The Hindu Business Line : Walk with royalty

Walking in the Lodi Garden in Delhi is enjoyable for a number of reasons. It is a place rich in history but the history is accessible. It is awe-inspiring to be in the presence of monuments built over six centuries ago, and they are magnificent in proportion and aesthetic sensibility. But it is not intimidating; one feels a part of it. For all around is life unfolding in its manifold aspects, much as it may have been when they were built.

Called Lodi Garden (in the singular) after Independence, it was also called Willingdon Park. The park was formed in 1936 on the site of a village whose inhabitants were relocated elsewhere, and was landscaped in the 1950s by a Japanese team. (Does that explain the presence of a rather miserable looking, slightly incongruous Bonsai gardens on the premises, one wonders?) The architect of the park was a man named Joseph Allen Stein, who also designed the adjacent India International Centre.

There are three tombs within the park. Standing as they do on broad pedestals, they are dignified in their elevated positions. Their spectacular domes stand out against the haze-filled skies of early morning Delhi, framed from certain angles against the delicate tracery of many leafed branches. They seem to be floating, almost ethereal.

Among kingly memories

As one walks down a well-maintained pathway from the entrance, the octagonal tomb of Sikander Lodi comes into view. This is the man who built near Agra a town called Sikandrabad, which has attained fame as the location for Akbar's tomb. He was the second of the Lodi kings and was responsible for the recovery of some of Delhi's lost glory. I remember reading that he perfected the art of espionage, so much so that his subjects thought he had supernatural powers! The tomb is awesome as befitting the illustrious ruler, with the double dome which gives it space inside and grandeur outside, graceful sham window openings, and cusped arches with delicate calligraphic inscriptions.

And then there was what seemed to be another tomb, but square. But the inscription (the historical inscriptions here, unlike in many other monuments where all you see is a notice declaring that it is a protected monument, gives more information) said that it was not a tomb but a gateway to a mosque. It was called the Bara Gumbad.

It leads to the ruins of a mosque, in front of which is the large pillared hall for accommodating pilgrims. The inscriptions and the calligraphy on pillars and walls and roof are exquisite, the curlicues and curves and convolutions graceful and elegant and executed with precision. In front is a grave open to the sky, and a fountain that no longer works. Whose tomb is it? He must have been an important personage but, ironically, there is no name.

Stepping down one is in front of another tomb, with remnants of blue tiles glinting in the brightening sunlight, which plays on the little chattris around the domes. Each chattri has a dome on top so it is a pretty sight — big domes surrounded by little domes. This is the tomb of Muhammad Shah Sayyid, and is the oldest of the Lodi tombs.

Inside were a number of graves and near the left wall I saw a couple scratching out a heart in time-honoured fashion and beginning to etch their names inside. I immediately requested them to desist, explaining that this was our heritage, our past... and that we need to respect that. The man immediately apologised and walked off while the woman, a pretty young thing in bright blue T-shirt and dangly earrings, glowered at me.

Alive with activity

The garden is a popular spot for open-air workouts.

As we strolled around, there seemed to be increased activity corresponding to the awakening day. Groups and families sat around, some in picnic mode with flasks of coffee and sandwiches and pakodas. Others sat gossiping, just enjoying the balmy air, some were walking fast, with almost military precision; still others were jogging, with headbands to catch the sweat dripping off their brows.

Some were doing pranayama, assiduously pinching their noses and exhaling in short staccato bursts while some were in contorted asanas. Under one tree a man sat massaging a customer, both torsos glistening, one with sweat and the other with oil. And then there was this contraption much like a torture rack, curved and with slats on which the man had draped himself, gripping the sides to lever himself up and down. My walking companion suggested that it might be some kind of acupressure enforcer — it looked painful.

In the garden is also a modern structure but gracefully hidden by creepers cascading over its facade; this is the Glass House which is so well integrated that it is not intrusive or incongruous.

Insects were humming, squirrels scampered along boughs and up trees, and spider webs glistened silver in the sun. Overhead parakeets screeched and mynas grew raucous and garrulous.

There was a lot of bamboo, their graceful spears fanning out from the bottom as if they had been tied with a ribbon. Great trees splayed their trunks out, bushes rose squat from the green grass.

The impression was of dignity, spaciousness and harmony for there is not too much of colour or textures or shapes, which would have taken the eye away from the monuments. There are some embellishments such as a slightly curved bridge, which serves as a divide yet a pleasant transition point.

Fauna and flora coexisted with the monuments, the present unfolding in the shadow of the past, and life continued, as it always does in India.