The Mehrauli Archaeological Park is very well laid out, so as long as you can make it to the main gate of the park, you won’t have any trouble following the well-marked trail to the baoli. If you’re in a hurry and don’t want to see too many of the other monuments in the park, take the trail towards the right, past the Mosque and Tomb of Jamali-Kamali. The path veers off from here towards the baoli, which is less than five minutes’ walk from the mosque.

If you’ve never seen a stepwell before, Rajon Ki Baoli is a good- and impressive- introduction. It’s a large stepwell, not terribly deep (just three tiers), but it must, at one time, have been a fairly busy place. There is a colonnaded section running along three sides of the baoli, and the cells of this arcade probably once provided shelter to thirsty passersby. Beside the baoli, and separated from it by a wall, is a mosque (an inscription on which puts its date at 1506) and a tomb. We’d done an almost complete circuit of the Mehrauli Archaeological Park and were running out of time, so we didn’t see the mosque or the tomb. We agreed, however, that the baoli was a beauty. The arcade around the top has remains of some prettily incised plasterwork, and the arches of the arcade themselves are very pleasingly symmetrical.

In its heyday, the Rajon Ki Baoli filled up with rainwater during the monsoon, and retained much of the water through the months that followed. Something’s obviously gone wrong with the waterworks now, for water doesn’t remain in it anymore. The baoli is therefore also known as the Sookhi Baoli (Dry Baoli).

If you’d like to see another baoli head further up the path, towards the Gandhak Baoli (the Sulphur Baoli), named for the strong smell of sulphur that permeates its water. This baoli is five tiers deep, and was built during the reign of Iltutmish (1210-36). Even if you don’t visit the baoli, you’ll probably find traces of it as you walk through the park- there’s a stream flowing through, with the unmistakable smell of sulphur.

Entry to the park and the two baolis is free. The park is open daily from sunrise to sunset.
Although there are ramps for wheelchairs, they’re frightfully steep, and I personally wouldn’t advise anybody to even try using them.

Satpula, a weir about 65m high, was built by Mohammad bin Tughlaq in 1323. When Mohammad bin Tughlaq ascended the throne of Delhi, he built a new city for himself called Jahanpanah, the wall of which extended to enclose three previous settlements: Qila Rai Pithora, Siri, and Tughlaqabad. Satpula, built into the southern wall of Jahanpanah, was meant to provide water to irrigate the fields that lay south of the city.

Satpula consisted of a solidly built stone dam with seven wooden sluices to regulate the flow of water from an artificial lake (filled with rainwater) to the fields outside the city. At either end were subsidiary openings to allow water to flow. The water of the lake at Satpula was traditionally believed to have curative powers—derived from a belief that the Sufi mystic Nasiruddin Roshan Chirag-e-Dehli used its waters to perform ritual ablutions before his namaz.

Also at each end of Satpula is an octagonal tower. These towers contain chambers that were once home to a madarsa, or school of Islamic learning.

The wooden sluices that once controlled the water of Satpula have long since rotted away and gone, but the grooves into which they fitted can still be seen. The lake beyond has now degenerated into a muddy and smelly pond that seems to consist largely of sewage, but where you can see—at least early in the morning—aquatic birds such as sandpipers and lapwings.

Satpula itself, with its solid walls and seven arched openings, has recently been restored by the Archaeological Survey of India. You can climb up onto the wide parapet and see the structure for yourself, but don’t expect anyone to guide you around—there isn’t likely to be anyone there. Satpula can be visited any time, and there isn’t any entry fee.

Sabz Burj, more commonly known as Neeli Chhatri, stands in a grassy traffic island at the intersection of two very busy roads, Lodi Road and Mathura Road, right next to Nizamuddin. Watch out for the traffic—it’s usually chaotic. The tower isn’t a particularly high building, but it’s striking enough. Walk across the surrounding lawn, and a couple of steps will take you up onto a platform, which forms a plinth for the building.

Sabz Burj is a `Baghdadi tomb’, an octagonal structure that looks more Central Asian than Mughal. The eight sides are alternately wide and narrow, and each has a recessed arch that’s ornamented in a pattern of incised plaster, paint, or glazed tile. No two arches are decorated alike. You can walk around the outside of the tomb, as we did, and admire the craftsmanship—though it’s in poor shape, it still has remnants of long-lost beauty.

The tower is kept locked so you can’t go in. Happily, though, the gate is a simple barred one, so you can crane your neck and peer up towards the ceiling. Even though the outer dome is a high, rounded one, the ceiling is a very shallow dome, so shallow in fact that it looks only slightly curved. It’s painted all over in an amazingly intricate (if weather-beaten) design in reds and blues.

Now a word about its history. The Sabz Burj probably dates back to the 1530s-40s, but some sources put its date to even a century earlier. Be as it may, for a number of years during the days of the Raj, the building functioned in an unusual capacity—as a police station! It was later taken over by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), which gave the dome a brand new finish—in bright, deep blue tile, rather than the original green tile that gave the dome its name. Fortunately enough, the tilework around the drum of the tower remained: it’s a pleasing pattern of squares in white, green, yellow, and blue. Currently, the ASI seems to be using the inside of the tower as a store for building material.

There isn’t any entry fee to the Sabz Burj. In fact, there isn’t even anybody at the gate: just walk in.

Qudsia Begum, the patroness of these gardens, was born Udham Bai, and was a 18th century dancing girl. The Mughal Emperor Mohammad Shah `Rangeela’, smitten by her, married her- but himself died in 1748. He was succeeded by his son Ahmad Shah, in whose reign Udham Bai—now formally titled Qudsia Begum—came into her own. She became the power behind the throne, and began to make her presence felt. The gardens that bear her name were laid out in 1748, and have a turbulent history.

Qudsia Bagh was originally near the river Yamuna, and was more a camping ground than a formal garden. The Emperor and his household came here on extended picnics that included jackal-hunting, much feasting and gaiety.

The mutiny of 1857 put an end to the gaiety. The Indian rebels barricaded themselves inside the Walled City of Delhi (to which the nearby Kashmere Gate was an entrance); the British, therefore, occupied Qudsia Bagh and made it their battery. In the subsequent shelling, hundreds died, and Qudsia Bagh, not surprisingly, was more or less ruined. Today, only three monuments remain in Qudsia Bagh: the gate, the mosque, and the baradari.

The covered gate has two turret-like structures on either side, and is made of thin lakhori bricks covered with incised plaster. There’s a little bit of carved red sandstone along part of the façade, but that’s about all. Inside and out, the gate’s in bad condition: proof enough of the shoddy treatment it’s faced over the years. In Qudsia Begum’s time, it must’ve been imposing, but no longer.

Enter the garden through the gate, and follow the path to the baradari. Traditionally, a baradari was a pillared open pavilion: this building, with its neat verandah, large windows and handsome curved staircase, looks nothing like a baradari. And that’s because of the facelift the British gave it. When they occupied Qudsia Bagh, the British added walls, niches, and more to the baradari. Today, it’s a distinctly colonial and decidedly eccentric building. Wander in, go round to the back...it’s fun.

The last of the three buildings in Qudsia Bagh is the masjid, the mosque. Topped with three rather ugly and bulbous domes, this one’s also in bad shape. The incised plaster has broken off, and some of the bricks have crumbled. If you want a closer look, remove your shoes and go in.

What sets Qudsia Bagh apart is its combination of Mughal and British architecture; birdlife and history—and the fact that it’s rarely crowded. Off the beaten path, and easy to get to (take the Metro to Kashmere Gate, emerge at the Boulevard Road/Qudsia Park end, and follow the road to your right), this is worth a visit once you’ve run through the more popular sights.

Ghaziuddin Khan (father of the first Nizam of Hyderabad) was a powerful nobleman and general during the reign of the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb (1618-1707) and his successors. Khan, while he was still alive, built a mausoleum for himself, with a mosque alongside. Shortly after his death in the mid-1700s, a madarsa was established in the complex; and this madarsa has endured in some form or the other as a centre of education ever since.

By the late 1800s, Delhi was in political turmoil, and the madarsa ran short of funds. In 1870, the British decided to set up a government college—and the obvious choice for the location of this institution was the madarsa. Named the Sarkari Madarsa (Governmental Madarsa), the place became a centre for studies in Arabic, Persian, and Sanskrit. In 1878, English too was introduced, although the classes were held not at the madarsa, but at a separate chamber at Kashmiri Gate. Many orthodox Indians were peeved at the introduction of English. Itmad-ud-daulah, for instance, had donated a large sum to the madarsa, and his son-in-law, who was made the trustee of the fund after Itmad-ud-daulah’s death, protested vehemently that his father-in-law had not made the donation in order to propagate the study of English. The British refused his demand to return the money, but tried—unsuccessfully—to placate him by putting up a plaque commemorating the donation. The white marble plaque can still be seen at the madarsa: it’s in Persian, inscribed on the inner wall of the gatehouse, just after you enter the main yard in front of the mosque.

Although many classes were shifted to Kashmiri Gate, the Oriental Section remained where it was. By the end of the 19th century, it was known as the Delhi College (and, later, the Anglo-Arabic College—which, in fact, is still the inscription outside). One of Delhi’s oldest modern colleges, Zakir Hussain College, first set up shop here; today it’s the Anglo-Arabic Senior Secondary School.

The madarsa, a series of halls surrounding a large central yard, is in stark contrast to the din and filth outside. I must admit, though that I’ve always visited on a Sunday. Maybe on weekdays, with boys milling around, it’s much noisier. Some boys were playing cricket even on Sunday, but we walked past, from the carved gatehouse (it has a curving `whaleback’ roof) past dry water channels to the mosque, behind two pine trees. It’s of red sandstone, the façade consisting of seven cusped arches topped by three domes. The ornamentation is low-key and elegant. Ghaziuddin’s tomb is more ornate; it’s of white marble, as heavily carved as the surrounding screens, the carving depicting typical `Mughal’ floral patterns. The door to the tomb’s kept locked but the key can be requested for from the Principal of the school.

Almost the first monument that you’ll come across is the Tomb of Ghiyasuddin Balban (reign: 1265-87), a powerful Sultan of pre-Mughal times. Although the tomb is in ruins now, it must once have been pretty grand. At any rate, it merits a visit for one feature: it is probably the first monument in Delhi which incorporates true arches. Balban’s Tomb is a little off the main path- you’ll have to clamber through undergrowth and over rubble to get to it.

Back to the main path, and you’ll see something rather unprepossessing, marked as Gumti. This too is more or less in ruins- a square structure with columns at each corner and a dome on top. Neither beautiful nor of any great historic significance, so you can walk further on, down the path. Move straight on, and you’ll reach a series of arched recesses. This was probably once a stable, and though not very decorative (unsurprisingly; why waste artisans on something only horses or their grooms will see?), is pleasing enough.

Further down the path is a very pretty wall mosque dating back to Lodi times. The mosque is basically just a wall with a mihrab marking the direction of prayer. It is decorated with intricately incised plaster, and is worth a brief stopover. Next to it is an old tomb, which didn’t look very attractive when we visited since some of the conservation workers were camping out in it. We gave this one the miss, and walked on up the path, along a filthy stream of water that smelt distinctly of sulphur (more on this later).

On the bank of the stream is a wonderful old tomb known as theTomb with the Jharokhas. Jharokhas are ornate windows that typically jut out of the building, and you’ll often see them in old forts and palaces in Rajasthan. They are not common in tombs, at any rate. But this tomb with its dome and its side staircases seems to be the exception, for its has two delightful jharokhas at the corners overlooking the stream. Since the tomb is still half-buried, the jharokhas appear to be just above the ground; in medieval times they’d have been one storey up.

You can follow the smelly stream and go to the Mughal tombs that lie at the far end of the park, or (as we did) you can take a detour to the right shortly after the Gatehouse. The Gatehouse, by the way, appears to have been around for quite a few centuries; the one you’ll see was built by Charles Metcalfe, the British Resident of Delhi in the early 1800’s.

The path crosses the stream and leads you to one of the most impressive structures in the park, the 16th century stepwell known as the Rajon Ki Baoli. If you have the time, you can also visit the adjoining mosque and tomb. And if you’ve still not had your fill of stepwells, you can go further along the path, to the nearby 12th century Gandhak Baoli. This stepwell has been named for the strong smell of sulphur that permeates its waters, and it is the source of that stream you’ve been following.

From the Gandhak Baoli, retrace your steps to return to the Rajon Ki Baoli and then follow the path to Metcalfe’s Boathouse and Dovecote. Although this structure had existed since the Lodi period, Metcalfe carried out extensive repairs and made additions to it. Originally, an artificial lake existed here, but this has since dried up and all signs of it have disappeared under the vegetation.

Right opposite the Boathouse (the Dovecote, a set of pigeonholes, is on the upper storey) stands the Tomb of Quli Khan. Restoration work is currently in progress here, so we decided not to visit it. The glimpse we got of it, however, was very alluring: it’s an ornate, domed structure, and must’ve looked quite impressive in its time. Well, impressive enough for Metcalfe to have made it his Summer Residence.

Instead of going up to Quli Khan’s tomb, we made our way over Metcalfe’s Bridge, towards Metcalfe’s Canopy, a folly with a dome and arches that looks 16th century but actually was made as recently as the 1850s. Just across the Canopy, on lower ground, is (in my opinion) the highlight of the park: the Mosque and Tomb of Jamali-Kamali. The mosque is pleasant enough, but it’s the tomb that takes some beating: almost every square inch of the ceiling is painted, in reds, blues, and ochre. It’s kept locked, but you should usually be able to find the caretaker nearby, and he’ll open it to let you have a look. If you can’t have it opened, peer in at the sandstone grill on the side: with a little bit of effort, you should be able to get a glimpse of the inside.

All in all, this is an interesting snapshot of Delhi at various stages in its existence. Entry to the park is free; come any time between sunrise and sunset, and you’ll find it open. Set aside at least an hour (preferably two) to explore the park. Remember to wear good walking shoes, and if you’re intent on visiting each of the monuments, wear heavy-duty jeans or trousers to protect yourself from thorns or insects: you may well need to plough through undergrowth to get to some of the less accessible ruins. And yes, bring along a bottle of drinking water. Walking through the park can make you thirsty, and there are no shops or cafés anywhere within the park.

The traitor in question switched sides during the Battle of Patparganj, when he went over from the Marathas to the British. The Battle of Patparganj was fought in 1802. Memories in Delhi are long.

All across the city, in fact, are stark reminders of the fact that Delhi- known also in Hindi and Urdu as Dilli or Dehli- is an old city. Very old. And thankfully, even though it modernises itself by leaps and bounds, it still hangs on to its past. The place where the invader Temur the Lame set up camp is still known as Timarpur. Kilokri was originally the 13th-century palace township Kilugarhi, established by the ill-fated Kaiqubad (Ill-fated because he drowned in the Yamuna during a bit of light sport with his concubines, who’d rolled him up in a carpet. The poor inebriated soul tumbled into the river, thus bringing to an end a short life that had been spent in the pursuit of pleasure).

But on to more serious stuff. And thirty centuries of hectic activity of war, intrigue, treachery, invasions, and cultural development is definitely serious stuff. Serious enough, in fact, to impart to Delhi a significance all its own.

The first mention of Delhi is to be found in the part-history, part-mythology of Hindu religious scriptures, which hold that this particular stretch on the bank of the river Yamuna was the site of Indraprastha. Indraprastha, the capital of the five Pandava brothers (heroes of the Mahabharat) was believed to have been founded sometime in 1450 BC. Although archaeological excavations have revealed the existence of a township, most scholars feel that Indraprastha could hardly have merited the epithet many bestow on it: that of being the first `city’ of Delhi.

Delhi is popularly believed to have been, at various points of time, seven distinct cities. Historians generally regard the true figure to be anywhere between 10 and 15. The point of the matter is that Delhi has been ruled by men (and some intrepid women) of every ilk, and a number of the more independent-minded felt it necessary to build their own cities, complete with forts, palaces and markets. In most cases, little remains except solid ramparts- but there’s loads of history hidden away even in the rough-hewn blocks of grey Delhi quartzite and red sandstone.

Indraprastha may have been little more than a myth; but by around the 1st century A.D., Ptolemy of Alexandria was recording the existence of a city he called `Daidala,’ but known to the locals (even as it is today) as Dilli.

Dilli too remained small and inconsequential until it was occupied by the Tomar Rajputs, warriors who made it their capital in the 8th century. The Tomars built a number of monuments, including the fort of Lal Kot, some broken ramparts of which can still be seen near the Qutub Minar. The Chauhans, who succeeded the Rajputs, expanded Lal Kot further, and renamed it Qila Rai Pithora.

In 1191-92, the course of history altered suddenly and dramatically for Delhi. Qutubuddin Aibak, commander of the Turkish ruler Mohammad Ghori, captured Delhi, and the city quickly acquired (though perhaps not willingly) a distinctly Islamic flavour. Over the next seven centuries, till the British took over, Delhi was ruled by Islamic dynasties, and their legacy lives on even today. Not just in the exquisite architecture of mosques, tombs, and palaces around Delhi, but also in traditional foods and crafts.

Qutubuddin Aibak began work on the stunning Qutub Minar, but the next `city’ of Delhi dates to the late 13th century, and is credited to Kaiqubad (he of the watery death). Kaiqubad may have been a profligate, but he did set up a palace, along with a surrounding township, and called it Kilugarhi (the name has since been corrupted to Kilokri- a village near Maharani Bagh).

The next city appeared not long after,in the early 1300s, when Alauddin Khalji selected Siri as the site for a fortress. Although little remains of Siri today, except remnants of the fort walls, the settlement was (as reported by Temur himself) a fairly active town.

The next important city of Delhi, Tughlaqabad, is one of the few of which substantial sections can still be seen. Built by Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq (whose unusual fortified tomb stands opposite the Tughlaqabad Fort), this city took about four years to construct. Only two years after it was ready, Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq died. His son and successor, the impulsive and whimsical Mohammad bin Tughlaq, promptly set about building yet another city, which he called Jahanpanah. Jahanpanah included sections of pre-existing fortifications, such as Dilli, Siri and Tughlaqabad.

The Tughlaqs were, apparently, great builders of cities, for the third ruler of the dynasty, Feroze Shah Tughlaq, also made his own city: the area known as Ferozabad. Modern-day Feroze Shah Kotla (which lies north of the Red Fort) is about all that remains of Ferozabad.

From the time Ferozabad was constructed (in 1354), till 1533, city building in Delhi went through a slump. And not surprisingly, for these were turbulent times. The city was attacked by the invading forces of Temur, and the dynasties that followed- the Saiyyads and the Lodis- did not set up cities of their own. It was, in fact, not till the time of the second Mughal emperor, Humayun, that a new city was envisaged. Humayun, encouraged perhaps by the fact that he was able to spend more time in Delhi than his father Babar had managed, chose the site of the ancient Indraprastha to build a city. He began work on a large fortified township called Din Panah (today known as Purana Qila) in 1533, and within 5 years, managed to create a fairly impressive monument.

Humayun’s luck wasn’t with him, though, and he was hounded out of Delhi by an intrepid rival, Sher Shah Suri. Sher Shah managed to hold on to the imperial throne for fifteen years, and spent the time fruitfully. He made additions to Din Panah, the Qila-e-Kuhna mosque and the octagonal tower of Sher Mandal being among the most impressive structures that still stand. Sher Shah was enough of an egoist to name his Delhi Dilli Sher Shahi (or, sometimes, Sher Garh). He built an extensive series of ramparts around the city, which is believed to have been about double the size of its major successor, Shahjahanabad.

Shahjahanabad was built, as is obvious by its name, by Shahjahan. Generally regarded as the greatest aesthete among the Mughal emperors, Shahjahan is best known for building the pristine Taj Mahal. Shahjahanabad, constructed over a period of seventeen years starting in 1639, was Shahjahan’s most ambitious project, and was in its heyday a city that few could equal.

Shahjahan’s court is estimated to have been among the wealthiest in the world at the time—it was rivalled only by that of the Ming emperors—and Shahjahanabad, as the capital city, had to be a suitable setting for this jewel. The court was centred round the awesome Lal Qila, the Red Fort, with its many pavilions, palaces, gardens and halls of audience. Beyond the walls of the Lal Qila were more gardens, mosques (including the stunning Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India), mansions, and markets.

Shahjahanabad remained the centre of power (even if the power itself was in name only) until the deposition and death of the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, after the mutiny of 1857. The British, now in control, ruled from Calcutta.

But Delhi has a prestige all its own; and even the British had to finally succumb. At the Durbar of 1911, the capital was shifted from Calcutta to Delhi. The next year itself, a designer and architect was found- Lutyens- to set about giving shape to the new capital. The work he did, in combining Indian and Western styles of architecture, resulted in some of the greatest landmarks of Lutyens’ Delhi: Parliament House, India Gate, and the Rashtrapati Bhavan.

Delhi today is a far cry from what it was in Qutubuddin’s or Shahjahan’s day. But there is still a lot of history buried under the 21st century version of Delhi. And unearthing that history is invariably a rewarding task.