Wodehouse Visits Shahjahanabad: Exploring Modern-day Old Delhi With Whimsical Wonder

Up bright and early that day, I took the violet tube of Delhi’s well-kept metro and through what is known as the Heritage Corridor stepped down at the Red Fort junction. Mornings, let me tell you, are the absolute ticket for a trot through Old Delhi—the earlier the better. In the clement light of the morning sun, the decay of decades comes illumined with an unmatched glow, don’t you know. The idea, such as it was, involved ditching the customary guidebook routes and what-you-have, and instead embark off the beaten track to see what spectres of the past a single stretch may evoke.

Sacred First Stop at Shahjahanabad

As one stands facing the formidable Red Fort—the fort built by Shahjahan in a move to shift from Agra to Delhi, and the plinth from where the Prime Minister addresses the nation each Independence Day—one potentially retains the choice of ankling around anywhere and being in the presence of heritage. However, that is precisely what one must refrain from. Here, one of the most overlooked yet singularly fruity spots is the Digambar Jain temple standing right across the fort. After the quietude that befalls a temple after its morning routine, I felt it would prove absolutely rewarding to visit the temple.

It is believed that what is now the Digambar Jain temple started in a solitary tent. It was a Jain officer of the Mughal army who is said to have kept a Tirthankara statue in his humble tent for personal worship, which snowballed into people coming in to pay their respects and a whole temple then being built at the site.

In his turn, historian Samuel Dalrymple notes that most of these temples in Old Delhi were built in the early 19th century at a time when the Bania and Jain communities came to be the economic backbone of Mughal Delhi. The present day construction is from 1878 when it was rebuilt after the fall of the Mughal Empire. Inside, I was witness to a temple that is home to one of the most exquisite works of craftsmanship. To one's surprise in an uncharacteristic attribute of temples, there stands an avian veterinary hospital just behind the main temple known as the Jain Birds Hospital.

Once back out on the street and in no particular mood to brave the hurly-burly of Chandni Chowk, I legged it aimlessly for a stretch. No sooner had I reached the railway bridge that stands at a mere 600 m from the Red Fort, my mind assailed a dusty voice from the past that had once informed me of the infamous Lothian Cemetery lurking just at hand. And then—bingo! The penny dropped. Graves and grottoes, it was to be.

I must say, it’s no stretch at all to confess that I was made acutely aware of the foreboding that came over the narrator of one of Poe's hair-raising tales—the fellow who, after a gloomy trot on horseback, finds himself staring down the rather beastly House of Usher. Such was the effect of the Lothian Cemetery, steeped in its haunting lore and legends, that I tell you, I nearly felt a species of arachnid zip speedily through my spine.

Shahjahanabad and its Sombre Stories

To attend to more sober affairs first, the Lothian Cemetery is the final address of those Christians who resided in the vicinity from 1808 to 1867—a period not exactly short on ghastly goings-on. In between these two years, several tragedies took place. Among them, the first outbreak of cholera in India and then the rebellion of 1857. Those buried here are the members of the East India Company and their families who either succumbed to the cholera or the uprising.

On another fruity note, this cemetery has a rather funny if terrifying tale surrounding it. To put it simply, the unsatisfied soul of a certain Sir Nicholas roams the premises of the cemetery. To resort to the myths, Sir Nicholas, who once had the love-light in his eyes for an Indian female, cracked under the strain of unreciprocated love and used his gun fatally on his head. So now, if locals were any source to go by, it's the headless ghost of lovelorn Sir Nicholas that haunts this spot of Delhi.

Nearly one sandwich short of a picnic, I decided the sooner this cemetery business came to an end the better. I retraced my steps and was back on the road again; civilisation bloomed once again around me. At a short walk from the cemetery, I was confronted by a mysterious megalithic structure standing in the middle of the road around which life unfolded like a poultice. It struck me as one of those solemn stone jobs that people put up to doff the hat to the dearly departed. However, this particular tower that stood before was curiously in Tudor-style and seemed to have an unmistakably Indian arch doing a cameo below. After a little enquiry in the matter, I finally had its name: British Magazine Memorial.

History can be rather fascinating at times, I must say. I found out that the structure marks a particularly dramatic turn during the 1857 rebellion. On May 11, a band of spirited sepoys from Meerut charged thundering into Delhi, and nine British officers—led by one George Willoughby, no less—held their ground at the British Magazine near Mori Gate, a sort of vital gunpowder cupboard. After five hours of impassioned back and forth and seeing the writing rather firmly on the wall, they blew the whole thing sky-high to keep it out of rebel hands. The boom, they say, could be heard for miles. A plaque now marks the spot, quietly saluting the fellows who went out with a bang. These days, the whole affair stands rather forgotten in the city’s concrete clutter—stoic, sooty and stoically ignored.

No matter how fascinating, one must never get hung up on history as it jeopardises the future, don’t you know. And so, in this fashion, I took my steps ahead and came before what was Ambedkar University. A rather rummy affair ensued, I must say.

As I made to enter the university so as to witness the Partition Museum inside the campus premises repurposed out of the old Dara Shikoh’s library, the guard at the gate gripped me with a clutch that felt like the bite of a crocodile. It wasn’t until I had proven to him that I was not one of those delinquent students trespassing into their own campus, I squirmed for life under his grip.

Hung Up on History at Shahjahanabad's Former Library

Once finally inside, anyone with a correct gait would stumble upon the attraction of the site. The building was first knocked together in 1637 by Dara Shikoh as a library—rather a noble pursuit—and over the centuries had picked up an assortment of flourishes like a well-travelled trunk. While the northern side and a central room still bear the stamp of Mughal masonry, the rest has morphed into a curious blend of flat-roofed rectangles and grand Roman columns with louvered slits—something between Shah Jahan and the Honourable East India Company’s idea of good taste. The Qutabkhana, as it was once called, cradled Shikoh's treasured books but now houses the Partition Museum, which, to its credit, does a rather moving job of narrating the heartbreak of 1947 through photos, voices and relics. And yet, I couldn’t help feeling a trifle out of sorts—what might have been two distinct heritage sites now elbow each other within the same walls, with the elder Mughal gent quietly making way for the louder, more recent occupant.

Before long, I slipped out through the university’s back gate and made good my exit. After a bit of a leg-stretch, I found myself at the very spot I’d originally set off to clap eyes on: William Fraser’s bungalow.

Now if ever there was a card cut from curious cloth, it was Fraser—a Scotsman with a flair for the dramatic. William Dalrymple, who knows his onions, paints him as “a young Persian scholar from Inverness... Like Mr Kutz in Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness,' he saw himself as a European potentate ruling in a pagan wilderness; like Kurtz, he would brook no challenge to his authority. Like Kurtz, many considered him insane.”

Built in 1803, the place itself is a delightful patchwork—part colonial bungalow, part Indo-Saracenic number, with Mughal trimmings thrown in for good measure. What stands today as a rather unassuming bungalow was, in its former and far more illustrious life, the palace of none other than Ali Mardan Khan—Shah Jahan’s top brass and a grand Mughal omrah of considerable repute, or so Dalrymple assures us—until Fraser, once handed the keys, took it upon himself to flatten the whole regal spread save for the cavernous old tykhana beneath, which he rather liked the look of, and promptly plonked his own house on top, as if to say, “Thanks awfully, I’ll take it from here.”

Beneath the structure, the tykhana is a web of secret tunnels leading to the Yamuna, the Red Fort, and all manner of strategic hidey-holes—ideal for shuffling soldiers or the odd prisoner, one imagines. It took a knocking about during the 1857 rebellion but has since been polished up and even bagged the DDA’s Adaptive Urban Heritage award in 1998. These days, it plays a modest double role as a Railway Office and heritage site. As for Fraser, poor fellow was made the obituary column right outside the house and now rests not far off, under the steady gaze of St. James’ Church.

All in all, that leads us to the final destination of the lesser-known circuit. It is with a flush that I say that St. James’ Church is the final stop as its renown is unbound and the church is a bit of an emblem of the Christian legacy in Old Delhi. Here, though originally bundled into a hasty grave at the British cemetery, Fraser’s remains were later hoisted out and given the full works—a gleaming white tomb in the yard of St. James’s Church, courtesy of James Skinner, who, according to Dalrymple, spared neither coin nor ceremony for the old chum. Now this very church, Delhi’s oldest, is also affectionately dubbed Skinner’s Church.

It was built in 1836 by the Colonel himself—a gentleman of Rajput-Scottish stock who, after surviving a particularly trying battlefield scrape, promised the heavens he’d build a church if allowed to hobble off alive, and did so in grand Renaissance Revival style, no less. Complete with a domed centre and porches all round, although it took a bruising in 1857 when sepoys used the copper ball on its dome for target practice (the current one being a stand-in); and now, beneath its well-shaded lawns, lie an ensemble cast of colonial notables—Skinner, Fraser, Metcalfe, and assorted Skinners—so, having done my rounds I tipped a respectful hat to the dearly departed and just managed to dodge the evening rush at the metro.

I slipped back through the tangle of Old Delhi feeling thoroughly steeped in ghosts, grit and good old-fashioned imperial eccentricity, marking the end to a rather educational day.

Information | Shahjahanabad (Old Delhi)

What is Shahjahanabad famous for?

Shahjahanabad, now known as Old Delhi, is famous for its rich history, diverse culture, and unique culinary scene. It was once the capital of the Mughal Empire, showcasing Mughal architecture and traditions

What built the Old City of Delhi?

Shahjahanabad was built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan when he transferred his capital from Agra to Delhi in 1648.

What are some places to visit in Old Delhi?

If you're going to Shahjahanabad today, there are many places to visit. Some of the most notable places to visit include the Red Fort, Jama Masjid, Chandni Chowk, and Khari Baoli. Explore the narrow lanes of the city, visit Haveli Mirza Ghalib, and discover hidden gems like the Jain Digambhara Temple and Bird Hospital.

Or simply keep your eyes peeled on the narrow lanes, where Shahjahanabad's iconic Mughal architecture shines.