Vijayapura: Where history rests

Royal sepulchral chamber near the Shahpur gate of Bijapur. 

An abandoned mosque in the outskirts of Bijapur.

Ruins of firangi mahal.

Trailing through meandering, dusty roads along the fort wall in Vijayapura, I found myself in a palatial complex encompassing Asar Mahal, Jahaz Mahal and Kalyani Mahal in a row.

I had much to owe to people living in the vicinity, who had razed a portion of the compound wall, through which I could get into the palatial site.

Soon, a herd of squealing pigs came charging towards me and a pack of snarling stray dogs joined them; they were riled up by my intrusion into their solemn world.

I stood silent, captivated by the architectural grandeur of the remains of an age-old palace. A boy sat on his haunches under a pair of weathered, yet perfectly symmetrical arches.

Vijayapura or Bijapur city, renowned for its tourist attractions like Gol Gumbaz, has hundreds of monuments and sites of great archeological value, reminiscent of the Adilshahi dynasty that ruled between 1489 and 1686.

As a child, I was a big dreamer.

My dreams were all full of fairy tales about genies and houris that lived on the soil of Bijapur. The genies occasionally dropped themselves into Gagan Mahal or Sangeet Mahal and we crooned hearty songs.

Sometimes, I found myself in the company of mystics. We sang elegies and enjoyed the percussion of the tambourine.

I teased the fairies that came to Taj boudi (an ancient stair-well) to take a dip. I had fallen for one of those heavenly beings. Her name was Sufia.

She took me on a jolly ride, straddling the back of her sphinx. We flew to Naari Mahal, one of her favorite hideouts in Bijapur, and she changed herself into earthly attire.

It was a majestic sight, as we winged over Firangi Mahal, Deewan-e-Khaas, Deewan-e-Aam, Afzal khan cenotaph, and an expansive caravanserai at the north-west of the city.

She pointed out the many mausoleums, mosques, sufi shrines, hospices, temples, wells, granaries, watchtowers, water pavilions, gardens and orchards, spanned across the city and suburbs.

She was an astute historian, elucidating the stories behind each of those monuments and sites of archeological importance.

We finally landed up at Kalyani Mahal, our favourite hangout.

I stood in nostalgia, leaning against a water reservoir called Shah Ganj at the corner of the palace. This palace used to be different, magnificent, expansive and wholesome.

I looked farther towards an arched walkway called Pasari Kaman that connected the palace to Ark-Qila (the fortification at the middle of the city).

Sufia and I strolled for hours over that arched walkway that overlooked the gamut of palaces and a moat which brimmed with water round the year.

A shrine of Peer Mahabari Khandayat, with dwarf minarets, appears vivid.

But the reality is different.

The minarets of the palace are crumbling each day; the masonry on the walls and arches is falling off. Spiky vegetation has taken root, in place of beautiful orchards.

Water in the moat is replaced with tonnes of garbage, whose stench pervades the atmosphere.

Sufia has gone back into her heavenly abode. I stare blankly at the clear skies above, hoping to find a glimpse of her celestial beauty. My eyes are blurred with tears. My dreams are left as destitute as Kalyani Mahal is.

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