Imagining Lahore

by Haroon Khalid

  If it hadn’t been for one Mehr Muqamudin, a guard at the Lohari Darwaza, one of the twelve gateways of Lahore leading into the walled city, perhaps Ranjit Singh’s march into Lahore, which symbolically marked his capture of the throne of Punjab, would have been delayed for a little while longer. Mehr Muqamudin opened the gate, allowing his armies to march into the city peacefully. As a reward for his loyalty, Ranjit Singh allotted him this garden. Razing most of the existing structures, Mehr Muqamudin established a fortified locality for the people of his ancestral village and named it accordingly.5

  Tucked away amidst tall buildings, in the locality of Nawa Kot, is the tomb believed to be of Zeb-un-Nissa, a little building, petrified, unsure of what the future will hold for it. For now, there is hope. A government board has been placed upon its stout structure, identifying it as protected property. But danger looms at the gate. Neighbouring shops have over time extended their entrances, taking over vacant land around the tomb. Encroaching upon this protected monument is a bamboo seller’s shop, with several of his freshly made ladders leaning greedily into the complex.

  Built on a raised platform, the mausoleum is a single-storey structure with a wide dome on the top, typical of Mughal architecture. Two ancient trees, banyan and berry, regarded as sacred in the folk Islamic and other religious traditions of India, stand guard on either side, protecting the grave regarded as that of the Mughal princess. Abandoned by time and fate, the grave lies at the centre of the mausoleum.

  At certain points, the brilliance of the sublime Mughal architecture shines through centuries of decay. Red-and-yellow floral patterns that form honeycombed shapes called muqarnas emerge on closer inspection. Beneath the crumbling floor, the geometrical patterns of the bricks merge into ever-growing larger ones. The red stone used widely in other Mughal buildings makes an almost niggardly appearance here, at the base of the structure, with carved floral and geometrical designs chiselled to perfection. At a time when multistorey buildings are raised in a matter of months, the meticulous attention paid to the finishing of this structure is almost embarrassing.

  According to a popular story, Zeb-un-Nissa moved into a voluntary prison at the site of this tomb, where once there had been a garden, its boundaries merging into that of Chauburji Bagh. She chose to imprison herself after her father turned down her request to marry one Aqil Khan, the governor of Multan.6 Perhaps the emperor was aghast at the princess’s audacity in choosing a suitor for herself, or perhaps he was frightened by the challenge Aqil Khan or his progeny could present to him or his descendants once they were connected to the royal family by marriage. Several sisters and daughters of Mughal emperors were not allowed to marry for the same reason.

  According to another popular tale, Zeb-un-Nissa was destined to ascend the Mughal throne, betrothed as she was to Suleiman Shikoh, the eldest son of Dara Shikoh.7 The match was decided by Shah Jahan himself, who was naive enough to believe that despite his own experiences with his eldest son’s ambition, his appointed heir, Dara Shikoh, would have a smooth transition to power, and thereafter his son, Suleiman Shikoh. He overestimated the political and military astuteness of Dara and underplayed the abilities of his reviled son, Aurangzeb.

  Perhaps Aurangzeb could never forgive his daughter for her sympathies to his sworn enemy. Like Dara Shikoh, she too dabbled in Sufi poetry, compared to the more literalist interpretation of religion of her father. Her father might have questioned her loyalty to him and suspected her of being sympathetic to her uncle and fiancé, who too was assassinated by Aurangzeb after he captured and killed Dara.

  Legend states that abandoning herself to her cursed fate, Zeb-un-Nissa found refuge in this garden, which had been constructed on her orders. Having failed to fulfil her wishes twice, she devoted her life to the needy, who were provided free food here every day. It is said that she would receive written dietary requests and would order her royal cooks to prepare meals accordingly. It was in this manner that she received a love couplet from her beloved Aqil Khan, who too had abandoned his wealth, power and prestige while pining for his unconsummated love.8 United, finally, the lovers spent many days and nights in each other’s arms, perhaps under the same watchful trees that now act as sentries to this abandoned grave. Their secret was soon betrayed and her infuriated father had her lover killed.9 Zeb-un-Nissa, the favourite daughter of the emperor, was imprisoned in her own garden for the rest of her life, twenty years to be exact. She died a few years before the emperor and was interred in her garden.

  Just behind the grave is the last remaining witness to this sad story. Hidden deep within the settlement is Chhoti Chauburji, or the lesser Chauburji, which is by no means any less in splendour than its better-known cousin. In fact, it might be the more elaborately decorated building of the two. An imposing structure, it has several windows, accompanied by small minarets on its roof. The facade of the gateway is an overdose of bright colours—green, blue, yellow—colours that closely resembled the moods, weather and nature of life in Lahore, the city of festivals, before it was whitewashed by the Victorian sensibilities of its colonizers, inherited by the postcolonial babus.

  Most of the stories associated with the princess are part of folklore, devoid of historical authenticity. One must also consider the fact that during an era when royalty was perceived and treated as divinely manifested and political criticism was non-existent, rumour-mongering might have played an important role in helping common people vent their frustrations. Zeb-un-Nissa particularly must have been a ripe character for such speculation, given that she was a rare Mughal princess who was able to emerge from the shadows of the harem. Her association with Dara Shikoh and his son might also have played a part in setting her up as a target for rumours.

  Lahore arose from provincial backwaters to become a metropolis thanks to Akbar, who moved the Mughal capital here in 1585. However, in 1598, when Akbar shifted his capital away from Lahore, royal funding, which saw the emergence of several building projects in the city, dried up. This was reversed when Dara Shikoh, the crown prince, was appointed governor of Lahore. The city was back on the political map, on its way to the grandeur for which it seemed destined. One can therefore imagine that in the battle between Dara Shikoh and Aurangzeb, it must have been their governor whom the people of the city must have sided with. Once Dara was captured and killed, Aurangzeb imposed his authority over Lahore as well. With no avenue available to express their sense of loss, the rumours about an alleged conflict between an emperor and his poetess daughter acquire metaphorical significance.

  There is some credibility to this tale, due to Zeb-un-Nissa’s alleged sympathy towards her rebel brother, Muhammad Akbar, who revolted against his father. She was publically rebuked by the emperor for this and all her property confiscated. She was imprisoned in Salimgarh Fort in Delhi where she is believed to have died in 1701 or 1702, a few years before Aurangzeb.10 There is credible evidence to suggest that her tomb was constructed in Delhi, which was subsequently razed when the railway line was laid in 1875.11 Therefore the so-called tomb of Zeb-un-Nissa in Nawa Kot cannot be her real mausoleum where her remains are interred.

  Similarly, there are rather convincing arguments to suggest she was not responsible for the construction of Chauburji Bagh. Refuting the claims of prominent historians of the city of Lahore, there are others who assert that the garden was constructed by Jahanara,12 the sister of Emperor Aurangzeb, another remarkable character from the Mughal harem, whose life, like Zeb-un-Nissa’s, saw many ups and downs, caught as she was in the succession battle between her two brothers.

  Standing as tall as the minarets of Chauburji are the pillars of another imperial symbol—Takht-e-Lahore. Only a few metres from this historic structure, the pillars run in a straight line along the road, passing in front of Zeb-un-Nissa’s tomb. The accompanying road has been dug up to make way for the Orange Line, the first track of a metro train being constructed in Pakistan. Interestingly, Multan Road, upon which these pillars now stand like soldiers of doom, wa
s completed a short while prior to being dug up once again, after years of widening and renovation, which made life hell for the residents and shopkeepers living on this long stretch.

  Regarded as the new pet project of the ‘talented’ chief minister, the Orange Line, like the Metrobus before it, is meant to resolve the troubles of the commuters of Lahore. At the loan-signing ceremony for the project, the chief minister claimed that it would be the means of transportation for 5,00,000 people and add on average 39.38 billion rupees every year to the provincial exchequer.13

  As soon as the plans to start the project were finalized, the government began the process of acquiring land and clearing way. This led to a series of protests by locals who were not willing to sell their properties or felt the government was purchasing them below market price. Joining hands with these protestors were proprietors who could not prove legal ownership of their properties. These included families who have been living here for several generations, some from the time of Partition and others even before them, who were now being evicted without any compensation. Traders and shop owners, who have traditionally formed the core of PML-N’s support, too rose up against the project. Their businesses had still not recovered from the years of construction that took place on the Multan Road, which had turned away potential customers who would rather not get caught in traffic snarls. With a new development project under construction, the promised rewards of a revamped road seemed even more distant.

  Raising their voices alongside was the civil society of Lahore, which claimed that the project threatened the city’s historic heritage. A high-speed metro train passing so close to a historic monument like Chauburji would seriously damage its foundation. There are a total of eleven historic monuments along the track, threatened by this development project.14

  Yet another criticism was of skewed priorities, a criticism which can be used to question several projects undertaken by the PML-N, including the Metrobus, laptop and yellow cab schemes. It is estimated that the 27-kilometre line would cost 200 billion rupees. Compare this to 32.80 billion rupees allocated for education development in the province for the year of 2015 and 43.83 billion rupees for healthcare in Punjab. To add to the burden, the ticket would be subsidized to the tune of 12 billion rupees, according to a report in a local English newspaper. The same report claimed that there were a hundred protests against the project between August 2015 and February 2016.15

  Moved by the civil society, Lahore High Court in August 2016 barred the government from constructing the Metro line within 200 feet of historic structures, which the project violates in several instances. The Punjab government, adamant that the project had to be completed, decided to challenge the decision in the Supreme Court. In December 2017, the Supreme Court allowed the Punjab government to continue work on the Orange Line while taking care to not damage historic sites in its path.

  The Punjab government would have liked to complete the Orange Line before national elections in 2018, which was not achieved. With the litigations against it, construction speed of the project was severely hindered. However, a major part of the project has been completed, and it is likely that the Orange Line will be up and running in the next few months, perhaps soon after a new provincial government is formed following the July 2018 elections. Despite the setbacks, this project is highlighted as a major success of the government. Lahore’s Orange Line is marketed as a tangible symbol of progress and development, to be replicated in other cities if given an opportunity, reinforcing PML-N’s image of being ‘pro-development’. Kept in the dark about the economic realities of the project and the lopsided priorities, the voters are now being presented the Orange Line as a shiny new toy, to the envy of the rest of the country. This is a gift to the city of Lahore for its loyalty, a city which has over the years acquired the status of apex political priority.

  Among the provinces, it is Punjab that acquires political priority in the country, deciding the fate of the federation. For example, in the national elections of 2013, it was only in Punjab that PML-N swept the elections, along with a few seats in other provinces. The dominant position of Punjab allowed the party to form a majority government at the Centre. In fact, Punjabis dominate the army, bureaucracy, judiciary and the media too. Punjab’s political interests are the most widely represented in all forums of power. Punjab is the hegemonic power that decides the fate of the rest of the country.

  Even so, it would be unfair to view Punjab as one homogeneous whole that controls the fate of Pakistan. Within Punjab, there is central Punjab, with Lahore as its centre, that wields the maximum political clout. Cities farther away from this centre, such as Multan, Bahawalpur and Mianwali, are marginalized. Funds for the entire province, which many already allege is much larger than the province’s due share in the national budget, are directed towards Lahore and its immediate environment. The Orange Line is one of many such examples.

  Just as Punjab symbolizes hegemonic authority within the country, within Punjab it is in Lahore where this hegemonic power converges. Lahore then is a political metaphor for not just the province but also the entire country. While Punjab’s priorities are over-represented and usually dominate national priorities, it is Lahore’s priorities that set the tone for Punjab and, therefore, the country. Due to its special position in the power pyramid, it yields greater power than Karachi, the largest and most diverse city in the country, and Islamabad, the capital. In this context, the Orange Line is not just another project, but rather one of the most important projects in the country that perfectly captures the essence of Lahore’s colonial and hegemonic relationship with the rest of the country.

  Ironically, Lahore has had to sacrifice its unique identity to ascend to its hegemonic position. A multireligious and cultural society has had to shed parts of its history and heritage to become the symbol of a monolithic religious and cultural society. As a symbol of state nationalism, understood in a narrow framework intolerant of diversity, Lahore became an epitome of this uniformity—its conformity and monolithic identity presented to other urban cities that still retain their multicultural identity as a model to aspire to. It should not come as a surprise today that Lahore is one of, if not the most, religiously and politically conservative cities, compared to other provincial capitals. Over the course of Pakistan’s life, it has shown particular tolerance towards extremist religious parties and military governments. Lahore is the most politically powerful city of the country, but in the process of becoming so, has lost parts of its history and heritage, of which Chauburji could be another example.

  While ascending the stairs of power, Lahore has stopped being the Lahore it used to be.

  Holding an iron rod attached to the roof of the bus to steady myself, I stared sheepishly at the calligraphic graffiti on the walls as we slowly navigated a congested two-way street. Much effort had been put into its crafting—painted in black with a red border. It was almost sadistic that such a beautiful design contained such a hateful message. We emerged out of the narrow street to face the magnificent Chauburji, looking as uncomfortable in its surroundings as it always did. The fortified building was now in front of us, with barbed wire on its high walls, armed sentries standing next to the gate and a small door allowing entry to one person at a time. This is the headquarters of the Jamaat-ud-Dawa (JuD), the political and charitable wing of the Lashkar-e-Taiba, a militant organization responsible for several attacks in Indian Kashmir and the rest of the country. The graffiti on a wall next to the structure posed a question which it also answered, ‘What is our relationship with India? That of hatred and revenge.’

  In 2011, Pakistan accorded India the Most Favoured Nation (MFN) status, an economic arrangement assuring non-discriminatory trade between the two countries. Pakistan was responding to India’s gesture of according Pakistan MFN status in 1996. The rhetoric easily played into the hands of anti-India groups, spearheaded by the Hafiz Saeed-led JuD. Banners and posters sprung up all over Lahore, asking how our arch-enemy could be called the mos
t favoured nation. Pictures of brutalized Kashmiris were put up behind rickshaws, asking how this country could be called the most favoured nation. Images of the Babri Masjid being destroyed were also similarly used. Slogans, like the graffiti mentioned above, appeared on the walls of Lahore, speaking vehemently against any normalization of relations with India. Proponents of the policy tried to explain the meaning of this trade arrangement, but in vain. The words ‘most favoured’ for India were completely unacceptable.

  A few months later, passions had calmed down while the state quietly dragged its feet. All over the city, these slogans, posters and banners remained visible, though, like a bad hangover that lingered on. The organization where I was working at the time was hosting a delegation of Indian students and teachers. Having hired a bus, we were showing them around the city. As a history enthusiast, I had taken up the responsibility of acting as their guide. I narrated to them stories of Lahore’s multireligious and cultural past, as we saw different monuments and spaces connected with those stories. I wanted them to see Lahore as I do—to be able to brush past the ugliness, congestion, extremism, and see layers and layers of history, tradition, music, poetry, culture, religion, spirituality, nobility and folk.

  Just a little while earlier, I had spotted the graffiti I was telling them about as we passed the Miani Sahib graveyard, the oldest and largest graveyard of the city. Almost as old as Lahore, the entire story of the city can be narrated through it. Spread over a vast area, Miani Sahib contains thousands of graves of the city’s dead, some important, others not so much. Every day newer graves occupy older ones. It is an entire city on its own, with many paths running through it.

  Standing next to the driver, I had just been narrating the story of Boota Singh and Zainab. Separated from her parents during Partition, Zainab, a Muslim girl from Jalandhar district in East Punjab, remained in India. She was rescued by Boota Singh, who later married her.16 Legends about this couple, perpetuated by movies and books, narrate how they had fallen in love and raised two daughters. However, a few years after Partition, when the governments of India and Pakistan decided to recover and return ‘abducted’ women at the time of Partition, Zainab too was picked up by authorities and sent to Lahore.