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.

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.