Alighting from the bus into the afternoon
sun, half-asleep and dazed, I felt unprepared for the beauty of the Ashtur
tombs. The first tomb we entered was a kaleidoscope of maroon and deep blue,
complex geometric patterns and calligraphy stretching upwards as far as we
could see into the dark dome above. An old man crouched near the first step at
the entrance, directing the sun’s rays onto the interior of the dome by way of
a mirror, allowing us to admire what would otherwise be hidden. My one
disappointment was that women were not allowed to step inside and could only
appreciate the art from a distance.
The tombs are imposing
structures, stolidly standing their ground since their construction centuries
ago, their only companions the tall neem trees which offer welcome shade. It is
under one of these that there lies a grave with no body to inhabit it – a
curious story of a nobleman who had his grave built during his lifetime, but
passed away too far from home to have his body brought back and buried in the
spot he had selected.
Some of the tombs
lie in ruins; the dome of one has caved in, the remaining portion rising into
the sky like the jagged edges of a rock, the yellow ochre striking against the
blue. The other place that piqued my interest was the tomb of
Makhdumah-i-Jahan, the wife of the sultan Humayun Bahmani, and mother to the
sultans Nizam Shah and Muhammad Shah. Having read about her, and attempted to
put myself in her shoes to write a diary, it felt strangely dreamlike to be
standing outside her tomb, to walk where she once walked over five hundred
years ago in Bidar Fort.
Leaving
the Ashtur tombs, I got the sense that if someone was to visit the place
decades and centuries later, it would be the same – a little worse for wear,
but still with an atmosphere unique to it, one of history standing still in a
place removed from traffic and crowds, carefully preserving the lives and art
of those who existed in an era long before our own.
- Antara (Article)
Keith (Picture)
