A Weekend in Lucknow

Lucknow is jam-packed with experiences that can leave you feeling pretty heady. This is an amazing city that lures you into exploring it further--and the discoveries you can make are invariably fascinating. The big attractions are the surprisingly (for an Indian monument) well-maintained Residency; the Bara Imambara; the Chhota Imambara; the Chhota Imambara; and the Jama Masjid. Satkhanda, a four-story structure that was left incomplete (it was supposed to be seven stories high), was made to view the moon at Eid, but it can’t be climbed, so it's no great shakes. Neither is the Clock Tower nearby, and neither is the Picture Gallery, a disappointing roomful of portraits of the erstwhile rulers of Lucknow.

But what is worth checking out is the absolutely delicious cuisine of Lucknow--mouthwatering kababs at Tunde’s; chaat and rabri at Moti Mahal; and nahari with kulcha at Raheem’s. Almost all of them are small and unpretentious (especially Raheem’s), but they know how to cook, all right.

And lastly, don’t leave Lucknow without buying some chikan. Chikan is a very specialised type of embroidery native to Lucknow--very delicate, very fine, and extremely beautiful. It’s traditionally done on cotton and is vastly popular--and pretty cheap in Lucknow.

Quick Tips:

Come prepared to walk--it’s the best way to explore Lucknow, whether you’re walking from one site to another or just walking through Hazratganj in search of exquisite chikan. Wear good walking shoes, preferably the sort that you can slip off easily--many of the top sights are Islamic holy monuments (including the two Imambaras), and you will have to take off your shoes. Make sure you wear socks--floors can be very dusty.

As in all other Indian cities, in Lucknow, too, bargaining is a must--you will be expected to haggle for just about anything, including a cycle rickshaw. However, an interesting feature about hiring a cycle rickshaw here is that in many cases, the rickshaw-wallah may just tell you to pay him whatever you feel like. This can be a bit embarrassing, and going on, coaxing him to tell you how much to pay won’t yield any results. We realised that the best way to handle this is to ask at your hotel before going sightseeing for the day about how much you ought to pay for a cycle rickshaw from point A to point B. It helps!

Best Way To Get Around:

One good thing about Lucknow is the fact that most of the best sights are clustered within a fairly small area--the Bara Imambara, Rumi Darwaza, the Naubat Khana, the Chhota Imambara, the Picture Gallery, the Clock Tower, Satkhanda, and the Jama Masjid are close enough to each other to allow you to actually walk from one to another. You will, of course, probably need other means of transport--to get to the Bara Imambara from wherever you’re staying, for instance. And for that, there are not too many options. There’s no good public transport system--tiny minibuses and shared auto-rickshaws function along certain routes, but for the rest, you’ll have to depend upon cycle rickshaws, tongas (horse carriages), and private taxis. On the first day, we opted for a taxi (booked at our hotel--it cost us Rs450 for half a day, terribly expensive when we later compared it with the cost of using a cycle rickshaw or walking). On the second day, much chastened, we opted for a cycle rickshaw and our own two feet instead--and ended up spending something like Rs60 for the entire day!

The reason we chose this hotel--despite the fact that we usually stick to budget accommodation--was that a guidebook said that its rooms offered the best view of Lucknow. Okay, maybe that wasn’t all. We were also keen on something a little upmarket where we could be comfortable. And that Clarks Avadh definitely was. Getting off the overnight train from Delhi (horrendously sleepless night on a narrow bunk, where I thought I’d topple over every time the train went over a sleeper), we reached Clarks Avadh early one foggy morning.

An unassuming multi-storied building of tan stone, the hotel was still quiet; the lobby--white marble floor, gleaming brass chandeliers, large paintings of bygone Avadh--was nearly deserted. Check-in was quick and efficient, and within two minutes of entering the hotel, we’d been escorted to our room on the eighth floor.

A neat double room, this one was really rather nice--the mattress was firm, and the upholstery had a traditional block-print design that gave the place a warm and slightly less sterile look. There was a luggage rack and a dressing table--both topped with white marble--bedside tables, colour TV, minibar (with colas, bottled water, beer, potato chips, peanuts, and chocolates), a kettle, and other paraphernalia for making tea and coffee. The bathroom, with its crisp white towels, scrubbed tiles, and little basket of soap, shampoo, and moisturiser, was neat. And a hot bath after the train journey was very welcome indeed!

Since Lucknow is a great place for cheap and good roadside food, we more or less made it a point not to eat at the hotel, although its specialty restaurant, Falaknuma, supposedly serves good, authentic Avadhi food. We did go for the breakfast buffet (it was part of the room rate, which was Rs6,000 a night) at the Gulfam coffee shop. The buffet has a mix of Indian and `continental’ dishes; go for the Indian. The muffins, the cutlets, and the eggs were pretty pathetic, but the Indian stuff is not too bad. There’s also room service, which, again, we ended up not using at all.

Other than all this, the Clarks Avadh has a gym (a letter on the dressing table tells us that it’s operational in room #315 between 6:30 and 10:30am and between 4 and 8pm; we, lazy bums that we are, gave it a very wide berth). There’s also a fairly efficient travel desk, good for getting a taxi to tour the city, and a business centre where, among other things, you can access the Internet.

On the whole, it was a pleasant, helpful sort of place, comfortable but not overwhelmingly plush, and with just the right amount of niceness to it. There’s even a card by the bed that requests you to place it on the bed in case you don’t want the linens changed for the day, thus saving on gallons of water. There was something sweet about that, and we assiduously placed the card on the bed both days.

Nahari has always been for me a will o’ the wisp--enticing and elusive. When I was a kid, my mother told us stories of her childhood, when their servant would sneak in bowlfuls of slow-cooked, delicately spiced nahari for my uncle, who loved trying out stuff that hadn’t been cooked at home. And nahari definitely rated high on the list of things that couldn’t be cooked at home--who would sit up through the night, making sure the meat cooked just right, neither underdone nor mashed to a pulp? Nahari was bought at a nearby food stall early in the morning--about the only time it’s available all across India, in Muslim-run food stalls and restaurants.

Nahari, you see, is a very Muslim dish--a wonderful mutton curry (mutton, for those unaware of what it means in the Indian context, is goat’s meat) that’s simmered slowly through the night in a blend of spices till its gravy is thick, the meat deliciously tender, and the spices soaking through right to the marrow. We’d never had it because we’d never had the courage to get up at the crack of dawn to go buy it, so when we heard of a place in Chowk, in Lucknow, where they made nahari through the day, we decided to add it to our list. "The nahari’s good," said our friend, a very senior chef who’d worked in Lucknow for several years. "But Raheem’s is a bit dirty".

That, by the way was the understatement of the year--wrong on both counts. Raheem’s is very dirty, and the nahari’s very good. The eatery--it’s too decrepit to even call it a restaurant--consists of some six tables, squeezed together in a tight huddle beside the road with a ceiling above. The chairs are greasy, the floor’s covered with soot (brought from the tandoor--the oven at the entrance to Raheem’s--on the bare feet of the little boys who act as waiters), and the little room at the end is to be avoided. It was offered to us as a 'private dining area', but we scurried out as soon as we discovered what it was--a grubby storeroom with a table and two benches. When we finally managed to find a table, however, things began happening. Placemats and napkins were neatly arranged on our table--both being neatly torn pieces of newspaper. Two bowls of piping hot, aromatic nahari appeared, along with a quarter-plate of finely chopped green coriander as a garnish. Then arrived the kulchas--crisp-topped, soft leavened breads hot from the tandoor. We’d had factory-made kulchas in Delhi, and they seemed positively sexless compared with this mouthwatering stuff at Raheem’s. We ate on, ordered more kulchas, had some Coke to wash it down (incongruous, yes, but what the hell!), and then had a plateful of spicy pasanda kababs. When finally we rose, sated and glassy-eyed with contentment, we were offered the bill. For a hefty meal for two people, it was only Rs51.

Lucknow’s pièce de resistance’s run-down, badly restored, and graffiti-covered, but worth a visit- if only for the air of faded grandeur and surreptitious intrigue that pervades it. The Bara Imambara isn’t a mere palace, nor just a `dwelling place of the holy Imam’ (that’s what it means). It’s straight out of a medieval fantasy.

The Bara Imambara began as a food-for-work famine relief project under the Nawab of Awadh, Asaf-ud-Daulah, in the 1700s. The work continued for decades, with sections built during the day being demolished at night so that labourers would have work the next day.

Coming through the gateway and passing the front lawns, we entered the vaulted hall on the far left. It’s known as the Chinese Hall, and looking at the white-on-blue plaster décor, we were a bit puzzled--until the guide mentioned that the china in question is Wedgwood. Ho-hum. An identical hall, but with a slightly different ceiling, stands at the far right of the Imambara and is known as the Indian Hall.

The dingy Persian Hall, 330 feet long, is Asia’s largest hall that’s unsupported by pillars and stretches between the Chinese Hall and the Indian Hall. It’s full of old mirrors, tazias (Shiite shrines ceremonially carried in Muharram processions), and chandeliers. In the hall stand the ramshackle tombs of Nawab Asaf-ud-Daulah himself and the Imambara’s architect, Kifayatullah.

On the far left of the Imambara, beside the Chinese Hall, is the entrance to the Imambara’s biggest draw--the bhoolbhulaiyaan, or labyrinth. Awadh’s nawabs lived in tumultuous times, with court intrigue a major part of life. And the bhoolbhulaiyaan is the ultimate in intrigue--it meanders through the entire building, across 1,024 passageways (at each intersection, there are three wrong paths and one correct path). Aligned along the building’s centre are hidden chor khidkis (literally, thief windows), which offer unhindered views of the main road, right through the Imambara. Guards were stationed at these chor khidkis to keep an eye on passers-by and to guard against enemies. Also within the bhoolbhulaiyaan are the now-blocked entrances to tunnels (or so they say--here you can’t tell when reality meanders away into myth!) that go all the way to Delhi, Agra, and Faizabad.

While at the Imambara, descend into the Shahi Baoli (a seven-level, 160-feet-deep stepwell) and photograph the stunning view of the Shahi Masjid and the Gomti river beyond from the Imambara’s roof. And yes, check out the acoustics in the Persian Hall--if you stand on its balcony at one end, you can hear a match being struck or a paper being crumpled at the other end. The bhoolbhulaiyaan’s mortar was very light--it included peanuts, lentils, and water-chestnut flour; because of this, the walls conduct sound fabulously--there are places where you can put a ear to the wall and hear a whisper 60 feet away!

Entry fees for foreigners are Rs300, inclusive of entry to the Picture Gallery and the Shahi Hamams. Guides charge about Rs210 for a complete tour.

Bara, in Hindustani, means large. Chhota is the opposite--small. The Chhota Imambara is not exactly tiny, but it’s pretty modest compared to the sprawling Bara Imambara. It’s also a lot less exotic, a lot less intriguing, and (fortunately for visitors), much better maintained. The building of the Chhota Imambara can’t be seen from the road; it’s hidden by a solid gateway. We walked through this, onto a wide, paved pathway flanked by lawns and gardens, leading to the Imambara. All along the centre of the path runs a watercourse with fountains (none of which were playing at the time we visited). As we walked toward the one-story building that comprises the Chhota Imambara, we discovered that the banana trees on our left sheltered dozens of tiny saplings, each neatly embedded in its own little case, ready to be planted into the ground when the time came. It was a nice, shady nursery in a somewhat unlikely location.

And further left, past the nursery, was another discovery waiting to be made--the Shahi Hamams, the Royal Baths. We were carrying our entry tickets to the Bara Imambara (which included entry to the Shahi Hamams), so we walked in happily, eager for another slice of history. The Hamams, even as we stood on the threshold, showed themselves for what they were--a disappointment from beginning to end. I, for one, don’t count newly whitewashed walls and a spanking new floor as a piece of history.

The Chhota Imambara, a minute’s walk down the main path, was a deal better. It’s not very large, but it has a truly striking façade--Quranic verses inlaid in white on a black background. We wandered around outside for a few minutes, admiring the stunning decoration, then entered the large main hall. Like the Persian Hall at the Bara Imambara, the main hall of the Chhota Imambara too houses a collection of tazias and chandeliers--but in this case, there’s plenty of light and very little dust, so it’s actually quite nice. The chandeliers are particularly fine--there are pieces from across India and from Japan, Germany, and Belgium. In addition, there’s a miniscule, but interesting collection of Islamic art, including a superb example of calligraphy in which the first verse of the Quran, Bismillah-ir-rahman-ir-rahim, is worked in the shape of a dove--worth seeing. There’s also a very painstakingly written version of the Holy Quran, in letters so tiny that the entire Quran fits onto a piece of paper that’s about a foot square in size.

All in all, this is not a really fantastic place, but it's decent enough--especially as there’s not very much else to see in Lucknow anyway. Entry to the Chhota Imambara is free; you’ll have to pay a rupee to leave your shoes at the door, and whoever takes you around and tells you about the place will expect about Rs50 or so and may prompt you (diplomatically enough--this, after all, is Lucknow) to drop a donation into the poor box.

The entry fee to the Picture Gallery is included in the price of the ticket to the Bara Imambara. So if you’re keen on getting your money’s worth, it’s a good idea to walk down the road from the Bara Imambara, through the fantastically decorated arch of the Rumi Darwaza and beyond the towering red Clock Tower to the Picture Gallery. If the little bit extra you spent on your ticket to the Bara Imambara is good enough for you and you’ve had your fill of culture, then give the Picture Gallery the miss: this is really nothing spectacular.

The Picture Gallery is worth seeing from the outside--the view from the road is delightful. The building is a neat, well-maintained colonial structure of red brick, situated beyond a shimmering pond with clusters of pink lotuses and some artistically arranged palm trees scattered about the banks. On one side lies the distinctly colonial Clock Tower; on the other side, separated from the Picture Gallery by a curving side road, stands the aborted squat circular tower known as the Satkhanda. In the middle sits the Picture Gallery, looking deceptively inviting from the road. We, of course, fell prey to its tantalising façade and, armed with our tickets, arrived shortly before lunchtime. The shortage of visitors of any kind ought to have warned us, but we boldly went forth--into something pretty disappointing.

The Picture Gallery could have been an amazing display of Awadh’s glorious past; all it manages to be is a sadly neglected and small roomful of portraits. The portraits--oil paintings and photographs of the erstwhile nawabs of Awadh--are a mix of mediocre and impressive, and among the best are a series of full-length portraits of the most illustrious nawabs. There’s a portrait of Safdarjang (whose tomb is an architecturally undistinguished but well-known monument in Delhi); there’s one of Asaf-ud-Daulah (the generous and large-hearted builder of the Bara Imambara; it was said of him that "jisko na de Maulah, usko de Asaf-ud-Daulah"--"He to whom the Almighty does not give, on him does Asaf-ud-Daulah bestow"). There’s also a well-known portrait of the obese, luxury-loving Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, who was deposed by the English and forced to leave Awadh, and there’s one of his grandson, who (among other things) was also the sheriff of Calcutta. These huge portraits of the nawabs, executed in full, rich colour and in complete regalia--are just about the only saving grace of the Picture Gallery. Nearly all of them, by the way, are painted in such a way that some portion of the painting--the nawab’s eyes, the tip of his sword, the toe of his boot- always seem to point your way, no matter where you stand in relation to the painting. A fairly simple matter of physics, but appealing anyway!

The expanse of land stretching more or less horizontally across the `chest’ of India, below the northernmost states of Jammu and Kashmir, yet above the peninsular states such as Orissa, Andhra Pradesh, and Madhya Pradesh, is often referred to as the `Cow Belt’. This isn’t just a mere reference to the fact that much of this area is dominated by agriculture (and bullocks, not tractors, are often the means to help plough fields). This has loads of other connotations. The fact, for instance, that it’s a pretty backward region, where issues that India would much rather sweep under the carpet, like poverty, illiteracy, caste discrimination, and the subjugation of women are more the rule than the exception. The people of the Cow Belt (of which Uttar Pradesh is one of the largest states) are said to know only one type of culture--agriculture.

And slap-bang in the middle of the Cow Belt lies the city of Lucknow, the capital of Uttar Pradesh and a city like none other. I don’t mean to say that Lucknow is vastly different from many other cities of its kind in India. Lucknow, too, is dilapidated, smelly, and gone to seed. Walking down a pavement in comparatively upmarket Hazratganj at night, you’ll still see rickshaw-pullers wrapped in blankets, lying fast asleep on the pavement, surrounded by the stench and dirt of the city. Getting off a train onto Lucknow Railway Station, you’ll find cows wandering about on an appallingly smelly platform, while babies drool and women fidget uncomfortably on hard wooden benches. (Believe me—I spent five hours waiting for a late train.)

And yet, Lucknow has something more. There is still something about this city that deserves a visit. Perhaps the most important, of course, is the fact that it is one of northern India’s most historic cities—and with a history that’s inextricably linked to culture. Once known as Awadh (the English anglicised the name to `Oudh’), Lucknow was ruled by a succession of immensely wealthy Muslim Nawabs, known as much for their generosity as for their luxurious lifestyles. Of the nawabs, the best-known include Safdarjang, who was an important dignitary at the imperial court in Delhi; Asaf-ud-Daulah, who built the amazing Bara Imambara; and the ill-fated Wajid Ali Shah, who was forced to leave his beloved Awadh when the English set up residency in the city.

But one thing almost all the nawabs had in common was that they had an amazing eye for beauty, and they did a lot to encourage the development of art and culture in Awadh. Dance, music, architecture, jewelry, cuisine—nothing was neglected. When the English came and set up shop, priorities went a little haywire but didn’t die out completely. And through the years of turmoil, while India (and Lucknow, to a very large extent) battled the English in a long-drawn-out struggle for freedom, Lucknow retained its memories of days gone by.

And what is a little surprising is that even today, long after the nawabs have drifted into oblivion, Lucknow is still a city of culture. This is the city of one of most exquisite of classical Indian dances, kathak. This is the city of sumptuous kababs, of melt-in-the-mouth rabri (pronounced a bit like `rubbery’, but in reality a heavenly, creamy milk pudding that’s made by cooking milk and sugar till it’s thick and worth dying for), of nahari and kulchas at Raheem’s. This is the city of chikan, that fragile, elegant embroidery that literally covers yards of cloth and is a must-buy if you’re visiting Lucknow. (Chikan, by the way, is of many types—there’s murri, or dhaniapatti, which has tiny knots; there’s jaali, worked on sections of cloth that have been cut into a net-like pattern; there’s tepchi, or single-thread work; and there’s a combination of all of them.) Chikan appears on saris, on salwar-kurtas, on men’s kurtas, on Western blouses that look fabulous with formal trousers, and on bolts of cloth that can be stitched just the way you want them.

Besides all the chikan and kababs, there is a tangible aura of history to this place. Our hotel room looked out on the tombs of a medieval nawab and his begum. We went visiting one day, and although both were in a poor condition, it was not for lack of visitors. While we were there, a bunch of Muslim schoolboys—skullcaps, spotless white Pathan suits, and neat shoes in place—came sightseeing. Not too far—near enough to go by rickshaw, in fact—are the Bara and Chhota Imambaras, the Rumi Darwaza, the Picture Gallery, and the Jama Masjid. All of which, like conscientious tourists, we went to. And just as conscientiously, we also went to the Residency, that relic of days gone by when the English reigned supreme in India. The Residency, now very well-maintained, is one of the few monuments in India where a lot of effort seems to have gone into making it a worthwhile place to visit. There are neatly laid paths, manicured lawns, a good museum, and good signboards (although rather ungrammatical—but what the hell, you can’t have everything!). We wandered around the Residency, looking in at the excellent Mutiny Memorial Museum where lithographs, excavated weaponry, coins, and ceramics share space with copies of the letters exchanged between the British Resident and the Governor General before the Governor General finally managed to send troops for the relief of the besieged Residency.

After the Residency, we made our way to the not-quite-so-colonial parts of town. To Chowk, where, interestingly enough, one of the main roads is called Victoria Street—and where you can still see some beautiful wrought iron balconies on houses that are definitely more than a century old. They’re about the only reminder of British rule, though. Even though a lot of the shops down this stretch have signboards in English, one can hardly call those a reminder of the British. I mean, does "Standard Hair Derisar Jaients Parlar" appear—beyond the first two words—to be even vaguely English? (For those who couldn’t figure it out: Standard Hair Dresser Gents Parlour—a barbershop).

We left behind even these pseudo-colonial areas and headed off to good vintage Lucknow. At the Jama Masjid, we stopped for a while to take photographs of the interesting façade of this mosque (which was originally supposed to be much larger—it was built to rival Delhi’s Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India). And as we took photographs, we noticed an unfamiliar sight—a flock of pigeons circling overhead. They would soar up into the sky, circle once, and then come down almost exactly where they’d risen. Only after a while did we realise what they actually were—not just a random bunch of birds. Somebody was indulging in the leisurely sport of `kabootarbaazi’, simply exercising his (almost certainly his; this is a distinctly male pastime) flock of pigeons. It’s a leisurely post-lunch pastime that’s quiet, refined, and unhurried.

A bit like Lucknow, in fact.