A documentary on a TV channel, triggered my journey to Kalanaur, close to the Pakistan border. It was at Kalanaur that the only other ‘great’ king in Indian history — apart from Chandragupta Maurya — kick-started his career. For me, it’s an act of faith — something that’s a little more than just curiosity.
The ill-timed demise of the heroic Mughal king, Humayun on January 19, 1556, had created a crisis for the Mughal Empire. The man behind the Grand Truck Road, Sher Shah Suri had packed Humayun off on a 15-year exile. And Humayun’s demise, within seven months of his hard-fought homecoming, had presented an opportunity to the opponents. The emperor’s teenaged son, Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar, was away in Kalanaur with his guide Bairam Khan, crushing an uprising. The power vacuum in Delhi necessitated his return. But before that, the situation demanded that he was proclaimed as the Emperor. Which is exactly what Bairam Khan did in Kalanaur on February 14, 1556.
And the magnificent Takht-i-Akbari, a sandstone podium on which Akbar the Great was crowned, exists to this day. The place lies on the highway from Amritsar to Pathankot.
An hour later, I am in Kalanaur. It’s taken that long from Chandigarh because the road is in such poor condition. And I’m not sure whether it warrants to be called a ‘town’ at all. True, there’s a thick cluster of both kuccha and pucca houses on the road that leads to the coronation place but an average Indian village would probably be more populous. The townsfolk are at least aware of their priceless heritage and are quick to guide us down the road. After about 10 minutes, I spot a shabby board on a post pointing the way to the Takht.
There are healthy albeit dirty cows and buffaloes tied to the board that reads, “Takht-i-Akbari.” The paint is peeling off. I scurry along and almost miss it, for it’s a couple of metres deep amidst the golden wheat fields. And then I see it, the sandstone platform radiant yellow in the light of the blazing hot sun.
I climb up the steps to the plastered ‘throne’ with mixed feelings. The entire platform is neat, well maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India. The green fields all around are beautiful, accentuating the ambience. And yet, there is an inexpressible despondency hangs in the air. Here sat the greatest king, Akbar, that the country has seen in the past 1,000 years. Yet, today, a huge chunk of his dominion lies across the border, just a few kilometres away as the pigeon takes its flight.
I sense a part of that melancholy spirals from the throne’s loneliness. It’s seldom talked about in our history textbooks and perhaps, never visited. It has none of the grandeur that Fatehpur Sikri or the Agra Fort boasts of. Of course, it has its design embellishments and flawless engineering but none of that is outstanding. In all probability, the best part of this humble platform is its cooling system. A small tank in the middle brims with water, which spreads across the exterior and then drains out of pipes at each end. Artless and yet effective.
I look back at the platform, one last time, taking in the grandeur of this monument built for the benevolent ruler who was crowned here a thousand years ago, the greatest of them all.
