M is for Mosques

The divided modern states of India and Pakistan were born out of the age-old tensions between Hindu and Muslim. The latter did not relish being a minority in a country ruled by the former. But whatever the political realities, the balance of spiritual power surely lay the other way.

Hinduism does not proselytise: since caste cannot be altered during this life, only by it, nothing can be done for those whose previous lives condemned them to be re-born outside Hinduism, and hence outside all castes. It is a religion of temporal stasis. For the Muslim, on the other hand, there is the siren call of the jihad, the holy war to defend the faith and convert the infidels - against their will if need be. It is the epitome of spiritual dynamism.

The same extroversion is manifest in their religious architecture, faith made stone. Everywhere the Muslims went, they built mosques. Not just one, but several, preferably greater than ever before. Paradise was to be won by action. Hindus often veered the other way, towards the abnegation manifest in Buddhism; you must desire nothing, strive for nothing, do nothing. Which is hardly conducive to piling up ever-higher stones.

And so it is that Hinduism remains a dominant yet invisible religion, while the departed Moghuls have left their indelible stamp on northern India in a string of massive forts and soaring mosques, Together these represent the twin aspects of their warlike faith. Delhi itself has fine examples of both. The Red Fort stands rock-like at the corner of the old city, its huge red walls an unarguable statement of imperial and religious intent. A little across from it is the Jami Masjid, the main mosque of the town. Open to the skies and to Allah, it can hold 25,000 souls and is the largest in India.

Unlike Delhi, which now lies in the Hindu heartlands, Kashmir has remained staunchly Muslim. Geography apart, perhaps this is not surprising. Nowhere else in India does the muezzin's call to prayer carry as distinctly as through that thin mountain air. In Srinagar, the frail reedy cry can be heard for miles as it floats across the still Dal Lake.

Like all the greatest artists, the Moghul architects of the mosques took the circumscribing restrictions of their faith regarding ornamentation and form and made it the springboard for inspiration. Particularly in their intimate monuments to the dead. The tombs are austere in their geometric patternings, stern and formal in their inlaid quotations from the Koran. Yet their perfect proportions and simplicity are moving for any faith.

Of no building is this more true than of the Taj Mahal. Too often it is regarded simply as beautiful architecture, or as a postcard symbol of India. But as well as a personal testament to the unassuageable grief of the Emperor Shah Jahan at the death of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal, it needs to be understood as a religious monument. To enter, you must remove your shoes as well as your cultural prejudices. It forms a fitting memorial to the Moghuls' enduring passion for architecture, and the apotheosis of their legacy to India.

A Partial India A to Z

D is for Delhi

Delhi, like India, is almost a British invention.  For much of the Raj, Calcutta was the capital of the continent.  Before that, Delhi held sway over only the Moghul kingdom.  When the British moved capitals they grafted an entire new district onto the city based around the governmental apparatus and the grand buildings which housed it.  The result is New Delhi.  Significantly, the capital is still called by this name.

New Delhi was laid out with classical thoroughness by Lutyens. Inevitably, the broad, wooded avenues and huge sweeping lawns lend the whole an air of stockbroker Surrey in the midst of unseasonable August heat.  The architecture gives a few nods in the direction of the vernacular, with a Moghul tower here, Indian ornamentation there, and the characteristic red sandstone everywhere.  But it is a half-hearted attempt; the studied balance, severe straight lines and the grandiloquent effect of the hilltop group answering the arch of India Gate betrays it for the failed Palace of Versailles the architect secretly aspired to.

The key element of this bolting together of new and old, oppressor and oppressed, is Connaught Place.  This great double circus of colonnaded, stuccoed buildings is the pivot of Delhi; as with the government buildings themselves, which are bound to it by roads placed like girders in a bridge, it is attractive but alien.  Its symmetry is too perfect, its architecture too undigested.  But it is the undisputed centre of Delhi - or of one of them.  The best shops are here, and the burgeoning business developments, including the first tentative skyscrapers, cluster round it. It is the equivalent of New York's Midtown, complete with Central Park.

The analogy can be pushed further, for above Connaught Place begins the blurring of identities as new gives way to old.  Although Old Delhi is very different from Harlem - the people appear to have reached an accommodation with poverty, and there in no racial divide from 'downtown' - it shares the same position as an uneasy counterpoise to the more placid areas of power, which are safely gathered at the opposite end of the city.

At the heart of Old Delhi lie three important landmarks: the Red Fort, a huge brooding presence on the banks of the Yamuna river; the great Jami Masjid, the largest mosque in India; and Chandni Chowk, perhaps the liveliest of the market streets.  All three are linked by a web of cramped twisting streets awash with stalls, hawkers and crowds.  It is only from one of the minarets of the Jami Masjid that you can rise above this lively din and gain some sense of perspective.  From there the bi-partite structure of the city becomes clearer; so does the size of the place.

Unlike Manhattan, Delhi is not circumscribed by natural boundaries; it has been squeezed not up, but out.  Distances are emphasised by the paucity of natural milestones along the way; most of the shops, offices and residences seem interchangeable.  The scale in all wrong: it is as if a cathedral had been built simply by magnifying the plans for a church.  In their dubious marriage of Moghul and colonial worlds, and in their vagaries of size and style, Old and New Delhi stand as a neat introduction to India today, and an even neater metaphor of how it got there.

A Partial India: A to Z

A is for Agra

To think of India is to think of the Taj Mahal.  But like all masterpieces it is unique and atypical.  It says nothing of the general.  To begin to appreciate it, and to understand the culture which produced it, a context is needed.  Singularities can only be seen for what they are against a background of the commonplace.

Agra is at least typical of India in two respects.  The scale is vast.  From the Cantonment station to the town centre is miles; along the way there are the endless small shops with their cheap and gaudy wares.  And like many other towns, Agra possesses three cardinal elements that symbolise the great forces which have shaped North India: a massive Moghul fort, a reminder of past secular glories; a major religious building, testimony to the endless piety and architectural ambitions of the Muslim emperors; and a railway station, one of the most enduring legacies of the Raj, and possibly the most important for India's future.

Agra fort would be impressive by any standards; but its true statue emerges only in comparison with other red sandstone fortresses.  The great Red Fort in Delhi looks shoddy beside it.  Partly it is a question of setting: Delhi's fort sits next to a huge sprawling bazaar: the frenetic churning masses overwhelm the silent masonry.  At Agra, the fort stands in splendid isolation, with only a few hawkers' stalls by the gate.

Inside, passing through the deathly stillness of Jahangir's palace, you arrive at the great Diwan-i-Aam, or public audience hall.  Its marble forest of pillars and intricate carved roof seem to hark back to an earlier design, where ornate canopies hung from simple poles. In front lies a spacious court, lushly green and dotted with great spreading trees, a curious hybrid of mosque and college court.  Flights of green parrots wheel screeching overhead; incurious monkeys sit picking at flies.

From all the river terraces of the palace, a great white ghost further down the banks of the Yamuna constantly haunts the vision.  Everywhere in Agra, the presence of the Taj Mahal makes itself felt.  You cannot escape it: here as elsewhere, sooner or later you must confront your cherished images of India with dirty reality.  And yet few icons emerge more pristine than the Taj.  From the very first glimpse of its white shimmering marble through the great gateway to the gardens, it stands self-contained and untouched by all our preconceptions.  It floats serenely above itself in the long watercourse, framed by four sleek minarets set a little apart, as if in humility, and the two flanking sandstone mosques. Behind, there is the incomparable backdrop of the river Yamuna, its banks glistening wanly in the sun.

Apart from the sense of consummate perfection, the abiding quality of the building is sensual yearning: the Taj Mahal is an erotic monument to a beloved wife.  The secret lies perhaps in the dome which rises up as perfectly-formed and as tactile a a young woman's breast. It is this clash of austere stone with passionate intent which lends it such power.  That, and the shock of cool white stone set in a baked plain of redness.  Context is everything.

A Partial India: A to Z