As part of this drive, INTACH regularly organises public walks—anybody who registers for the walk and pays a fee of Rs 50 is welcome to join. All through this month, the Delhi Chapter’s done weekend heritage walks across the city, in Daryaganj, Hauz Khas, Lodhi Gardens, and Mehrauli. This one, in Mehrauli, is being conducted by my sister Swapna, a historian.

I carpool with Swapna; the walk’s to begin at 8.15 AM, and we arrive at the rendezvous—the Mehrauli parking lot—by 8 AM. Opposite the parking lot is the gateway to the Jogmaya Temple: an ancient Hindu temple, but now completely renovated. Mehrauli, unlike colourful, exotic Chandni Chowk, is little known, so the number of people who’ve registered for this walk is relatively small: there’s just about fifteen of us.

Mehrauli is extremely interesting, in that it is Delhi’s oldest continuously inhabited locality. Delhi is old—it’s been around for over 30 centuries—and some areas, like the Purana Qila, show signs of habitation from ancient times, though with populations coming and going as the years passed. Mehrauli is different; it’s been constantly occupied since at least the 8th century. Such a long history translates into a vast number of old buildings and structures, dating as far back as the 12th century, and right up to the end of the British Raj.

We begin our walk, strolling up the easy slope to a crossroads, the Mehrauli Bus Terminal on our left. This is a busy area, with the Delhi Transport Corporation’s buses racing along at full speed as they move in and out of the terminal. Just before the terminal is a judicial department of some sort. Outside the office, on the pavement is a long row of ramshackle desks, each of them with its own little board: Notary. Litigations filed. Property and tax cases handled. And so on; all of these are advocates whose practice seems to be restricted to doing paperwork.

Beyond them is the first of Mehrauli’s interesting buildings: the Public Library. It’s a circular building, fringed by a verandah of pleasant arches, all of it topped by a dome. A small, obviously colonial building, newly whitewashed and in thankfully good condition. We walk on, up to the top of the hillock, on which stands the prominent Tomb of Adham Khan. We walk up the stairs and into the tomb, where we spend a while looking at it and taking photographs. Once we’re done—and Swapna’s explained the history of the tomb—we emerge from the tomb and cross the square opposite, taking the lane which leads downhill approximately opposite the tomb. (There are a lot of lanes converging here; ask for the road to the dargah if you’re confused).

The dargah, the shrine or tomb of the 13th century Sufi saint Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki, is one of Delhi’s most important centres of pilgrimage. Though much of the shrine is now so modern you can’t see its original form, it’s still worth visiting. Unfortunately, it requires a lot of time (a walk, as Swapna says, of its own). So we won’t be visiting the dargah, but we do stop by on the way to admire the Gandhak ki Baoli and to offer a heartfelt thanks to the Archaeological Survey of India, which has recently had it cleared and cleaned.

We walk on, passing two tall stone structures on either side of the lane. These, Swapna tells us, formed the Naubat Khana (the drum house) to the dargah. Musicians would sit in the balcony of the drum house, and play on kettle drums to welcome visitors to the shrine. The structure on the left has been taken over by a local gurudwara. They’ve whitewashed it, so you can’t really see much. The structure on the right is more or less intact, made of good solid stone with beautifully carved oriel window supports on the sides.
Past the Naubat Khana, we come to the doorway of the dargah. There are shopkeepers here selling chadars of green cloth embroidered in glittery golden tinsel; rosaries; roses; and other votive offerings. We turn right and walk on till the lane opens out into a square, with the red sandstone-and-white marble gateway of the Zafar Mahal opposite.

Zafar Mahal is large and historic, with lots of intriguing features, so takes up a good bit of our time. When we emerge, Swapna turns left and takes us up a narrow lane past two old tombs, both with four-sided, somewhat conical domed roofs. One’s been turned into a grocery shop; the other appears to be a home. The lane—by now less than four feet across—slopes up slightly and joins the main road of Mehrauli Village. A man is selling raw sugar here in its myriad forms: large discs of orange-gold gur; sacks of pale yellow shakkar; heaps of brown bura. All of it smells gorgeously intoxicating, but with the dust of the road right there, I wonder how hygienic all of this is. Further down the road, past shops selling gaudy polyester saris aglitter with sequins and tinsel, a man is selling large bunches of brown tobacco, hung upside down from the rafters of his shop. Below stands a row of earthen chillums and gleaming hookahs.

Even though this is the main road (and was once the main Mehrauli-Gurgaon road) it’s narrow: two cars coming from opposite directions can cause a traffic jam if there happens to be a slow cart moving along in front of one of them. And there are slow carts here by the dozen. Behind us, a man pedals a cycle with a large barrow loaded with vegetables. Ahead of us, a sewer-cleaning crew is hard at its smelly work: they’re manually lifting filth out of the open drains and piling it into a deep-sided cart pulled along by a large and patient bullock. We hold our noses and race past—only to run into the mother of all traffic jams: a consignment of large steel pipes has spilt across the road, effectively choking half of it off. There are cyclists, men on motorbikes and scooters, cars, a small lorry, and us.

We squeeze past, walking intrepidly over the pipes till we’re the past the jam. Swapna leads us further down the road, pointing out traces of old architecture: semi-circular arches, Greek columns and shuttered windows in one building; traditional dripstones with sandstone supports in another. We go past the Jamaluddin Building—conspicuously labelled, its name and date (1940) spelt out in plaster below the ornate facade—and the Kali Prasad Haveli, a much more typically Indian mansion. Swapna tells us that, through the 18th, 19th and early 20th centuries, Mehrauli became a popular retreat for the rich and powerful of Delhi: those who could afford it invariably built a mansion here where they would come now and then from north Delhi for a holiday.

The road opens out at the Jahaz Mahal, beside which men sit selling spices: huge yellow heaps of turmeric and bright red dried chillies contrasting with the dull red and grey bulk of the building. We wander around Jahaz Mahal, admiring the carving on the pillars and braving the treacherously narrow, steep staircase to climb up onto the roof and look out over the Hauz Shamsi beyond.

Back downstairs, we cross the road and walk down to the Jharna. Someone seems to have been plucking chickens here: the ground’s littered with white feathers, enough to stuff a couple of mattresses. But the only people around are a bunch of children from the neighbourhood. They’re all equally grubby but cheerful, playing happily by themselves until we come by. They realise this is a good opportunity to get photographed, and they pose for us once Swapna’s finished with her explaining of what the Jharna is all about.

It’s a long walk back to the parking lot, but Swapna manages to ensure that for the last five minutes of the walk, we use a different route—so we see some interesting new features. There’s a clinic housed in what looks like an old tomb; there are late colonial buildings which are now shops; and there’s a quaint old plaque inserted in the main wall along the road. All it says is that "From the zails [districts or quarters] of Mehrauli and Badarpur 1261 men went to the Great War 1914-1919. Of these 92 gave up their lives."

And on that note, we walk up to Adham Khan’s tomb beyond, and then to the parking lot.

The Mughal Emperor Jalaluddin Mohammad Akbar (1542-1605 AD) ascended the throne when he was just 13, and for the next 7 years or so, much political power was wielded by Maham Anga, one of his wet nurses. (Incidentally, the post of a wet nurse for the heir to the Mughal throne was a highly coveted one, and very political: much hectic lobbying used to go on, and the family of a woman appointed a wet nurse could be sure of both political and monetary progress).

Maham Anga’s son, Adham Khan, was as ambitious as his mother, and his ambitions brought him into direct conflict with a man titled Atgah Khan, the husband of Jiji Anga, another of Akbar’s wet nurses. Adham Khan eventually grew too big for his boots, and one day in about 1562, killed Atgah Khan and then attempted to enter Akbar’s harem and wreak further havoc. Akbar was predictably annoyed—moreover since Atgah Khan was a favourite of his—and ordered that Adham Khan be bound hand and foot and thrown from the ramparts of the fort. When Adham Khan still didn’t die, Akbar had him thrown a second time.

Maham Anga brought Adham Khan’s body to Mehrauli, where she constructed a huge tomb for him. It’s an unusual tomb for Mughal times, in that it’s octagonal—by the late 1500’s, square tombs were the fashion. Adham Khan’s tomb stands on an elevation, constructed of stone and covered over with plaster. It’s sparingly decorated on the outside, mainly with ornamental medallions of incised plaster, and with small niches. The inside’s even barer: a small unadorned cenotaph marks Adham Khan’s grave. Maham Anga was also buried here, but there’s no cenotaph to mark her grave: it’s possible it’s vanished. While you’re inside, to look up at the domed ceiling: it’s beautifully decorated with a circular design of painted incised plaster, in deep blue and red.

Entry to Adham Khan’s tomb is free. Though it’s easy to locate—it’s the most visible landmark around—if you’re lost, ask for the bhoolbhulaiyaan (‘maze’). This is the more popular local name for the monument, since the space above the tomb, in and around the dome, consists of a series of narrow passages arranged like a labyrinth. A staircase leads up to it, but is kept locked, so access isn’t possible.

One of the largest baolis in Delhi is the impressive Gandhak ki Baoli in Mehrauli. Walking down from Adham Khan’s tomb to the dargah of Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki, you almost don’t see the baoli until you’ve reached it. Then, suddenly, there’s a gateway on your left, and just beyond that, stretching down, is the Gandhak ki Baoli.

Gandhak means sulphur, and the baoli (now dry) probably drew its name from the sulphur content of its water. Since sulphur was supposed to have medicinal properties, it’s likely that people came to this baoli to `take the waters’, so to say. The baoli is a deep one, extending to five levels. It’s made completely of rough hewn stone, almost devoid of any decoration. Each level is marked by a central doorway; the topmost level has been provided with an additional row of stone pillars. Who constructed the baoli is a matter of conjecture; but looking at the architecture—the purely functional appearance of the step well—one can imagine that this was probably 13th century. Some believe that the Sultan Iltutmish was partly responsible for building it.

The Gandhak ki Baoli is open to all; there is no entry fee. In fact, till a couple of years back, this baoli was in a mess: squatters had moved in and were living all across the top ledges on whatever space they could find. The baoli itself was being used as a rubbish dump, and was choked with garbage right up to the third level. Happily, all of that has now been cleaned out, and it’s a pleasant enough place to visit.

Bahadur Shah lived at a time when the grandeur of the great Mughals had dwindled away into a sad and tawdry echo of its past magnificence. The British had, in effect, become all-powerful and Bahadur Shah was given a mere Rs 1,00,000 a month to meet all his expenses—which included all the expenses of the 5,000 people who lived with him in the Red Fort and were dependent on him.

So, where two centuries earlier the wealthy Shahjahan had built his magnum opus, the Taj Mahal, and followed it up with the Red Fort, the Jama Masjid and the city of Shahjahanabad in Delhi, Bahadur Shah could barely scrape together the funds to make himself a retreat away from the crowded Red Fort. Since he was short of money, Bahadur Shah ended up simply adding to an existing palace: what is today known as Zafar Mahal. Bahadur Shah’s father, the Emperor Akbar II, had built this palace but it was Bahadur Shah who added the gateway to it and made it a retreat, where he and his family would come to stay for days at a time.

There’s an open space—a sort of square—in front of the Zafar Mahal—which is used as a vegetable trading centre of sorts. As we weave our way gingerly between the lorries laden with vegetables, young men deftly package cauliflower, broccoli, cabbages, radish, spinach and carrots in large plastic bags. Ahead of us, behind a high iron railing, stands the gate to Zafar Mahal. A small stone plaque, inscribed in English, contains a brief description of the palace.

The gate is an impressive one, made of red sandstone and embellished with white marble. It has two especially ornate medallions in the form of large lotuses on either side of the main arch. Below, just above ground level, are two shallow oriel windows or jharokhas, both looking more Rajasthani than typical Mughal. The gateway is closed with a weatherbeaten wooden door; in the right leaf is a small wicket-gate, through which we step into a dark, high passageway. One section of the passage slopes up ahead, flanked by arched recesses which still retain traces of ornately painted plaster: we can see brightly coloured fruit and flowers decorating the edges of the niches. Another section of the passage slopes up to the left. All of it smells of bats, but only for a few yards: once we emerge from the passage into the small courtyard beyond, it’s fine.

It’s impossible to give precise directions on navigating Zafar Mahal: it is by far the most eccentric building I have ever seen. It’s a maze of different levels, small dingy cells, high crumbling staircases, and strange nooks and crannies which appear to have no earthly use. Partly, it’s because Zafar Mahal consists of bits and pieces built up over a long time. For example, towards the front of the courtyard is a structure of heavy grey Delhi quartzite, roughly hewn and with square-sided columns and a plastered dome. This is probably a 15th century structure made during the reign of the Lodhi dynasty, but no-one’s quite sure who made it, or why.

Beside this building is a broad staircase which leads up to the top of the gateway. We go up, and here’s another interesting discovery. A pretty arched balcony with fluted Shahjahani columns fronts the gate, offering a view of the neighbourhood beyond and below. The columns at the front—the ones between which the Emperor would ceremonially have stood every morning to show himself to his subjects—are good white marble; the columns at the back, which wouldn’t have been visible to the general populace, are sandstone, covered with lime plaster and polished to resemble marble. Rather sad, really.

Back down the staircase, we make our way across to the chambers on the left. These contain traces of the colonial architecture that had started becoming popular in the latter half of the 19th century. Bahadur Shah’s sons had begun experimenting with Western concepts, and some of these can be seen here: there is, for example, a fireplace high up in one wall (this was originally a two-storied chamber, but the floor of the first storey has since collapsed). There’s a chimney above it, and on the other side, a panel of painted plaster which looks more Italianate than Mughal. The broad, low-stepped staircase we’d descended is also definitely colonial: in traditional Mughal (and even pre-Mughal) buildings in Delhi, staircases were very narrow and steep affairs built within walls.

Beyond this is a small and distinctive three-domed mosque made of white marble. Known as the Moti Masjid (the `pearl mosque’), this sits in its own little enclosure, separated from the rest of the palace. It was built by the Emperor Bahadur Shah in the early 18th century and though it’s made completely of marble, it’s very austere: there is almost no decoration to speak of. Even the mihrab that marks west—the direction of prayer—is, uncharacteristically, unadorned. On the south, a little border of floral carving marks the top edge of a dado, but that’s about it.

Above this dado and outside the mosque is a roofless enclosure screened off on all sides by carved panels of white marble. There’s one opening, though, and we step in to see four cenotaphs. One, tucked away in a corner by itself, is relatively plain and is the cenotaph of Bahadur Shah’s son, Mirza Fakhroo, who died in 1852. The others are all cenotaphs of the later Mughal emperors. There’s a marble-rimmed grave covered with earth, the cenotaph having disappeared; this is the grave of Bahadur Shah I. Beyond that is an empty plot of earth, and then two very ornately carved cenotaphs, one of white marble and the other of black marble. These are, respectively, the cenotaphs of Shah Alam II and Akbar II. The empty plot of earth is believed to have been earmarked by Bahadur Shah II as his burial spot, but is unlikely, since the earlier emperors died long before him and could hardly have generously decided that they’d leave a spot vacant for their descendant.

Zafar Mahal is right next to the western gateway to the dargah of Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki. There’s no entry fee—in fact, Zafar Mahal is more or less a free-for-all. On the day we visited, there were groups of men sitting around and playing cards; there were boys playing cricket, and some hangers-on who seemed to have nothing better to do than just laze around in the courtyard. If you want the place to yourself, try to go a little early: around 8.30 A.M should be a good time to beat the crowd.

The Hauz Shamsi has an interesting story behind it. The tale goes that the 13th century Sultan Iltutmish dreamt that the Prophet Mohammad appeared and instructed Iltutmish to dig up the earth and create a lake. The prophet’s horse struck the earth with its hoof, indicating where Iltutmish should dig. The next morning, Iltutmish went out and, sure enough, he found the spot—here in Mehrauli, where on a slab of stone, the horse’s hoof print was to be seen. Iltutmish ordered the creation of the lake, which was named after him (his first name being Shamsuddin). The Hauz Shamsi is believed to have originally covered an area of 100 acres, but has since shrunk substantially. Near the far bank you can see a domed pavilion which contains the slab supposedly marked by the horse (a girl in our group said she’d seen the slab, but hadn’t noticed anything even vaguely like a hoof print on it).

Even though it doesn’t have as interesting a story as the Hauz Shamsi, the Jahaz Mahal is equally (in my opinion, even more) worth seeing. It’s a rectangular building of rubble, dressed in places with grey quartzite, red sandstone and even traces of white marble. It’s a simple building, but with some pleasing decorative elements: stand in the central courtyard, for example, and you’ll see pretty arches, niches and recessed stonework in the wall opposite. Domed pavilions known as chhatris stand atop the roof, each of them sparingly carved. These would probably once have looked beautiful, trimmed with brilliant blue tiles, the colour derived from lapis lazuli. You can still see some tiles here and there.

The history of the Jahaz Mahal is a little murky. It’s obviously a 15th century building, but who built it or why is unknown. Some say it was a sarai, others that it was built as for a saint by a wealthy merchant. If you look closely, however, this just might have been a mosque. The large central courtyard, the large and decorative arch marking the west—all signs of a mosque. Whatever it was, the Jahaz Mahal is worth a visit, not just because it’s beautiful, but also because it’s usually empty—you won’t find yourself jostled by crowds here. There’s no entry fee and no locked gate: visit whenever you wish. If you can, do ascend the staircase near the main entrance: the carving on the chhatris merits a closer look, and the view of the Hauz Shamsi is great too. Be warned, though: the stairs are steep, dark and broken in places, and the stairwell itself is quite narrow.

The Jharna has been around a long time; originally, it was a waterfall. The water would flow as a stream all the way from the Hauz Shamsi beyond the Jahaz Mahal; it would then fall down the slope in a sheet of water, forming a waterfall that must’ve looked quite picturesque.

As was popular in Mughal gardens, a pavilion—known as a baradari—was built across the waterfall, at its base. This building was constructed by an early 18th century Mughal nobleman called Ghaziuddin Khan (better known for his beautiful tomb and madarsa opposite Ajmeri Gate). Ghaziuddin is credited with having laid out the entire garden housing the Jharna, in about 1700 AD.

In front of Ghaziuddin Khan’s baradari is a square sunken tank which would have filled with water from the waterfall, the water then flowing onwards through a channel. At the other end of the channel, facing Ghaziuddin’s baradari and separated from it by a distance of about 15 metres, is another baradari, a smaller, more open version with fluted columns forming three cusped arches on each side (which, as you can see, comes to a total of twelve arches—the prefix `bara’ in baradari means `twelve’ and alludes to this feature of a traditional baradari). This smaller baradari was built almost 150 years after Ghaziuddin’s baradari, and was one of the few buildings commissioned by the impoverished Bahadur Shah II, the last of the Mughal emperors.

On the north boundary of the garden is another pavilion, a baradari made by the Mughal Emperor Akbar II, who reigned during the early 19th century. Like the two other baradaris, this one has been recently painted over: it’s been whitewashed, but that doesn’t disguise the fact that the ceiling’s collapsing in places and the plaster’s coming off, revealing the bricks below. The two other baradaris are both painted a bright brick red (an awful way of `restoring’ what was beautiful red sandstone work). The tank, to match it all, has been painted a bright blue.

The Jharna is, despite all the ugly renovation, still a fairly quiet place. The only visitors around are the local children, who play here and are very happy—even enthusiastic—about posing for photographs. Pretend the waterfall’s actually there; that the brook’s flowing and the baradaris have been stripped of their ugly paint. You might find it charming, as we did.

No entry fees, by the way.