Delhi Darshan

by Giles Tillotson

  There is a puzzle about this place. If the picnickers, walkers, joggers and furtive lovers who make up the transient population of today’s Lodi Gardens give little thought to scholarly disputes about its monuments, few would blame them. But the news that one of Delhi’s sultans has generally been assigned to the wrong grave might cause them to pause momentarily.

  A learned argument has long festered over the most central and conspicuous of the park’s buildings, known as the Bara Gumbad. The question is whether it was originally intended as a tomb or as a gateway. The building’s form alone does not supply an answer since formally sultanate gates and tombs are often similar: a big square box with arched openings surmounted by a dome. The Bara Gumbad clearly fits this general format, but which was it meant to be? Opponents of the gate theory pertinently ask: gateway into what? Being so large it is out of proportion as an entrance to the elaborately decorated but modestly sized mosque and the simple mihman-khana (guest hall) that are attached to it, one on either side; while it is well known that a mosque and a hall are often found near major tombs (a later example being the buildings flanking the Taj Mahal in Agra). So it must be a tomb. On the other hand, the argument against it being a tomb is simply that there is no grave, nor any evidence of there ever having been one. Both arguments seem sound. Stalemate.

  As it happens, a solution was suggested many years ago by the scholar and antiquarian Simon Digby. In an article in an academic journal, he pointed out that before the whole area was re-landscaped to form a park in 1936, there was evidence that the Bara Gumbad had served as the entrance, not to the mosque, but to a large walled enclosure which included the further building now known as the Sheesh Gumbad. And this is the building we ought to be focusing on, because it is the tomb of Bahlul Lodi, the founder of the dynasty. Unmarked, unrecognized, noticed only for its flaking tile work, the Sheesh Gumbad turns out to be the nub of a whole complex dedicated to the first of the Lodis.

  The Bara Gumbad in Lodi Gardens; photograph by the author, 1986

  Anyone in Delhi who noticed this suggestion might have been surprised, because the Archaeological Survey of India has long designated a different building, situated in the dargah of a Sufi saint, in the suburb of Chiragh Delhi, as Bahlul Lodi’s tomb. Digby’s conviction that they have got the wrong building was based on a range of Mughal sources, the most convincing of which is a comment in Babur’s memoirs where he records making a visit to the tombs of Sikander and Bahlul Lodi. It is important to note that Babur’s memoirs were not composed by a court historian long after the events described, but a daily diary written by the emperor himself. So if he tells us that he spent a particular afternoon visiting two tombs, we may give it credence. The passage clearly implies that the two lie close together. There is no dispute about Sikander Lodi’s tomb, one of the other monuments in the Lodi Gardens. It would be an odd sightseer’s itinerary to start from there and then hotfoot it all the way down to Chiragh Delhi, south of Siri; but the easiest thing in the world to stroll across to the Sheesh Gumbad, a few hundred yards away.

  A slightly later text, a history of Delhi’s early sultans composed during the Sur period, mentions that Bahlul Lodi ‘lies buried in his Jor Bagh’. The name means ‘royal garden’, and it tells us a great deal: in the first place that Bahlul Lodi was indeed buried in a garden not in a dargah; and secondly that it was indeed this very garden, because the name Jor Bagh survives even today as that of the housing colony on the south side of the modern Lodi Road, covering ground that was once part of the larger complex.

  There’s more. When Henry Sharp wrote a guidebook to Delhi in the late 1920s, the area of the gardens was still occupied by the village of Khairpur. He questioned the villagers about the historic monuments in their midst and found to his delight that they knew all about them. ‘That one over there is Sikander’s tomb,’ they said confidently, ‘and this one here, with the pompous great gateway, is Bahlul’s.’ Surprised by this evidence against the accepted version, Sharp went down to the dargah in Chiragh Delhi and asked the officials there about the building standing in the corner of their complex, the alleged tomb of Bahlul Lodi. ‘Who?’ they asked, blank-faced. ‘Never heard of the fellow.’

  Oral history and folk memory are usually treated with caution by professional historians, but in this case the testimony of the locals lends support to the evidence from literature, and from architecture. For the unimpressive building in Chiragh Delhi is anyway unconvincing, not being grand enough to serve as the resting place of the founder of a dynasty, even one with the egalitarian principles of Bahlul Lodi. It would be much more satisfactory to think of him lying in the elegant Sheesh Gumbad.

  The mosque beside the Bara Gumbad contains some wonderfully intricate and remarkably well-preserved ornamental plasterwork and an inscription dating it to 1494. So, five years after the sultan’s death, his tomb complex was finally complete, with the addition of the mosque, gate and guest house at the entrance.

  Even if it is mistaken in the case of Bahlul Lodi, the notion that a sultan might be buried in the precincts of the dargah of a Sufi saint points to the prominent role played by Sufism in the religious and even political life of Delhi. The saint Nizamuddin Auliya (d. 1325) could count two sultans, Alauddin Khalji and Muhammad bin Tughluq, among his devotees. His relations with the intervening sultan, Ghiyas-ud-din Tughluq, were strained, and not just by that matter of the labourers and the oil; there is a suggestion that he was involved in the plot to assassinate Ghiyas-ud-din. As their teachings and reputations survived them, saints could win the devotion of sultans even after their passing. Firuz Shah Tughluq honoured the graves of both Nizamuddin and his pupil Nasiruddin Mahmud (d. 1356), known as Chiragh-i-Dihli (the ‘Lamp of Delhi’) after whom the district Chiragh Delhi is named.

  The ‘Lamp of Delhi’ succeeded Nizamuddin as leader of the Chishti sect, an order that had been established in India by Muin-ud-din Chishti, whose dargah is in Ajmer, and was brought to Delhi by Qutb-ud-din Bakhtiyar (d. 1236), whose dargah is near the Qutb Minar. The teachings of these saints, as of other Sufis, are often described as representing the mystical or esoteric dimension of Islam. Sufism promotes turning the heart towards God and away from everything else; it teaches self-purification in order to achieve union with God, not after death but in life. Opinions differ, today and historically, on whether it can be considered orthodox. Its adherents insist that it is; that it involves no inconsistency or deviation from the teachings of the Prophet. But the question arises because, in the Indian context, Sufism does strikingly resemble bhakti, the form of Hindu devotion which similarly seeks personal union with the divine. The graves of some Sufis are even visited by Hindu pilgrims.

  Sufism and bhakti have thus become linked in the public mind and in some religious practice despite the occasional efforts of hardliners to disentangle them. Such fusion is best embodied in the life and work of the poet Kabir (1440–1518). Though not a Delhiite, Kabir merits mention here as the most distinctive and cherished voice of his generation. A foundling of unknown parentage, he was brought up by Muslim weavers in the holy city of Varanasi, and later became a disciple of the Hindu saint Ramananda. His thought and poetry bridge the religious divide, vehemently opposing dogma to seek a common path. He acknowledged the existence of only two spiritual forces: God and the individual soul. The goal of life was to bring them into harmony.

  Kabir was a contemporary of Sikander Lodi (d. 1517) whose tomb lies in the north-east corner of Lodi Gardens. Sikander’s name is the Persian variant of Alexander—a reference to Alexander the Great whose history (or versions of it) had long formed a part of Persian literature, such as the account by the twelfth-century poet Nizami. A daunting name to live up to, and Sikander began by departing from his father’s practice by getting up off the floor to sit on a throne and demanding displays of respect from his courtiers when they attended him in audience. His expansions and new foundations included the city of Agra as an alternative base to Delhi. Nothing of what he built there su
rvives (having later been replaced by Akbar), and only the northern suburb of Sikandra still bears his name. Ironically, that district is now known chiefly as the burial place of Akbar, while Sikander himself is buried back here in Delhi.

  His tomb marks an important step in the evolution of Indo-Islamic funerary architecture. At first glance, it is a replica of the much earlier tomb of Muhammad Shah (d. 1445) situated at the other end of the garden: like that, it follows the by now well-established octagonal variant of the type, with an enclosing veranda to encourage visitors to engage in a reverential circumambulation. The earliest tombs were square but there is nothing newfangled about the octagon. On the contrary, an octagonal-domed building within Islam cannot help but refer back all the way to the Dome of the Rock. Replicating significant aspects of the DNA, it establishes itself as a recognizable member of the family.

  But the mutations are significant too. The elevated ground on which it stands is enclosed by a wall, making a garden. The much earlier tomb of Ghiyas–ud-din Tughluq (1325) stands in its own mini fortress, and Bahlul Lodi’s tomb, as just discussed, was contained within a royal park and even had a compound wall; but Sikander Lodi’s was the first Indo-Islamic tomb standing centrally in its own walled garden as an integral part of the architectural scheme. What its plan was, we don’t know—only the bulbuls and parakeets flitting noisily among its flowers are unchanged from their ancestors—but its size and symmetry point to a formal design.

  The garden wall allows for a second innovation. One of the challenges of tomb design, as already observed, is that the need to enclose the western side of the burial chamber—to accommodate a mihrab indicating the qibla or direction of prayer—spoils the symmetry, whether the plan is octagonal or square. But here the outer enclosing wall comes to the rescue. If you stand in the garden and look at the western side, you will observe a ‘wall’ mosque: an enormous arched mihrab inscribed over the wall, with a platform in front to accommodate those who assemble here for prayer. This does the job more than adequately, allowing the architect to leave the western side of the inner chamber open like the rest. The original idea is that the buried person’s face can be turned towards the mihrab (and so to Mecca) within the chamber; in this variant, his gaze is directed through an open arch to the wall mosque beyond. The twist is that if you test this interpretation by going inside, you will find the western wall is not open at all but blocked. But look closely and you will notice that the infill is a much later addition. The western arch was designed to be open. Some later custodian of the building, clumsily misunderstanding the architect’s intention, and pedantically asserting the rule so artfully evaded, has blocked it up and ruined the symmetry. Idiot!

  In his classic survey of Indo-Islamic architecture, Percy Brown asserted—and many art historians have subsequently reiterated—that a third innovation here is the use of a ‘double-shell’ dome. It is a common practice in all domed architectural traditions to have separate inner and outer shells. A dome that creates a satisfying interior space, when seen from underneath, might be too shallow to be adequately imposing when seen from the ground outside; and the addition of a second shell over the top solves the problem. There are many such double domes in Indo-Islamic architecture. Humayun’s tomb has one. In the case of the Taj Mahal, the void between the two domes is enormous. But in Sikander Lodi’s tomb, the difference between the interior and exterior height is not obvious to the naked eye. Indeed, I am informed by a conservation engineer who was able to investigate the matter that there is none, or very little. Contrary to what we have repeatedly been told, it probably isn’t a double-shell dome.

  Close by is another monument of a very different kind: the so-called Aathpul, a bridge dating from the reign of Akbar. The ‘aath’ (eight) in its name refers (rather oddly, no?) to the number of piers rather than the number of arches, of which there are seven. It is a rare survivor of its type. As bridges serve an important practical function, most of those built in the Mughal era were later replaced by more modern constructions that can cope with modern traffic. This one survived because it lost its job. The nullah that it spanned, a small tributary of the Yamuna, was diverted before the modern era and the redundant bridge thereafter suffered neither use nor change. The absence of water, and a purpose, evidently bothered Joseph Allen Stein, the architect who refashioned the gardens in the 1960s: he introduced the pond so that the bridge had something to cross over. Only just, though. The bridge is right up against the eastern perimeter of the gardens, so there is not much space beyond it. Seen from the garden side, all appears fine: the vista of the pond terminates with the bridge under which the water flows. But if you stand on the bridge and look over the far side, there is not much to see but the swampy puddle that is the pond’s other end. I’m not sure the pond makes the bridge any less of a folly; it is a bit like the bridge at the near end of the lake at Stourhead.

  It does, however, carry the path that leads from one of the entry gates into the heart of the gardens. Midway along it is the last group of monuments at this site: a small mosque and the ornamental entrance to a rose garden, dating from the eighteenth century. Like the small mosque and garden of the same period located near the Qutb Minar, these buildings remind us that the later Mughal emperors, no less than their ancestors, liked to visit the monuments of the earlier sultans. They might even make a day of it, thus requiring a mosque for prayer and a garden for repose.

  The loss of an empire does not improve anyone’s resumé. The comparatively short reign of the last Lodi sultan, Ibrahim (r. 1517–26), terminated by the Mughal conquest, is inevitably projected as a story of decline and fall. This is to overlook at least one spectacular early success: in the first year of his reign he wrested control of Gwalior, one of the most powerful forts in central India, from the Tomar Rajputs. Many historians would be happy to overlook this, or not see it as a success, because it brought to an end the reign of Man Singh Tomar, among the most enlightened rulers and cultured patrons of his time. The court of Man Singh Tomar is famous still for its eclectic traditions of music and architecture, all brought to an abrupt closure by the loss of the powerhouse from which it emanated. Man Singh’s son and successor, Vikramaditya, was dispossessed, and eventually died alongside his new overlord, trying to resist Babur’s invasion at the Battle of Panipat in 1526.

  In the meantime, Ibrahim Lodi, having neutralized one prominent Rajput ruler, was struggling to contain the expansionist ambitions of another: Rana Sanga of Mewar threatened Lodi control even over Agra, which lay far from his stronghold in Chittor. Ibrahim also faced rebellion from within his nobility as rival factions of Afghan descent jostled for promotion and regional control. Some of those who failed to achieve it contacted Babur in a bid to remove Ibrahim from the throne. He was killed in the ensuing battle and was buried in Panipat in a structure that was hastily erected and is unsurprisingly un-majestic.

  On the River: The Great Mughals

  So strong is the association between Delhi’s history and the Mughals that it is surprising to note that it got off to a slow start. The tomb of Humayun, the second ruler of the dynasty, is the city’s finest historical monument, but Humayun himself spent very little time in the city where he lies buried. Neither did his immediate successors. Akbar and Jahangir were both constantly on the move, designating wherever they went as the capital; and if any city seemed to enjoy a status above the others it was Agra (which had been established as an alternative capital back in the time of Sikander Lodi and was rebuilt by Akbar). It was not until the mid-seventeenth century—the middle of the reign of the fifth Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan—that Delhi achieved its status as the undisputed capital of their empire. The founder of the dynasty, Babur, was a prince of distinguished lineage. He was descended on his mother’s side from the rapacious Mongol known as Chengiz (popularly Genghis) Khan. The dynasty takes its name from this connection: ‘Mughal’ is a variant of ‘Mongol’, which is how they were seen by people in India. But Babur took greater pride in his paternal desc
ent from Timur, who was famous not only for his ceaseless campaigns but also for his architectural embellishment of the city of Samarkand.

  That city was the centre of Babur’s cultural world and the focus of his early ambitions. Despite his illustrious, all-conquering ancestry, his inheritance was the small kingdom of Fergana (at the eastern end of present-day Uzbekistan). As a proud Timurid he yearned to recapture his ancestor’s capital. He did, in fact, succeed three times in taking Samarkand, but he could never hold it for long and eventually conceded defeat and decided to look elsewhere for a kingdom. He began his migration southwards with the conquest of Kabul. From there, he made a series of forays eastwards as far as Lahore, but he was still not satisfied. Reminded (by malcontents at the court of Ibrahim Lodi) that Timur had also briefly conquered Delhi, Babur turned his sights in that direction.

  Ibrahim Lodi was not ready to leave without a fight, simply out of respect for Babur’s pedigree. Fortunately for Babur, he had, besides blood, some more persuasive advantages over the defender, including superior military tactics and gunpowder. His relatively small invading force—estimated at 15,000—was divided into highly mobile units and was backed by artillery. Ibrahim Lodi’s defending horde, assembled on the plain at Panipat in April 1526, was outwitted and outgunned. Even his elephants, deployed to frighten the central Asians who were not familiar with the sight of them, were a failure, because they were themselves frightened by the unfamiliar noise of the artillery.