Shereen Naman
Every year, when summer arrives and the sun begins to soften the snow-fed winds of the valley, I find myself returning to Shalimar Bagh. Not as a tourist, not even as a historian—but as someone seeking stillness. There’s something about its old chinar-lined walkways, its symmetry disturbed only by age, that invites a pause no other place offers. The rustle of leaves overhead, the hush of the fountains, the occasional echo of children’s laughter—all come together like the hushed chorus of memory.
But to call it just Shalimar feels incomplete. Before the marble pavilions and carved niches became a backdrop for cameras, before guidebooks named it among Kashmir’s prized gardens, it bore a name far more intimate: Farah Baksh—the delightful. A name meant to evoke emotion, not awe.
Commissioned in 1619 by Emperor Jahangir, Farah Baksh wasn’t a public display of imperial power. It was a retreat. A garden designed not to impress others, but to bring delight to the self. Jahangir had fallen deeply for Kashmir’s natural rhythm—the breeze, the still lakes, the slow-flowering willows. And in Farah Baksh, he hoped to weave that rhythm into architecture. This wasn’t conquest; it was communion.
The Mughals brought with them the idea of the Chahar Bagh—a four-part paradise inspired by Persian garden design. It was a metaphor for the Islamic concept of paradise: flowing rivers, walled enclosures, quadrants of bounty. But here in Kashmir, the earth itself demanded a different language. The slope, the altitude, the climate—they all shaped how the garden grew. Instead of forcing symmetry on the land, the architects listened to it. They let the garden flow with the terrain. Water became the guide.
From a natural spring at the top, streams were channeled into descending terraces. Each terrace had a purpose, a rhythm. Each pause, intentional.
The first terrace, the Diwan-e-Aam, was meant for public interactions. Broad, open, democratic in spirit. This was where the emperor would meet his subjects, where announcements were made, where whispers of the court occasionally rose above the murmur of fountains.
The second terrace, the Diwan-e-Khaas, was more intimate. Shaded by tall chinars, the air cooler, the light softer. Reserved for nobility, courtiers, and scholars, this space was contemplative. Here, ideas were exchanged, poetry was composed, and state matters discussed beneath the stone canopy. The scent of saffron from nearby fields often lingered in the breeze.
But it is the third terrace that has always drawn me in—the emperor’s private space. Higher, quieter, humbler in scale, but heavy with meaning. This was the emperor’s heart, where he came not to rule, but to feel. To observe the world not as a sovereign, but as a man.
It is here you find the chini khanas—small niches behind the fountains, once filled with flickering lamps. In the evenings, the dance of water and fire would create illusions—a shimmer that defied the coldness of stone and structure. It was not just architecture; it was imagination carved in water and light.
Beyond these spaces, framed by cypresses and bursts of poppy, stands the Baradari, a black marble pavilion with twelve carved pillars—severe in its geometry, yet softened by the moss that has grown into its seams. One can almost imagine scholars seated under its shade, poets scribbling verses on the cool floor, artisans brushing away dust from their carvings. It’s a space where silence lingers—not as absence, but presence.
Later, when Shah Jahan inherited the garden, he renamed it Shalimar—abode of love. He expanded it, refined it, and added his signature touches. It was he who introduced the polished black marble, the floral carvings, and more structured parterres. And yet, the soul of Farah Baksh remained untouched. The renaming was poetic rather than political. Though the name faded from official memory, those who know its history still feel its echo.
What makes Shalimar remarkable isn’t just its imperial past, but its enduring intimacy. Today, visitors walk the same paths once tread by emperors, architects, caretakers. Lovers pause beneath the trees. Elders rest on stone benches, sharing stories that are half-remembered, half-imagined. Children chase each other between fountains, their laughter mingling with the gurgle of water. And yet, there are pockets of quiet, little folds in the fabric of the garden, where time still holds its breath.
Sometimes I sit by the central channel, watching the water spill gently from terrace to terrace. It speaks, but not in language. It speaks in rhythm. In stillness. In patience. The same water that once reflected the Mughal sky now mirrors clouds that drift across the modern one. The garden doesn’t mourn the past. It lives alongside it.
Shalimar, or Farah Baksh, is not just a historical relic. It’s a living metaphor. It teaches us that beauty doesn’t need to shout, that legacy isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it lies in continuity. In the way a chinar leaf curls and falls exactly as it did four centuries ago. In how a drop of water still finds its path without protest. In how a place built for joy continues to offer it, quietly, to anyone who arrives with open senses.
Farah Baksh may no longer appear on the signboards, but its essence is stitched into every brick, every branch, every reflection. It reminds us that history is not always in the foreground. Sometimes, it simply flows—delightfully, silently—waiting to be noticed.
The author can be reached at shereennaman332@gmail.com
