A summer sunset stains the sky scarlet as I enter the fret-worked gates of the Chowmahalla Palace. And, to first see this reminder of lost glories through a bower of bougainvillea is to fall in love with a world that has longed passed into the pages of a history book.
Situated a few kilometres from the Charminar and the Mecca Masjid — with their overlapping layers of obliteration and opulence — the palace is a source of legend on the royalty of Hyderabad. As I vault over a grassy knoll with an ageing brass cannon, the calm of the beautiful gardens contrasts with the cacophony and colours of Lad Bazaar that lies just a turn away from the gates. Official residence of the Nizam and seat of the Asaf Jahi dynasty, the four-palace complex used to be the setting for all ceremonies of accession and entertainment of royal guests.
Built in 1750 by Nizam Salabat Jung, Chowmahalla, modelled after the Shah's Palace in Tehran, was recently restored to its former glory by Princess Esra, first wife of the titular Nizam, Mukkaram Jah. The first monument in Andhra Pradesh to be conferred the UNESCO Asia-Pacific Heritage Award for Conservation 2010, the complex is a labyrinth of museums, stables and garages overflowing with myriad treasures.
I have an hour to go before the complex closes and I wonder where to begin when I meet Rashid Baig, a wizened old tourist. Baig who last visited the palace more than half-a-century ago recalls seeing soldiers in resplendent uniforms near the bandstand. He tells me what not to miss and I hare off to pack in as much as I can of Silisila-e-Asafia (legacy of the house of Asafia.)
In the Northern Courtyard is the Bara Imam, a corridor of rooms with doors within doors that housed the administrative offices. Across the central fountain which gurgles gently is the Shish-e-Alat, a mirror image of the Bara Imam which accommodated visitors. A seemingly innocuous board announces the royal photo studio where visitors dress up as Muslim gentry to be captured in sepia. Mynas hop past the vast lawns in front of the Khilwat Mahal, a white and yellow stucco building, with the gilded, rococo Durbar Hall. The 19 Belgian crystal chandeliers cast their golden glow on the soul of the hall, the Takht-e-Nishan — the marble throne. In its heyday the palace employed 38 people only to dust its chandeliers! The image gallery adjoining this has a nostalgic array of photographs of palaces and gateways — Osmania University, the Afzalganj bridge built by the fifth Nizam, the walls of old Hyderabad city, and the Panchmahalla Palace which has since disappeared.
In the Mahallat which houses the Zenana photo exhibition I encounter a bottleneck. Crowds gather to gape at the rapturous beauty of Princess Durrushevar and her cousin Princess Niloufer, daughter and niece respectively of the last Ottoman Caliph and daughters-in-law of the last Nizam. Other rosy–cheeked women with Turkish names and children who resemble cherubs gaze down from the portraits that line the walls. Lesser wives and concubines stare defiantly at the camera unhindered by the confines of a veil. English governesses hold the hand of a young Mukkaram Jah.
Hall upon hall follows with oil portraits of the Nizams on horseback. Porcelain dinner services choke glass cupboards and gilded cutlery sets follow suit. Shields, spears, swords and scabbards are lined up right to the ceiling.
The Southern Courtyard, built in Neo-classical style has four palaces — Afzal Mahal a grand two-storey structure with Corinthian columns, Mahtab Mahal with cryptic Indo-Islamic records, a vintage typewriter, and a gramophone recorder. The Tahniyat Mahal where grand receptions were held is scattered with period furniture used by the sixth and seventh Nizams. I ignore the glassy-eyed stuffed tiger and turn my attention to an English bracket clock that is about to strike the half hour. Like its Salar Jung counterpart a scene plays out on the clock face. A turbaned caliph smokes a hookah and his bobbing head keeps the seconds. He is flanked by two men who fan him. Every hour a curtain rises and a toy band saunters in playing a tune before the time keeper in the upper deck emerges to strike the hour with a gong.
Frangipani trees give out a heady aroma — I am tempted to rest but I still have three centuries of costumes to glance through. The Aftab Mahal showcases mannequins in golden silk robes sprinkled with roses, and flared kameezes set alight by pink dawns, bright with crescent moons. Almost every garment from court dresses to riding breeches is labelled and spotlit — and every piece is a looker.
I join a group of women in abayas sprinting to the Gaadi Khana Mubarak where vintage Harley-Davidson bikes, Buicks, Packards and Fords jostle for attention but lose to the 1912 canary yellow Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.
By now, most visitors are departing and the palace is even more magical at dusk. The Khilwat clock chimes the hour. Before I step back into the embrace of the everyday I turn to see the Nizams' legacy reflected in the shimmering pools…of how it has remained an aura, a state of mind — and an old man's reminiscence of the palace guard.
