Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts

Wednesday, 29 April 2026

Xuanzang's Silk Road journey

Re-reading Sally Hovey Wriggin's The Silk Road Journey with Xuanzang after coming back from Nepal and India last November felt a bit different for me. It just wasn't history anymore. Some of the places mentioned in the book had already been treaded by my feet.

The journey of Xuanzang is usually told as something vast and almost unreal. Sixteen years of deserts, mountains, bandits, kings and monasteries. But when I’ve been to places like Lumbini or walked through the ruins of Nalanda University, the story shrinks a little not in importance, but in distance. I start to see that this wasn’t some abstract pilgrimage. It happened on real ground, the same ground that I’ve just been on.

Wriggins made a good job of making that connection. She took Xuanzang’s old records and lined them up with the modern map, so I could follow him step by step. And when he moved through Kapilavastu into Lumbini, it suddenly felt familiar. When I was there, the place had this quiet serenity about it. Xuanzang saw something similar, though in his time many monasteries were already in decline, half-abandoned and fading. 

From Lumbini, he went on to the other key sites, places that now formed the standard Buddhist circuit. Sarnath, Nalanda and eventually Bodh Gaya. When I visited Nalanda, what struck me was the scale of the ruins. I had walked along those long brick foundations and tried to imagine thousands of monks living and studying there. Xuanzang didn’t have to imagine it. He saw it at its peak, with thousands of scholars in residence, studying everything from logic to language to philosophy. 

What I also realised after my trip, was how observant he was. He wasn’t just ticking off holy sites. He was noticing details, how many monasteries were active, how many were abandoned, what people believed, how they lived. Even his route through what is now southern Nepal, into northern India, matched quite closely with what we now called the Buddhist pilgrimage trail. He wasn’t following a travel guidebook. In a way, he was writing the first one.

And then there’s Nalanda again, which kept coming back as the centre theme of his story. Not just a stop, but a place where he stayed, studied, argued and learned. We can stand there today among the ruins and still get a faint sense of that intellectual energy. It’s not hard to imagine why he remained there for years, working and going deep into the texts he had come all that way to find.

What I found myself thinking, re-reading Wriggins after the trip, was how much of Xuanzang’s journey was about persistence. The distances were one thing but even at the key sites, he was often arriving at places already in decline, trying to piece together what remained. It was not so different from what we saw today. The stones are still there, the outlines are still there, but I have to do a bit of work to imagine the rest.

By the time he made it back to China with his load of texts, the journey had already done its real work. Not just collecting manuscripts, but connecting places, ideas, traditions. Reading about it after having been to some of those places myself, it no longer felt like a distant legend. Everything felt real and almost within reach.

And that, I think, is what Wriggins got right. She brought Xuanzang down from the pedestal a bit, not to diminish him, but to place him back on the road. The same road that still runs through Lumbini, Nalanda, Bodh Gaya and the rest.

To read about my experience on the Buddhist trail last year, click here.



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Friday, 13 March 2026

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye

Dateline: 6 December 2025. Waking refreshed the next morning, we checked out of Hotel Africa Avenue after breakfast and began what would be our final full day in Delhi. The original programme indicated a visit to Lutyens’ Delhi, that grand imperial layout conceived in the early 20th century. However, the roads were closed due to visiting foreign dignitaries. Our coach could only crawl through the roads, offering us a moving glimpse rather than the intended walk.

Still, we saw the imposing sweep of the India Gate. Beneath its 42-metre-high arch now stands a 28-foot granite statue of Subhas Chandra Bose, installed in 2022 in the canopy that once housed a statue of King George V. Designed by Edwin Lutyens and completed in 1931, the India Gate commemorates more than 70,000 soldiers of the British Indian Army killed in the First World War and the Third Anglo-Afghan War. Its resemblance to the Arc de Triomphe is unmistakable.

Yet it was Bose who held my attention. A pivotal figure in the independence movement, he led the Indian National Army (INA) against British rule during the Second World War. The name was not unfamiliar to me. I have written about him before, particularly the INA’s activities in Malaya. I told our surprised guide how the INA had used my alma mater, the Penang Free School, as a training ground during the Japanese Occupation. He seemed taken aback that someone from our group could recount such details about one of India’s national heroes.

From imperial grandeur, we proceeded to Gandhi Smriti, formerly Birla House. It was here that Mahatma Gandhi spent the final 144 days of his life, and where he was assassinated on 30 January 1948. The museum preserves the atmosphere of those last days.

Born in 1869 in Gujarat, Gandhi studied law in London before forging his political conscience in South Africa, where he spent 21 years advocating for Indian civil rights after being thrown off a train for refusing to leave a “whites-only” compartment. Returning to India in 1915, he transformed the Indian National Congress into a mass movement. His philosophy of Satyagraha or non-violent resistance reshaped the struggle for independence and inspired global leaders such as Martin Luther King Jr and Nelson Mandela.

At Gandhi Smriti, a simple concrete path marked with footprints traced his final walk to the prayer ground. A modest pavilion marked the exact spot where he fell. Inside his preserved living quarters, we saw the sparse belongings that defined his life: spectacles, a walking stick, a spinning wheel, low writing desk. Outside, pillars inscribed with his teachings stand among traditional symbols such as “Om” and the ancient swastika in its original Indian context of auspiciousness.

In the afternoon we visited the National Museum. With approximately 200,000 artefacts spanning over 5,000 years, it was less a museum than a condensed archive of Indian civilisation. Walking through its galleries felt like compressing millennia into a single afternoon.

The Indus Valley Civilisation section alone contained more than 3,500 objects excavated from sites such as Harappa and Mohenjo-daro. There were sculptures from the Maurya, Shunga, Kushan and Gupta periods, coins and armour, textiles and jewellery, miniature paintings and manuscripts. Each gallery offered a different chapter in India’s long history.

But it was the section devoted to the Buddha that drew us all in the end. The most fitting end to our Indian journey. Here were sacred relics of the Buddha excavated from sites such as Piprahwa in Uttar Pradesh. These relics, believed by many scholars to be among the corporeal remains distributed after the Buddha’s cremation in the 5th century BC, were displayed in a specially designed chamber meant to evoke the serenity of a stupa. 

A notice on the wall invited visitors to pay homage to the relics: 

"Around 463 BCE at Kushinagar, Lord Buddha passed away or achieved Mahaparinirvana at the age of eighty. The residents of Kushinagara cremated his body with ceremonies befitting a Universal King (chakravartin). Buddha's relics were divided into eight portions and distributed among eight kingdoms. The sacred relics were commemorated into eight different stupas. 

The relics housed in this hall are excavated from Piprahwa in the Siddharth Nagar District of Uttar Pradesh, an erstwhile part of the ancient city of Kapilavastu. The discovery of one inscribed casket in 1898 by W.C Peppe refers to the relics of the Buddha and his clan, 'Sakya'. Further excavations conducted by the Archaeological Survey of India in 1971-1977 discovered two more un-inscribed steatite caskets containing twelve sacred relics in the bigger casket and ten sacred relics in the smaller casket. 

National Museum, New Delhi humbly invites the devotees and museum visitors for paying homage to the sacred relics of Gautama Buddha."

Here, the atmosphere was understandably hushed. Visitors instinctively lower their voices. One does not merely look; one contemplates. Our Chief Abbott signalled everyone for a session of meditation. Even visitors from outside our group joined in. Later, there were other Buddhist groups that arrived to perform their own sessions.

There were exquisite sculptures representing different artistic traditions: the serene sandstone Buddhas of the Gupta period, often regarded as the classical ideal of Indian Buddhist art; the Gandhara sculptures influenced by Hellenistic forms, where the Buddha’s robe fell in Greco-Roman folds; and Mathura figures carved in the red sandstone of India. Each style reflected how Buddhism travelled, adapted and absorbed regional influences.

The museum also displayed fragments of ancient stupas, votive tablets and inscriptions in various scripts. Together they charted not only Buddhism’s spread but also the evolution of artistic language across centuries. For us who had earlier stood beneath the Qutb Minar contemplating the rise of medieval powers, it was humbling to be reminded of an even older spiritual current that had once radiated from this land across Asia.

By late afternoon, the collective weight of the centuries seemed to have settled gently upon us. Once again, there was that familiar sensation of information and visual overload. Delhi had offered us monuments of empire, places of martyrdom and relics of enlightenment. All in a single day.

Within hours, we would truly be on our way home. As I reflected on our 16-day journey from Kathmandu to Delhi, what I had initially thought would be a long trip but which now felt unexpectedly too brief, I realised how much there was still to absorb. Not merely the sights, but the stories behind them, which I hope I have been able to do justice to here in my blog. Perhaps that is what travel ultimately offers: not simply movement across geography but a quiet passage across time.

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Saturday, 7 March 2026

Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

Dateline: 4 December 2025. We had one full day in Jaipur, and we began our activities at Amber Fort. It rose from the Aravalli hills in a way that required us to take a second look. Perched above Maota Lake, its walls followed the ridgelines in sweeping curves. This was once the capital of the Kachwaha Rajputs, and much of what we saw dated back to the reign of Maharaja Man Singh I in the late 16th century, with later rulers adding their own layers to the structure. So what stood before us was not the vision of a single ruler but an accumulation of several over time. The coach parked a distance away and we continued our journey by local transport, one that could negotiate tight and narrow corners easily.

We passed through the great gates into Jaleb Chowk, the first courtyard, where returning armies once displayed their victory spoils. Today tourists have replaced soldiers and cameras, swords. Beyond it was the Diwan-e-Aam or Hall of Public Audience, that stretched across a forest of columns capped with elephant-shaped brackets.  

From there we moved through Ganesh Pol, the gateway to the private quarters. The frescoes and mosaics were delicate after the stern exterior walls. Beyond was the Sheesh Mahal or Mirror Palace, with its ceilings and walls set with thousands of tiny convex mirrors. The guide repeated the familiar tale of how a single candle could set the entire chamber aglow. Whether or not the claim was tested, it was easy to imagine the effect.

What struck me as much as the ornamentation was the engineering. Water from the lake below was drawn up through a system of wheels and channels to feed fountains and gardens within the fort. 

Standing along the ramparts, looking across the valley, I could take in the horizon. It was a commanding view; the Maharaja could see danger before it arrived and if flight was necessary, a subterranean passage was there to enable escape. Yet inside those defensive walls were gardens, courtyards and mirrored chambers. This was a self-contained world that balanced vigilance with splendour.

We then descended into the city and made our way to the City Palace. If Amber Fort felt martial and elevated, the City Palace felt grounded and administrative. Built in 1727 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II when he shifted his capital from the hills to the plains, it occupied the heart of the old city.

Mubarak Mahal, once a reception hall for visiting dignitaries, is now a museum displaying royal textiles and pashminas. Among them, an ancient Indian chess set caught my attention. In the Diwan-e-Khas or Hall of Private Audience stood the Gangajalis, two enormous silver urns said to be the largest silver vessels in the world. They once carried Ganges water to England for an eccentric maharaja unwilling to drink foreign water. 

A short distance away was the Hawa Mahal. Though within walking distance, the e-scooter took a somewhat roundabout way to reach it. Its five-storey facade, built in 1799, resembled a honeycomb of 953 small latticed windows. From behind these jharokhas, royal ladies watched processions without themselves being seen. The latticework also channeled air through the structure and offered respite from the heat.

Along the main road below ran the bazaars, the true pulse of the city. Where one ended and another began was hard for us to tell. Shops spilled into one another, selling items like jewellery, enamel work, textiles and leather products. The storefronts shared that distinctive Jaipur pink. Vehicular traffic pressed forward without pause. Scooters wove through pedestrians who in turn darted in and out of the shops in search of bargain. Dynamic balance between sacredness at Amber Fort, sovereignty at City Palace and commerce here in Hawa Mahal.

Our final stop was Birla Mandir at the foot of Moti Dungri Hill. After the histories of Amber Fort and City Palace, this white marble temple which opened in 1988 by the Birla Foundation felt almost too pristine. Its walls bore carvings not only of Hindu deities but also of figures such as Socrates, Buddha, Jesus and even Martin Luther King Jr. The main sanctum, however, was devoted to Vishnu and Lakshmi in finely carved marble. For unknown reasons, guards prevented visitors from taking photographs of the temple's interior. Futile effort, actually, because one could still take a picture of the deities with a long zoom lens from the outside.

The place was undeniably clean and orderly. Yet I did not find it impressive. Maybe I was simply too tired after a whole day of exploration. An overload of senses, of history, of culture. Perhaps it was also unfair to weigh a 20th-century temple against 17th- and 18th-century monuments. Still, Birla Mandir felt curated and unnatural, almost like a carefully assembled statement rather than something shaped gradually by time and trial.

All too soon the day drew to a close and we returned to our hotel, thankful for the rest. I sank into bed, switching off the lights and the noise of the day. The next morning we would leave for Delhi. After 14 days on the road, our journey was nearing its end.

Next:
Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi








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Monday, 2 March 2026

Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Dateline: 3 December 2025. What did we do in Agra? The more honest question is: what does every visitor to Agra ever do? It is not that the city lacks other monuments or history. There are tombs, forts and reminders of empire scattered across its landscape. Yet for most visitors, there is really only one destination that matters. The Taj Mahal. The oft-repeated love story of Shah Jahan and his Mumtaz Mahal has eclipsed almost everything else.

On the way there, our coach rolled past the Agra Fort. Its red sandstone ramparts stretched long and unyielding in the morning light, solid and self-assured. I was aware that Shah Jahan had spent his final years imprisoned here. He had been locked up by his own son, Aurangzeb. From somewhere inside, he must have gazed across the Yamuna river towards the white marble tomb of Mumtaz. We did not stop. The schedule did not allow it. The fort slipped by our windows.

Security at the Taj Mahal was tight. Bags scanned, pockets checked. It felt almost airport-like. There was something slightly ironic about submitting to metal detectors before entering a monument built as a declaration of love, but perhaps that is simply the reality of the modern world. When a structure becomes a global symbol, protection becomes part of its story.

As we stepped through the main gateway, the Taj Mahal revealed itself gradually, framed by the great arch before opening fully into view. I had seen countless photographs over the years, yet the actual sight of it standing at the end of the long reflecting pool felt different. The dome rose with assurance. The four minarets stood at the corners.

It was magnificent. That word is often overused, but here it feels earned. If any monument deserves a place on one’s bucket list, this would be it. 

Built between 1631 and 1653, the Taj Mahal was commissioned by Shah Jahan in memory of his wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died during childbirth in 1631. It was widely regarded as the finest example of Mughal architecture: a harmonious blend of Persian symmetry, Islamic calligraphy and Indian craftsmanship. Recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983, it stands not only as a mausoleum, but as a statement of aesthetic ambition.

The sky that day, however, was a hazy pale blue. Not dramatic nor postcard-perfect. A thin veil of pollution softened the edges of the marble. I could not help imagining what it must have looked like in the 17th century, under a clear, untainted sky. That white dome would have been set against a deep blue expanse. No industrial haze. No modern residue hanging in the air.

As we approached, the details became more apparent. The pietra dura inlay work of semi-precious stones shaped into intricate floral motifs revealed a level of craftsmanship that photographs cannot fully convey. From a distance, the structure appeared simple. Up close, it was anything but.

There are familiar legends surrounding the Taj. The story that Shah Jahan ordered the artisans killed or their hands severed to prevent replication. Historians agree this is a myth, unsupported by credible evidence. Another tale speaks of a planned Black Taj across the Yamuna as Shah Jahan’s own tomb. Again, no solid archaeological proof. These stories persist perhaps because the monument itself feels larger than ordinary history. It invites embellishment.

Inside the mausoleum, the cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan were beneath the great dome, while their actual graves were in a lower chamber. The interior was dim, the air cooler. Voices echoed softly and guards gently kept visitors moving. No photography was allowed inside. 

I tried to imagine a moonless night in Shah Jahan’s time. No electric glare. No sodium lamps staining the horizon. The Milky Way stretching clearly overhead, the constellations easily identifiable. In such darkness, the Taj would stand in silhouette, its dome interrupting a sky dense with stars. Humanity beneath an immense universe. 

Eventually, we turned away and made our way back through the gates, rejoining the present with its crowds and security checks. The Taj Mahal remained behind us. From Agra, our next destination was Jaipur, some 240 kilometres away. Another long ride of nearly five hours lay ahead. By the time we arrived, night had already settled. We checked into the Radisson City Centre Jaipur, our home for the next two nights, the image of white marble beneath a hazy sky still in our mind.
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Thursday, 26 February 2026

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats

Dateline: 1 and 2 December 2025. History was never my favourite subject in school. Dates and dynasties went in one ear and out the other. I could barely remember who conquered whom. Yet one name stayed with me for reasons I cannot explain: Benares. Our teacher spoke of it in slightly hushed tones, as if it were older than everything else we were studying. Only much later did I realise that Benares was Varanasi, also called Kashi, the City of Light. Same place, different names.

With the pilgrimage sites now behind us, we found ourselves easing into a more touristy rhythm. After Sarnath, we returned to Varanasi in the evening to witness the Ganga Aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat. That is the full name: Ganga Aarti, the offering of light to Mother Ganga. It is performed nightly, a carefully choreographed ceremony of fire, bells and chanting. According to legend, Lord Brahma performed a ten-horse sacrifice there, hence the name Dashashwamedh. Myth and history intertwine freely in this city and no one seems particularly bothered about separating them.

We took electric rickshaws part of the way. The scooters buzzed through centuries-old narrow lanes, their small headlights barely pushing back the darkness. It felt slightly clandestine, as if we were peering into the private lives of residents in the older veins of the city. Shops were still open. We caught quick, unguarded glimpses of nightly routines.

But once we reached the area near PDR Mall along Godowliya–Luxa Road, where we dismounted and continued on foot, the scene changed abruptly. The roads there were wider and far more crowded. Locals in colourful attire, tourists in more subdued tones, street pedlars, beggars, scooters, even a wandering cow or two, all negotiating the same cramped space. It was a considerable walk to the river, close to a kilometre, and the human traffic only grew thicker as we moved forward.

Then, just as suddenly, the lighting fell away as we neared the ghat. The final stretch was uneven and poorly lit. We had to pick our way gingerly over broken stones and irregular steps, sidestepping puddles and the occasional cow dung. I became acutely aware of where I placed my feet. Fortunately, I had the good sense to bring a torch from home. Its narrow beam proved invaluable. It is curious what one remembers of a sacred city: not only bells and flames, but the small practical business of not falling flat on one’s face.

Eventually we were led up to the top floor of a building overlooking the ghat. From there we had a clear view of the priests standing on raised platforms, swinging massive brass lamps in slow arcs. Flames circled against the dark sky. The chanting rolled across the river, amplified by loudspeakers. It was theatrical and ceremonial, but not hollow. The rhythm of it felt practised and old.

In the far distance, beyond the bright lights of Dashashwamedh, we could make out small, steadier fires. Those would have been Manikarnika Ghat, the cremation grounds. In Varanasi, life and death share the same riverbank without fuss. Funeral pyres are said to have burned there for centuries. We did not stay until the very end of the aarti; the crowds were swelling and we slipped away before the rush began.

Varanasi has a way of compressing time. Archaeological evidence suggests settlements there as early as the first millennium BC. By the sixth century BC it was already the capital of the Kingdom of Kashi. The Buddha walked nearby in Sarnath. Centuries later, invaders came and went. Temples were destroyed, rebuilt, replaced. Yet the city endured. Mark Twain once wrote that Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend. Standing on that balcony, watching fire offered to a river that has flowed through all of it, I began to see what he meant.

The next morning we were at the ghats again, from 6am for a one-and-a-half-hour river cruise from Rani Ghat. If the night before had been spectacle, the morning was unfiltered reality. The light was still soft, the air cool but slightly choking, the city only just stirring. Boats nudged against one another as pilgrims descended the stone steps to the Ganges.

The river had crept up during the night, leaving behind a thin film of mud and dampness. We found ourselves almost absurdly anxious about getting our sandals and shoes dirtied before the day had properly begun. Each step had to be judged lest we started the morning with wet, muddy feet. We moved carefully, trying to preserve both balance and footwear.

From the boat, the ghats revealed themselves one by one. There are said to be about 84 stretching along several kilometres of riverbank, forming a kind of stone amphitheatre rebuilt largely in the eighteenth century. Above them rose temples and old palaces, their facades weathered by sun and monsoon.

At some steps, men in loincloths soaped themselves briskly. Women in bright saris dipped into the water, emerging with wet hair plastered to their backs. Priests conducted small rituals for families seated cross-legged on the platforms. Further along, smoke drifted upwards from the cremation ghats. The remains of funeral pyres smouldered quietly. Wood was stacked high, weighed and sold. Death here was not hidden behind hospital curtains. It was part of the same river traffic as bathing, prayer and laundry.

And the air was dirty. Not hazy, but simply dirty. A mix of smoke, exhaust fumes, damp river mud and perhaps something industrial that clung to the nostrils. Pollution. There is no other word for it. Whatever sanctity the Ganges carries in scripture, the lungs experience something far more earthly.

It is easy to call Varanasi chaotic. It is crowded, noisy and not particularly clean. Yet there is an order beneath the apparent disorder. Somewhere beyond the riverfront lies Banaras Hindu University, one of Asia’s largest residential universities. The city is famed for its silk weaving and for the Benares gharana of classical music. Sacredness and commerce, scholarship and smoke, all coexist without apology. 

By 7.30am, our time at the Varanasi ghats was drawing to a close. We retreated to our hotel, visiting a silk merchant along the way. In the afternoon, we made our way to the railway station to catch the seven-hour Vande Bharat Express to Agra. 

It is often described as the pride of Indian Railways, a modern semi high-speed electric train and among the fastest in regular service. Inside, the train was comfortable enough, clean and efficient. We were served some snacks and some time later, a full meal. Outside the window, we watched the plains rolled by in fading light.

Agra station, when we arrived, was unsurprisingly dark, grimy and smelt of burnt ash. Exiting, we picked our way carefully through the dirt on the ground towards the waiting coach. It was a different coach from the one that had carried us from Shravasti, though only a temporary arrangement. While we were on the train and later asleep at the hotel, our original coach was being driven from Varanasi with our bags. It would rejoin us the next morning in Agra.

Photobombed by the lady in the background
We could not help but worry about the resilience and stamina of the drivers. After covering such a long distance overnight, would they still be fresh enough to continue the journey for the remaining few days?

By the time we reached the Holiday Inn Agra, it was close to midnight. We had left the City of Light behind and were now heading towards another monument, raised by another empire in another age.

History, which once bored me in a classroom, had followed us all the way from Benares to Varanasi and now onwards to Agra. Only this time, the information did not slip quietly out of the other ear. It clung to the smell of pollution, to the mud on the steps of the Ganges and to the sound of bells ringing into the night.

Next:
Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur
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