Fatehpur Sikri, Agra & Govardhan Parvat

On her return from Agra, Dr. Roopali’s family was caught in lashing rains and deluge. She experienced a miracle. Find out how Lord Krishna saved her family, in the second and concluding part. An exclusive for Different Truths. 

It was 6:00 a.m., and already a bright clear day. The second-hand green jalopy Fiat – Premier Padmini rattled off toward Agra. Four adults, an infant boy, and a four-year-old girl. The chauffeur was the only adult male in the group. A fauji (soldier). A generational medley.   

From New Delhi, we headed straight for Fatehpur Sikri. Forty kilometers outside Agra, Fatehpur Sikri is a small city that Emperor Akbar built in 1559. His far-away military campaigns forced its abandonment in 1610. The holy shrine of Hazrat Sheikh Salim Chishti is located here. 

Salim Chishti was a Sufi saint who lived from 1478 to 1572, and during his lifetime, predicted the birth of a baby prince. In an act of gratitude, Emperor Akbar built a marble mausoleum for him. This mausoleum-dargah is one of the finest examples of Mughal architecture. 

The Renaissance 

In the sixteenth century, the Renaissance was sweeping Europe. Cultural inclusiveness was opening up new avenues of thought.  Classical literature unravelled different worlds and introduced an intellectual movement called Humanism. An optimistic philosophy, which sees man as a rational and sentient being with the ability to decide and think for himself. 

It influenced the arts, literature, and music in a major way. Emperor Akbar’s Din-e-Ilahi found its moorings in this philosophy.  

Hindus in a Muslim Shrine 

A carload of Hindus off on a pilgrimage to the Salim Chishti Dargah – a Muslim shrine! A few neighbours were curious. Well, this is the true essence of India. Mighty empires and civilisations have vanished yet we are a thriving multi-dimensional society. Ours was a gratitude trip. A sister-in-law wishing to say thank you, for her little boy. It had been a near-impossible birth. RH Negative blood being the demon. 

After a long ride past many remnants and relics of history, we arrived at our divine destination. We stood before the Buland Darwaza.  The wide steps walked us into more than four hundred years of history. All around us, we saw the finest examples of Mughal architecture.  In the center of a vast red stone quadrangle stood the white marble pearl-like mausoleum. The Sufi saint Salim Chishti, who grants your every wish.  

The wish-filled knotted red threads must be unknotted once the wish is granted. We had travelled miles to do this. To unknot the thread in gratitude. Mannat completed. The baby’s name was Salim. 

Pilgrimage over, we took to the highway. We were so close to the Taj Mahal. We couldn’t just go past one of the Seven Wonders of the World. “Okay, no lingering. Have a quick look, and off we go,” the spouse-chauffeur barked. The four-year-old shrieked with excitement.   

Taj Mahal’s Grandeur 

The Taj Mahal was stunning. Its grandeur intact for 400 years and more. Mesmerising, monumental, and riveting. No way could we do a quick military reconnaissance. We took turns carrying the baby as we wandered around.  It was past 4:00 p.m. when we noticed the dark cumulonimbus clouds pregnant with rain. The leaves on the trees seemed to move nervously. The sky harboured an ominous storm.   

The tired dusty jalopy with a now grumpy group moved towards Delhi. A sudden darkness engulfed everything. The winds blew high and low, and all of a sudden, the clouds cracked open. Huge drops of rain began to hit the crawling car. 

The baby began mewling. The dark road turned into a nameless turbulent river. Slowly the car ground to a gurgling halt. The baby began to cry. The wind blew the doors tightly shut, and rainwater dripped through window crevices. We found ourselves cowering in a corner of the car. 

Indra’s Rage 

God Indra was in full form swinging His instruments of destruction. High-velocity winds, pouring rain, lightning, and thunder.  We had nothing with which to cover the kids. Our clothes were soaked. I sat at the wheel while the soldier-spouse began to push the car. 

I had never steered a stalled car. So I offered to push instead. The raging flooded river stole my slippers away. I was now barefoot.  The rain wrapped my saree around me like a python. Slipping sliding praying I pushed till we reached a kind of hutment. I stumbled over looking for help. The two scruffy men I spotted made me turn around and slide back.  

Huffing, puffing, and pushing the car in the pitch dark I heard a voice next to me. I could just about see a turbaned man. He could be a dacoit/ highwayman one read about. The dangerous Agra-Delhi highway.  This one had a milk can. Scared, I said, “We are military people.”

At once, he handed me the milk can and took over the pushing. Very soon, we reached a lighted habitat. The milk can man opened the driver’s door and stood in military attention saying, “Ram Ram Sahaab”. He introduced himself. He was Retired Havaldar Ramphal Singh. 

Camaraderie among Soldiers 

Instant camaraderie and the two soldiers vanished only to return with a posse of police constables. These chaps now pushed the car, and in just a few minutes took it and us inside a sprawling bungalow. A wet with rain signboard proclaimed PWD Guest House. It was right there, snuggled and nesteled inside a short lane. For the Baraa Sahibs.  

Padlocks flew open, and we entered clean rooms with manicured beds. Our clothes were dripping, and I was soaked to the bone. Six blankets appeared from nowhere and two large tiffin carriers with piping hot food. Rotis, daal, and aloo gobi sabzi with roughly chopped onions. Hot water for the baby’s milk and a bottle of Rum for Sahab! 

Havaldar Ramphal Singh was disappointed.  The fauji Sahab was a teetotaler! But the police constables looked delighted. This rainy night was going to be extra super with a bottle of rum.    

We, women, had begun to shiver. Some rum could have helped. The mother-in-law disapproved.  

We were full of gratitude. We ate as we had never eaten before. Soon we improvised. Wrapped ourselves in rough prison blankets and set out our clothes to dry. 

Whimpering Daughter 

The little daughter had started whimpering. Her temperature was rising, giving way to delirium. There was no way to contact anybody. The only phone in the guesthouse just crackled itself to sleep. Prayer remained the only medicine. We had braved it because we were used to roughing it. 

Military families are like that. We live, and we learn. Since that day, even a day trip means an overnight bag, some food, dry rations, and medicines.   

Early the next morning I heard temple bells ringing.  I wrapped the damp saree around me and stepped out.  A well-kept lawn with large palms and a Kadam tree blooming furry balls greeted me. A Gulmohar tree bloomed resplendent red. In Bangla, we call it Krishnachura. Both trees are intimately associated with Lord Krishna.  

I walked to the gate and out onto the short lane, which connected the main highway. The temple bells continued to ring. Near the gate was a sign – “Chhata”! Once on a rail journey as kids, we passed through a station called Chhata. And we giggled ignorantly at the strange name.  

Govardhan Chhata 

I walked a few steps more and found an unpaved narrow road that led to someplace. Here the signboard with an arrow pointing said, Govardhan Chhata.  

Govardhan Chhata? Centuries fell back as I stood motionless in marvel. I was standing on holy ground. Not too far away I could see the Govardhan Parvat.  Five thousand years later last night Krishna had lifted the Govardhan Parvat and saved our lives from Indra’s fury.  

The raging storm and the lashing rain. Last night was a miracle. Lord Krishna was here. Palpable and real. I felt His presence. 

Two Dishevelled Men 

A car honked and honked, and I moved aside. Two dishevelled men stopped and waved. Oh God can’t men see a woman and not leer and jeer. It was 5:30 a.m. and dawn was breaking. The car door opened and out tumbled two familiar faces. A Brigadier and a Squadron Leader. A desperate weeping father-in-law and a neighbour-friend. 

They had searched every hospital since 8:00 p.m. the night before. Scrounged every bit of the Delhi-Agra highway for our bodies. And found nothing of us nor anything about us. Our message on the crackling phone last night had not reached them. They were returning in horror and dejection. They had been driving all night.   

And now on a lone highway, they had found me looking content. Why had the temple bells called me out? The temple bells continued to ring. A procession of dancing devotees went past, towards Govardhan Parvat, singing, “Govind jai-jai, Gopal jai-jai. Radha Raman Hari Govind jai-jai!” 

We stood with our hands folded. 

Visuals by Different Truths

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur is a poet, travel writer, and social justice activist. A former professor of English Literature at Delhi University, and a creative writing professor at IGNOU, she is a widely published academic and creative writer. Her book Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature, is a seminal text on women’s socio-political empowerment. In 2020-21, she co-edited two poetry anthologies – In All the Spaces: Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, and Earth Fire Water Wind.

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