by Salman Rashid
Even from a distance one is impressed by the grandeur of the chunky building with one tower rising above what seems to be a vaulted car porch. To match, it has a picturesque setting: smack on the shores of the blue-green Khanpur Lake in the midst of lush rolling hills not far from the village of Khanpur on the highroad from Taxila to Haripur.
Raja Jahandad Khan Gakkhar, who receives honourable mention in the Gazetteer of Hazara district , built this haveli back in 1875. He was a scion of the old and respected Gakkhar tribe, one of their head families settled at Khanpur since Mughal times. Then there was no lake; only the winding Haro river, copper-red during the rains, azure otherwise, would have complemented the scene. The lake came about thirty years ago when the river was dammed to store the water supply for Rawalpindi and Islamabad. If anything, it added to the picture postcard quality of the house.
On the far side of the high, arched entrance of the car porch a rickety wooden gate led into the courtyard. I looked in diffidently, not knowing if I would be allowed to enter the building. Apparently the servants were used to strangers poking about for I was invited in by the man and his wife; and, yes, I could look around all I wanted.
In the traditional vernacular style of construction, the courtyard was U-shaped with a paved patio in the middle and pillared verandahs fronting the rooms on the sides. At the end of the patio an unkempt, overgrown garden stretched to a crumbling boundary wall. Beyond lay the placid surface of the lake. From the verandah doors with stained glass led into spacious rooms, most of them roofless. Debris covered the colourful mosaic floors. Grass grew wild within the four walls. In one room there was even a young mulberry tree. Just below the level of the roof was a line of frescoes; and above it the rectangle of blue sky. The last coat of yellow wash on the exterior must have been laid many years ago when the owners still lived here – or at least visited every weekend. Now in many places it was peeling to show an older deep red wash underneath. The stained glass was missing in many places.
The caretaker said there were some rooms on the first floor where the roof was still intact. But I was dissuaded from going upstairs for the staircase, he said, was teeming with wasps. The basement was similarly choked with debris. Everywhere were signs of abandonment; assertive, unabashed, absolute abandonment. As if someone vehemently wished to break that connection with the past that this haveli represented. It was an act so wanton and sorrowful that I, without any affiliation with the mansion or the family who owned it, felt affected by the aggressiveness of the act.
In the back was an equally beautiful and similarly derelict zenankhana – the Ladies Quarters. Next to it a modern appendage grew like an ugly wart. The caretaker asked if I wished to see the modern house from inside. I declined: there would be no stained glass, cut brick, mosaic floors or frescoes to marvel at; it would only have all those accouterments that any modern house has. And of those I have seen plenty.
In neighbouring India mansions such as this were being meticulously preserved and turned into hotels that make money. And here we are allowing them to go to pot. Situated as it is on the shores of a lovely lake, this haveli holds the promise of being whatever it is not allowed to be. For one, it could be a first class lakeside honeymoon lodge where guests could relive the splendour of the past. But sadly, this old haveli is now almost a fallen ruin.
Even from a distance one is impressed by the grandeur of the chunky building with one tower rising above what seems to be a vaulted car porch. To match, it has a picturesque setting: smack on the shores of the blue-green Khanpur Lake in the midst of lush rolling hills not far from the village of Khanpur on the highroad from Taxila to Haripur.
Raja Jahandad Khan Gakkhar, who receives honourable mention in the Gazetteer of Hazara district , built this haveli back in 1875. He was a scion of the old and respected Gakkhar tribe, one of their head families settled at Khanpur since Mughal times. Then there was no lake; only the winding Haro river, copper-red during the rains, azure otherwise, would have complemented the scene. The lake came about thirty years ago when the river was dammed to store the water supply for Rawalpindi and Islamabad. If anything, it added to the picture postcard quality of the house.
On the far side of the high, arched entrance of the car porch a rickety wooden gate led into the courtyard. I looked in diffidently, not knowing if I would be allowed to enter the building. Apparently the servants were used to strangers poking about for I was invited in by the man and his wife; and, yes, I could look around all I wanted.
In the traditional vernacular style of construction, the courtyard was U-shaped with a paved patio in the middle and pillared verandahs fronting the rooms on the sides. At the end of the patio an unkempt, overgrown garden stretched to a crumbling boundary wall. Beyond lay the placid surface of the lake. From the verandah doors with stained glass led into spacious rooms, most of them roofless. Debris covered the colourful mosaic floors. Grass grew wild within the four walls. In one room there was even a young mulberry tree. Just below the level of the roof was a line of frescoes; and above it the rectangle of blue sky. The last coat of yellow wash on the exterior must have been laid many years ago when the owners still lived here – or at least visited every weekend. Now in many places it was peeling to show an older deep red wash underneath. The stained glass was missing in many places.
The caretaker said there were some rooms on the first floor where the roof was still intact. But I was dissuaded from going upstairs for the staircase, he said, was teeming with wasps. The basement was similarly choked with debris. Everywhere were signs of abandonment; assertive, unabashed, absolute abandonment. As if someone vehemently wished to break that connection with the past that this haveli represented. It was an act so wanton and sorrowful that I, without any affiliation with the mansion or the family who owned it, felt affected by the aggressiveness of the act.
In the back was an equally beautiful and similarly derelict zenankhana – the Ladies Quarters. Next to it a modern appendage grew like an ugly wart. The caretaker asked if I wished to see the modern house from inside. I declined: there would be no stained glass, cut brick, mosaic floors or frescoes to marvel at; it would only have all those accouterments that any modern house has. And of those I have seen plenty.
In neighbouring India mansions such as this were being meticulously preserved and turned into hotels that make money. And here we are allowing them to go to pot. Situated as it is on the shores of a lovely lake, this haveli holds the promise of being whatever it is not allowed to be. For one, it could be a first class lakeside honeymoon lodge where guests could relive the splendour of the past. But sadly, this old haveli is now almost a fallen ruin.
(c) copyright Mr Salman Rashid, 2014
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