Authority in the Indian Tradition — And the Architecture of the Red Fort

Authority in the Indian Tradition —  And the Architecture of the Red Fort

Text of the Talk delivered on 16 April 2025 to the History Department, Lady Sri Ram College, Delhi, at their Annual Academic Fest

To understand the connections between the manifestation of authority and the architecture of the Red Fort, it is important to first clarify the meanings of authority. I would like to spend some time to do that.

The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that authority is: ‘the power or right to give orders, make decisions, and enforce obedience;' or ‘a person or organization having political or administrative power and control.’ 

Therefore, within the ambit of that definition, our exploration would be: how does architecture articulate ‘the power or right to give orders, make decisions, and enforce obedience;' or symbolise ‘a person or organization having political or administrative power and control’? 

However, there is a difference between this current standard notion of authority and the characteristic attributes and conventions of authority in the Indian tradition. Attributes of authority depend on what is seen as the purpose of authority. I contend that in the Indian tradition, the purpose of authority is not merely the enforcement of law, order, obedience or control of power; the purpose of authority is also to promote growth and happiness — and in what may seem irreconcilable with obedience and order, to foster freedom as well. 

In The Arthashastra, ascribed by many scholars to be a work of great antiquity, Kautilya enumerating the ‘Duties of a King’, is clear that;

In the happiness of his subjects lies his happiness; in their welfare his welfare. He shall not consider as good only that which pleases him but treat as beneficial to him whatever pleases his subjects. {1.1 9.34}

This is the first point: that authority is not just about rights, but also responsibilities. The second point I would like to stress is that one of the key ways in which this happens is through the practice, as much as the patronage, of architecture. Since architecture is the setting for all life-processes, it is through architecture that those in authority can exercise control, for the better or worse, over the lives of those under them.

Architecture has of course been called ‘the mother of all the arts’ in many traditions and through many ages. In modern times, the celebrated American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright is famously attributed to have said: “The mother art is architecture. Without an architecture of our own we have no soul of our own civilization.” 

In the Indian tradition, we also see that architecture is part of a larger pervasive term, Shilpa, which constitutes the creative process together with the product. Systems of knowledge are actually and symbolically part of the same family-circle. Thus, the Vedas credit the knower of crafts as vijnanika or scientist, with theoretical, technical and creative ability; and A K Coomaraswamy notes that all the main guilds of Indian craftsmen claim to be descended from the five sons of Visvakarma, the divine architect.

This is something I have dealt with in detail in my writings. Here I will just say that architecture is not only a manifestation of construction, detailing and decoration (what are today termed as the decorative and the industrial arts) but also the stage, setting and container for all the performative arts that animate life processes: including music, dance, literature, poetry and so on. When I use the term ‘architecture in the Indian tradition’, I use it to mean all the various and manifold arts that it encompassed.

Given this background, we need to appreciate that the role of authority in the Indian tradition as manifested in architecture, is not just about commissioning architecture as lasting symbols of power, but also about being adept at, and connoisseurs of, the tenets, aesthetics and objectives of the different arts that are contained in architecture, or take place in it.

Let me expand on the link between all the arts by quoting from the Foreword by Dr Sudhir Lall, in my book on Attributing Design Identity, Identifying Design Attributes. Dr Lall reproduces a dialogue ‘between the king Vajra and sage Markandaya in the Vishnudharmottara Purana’ where ‘The king Vajra wishes to build a temple with icons that may always manifest the dieties’. On asking the sage how he may do so, he is informed that ‘one who is not familiar with the principles of painting can never know the art of making icons’. Very well, says the king: please teach me the canon of painting. The answer he gets is that this cannot be done without learning the art of dance, for in both ‘the world is represented’. 

The king is willing to learn dance too, but that is also not possible — he must first know the principles of instrumental music. Please instruct me about instrumental music then, asks the king. No, says the sage. Familiarity with instrumental music is not possible without knowledge of vocal music. If that is so, please explain vocal music to me, requests the king. Vocal music, says the sage, has to be understood ‘as subject to training in recitation that may be done in two ways: prose and verse’. Finally then, the king begins training in recitation as a necessary prelude to building the temple with its icons.

This dialogue does not just ‘highlight the interrelatedness of Indian arts’ — in Dr Lall’s words. It also shows that it is not strange or incongruous for kings or those in authority to be trained in the arts. To cite a few historical examples: Maharaja Bhoja in the 11th century CE, who ruled over the Malwa region, is ascribed to have authored the Samarangana Sutradhara, an encyclopaedic work covering town-planning, military engineering, architecture, painting, iconography, dance postures, etc. In the 13th century CE, JayaSenapati, the chief of the elephant-forces of the Kakatiyas, authors Nrtta Ratnavali, a well-known treatise on dance. Many of the Mughal emperors too — including those who were famous for their military and administrative prowess, such as Shah Jahan  — displayed a skill and a temperament for the arts, especially architecture.

Despite this, an active interest in the arts is seen by many other traditions as effeminate, and contrary to the attributes that those in authority should display. This is a dialogue from the film Shatranj ke Khilari between General Outram, the chief representative of the British East India Company posted at Luckhnow and one of his officers. In revealing how Nawab Wajid Ali’s fondness for poetry and his piety, are seen to be utterly contemptible and unworthy pursuits, we see what the British hold to be the purpose and desirable characteristics of authority. 

In the Indian tradition, such accomplishments are not deemed unworthy of a ruler. Thus, Kautilya in listing the qualities of an ideal king, apart from those of leadership, intellect and energy includes that of personal attributes, and specifically states that: ‘He should be well-trained in all the arts.’ This of course, does not mean that he advocates that all training and time is devoted to the arts. It is a balance between the twin objectives of ‘enforcement of law, order, obedience or controlling power’ and ‘promoting happiness and freedom’, which is advised. And it is this balance that is manifested in multiple ways when we study the architecture of the Red Fort at Delhi. I will explain this by briefly presenting to you aspects of its planning, layout, and detail — as well as by revealing aspects of the persona of its patron, the Emperor Shah Jahan. 

In the words of W E Begley and Z A Desai, in the foreword to their edited English translation of The Shah Jahan Nama of Inayat Khan: ‘For more than thirty years, from 1628 to 1658, Shah Jahan held absolute sway over a vast Indian empire stretching from Assam to Afghanistan and comprising a total area almost half the size of Europe’.  Even before he took over as emperor, Shah Jahan, from the days of his youth, evinced a strong interest in commissioning architecture and participated closely in experimenting with different versions and scales of architecture.

The Red Fort, constructed in the second decade of his reign, at a time when Shah Jahan had consolidated the Mughal empire and was looking to further expand it, was intended by him to be an enduring symbol reflecting the peak of his political authority. It was also the culmination of his previous experiments in architecture. Arguably the richest ruler of his time, among Shah Jahan’s main motivations in establishing his new Fort and city, were the demonstration of his political power, and the resources he could command, as well as the opportunity to give full reign to his own refined aesthetics — through the medium of the superlative artists in his empire who could realise his dream through their craft.

Thus, in The Shah Jahan Nama of Inayat Khan, the ‘Account of the Founding of the Fort’ is described in these words:

‘Several years before, the thought came to his Majesty’s omniscient mind that he should select some pleasant site on the banks of the aforesaid river, distinguished by its genial climate, where he might found a splendid fort and delightful edifices.’… In accordance with the ever-obeyed mandate, skilled artisans were summoned from all parts of the imperial dominions, wherever artificers could be found — whether plain stone-cutters, ornamental sculptors, masons or carpenters. By the mandate worthy of implicit obedience, they were all collected together, and multitudes of common labourers were employed in the work.’

(Emphasis mine)

Shah Jahan’s active interest in the conception as well as the construction of this Fort, is also revealed in his court-histories. We are told that:

‘On the 3rd of Z’il-Hijja 1057 (30 December 1647), the imperial camp overshadowed by its arrival the suburbs of Delhi…On the morrow (31 December), as there was a halt, the emperor paid a visit to all the buildings in the fort of Shahjahanabad—which had been designed in accordance with his own noble taste for architecture—and ordered additional improvements to be made wherever it seemed suitable to his august mind.

We are thus explicitly told about the Emperor’s announced intention of establishing ‘a splendid Fort and delightful edifices’, and ‘the summoning of skilled artisans from all parts of the imperial domain’ to construct it — ‘in accordance with the ever-obeyed mandate’. The meanings of authority as enforcing obedience, of having political or administrative power, are unambiguously stated — as is the purpose for which this power is exercised. Shah Jahan’s involvement in the design and construction of the Fort is recorded, and reference is made to these being in accordance to ‘his own noble taste for architecture’. It is evidently essential that to develop this taste, it is necessary to have knowledge of the various arts that come together in architecture. Such knowledge is also necessary to command the process of producing and using architecture in meaningful ways.

How does the architecture of the Fort reflect this knowledge? How does it live up to my contention about achieving a balance between ensuring order and giving freedom, that have been part of the ideals of authority in the Indian tradition? And how can we read the architecture of the Fort, given its radical transformation through the 400 years of its existence? I do so by foregrounding the evidence of what remains of its original buildings on ground, using architecture as its own primary source in reading its history — and studying this in relation to the secondary evidence of records of its original design, as well as of its form and use at different times.

Let us first examine the Fort from the level of urban design. We see that it is positioned at the eastern end of its contemporary city of Shahjahanabad, such that it forms the climax to the two main urban axes. The two main streets of Urdu Bazar leading up to the Lahori Darwaza, and Faiz Bazar leading up to the Dilli Darwaza, meet at the Fort. On the one hand, the Fort commands the banks of the Yamuna, the river-route and the fertile, productive river-basin. On the other hand, it is at the farthest end of the west and south roads that connect Shahjahanabad to strategic trade routes, entry points into the sub-continent used by invaders and traders, and other urban-centres and regions. Its location demonstrates power and privilege. Whichever route you traverse, land or water; whichever gate you enter the city from, it is the vast circuit of the towering Fort walls that rise up in front. All roads lead to the Fort, and its presence — and by extension that of the emperor who resides in it, personifying the source of political and administrative control — is a palpable physical feature of the city.

Notwithstanding this unequivocal position of power, the location of the Fort is also designed to provide several dimensions of freedom and well-being to the inhabitants of Shahjahanabad. To begin with, the fact that it is situated furthest away from all the entrance gates of the land-routes, implies that the daily traffic supporting the court-ritual and formal ceremonies of the Fort, does not interfere with the functioning of the rest of the city. The Fort dwarfs everything else, but it does not get in the way of the citizens, or restrict their movements. 

This twin role of authority in securing privilege for those in power, while simultaneously being considerate to those under their power, is a consistent theme of the Fort’s design. For instance, while it is true that the Fort visually blocks the view of the Yamuna from the formal western entry into Shahjahanabad, it is also true that almost all of the river-front is spatially accessible to the residents of Shahjahanabad — even the river-banks directly in front of the Fort, from where on occasion the Emperor enters the Red Fort. It is on these banks, every morning that people gather for the morning darshan of their emperor.

This ritual is not just a proclamation of his authority and a reiteration of his symbolic association with the sun, the source of all energy and life. It is also an opportunity for people to directly intercede with the Emperor. Contrast this with today, where it is not deemed permissible by those in authority that citizens should easily access the river; when architecture and town-planning separate people from the river as well as from the centres of power. To continue with the Fort’s design, the Emperor’s private river-gate does not just give him the advantage of a secure, direct entry, but also ensures that his comings and goings do not incommode the city. The significance of this would be realised by any one of us who have ever been held up on the roads of Delhi because of that phenomenon called VIP Movement.

When we go closer to the Fort, we see this same combination of control coexisting with freedom. The roads leading up to its main gates broaden out into grand chowks in front of the Fort. The chowks are surrounded by gardens, which are essentially orchards. The landscape around the Fort is devised to add to its grand visual effect. Francois Bernier, the French traveller who lived in Shahjahanabad about a decade after its inauguration, writes about the beautiful effect of the green plantation against its red walls. At the same time, all this is not just for visual effect; it allows ample social advantages to citizens. The chowks are spill-over open-spaces for the Fort, where the Rajas on duty mount guard at night, where the royal horses are exercised in the morning — but they are also places where at other times all manner of products and skills are displayed; where sellers and buyers, performers and spectators, gather. All the areas around the Fort: the wide chowks, the cool sandy banks, the shaded garden-orchards, the ghats, are open to the public where they can swim, bathe, offer prayers, stroll, picnic, watch performances, view the Emperor in his public balcony, etc. Directly after these areas, are the tree-lined main streets of the city, cooled by a central canal running down their lengths; and surrounded by houses, temples, baghs, mosques, shops and sarais.  

Thus, privilege does not cocoon, but creates a great degree of spatial and social coexistence and creative collaboration. The close relationship between the authority of the Emperor centred in the Fort and the lives of his people in the city, is also manifest in the design of the direct entrance into the Fort through drawbridges from the chowks in front of the Lahori and Dilli Darwazas. These have to be entered today through smaller side-gates, as those of us who have visited the Fort will know. The original visual and spatial connection between the Fort and Shahjahanabad — where the Fort’s two public gateways open out into the city, and the people of the city come right up to the gardens around its walls — is a very important part of its design. So much so, that when Aurangzeb after taking over as emperor, ordered that the straight entry into the Fort should be blocked, Shah Jahan, reportedly wrote to him from Agra Fort where he was imprisoned: ‘Dear Son, you have made the fort a Bride, and put a veil upon her face’. 

What happens within the Fort — the actual centre of power? Well, the architecture of the Fort is devised towards three main objectives: to regulate entry and activity within the Fort, form a backdrop and setting for the Emperor; and to create conditions for a certain way of life. It does this through a sequence of grand built-and open spaces that work together to create a crescendo of public movement, leading up in stages to the Diwan-i-Am, the Hall of Public Audience — with the Throne of the Emperor at its very centre. These built-and open spaces consist of gateways, pavilions and arcades set in walled forecourts and streets, all constructed in a geometrical relationship whose order and symmetry proclaim Shah Jahan’s power and presence, as the supreme authority of the Empire. 

This sequence of formal public spaces are devised like the spine of the Fort, and were probably laid out first of all, generating the sub-divisions in which other buildings were later filled in. Yet, interestingly, these same grand public spaces, while enforcing control and regulating movement, also simultaneously foster freedom for other inmates of the Fort. Multiple functions with people across the social spectrum inhabiting a fort, is part of our indigenous tradition. And in keeping with its attribute of hosting a multiplicity of city-level functions, the Red Fort is of a formidable size. James Fergusson in The History of Indian and Eastern Architecture, compares it to fort-palaces in the western tradition and notes that: ‘…the haram and private apartments of the palace’, cover ‘more than twice the area of the Escorial, or in fact, of any palace in Europe.’

The architectural organisation of the Fort allows close proximity and efficient permutations of administrative, residential, manufacturing and recreational functions — in which various social groups participate. Thus, scenes of resplendent public court-ritual are located right next to semi-public and private areas. Since they are screened from each other by arcaded walls, neither security nor comfort is compromised. The walled open-spaces create multiple domains where the area of the Emperor’s use can be very formal, ordered and symmetrical, while the rest of the Fort can develop typologies of buildings that are organic and free-flowing, As I write in my book on The Red Fort of Shahjahanabad:

 

‘Although conceptually, the emperor was lord of the entire Fort as indeed of the entire empire, the Public and Private Common domains of the Fort were almost invisible to him and the imperial family. Hence, they developed in ways not normally associated with palaces, and displayed a built structure thematically consistent with the city, even without much enforced control. The segregation of movement patterns and the consequent variety in living spaces was a reflection of the social order at that time—a combination of control and freedom. This combination was effective in balancing the disciplined ceremonial needs of public space and the freedom essential for personalising individual space.’ 

Thus, different users experienced the Red Fort in different ways. This is one of the drawings I have made to show the perception of the Fort to noblemen, one category of the different users of the Fort who range from the Emperor and his family, to soldiers and ordinary people of the city. Movement was regulated and access controlled so that, unless given access to special vantage points, areas of the Fort remained invisible to those who were not meant to use them. Many visitors and artists therefore assume that the formality and symmetry seen in its public parts is a feature of the entire Fort, or depict it without its informal domains which were actually central to its functioning.

The multi-functional and regulated co-existence seen in the Fort is also manifest in the detailing and use of the Emperor’s formal public buildings and his private palaces. So, for instance, the Diwan-i-Am pavilion and forecourt, the climax of the public formal route into the Fort and the centre of court-ceremonies, is used everyday in the early morning hours by the Emperor to preside over the assembly of officers of the realm, and to conduct administrative affairs. Daily inspection of parades, of horses, hunting animals and arms are held in its chowk; every Wednesday it turns into a court of justice for people of the city with scholars and judges attending. On festive occasions such as at the inauguration of the Fort, the Emperor’s birthday, or Nauroz celebrations, this same space is used for formal public celebrations. Yet again, private rituals preceding weddings of the royal princes are held here; as are public rituals of laying food for charity on Id, etc.

As for the palaces of the Emperor, these are not formidable, multi-storeyed structures. They are delicately proportioned pavilions, adorned with finely carved and inlaid with precious stones, shimmering mirror work, and jali traceries of lace-like fineness. These pavilions are enclosed by gardens planted with fruit trees, fountains and flowers. Sitting within their translucent walls, one would have breathed in fragrances; watched the play of light and shadow and the sky change colour at dawn or dusk; heard the ripple and splash of water, felt the coolness of breezes. The scale, decoration, detailing and luxury is not intimidating, but humane and multi-sensory, dexterous and delicate.

Thus, we realise that the original architecture of the Red Fort is a refined resolution of space; of buildings not used as sealed objects but interlinked with open areas and each other: flexible, permeable, efficient and adaptive to different seasons and multiple use by a wide number of people across the social spectrum living in proximity. This architecture and the functions assigned in it reflect: 

a patrimonial bureaucratic rule where the emperor was represented as a benevolent father who had the welfare of his subjects at heart, who personally oversaw even routine matters in the administrative and political affairs of the empire and who set both the trends and standards of social behaviour as well as artistic patronage.’

This, in turn is the embodiment of the underpinnings of life in the sub-continent with coexisting cultural and spatial identities. All this was destroyed by the British after 1857, in keeping with their ideas of the purpose of authority, which we can see manifested in the very different buildings that they constructed within the Fort. These buildings are alien to the architecture of the fort - austere, solid in massing, forbidding stern barracks — in stark contrast to the remaining airy Mughal pavilions. They sit isolated in the Fort, instead of being integrated with the open space around. They are devoid of ornament or delicacy; designed to keep out people and the natural world. They are made for a singular function, of housing the British military instead of all the pulsating life and the multiplicity of activities, knowledge-systems and skills, embodied in the original architecture of the Red Fort. We can see the transformation in the Fort, an empty shell within its enclosing walls, with the entire relationship of its interlinked built and open spaces obliterated, in these drawings depicting it before and after 1857.

The Red Fort is now a barred space, some parts of it occasionally used as a stage-set and backdrop for celebrations. These ironically dwell on its memory as a symbol of resistance to colonial British rule — while continuing colonial concepts of rigidly keeping people out and controlling their movement and access to the Fort through barriers, fenced lawns, circuitous and difficult entrance routes, and incomplete, fragmentary information. We must remember that architecture is an act of community as much as it is a manifestation of authority. What does it say about our ideals and existence today — when we reinforce the forlorn appearance and barren use of the Fort set forth during its colonial occupation?

And so to end, I would like to remind us of the concept of authority enumerated by Kautilya in the ‘Duties of a King’:

In the happiness of his subjects lies his happiness; in their welfare his welfare. He shall not consider as good only that which pleases him but treat as beneficial to him whatever pleases his subjects.

‘Reading the Red Fort— Architecture as History’

‘Reading the Red Fort— Architecture as History’

Text of Talk delivered to The History Society, Miranda House 

Thank you for inviting me. I'm very happy to be here. 

A couple of clarifications and caveats before I begin. My 1st degree is in architecture — not in history. And so, as the only architect amongst all of you, I am probably the outsider in this room.

My professional connection with history is through my specialisation — which is that of Architectural Conservation. Therefore, my training in looking at history is primarily as a guide to devising appropriate principles and ways of conserving historic architecture. 

However, through my practice and my research, I have been led to look at history beyond just the objective of understanding historic architecture. As also to look at historic architecture beyond just the specific objective of figuring out how best to conserve it. 

I’m going to speak to all of you today about the Red Fort, which has been — and continues to be — a source of great interest and learning for me. The Red Fort, as many of you would know, is a very large and very complex piece of architecture. It has also been the focus and the setting of numerous significant events in history. It has been variously known through different times as: the Qila-e-Mualla, Qila-e-Mubarak, Lal Haveli, Dilli ka Lal Qila, and so on. It was given the epithet of ‘The Most Magnificent Palace in the East’ by James Fergusson (the British writer who gave primacy to architecture as history); while being brusquely titled ‘The Fort’ in official British records after 1857. All these different names reflect the different associations of this piece of historic architecture — whose foundations were laid in 1639 CE. In an interesting coincidence, it was inaugurated formally on 18 April 1648 CE, so exactly 377 years ago to the month.

What precisely am I going to pick out from all the history contained in the almost 400 years of the Fort’s existence, in the 40 minutes or so that we have available today? The title of my talk, which is ‘Reading the Red Fort— Architecture as History’ encapsulates what I am going to speak about. So, the first part of my talk is to do with ‘Reading the Red Fort’.

Here I imply two things when I use the word ‘reading’. The normal sense of the word is to ‘understand the meaning of (written or printed words or symbols). And therefore, how do we ‘Read the Red Fort’ using written or printed words or symbols as primary sources? This is the method foregrounded in the conventional approach to architectural history — and is something that I will talk about. But I will also use ‘reading’ in its larger definition, which is to ‘interpret in a particular way’. The particular way that I follow, stems from my training in architecture — and consists of reading the architecture of the Red Fort itself as the primary source of its history, in order to extract the information encoded in it.

That leads me to the phrase Architecture as History that figures in the title of my talk. I examine the premise of looking at architecture itself as the major primary source of history — perhaps the only source of history that can be directly accessed, approached and experienced by practically everyone. This is bound to be a contentious claim. And I look forward to further discussion on this. In short, I hope to help you to make sense of the Red Fort as it exists today. And through the example of the Fort, I hope to explore how architectural forms and spaces of earlier times can help us to comprehend history.

IA: Reading the Red Fort: architecture as the primary source of history

To do this, I am going to take you back to my own first visit to the Red Fort, when I was a student at the School of Planning and Architecture and had a few years of architectural education (which included the subject of architectural history). I recollect that this is what I saw then: 

1. The towering red boundary walls of the Fort with its two large public Gateways of which the Lahori Darwaza is where I entered from
2. A high vaulted Bazaar Street (called Chatta Bazaar) after the Lahori Gate 
3. Ahead of the Chatta Bazaar, a Gateway called the Naqqar Khana — and some tall barracks
4. The Diwan-i-Am pavilion in axis with the Naqqar Khana
5. Finally, some seemingly haphazardly placed pavilions behind the Diwan-i-Am, with a masjid within its walled enclosure: the Moti Masjid
6. And adjacent to the Masjid, the Hayat Baksh garden with a few pavilions.

Many of the parts of the Fort that I have listed above, were either barred to the public or were difficult to access for multiple reasons. There were also a few signages put up by the ASI at site, which gave some basic information about the buildings. That’s really quite little to go on. You’ll discover this for yourself when you visit the Red Fort, since in that sense it has not changed much since then. 

Seen from outside, the Fort’s boundary walls seem more or less complete; and we expect to see a grand interior within them. When we actually move into the Fort from the Lahori Darwaza, we initially do get a sense of a planned and formal place. But beyond the Chatta Bazaar, the sequence of buildings falls apart. There is nothing to orient us about how to proceed — even the new signages do not help, and many of the buildings are in very bad shape. Though the barracks are closest to the Bazaar, the arched Naqqar Khana gateway with its red carved panels straight ahead seems the most likely place to go on to. Beyond this we can see the Diwan-i-Am, and half-hidden by it are several buildings — run-down, but with elegant proportions and forms. Some are in red stone and some in white marble, but they all generally have large open arches, and their quality of light and space is very different from buildings constructed today.

All in all, it is difficult to reconcile these intriguing disconnected buildings, some of which are so delicately crafted, with the regal splendour associated with Shah Jahan and with his other magnificent acts of patronage. It is also impossible to figure out how the Mughal emperor — arguably one of the richest and most refined individuals of his time — lived in the Fort? Indeed how did anyone live in the Fort? As an architect, this was my main question. 

If I was to continue the analogy of ‘reading’ the Fort, I would thus liken it to a book with a hard-bound, more or less intact cover. When you open the book you find many pages missing, and those pages that are still there are faded, torn, moth-eaten — with a few words here and there in a half-familiar script. Given this paucity and confusion of material, how do we read its history? 

Well, in a way this paucity itself alerted me to some significant features — the most important being the evident transformation of the Fort. I could grasp this, even in the absence of other records on site. This was perhaps due to my architectural training of assessing the possibilities of different places for habitation. So I could sense that what I saw within the Fort was incomplete to cater for the functions that a complex of its scale ought to satisfy. I could also make out that the British barracks were later intrusions, even though there was no specific information on this at site. I could therefore, dimly read what was there, and also what was not there.

I B ‘Reading the Red Fort’: written/printed words/symbols as primary sources.

This sense that there was something significant that was missing at the Fort, led me to start ferreting around and ‘reading up’ on it. On doing so, I found that, despite the Red Fort's iconic cultural and political importance; despite there being so many accounts and explanations of it, no one seemed to have seriously tried to answer the question of how it was used and lived in! 

Therefore, since my objective was to understand how the Fort functioned and appeared in its original form — and these had obviously changed (as I could tell from my reading on site) — my research was directed at finding records of its establishment, construction and use in the reign of Shah Jahan. However, I found that such records were few and far-between; and some were in languages that I could not read. They were also fragmented, incomplete, and scattered in museums in different parts of the world, ranging from Delhi to Dublin.

So, I modified my approach. I looked for whatever I could find of the Fort from any time of its existence — in the hope that it would aid my understanding in some way or the other. Here again, I found that even later records depicted very few parts of the huge Fort and that too during just some specific periods of its long existence — and these were generally from a time when it had already transformed a lot. Additionally, many of these sources took a great deal of artistic license, or were unclear about details — and often even directly contradicted each other! So the challenge for me was to visualise and reconstruct from the erasure and reordering of the architectural remains of the Red Fort — and from scattered and contradictory textual and visual records, how the Fort was lived in and how it looked when it was established almost four centuries ago. Thus, Reading the Red Fort (in both the meanings that I outlined in the beginning of the talk) was a very difficult task.

Despite this, by thoroughly studying the existing architecture on site — not just through repeated observations and measurements, but also by an analysis of its buildings from the point of view of geometry, proportions, spatial attributes, etc. — in conjunction with different historical records, I could extract important clues. These are some of the drawings I made as part of my analysis, published in my book on The Red Fort of Shahjahanabad. 

Through all this I discovered:

1. That large swathes of the Fort, more than 90 percent of it had been destroyed by the British in 1857 and after. (This is the reason why what we see at site today is so confusing);
2. That the British had not only constructed buildings inside the Fort for their own use, but had also reconfigured practically all of it so that it looked and worked as a cantonment
3. That the few Mughal structures that they did not demolish had been vandalised by them, and misused and altered to a great extent
4. That the original design of the Fort had a unique architectural quality, where the open areas and the buildings in it worked in harmony to efficiently cater for an astonishingly diverse array of activities, and accommodated many different kinds of people.
5. That these open-areas of the Fort were sub-divided into a series of walled streets, courts and gardens with water-features, amidst which the Mughal buildings were devised as pavilions. Space, as it were, flowed effortlessly between inside and outside along with beautiful views, scents and sounds.
6. That this permutation of pavilions interlinked with walled streets, courts and gardens did many things: they generated a comfortable micro-climate; they allowed for multiple functions in the Fort ranging from imperial residential, formal ceremonial, manufacturing, military, commercial, administrative etc.; they created specific ‘domains’ hidden behind the walls and screens accessible only to certain people, and virtually 'invisible’ to other people.
7. VII) And therefore, that by knocking down the walled streets, courts and gardens, the British literally amputated these pavilions — and destroyed the Fort’s original permutation of buildings and open spaces.

It was because of such examination and analysis that I also uncovered the spatial and geometrical relationship between the extant Mughal structures on site. And therefore, despite the limitations of information on the original design of the Fort, I was able to ‘predict’ the location, dimensions, forms and uses of the buildings and spaces destroyed by the British. Having done this, I could utilise my reading of the original design of the Fort to reconcile contradictory secondary sources, and to put their incomplete information into context. Additionally, through this process, I was also able to identify important secondary sources as well as primary evidence at site — some of which were in plain sight of everybody! The use of such a methodology in reading historic architectural sites was the subject of my thesis in Architectural Conservation, where I proposed spatial exploration as a way to better understand historic sites preparatory to conserving them in a holistic way. I’ll explain this through a couple of examples. 

1. This is a hitherto unrecognised record from the ASI archives that I came across when I was appointed Conservation consultant to the ASI. At first glance this plan looks incomplete and unimportant. However, it is an extremely important document. It is a measured plan outlining the boundaries of various sectors and buildings of the Fort, many of which were demolished by the British — recorded by them prior to the demolishment. This shows that the demolishment was deliberately planned by the British — to erase even the architecture which fostered the way of life they had already erased. And if you look carefully — as I did — you can spot some traces of that architecture even today on the walls of the British barracks showing they were built with the rubble of the destroyed Mughal buildings. The plan is also of great significance, since other available maps of the Fort, even if richer in detail have inaccuracies in  measurements and locations of the Mughal buildings. It was interesting for me that this map — the only record of the state of the Fort just before its destruction — corroborated the spatial reconstruction I had arrived at — derived from the locations and dimensions of the existing Mughal buildings at site.

b) This is a much reproduced record in the public domain: the Italian photographer, Felice Beato’s photograph (shot in 1858) of the Forecourt of the Naqqar Khana, captioned: ‘Inner Gateway of Palace, with the tree under which the Christians were massacred’. The photograph, deliberately highlights a tragic episode, as part of the memorialisation of the British version of 1857, to justify their violence towards Shahjahanabad and its people and ruler. The visual composition and the wording of the title of this photo is such that it makes the Naqqar Khana recede into the background, and makes us miss the connecting arcades on either side of it — which formed the boundary to its Forecourt, a very important part of the Fort demolished by the British. The photograph is invaluable as one of the few records that documents the presence and proportions of these arcades, and that I registered the presence of these architectural components — and could use them in tracing the original conception of the Red Fort — is only because of my sustained engagement with the primary resource of the extant Mughal buildings in the Fort. 

c) And this is a fragment at the plinth level between the Moti Masjid and the Bhadon pavilion. This is easy to miss. The geometrical, spatial and functional analysis I did directed my attention to it, and its great significance in marking the position of the wall originally between the imperial Hayat Baksh garden and Diwan-i-Khas Forecourt. This fragment thus helps to corroborate information in archival maps; and gives evidence of the limits of the Diwan-i-Khas Forecourt.

To reiterate, the primary record of the Fort yielded clues to what it was, as well as what it may have been. As I have explained, even the absence of certain architectural features on site furthered my understanding. It was the realisation that there were something significant that was missing, that directed my search to other sources. And it was because I had the reference of the primary record of the few extant Mughal structures, that I was kept on track to uncover the relationship between them. This then helped me to correctly position and comprehend the missing parts of the Fort. And consequently, to also recognise the value of documents that recorded evidence of this vital relationship.

Let us now return to the Red Fort as it is today through a tour of its extant parts, in the nature of a flash-back to understand how these would have worked in its original form. Of the different parts that I had listed out earlier:

1. Let’s start with the circuit of its towering red boundary walls. These walls were of course damaged in 1857, and the British also reduced the height of the ramparts in front of their main Gates after they took over the Fort. Then, some 10 years later, in 1864-65, more of the Fort walls were knocked down by the British along with a substantial part of the city, to insert the railway. What has changed the most however, is the area around the walls. Where we presently have the busy Ring Road (Mahatma Gandhi Marg) was where the Yamuna river originally flowed — right in front of the eastern boundary of the Fort with an intervening sandy bank. The remaining boundary walls of the Fort had a moat full of water connected to the Yamuna. Beyond the moat, there were beautiful orchards and gardens — except right in front of the Lahori and Dilli Darwazas where there were chowks. All these areas around the Fort: the sandy banks, the orchards, and the chowks were open to the public, and were used by people to bathe, to stroll, picnic, watch performances, to view the Emperor every morning in his public balcony, gather. Directly after the chowk and the gardens were the houses, temples, mosques, shops and sarais of the city.
2. Thus, there was a very close relationship between the Fort and the city. The Lahori and Dilli Darwazas (which have to be now entered through smaller sidegates) were originally entered directly through drawbridges from the chowks in front of them. Ahead of these chowks, the two main streets of Urdu Bazar and Faiz Bazar ran west and south to the Lahori and Dilli Darwazas of the city. This visual and spatial connection between the Fort and Shahjahanabad — where the Fort’s two public gateways opened out into the city, and the people of the city came right upto the gardens around its walls — was a very important part of the original design.
3. So much so, that when Aurangzeb after taking over as emperor, ordered that the straight entry into the Fort should be blocked, Shah Jahan, reportedly wrote to him from Agra Fort where he was imprisoned: ‘Dear Son, you have made the fort a Bride, and put a veil upon her face’. 
4. Now, what about the interior of the Fort? How has that changed? Well, everything was originally much grander, including the Chatta Bazaar Street where the best products of the empire were displayed: its finest artefacts, brocades, embroideries. If you were an ambassador or an important person, you would have been treated to the sight of all this in the Bazaar. However, if you were a soldier, an attendant or a craftsperson working in the Fort, you would have been allowed entry from the Dilli Darwaza. This led into the Fort through the Rastah Dilli Darwaza. Now, the Dilli Darwaza is barred to the public — unless you have a special pass!
5. But apart from reduction in grandeur, the important things to keep in mind when you visit the Fort today are the reduction in the number of buildings of the Fort, the reduction in their accessories of screens, awnings, qanats, fountains; the complete removal of their connecting walled courtyards, gardens, etc. and thus the reduction not just in formal splendour but also in  the complex and diverse activities that once took place here, and made the Fort virtually a city-within-a city.  
6. So, for instance, the undefined area ahead of the Chatta Bazaar that we see today originally had the big walled Naqqar Khana chowk. This was the heart of the Fort, cooled by a canal down its centre traversed by all occupants of the Fort, and inhabited by court-officials transacting work in its arcades. Anyone entering here from the Chatta Bazaar and the Rastah Dilli Darwaza could move into the Fort only through the other two darwazas of the Naqqar Khana Chowk. One of these, the Darwaza Rastah Salimgarh led north towards the area where the soldiers stayed and to the island fort of Salimgarh beyond that. The grandest and largest of the darwazas, the Naqqar Khana itself, which was directly opposite and in line with the Chatta Bazaar Darwaza, led to the even larger rectangular walled chowk of the magnificent Diwan-i-am. The emperor sat on his throne here to give public audience everyday.
7. As an inhabitant of the city, this was as far as you could come. Entry into the Fort behind the Diwan-i-Am — which was where the private apartments were — was only for the emperor, for members of his family, for their special attendants, or for noblemen or ministers.
8. This was through guarded gates at specific points, which led through several chowks and beautiful walled gardens to the pavilions where the Emperor and his family stayed, or to the kitchens and service sectors of the Fort. This labyrinthine quality of the Fort with gardens within gardens and Forecourts inside forecourts, ensured security and privacy. From Shah Jahan’s time to Bahadur Shah Zafar’s, we find references to this aspect. 
9. One of these is a story about a young man who tried to get into the zenana area. This is related in the memoirs of Francois Bernier, a French traveller who lived in Shahjahanabad for some years shortly after its establishment. He heard it from a Portuguese servant who used to work in the Fort. So this young man did get in, apparently with the complicity of Princess Roshanara, Emperor Aurangzeb’s sister. But getting out was a different matter. Try as he might, he could not find his way out of the maze of gardens and pavilions — and he was finally discovered by the emperor’s guards and punished by being thrown over the Fort walls. 
10. We find indirect evidence of how this maze divided the Fort into different domains and gave its inhabitants security and privacy, through another source: a Plan of the Fort in the National Archives, drawn by Ensign Peter Lawtie in 1812 CE. This plan only plots certain buildings within their walled Forecourts with the rest shown as a blank! What was really interesting was that this plan was very similar to a drawing I had made as part of my reading of the Fort, where I deduced how the Fort would have looked to different users — the Emperor, his family, noblemen and favoured visitors, and ordinary people. Familiarity with the primary record of architecture through a close scrutiny of its explicit forms and its implicit systems, helped me to understand Lawtie’s ‘eye-witness map of 1812’ and why he had drawn it in this way — which was that he probably had no access to the rest of the Fort!

II Architecture as History

Thus, we realise that the original design of the Red Fort was a refined resolution of space; of buildings not used as sealed objects but interlinked with open areas and each other: flexible, permeable, efficient and adaptive to different seasons and multiple use by a wide number of people across the social spectrum. It reflected notions of kingship where the Emperor as king and father catered for different social groups to exist in proximity in his imperial Fort  — while allowing them privacy and individual expression. This in turn was the embodiment of the underpinnings of life in the sub-continent with coexisting cultural and spatial identities. This brings me to the second part of my talk where I contend that architecture is its own primary source in reading its history, of ‘chief importance’. But not just that, architecture, is also a primary source of history in general.

Let me clarify why I say this, since this is not the conventional view. 

My first point is that historic architecture (along with archaeology) constitutes the only record that we can all come close to perceiving in a primary way and experiencing through practically all our physical senses. We can view and touch it, be enclosed and encompassed in it, hear the sound of our voices and footsteps as we walk within and around it — in similar even if not in exactly the same ways as did those who created and inhabited it. 

Secondly, even when there are no stated objectives of memorialising, we can trace in the way architecture is built, lived in, and transformed: what people held as important; what they wished to remember; what were their craft, technology or management skills. Architecture is thus one of the most direct manifestation of memories that govern our individual and larger identities. It is also a manifestation of multiple knowledge-systems comprising cultural, social, economic and technological history — especially since architecture can last through several human lifetimes. 

It is less easy to dislocate as compared to archaeological remains, more accessible than records in museums or private collections, more comprehensible than texts in different languages or specialised maps. We can interact at multiple levels with architecture, which is not just a setting or record of events, but the event itself. However, it is precisely because there is such a multiplicity of layers and memories that it is so challenging to interpret historic architecture, even through our own senses. Especially when we have very many missing bits to contend with, as in the Red Fort. To prevent us from misinterpreting this primary architectural record, we need to study it in sufficient detail, and examine it in conjunction with other records — keeping in mind that these other records are all secondary.

Why do I say this? 

Physicists and philosophers remind us that by the time some sight or sound travels to our senses, it is already past: however infinitesimally small that time may be. Taken in this literal sense, no record can ever be present in the same moment as the event it records — and each record is a memory. Even if we disregard the implications of such minute allocations of time, our knowledge of events — through records made by someone present at a particular time in the past — are re-presentations in another way. They are impressions filtered by not just the organs of perception, but also by the abilities and intentions of those who write, record or remember. We know this not just from abstract texts, or even from the exciting genre of crime fiction where the unravelling of the mystery depends on the detective ploughing through testimonies of different ‘witnesses’ to the crime, but also from daily experience. No two versions in newspaper reports of an event observed at the same time by two different people, are identical. They can, in fact, be very dissimilar. What we may call the ‘Rashoman Effect’ that Akira Kurosawa demonstrates for us so brilliantly and disturbingly in his film Rashoman. We forget that this is true for literary texts, official court-histories and archival paintings — all generally considered primary records. 

And when these records pertain to architecture, there is another aspect to this re-presentation — there is a literal loss of dimension. In trying to communicate the three-dimensional experience of architecture through the two-dimensional medium of words or drawings, there is necessarily much that is left out. Let me explain this through an example of a portion of the Badshahnama commissioned by Shah Jahan. This, the combined work of Abdul Ahmed Lahori and Muhammad Waris in Persian, available in partially published and translated form in English, also covers the time of the Red Fort’s establishment (i.e. between 1639 and 1648 CE). It is an important source of the Fort’s founding, containing descriptions of some of its original detail, decoration, dimensions and materials. Despite this, it does not help to understand the basic fabric of the Fort.

This is because firstly, the Badshahnama— illustrated with formal miniature paintings of portraits or views of selected areas — does not describe all of the Fort, but only the part that the emperor used. Neither the text nor the miniatures cover the parts of the Fort where the attendants and soldiers lived or worked — even though these are integral to its original conception and functioning as a city-within-a-city. Even the part of the Fort where the emperor stayed or used, is not described completely; indeed, it cannot because of the limitation of texts describing buildings. As the authors of the Badshahnama write: ‘Its structures are beyond imagination. Its every corner is dazzling and every direction full of heavenly gardens…The qualities of these buildings are so high that none can elaborate on them’. Neither does it qualify that the Fort had different domains or convey its spatial quality — which, as I mentioned, was an elegant permutation of inter-linked built and open space. In any case, it was for literary ability rather than architectural knowledge that Lahori — like other writers given access to exhaustive data pooled from different parts of the empire — was commissioned to write the Badshahnama!

In other words, even official records of the founding of the Fort have many ‘missing bits’ about its original form. We deduce the existence of these missing bits and understand their diverse complexity from a comparison with other sources. What this also tells us, is that rarely is a record complete in itself. It is by looking at multiple frames of reference and records, that we come close to a more complete picture of the reality we are trying to understand. And, as I hope I have shown, it is only by revisiting the primary record of what remains on ground — and consciously recognising the absence of what does not — that we can trace the essential attributes of such architecture and realise the many misconceptions in which we see, conserve, or write about them today. 

One misconception is what the British actively sought to propagate: that the Fort was in a dire and ruinous state in the mid-19th century, and that by clearing it, they actually did everyone a favour. This is a patent untruth, as we have seen. The other misconception is not to do just with the Red Fort, but affects how we see architecture and its very purpose. I will illustrate this through some popular drawings of the Red Fort by British artists from the mid-19^th century. They appear realistic, are said to be based on actual observation, and show the Fort from the vantage point of the ridge, drawn during or just before 1857. Now we know the Red Fort suffered extensive damage in the intense battle of 1857, and unabashed looting and destruction after the British moved into the Fort, the symbolic seat of the Mughal empire. We also know that the palace demolition order carried out in 1863, reduced to rubble most of the structures within the Fort and around its boundary walls upto a distance of 500 yards. On the face of it, these drawings, showing an unbroken Fort drawn realistically according to the rules of perspective, seem valuable in re-constructing how it was before its violent destruction and re-modelling by the British. 

However, if you compare these drawings with existing Mughal buildings in the Fort, as well as with other records — as I did — you will be surprised at how fanciful these are. The profile of the Fort’s boundary walls is quite wrong; there is no depiction of the many forecourts, enclosed gardens, arcades, halls and verandahs originally within the Fort; even what exists today is drawn incorrectly! These drawings show a couple of towering buildings, entered through a wide driveway flanked by trees and shrubbery. It is not a record of what existed, but an Orientalised image of a stately English home! Despite this glaring mis-representation, the preface to an official publication of the Kolkata Victoria Memorial Hall containing this and similar artworks by European artists, claims that ‘these paintings reflected images as in a mirror’ whose ‘credibility and fidelity remain above board’. We are urged to see these as ‘study-based endeavours in which no room is left for the imagination’. Such acceptance of ‘eye-witness’ records, without comparing them with what they purport to depict, leads us twice astray. First, it makes us see them as the ‘true’ reality of what existed. Secondly, it effects our perception by making us see in them the standard image for monumental architecture: and therefore, the desirable template for architecture even in our times.

III Beyond Architecture as History

So Reading the Red Fort helped me to not just track positions and proportions of its missing built-structures — which was my initial objective — but also served to gauge the veracity of other sources and conveyed lessons in the usage of space. Beyond that, it has led me to critically analyse design processes, both my own and those I see around. And guided me in devising methodologies to analyse architecture, regardless of whether it is labelled historic or otherwise. And thus how the themes that underpin the Fort and that of its contemporary city of Shahjahanabad, can inform how we live, design and build today — which is the subject of my current research. 

The quantum physicist, Carlo Rovelli, in his book, The Order of Time, explains that the second principle of thermodynamics, which provides the mathematical definition of the variation of entropy of a body, 'is the only equation of fundamental physics that knows any difference between past and future. The only one that speaks of the flowing of time.’ He goes on to say: 

‘the growth of entropy distinguishes the past from the future for us and leads to the unfolding of the cosmos. It determines the existence of traces, residues and memories of the past. We human beings are an effect of this great history of the increase of entropy, held together by the memory that is enabled by these traces.’

The Red Fort, like other architecture from times before us, bears the imprint of many lives, spaces, embodied knowledge-systems and skills, which can lead us to the ‘unfolding of the cosmos’. But beyond the value of architecture as history, the Red Fort like all architecture, is an act of community. It is particularly important for us to dwell on this. Architecture cannot be built single-handedly. Nor conceived as the outcome of one mind, however unique it may appear. We bring forth architecture through a coalescing of recollections and practices internalised through training or temperament; through the play of cherished memories of light and space, of places we have inhabited or visited, as of those we read about and visualise. The more diverse and varied these spaces and thoughts, the richer are our memories, our minds and our lives. It is because we do not remember all this, that we paradoxically reinforce the forlorn appearance and barren use of the Fort set forth during its colonial occupation. It is now a barred space, occasionally used as a stage-set and backdrop for celebrations that ironically dwell on its memory as a symbol of resistance to colonial British rule — while continuing colonial concepts of rigidly keeping people out through barriers, fenced lawns, circuitous entrance routes, and incomplete information.

Link to the History Society Miranda House Instagram page on the event:

https://www.instagram.com/p/DIomn9Eh2eX/?igsh=NnJsODg5NHB1amt0