Dakshin Darwaja

- Ashok Roy -

In Bengal,  Dakshin Darwaja   literally means the south Gate of  Death God Yama, which none would like to cross as it would lead one straight into the lap of death, an unknown world where no living person or creature wants to go.

But, my Dakshin Darwaja was just the opposite; or rather, I might call it the 'gateway to eternal life’. This Dakshin Darwaja is still there, but I cannot claim to know whether, for the younger generation today, it still holds the same dream, or is the same gateway to the dreamland of my child hood.

Dakshin Darwaja

In reality, Dakshin Darwaja is the south gate of the Kila Nizamat in Lalbagh, Murshidabd, within the periphery of which lie the grand Hazarduary, the Imambara, the Wasif Manjil, the Mosque, and a beautiful garden with fountains and long stretches of wide gothic  railings, along the bank of the river Hoogly, locally called the Ganga. These were the meek spectators of those colorful days of ours, the days of our friendship and the infatuation for those wonderful girls whose mere glance caused our hearts to run faster.

The Imambara

I did my schooling from Nawab Bahadur's Institution, which was founded by Mani Begum, wife of Mir Jafar.  Mir Jafar is not well accepted by the average Indian, because he played the main role in dethroning Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah, and eventually killed him at the instigation of the English. The English came to power virtually from the defeat of Siraj in the battle of Plassey.

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Mani Begum, widow of Mir Jafar, was a lady with a strong character. She established the wonderful school, Nawab Bahadur's Institution. It is a huge building with its own hostel, playground, and quarters. In our days, sometime in the late sixties, it was a government school (It still is). We were required to pay only half a rupee, and that included a full month's tiffin. We used to reach the school passing through the South gate of Kila Nizamat. This was a huge gate, a permanent structure with a Roshan Chowki over it. From this Chowki there used to be live shehnai recital in the mornings and evenings. The Shehnai players were in the payroll of the estate of the Nawab of Murshidabad. Past the Dakshin Darwaja there was a bell tower with a big gong bell. Operated by employees of the estate, it tolled every hour. Alongside the gong, there were some living quarters, and there lived my classmate Jama Nawab. Jama used to call me 'Ashok, the Great'. Jama, a jolly good fellow, was but a poor nawab. His family used to get a very meager portion of the Privy Purse, which had been allotted to the Nawab of Murshiabad. Jama was the grandson of the last Nawab of Murshidabad, the late Wasif Ali Mirza, from his daughter’s side. So long as Wasif Ali Mirza was alive, and Privy Purse had not been abolished by the Indian government, the nawabs maintained good life style, and so did Jama and his family members. But they faced hard times with the abolition of Privy Purse. Yet, Jama always wore a smiling face.

I met again my classmate Jama after some 30 years. A nawab now, he was known as the ‘Chhote Nawab’ of Murshidabad. Still with the same smiling face, he recognized me instantly, and gave me a royal reception indeed. He made special arrangements for me to witness the ‘Bera Festival’, which is held every year on the last Thursday of the month of Bhadra, on the river bank. It is a grand festival existing from the days of the nawabs, and worthy of witnessing. For anybody it would be recognized as a lifetime’s experience.

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As soon as we crossed the river, there was Wasif Manjil, with a beautiful garden that had fountains and an artificial hillock. We had spent many evenings in it, chatting endlessly with friends. Pappu Nawab stayed in a mansion within the Kila Nizamat. Once I had the privilege of entering this house, and had just by chance encountered a ravishingly beautiful girl who had seemed to be a member of the royal family. It had lasted only a fraction of a second. I had then fantasized myself to be the hero of 'Khudita Pashan', and the unknown girl, a near one from my previous birth.

Wasif Manzil

However, those were the days when dreams and reality lived together.

We now moved forward, and on our way to the school there stood the great Hazarduari and the Imambara. In those days, there were few tourists, and the entire area was somber and free from nuisance.  Crossing the path, meandering through the alleys of dream and real life that existed in close liaison in those days, we reached our school gate. And inside the school, there waited a wonderful world for us.


© Ashok Roy - Member WaaS