A couple of hundred kilometers to the north of the capital of West Bengal lies a city, which a few centuries back, was the capital of the then province of Bengal. Being one of the first cities to fall to the British, this city has its own significant share of historical monuments and relics. The Hazar Duari (Palace with a 1000 doors), tombs of the ruling Nawabs, mosques, temples, mansions, armoury, paintings and objets d’dart attract quite a number of tourists to this medieval city of Murshidabad. What captures the imagination however is the folklore surrounding the city and its rulers.
On a visit to the city once, on a comfortable autumn day, we were greeted by a guide who seemed to materialize out of thin air as soon as we stepped out of the car. Tall and wiry with a sallow complexion, the man introduced himself as Ashraf and having an “MA in History”, as if the degree qualified him to be a better guide. It was difficult to guess Ashraf’s age – his weathered face made him seem almost as ancient as the city of Murshidabad. As soon as he had introduced himself a young boy appeared, stating that he would charge less to take us to rarely seen places. We told him that Ashraf had already been appointed; he continued to hang around though.
For the rest of the guided tour this odd couple regaled us with stories of Murshidabad in their own unique style.
Murshid Quli Khan, the founder of Murshidabad was known to be notorious in the matter of tax collection. On one occasion revenue from Bengal’s coffers sent to the Mughal Emperor in Delhi, had amounted to a guinea less. In order to rectify this Murshid Quli Khan sent the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb, a unique offering – the head of the taxman bearing the erroneous revenue on the last occasion, with a gold coin stuck to his forehead, set on a platter!
Then there was the story of one of Murshid Quli Khan’s daughters (an argument broke out here between Ashraf and his younger colleague on the number of daughters that Murshid Quli Khan had). Apparently she was a witch of sorts and devoured men’s hearts (what they probably meant was today’s version of the “man eating” woman). Every day a man had to be brought to satisfy the Begum’s thirst for human blood. Once when the Nawab had had enough he got his men to dig a grave for his daughter and fooled her into lying inside it for the purpose of measurements and then buried her alive.
Incredulity notwithstanding, the story that is most stirring is that of the last Nawab, Siraj du Daulah’s. On the occasion of India’s independence his grave apparently cracked up and spurted blood in a sign indicating that his soul was at last at peace over Mir Jafar’s betrayal at the Battle of Plassey in 1757, resulting in the beginning of the takeover of Indian territory by the British.
At the end of the day, after being remunerated Ashraf disappeared almost as quickly as he had arrived and we prepared to departs.
With time even the most impressive sights of Murshidabad gradually faded from memory but Ashraf’s stories continued to conjure a thousand images, adding to the mystery and magic of Murshidabad.
