Gurdwara Sat Sang Sabha, RA Bazaar, Lahore

Gurdwara Sat Sang Sabha was a small local Sikh gurdwara located in the heart of RA Bazaar, Lahore. It functioned as a neighborhood place of worship before the Partition of 1947 and is believed to be associated with the Sat Sang Sabha movement, which began in Lahore in 1873 as part of a broader wave of Sikh religious and social reform.

The Sat Sang Sabha aimed to revive Sikh identity, encourage moral discipline, and eliminate superstitious practices by returning to the teachings of the Guru Granth Sahib. It played a significant role in laying the groundwork for the later Singh Sabha movement, which had a transformative effect on Sikh society during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Lahore, as the intellectual and cultural hub of Punjab, was central to this revivalist spirit, and local gurdwaras like this one likely served as nodes for spiritual discourse and reformist activity.

After Partition, with the migration of the Sikh population to India, the gurdwara was abandoned. Today, the structure still survives, though it has been repurposed into residential use. Its architectural elements—such as arched doorways or remnants of the prayer hall—may still offer quiet hints of its original identity, but they are increasingly at risk of being lost to time and urban expansion.

Though modest in scale, Gurdwara Sat Sang Sabha stands as a silent testament to the once-thriving Sikh presence in Lahore and the reformist currents that shaped modern Sikh thought.

Gurudwara Guru Singh Sabha Dharampura, Lahore

This former Gurudwara Guru Singh Sabha archway stands discreetly in the rushy bazaar of Dharampura (now Mustafaabad), Lahore. Once marking the entrance to a small local Sikh place of worship, this arched gateway is the only surviving element of the Gurudwara. Over time, shops have taken over the lower portion, and only the upper part of the arch remains visible above the market crowd. A faded Khanda symbol can still be seen at the top center, silently bearing witness to its Sikh heritage.

The Gurudwara Guru Singh Sabha was historically linked to the Singh Sabha Movement. This major Sikh reform initiative began in the late 19th century to promote education, religious clarity, and community revival. The Sri Guru Singh Sabha Lahore was officially established on 2 November 1879, with key figures like Diwan Buta Singh and Gurmukh Singh playing foundational roles (Discover Sikhism, Wikipedia).

Today, nothing else remains of the original Gurudwara structure—only this lone arch survives, surrounded by commercial activity, stripped of its religious function but retaining deep historical and cultural value.

Dharampura is one of Lahore’s most historic and culturally layered localities. Established in 1583 by Emperor Akbar as a designated settlement for Hindus, it continues to echo its old identity despite being officially renamed Mustafaabad after the 1947 Partition. To this day, locals affectionately refer to it by its original name, Dharampura.

Located between the Walled City of Lahore and the Lahore Cantonment, this working-class area still preserves subtle yet telling signs of its rich, pre-Partition religious and cultural diversity.

A special thanks to Dr. Zishan Ahmed for guiding me to this hidden spot. Without his help, I could not have reached it in a million years—it lies deep within a narrow, overcrowded market bustling with female customers. If you plan to visit, try doing so early in the morning, when the market is still waking up; otherwise, there’s hardly space to place a foot.

Kasur Junction Railway Station: A Forgotten Crossroads of Colonial Punjab

 

Kasur Junction Railway Station is located in Kasur city, Punjab, Pakistan. It was once an important railway junction during the British colonial period, connecting major cities like Amritsar, Firozpur, and Lahore.

Kasur’s significance as a railway station began in the early 20th century. The Amritsar–Patti Railway Company Limited was incorporated on 12 April 1905 as a private venture. By 1906, a broad gauge line—5 ft 6 in (1,676 mm) wide—was constructed between Amritsar and Patti.

In 1910, the line was extended to Kasur, increasing its total length to 54 miles (86 km) and officially making Kasur a junction station under the North Western Railway (NWR). This positioned Kasur as a key point in the regional railway network.

Broad gauge (BG) became the standard in British India for main railway lines, especially in agriculturally and militarily significant regions like Punjab. The wider gauge allowed for heavier loads and faster speeds, making it ideal for both passenger and freight traffic.

In Punjab, most of the major railway lines—including those connecting Lahore, Multan, Rawalpindi, and Faisalabad—were laid as broad gauge. Kasur’s integration into this network allowed it to be a major link between eastern and western Punjab before Partition.

The Punjab Mail and Kasur’s Role

The Punjab Mail, one of the oldest and most prestigious trains in the subcontinent, originally ran from Bombay (now Mumbai) to Peshawar, stopping at Bhopal, Jhansi, Agra, Delhi, Bhatinda, Firozpur, Kasur, Lahore, and beyond.

Kasur was a scheduled stop, making it part of a continuous line that carried passengers, mail, and cargo across vast distances. The train symbolized the unity of British India’s rail infrastructure. Today, the Punjab Mail still runs in India, terminating at Firozpur, but its extension to Kasur and Lahore ended with the 1947 Partition.

Impact of Partition and Decline

With the Partition of British India in August 1947, the railway line from Kasur to Patti and Amritsar was abruptly severed by the newly formed border between India and Pakistan. Kasur, once a dynamic junction, became a terminus.

Post-Partition:

• Cross-border services ceased permanently.
• Railway infrastructure east of Kasur became defunct or was dismantled.
• Kasur was left with only a branch line to Raiwind and Lahore, and the frequency of train services drastically declined.

Current Services

Today, the station serves limited passenger traffic. The main train currently operating is:

Kasur Express

• Route: Lahore – Raiwind – Kasur
• Type: Local passenger
• Track: Broad gauge
• 
  

No long-distance or freight services currently run from Kasur.

Kasur Junction once played a key role in connecting Punjab’s eastern and western regions. It facilitated the movement of people, goods, and ideas, linking Amritsar to Lahore and beyond. The station's history reflects both the infrastructure ambitions of the British Empire and the fragmentation caused by Partition.

Its present-day quietness contrasts with the energy of its past, but the station continues to stand as a symbol of what once was—a reminder of an era when borders didn’t interrupt rail lines, and Kasur was part of a continuous, living network of rail travel.

References

1. Indian Railway Commercial Manual, Government of India Press, 1906.
2. Report on the Administration of the North-Western Railway, 1905–06.
3. Ian J. Kerr, Engines of Change: The Railroads That Made India, Oxford University Press, 2007.
4. Government of Pakistan, Pakistan Railways Heritage Report, 2015.
5. Amritsar–Patti Railway Company Ltd., Company Registration Documents (1905).
6. South Asia Railway Atlas, Quail Map Company, 2020 Edition.

Richardson & Cruddas and the Colonial Water Tank at Kasur Railway Station

I’ve always been drawn to forgotten places — the ones where time lingers in the walls, where rusted bolts and fading paint still whisper stories of past. That curiosity recently led me to Kasur Railway Station, built in 1906 during British India, a place that still holds firm despite the passage of 118 years. The strength and durability of its colonial-era structures stand as a remarkable example to the engineering standards of that time, built not just to serve, but to endure.

As I explored the station, my eyes caught an overhead cast iron water tank, rising above the platforms like a relic from another age. Weathered but resilient, it instantly sparked my curiosity. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a barely legible but still proud inscription on its side:
"Richardson and Cruddas – Makers – Bombay.

Richardson & Cruddas was established in 1858 in Bombay (now Mumbai). It quickly rose to prominence as one of the premier engineering and fabrication firms under British colonial rule. The company specialized in heavy iron and steel structures — water tanks, railway bridges, turntables, and machinery — and played a foundational role in building the infrastructure that powered the expanding railway networks of British India.

These overhead water tanks, like the one I spotted at Kasur, were vital during the steam engine era. Strategically placed at major railway stations, they provided the water needed for locomotives to operate. Their robust construction and industrial design were not only functional but have proven incredibly durable — many, including this one in Kasur, still stand today even though their use has long since faded.

After the Partition of 1947, Richardson & Cruddas continued its operations in independent India. Unlike many other British-era companies that vanished or were absorbed, Richardson & Cruddas adapted to the changing political and industrial landscape. It remained a key player in India’s infrastructure development, expanding its range of services to include steel structures for power plants, refineries, ports, and public works.

In the post-independence decades, especially during the nation-building period of the 1950s and 60s, the company thrived. However, by the 1990s, amid growing liberalization and competition, its dominance began to wane. Today, while its industrial might has diminished, its name still resonates in engineering circles, and its ironwork continues to quietly survive in places like Kasur, Delhi, Lahore, and Mumbai — relics of a shared past.

Shri Hari Har Mandir: The Forgotten Soul of Kasur’s Glorious Past

Once the largest and most revered Hindu temple complex in Kasur, the Shri Hari Har Mandir was far more than a place of worship. It thrived as a pulsating center of community life, spiritual devotion, and even anti-colonial resistance. Today, its story lies forgotten, buried under layers of occupation, decay, and the relentless march of time.

The origins of Shri Hari Har Mandir trace back to a vibrant era when Kasur flourished as a multicultural town, home to Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and Jains alike. The temple was founded by Bawa Hari Har, a local spiritual figure whose life remains shrouded in mystery. While the exact date of construction remains uncertain, the Mandir Tank—an essential element of Hindu temple architecture—was constructed around 1870 A.D., ingeniously sourcing water from the Kasur Branch of the Bari Doab Canal. This remarkable engineering effort served not just ritualistic purposes but also stood as a symbol of faith seamlessly blending with functionality.

The sprawling complex boasted not only the sanctum and sacred tank but also a Dussehra Ground, where grand festivities once echoed through the town, and a residential block, likely sheltering temple caretakers and visiting pilgrims.

By 1880, the Mandir had come under the stewardship of Mahant Sersati Das, a man revered not just for his religious leadership but also for championing social reform within Kasur’s Hindu community. In 1900, leadership passed to Gopi Das, who nurtured the temple’s legacy until 1918, when an internal dispute resulted in the controversial and unlawful appointment of Pritam Das. The dispute escalated all the way to the Lahore High Court, a testament to the temple’s immense influence within the local Hindu hierarchy.

Yet Shri Hari Har Mandir’s role extended far beyond spirituality. During the turbulent days of the Kasur Martial Law of 1919, following the horrific Jallianwala Bagh Massacre, the temple became a covert hub of anti-British activities. Underground meetings and secret mobilizations unfolded within its walls. Though largely forgotten today, historical records and fading oral traditions affirm the temple's passionate involvement in India's freedom struggle.

The cataclysm of 1947 changed everything. As Hindus fled newly partitioned Pakistan for India, the Mandir was left abandoned. The sacred tank, once alive with religious rituals, dried up. Yet, in its emptiness, it found an unlikely rebirth—local children turned it into a vibrant playground, and it became a favorite arena for Pehlwani (traditional wrestling).

In a poignant twist of history, the 1960s brought a momentary cultural renaissance when the tank played host to none other than the legendary Ustad Mehdi Hassan. His soul-stirring ghazals, resonating off the ancient bricks, briefly reawakened the Mandir's spirit, blending the sacred with the sublime beauty of music.

Author

Bastian

Tragically, the fragile remnants of the Shri Hari Har Mandir suffered a devastating blow in 1992, after the demolition of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya, India. In the wave of retaliatory violence that swept across Pakistan, the Mandir’s tower—the crown jewel of its architecture—was completely destroyed by an enraged mob, delivering a near-fatal blow to its sacred legacy.

Before destruction (not my image) taken  from internet archives

Bastian

Today, little remains of the original splendor. The once-holy tank survives but is now choked with garbage, its waters long gone and its spiritual essence lost to neglect. Near a crumbling staircase leading to the dry pond, a solitary bastion still stands—a silent, stubborn witness to what was once a magnificent fortified complex. Its faded bricks whisper tales of grandeur, of resilience, of a Kasur that once celebrated pluralism with pride.

It is heartbreaking to witness a site of such historical, architectural, and communal significance reduced to silent ruins—ignored by authorities, overwhelmed by encroachments, and slowly being erased from collective memory. Yet, for those who pause, listen, and look beyond the dust, the spirit of Shri Hari Har Mandir still lingers, quietly reminding us of the city’s once-glorious past.

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.