Famliy tree of mughal

Foundation of mughal empire 

Where The Seeds Of Mughal India's Disintegration Were Sown...

 If it was not for the family tragedy that struck the Mughals in 1631, Burhanpur would have been the capital of Mughal India. But, 388 years after Mumtaz’s passing, this town in southern Madhya Pradesh is oblivious to its luminescent past, and chokes in the dust and sand whipped up by the endless caravan of trucks passing through the town. Burhanpur was the capital of the Farooqi sultans, and later the de-facto capital and a favourite of the Mughals south of the Yamuna. A city famous for its textiles, Burhanpur had looms that provided huge revenue for the Mughal princess Jahanara and her younger brother Aurangzeb. But the atmosphere of romance probably ended when the royal family lost two of its princesses here in quick succession. One was Mumtaz Mahal, the other Bilqis Jahan. Lying 121 kilometres away from the Omkareshwar Temple, you’re bound to make pitstops on the way to Burhanpur. I also stopped at the Asirgarh fort, which was about half an hour from the city. With mossy growth on its massive walls and rampart, and with its several deserted alleys, the structure is a must-see. Once in Burhanpur, I put myself up at the MPTDC-run Tapti Retreat. Though the guest house was not extraordinary, it was still the best that the location could offer, and as a plus point, was at the centre of the old town. I was already late for lunch, arriving close to 3pm, but was pleasantly surprised when the in-house restaurant whipped up a spicy chicken curry and hot rotis. I had been waiting past the seven endless phases of the Election for months until I finally began planning my holiday. Burhanpur had been the raison d’être, and I knew that a long and winding trip across the heart of the country would have to be centred on this city. Burhanpur was majorly nurtured by Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khana, the son of the great general Bairam Khan and one of Emperor Akbar’s nine Navaratnas. Many architectural wonders in the city, such as the Kundi Bhandara, stemmed from his ideas. He was also the man behind the famous Rahim ke dohe, so such creativity was not surprising. The Kundi Bhandara was an ingenious underground network of water tunnels that collected and transported water in channels from the Satpura mountains to over 100 wells in the city—a feat of medieval engineering. But the network is currently under threat from unplanned urbanisation and the ignorance of heritage. The lift which used to take the tourists 80 feet into the tunnels has also been non-functional for the past three years. As a result, the visit can feel incomplete in the absence of this subterranean journey. A visit to Burhanpur is bound to evoke mixed emotions. In 2019, Burhanpur is an unfortunate showcase of public apathy, administrative indifference, and the lack of basic civic and sanitary planning—as visible from the filth overflowing onto the road and sidewalk. Man and animal live in spite of it and the mosquitoes in it, all having made peace with the omnipresent garbage. But blissfully chaotic is the phrase which may amply describe Burhanpur now. If the days here are marked by broken roads, heat, puddles and dusty air, the evenings are reserved for mouthwatering stalls of tangy kebabs, fish fry, gigantic rumali rotis and sweets. I think Burhanpur sells the largest rumali rotis I’ve ever seen in India, in the rows of stalls near the Jai Stambh that churn out oven-hot piles that are stacked layer upon layer. And later in the night, when the town sleeps, caravans of trucks chug along the ancient trade route, ferrying goods from ‘Hindostan’ to ‘Deccan’. Being a Mughal city, Burhanpur ought to have good non-vegetarian restaurants. Unfortunately, there were not too many sit-in ones, save for the Sattar Mutton Hotel near the Jai Stambh. The food there was deliciously hot, spicy, creamy and fresh, and after many, many years of gorging at KFC, reminded me of what the best desi chicken fry should taste like—or how good a freshly-made mutton curry is. Once a simple family joint, Sattar is today frequented by mostly errants, bachelors and labourers in search of cheap meals. You can get a small plate of biriyani for as little as INR 60. Burhanpur feels like a fort-style town, yet in many places those old walls have been taken down to make way for newer buildings. I learned that newer owners had drilled massive holes in the extant fort walls to create ventilators through which stale air may pass by. In other cases, the walls had been demolished simply to let a road pass through, or to set up shops, temples or government offices. Lying however, among all this pervasive disintegration and dilapidation, are the stages for some of Indian history’s most significant events. To understand the present-day situation of the city, I started at the Badshahi Fort. Set along the Tapti, it is where Shah Jahan—then known as Prince Khurram—had his blind elder brother Khusrau strangled to death in the middle of the night. In killing his elder brother, Khurram had committed an unthinkable act, one that no Timurid prince had attempted in the last four generations. In crossing this Rubicon, as Ira Mukhoty in Daughters of the Sun puts it, descendants would know that “the Mughal throne had become worthy of any sacrifice”. In 1631, it was again Burhanpur that heard the last cry of Arjumand Bano Begum, famously known as Mumtaz Mahal. Shah Jahan’s unending grief for his favourite wife almost found earthly expression on the grounds of Ahukhana, a pleasure mansion and deer hunting lodge built by his opium-addicted elder brother Prince Pervez. The Ahukhana currently lies across the Tapti River in the village of Zainabad. The area even today is known by the same name, although a new village called Ahukhana has also sprung up, leading the occasional tourist to confusion. Here, uncared for and forgotten among the sugarcane fields lies the Mughal queen’s first burial place. Mumtaz’s quarters though, have somewhat escaped the wrath of time and can be seen on the right flank of the Badshahi fort. If the mausoleum for Mumtaz had been built at the Ahukhana instead of Agra, it would have been easily visible from the Badshahi Fort. But two unexpected roadblocks sprung up in the plan: one, the undependable supply of Makrana marble to Burhanpur, and two, the soft Tapti soil. Thus, one of the most enduring engineering and administrative decisions took place: building Mumtaz’s rauza-i munawwara (‘illustrious tomb in a garden’) on the banks of the Yamuna. As a collateral damage of sorts, Raja Jai Singh would have to give up his fruit-tree-laden ancestral property on the Yamuna at Agra for the mammoth project that future generations would come to know as the Taj Mahal. Today, no proper road leads to the Ahukhana. Mumtaz’s original resting place lies beyond recall, uncared and lost in the blinding glory of the marble ensemble at Agra. Mud trails through fields, village garbage and buffalo sheds across the river in Zainabad end up at the gate of the Ahukhana. But the good thing is that Burhanpur has other important monuments of importance, such as the Tomb of Shahnawaz Khan, the Chhatri of Jai Singh I, the Jama Masjid built by the Farooqi dynasty, and Mahal Gulara. Shahnawaz Khan lies buried in a black mausoleum, locally known as the Black Taj, while Mahal Gulara was once a spot for moonlit rendezvous for the heir apparent to the throne of Hindustan. The widespread destruction and disintegration of the monuments and the city leaves one fatigued, and this is when the cool walls of the Jama Masjid seem to invite you in. It is an unusual mosque, with a bilingual mihrab written in Sanskrit and Arabic that points towards the Kaaba. Sitting beside the mosque’s still pool, into which a neem tree leans over, I took a few quiet minutes to myself and contemplated how a city so cherished and loved by one generation could be degraded and deprived by another. I came to Burhanpur with the enthusiasm and curiosity of a traveller. But what I beheld over a period of two days made me desolate. Here lies a town forgotten by time and people. Unloved, it has grown like the adolescent Aurangzeb, who when he did not receive care, turned his wounds outwards with waywardness and harsh acts. Burhanpur is breathed melancholy, a love lost, a world forgotten. A city of sand, dust, broken roads and ravaged walls. What remains with you after a visit is a mournful heart, a realisation of man and the miniscule, and the ephemeral nature of a mortal’s hands. Will I muster the courage to go back, ever again to Burhanpur? It will be a difficult journey in terms of heart, but the reply will be a yes. I truly believe that perhaps someday all the garbage will be cleaned, the roads repaired, the drains cleared of the silt, public restrooms built and traffic regulated. Some day, the tomb of Shah Nawaz Khan will get a proper road, and the Ahukhana will have a sign board, and I will return to soak in the romance and charm of the past. To soak in the pain of loss still reverberating at the Ahukhana. And to soak the last bit of roti in Sattar’s delicious mutton curry. Burhanpur serves as a poignant reminder to us, that in more ways than one, it was not at Shahjahanabad or Agra, nor by the conquests of Shivaji or Nadir Shah, but by the hands of the sons of Timur, that the seeds of disintegration in Mughal India were finally sown. THE INFORMATION GETTING THERE Burhanpur is around 180 kilometres from Indore, the nearest airport. Trains arrive at Burhanpur in Lalbagh, while buses are also available from nearby cities like Omkareshwar, Ujjain, Dhar and Bhopal. However, the best option would be to rent a car from a nearby city. The historical sites in Burhanpur are scattered all over, with no public transport specifically catering to them. Thus, there’s nothing like having a car for comfortable navigation. WHERE TO STAY There are no luxury hotels in Burhanpur, but one can board in lodges and guesthouses. The Madhya Pradesh Tourism-run Hotel Tapti Retreat (from INR 1,690; 07325-242244; tapti@mpstdc. Com) is six kilometres from the railway station, provides decent accommodation, and has a good in-house restaurant. One could also opt for three-star hotels in nearby cities, such as the Hotel Castle Inn in Khandwa (from INR 2,500 for doubles including breakfast, plus taxes; 0733-2224116) or the Sailani Island Resort in Omkareshwar (from INR 6,990 for doubles, including three meals a day, plus taxes; +91-8349002393). WHAT TO SEE & DO >Try Burhanpur’s famous mawa jalebis, Khandeshi daraba, and mande (handkerchief-thin rumali rotis, a local speciality) with lip-smacking Mughlai curries. >Enjoy the paintings and carvings at Shahi Qila, and see Mumtaz’s royal hammam. >Visit the Ahukhana, the Black Taj, the Kundi Bhandara, and Burhanpur’s Jama Masjid. >Take a short road trip and hike up to the top of the Asirgarh fort. Set in the Satpuras, it is surrounded by lush greenery and offers uninterrupted views. >Take a stroll through the serene Dargah-e-Hakimi tomb complex, a pilgrimage site for the Dawoodi Bohra community. Interesting Facts About Udaipur That Every Traveller Should Know Jaisamand Lake or Dhebar Lake situated 48 km from Udaipur, is the second largest artificial freshwater lake in Asia. It was constructed by Maharana Jai Singh in 1685 after building a dam at Gomti River. The Lake is as wide as 14 km wide, approximately 102 ft deep, and has a circumference of 48 km. The tribe Bhil Manas inhabits the three islands on the lake. While the two bigger islands are called Baba ka Magra, the smaller island known as Piari. Lahore And Amritsar: Two Cities Joined At Birth Are Dying Together Amritsar was born in Lahore. It was born inside the walled city, in a small house in its narrow and winding streets. It was the month of Assu, corresponding to the months of September and October in the Gregorian calendar. It was a month when the monsoon rains, having unleashed their fury, had finally taken mercy and receded. The demons of the summer had been defeated, while the tyrant winter was still imprisoned. It was that time of the year when there was perfect harmony, when nights were balanced by day, heat by cold. It was the time of the year so uncharacteristic of the extremities of Punjab that it seemed out of sync, an anomaly, to its vagaries. Amritsar was born in the family of Sodhi Khatri, a family of ancient kings, a family that was destined to rule not just the kingdom of this world, but also the higher realm, miri and piri, as articulated by the sixth Sikh Guru, Guru Hargobind. These kings were not destined to be ordinary rulers, but true rulers, Sacha Padshah, whose reign would overshadow the reign of the mighty Mughal Empire. This new kingdom that was their destiny was born, along with Amritsar, in Lahore in the year 1534. Amritsar lived in Lahore till it was seven years old, till the time its parents, Hari Das and Mata Daya, were alive. They died in the same year, leaving their child orphaned. The child, initially named Jetha, was raised by his grandmother in a small village, where the child first interacted with Guru Amar Das, the third Sikh Guru, and became his lifelong devotee. Bhai Jetha eventually became a part of the Guru’s family, marrying his daughter Bibi Bhani. Such was his devotion to the Guru that he was chosen as his successor. Bhai Jetha became Guru Ram Das, the founder of Ramdaspur, the name by which Amritsar was once known. Inside the walled city of Lahore, in an area known as Chuna Mandi, close to Kashmiri Gate, there is a gurdwara that marks the spot where Guru Ram Das was born. It was lying in a shambles till a few years ago, much like several other gurdwaras across the country, before it was renovated, along with a number of gurdwaras, by the Pakistani state and opened for Sikh pilgrims. Gurdwara Janamasthan Guru Ram Das in Lahore. Courtesy: Haroon Khalid. Lahore was born in Amristar. Actually, about 11 kilometres west of the city. It was one of a pair of twins, its fate permanently sealed with the city of Kasur that was born with it. It is not possible to pinpoint the exact day, the season or even the year of Lahore’s birth. It first came to existence at a time when time did not exist. There was no history or chronology, only the circular trajectory of mythology. This wasn’t the time of people, but rather of characters, caricatures and archetypes. This was the time of the perfect man, the just king, his perfectly devoted wife, and his perfectly loyal brother. This was the time of the greatest villain, a character so powerful that it was as strong as the power of ten. This was a time when gods and demons lived as men and women, a time when there was either good or evil, nothing in the middle. It was at that time, when history was yet to be conceived, that Lahore was born in the ashram of Bhagwan Valmiki. The greatest sage of his time, for that was a time when nothing existed in ordinariness, Bhagwan Valmiki was composing the greatest book ever, when the cries of Lahore and Kasur first resonated in the ashram. It was the story of their father, of Lord Ram, that Bhagwan Valmiki, the Adi Kavi, the first poet, was composing when he heard these cries. Sita, their mother, had found refuge in this ashram after she had been banished from Ayodhya, following her return from Ravana’s Lanka. It was her story, of her marriage with Ram, of her exile from Ayodhya, of her capture by Ravana, of her rescue by Ram and her trial in Ayodhya that the Adi Kavi had decided to write about. In the process, he composed the first verses of poetry humans had ever realised. Lahore was born with Ramayana. Her twin sons were named Lava and Kusha. Lava founded the city of Lavapur, which came to be known as Lahore, while Kusha founded Kasur. Today, about 11-odd kilometres from Amritsar, Bhagwan Valmiki Tirath Sthal marks the spot where the ashram was located and Lava and Kusha were born. The three cities at their birth were tied together in a triangle, a relation that is now testified by their cartography. In contemporary Lahore, at that highest point of the city, next to the river, where the first signs of civilisation developed, where lie the earliest traces of Lavapur, there is a small temple dedicated to the founder of the city. Inside the Lahore Fort, next to the Alamgiri Gate, are the remains of the temple of Lava. A Lost Past How is one to imagine the cities of Lahore and Amritsar, whose origins are so deeply intertwined, separated today by boundaries that doesn’t just divide geographies and people, but also mythologies, legends, religions, cultures, heroes and villains? It is a border that lies in the middle of these two cities, fabling stories about itself, about its previous incarnations in different forms, telling tales about its inevitability, its naturalness. Chanting mysterious mantras, the border blows in the direction of these cities, transforming their appearances through its prayers. Lahore today is the ultimate symbol of Pakistani nationalism – a Muslim majority city, the site of Lahore Resolution, where the Muslim League first demanded a separate homeland for Muslims, home to Minar-e-Pakistan and host to proud Mughal architecture, the Lahore Fort, Badshahi Masjid, a tradition that marks the zenith of Muslim civilisation in an undivided subcontinent. Besides a few, inconvenient remnants of traditions scattered around the city, all those traces of a pre-Pakistan Lahore have been suffocated and left to die. It is easy, in fact encouraged, to forget about that lost city, that lost geography which connected Lahore with Amritsar and Delhi, a Lahore that emerged as an important economic, political and cultural hub because of its strategic location on that ancient route that flowed from Bengal to Kabul, a river dammed up by the border. Lahore today is still an important city, perhaps more important than it has ever been, but it is not the Lahore of the past. Its contemporary geography and location are an awkward testimony to its changed status. A city that once looked in both directions, has today its back towards the east, and looks desperately towards the west, towards Islamabad, Kabul and beyond in search of a new identity, in search of a new incarnation. The story of Amritsar is not much different. It was wedded to Lahore at its birth, tied a knot with the city that spanned over several centuries. It was a marriage that was sanctified by Valmiki, as Ramayana his witness, by the shabd of the Gurus and the blessings of Sufi saints like Mian Mir. It was a marriage of interdependence, of convenience and even complimentary traits. It was a marriage in which Lahore took on certain roles and Amritsar others. Thus, in 1799, when a young Ranjit Singh took over Lahore, he effectively became the ruler of Punjab, with Lahore the political symbol in his control. But, without the blessings of Amritsar, the spiritual symbol, he could not yet call himself Maharaja. The capture of one was incomplete without control over the other. Lahore held the past, while Amritsar was the future. Lahore was regal, while Amritsar sacred. If Lahore was miri, then Amritsar was piri. The two were not distinct entities, but one. They were an extension of each other, incomplete without the other. Like an archetypical marriage, they were two bodies and one soul. The divorce was sudden, ending the gradual dependence that had developed over (almost) 400 years of marriage. It was an immediate severing of relationship, a violent rupture of all connections. Memories of Lahore, however, continue to haunt Amritsar. It is a relationship the city today searches for, sometimes with Delhi and at other times with Chandigarh. It is that primary relationship that impacts its subsequent relationships. The memory of the divorce lurks within its subconscious, hampering it from fully realising itself, from fully expressing itself. Road To Nowhere The road leads nowhere, meandering non-committally. It’s not meant to be travelled on, to be explored. It is not meant to connect one part with another. It is meant to provide a semblance of connectivity, meant to fill up empty tracts of land. It is aimless, pointless, stranded like a branch of a family tree that has no progeny, that has no purpose. One after another villages and hamlets emerge on both sides of the road. They are the children of distantly related family members with no children of their own. They are no longer part of the immediate family, no longer invited to its events. They are confined within their circles, isolated from the economic structures of the core. Their names represent their marginalized positions – Dera Chahal, Jhaman, Hair and Bedian, terms that have no resonance in contemporary Lahore, the Lahore of Islampura, Rehman Park, Model Town and Defence, a Lahore of postcolonial sensibilities, tinged with the flavour of Islamic nationalism. Gurdwara Dera Chahal on Bedian Road. Courtesy: Haroon Khalid. I am travelling on Bedian Road, a road named after the village Bedian, which in turn was named after the Bedi descendants of Guru Nanak, who were allotted land in this village. It’s only the name that survives, a name that once resonated with significance, a name that today represents nothing but outskirts of Lahore, of vast agricultural fields, downtrodden villages, a dilapidated road and a few luxury farmhouses. Beyond these is the border, casting its spell, chanting its mantra. The road collides with the wizard and dies unceremoniously. It is a battle that it is destined to lose. The road once connected Lahore with Amritsar, one of the many that linked them. Here the peripheries of the two centres interacted, creating villages and hamlets through this intercourse, these villages and hamlets bearing children of that relationship. Standing on a vacant ground, facing the historical village of Hair, now reduced to poverty and insignificance, is the remains of this unwanted child, the remains of a shrine that was constructed here by Prithi Chand, the eldest son of Guru Ram Das, a shrine that was intended to rival Harminder Sahib at Ramdaspur. It is a worn-down structure, stripped of all its ornaments, the paint, the frescoes. Its sacred pool, created as an alternative to the pool of Amritsar, is now lost, completely covered, its broken bricks scattered all over this ground. The condition of the structure, however, is misleading. For a brief period, the shrine, named Dukh Nivaran, was important. For a brief period, it attracted Sikh pilgrims who believed Prithi Chand’s lies that he was the rightful spiritual successor of his father, that he was the fifth Sikh Guru and not his younger brother. In this endeavour, he was supported by many – Mughal officials and corrupt Masand, Sikh deputies appointed by Guru Ram Das as his representatives in different parts of Punjab. The strategic location of Hair made it easier for Prithi Chand and his followers to intercept Sikh devotees on their way to meet the Guru and to expand their network. With the Sikh pilgrims came their offerings. Prithi Chand’s coffers swelled, while that of Guru Arjan, who was in Ramdaspur at that time, dwindled. For that brief moment, it was Hair and this shrine that began to overshadow Harminder Sahib. After Prithi Chand’s death, his smadh was constructed at Hair, while his movement was continued by his son, Meherban. This movement in Sikh history is referred to as Minas, the scoundrels. It was one of the most potent challenge to all the Gurus after Guru Arjan. After the formation of the Khalsa, they were referred to as Panj Mel – one of the five dissenting groups with whom the Khalsa were forbidden to engage. The Minas finally lost the battle for legitimacy, the struggle for spiritual inheritance of the Gurus in the 19th century, when they split into several parts and got incorporated into the formal Sikh community. With the disintegration of the community, the village of Hair too lost its political importance, as the memory of Prithi Chand, of the Minas and Dukh Nivaran began to disintegrate and crumble. Smadh of Prithi Chand on Bedian Road. Courtesy: Haroon Khalid. Symbiotic Relations Before there was Partition, before there were riots and mass exodus. Before there was religious nationalism, the division of Punjabis into multiple airtight traditions. Before there were contemporary incarnations of Mughal armies and the Guru’s forces, fighting a perennial battle, correcting historical injustices. Before Lahore became a Muslim city, the city of Sufi saints, and Amritsar, the city of Gurus, there was Mian Mir and Guru Arjan. Their friendship began at the house in Chuna Mandi where Guru Ram Das was born. It was here that a young Mian Mir, years away from becoming a Sufi saint, would attend the religio-philosophical discourse of Guru Ram Das, when the Guru came to Lahore from Ramdaspur. This was a time before the communalisation of identities, the partitioning of religious traditions, a time when it was the norm, and not an exception, to have Hindu, Sikh and Muslim devotees of the Guru. It was at these gatherings that a young Mian Mir met the young future Guru. They formed a connection that was to become a representative of the symbiotic relationship between Sikhism and Islam. Upon becoming the Guru, despite the opposition of his elder brother, Guru Arjan continued the construction work at Ramdaspur, whose foundation had been laid by his father. He began the construction of Harmandir Sahib, the future Golden Temple, which was in time to become the most important Sikh gurdwara in the world. Before construction began for Harmandir Sahib, however, a message and a delegation were sent by Guru Arjan from Ramdaspur to Lahore (according to oral narratives of the descendants of Mian Mir residing in Lahore) to bring his friend Mian Mir to the city, to lay the first brick of the foundation of what was to become the identity of the city. Mian Mir travelled in a palanquin sent by the Guru and laid the foundation of Harmandir Sahib, tying together the cities of Lahore and Amritsar in a lifelong relation. Years later, when on the orders of Emperor Jahangir, Guru Arjan was being tortured in Lahore before his execution, Mian Mir reached out to him and asked for his permission to destroy the city of Lahore to stop this torture. He was willing to sacrifice his home, to sacrifice the entire city, for his love of the Guru, but the Guru refrained him from doing so. After Guru Arjan’s execution, Mian Mir maintained a cordial relationship with his son, the sixth Sikh Guru, Guru Hargobind. It is a relationship that continues to be remembered and celebrated by certain groups and communities. Abandoned Traditions I met Bhai Ghulam Muhammad at his home in Lahore in February 2014. He passed away in April. His home was close to Data Darbar, the shrine of the patron saint of the city. The shrine is a thousand years old, as old as the known history of Lahore. Its existence and continued significance represent a continuation of a cultural and spiritual life of the city. Residents of Lahore take pride in the city’s historicity, its recent and ancient past. But is Lahore, in its contemporary incarnation, the same city that it was, that it has been for a thousand years? Lahore was never Bhai Ghulam Hussain’s city. His home was Amritsar. But the city changed in 1947. Just like Ghulam Muhammad’s family, the city too migrated to Lahore, leaving in its shadow a distant memory of what the city once had been. The city where Ghulam Muhammad was travelling to was also not Lahore anymore, the glorious pride of Punjab, the multicultural jewel of the crown, of undivided British India. This was a new Lahore, a new city which only shared its name with that glorious past. Bhai Ghulam Muhammad came from the family of Bhai Sadha and Madha, the Muslim rubabis appointed by Guru Tegh Bahadur to perform kirtan at the Harmandir Sahib. The performance of kirtan at Sikh gurdwaras by Muslim rubabis was a tradition that started with Bhai Mardana and Guru Nanak. It was maintained by subsequent Sikh Gurus. His was one of the most respected families of the city of Amritsar, the family that formed a connection between the Guru’s shabd and thousands of their devotees. His family was one example out of several that highlighted the complex relationship between different religious communities and hybrid identities. “We knew the Granth by heart…nothing about being Muslim,” he told me. Once guardians of the Gurus’ words, they were reduced to odd jobs in Lahore. Only recently, with a growing interest in Sikh heritage in Pakistan, the family began performing kirtan again. However, this rediscovery of the profession is a far cry from what the situation had been prior to Partition. The odd jobs continued. In 2008, Bhai Ghulam Muhammad was barred from performing kirtan at Harmandir Sahib, for he was not an Amritdhari Sikh. His family had performed kirtan for generations at the Harmandir Sahib, without ever being Amritdhari, but that was a different city, a different Amritsar. In the story of Ghulam Muhammad is the story of Lahore and Amritsar. It is the story of what the cities were, the story of their relationship, the story of their intermarriage. It is the story of what the cities are, of their antagonism towards fluid identities, of their newly discovered loyalties. The death of Ghulam Muhammad is the death of these two cities, of what they had been, of what they could have been. The article was first published in Nishaan Nagaara. Haroon Khalid is the author of several books, including Imagining Lahore and Walking with Nanak.