KHAYR – UL MANAZIL
You probably don’t know me. It’s not really your fault, though. I am cast aside and
evade your notice, because of the grandeur and beauty of that lies opposite me.
My dilapidated self has no chance whatsoever when placed near a monument that
lies on the short list of the “must-sees in Delhi”: the Purana Qila.
Me? I am Khayr-ul Manazil. I never received the appreciation that I deserved. I
have a story, just like any other heritage site. I stand silently in a city that is
otherwise always busy. I am forgotten in time.
My creator, however, was not unknown. She was a formidable woman, at a time
when formidable women were a rare breed. She played a crucial role in Indian
history. Not only did she nurse the greatest emperor of our country when he was a
child, but was also the true power behind the Mughal throne in late 16th century.
Maham Anga the wet nurse of Akbar the Great.
But Akbar was not always “the Great”. When, in 1556, at the age of 13, he was
enthroned the ‘Emperor of India’, all those who helped him in his youth rose in
power, together with him. Maham Anga, the chief foster mother became his
political advisor and her influence grew tremendously. She began to commission
the creation of monuments to be built across Delhi.
And so, I was born. The letters forming my name “Khair-ul Manazil” in Arabic when
translated in their numeric equivalent and summed up, give the numerals of Hijri
year 969 equivalent to 1561 AD, the year of my birth.
I was not always this bleak. I was once striking, at least, if not beautiful. But then I
underwent the ravages of time that took pleasure in removing whatever ounce of
beauty I once had. Now I am protected by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI)
and I proudly hold on to the glimpses of beautiful tile work that once existed on my
main gate.
My gateway is made by red sandstone following Mughal architecture, but my
inside structure was made in Delhi Sultanate pattern. The epigraphy in Persian
carved on the marble plaque above the arch of the central gate is a chronogram
penned by Emperor Akbar’s court historian and poet ‘Baazil’.
My name literally means ‘the most auspicious of houses’. I am made of rubble
covered with plaster and I have five high arched openings in my prayer hall. My
most impressive features are an imposing gateway of red sandstone on my east
and my double-storeyed cloisters, which were used as a madrasa. I have a dome
at the central bay of my prayer hall while my other bays have been roofed with
vaults. The arch in the middle of my prayer chamber is covered with inscriptions
that proclaim that I am the creation of Maham Anga.
And I was even embellished, quite strikingly, that too. Originally, the façade of my
prayer chamber was profusely decorated with enamelled tiles, a rather shocking
contrast to the present, where blue, yellow and green fragments cling to my
mihrab for dear life. The purity of my walls is now blemished with scribbles and
although the ASI faithfully re-paints me every year, the graffiti is renewed before I
know it. I am also horrified by the trash littering my floors and my alcoves.
I have been a silent spectator as my city and indeed the world has changed beyond
recognition. I still remember when in 1564, Akbar was attacked near me by an
assassin while he was returning from Nizamuddin Dargah. I was also a theatre of
conflict during the Independence movement. Once British officers got wind of the
fact that some revolutionaries were hiding inside me and I was bombed. Traces of
those bruises can still be seen on my walls today.
But my life is not all bad. I feel redeemed and wanted when locals come to pray,
every Friday, lighting oil lamps and bringing brightness to my existence. I look
forward to Fridays and cherish every moment. I am still relevant. I still have hope.
So, now you know my story. Can I count on you to spread the word?
Tarini Malhotra for GirlUp TSRS
9-D
