Captured by India’s vibrant heart
By Sandra Boler
Published: September 28 2007 17:12 | Last updated: September 28 2007 17:12
A small scrap of crumpled paper is safely hidden in my box of treasures. Scrawled across it, in Hindi, is the key to my return to Bhopal and I guard it jealously.
Strange that I should want so badly to return to a city that I had never wanted to visit in the first place. My husband had long planned a visit to Madhya Pradesh and many of the places he wanted to see were best accessed from Bhopal: Sanchi, Udaigiri, Bhimbetka and Bhojpur. I was much more interested in the beautiful and better known cities of Orcha and Gwalior, which were the more obvious highlights of our stay.
So the prospect of three days in Bhopal was not an exciting one.
I had, of course, heard of Bhopal. The Union Carbide disaster in 1984 put the city on the world map in a dramatic and horrifying way. Thought to be the world’s worst industrial disaster, the deadly gas leak that killed at least 3,000 people in minutes on the night of December 3 – and thousands more in the aftermath – remains a horrifying tragedy.
It seemed impossible that any city could survive such a hideous legacy. But Bhopal is at the very heart of India, the proud capital of Madhya Pradesh, and, like India, it has a capacity for overcoming tragedy. The first thing that struck me was the huge lake on whose eastern shores the city is built. More like an advertisement for Swiss chocolate, the blue waters mirroring a bright sun and equally blue sky dispelled any fears of obvious pollution. We stayed near the Upper Lake in the Shamla Hills area away from the centre of the city. Elegant houses, good hotels and clean, clear air: this was nothing like the Bhopal I had imagined.
According to legend, the city was built in the 11th century on a site created by Raja Bhoj. He linked the nine rivers of his kingdom and built across them to create a pal or dam, thus giving the city the name Bhopal. By the end of the 17th century the site was deserted until Dost Mohammed Khan, a former Afghan governor and general under Aurangzeb, one of the later Mughal emperors, decided to found his own kingdom here.
Our hotel, the Jehan Numa Palace, was built in 1890 by the son of Sultan Jehan Begum. Converted into a hotel in 1983, it is a mixture of styles, colonial and classical, boasting among other things a trotting track at the end of the lawn. Dashing young men on immaculately groomed horses rose and fell to the sound of muffled hooves as we watched from our veranda.
The most intriguing thing, however, were the black and white photographs that delayed us on our way to the restaurant every evening. There were the splendid figures of Lord and Lady Minto with Lord and Lady Willingdon on one of their tours. But the regal figure beside them was captivating – enveloped in a burqa, the Sultan Jehan Begum, was the last in a powerful and successful female dynasty who ruled Bhopal for more than 100 years. The first Begum, Qudsia, was only 18 years old when in 1819 she took over from her husband, who had been assassinated. She elected her daughter, Sikander Begum and then her granddaughter, Shahjahan Begum, to succeed her. Studying the old photographs, we were struck not just by the fierce gaze of these extraordinary women but also that the first three had abandoned the purdah and appeared unveiled. Only the last, the Sultan Jehan Begum who ruled from 1901 until 1926, chose to wear the burqa .
At its heart, Old Bhopal is still essentially Muslim. Its great mosque, the Taj-ul-Masjid, is known as the mother of all mosques. It took more than 100 years to build and, with its white domes and huge pink minarets, is probably the most important monument in Bhopal. But it was the Jami Masjid that captured our hearts. Right in the centre of the chowk, or old market, this earlier mosque was built by Qudsia, the original Begum, in 1837. Not particularly elegant, it is a peaceful and holy place. With the sun shining on the white domes and gold-topped minarets, it has an atmosphere of great calm and devotion that has remained with us.
The bazaar beyond was something else. Famous for chanderi silk saris, tussar silk and embroidered and appliqué fabrics, its lanes were lined with tiny shops, displaying fabrics in every colour of the rainbow. We had acquired a guide who looked like a well-fed Frank Sinatra. His English was basic and when I asked if there were any shops specialising in antique fabrics, the answer was a disappointing “no”. Then he disappeared among the endless alleyways only to reappear a few minutes later, looking more hopeful. We were taken to a small shop where the shopkeeper – who like many of the people we met, spoke no English – indicated that he had old but not antique textiles. Once seated on a white cotton floor cushion, we were treated to bundles of the most exquisite old costumes and fabrics, silks and gauzes embroidered in finest seed pearls and coral beads, silver and gold thread.
We encountered nothing but kindness throughout our three days in Bhopal, which were simply not enough. But I have my tiny piece of paper. As I gaze at my beautiful embroidery, the address of the shop where I bought it is a promise that I will return.
Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2007
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