Delhi's Matka Peer, circa 1931

Today's post features a picture of a Sufi shrine in Delhi known as ‘Matka Peer’ (literally translated as ‘earthen pot saint’) from 1931. This was taken by the Associated Press, the American news agency. 

 

Matka Peer is the shrine of Hazrat Sheikh Abu Bakr Tusi Haideri Qalandari, a 13th century Sufi saint renowned for his miraculous powers.One of the most famous stories surrounding the saint involves a confrontation between him and the Sultan of Delhi, Balban, who, jealous of the saint’s influence, gave him a metal ball in an earthen pot to test his powers. The saint transformed the ball into jaggery and chickpeas, a miracle that became part of his legacy. Even today devotees flock to his grave with offerings of jaggery, chickpeas and milk in earthen pots. When emptied the pots are planted on the branches of trees by the shrine attendants, continuing a long-standing tradition.

 

The Matka Peer Shrine is a testament to the importance of Sufi shrines in India’s spiritual landscape. In the subcontinent, these shrines served as vital sites for the propagation of Islam. The belief in the barakat (spiritual blessings) of Sufi saints ensured that their influence endured beyond their lifetimes. Generations of people found solace and spiritual connection at these shrines, reinforcing the significance of Sufism in places like Delhi.

 

However, the Associated Press’ 1931 caption misinterpreted the cultural significance of offering matkas. The caption suggests that pots were placed “by poor and pious people in memory of their dead, the natives being too poor to buy flowers.” In fact, offerings of flowers or garlanding are not uncommon at shrines in India. Therefore, this was an Orientalist reading that overlooked the deeper, symbolic meaning of the earthen pot in a specific context. 

 

That’s it from me today.  See you next Friday. 

Munshi Sandhe Khan: Delhi’s ruthless ‘top cop’ in the 1900s

 This post is on Munshi Sandhe Khan, the Kotwal (Chief of police) of Delhi at the turn of the 20^th century. Alas, the picture above doesn’t feature Sandhe Khan - my search for an image of the man was in vain. Instead, this is a postcard of the Punjab police, under whose jurisdiction Delhi fell at the time, giving us a sense of what police forces looked like in the early 1900s. The image below is a sketch I came across online depicting Indian police forces (including in Delhi) during the colonial era (if further source attribution is needed, please let me know).

During my time working in the archives many years ago, I came across a reference to Munshi Sandhe Khan and his exploits in Delhi, particularly during a period of widespread anxiety over “Satta” (opium) gambling. As I have mentioned in a previous post about Egerton Road (Nai Sarak), the early 1900s saw growing fears of disorder and social unrest linked to the opium gambling trade. Colonial officials were becoming aware that the telegraph network was being exploited for betting on the price of opium that was being carried on ships from Bombay. To tackle this form of numbers gambling, Sandhe Khan was assigned as the lead native officer with two constables under his authority. 

 

From what we know, Khan was a hardnosed operator employing strongarm tactics to dismantle gambling rings. His efforts were quite successful, earning him praise in the local press. In 1901, the Curzon Gazetteer, a local newspaper lauded Khan as “best kotwal Delhi had ever had,” highlighting his achievements in breaking up up gangs of “budmashes” (rogues) and making the city safer.

 

However, it seems that Khan’s aggressive methods ultimately led to his downfall. He was suspended as soon after as he had ‘extorted by torture’ a confession from an individual under investigation. This generated some controversy, with the Curzon Gazetteer suggesting that the ‘public’ was excluded from Khan’s hearing and the case was still pending before the local magistrate, Mr Kirk. 

 

Despite this, we learn that Sandhe Khan’s story didn’t end badly. It seems that a few years later, Khan was exonerated and reinstated. By 1907 he was even given the honorific title of ‘Khan Sahib’ (loosely translated as ‘master’) for his services to law enforcement.

And that is the brief tale of ‘Khan Sahib’ Munshi Sandhe Khan. See you next Friday for more on Delhi’s history.

The inauguration of Lady Willingdon Park ('Lodhi Gardens') circa 1936

 

It’s not every day that you come across evidence that ties together different pieces of Delhi’s history. Yet, the image of the Bara Gumbad (literally ‘big dome’) in Lodhi Gardens above does just that. The crowd in the photograph is from a 1936 event marking the inauguration of "Lady Willingdon Park"—the name by which the gardens were known at the time.

Lord Willingdon was the Viceroy of India from 1931 to 1936 and inaugurated ‘New Delhi’ just before the end of his tenure. His wife, the Vicereine, Lady Willingdon, undertook her own construction projects, including the creation of Lady Willingdon Park in 1936. What’s less known is that the land for the park was taken from the residents of Khairpur, a village that was evicted to make way for the new park. I have a few more images from the inauguration below. They show a receptive crowd, either exploring the area in and around the Gumbad or waiting eagerly for the Viceroy and Vicereine's speeches. One presumes that the latter was infused with anecdotes of Delhi’s ancient past and the preservation attempts that culminated in the park’s creation. Interestingly, the power of photography lies in its ability to both illuminate and obscure - nowhere in these pictures is there a hint of the violent eviction of Khairpur's residents.

After India gained independence in 1947, the name "Lady Willingdon Park" was scrubbed out and the gardens were renamed "Lodhi Gardens," after the Lodhi Sultanate, which ruled Delhi in the Medieval era. However, this name is a bit of a misnomer, as the area contains tombs from various periods of Delhi’s history, not just those from the Lodhi era. Despite this, the name stuck, and today, in an era dominated by concrete, the Lodhi Gardens serve as a green haven for Delhiwallas.

Delhi's 'Dhobi Ghat' in the 19th century

This photograph is the only piece of evidence that I have come across from the 19^th/early 20th century documenting Delhi's ‘Dhobi Ghat’ (Outdoor laundry). This picture was taken by an English traveller who decided to wander off the beaten track in Delhi and therefore captured an iconic photograph. It showcases the Dhobis (washermen) working along the Yamuna River, laundering linens and clothing for Delhi’s residents. This service, highly valued by the Mughals, was reflected in the Shahjahanabad’s planning, with provisions for washing, bathing and cremation rituals at these ‘ghats’—riverbanks with steps leading into the water. The ghats were strategically located near city gates, many of which were named after them, such as Nigambodh and Kela Ghat.

By the 19th century, however, the British government had transformed the ghats by creating a timber plantation along the Yamuna's banks. As I have mentioned in a previous post, the plantation, designed to serve both economic and political purposes (such as providing fuel and maintaining a barrier between the mainly European dominated Civil Lines and the ghats), reshaped the landscape, leading to the displacement of the traditional spaces such as the ghats. The Dhobis in the picture would have witnessed or been affected by this.

Over the following decades, additional Dhobi Ghats emerged in Delhi, particularly as migrants arrived to meet the city’s ever-growing needs. However, as numerous reports have highlighted, these areas, along with the people who depend on them, have often faced the harsh consequences of urban development, including forced relocations and ‘slum demolitions’.

That’s it from me today. See you next Friday for more on Delhi. 

The Times of India's 'Delhi Diary' and Refugees

 

Refugee Assistance Stations like the one in the picture above were established for incoming Punjabi Hindus and Sikhs arriving in Delhi after 1947 (this is a picture I came across on the internet). In many ways, the Punjabi refugee was a discursive construct. Loathed, admired, pitied and respected, the refugee was (and has been) imaginatively woven into the urban fabric of Delhi with each portrayal reflecting larger social anxieties and cultural transformations.

 

I thought I’d historicise this using The Times of India’s ‘Delhi Diary’, a segment written in the late 1940s in the wake of the Partition of India. The Delhi Diary was a series that chronicled change in Delhi, particularly the coming of refugees. It expressed the hopes and anxieties of Delhi’s older and more established elites (Hindus) in the 1940s. In 1948 for example, it complained of the recent ‘Kerbstone merchants’ (refugees) crowding Connaught Circus:

 

“During evenings, when the elite of Delhi frequent this place, it is almost impossible to move along the circular arcades on which the kerbstone merchants have entrenched themselves; frequent collisions between persons are not uncommon and a slight jerk is liable to bring upon oneself a cataract of merchandise…Right at the entrance of a first class tailoring establishment a kerbstone sartorial artist may offer a suit tailored in the best traditions of Lahore for less than half the price charged by the reputed tailoring firm…”

 

However, the refugee wasn’t just a castigated figure. The industrious Punjabi, igniting a culinary and business transformation (clichéd references today) in Delhi finds a mention too. Here is the same segment on the cultural life of the city after Partition, especially on the opening of eateries:

 

“…Eating in restaurants, which not so long ago was considered by Punjabi Hindus as a sin only next to drinking and smoking, is so popular today that one finds an eating house in Delhi at every street corner. Hundreds of hawkers with movable handcarts dotted all over New and Old Delhi have a busy time throughout the day dishing out baked bread and highly spiced cooked grams (kulcha chola) and other delicacies to eager customers.”

 

While the ‘Delhi Diary’ was a short-lived phenomenon (I can’t find a reference to it after 1949), the image of Punjabi refugee in Delhi and the many associations it invokes is enduring.

 

That’s all this week. See you next Friday. 

Dentistry in Delhi, circa. 1946

 

On today is a photograph of a dental business in Delhi from 1946. While the name of the dentist remains unknown, the image was featured in an American publication at the time as part of a series on ‘sidewalk businesses in India.’

Although the publication presents the ‘sidewalk dentist’ as a curious oddity, the hypodermic needle in his hand suggests that he was a reputable, if not officially licensed, practitioner running a popular business. It is also noted that his stall was located at the foot of the Jama Masjid, implying that he could afford the higher rent typically charged by the mosque authorities. All of this points to his business being well-established and in demand.

One might argue that the crowd in the photograph was gathered specifically for the feature, and that the display of dental impressions and a bed of extracted teeth (!) was staged for the photographer. However, we may never know for certain.

In the absence of universal dental care in India, such forms of street dentistry continue to exist today. Delhi’s street dentists—and more generally, India’s street practitioners—cater to the poor, who often cannot afford private dental care. A contemporary publication featured a story on this subject, which I’m enclosing here for further reading: https://www.livemint.com/Politics/DKDZkHEa9hoyDVUQzGr1IO/Street-dentists-filling-gap-for-the-poor-in-India.html

See you next Friday for more on Delhi’s history.

Delhi's first archaeological society, circa 1847

 Some time ago, I briefly mentioned the first archaeological society in Delhi, founded by the British Resident Sir Thomas Metcalfe in the 1840s. I wanted to revisit this topic, so I went back through some archival material to explore it further. Today’s post is focused on exactly that: the Delhi Archaeological Society. The image above is a very early photograph of ruins from the Qutub area (Mehrauli) around 1911. Although this is from a private album and not from the same time period, the Qutub area was one of the places where the society was most active, so it felt fitting to include it.

The first meeting of the Delhi Archaeological Society was held on April 5, 1847, and its transactions were published in the Delhi Gazette, a newspaper at the time. The meeting was attended by 17 interested members, with T. Palmer presiding. Thomas Metcalfe was present, but he was only an ordinary member. Among the 'native' members of the society were Nawab Ziauddin Khan of Loharu (Mirza Ghalib’s father-in-law) and Pir Ibrahim Khan, the Native Agent of Bahawalpur. Interestingly, the first meeting wasn’t even focused on Delhi itself; instead, the discussion centered around donations of ‘glazed bricks and tiles’—one of which had part of an inscription brought from Ghuznee by an officer. Metcalfe himself donated ‘coins of Tughlaq and Khalji (?) sovereigns found at Sirsa’. The society was also keen to receive journals from the Literary Society of Madras and the Asiatic Society of Bengal, and it needed funds to start its own publication.

Subsequent meetings in 1847 reveal that Thomas Metcalfe’s son, Theo Metcalfe, became involved in the society, either as a member or by attending its meetings. Theo would later become infamous for his role in retribution against Delhi after the Rebellion of 1857. By this time, the society had grown and was becoming more Delhi-focused. It had 55 ordinary members by April 1848 and was hailed as a "depository of the large amount of antiquarian lore" in the region. The society conducted researches at sites like the Jama Masjid and Firozabad, funded by a man named Mr. Thomasson. His contributions also helped build a collection of numismatic specimens in silver and copper. Although the newspaper trail runs dry after this point, we know that the society eventually carried out excavations at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar observatory.

There are a few key takeaways here: while ‘native’ participation did occur, the society’s agenda was firmly shaped by representatives of the East India Company. Nevertheless, as others have pointed out, the networks fostered by the society led to a rise in Indian scholarship on Delhi’s ancient monuments. The most notable of these contributions was Sir Syed Ahmed Khan’s Asar-us-Sanadid.

For now, I’ll leave it at that but here is an another treat, a very early image from the same album on Mehrauli/Qutub. 

More on Delhi next Friday.

Delhi's craftsmanship- Deghchis and pottery

 

On the back of last week’s Diwali post, I thought I’d write about craftsmanship in Delhi as I had covered tin foil work there. The picture above comes from an American advertisement placed by the Indian State Railways in the 1930s, aiming to tap into a nascent tourist market.

 

The coppersmith and his apprentice are perhaps posing for the picture but it’s worth noting that Delhi’s copper and brassware was second to none in the past. In the 1880s for example, British officials raved about the Delhi’s copperware Deghchis (copper utensils) which made a stellar entry in the gazetteers:

 

“In Lahore and other copper bazaars, visitors are invariably offered real Delhi Deghchis; and most of the smiths from other places admit that they are not so skilful as those at Delhi. In shaping a circular vessel of changing diameter, they find it necessary to solder pieces on, while a good Delhi coppersmith shapes the whole without joint from one piece.”

 

Yet in the crosshairs of colonial capitalism, Delhi’s copper and brassware quickly came into competition with cheaper German goods which flooded Delhi’s market. Indeed, it seems that in the late 19^th and early 20^th century Delhi everything had a German flavour; postcards were published in Germany, cheap utensils were shipped to Delhi’s markets and one can’t forget the demand for German toys, as I have written about earlier. 

 

To conclude the post on craftsmanship, below is a picture of a potter in Delhi, again from the 1930s decorating porcelain pottery. Considered ‘anaemic’ in comparison to Multan ware by British officials, Delhi’s porcelain pottery was a relatively new craft in the 20^th century. Potters had migrated to the city from Jaipur but their blue and green porcelain decoration wasn’t seen to be of the same standard. I’m sure the potter in the picture would disagree and given his fantastic pieces, so should we.

See you next Friday for more on Delhi.

Diwali in early 20th century Delhi

 

A topical post as this is Diwali time in Delhi. The postcard above is from 1919 and shows Diwali sweetmeat sellers in Shahjahanabad/Old Delhi. The picture is numbered but the postcard publisher isn't mentioned. There is no inclination of where the picture was taken either. 

In early 20th century Delhi, Diwali decorations came in the form of Pannah work (tin foil) on the walls of houses and doors. This was tinted with coloured varnish serving as a gold tinsel. People would cover their doors with tin foil and then paint foliated patterns as Diwali decorations. These were temporary of course, and would feature alongside with clay diyas (oil lamps). One can imagine that the sweetmeat sellers above would have throngs of customers buying sweets for their family puja (prayers) during Diwali season.

A short post this week but see you next Friday for more on Delhi's history. 

Camels, Publicity and Advertising in Delhi

 

Today’s post focuses on publicity/advertising and camel transport in pre-independence Delhi. The first image I have (above) is from the Khilafat movement (1919-1922) and provides a fascinating glimpse into how Khilafat campaigners ‘mobilised’ support for their cause in Delhi. This isolated image was found online, and apart from the caption ‘Delhi’ inscribed on the reverse side, it offers little indication of the specific location in Delhi where the photograph was taken.

The Khilafat campaign was a protest movement against the dismemberment of the Ottoman Empire. Like others around the world, Indian Muslims regarded the Ottoman sultan, Mehmed VI, as their Caliph and the nominal head of all Muslims. While Mehmed’s removal galvanised Muslims across India, the protests also garnered support from the Indian National Congress, which viewed this as an opportunity for Hindu-Muslim unity. Here we see the Khilafatists— as they were called— loading a camel with signage and writing to promote their cause in Delhi. Those around the camel may be issuing some proclamation, and you can even see a man carrying a photograph of the Caliph, standing next to boys who have joined in to catch the photographer’s eye. This visual evidence illustrates how a global campaign was promoted using local forms of transport in the city. While the Urdu writing targets a literate segment of Muslims, the people nearby would have been vociferous in their appeal to the broader Muslim community in Delhi.

I have another example of camels being used in advertising. The picture below captures camels promoting the ‘Dawn’ newspaper in Chandni Chowk, which began in Delhi in 1941 and relocated to Pakistan in 1947. This image was taken between 1944 and 1947, when the ‘Dawn’ became a daily newspaper in Delhi. It is part of a media image for another newspaper from the time and includes instructions on how to credit the source. The text is somewhat unclear, but it adopts a derisory tone that mocks the ‘Dawn’s’ advertising efforts, suggesting that the cameraman is attracting ‘more eyes than what the ‘Dawn’ is paying for’. Setting aside European disdain, this again provides fantastic evidence of how camels—local transport—were used to promote and publicise media in Delhi.

The sight of animals (with or without carts) on the streets of Delhi was often perceived by Europeans as a sign of supposed cultural backwardness or, at best, an Eastern curiosity. However, one might challenge that assumption; these images reveal that rather than being relics of the past, animals were integral to how modernity was being re-fashioned in cities like Delhi. 

See you next Friday.

 

Col. James Skinner's property sale in 1861

 

The exploits of Col. James Skinner (1778-1841), son of a Rajput woman and a Scottish soldier are well known in Shahjahanabad/Delhi. Skinner, an early 19^th century mercenary and adventurer, founded Skinner’s Horse, a regiment that continues in the Indian army even today. The church he built, St. James Church, is located in the Kashmiri Gate area. The painting above is of the church in the early 19^th century. This is from the National Army Museum's online collection. Although Skinner may have himself been regarded as a ‘half caste’, his church became iconic as a symbol of British presence in Delhi and an important tourist haunt on the Delhi circuit.  

 

The fate of the other buildings in Skinner’s Kashmiri Gate compound is less well known. I came across an advertisement on the sale of Skinner’s Haveli (mansion) from 1861 which was released by his son Captain H Skinner in the English language paper, The Mofussilite (if you look closely at the painting, you can see a glimpse of the haveli in the far left hand corner). This was on for offers over Rs. 70,000. Have a read here:

 

“For sale- The well-known commodious mansion built by the Late Col. James Skinner in the City of Delhi. 

 

The House is upper storied, the ground floor containing nine and the upper six rooms, with bathrooms and every convenience attached. The house stands in a large garden, with a circular tank, wells, chabootras and c. The accommodation in the shape of stabling and other out offices is not to be surpassed by any other estate in the Upper Provinces. The whole is surrounded by a wall, on the outside face of which are shops, which together with the house, rent at present for Rs 300 per mensem. With judicious management, much more might be realised. 

 

Behind the house is a beautiful Baradaree, built of stone and white marble; attached is a marble bath. The construction of these two buildings alone cost Rs 30,000. The cook room, fitted with all possible conveniences, cost Rs 20,000 and everything about the estate was designed and executed regardless of expense...”

 

What’s interesting is that the sale of Skinner’s haveli coincided with the sale of confiscated rebel properties in Delhi. These were men deemed disloyal by the government for their role in 1857 and their properties seized and auctioned. I have written about this and associated controversies in earlier posts. James Skinner was of course long dead but the sale of his property captured the zeitgeist of the 1860s which felt as if the material fabric of the city was undergoing a significant transformation. Land and houses were being surveyed, valued and sold (or demolished) everywhere in Shahjahanabad. Property mania had begun. 

 

See you next Friday. 

Opium gambling and Delhi's Egerton Road (Nai Sarak)

 

The picture above is of Nai Sarak (New Road) in the early 1900s. This is as one approaches the Town Hall and the former Clock Tower, both of which can be seen clearly. My post today involves Nai Sarak or 'Egerton Road' as it was called before 1947. And, as you’ve read in the title today, it does involve ‘opium gambling’. 

 

Some years ago, I came across a police report from 1910 highlighting how widespread opium gambling was in Delhi and this made a fascinating read. It was a report on the back of periodic enquiries made by Delhi’s police between the 1890s and 1900s to check the spread of gambling (satta) in the city. 

 

In lay terms opium satta was numbers gambling and, in this case, involved betting on the price of opium (or taking bets on opium price figures) that was being carried on ships from Bombay. Opium was a prized trading commodity of the British Empire. However, one of the issues that cropped up for the colonial government in connection with this was that of speculation, particularly by what it feared were ‘dangerous’ or unruly elements. 

 

This is also where Delhi appears in the story. By 1910, Egerton Road was at the heart of opium gambling operations in the city. Police officers complained that shopkeepers who were earlier ‘known to be nothing’ now were worth ‘thousands of rupees’ by opening illicit gaming dens. The modus operandi was as such: news of opium prices came to the telegraph office in Delhi which was frequented by agents working for the owners of gaming dens. The former then telephoned or telegrammed their shopkeeper bosses on Egerton Road with news of opium prices. Throngs of gamblers made their way into the katras of Egerton Road and frequented the dens hoping luck would be on their side. 

 

For their part the colonial authorities were worried about ‘well known criminals’ frequenting the dens. This was in many ways a moral panic and their ire was directed at the poor and lower castes who visited these places. This included the Kanjars, stereotyped as ‘criminal tribes’. Delhi's police officials pondered over what action they’d take. Their complaint was that the colonial telegraph office was actually profiting because of the amount that people spent on satta telegrams! Oh, the irony!

 

Anyhow, that’s it on this story. I’ll see you next Friday.

Akbar Shah's botanial experiments

 

A while ago I came across a mention of Badshah Akbar Shah’s (1760-1837) phytophilia in an archival document and it got me thinking about the later Mughals and agency. Of course, in recent years historians have written about this for e.g. Amar Farooqui writes of how a new notion of kingship was crafted by Shah Alam, his son Akbar Shah and grandson Bahadur Shah, the last Mughal. 

 

So, what is in the document, you might ask? Well, it seems that Akbar Shah was on some sort of knowledge gathering project ordering plant seeds from the colonial Botanical Gardens in Calcutta, England and North America. In 1811 for example, a report suggests that Akbar Shah had been requesting ‘rare and uncommon’ seeds for two years to plant in his own garden in the Lal Qila. Those requests included-  European apple trees, Olive trees, ornamental shrubs, European kitchen garden and flower seeds. These were listed alongside peach, beetul nut plants, pear and dwarf mango trees for example, which are clearly Indian. Another record from 1852 shows that the even after Akbar Shah was long gone the Mughals were still requesting plants, this time from the Horticultural Society at Calcutta. 

 

The Mughals were known as keen gardeners and planters and the progenitor of the dynasty, Babur was known to have ‘disciplined’ the arid Indian landscape with the introduction of the Chahar Bagh and new varieties of plants. But what was happening in this context many centuries later? Were Akbar Shah’s planting experiments a self-indulgent activity or something purposeful- learning about European climes and their botanical experiments? 

More on this on another occasion. 

 

Also, in the absence of botanical pictures, we have the man himself above. This has been taken from the V&As archive.

 

See you next Friday.

Gopal Krishn's sketches in 'Delhi in Two Days'

 

I came across some fascinating sketches of Delhi’s transport forms from the 1940s in a guidebook, the cover of which is featured above. This was authored by Gopal Krishn and published by ‘Odel press’ in Delhi. It’s from the 1940s because the foreword mentions American soldiers arriving in the city during the Second World War and so the guidebook was perhaps capitalising on a new market (this is a timely released third edition). I have mentioned about the impact of these new visitors to Delhi in earlier posts.  

 

Anyhow to return to the sketches featured by Gopal Krishn, these include myriad forms of transport such as trams, buses, ekkas (one horse carriages) and rickshaw pullers which are dotted through the guide. These are featured alongside the more conventional pictures of ancient monuments and architectural pieces and I suspect that these fed into a broader impulse of cataloguing transport forms and trades which travellers were interested in at the time. Delhi’s own modernity on full display. 

 

The guide is also pretty standard in terms of its categorisation of Delhi’s history into ‘Hindu’, ‘Muslim’ and ‘British’ periods which was  commonplace by the 1940s. 

 

Here's leaving you with some of these images (below). See you next Friday. 

Madame Sakoilsky’s Drapery, Millinery and Dressmaking at Mori Gate

 

This is an early 20^th century advertisement placed for European travellers in Delhi. I found it in a tour guide from the time issued by Maiden’s Hotel. As can be seen, Madam Sakoilsky’s business was specifically targeted at European women and aside from Delhi it was in Mussoorie- catering to the latter’s summertime influx of Europeans. 

 

Madame Sakoilsky was a Russian émigré to Delhi and set up her clothing shop sometime in the 1900s. Her ad gives us a fascinating insight into imperial sartorial cultures and the role of immigrants, particularly in Delhi, in facilitating these. Preservation of the body in hot climes was an imperative for Europeans and specifically, English women. Guides for women travelling to India often suggested that they carry their own materials which would then be stitched by European shops. Sakoilsky alludes to this in the advertisement where she suggests that ‘lady tourists requiring any little work done, could be executed immediately’. Her European shop perhaps also aimed to alleviate any fears of the material being ruined by native darzis (tailors) who were often blamed for incompetence. This narrative of course, was laced with racial undertones. 

 

The records at the National Archives in India suggest that Sakoilsky’s story is a little more complex that it seems. Her application for a naturalisation certificate as a British citizen was rejected on two occasions in 1919 and 21. This was done in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution and would have left her in a precarious situation. This is all I’ve been able to piece together on her so far. As for her Mori Gate shop in Delhi, I’m assuming this is long gone but if anyone has information, please get in touch!

 

See you next Friday. 

 

The re-creation of Roshanara Bagh

 

I'm following up on a post I wrote a little while ago on 'monuments' in Delhi. In particular, this post is to do with Delhi's Roshnara Bagh, the garden/s built by their namesake Roshnara Begum, Emperor Aurangzeb's sister. I haven't been able to find a picture of the gardens from the colonial period so in its absence we have a print of Roshanara Begum above. This was made by the French traveller and author Antoine Prevost in his history of the world 'Historie general des Voyages' (1746 and 59).

To return to the garden/s, these were was created in 1650 and Rosharana Begum was intered there upon her death. In contrast to what exists today, the gardens were much bigger and without any defined boundary. We know that when they were created, the gardens were surrounded by water channels, trees and orchards of various descriptions, redolent in their display of paradisiacal imagery. Roshanara's tomb was of course, the centrepiece of the gardens. However, and this is where it gets interesting, the gardens were also created for the sustenance of the local area. For example, the residents of Sabzi Mandi and the locality of Mughalpura would frequently use the site and its facilities. Moreover, the gardens gave various entitlements to land and trees such as the Sardarakhti, which allowed cultivators to take their produce to wholesale markets like Sabzi Mandi without harassment. The latter meant that a cultivator or Sardarakhtidar was responsible for the maintenance of trees in a garden and could not be ejected from the land until the trees stood there. A small amount in rent was payable to the proprietor if fruit trees were involved. To return to the point, the gardens were essential to the livelihood of the local area and not a 'monument' in the sense they exist today. 

For want of a better word, the first step in the 'monumentalisation' of the gardens began in the 1870s when they shrank, became formally defined 'gardens' and their Sardarakhti entitlements were removed (the latter took ages however, because of the way these were assessed and the resistance of the longstanding sardarakhtidars who wanted better terms). From that point on, the Roshanara Bagh was treated as an idyllic retreat for those who wanted to enjoy the sight of a Mughal tomb in the midst of manicured gardens. More on this another day. 

See you next Friday.

Delhi's 'Trevelyanpur' featured in The Saturday Magazine, c.a. 1837

 I thought I’d write today’s post on Delhi’s first ‘extra-mural’ (or what some might call ‘suburban’, although I use it with some reservation given that term originated in a particular spatial and urban context) experiment under British rule – Trevelyanpur.  The image above isn’t of course of Trevelyanpur but it is of an 1837 British Magazine that carried an article with reference to it. Instead, a lithographic print of Delhi’s Salimgarh fort and the Yamuna river are its featured images. 

 

Trevelyanpur was named after its founder Charles Trevelyan, the East India Company official who is also infamous for his handling of the Great Famine in Ireland. A young and ambitious Trevelyan was posted to Delhi sometime in the 1820s as an assistant to the commissioner Charles Theophilus Metcalfe. The urban initiative of Trevelyanpur was situated outside the Lahore Gate of Old Delhi/Shahjahanabad on 300 bighas of ‘waste’ land. It was supposedly financed by Trevelyan himself for the 'poor of the city'. This is how the magazine references the new quarters in 1837:

 

“The centre, a large quadrangle, called Bentinck Square, is entered by four streets, opening from the middle of each side. The who extent of the streets, where are 90 feet in width, and the façade of the square, present an unbroken front of Doric columns, supporting a piazza behind, in which are the commodious shops and dwelling-houses, ranged with great regularity. The four triangular spaces at the back, formed by the arms of the cross, are intended for stable and court-yards for the cattle and bullock-carts belonging to the inhabitants. The whole forms a very striking contrast with the ancient ruins by which it is surrounded.”

 

While there are no traces of Trevelyanpur as an urban initiative today, I’ve found some interesting evidence on how its construction influenced East India policy over town and customs duties. An old article from an Australian newspaper in the 1850s carries the suggestion that Trevelyan experimented with Trevelyanpur to devise a proto ‘freeport’ - a tax-free haven without transit duties or customs.  It suggests that from Trevelyanpur ‘sprang the abolition of transit duties’. Its namesake found these Mughal duties frustrating and from the experiment, he urged William Bentinck, the Governor General (Trevelyan also named the square after Bentinck, as you have read above) to reform or remove these across East India territories. Therefore, Delhi’s Trevelyanpur became part of a broader thrust to reshape the urban and economic landscape of Indian cities. 

 

Well, that’s all I have on this so far. Will see you next Friday for more on Delhi…

 

 

Ratilal Narandas Gami of 'Tobacco Katra', Delhi

 

This is a trade label in the name of Ratilal Narandas Gami from Shahjahanabad/'Old' Delhi’s Tobacco Katra (‘katra’ is loosely translated as ‘quarters’). This lithographic print label is from the 1930s or 40s and taps into Hindu mythology – Lord Krishna defeating (and dancing upon) the multi-headed serpent Kaliya.

 

From what I’ve been able to gather after looking at the history of Indian patents, Narandas Gami was the name of a dye business in Delhi. The mercantile family was originally from Gujarat and like many others expanded their business operations to the Imperial capital. The incorporation of Hindu mythology may have also been strategic. The pure Krishna defeats the impure serpent poisoning the waters of the Yamuna. A useful idiom for a dye company?

 

Now, why choose the ‘Tobacco’ Katra for a dye business, you might ask? Well, this was a longstanding practice in North Indian cities where the names of places did not necessarily correspond with the occupational practices or caste groups residing there. Indeed, as early as the 17^th and 18^th centuries, properties in mohallas (residential areas) or Katras were sold off to buyers from different occupational or caste backgrounds. Therefore, by the mid 20^th century, this would have been very common. 

 

Interestingly, Narandas Gami wasn’t only using familiar symbols and representations from Hindu mythology to market products. I have another label of theirs (below) that shows a lady in Medieval European armour, similar to Joan of Arc or Isabella of France. Here Katra tobacco isn’t mentioned at all. Perhaps this label meant that the business wanted to appeal to other audiences or exported their products? I will follow up if I have more on the latter.

 

See you next Friday.  

Khari Baoli and Connaught Place's 'Sherbet Naubahar'

This is a slightly delayed post, so my apologies. However, here is an interesting piece of early-mid 20^th century advertising. For all you sherbet fans out there, this is the ‘Sherbet Naubahar’ (translated as ‘Fresh Spring’ sherbet) sold by Harnarain Gopinath of Khari Baoli in Shahjahanabad/Old Delhi. The ad was featured in a magazine (unknown today) as a full-page spread. 

 

Harnarain Gopinath's business was established sometime in the late 19^th century. Today (as Harnarains) they are still in Khari Baoli and are distributors of pickles, jams and sherbets. This particular brand of sherbet however, appears to have disappeared off their product list. In the ad it also says they had a distribution centre in Connaught Place in New Delhi and that would mean two things. One, that this ad was placed after 1931 when the ‘New’ city was inaugurated and two, that with Gopinath's distribution centres in both Khari Baoli and Connaught Place, the business was expanding and the sherbets were popular. Indeed, from what I’ve gathered Sherbet Naubahar was endorsed by actors/celebrities all the way until the 1960s indicating a solid market. 

 

Interestingly, Naubahar was presented as a secular drink meant for Hindus and Muslims. It says ‘chahe use thakurji ko bhog lagayein ya rozon ki iftari mein noosh farmayein’. In other words, you could use it to offer oblations (for Hindus) or for Iftar (Muslims). Sherbets seemed (at least until recently) to have escaped the categorisation as purely religious drinks and Naubahar was part of that trend. More generally, it presents itself as an elixir, rejuvenating the body and soul (perhaps that was the reason for its cross cutting appeal).

 

Well that's it from me today, I'll see you Friday next week. 

House Taxes and Postcards in Delhi

 

Pay your House Tax bill by postcard? Yes, exactly what this is, a Delhi House Tax bill from 1944! I never thought I’d see the day when a tax bill would catch my fancy but here we are. This intriguing little item was posted at Chandni Chowk in August 1944. 

 

I’ve previously written about the production and consumption of postcards in Delhi, their use as business advertisements and how these material artefacts collapsed distances and forged commercial networks. This on the other hand is another category of postcard used by the state for its everyday operations in Delhi. It is printed in Urdu and was issued by the Municipal Corporation of Delhi’s ‘Tax Department’. This is what it says above. On the other side are ‘important instructions’ (for timely payment, of course) listed as ‘Zaroori Hidayat’. You can see this below along with the King Emperor’s seal/stamp. What I’ve been able to make out is that the recipient/taxpayer was resident in the locality of Ballimaran (which was also the residence of the famous 19^thcentury poet, Mirza Ghalib). 

 

What can this tell us about Delhi in the mid-twentieth century? Conclusions can only be tentative here but let’s give it a go. For one, it seems that postcards form a part of administrative machinery; they were a printed in bulk by the likes of the Municipality in the 1940s. I’m not sure if Delhiwallas were always happy to receive bills but the Municipality found this a cost-effective way of targeting those liable for house taxes. The reason I say that Delhiwallas weren’t always happy is because at the end of the previous century and in the early 20^th, the Municipality was at the receiving end of an agitation against the house tax which was first imposed for the payment of a drainage scheme. I’ve written about the municipality’s escapades earlier and suffice to say, the house tax was dreaded by residents and the Municipality spent much time and resources ensuring compliancy. It seems in the 1940s, the postcard was at the forefront of the administration it built to ensure that taxes on houses were paid. 

 

Right, the other side of the card is below. I will see you next Friday. 

Mirza Elahi Baksh and the Akbarabadi Masjid

 

I thought I’d pick up from where I’d left last week in connection with the Akbarabadi Masjid. The man pictured above is Mirza Elahi Baksh and is surrounded by his sons. Elahi Baksh was a Shahzada (prince) of the Mughal family and by the time this picture was taken in the 1860s he was recognised as the titular head of the Mughals in Delhi. This was in large part because he supported the British government during the Rebellion of 1857 and well, the rest of the Mughals either fled, were murdered or deported such as Bahadur Shah, the last emperor.

 

What does this have to do with the Akbarabadi Masjid? Well, in the 1860s, local newspapers reported that Elahi Baksh had claimed compensation for its destruction to the tune of 3 lakh rupees. Allegedly, he had earlier asked for the rubble to made over to him for the construction of a new mosque. That’s not all, it was also alleged that as the property of his ancestors, Elahi Baksh claimed possession of Humayun’s Tomb, the Qutub, Lal Bangla (the mausoleum of the erstwhile Mughal Emperor Jahandar Shah’s consort, Lal Kunwar) and the Madrassa of Ghaziuddin, then known as The Delhi College! This was wishful thinking of course but Elahi Baksh did receive a pension from the government which included several villages on the outskirts of Delhi. 

 

As I mentioned in a previous post, ‘compensation’ was the name of the game in the 1860s, and meant everything from a reward for service during the Rebellion to renumeration for material losses sustained during the same. Chancers masqueraded as claimants and Elahi Baksh’s story is but one of several from the time.

 

As the Akbarabadi Masjid is long gone and we don’t have any photographic evidence of it, here is a drawing featured in ‘Asar us Sanadid’ (Vestiges of the Great), a guidebook by the famous Delhiwala, Sir Syed Ahmad Khan. This was first published in 1847.

See you next Friday. 

The Museum and Town Hall

 

The ‘Museum’ in this picture postcard was part of what is today known as the ‘Town Hall’ in Shahjahanabad/’Old’ Delhi. The Town Hall was in the news recently and I believe plans to turn it into a heritage hotel have been shelved for the time being. An opportune moment for a post, I'd say. 

 

After subduing the rebels in 1857 and securing Delhi, British authorities constructed the Town Hall with its museum, library and research institute. A sizeable area replete with Mughal buildings was demolished and, in its place, came neo-classical columns and a statue dedicated to Queen Victoria. All of these were reminders of European dominance and superiority in the aftermath of the fighting. The back of this postcard also presents a grim reminder of some British attitudes at the time and is racist to say the least (see image below).  

 

I’ve come across newspaper reports from the 1860s in which it is noted that the masonry /rubble from the Akbarabadi Mosque (built in 1650 but destroyed in 1858 after the capture of Delhi) was used to construct the Town Hall. This is again more evidence of the kind of heated atmosphere that prevailed after the Rebellion and the violence through which the Institute/Town Hall was birthed. 

  

See you next Friday for more on Delhi’s history. 

 

The National Physical Laboratory in Delhi's postcards

 

I was asked by a friend about how differently Delhi is represented in postcards after independence from the colonial period. I thought I’d write about this in today’s post and therefore the feature on top, a postcard publicising the National Physical Laboratory in Delhi on Dr K.S. Krishnan Marg.

 

This postcard was made by the Government of India’s Ministry of Information and Broadcasting branch to advertise the laboratory for tourists/visitors in the 1950s. It speaks to one of the changes we see during the Nehruvian era in terms of publicity postcards lionising the achievements of the new Indian state. Scientific development was seen as the path to nation building under India’s first prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru, a great believer in the potential of science to help India carve place for itself in the world. In some ways then it’s no surprise that the National Physical laboratory, an institute that standardises weights and measurements across the country, would feature in ‘official’ postcards from the time. 

 

While these were some of the newer features in postcards on Delhi there were also familiar tropes. For example, postcard booklets were printed under the titles of ‘Old and New Delhi’ which was actually a colonial construct to showcase a ‘New’ (Imperial) Delhi against the backdrop of Delhi’s ‘Older’ habitations. In the post-independence era, this continued. As ‘New Delhi’ was now reinscribed by the new Indian state to become a symbol of its modernity and progress (places like the National Physical Laboratory would often feature in the ‘New’ Delhi section) it made sense to continue with the ‘Old and New Delhi’ dynamic in printed postcards. A postcard booklet below (from the1960s-70s) which reflects what I have written, would have carried postcards such as the one above. 

 

I’ll see you again next Friday for more on similar topics.