Destruction of Shalimar Garden in the Era of Lehna Singh

Once a symbol of imperial elegance, Shalimar Garden thrived under successive rulers, reaching the height of its glory during Muhammad Shah's reign. It stood as a living testament to the grandeur of Mughal artistry—a sanctuary where nature and architecture coexisted in perfect harmony. Yet, as history took its course, the garden's fortunes began to fade. Tumultuous reigns, marked by neglect and greed, reduced this masterpiece to a shadow of its former self.

In the western section of Bagh Faiz, within the heart of its Baradari, an exquisite jade water tank once stood. This was no ordinary feature—it was a marvel of craftsmanship, its serene presence enhancing the garden's allure. During a time of political instability, Hafiz Muhammad Azeemullah, a descendant of Mehr Mahanga and the devoted caretaker of Shalimar, emerged as its unlikely protector. Recognizing the tank's cultural significance, he erected a vine trellis over it, hoping to shield it from the grasp of opportunists and preserve it for future generations.

But fate was unkind. Saeed, a man driven by greed and malice, betrayed the garden’s sanctity. With ill intent, he revealed the existence of the precious tank to Lehna Singh, one of the Sikh rulers of Lahore. Blinded by his own avarice, Lehna Singh ordered the tank removed and sold to craftsmen, scattering its beauty like the petals of a withered flower. The desecration continued, as fountains that once brought life to the garden were uprooted and sold to metalworkers. Bit by bit, the very essence of Shalimar was stripped away.

In 1766, after a prolonged resistance against Ahmad Shah Abdali's Afghan forces, Lahore fell under the rule of three Sikh leaders: Lehna Singh Majithia of the Bhangi Misl, Gujjar Singh of the Bhangi Misl, and Sobha Singh of the Kanhiya Misl. The trio divided the city, with Lehna Singh governing the Lahore Fort and the Walled City. However, their disregard for Lahore's heritage ignited outrage among the city's honorable citizens.

Prominent figures like Nabi Bakhsh and Kareem Bakhsh, deeply connected to Lahore's cultural legacy, were grieved by the destruction. To them, the reckless pillaging of the garden symbolized not only the collapse of a beloved landmark but also the erosion of the city's cultural pride. Determined to act, they sought a savior for Lahore.

In a pivotal moment, they turned to Maharaja Ranjit Singh, a rising force in Punjab known for his vision and leadership. They invited him to take control of Lahore, with one crucial condition: the restoration of Shalimar Garden. Misr Mehtab, another influential advocate, joined their cause, recognizing the garden's value as a symbol of resilience and heritage. Their plea, recorded in the annals of Nawan Kot, marked the beginning of a new chapter for the garden.

When Maharaja Ranjit Singh arrived in Lahore, he brought with him not just authority but a vision for preservation. True to his word, he made the restoration of Shalimar Garden a priority. Through his efforts, the garden was revived, its fountains flowing once more and its grandeur restored.

Today, Shalimar Garden remains a jewel of Lahore, whispering tales of glory, despair, and revival to all who walk its paths.

Thandi Sarak, Sundar Das Suri, and Savitri Sahni

Tucked between the verdant Mayou Gardens and the prestigious Aitchison College lies a shaded avenue connecting Canal Road with Davis Road. Known fondly as Thandi Sarak (The Cool Road), it earned its name from the towering trees that form a leafy canopy, keeping the temperature refreshingly lower than in most parts of Lahore. This serene stretch has long been a refuge for those seeking a peaceful escape from the city's urban chaos.

In the year 80s, my Nana would take me on his bicycle from Mughalpura, navigating the calm and shaded path of Thandi Sarak to reach Lawrence Garden. The road’s solitude, fresh breeze, and the gentle rustling of leaves are memories I cherish deeply. It was a time when Lahore was a city of open spaces, not yet consumed by its transformation into a sprawling concrete jungle.

Years later, while exploring the historical names of Lahore’s roads, I discovered that Thandi Sarak had a much richer past. It is originally called Sundar Das Road. Intrigued, I stumbled upon an article by Majid Sheikh in Dawn, which unraveled the remarkable legacy of Rai Bahadur Sundar Das Suri, the man behind the name.

Who Was Rai Bahadur Sundar Das Suri?

Rai Bahadur Sundar Das Suri, MA, was a distinguished figure in pre-Partition Lahore. As Punjab’s Chief Inspector of Schools, he was instrumental in advancing education and worked closely with luminaries like Lala Lajpat Rai and Professor Ruchi Ram Sahni. His efforts significantly shaped the academic landscape of the region, including the expansion of Aitchison College and addressing the educational needs of Punjabi students.

The area now known as Zaman Park was originally called Sunder Das Park, named after his family. By 1942, the colony housed six homes, all belonging to members of the Suri family. However, the Partition of 1947 uprooted the family, and much of their contributions to Lahore faded into obscurity.

The Trailblazing Daughter: Savitri Sahni

Amidst Sundar Das Suri’s legacy, his daughter Savitri Suri stands out as a remarkable figure. Born in 1902 in what is now Zaman Park, she later married Professor Birbal Sahni, a pioneering palaeobotanist who founded the Birbal Sahni Institute of Palaeosciences (BSIP) in Lucknow, India.

Tragedy struck shortly after the institute's foundation in 1949 when Professor Sahni passed away. Despite this devastating loss, Savitri dedicated herself to fulfilling her husband’s vision. For over two decades, she served as the institute’s president, transforming it into a leading center for palaeobotanical research. Her tireless efforts earned her the prestigious Padma Shri award in 1969, one of India’s highest civilian honors.

A Road Rich in History

While Thandi Sarak still retains its lush greenery and cooling breezes, its deeper historical significance often goes unnoticed. Sundar Das Road is more than just a shaded avenue—it is a quiet reminder of Lahore’s vibrant intellectual and cultural legacy.

Beneath the leafy canopy lies a story of pioneering educators and scientists whose contributions transcended borders. It speaks of a Lahore that once nurtured visionaries who shaped education and science across the subcontinent—a legacy worth remembering and celebrating.

Nostalgia in Driving to Office

The daily commute to the office feels like traveling through time, each road a chapter in Lahore’s history. Starting from the Grand Trunk Road, I turn onto Queen Mary Road, then Durand Road, weaving past Shimla Pahari to reach Abbott Road. At the first signal, Montgomery Road cuts across, and further ahead, McLeod Road appears, buzzing with life.

A left turn takes me to Cooper Road, its quiet charm contrasting with the lively Mission Road on the right near the Orange Line station. Passing Hall Road and Napier Rd, I reach the GPO, where Mall Road begins its grand stretch. On the Right reveals Thornton Road, then Maclagan Road unfolds, leading to Library Road. Finally, I turn onto Church Road, arriving at the office.

These roads, named in the British era, remain unchanged, as silent witnesses to a transformed city.

NEHRU PARK IN LAHORE

 

In December 1929, Jawaharlal Nehru was elected President of the Indian National Congress during its annual session in Lahore. It was here, on December 19, that the historic Purna Swaraj (Complete Independence) resolution was adopted. This pivotal moment marked a turning point in India's struggle for freedom, as the Congress formally rejected Britain's vague promise of dominion status in the Irwin Declaration and demanded full independence. Frustrated by stalled negotiations and colonial exploitation, the resolution fueled a nationwide movement, culminating in the declaration of independence on January 26, 1930—later celebrated as India’s first Independence Day.

A lasting tribute to this event exists in Lahore's Krishan Nagar: Nehru Park, where Nehru raised the Indian flag to mark the call for freedom. Remarkably, the park's name has remained unchanged for 94 years, a quiet reminder of this historic milestone, now in the heart of Pakistan.

Lahore, steeped in history, also hosted the landmark Lahore Resolution at Iqbal Park on March 23, 1940. This resolution called for the creation of an independent state for Muslims in British India, ultimately leading to the establishment of Pakistan in 1947.

Despite its significance, Nehru Park is often overlooked in the collective memory of the city. Eleven years before the Lahore Resolution, it was the site where the Indian National Congress boldly shifted its stance, demanding complete independence from British rule—a moment deeply embedded in the subcontinent’s shared history.

The Forgotten Fair of Footsteps: The Honorary Shrine of Sakhi Sarwar and Rai Bahadur Seth Ajudha Peeshad’s Dharamshala in Lahore

(I could not have written this article without the guidance and invaluable insights of Dr. Zishan.)

November 2024

Once upon a time, Lahore hosted a unique and vibrant event, often called the Fair of Footsteps. Officially linked to the arrival and meditative practices of Hazrat Sakhi Sarwar in the city, the fair was, in truth, a curious mix of eccentricities and oddities. Originally held near the Baradari of Wazir Khan in Bagh Nakhlah, it was relocated outside Lahori Gate after the establishment of a Sikh cantonment displaced it from its original location.

The relocation transformed the stretch between Lahori Gate and Anarkali Police Station into a bustling hub of frenetic activity. A chaotic mix of people thronged the area, drummers roamed with instruments slung around their necks, singing and celebrating. The crowd was diverse, even controversial, as performers and prostitutes mingled freely with individuals from all walks of life.

At the heart of this lively gathering stood Chauki Sakhi Sarwar, believed to mark the meditation site of Lakh Daata Hazrat Sakhi Sarwar. However, as Nur Ahmad Chishti noted, the chauki was allegedly a fabrication by the “Pherais” to exploit the saint’s legacy for personal gain. Over time, as the fair declined and the Pherais could no longer profit, they sold the property.

The new owners, Sanatan Dharmis, transformed the site into a Dharamshala in memory of their late father. A *Dharamshala* is an Indian religious rest house, with *dharma* meaning "religion" and *shala* meaning "sanctuary." These rest houses are primarily built for pilgrims and often serve as religious endowments. The building, an architectural jewel of its time, bore the following inscription:

Dharamshala

In honor of the esteemed Rai Bahadur Seth Ajudha Peeshad, Honary Magistrate in 1934,

This monument was built by his devoted sons: Seth Ram Rattan, Ram Narayan, and Shadi Lal,

To preserve their father's legacy.

Established on the 5th of November, 1937, in New Anarkali, Lahore.

The Partition of 1947 disrupted the Dharamshala's serene existence. Migrants moved in, partitioning its open courtyard with makeshift walls to create cramped living spaces. Over the years, whispers of the Fair of Lakh Daata’s Footsteps resurfaced, intertwined with the site's forgotten history.

My good friend Dr. Zishan explored the place a few years ago and shared its story. A resident woman claimed to have received a divine sign in her dream, urging the revival of the chauki. Acting on her vision, a modest shrine was built in the loft, draped in a green cloth inscribed with sacred verses. An annual celebration on the 12th of Rabi-ul-Awwal was initiated to honor the saint.

Intrigued, I decided to visit the site in November 2024, wandering through the narrow, bustling streets of Anarkali Bazaar. The building was in an advanced state of decay, as Dr. Zishan had described. Its crumbling walls and faded arches stood as silent witnesses to a forgotten legacy.

Pushing open a creaking wooden door, I stepped into the dimly lit interior. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint echo of my footsteps. A narrow staircase led upward, where a sliding gate marked the entrance to the shrine. Beyond the gate lay a small, honorary grave—a symbolic reminder of Sakhi Sarwar’s meditation site. Surprisingly well-kept, the tomb was adorned with mosaic glass, suggesting that someone still cared for the sacred space.

As I stood there, a strange heaviness enveloped me. The air was thick with the weight of forgotten stories, unspoken prayers, and an aura of solemn reverence. The modest shrine, hidden within this dilapidated structure, seemed to radiate an enduring spirit. Walking back through the neglected arches, I couldn’t shake the sense that I had brushed against something profound—a fragment of Lahore’s layered history that lingers quietly, waiting to be remembered.