Of History Twitter, Imagined Delhi, and Bangalore's Many Pasts

Balabrooie Guest-House, Bangalore

I should have been a historian, or at the very least, studied history in university. I instead chose to study English Literature and Creative Writing, of which I only really enjoyed the creative writing part. I soon learned that it was one thing to read for pleasure, losing yourself in these imagined worlds but another thing altogether to study literature. I was loath to analyse and mine meanings from a book when in fact, I was more interested in writing a book myself. I didn't realise back then that being a historian would have been a perfectly viable career option or that I could have written a book and simultaneously been a historian: I could have written a historical novel, for god's sake! I now wonder whether I secretly perceived history as akin to a museum, full of glorious beauties to be admired and yet ultimately belonging to that alien planet, the past. Perhaps, my eighteen year old self also perceived historians as fusty individuals imprisoned in the past, constantly trying to achieve time-traveling when in fact, they could not? And yet, the truth was also that the courses I took in history during my undergraduate and graduate years were the ones I enjoyed the most.

I have been on Twitter for a while now, largely as an observer/eavesdropper on the incredible diversity of conversations taking place among those I follow. What has really fascinated me though in the last year or so has been my discovery of History Twitter, where I have stumbled upon the most  amazing treasure-troves of threads; historian and writer, Paul Cooper is one person that springs to my mind, whose threads are a wealth of information, his 'Ruin of the Day' thread masterfully knitting the past and present in form of the intriguing ruins across the world (fun fact: we are both alumni of the same course at our alma mater, University of Warwick!) I have also admired how yesterday and today come together, as in this piece by Sarover Zaidi on Chirag Dilli where she exquisitely wrote about love in Lodhi Gardens, "a map for lost lovers" in that wondrous green space in Delhi, where sprawling, iridescent bougainvillea trees rain flowers, the ancient tombs and mosques watch, as they have done for so many centuries.

Safdarjung Tomb, New Delhi

Looking up

When I lived in Delhi, Lodhi Gardens used to be one of my favorite places to visit in the city, aligning to my imagined notion of Delhi. For, before I moved there, I had honestly and excitedly thought I was moving to the City of Djinns, the Delhi which William Dalrymple so romantically describes and evokes in his book of the same name. I imagined myself wandering through the tombs at dusk, peeling away one historical palimpsest after another, immersing myself in the drama and beauty and pathos that was the city. However, I arrived in Delhi, fell sick on the first day, and developed respiratory issues which would greatly plague me during my two year stay - and realised  the stark difference between anticipation and reality. It's not as if I didn't explore the city at all, though. My husband and I loved visiting Hauz Khas Village: I recall the domes turning lavender at night to the beat of live music, the crumbling madrasa ruins crawling with lovers, families, and instagrammers. I spent a lovely winter afternoon at Humayun's Tomb (my favorite tomb of them all), taking around out of town visitors to Sadfarjung Tomb and the vibrant Lodhi Art District, listening to a concert one almost-winter redolent October evening at Purana Qila. Yet, as I recall these explorations, I find that all of them are underscored by feelings of melancholy or lassitude or plain physical unwellness. After a while, these tombs and buildings and histories simply did not matter because there were so many things to grapple with your today; the yesterday was subsequently of significance anymore. And we ultimately left the city, having no other choice.

I sometimes like to say that I came to Bangalore for the trees - and while that still largely remains true, I have to admit that it has encouraged me to start thinking about history more consciously than ever before. Even though the skyscrapers pile up and unattractive cuboid plastic-glass buildings spring up everywhere, I see tantalising glimpses of its recent colonial past in its bungalows, government buildings, and churches along with its much older ones in inscription stones, temples, and monuments, inviting me to unearth their stories. When I recently took a heritage walk in Avenue Road in central Bangalore, I learned about its beginnings, how KR Market used to be a pond and that the aftermath of a war saw it becoming a market, and how the founder of Bangalore, Kempegowda determined the the boundaries which once defined Bangalore. During the walk, we found ourselves inside a courtyard of Mohan Building, a building which once used to be a family home, a police station, a lodge, and now a commercial market housing silk and cotton shops; a collective of Bangalore-based artists, the Klatsch Collective subsequently decided to reinterpret its multiple layers of historical avatars through a multi-disciplinary art intervention by holding on-site installations, paintings, and dialogue last year. 

The Beauty of Space: Ambara, Bangalore

Balabrooie Guest-House

Over the years, I have come to appreciate more than ever at how heritage structures are finding new, alternative, exciting contexts in which to reincarnate. Bangalore has been no exception at this front and I am glad to see how beautifully restored and renovated mansions are enjoying a new avatar as hip boutiques and cafes and art spaces such as Cinnamon, Raintree, and Ambara and of course, the magnificent structure that is NGMA Bangalore. Yet, I am also painfully aware of the numerous heritage structures which are being demolished or under threat of demolition every day, the colonial bungalows springing to my mind, for instance. The other day, after I chanced upon and explored Balabrooie Guest-House, which was built in 19th century, I learned that it had been rescued from being destroyed thanks to the valiant efforts of local activists back in 2014. The demands for its demolition. had been made so that something more useful could spring up in its place. Does history always have to be useful? Can one not appreciate history for what it is: history?

There is no singular past just as there is no such thing as history; our many pasts are full of both his-stories and herstories. Last November, I greatly enjoyed participating in a mapping walk led by Aliyeh Rizvi of Native Place. As we walked from Cubbon Park to MG Road (the boundaries which once marked that of the erstwhile British Cantonment), we heard stories about what it once was, what it was now, and what it could become; we participated in constructing new stories about the city while reinterpreting the old, mapping a new atlas upon that of the old. And it struck me that I too was doing the same in a sense through my daily documentation of my experiences in the city on Instagram, a city which I was now starting to call home. With the exception of Muscat, I had never stayed long enough in all the other cities I had lived in to call them home - and if I forever remained a migratory bird of sorts, how could I invest myself in the city and its stories, let alone begin to narrate them?

Yet, in Bangalore, I have found myself wanting to narrate its stories of its past and people and architecture - and realise that there lies the making of a historian somewhere anyway. I place my ears against these ancient walls, like one does with shells, conjuring up the sound of the crashing waves and wind. And I try to hear what once happened inside those walls, what secrets I can persuade the matrix of stone and cement and design to reveal to me if I am patient enough - and how they will color in the blanks of a city which is only just beginning to take shape for me.

Photo-Story: Of Trees and Old Monuments

Wherever I go, I find them again and again, the ruined monument and the tree growing alongside each other, seemingly content in the other's company. The tree may be significantly younger than the monument and yet, you can intuit a quiet, beautiful rapport between them, regardless of barriers of age and character. The monument must tell stories to the tree - and how many stories must it have! - and it communicates them to us through the rustle of its leaves, a storyteller narrating what the stone cannot share.

**

Speaking of trees, I had the honor of interviewing one of India's most iconic photographers, Raghu Rai and talking about his recent exhibition of tree images in Delhi recently; it was a pleasure to glimpse his photographic forest and hear about his creative processes...have a look at the piece here

Boston was...

cold. clear-skinned, blue skies. micro scoops of the world's best ice-cream (sample flavors: ginger and goat-cheese-brownie). a cute baby, his mother, and grandfather. MIT: tilted, amused, quirky buildings, windows popping out like bulging eyes. Moving sculptures: reeds dancing in the wind. Bits of a vivid cerulean Boston sky seen from inside a sculpture: on the inside, looking outside. Looking up into eternity. Hybrid pictures, Albert Einstein metamorphosing into Harry Potter or Marilyn Monroe. Harvard Law-School. A lost and found phone. A river which looked like a lake. Boston Common, colorfully dressed pinickers studding the grass like spring flowers. An elderly Japanese couple taking selfies. A wrong turn: walking to the river, rather than the sea. Beacon St/Magnolia Avenue: a series of one gorgeous magnolia tree after another, thickly dressed in blooms. Fallen butter-yellow blossoms (which turn sepia when shut inside a Gabriel Garcia Marquez). Imprisoned red tulips. The language of fallen petals. A missing baby blanket (heirloom) note stuck on a metal pillar. Charles River seen through the veil of a weeping willow. Boston Harbor. A giant American flag. The sea at night. The oldest pub in America. Holocaust Memorial on Freedom trail, inscribed with numbers, each number a wound, each memory uttered there a burning reminder: never again. T: red, blue, and green. Rain. Shopping: red and blue and white. Flying home: chocolate-covered almonds.

On the Inside, Looking Outside: MIT campus

Eternity: MIT School of Architechure

 Quirky: MIT STATA building

Magnolia Avenue: Beacon Street

Imprisoned Tulips: Beacon Street

Beyond the Weeping Willow: Charles River

Stories of a Historical Theatre: Nagaur Fort, Rajasthan

Perspective

A few months ago, I had the opportunity of interacting with a superlatively talented Australian water-color artist, Jason Roberts via Instagram; even a cursory look at his blog is sufficient to gauge the beauty of his works. Having noticed one of my IG posts about Rajasthan and whose nuances he has so exquisitely captured in his own paintings, we began talking and the subject turned to Nagaur, which is about 135km from Jodhpur. Frankly speaking, apart from the fact that my mother once lived and studied there and that Liz Hurley had a rather lavish sangeet [musical] celebrations at the Nagaur's Ahhichatragarh  fort, I did not know much else. However, Jason's descriptions about the fort and his experiences at the annual Nagaur cattle fair  enchanted me - and it so happened that my various meanderings in Rajasthan few weeks ago coincidentally brought me to Nagaur.

As towns go, I could not help thinking that Nagaur represented the quintessential small Rajasthani town; the Nagaur fort, on the other hand, is an entirely different and distinct affair. Initially, having seen only interior shots of the fort, I was somehow anticipating an imposing, looming presence, much the way Jodhpur's Meherangarh fort dominates and indeed, defines Jodhpur's skyline. The Nagore fort however is tucked inside the town; it is only when you enter the premises that you realise its scope and that it indeed is a formidable presence in itself.

Aerial image of Nagaur fort taken from Rajesh Bedi's book, Rajasthan: Under the Desert Sky

We visited on a blisteringly hot August afternoon and yet, the heat and the lancet-sharp sunlight eventually could not deter us from appreciating the fort in its full splendor. The moment we entered the fort complex via the gardens, I at once felt far removed from the world beyond. I must add that I do not always feel this way in all historical structures and places; at times, so overloaded are they with excesses of modern-day tourism that they are reduced to parodies of their original selves or other times, they are mired in so much neglect and decay that it is impossible to grasp the grand and exciting structures they had once been. Nagaur fort too had been prey to the latter and it is gentle, thoughtful and careful restoration in the past few years that has led to Nagaur fort being the emblem of romance and history that it is today.

As we roamed through the complex with an informative guide in tow, it was not difficult to flesh the fort into the personality that it once was. Here, a hundred niches became ablaze with individual diyas during the night, the earth having swallowed the nocturnal sky in its midst; there, Akbar had once stayed in this mahal [chambers] Inside this arched pavilion, you were in the heart of the fort and surrounded by numerous fountains, pools, and water-channels in which fort denizens swam and frolicked. Thanks to assiduous water harvesting techniques, the fort was able to enjoy the pleasures of water despite being in so conspicously arid environment.

Pavilion of Arches

Eyed-Eagle

As we wandered from the outside garden of filigree marble beauty, symmetrical arches, and paint-play of shadows into the chambers, we experienced both a relief from the heat as well as admittance to an interior garden of sorts. In the silence and coolth, as we admired the gorgeously detailed ceilings, the simultaneously functional and aesthetic water-fountains, and the minimalist elegance of the arches and niches, I could not help but admire the effort invested in the restoration of the fort and which made it one of the twenty nominees for the Agha Khan award for Architechure as well as being the recipient of other conservation efforts. These efforts have been responsible for the re-presentation of the Nagaur fort, highlighting it as an architectural and historical landmark as well as restablishing its context in contemporary times; for instance, it plays stage to the World Sufi Spirit festival, its nocturnal avatar lending the fort with yet another performative dimension. 

Dancing Ceiling

The Green Room

In one of the queen's chambers, every inch of the wall was covered with paintings documenting the minituaie of their daily life; what they performed within the walls was mirror-reflected upon those very surfaces. For them, it was like living with family photographs: familiar and loved. For us, the amateur historian attempting to fill empty rooms with headful of stories, they were valuable glimpses into their lives, making it easier for the rooms to be a theatre in which we could imagine dialogues, monologues, and discussions reverberating in the origami of dust and light and shadows.

Alas, we had only a hour to spare for the fort visit and it was time to bid farewell; as we walked towards the gate, which would lead us out of the fort and into the everyday burly of the world, I turned around - and glimpsed this sight below:

Many centuries ago, the fort inhabitants must have glanced up to witness this very same sight - and here I was, studying the same sky, the eagles surveying me from above; the people had changed, the structure had not. It struck me how crucial it is that we view historical buildings in continuum with our present, rather than seeing them as fossils. On our way to Nagaur, we had stopped in the town of Sujangarh and wended our way through the arteries of the older part. We passed by many a traditional haveli, with doors, windows, and facade replete - only to encounter ugly, empty wounds in which a haveli had been demolished and a plastic, hollow toybox of a mall replacing it. Would these havelis that I admired be still standing there if I were to return in a year's time? I fear that I may not see them again. If we can figure out how to make these structures relevant to our contemporary lives, we can simply integrate them into the matrix of stories, rather than erasing them away altogether until future generations would not even know that they existed in the first place.

Fallingwater: Story of an Iconic House

Fallingwater exterior

Honestly speaking, whenever I think about what kind of architecture fascinates and appeals to me, I always identify it as to whether it looks pretty/fantastical/unusual. I have never given much thought to as to how it feels, as in when you walk inside a building/space and sense how the varied design, interior, and other visual elements have converged together to create an ambiance peculiar to that specific location. At the most, religious and spiritual structures have had that kind of impact upon me, especially Jain temples, which I consider to be amongst the most peace-inducing spaces I have ever been in. However, I can't recollect any other buildings which have exerted such a hold on me. 

Before we got married and I was curious to know more about Pittsburgh and its adjoining areas, my husband mentioned that the renowned American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright's arguably most famous house, Fallingwater happened to be located near Pittsburgh. And so few weeks ago, we paid a visit to see it in person. I remember encountering a reference to Lloyd Wright while researching a story on architecture some years ago but I didn't know much about him beyond that. Before we visited, I did nonetheless drop by the house's website and initial glimpses of its strong primarily horizontal, clean, minimalist lines reminded me of Le Corbusier, whom I largely associate with having designed Chandigarh at Jawaharal Nehru's request. That's just a purely personal association though!

Also known as the Kaufmann residence, Fallingwater essentially was a house owned by prominent Pittsburgh business family, Kauffmanns, which comprised Edgar Kauffmann Sr, his wife, and son; the house derives its name from the water-fall on Bear Run that it is partially built upon and its iconic design resurrected Wright's career, which was otherwise fading into obscurity. Considering its significance to Wright and the subsequent acclaim it enjoyed, the house is an interesting way to understand his design mindset.

View of Fallingwater from the spot it was originally meant to built upon

Set inside a thick forest which the Kauffmans incidentally had had re-planted, you can easily imagine what a sanctuary it must have been as you approach it through the grounds and down a winding path. The tour guide mentioned that the house was originally to be built in a spot overlooking the waterfall; however, Wright instead decided to structure the entire house around the water-fall so that it became a part of the house, rather than merely to be looked at. Such a decision was in continuum with his design philosophy of integrating the surrounding environment into the architectural narrative and making the structure organic, examples of which abound in Fallingwater. Indeed, once the windows were open, you would get a glimpse of the water-fall but also listen to the sound of continuously falling water, which would permeate the house. There is also provision of directly accessing the fall and Bear Run from the living room.

We took a basic one-hour tour, which involves exploring the house and being offered little anecdotes as to how the house evolved into being, including how the Kauffmans and Wright actively collaborated and innovated about the design and space. For example, at the fireplace in the living room, Wright retained boulders on the site and made them part of the hearth. I also liked the living room terrace, where you could gaze at the fall and Bear Run while a meditative Buddha head bust standing in the center of the terrace contemplated you in turn. 

I especially liked the living room area which took up the entire ground floor; upstairs, though, we saw the bedrooms of which Mrs Kaufmann's bedroom was my favorite. While the guest and Mr Kauffman's master bedrooms were cozy/cave-like (or as someone more bluntly mentioned in our tour-group, claustrophobic!), her bedroom was luxuriously roomy and opened out to a terrace which was almost as large as the bedroom itself. What a seamless transition it must have been to make from nocturnal dreams into dream-like natural surroundings upon waking...

Kaufmann Sr's terrace

Each room had its corresponding open terrace/space, creating an interplay between open/closed spaces. One anecdote which charmed me was that the design sought to accommodate a tree growing bang in middle of the property at the time; it was supposed to grow through the terrace facing Kauffman Sr's bedroom, creating a natural pillar of bark and green. The tree didn't survive though but I appreciate the design embracing and adapting to the natural contours, rather than entirely bypassing them altogether.

Apart from the main house, one can access the guest annexe by a curving flight of stairs; the rooms retain similar lines and features and what especially caught my attention was a table fashioned from a tree-stump. I actually thought that it was something that Wright had incorporated into the room...however, it turned out that the Kauffmans had had it made and Wright was a little disapproving, describing it as tad rustic. While in the guest annexe, I couldn't help but think that Fallingwater was as perfect a location for a murder mystery thriller as it could get! 

Living room and fireplace (courtesy:www.digdigs.com)

Apart from admiring its design, what I was also drawn towards was how every effort has been taken to preserve the original atmosphere and character of the interiors through paintings, books and magazines, artefacts and sculptures, and furniture. Photographs are forbidden inside the interior and you must carefully navigate your way through the rooms, wary of disturbing the house and its invisible occupants. It seems to be only a matter of time before they will eventually make their appearance, filling up the living room with gales of laughter and conversations and merriments...or retreating into their private terraces and soaking in precious moments of contemplation. For, it was a home at the end of the day - and like any home, it nests within its interiors many stories and secrets.

First glimpse of Fallingwater

The tour concluded, we ambled into the exhibition space, which testified to Fallingwater's national and global popularity and how it has been a muse for many. You can also indulge in a bit of in situ poetry so to speak, answering seven questions in one word answers to distill your Fallingwater experience and later weave those words into a poem. 

These were few of mine:

Secrets

Growth

Stone

Quietude

Peace

The poem awaits to be made...

Do you have a favorite structure/building? What do you feel when you are/were inside it?