Pleasure Pavilions

Over the following centuries, its natural defenses were enhanced by a 45-km fortified wall that wound all the way around the plateau, with access limited to 12 heavily defended gates.

But for all its military pretensions, Mandu was little more—or less—than a fortified pleasure resort for its rulers. A pleasure resort so delightful that kings and usurpers cut throats and fought wars for the right to rule it. No one understood this better, perhaps, than Ghazni Khan, who ascended to the throne of Mandu in 1435 upon the death of his father, Hoshang Shah.

He ordered the city to be renamed Shadiabad—the ‘City of Joy’. Twelve months later he choked to death on a usurper’s poison. It was his murderer’s son, Ghiyas-ud-din Khilji, who built one of Mandu’s most extraordinary temples to pleasure during a 31-year reign devoted to the single-minded pursuit of sensual gratification.

He ordered the building of the Jahaz Mahal—the ‘Ship Palace’—as a playground for his 15,000-strong harem. A narrow, 120-metre-long marble concoction of high pavilions, porticos, marble latticework, winding staircases and ornate swimming pools, it sits between two lakes and does resemble a ship.

The first thing they tell you about Mandu is: Go in the rains. I ignored the advice and was glad I did. When my girlfriend and I arrived at the Jahaz Mahal, we had the place totally to ourselves. We wandered up its ancient staircases and let the steady breeze at the top of the palace cool us off.

It’s a flight of fancy in stone, with breathtaking views of the lakes below where children come to play and buffaloes take baths. It’s big, but I did keep wondering how he managed to fit 15,000 maidens in there. I began to suspect that time had exaggerated the myth of Khilji’s harem.

Either that, or the Mahal had made a rush-hour Mumbai suburban local look roomy. I sat on the edge of one of the—bone dry—bathing pools, my legs dangling into imaginary perfumed water filled with flower blossoms.

I noticed to my left a series of spiralling channels cut into the stone on the edge of the pool—even the plumbing was playful. My girlfriend, I suspect, was becoming a little tired of hearing me rant about the maidens (“Their thighs must have rested just here.”) and we decided to get something to eat.

The sunlight was coming down like boiling rain and I started to feel a little faint—with the mercury at 45° C, I started to see the logic of coming in the monsoon.

We’d hired bicycles to get around—at Rs 25 each for a day— which are perfect for Mandu’s flat terrain and quiet roads, but not so great in the heat. Mandu village is tiny and seems unremarkable until you get to its central junction, dominated by a stunning mosque of red stone and massive domes—the Jami Masjid, built by Hoshang Shah.

Directly opposite sits the Ashrafi Mahal—a madrasa built by Mahmud Shah, the poisoner of Ghazni Khan. It’s entrance is via a steep stone staircase where Shah encouraged his overweight queen to shed pounds with his own, unique exercise regime: He placed gold coins on the stone steps, and told her to run up and down to collect them.

The Mahal is now in ruins but, like every other one of Mandu’s palaces, retains an atmosphere of desolate romance. Its central courtyard is littered with remains of its glorious past; the centrepiece is a pile of shattered blocks carved with Urdu script. We had lunch at the only joint in town open in the off-season, the Shivani restaurant, where we had traditional Madhya Pradesh fare—Dal Bafle, served with corn and wheat dumplings baked in a cow dung oven. It was delicious, the meal only slightly marred by the discovery of small insects in one of the dumplings (“It’s jeera only, madam.” “Jeera doesn’t have a thorax!”). At least they were well-cooked and, anyway, we’re both non-veg. We saved the best for last—Roopmati’s Pavilion, perched on the edge of the plateau.

An eight-kilometre cycle ride south of the village, this hilltop fortress was built by poet-king Baz Bahadur for his Hindu queen, Rani Roopmati, a woman of legendary beauty with the voice of an angel. We went for the sunset, and like everywhere else in Mandu, had the place just to ourselves.

The palace’s two pavilions are literally breathtaking: The wind steals the air from your mouth and anything else you don’t cling on to tightly enough. But the view is stunning: An eagle’s-eye view of the Nirmar Plains and, far to the south, the Narmada river.

It was textbook romantic. As the sun slipped into the hills, the sky turned purple and a full moon suffused the white marble with a haunting glow. It was right here that Roopmati became the victim of perhaps the deadliest teenage crush in history.

An 18-year-old Emperor Akbar, besotted with Roopmati—and Mandu—launched his own mini-Trojan War to claim her and the kingdom for himself.

Bahadur had long since given up his sword for a pen and fled ahead of Akbar’s invading troops. Abandoned to her fate, Roopmati took to her pavilions and poisoned herself.

It was a moving place to be. We sat watching the moon and canoodled until I forgot all about those maidens.