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heritage Breathing
London
heritage One of the
world’s largest necropolises at Makli in Thatta has been given “a new
lease of life,” says Yasmeen Lari, heading The Heritage Foundation, after
the provincial government of Sindh was able to buy some more time and assure
United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organisation (Unesco) and
the International Council of Sites and Monuments (ICOMOS) that it will
“come up with tangible results” to protect the old burial ground. Situated at a distance of
about 98km from the southern port city of Karachi, these ruins, some 600 to
700 years old, where some 125,000 ancient local rulers and sufi saints lay
buried, is spread over approximately 10sq.kms. These were to be scratched off
from the list of the world’s heritage site and, instead, put on the list of
endangered site. Pakistan has eight historic
sites that are of global importance. These are ruins of Taxila and Moenjodaro,
Takht Bahi, Sri Behlol, Rohtas fort, Makli necropolis and the Lahore fort and
the Shalamar Gardens. The latter two have already
been declared endangered for not being properly maintained. The crumbling and denuded
carved stone structures at Makli that tell tales of the political and social
life of the rulers of Sindh now remain ravaged by elements of nature and man.
“It would have been
embarrassing for the country, had this happened and would have signified that
the country is not putting in any resources or effort into a site that is
globally of such importance,” said Lari, talking to TNS. The Sindh government’s
department of culture, with support from The Heritage Foundation (THF) has
recently initiated a conservation programme on site. As a first step, THF is
working to mark each and every structure atop the Makli hill to prepare an
inventory. Without baseline
information, pointed out Qasim Ali Qasim, the provincial archaeology
department director, an appropriate conservation plan cannot be envisaged. “It is also for the first
time that we are asking for expression of interest from all quarters to
submit a design for comprehensive master plan for Makli,” he told TNS,
adding: “After the devolution of power last year the culture ministry was
shifted from the centre to the province and with it the cultural properties,
there has been seen a renewed interest in protecting culture and heritage.
There is a definite sense of ownership.” Lari’s organisation has
documented some 61 monuments amid the half-million old graves from the Samma
(14th century) to the Mughal period (early 18th century). Their inventory is
now in its finishing stage. “There are scores of new
graves that have come up in recent years as well as shrines and this new
construction needs to be stopped immediately,” said Lari. Keeping in mind
the sensitivity of the local people to this burial place, certain area may be
earmarked where the locals may be allowed to bury their dead instead of
burying them anywhere and thereby disturbing the heritage. But she adds: “What’s
gone is gone. It is imperative the ruins be treated as ruins and the tombs,
the domes and graves not rebuilt to look fake. Our efforts should be towards
stopping further damage.” In addition, THF has signed
an MoU with Unesco and is surveying and documenting the damage wrought on,
what Lari calls “the piece de resistance” of Makli — Jam Nizamuddin’s
tomb. “Our findings show that
because there is no buffer to the strong south westerly wind, the brick work
of the tomb has suffered extensively. Being on a ridge, Nizamuddin’s tomb
needs to be stabilised soon,” she pointed to the huge dip atop which stood
the tomb. The same was observed by
Qasim who said because Makli was on a high plateau the wind carrying sandy
particles had a “boring effect” specially on stone structures causing
erosion. He, however, was thankful, that the sub-soil was not affecting the
tombs from below because it was dry. Lari is insistent that
plantation along the outward boundary would not only help stop the strong
wind from damaging the tomb further, it would also stop soil erosion. “But we need to be
careful what kind of plants we grow. We must study old sources, research
before any kind of conservation is carried out. We must know which indigenous
plants were grown here if we are to recreate a bit of the past.” She hopes
the place can come alive as it did in the past when people would come for
pilgrimage. The foundation is also
trying to save another “highly-degraded and crumbling tomb of Samaa Noble
One” through the Prince Claus Fund’s Cultural Emergency Response
programme which provides “first aid to cultural heritage damaged by
man-made or natural disaster,” informed Lari. Sammas were the ancient
rulers of Thatta, even before the Tarkhans, the Arghuns and the Mughals. Among the recommendations
made by the Unesco and ICOMOS team after visiting the necropolis, in May, was
setting up three weather stations at different points at Makli to obtain data
regarding wind velocity, humidity, temperature and precipitation. “We are trying everything
we can to accommodate whatever has been recommended in the report,” assured
Qasim. “Once the master plan is
ready, we will be getting a boundary wall to stop encroachment, build the
capacity of the present staff as well as employ more craftsmen, architects,
archaeologists and conservationists and site wardens specially for Makli.”
At the moment there is a staff of 50 and an additional 50 will be inducted
soon. At the same time, the
department hopes to set up a conservation and exploration wing at the site, a
tourist facility centre and have standard operating procedures in place. caption The wind carrying sandy
particles had a “boring” effect on stone structures causing erosion. —
Photos by the author caption The piece de resistance of
Makli: Jam Nizamuddin’s tomb.
Breathing
London England exerts a
hold over the imagination of many a youth as the mythical land of tea and
scones, where children frolic in and out of enchanted woods, men in funny
costumes march on stage sprouting unintelligible English, criminals run amok
in lamp-lit streets ready to be nabbed by the most famous detective in the
world, and polite gentlemen in coats and ties applaud crisp cover drives on
the lush green fields of Lord’s. With so many stimuli to
pique one’s fancy, who with the capacity to recognise the English alphabet
(and some with even less) can resist the thought of visiting the land of our
ex-colonial masters? I am no exception to this
desire. A desire thwarted not too long ago by the British embassy’s
childish refusal to recognise my brown memness (the female equivalent of the
brown sahib in case you didn’t know) and refusing me a visa. This year,
though, in due recognition of my services as guardian of English language and
literature in an Allah-forsaken commonwealth state, the British Embassy,
nudged along by the British Council, sent me back a duly stamped passport in
time to avail my scholarship for a short course at the King’s College,
London. And thus I ended up there
for six weeks this summer. The first, most pressing
and inescapable fact, about London is its weather, which is more
unpredictable than Prince Harry. No wonder the British seem obsessed with it.
Many outdoor events announce themselves with the caveat, “subject to
weather.” My first three weeks there were marked by persistent rainfall,
not the kind that in Lahore prompts children to splash in puddles and dance
and sing in the streets, but a slow, constant presence that permanently
weaves itself into the fabric of everyday life. In London, necessity, not
fashion dictates the carrying of a large bag at all times, with umbrella, sun
cream, cardigan, sunglasses and other such seemingly disparate accoutrements
to brave the notorious four-seasons-in-one-day weather of the city. I watched
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ production at Regent’s Park Theatre in
cold conditions under an intermittently pouring sky, but the rain wasn’t
considered heavy enough to cancel the show. The dauntless actors went on
prancing and lying flat on the wet stage in their skimpy garments, spewing
mouthfuls of Early Modern English without missing a beat. I came to realise
that they brave the rain the same way we deal with long summers filled with
loadshedding, after a while no matter what the conditions, you just have to
get on with it. One of the things you want
to do most when you are in the land of The Beatles and the bard is to soak up
the culture. West-End musicals cost an arm and a leg but not one to be
daunted by difficulties, I decided to attend at least one for the experience.
I bought my tickets online for 30 pounds, a steep amount for one who earns in
Pak rupees, but managed to soothe myself with thoughts of a
once-in-a-lifetime experience. Well, it did turn out to be
one. I found myself gasping for
oxygen on the top tiers of a theatre as high as a football stadium with one
pound worth of rental binoculars next to every seat. Along with the distance
from the stage the dividing bar in front of me assured that I had to crane my
neck to catch the little dots on the stage singing and dancing with what I am
sure must have been great gusto. Thankfully, the acoustics of the hall did
not discriminate against the poverty stricken. The toe tapping numbers of
Franki Valli and The Four Seasons and the lively electronic backdrops made
for an enjoyable experience overall. I had slightly better luck
at Shakespeare’s Globe where you can buy ‘groundling’ tickets for five
pounds apiece at the added physical cost of standing for the whole length of
the performance. But at least it means that you are right in the middle of
the action. Due to no fault of the impeccable Richard III production, I felt
I needed to rest my tired feet after the first hour of non-stop standing. I
hadn’t even managed to make myself fully comfortable before an elderly
woman, who bore too strong a resemblance to my convent school teacher, came
rushing out of the stands to haul me back to my feet. Apparently modern
groundlings aren’t allowed to rest their legs in pursuit of Shakespearean
entertainment. Rather unfair when you compare it with the privileges their
16th century counterparts enjoyed who were at liberty to hurl shoes and
tomatoes at the stage if the bard failed to live up to their expectations. When one thinks of London,
its architectural wonders always figure alongside, and celebrated marvels
like St. Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben and The Tower Bridge are worth every bit
of their global hype. Only problem is you have to squint very very hard to
blur the ugly backdrop of utilitarian tower blocks from the 1960s and 1970s
against which these architectural icons stand today. Atop these unsightly
office blocks reside cranes permanently frozen at grizzly angles, suggesting
that post World War II Britain’s aesthetics also plummeted with its
fortunes. This hodgepodge of
architecture makes for an incongruous city with flourishes of ornate beauty
amid clusters of Soviet-style functionality. The 21st century architectural
contributions include the phallic Gherkin and the all glass and steel Shard,
built with Qatari money. If your premier cultural city looks to the Middle
East for aesthetic inspiration, you don’t really need the stock market to
indicate your downfall. London’s architectural
incongruity is symbolic of the city which is, by no means, some quaint
bastion of Englishness today. It is a huge metropolis where people of all
types exist alongside in a cacophony of cultures, languages, races,
orientations and religions. Nowhere is this more
obvious than on the London underground, London’s complicated and sprawling
subway system, where you often run into mixed race, mixed orientation couples
from a range of ethnicities; or occasionally catch Asian women wearing garish
saris, or shalwar kameez full of bling, probably off to some formal function
or wedding, with not a person in their vicinity batting an eyelid. I remember
being particularly in thrall on the tube one day when I came across a woman
in a hijab bent over her little Quran, muttering its verses fairly audibly
under her breath as the one on her right nonchalantly flipped through her
copy of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. All fantasies that are
fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to collide with reality are bound to adjust
and change shape, and so my experience of the living, breathing London both
diminished and enriched the land of my romantic imagination. Ben Johnson said
about London, “Tired of London, tired of life.” I am glad to report that
my six weeks there proved that for all their rough patches, it is hard to be
tired of either — life and London. |
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