Soulful musings on Lalbagh

Imagine a gnarled, old tree. Perhaps it stands in a village, perhaps it is in a town. Imagine the cool, inviting shade of its generously spreading branches. A storyteller sits under the tree, recounting tales filled with warm observations. The stories sometimes meander from the plotline, taking us along on digressions before circling back. Perhaps the storyteller incorporates music, puppetry or paintings, as many Indian storytelling traditions do. Suresh Jayaram’s paean to Bengaluru’s oldest garden, Lalbagh, reminded me of just such leisurely, soulful storytelling.

Jayaram’s book chronicles the history of Lalbagh, from the gardens and orchards of Kempegowda’s times, its transformation into a walled, royal garden under the duo of Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan, its role under British stewardship as a botanical garden devoted primarily to economic interests, and to its influence that extends to the larger city even today.

Along the way, there are tangents and diverting interludes, including on Koshy’s and how the mahogany tree near it was saved, Francis Buchanan and his journey through the countryside, and Winston Churchill’s infamous unpaid dues to Bangalore Club.

The book is as much the author’s story as it is of the garden he loves. Jayaram’s grandfather was a Thigala, a community of agriculturists who are believed to have been brought from Tamil Nadu to Bangalore by Hyder Ali, in order to tend to the gardens here. A brief chapter on the Thigalas speaks about their contributions to the city and also their famous festival, the karaga, which connects the pete, kote and kere, or the market, erstwhile fort and lakes.

As an artist, Jayaram’s book is naturally a sumptuous visual feast, replete with photographs, archival postcards and sketches. A chapter on the botanical drawings commissioned by John Cameron and other Superintendents of Lalbagh includes several examples of illustrations executed by K Cheluviah Raju and other ‘native’ artists. These paintings of plants, fruits and flowers blur the distinction between science and art, creativity and representation, beauty and functionality.

Jayaram provides fresh perspectives on some of Lalbagh’s familiar structures by subjecting them to an art historical gaze. The location of the Glass House at the centre of an axis was strategically chosen to symbolise colonial power, he says, “its alien and imposing architecture announces colonial supremacy over the natives.”

The book is peppered with many personal anecdotes and reminiscences: of picnicking under the trees, enjoying a lunch of biryani and curd rice; plucking flowers to string into a garland for his mother; asking his father if they could live in the beautiful Director’s bungalow. “It was always a dream to have a home in the garden; it still is,” he says poignantly. Indeed, who among us does not have cherished memories of games played under the trees in the neighbourhood park, of pretend-swords made of fallen branches and false nails made of gulmohur flowers, of visits to flower shows in Lalbagh, of holding hands around giant tree trunks.

With this emotional, meditative and nostalgic musing on Lalbagh, Jayaram reminds us to pause and reflect on the wealth and beauty of nature, to slow down and notice the way a leaf is made.