Tea and Tales at Sailany Wala Mandir Kasur

It was a grey afternoon when I wandered toward the fringes of Kasur Railway Station, following a narrow path whispered to lead to Bhullah Ki Bethak—a place where saints once sat, and perhaps still do, in spirit. What awaited was not a shrine in the usual sense, but a forgotten Hindu religious structure—a small, domed mandir that resembled a samadhi, locally known as the Sailany Wala Mandir, standing quietly beside the Sailany Wala Pond—left to crumble in time’s careless hands.

Temple

The structure stood beside an old Hindu bathing ghat, now a ghost of its former self. Once designed with separate areas for men and women to perform ishnan (ritual bathing), the ghat had long lost its sanctity. Roughly measuring 145 by 145 feet, this large square water body once reflected lamps, deities, and morning prayers. Garbage floated across the surface, and the surrounding neighborhood had encroached upon its once-sacred space. The water no longer reflected the heavens—only the waste of the living.

A local historian we met later shared that both the mandir and the bathing ghat date back to the 17th century—a time when Kasur was a vibrant center of cultural and religious mingling, where shrines, temples, and Sufi gatherings coexisted along the same spiritual arteries. Though now faded, the architecture still whispered of a sacred past.

The small mandir stood humble and cracked, its white plaster peeling like old skin. Inside, time had slowed. Posters of Bulleh Shah clung to soot-darkened walls. In a quiet corner lay wooden kharaoons—dervish slippers—beside a weathered kashkol (begging bowl). This one was boat-shaped, perhaps made from wood or brass, hung on a corroded chain. In the Indo-Pak tradition, the kashkol isn’t just a container—it’s an emblem of surrender, emptiness, and spiritual humility.

Podium for Placing Deity

Just outside the temple, in the open, stood a curious structure: a rusted canopy formed from interlocked cannon barrels. Beneath this shelter, a Hindu deity was once placed, seated on a stone pedestal. The idol was long gone, but the plinth remained—moss-covered and melancholic, as if waiting for the divine to return.

The air inside the bethak was thick and pungent—an earthy blend of dust, incense, and charas smoke. Several dervishes lounged in corners, eyes glazed with intoxication, drifting in and out of words and worlds. This was no place of formality or structured prayer. It was a space of release, where seekers, addicts, saints, and wanderers shared the same floor and the same silence.

The temple outer wall painted with Bhullah Shah's portrait

Hindu  Bathing Ghat

Our host—a soft-spoken elder—invited us in and served tea in chipped cups. We sat cross-legged on the cold floor as he shared qisse (folk tales) of Bulleh Shah. With each sip and each story, the dusty walls seemed to lean in closer. He claimed that Bulleh Shah once visited this place in his lifetime. There is no historical evidence of it—just oral echoes—but that didn’t seem to matter. The way he spoke, with a strange mix of conviction and wonder, made belief easier than doubt.

Born in Uch, in the Subah of Multan, Bulleh Shah came from a family of religious scholars. In his youth, he moved to Pandoke and then to Kasur, where he received his religious training. Later, he sought spiritual enlightenment in Lahore, becoming a disciple of Shah Inayat Qadiri—a humble gardener whose presence transformed the young scholar into a mystic rebel.

Bulleh Shah’s poetry remains legendary in Punjabi culture, written in the language of the people, filled with metaphor, rhythm, and bold defiance. He spoke of love, oneness, human dignity, and divine union, challenging the orthodoxy of his time. His kafis are sung at Sufi shrines and folk festivals alike. They have become part of the very soil of Punjab.

Here, though, in this forgotten bethak, his verses seemed to echo off walls that no longer remembered his footsteps. The langar was simple. The company was mixed: a few local devotees, some wanderers, and a handful of regulars who appeared more drawn by smoke than by song.

Nearby, another smaller temple ruin peeked from a pile of old bricks. No one noticed it. No one seemed to care. The ghat, once a place of sacred ritual, had become part of a slow decay, absorbed into the mundane and the forgotten.

And yet, amid the ruins, the metaphors remained. The kashkol, the tea, the silence. Each element asked something subtle. Who are we when we sit quietly? What remains when belief is stripped of form?

The saint poured us a second cup. Outside, someone began humming a kafi. A dog barked in the distance. And I sat there, in the cracked heart of an old temple, unsure whether I had just stepped into a holy place—or into a place made holy only by memory.

There was no divine pull. No revelation. Just quiet. Just smoke. And maybe that, too, is a kind of presence.

Maybe that’s what this Bethak is now: not a shrine of miracles, but a shelter of stories—where saints offer tea, where dervishes drift through haze, and where belief clings quietly to broken walls.

Or maybe it is simply a place where the forgotten go to forget.

Lost in the Fields: A Sikh-Era Samadhi Along Kasur-Raiwind Road

01-04-2025

Orara, a small village along the Kasur-Raiwind Road, lies just 7 kilometers from the well-known village of Daftu. Once part of a region rich in Sikh population and culture, Orara still holds echoes of that past. About one kilometer outside the village, in the middle of open fields, stands a weathered dome—a crumbling samadhi that quietly whispers stories of devotion, memory, and identity in rural Punjab.

Though its exact history remains shrouded in mystery, the structure’s architecture speaks of its spiritual roots. Likely built around 80 to 100 years ago, this modest domed memorial may have been dedicated to a local Sikh elder, saint, or landowner. The term "samadhi" refers to a shrine or tomb-like structure that enshrines the memory of the departed—a space for contemplation and reverence, rather than traditional burial.

Despite its ruinous state, the architectural language of the samadhi remains striking. The dome, though scarred by time and neglect, bears the hallmark of lotus-style curvature—a subtle nod to spiritual symbolism in both Sikh and Hindu traditions. It may once have featured a kalash (finial) at its peak, representing transcendence—now lost to time.

The structure’s most evocative features are its cusped (or scalloped) arches, also known as multi-foil arches. These are classic elements of late Mughal and Sikh architecture, prized for their rhythmic, floral elegance. More than mere decoration, such arches reflect a confluence of Persian and Central Asian influences woven into the architectural tapestry of Punjab.

Constructed from colonial-era brick bound with lime mortar, the samadhi showcases vernacular craftsmanship—simple, resilient, and deeply rooted in local tradition. Traces of faded lime plaster suggest the structure may once have gleamed in white, a color often associated with purity and sanctity in Sikh shrines.

Today, the samadhi stands in near-complete dilapidation. Nature has reclaimed the land around it; bricks have eroded, walls have partially collapsed. And yet, it endures—a solitary monument in a field, having survived the seismic shifts of Partition, political upheavals, and changing land use.

In 1947, when Punjab was divided along the bitter lines of Partition, many such rural shrines were abandoned as Sikh communities migrated eastward. The Samadhi of Orara remains a silent witness to that historical rupture—one of countless untold stories scattered across the landscape of Pakistani Punjab.

Today, no one visits it for prayer, and no plaque bears its name. Perhaps some village elders still remember whose memory it once honored, but that oral thread is fraying fast.

The Samadhi of Village Orara deserves a name, a sign, and a moment of remembrance. If nothing else, let this image and story serve as a record. Perhaps one day, this humble monument will be mapped, remembered, and honored once more.

The Golden Weights of Hazrat Hasutili (RA)

Silsla Suhrawardiyya 

16/03/2025

حضرت حسوتیلی

Long ago, a group of travelers waded through the shallow waters of the Ravi River. As they reached the middle, one of them felt something solid beneath his feet. Curious, he reached down and pulled out a weight made of pure gold. Surprised, the group searched further and discovered more—one weighing a full seer, another half a seer, and a smaller quarter-seer weight, all crafted from gold.

The discovery stirred conflicting emotions. While some were tempted by greed, one man remained steadfast in his integrity. He declared, “I know the rightful owner of these weights. They must be returned.” True to his word, he carried them to the grain market and handed them over to their original owner. The owner, however, was left bewildered by their return.

These weights belonged to Hazrat Sheikh Hasan Kanjadgar, better known as Hasutili. The man who retrieved them was an honest grain merchant. Hazrat Hasan was a devoted disciple of Hazrat Shah Jamal (RA) and operated a grain business in Chowk Jhanda, near Lahore’s Mori Gate.

Years earlier, he had sought the blessings of his spiritual guide. Hazrat Shah Jamal, with his keen insight, advised him, “Hasan, always weigh grain with honesty.” The words struck a chord. From that day forward, he not only stopped under-weighing but went a step further—he allowed customers to weigh their own grain. Some took an honest measure, while others, driven by greed, took more than their share. Yet, an extraordinary phenomenon occurred—those who weighed fairly found their grain increased, while those who took extra realized their grain had mysteriously diminished upon reaching home.

As a result of his unwavering honesty, Hazrat Hasan’s business flourished. Prosperity followed him to such an extent that he eventually had his weights made of gold.

One day, he presented these golden weights to his mentor, Hazrat Shah Jamal (RA), saying, “By following your guidance, my business has been blessed so abundantly that I have crafted my weights from gold.”

His mentor, observing his devotion, responded with a simple but profound command: “Take these and throw them into the Ravi River.”

Without hesitation, Hazrat Hasan obeyed. He cast the precious weights into the river, trusting the wisdom of his guide.

The following morning, an unusual event unfolded—the very same golden weights were found once again in the river, just as at the beginning of the story. When Hazrat Hasan retrieved them and presented them once more to Hazrat Shah Jamal (RA), he humbly said, “Hazrat, as per your instructions, I threw them into the river. Yet, they have returned to me.”

His mentor smiled and replied, “This was a test of your sincerity. Not only did you abandon deceit, but you also let go of what was rightfully yours for the sake of honesty. That is why your wealth was blessed. Because your earnings were pure, even when cast into the river, they could not be lost.”

These words profoundly moved Hazrat Hasan. His heart overflowed with spiritual enlightenment, and he chose to renounce worldly pursuits. He devoted himself entirely to the service of Hazrat Shah Jamal (RA) and immersed himself in worship and ascetic practices. Over time, he reached remarkable spiritual heights, performing miracles and gaining widespread reverence.

A contemporary of Hazrat Madho Lal Hussain (RA), Hazrat Hasan Kanjadgar,

passed away in 1023 Hijri (1616 AD), four years after the death of Aurangzeb. His final resting place is on the road from Qila Gujjar Singh to Mayo Hospital, Lahore. His shrine continues to draw visitors, and his annual Urs (spiritual commemoration) is held with great devotion.

Even today, lamps are lit in his memory at Chowk Jhanda, where his shop once stood. More than four centuries later, his legacy of honesty and righteousness continues to shine brightly, inspiring generations to come.

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.