Showing posts with label kasur historical sites. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kasur historical sites. Show all posts

Wednesday, 23 April 2025

Ram Thaman Village: Forgotten Fortifications and Fading Havelis


I first visited Ram Thaman village in the summer of 2022, drawn by the historic shrine of Baba Ram Thaman, a 16th-century Vaishnav saint whose spiritual legacy still resonates across the plains of Punjab, Pakistan. Like many others, I came expecting to explore a sacred site — one deeply associated with Guru Nanak Dev Ji and celebrated for its Vaisakhi fair. Still, I never imagined stumbling upon the ruins of an ancient fortified settlement.


That first visit resulted in a modest travel blog article highlighting the village's spiritual side. At the time, I did not know the fortifications. No one spoke of them, and the structures were hidden behind everyday life. But that changed in the spring of 2025 when I returned with the curiosity of a storyteller and the lens of a heritage enthusiast.


It was during this second visit that the forgotten walls of Ram Thaman began to whisper their story.

Led by a kind local elder, I was shown narrow alleys and crumbling corners that revealed the archaeological remains of a once fortified village — parts of tall boundary walls, rounded bastions, weathered gateways, and crumbling havelis. In some places, I noticed fading jharokas, traditional overhanging balconies, peeking out from between cement blocks. Intricately carved decorative arches and floral motifs — now veiled in whitewash — hinted at the craftsmanship that once defined this place.





These architectural elements built most likely during the 18th century, told of a village that was once prosperous, protected, and proud — a piece of Punjab’s lost architectural heritage.




Though not widely recognized as such, Ram Thaman was indeed a walled village, with highly fortified structures and a strategic layout that gave it a unique standing in regional history. Only fragments remain today, and even those are fading — but for a traveler who looks closely, the story is still there.

Of course, Ram Thaman is far more famous for its spiritual heritage than its fortifications. The shrine of Baba Ram Thaman lies at the village’s heart, spreading across 22 acres and historically featuring a large sarovar (sacred pond), temples, and a samadhi (memorial). For centuries, this site has attracted pilgrims from Hindu, Sikh, and Muslim communities — especially during the colorful Vaisakhi Mela — making it a symbol of interfaith harmony in South Asia.




The landscape of the village changed drastically after the Partition of 1947. As Hindu and Sikh families migrated to India, Muslim refugees from across the border settled here. They began living within the shrine complex and the fortified structures, slowly transforming the landscape. Over time, old architecture was repurposed or built over. Fort walls became walls of homes. Bastions became store rooms. Jharokas were plastered shut.




When I walked the narrow streets of Ram Thaman in 2025, the layers of history were barely visible — but still there. If you're passionate about Pakistan’s heritage tourism, offbeat travel, or the vanishing history of Punjab, Ram Thaman is a place that deserves your footsteps and your curiosity.

This blog isn’t just a travelogue — it’s a reminder that history often hides in the places we least expect. I am grateful to the welcoming villagers who allowed me into their homes and stories and helped me uncover this overlooked gem of Punjab’s cultural heritage.





































Sunday, 20 April 2025

Twin Jain Shwetamber Temples Kasur, Punjab, Pakistan

(All pictures are taken by me)

It was during the Eid holidays, on a free day that offered a break from routine, when I decided to finally act on a quiet urge I’d been carrying for years. I made a day trip from Lahore to Kasur — not for food or festivals, but to trace a fading line on the map: Mandir Wali Gali, a name I had once heard in passing, said to house the last remaining Jain Shwetamber temples in the region.



This wasn’t one of those places you find neatly pinned on Google Maps. Luckily, a few friends from Kasur offered to accompany me, their childhood memories serving as our guide. 


The narrow streets twisted like veins through the heart of the old city, brushing past shuttered havelis and fading shopfronts. Every turn seemed to echo the stories of families who had dispersed from this region after 1947, their presence lingering in the very air.


And then, without warning, we arrived.


Rising stoically above the rooftops were two ancient Jain temples — their shikharas (spires) still intact, still standing watch over a neighborhood that had survived empires, Partition, and urban decay. The taller spire, perched on what must be the third or fourth floor of an old building, was immediately striking. From many parts of the city, you could see it — a silent sentinel made of brick and devotion.

But it wasn’t just the temples’ spires that caught the eye. The gateway leading to the temple complex was impossible to ignore. Its tall, elegant archway stood proudly at the entrance, a work of intricate brickwork that had weathered years of neglect but still held its dignity. 



The ornate designs etched into the arch hinted at a once-flourishing grandeur, with shapes of deities subtly embedded into the brick — a quiet reminder of the divine forces that these temples once invoked. It stood as an iconic landmark in its own right, gracefully bridging the past and present, inviting all who passed through to witness something that time could not erase.


Built in the Latina style, the tall temple’s curvilinear spire was composed of delicate small bricks and topped with an Amalaka, the ribbed disc that often crowns Hindu and Jain temples. Time had weathered it, but its soul remained untouched. And as I looked closer, I noticed something even more stirring — the plaster on the spire was still partially intact, and faint shapes of deities could still be seen sculpted into the surface, like ancient memories refusing to fade.





Beside it stood the smaller temple, visibly more aged and fragile. Its once-white surface had peeled away, exposing the raw brick beneath — a body stripped of its skin, still breathing history. This one carried a story not just carved in stone, but kept alive in memory. During the 1992 Babri Masjid riots, when communal fires were lit across the subcontinent, several migratory families who settled in Kasur after 1947 made the temple complex their home. They feared that if the temples fell, so too might their tightly packed homes. In protecting this place of another faith, they protected their own — a moment of quiet resistance and profound humanity.



Today, you can’t enter the complex — families still live inside, having made it their home after the Partition. But as we stood in the narrow lane outside, craning our necks for a glimpse of sacred geometry, the residents greeted us with kindness. A smiling elder lady nodded from her veranda. No one questioned our presence — in a way, they already understood it.


Both temples were likely built in the 19th century by Kasur’s once-flourishing Jain merchant class, particularly adherents of the Shwetamber sect, known for their white-clad ascetics, their devotion to scripture, and temple-centered community life. These temples were most likely dedicated to Lord Rishabh Dev (Adinath), the first of the 24 Tirthankaras revered in Jainism. Although Jainism was never a majority faith in Punjab, its presence was once visible in cities like Lahore, Multan, Rawalpindi, and Kasur.


Before Partition, this part of Kasur wasn’t just a religious district — it was a living fabric of Hindus, Jains, Muslims, living, trading, and praying side by side. Mandir Wali Gali still carries that name, still holds the echo of that layered harmony.


Though encroachments, power lines, and crumbling masonry have marred the view, the architecture of these temples remains remarkably intact. They are more than just historical sites; they stand as symbols of shared heritage and are a testament to the multi-faith spirit that once thrived here.


These temples are not ruins.

They are reminders.

These deserve to be seen, remembered, and—where possible—lovingly restored.


Note: This account is based on a personal visit and conversations with local residents. While historical records are limited, insights were shaped through oral history and references such as jainsamaj.org.