vehicles that enter the city limits. From the tollbooth, a narrow road squiggles its way through the usual mofussil urban clutter but, every so often, a ceremonial arch or the remnant of a stately palace are reminders of the glory that was Murshidabad. Even the street-names bear testimony to the opulence of the Nawabs: the astabol mor—or the ‘crossing of the stable’—is now a traffic bottleneck but in its glory days is said to have housed almost 2,000 horses, 650 camels, 800 mules, 330 donkeys and a small fleet of phaetons, automobiles and tikka-gadis. Of these, only the horses are in evidence today, used to pull the creaky buggies that ferry tourists between the various sites.

The centrepiece of the Hazarduari complex is undoubtedly the palace-turned-museum whose name—Hazarduari— means the ‘mansion with a thousand doors’ though the actual number is thought to be about a hundred short. Built near the Bhagirathi between 1829 and 1837 under the supervision of Colonel Duncan McLeod, the entire complex extends for over a kilometre along the riverside. If you enter the complex through the ceremonial arch at the back, you will encounter a warren of decaying buildings, which are still inhabited by the extended families of the nawabs. This is followed by the so-called New Palace or Wasif Manzil (entry Re 1), which was completed in 1904 but is already in a state of utter desuetude. There is some rather hideous statuary in the front garden which one passes with a shudder but the small display of palace memorabilia on the first floor is not without interest. Some old Persian documents dating back to the mid-19th century are on display but since there is no attempt to curate the collection, the visitor is none the wiser. The contrast with the splendid Hazarduari palace could not be greater. Two ceremonial lions flank either side of the wide staircase that leads to a pillared terrace. Standing on the terrace, one can see the massive Great Imambara on the opposite side of the sprawling palace grounds. Originally built by Siraj-ud-daulah, the Imambara went up in fire in 1846 and was rebuilt the following year by Nawab Mansur Ali. The serene and austere building is out of bounds to the public except during Muharram. Not so the palace, which cost over Rs 18 lakh to build and served no other purpose than showcasing nawabi opulence at a time when Murshidabad had lost all relevance as a centre of political power.

The displays inside the palace are well mounted though information about the exhibits is rather sparse. Eight long galleries and about 120-odd rooms are spread out over the three floors. On the ground floor, the armoury galleries are the most striking with every possible variety of sword, pike and firearm on display. Pride of place is occupied by Mir Kasim’s sword Zulfikar that has a bifurcated blade, presumably for delivering a messier coup de grâce than the ordinary single-blade variety. An ivory sedan chair used by the emperor Shah Jahan draws the eye as do a range of ornate howdahs. Under the ground floor stairwell, there are two magic mirrors in which one can see everyone else’s faces but not one’s own. For those of a more scholarly persuasion, the library and archives hold almost 11,000 books and 4,000 manuscripts, including an early copy of the Ain-i-Akbari. The complex also boasts of a clock tower and a humungous cannon. Apparently, it was fired only once and the resulting boom caused a large number of women to miscarry, whereupon it was promptly christened Bachhawali Tope. It is hard to do justice to the museum in one day or afternoon, but there are more attractions all along the riverside. A short tonga ride away is the tomb of Azimunnisa Begum, daughter of Murshid Quli Khan, also known as the Kaliji-khaki or liver-eating begum. Such a dietary preference would not have raised eyebrows had it not been for the fact that the livers in question were of human origin. According to legend, the begum suffered from a heart condition and her physician prescribed a medicine, which contained the livers of freshly slaughtered children. The begum’s illness receded but not her craving for human liver. Not surprisingly, she was buried alive but this is likely to be a local tall tale. Further down the road is the Jafraganj cemetery (entry Rs 2), with over a thousand members of Mir Jafar’s family interred in it. A family of hereditary caretakers wage a forlorn battle against the ravages of time and neglect—along with the entry stub, you are likely to get an appeal stating that their salary has remained static at the princely sum of Rs 11 per mensem for the past two centuries.

Not far from the cemetery is the so-called Namak Harami Deori—or Traitor’s Gate—referring to the treacherous role played by Mir Jafar at nearby Plassey. The triple-arched gate is all that remains of Mir Jafar’s palace, the palace grounds being currently occupied by a mosque and various kitchen gardens. The Nashipur Rajbari is next in line, another stately pile now falling gently to pieces. The entry fee of Rs 2 allows you to wander its high corridors and sprawling courtyard once famous for puppet shows and jhulan jatra. This is followed by a one-storey building of more recent origin, one of the many houses of local magnate Jagat Seth and currently undergoing extensive renovation. It was Jagat Seth who built the nearby Kathgola Gardens, a vast complex of orchards, pavilions, pergolas, ornamental pools and a secret tunnel. There is a palace as well containing some items of furniture, including a monstrous four-poster, which has to be mounted via a large stepladder.

The other heritage route in Murshidabad is on the opposite side of the railway track, roughly two kilometres from the riverside. This is the NH34 along which stands the imposing Katra Masjid. This is also the tomb of Murshid Quli Khan, who lies buried in the basement under the stairs. A separate article could have been written about this amazing man, who was born a Deccan Brahmin, was sold to a Muslim merchant, rose to become the governor of Bengal and founded Murshidabad. A stone’s throw away is another big gun, the Jahan Kosh cannon forged in 1637 and also reputed to be a one-shot wonder.

At the end of the day however, it was the hole-in-the-dome Fauti Masjid that held us in thrall. As we stood surrounded by crumbling masonry and collapsing stairwells, we found it an appropriate symbol for the city of Murshidabad: decaying yet defiant, bowed but not without pride. All around us, the air seemed heavy with the sighs of its once and future kings.

THE INFORMATION GETTING THERE
Murshidabad lies on the banks of the Bhagirathi, 14km from Berhampur and 225km from Kolkata. 
By rail: The nearest railway station is Berhampur Court, reached by either taking the Bhagirathi Express or the Lalgola Passenger from Sealdah. The journey takes five to six hours. The former reaches the station at roughly 4am and the latter is no less inconvenient, clocking in 10.30pm if it is running on time.
By road: Murshidabad is a straight drive from Kolkata down NH34, via Barasat, Bethudahari and Plassey, and the state highway from Berhampur. The drive should take about five hours.

WHERE TO STAY
Most people tend to stay in Berhampur and drive to Murshidabad (20-25 minutes) but there are now a few reasonable hotels in Murshidabad as well. In Murshidabad, Hotel Manjusha sits on the banks of the Bhagirathi, behind the Great Imambara (Rs 200-400; 03482-270321). In Berhampur, try the White House (Rs 300-625; 03482-255443) or Hotel Samrat (Rs 200-600; 03482-251147). A very good website on Murshidabad tourism can be found at murshidabad.nic.in.

WHAT TO SEE
Completed in 1837, the Hazarduari (admission Rs 5/Indians, Rs 100/foreigners; 10am-5pm, closed on Fridays) is Murshidabad’s chief tourist attraction. A classical-style palace named for its supposedly 1,000 doors, it houses an astonishing collection of antiquities from the 18th and 19th centuries (including historical paintings, like Marshall’s Burial of Sir John Moore). Also on the palace grounds is the dilapidated Great Imambara, and its interior is worth a look. Attractions around the palace include Wasif Manzil (the New Palace), Tripolia Gate, the Dakshin Darwaza, the Chak Darwaza, the Gharighar (Clock Tower), the Bachhawali Tope and the Madina Masjid.

Murshid Quli Khan, the Dewan of Bengal, Bihar and Orissa, who moved his capital here from Dhaka in 1705 and after whom Murshidabad is named, is buried under the stairs of the Katra Mosque. The Namak Harami Deori is where Siraj-ud-daulah was assassinated. The Kathgola Gardens (admission Rs 7; 6.30am-5.30pm) house a small museum and a Jain temple.