Just outside Lahore on the
road that once connected Delhi to Kabul, and across the floodplain of the now dry Ravi, are the twin tombs of Nur Jahan and her husband,
the Mughal Emperor Jehangir.
The road, though now sheared of its eastern portion, remains
chaotic with an endless flow of rickshaws, brightly painted buses, and darting
private vehicles. You turn left from the bus stop, cross the road and pass
through a eucalyptus plantation where men squat to urinate beneath the rows of
trees.
As the traffic fades, and just before the railway line and pedestrian
underpass, is Nur Jahan's tomb. Little remains of the manicured gardens and orchards
and the tomb itself was long ago stripped of its marble façade and inlay of
precious stones. Signs announce the vandalism to be the orders of Maharajah
Ranjit Singh who took what he could to build the Golden
Temple in Amritsar. Others blame the British who furthered
their 19th Century carve up of the subcontinent by dividing the
tombs and gardens with a railway line.
In any case the building has been partly restored and is
graceful with the elegant arches and cloistered spaces so distinctive of the
era. There is a locked basement where the by now empty grave of Nur Jahan,
light of the world, may be found.
Across the tracks, and set behind massive gates and high
brick walls, is the tomb of Jehangir. Much more remains, and teams of men work
to repair and restore the paths, marble screens and cut stone floorings. The
head contractor tells me each screen takes two men six months to complete, and
the tile work advances by only a few square metres each day. It is a job, he
says, for more than his lifetime alone.
We sit drinking tea and watch the moon rise over the three
domed cupola of the nearby mosque. At the muezzins call, at sunset, the power
tools and all works stop and all is quiet in that great ruined garden that once
stood at the centre of an empire.
