Who does a monument belong to? The neighbourhood on which it stands, the community that holds it closest, the city, the nation, or the thousands of tourists who stream through it every day? Monuments are, by their very nature, contested sites of ownership.
A few years ago, while reporting on the Qutub Minar, residents of the surrounding neighbourhood told me that before it became a ticketed monument, they enjoyed a far more intimate relationship with the 12th-century complex. Their memories brimmed with images of children racing around the soaring minaret, and of balmy winter afternoons spent among the ruins. Today, the victory tower commissioned by the Turkic general Qutbuddin Aibak draws one of the highest tourist footfalls of any monument in India. And yet, paradoxically, it has grown increasingly distant from the very people who live closest to it.
The Delhi government’s recent proposal to allow private events, including weddings, at approximately 80 state-protected monuments under a public-private partnership model to boost tourism and make sites more accessible, has been met with cautious enthusiasm. Supporters argue that it could foster deeper public engagement and lend relevance to neglected sites. Tombs, domes, and arches peek out of the unlikeliest corners, bearing witness to the layered histories that have built this city. The plan could bring these smaller, lesser-known monuments scattered across the city into the public eye.
When the Delhi government organised a monsoon festival in Mehrauli —featuring workshops, heritage walks and performances — it successfully drew attention to three obscure sites that rarely make it to the tourist map: Aam Bagh, Jahaz Mahal and Jharna. Just as importantly, it created a platform for local artistes to showcase their work.
Cultural programming at historic ruins is hardly unusual globally. The Forever Is Now art festival at the Giza pyramids in Egypt and the Baalbeck International Festival in Lebanon are striking examples. India, too, has embraced the practice. The Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur and the Gwalior Fort have hosted visually stunning musical and artistic performances.
In each of these cases, visitors have arrived from across the world seeking renewed meaning among the ancient ruins. Yet these events have also raised legitimate questions regarding conservation and the preservation of cultural memory. Strict protocols — on lighting, sound, stage construction, capacity and waste management — can certainly help safeguard a site’s physical integrity. The larger concern, however, is about access: Who gains cultural authority over a monument, and who risks being pushed out?
As with ticketed access at Qutub Minar, would celebrity performances or high-end weddings further alienate the communities living around these sites? Would heritage become the property of only those who can most easily pay for it? Conservationists often remark that for people to value the ruins around them, they must see them as meaningful and economically sustainable. Any cultural event must centre — and materially benefit — the neighbourhoods that share space with these monuments.
A second question is about narrative power. Monuments by themselves are repositories of stories. Any event held within them bears responsibility not only for protecting the structure but also for honouring the histories they embody. Consider the spree of Mahabharata-themed performances staged at the 16th-century Purana Qila in the past couple of years. These shows foreground the tale of Indraprastha, which some believe once stood at the site, while often sidelining the story of Humayun, the Mughal emperor under whom construction of the fort began.
These are not innocent curatorial choices. Cultural events shape what we remember — and what we forget. They frame the past for the present. The real question, then, is: Who is telling these stories, and to what end?
adrija.roychowdhury@indianexpress.com
