Morning In Aurangabad

An Introduction to India

It's just after five am, still dark when I slip quietly from my hotel room into the dimly lit, elegantly arched breezeway. Jetlagged and groggy, there was no need to set an alarm for this particular hour; my internal body clock was still operating in a time zone some seven thousand miles away. At that moment, it was thinking about dinner.

The air is thick with humidity, but carries the night's freshness, contrasting with yesterday's arrival in the afternoon's heat. I am drawn to these first early mornings in faraway lands; the slight cool of the air, along with the stillness, prickles my sense of intrigue. This is a place I have never been before.

I pause briefly, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The breezeway where I stand appears endless, eventually disappearing into the darkness. Intricately carved openings allow diffused pools of delicate light to emerge on the tile floor. I catch the faint scent of a frangipani tree, reminding me that I am simultaneously outside and inside.

Longing for outside, I head down the hushed tiled corridor. Its beauty is haunting in this faint light, with its carvings and architecture that are unusual to my eye, inspiring the memory of grandeur from a distant past. Further down the breezeway, I slip quietly by an empty glass display case that, later in the afternoon, will showcase the exotic fabrics this city is known for. I pass a golden statue of the god Shiva, his four arms gracefully extended in a silent dance. Past a small closed antiquities shop where, yesterday evening, I noticed a little Buddhist prayer wheel in the window that I will hope to buy before leaving. But for now, these spaces are blanketed in stillness as I continue down a set of open stairs and onto the outdoor patio, settling in a chair. Anticipation rises inside of me. I am waiting.

At first, all I am aware of is the quiet. However, my ears begin to adjust, much like my eyes acclimated to the darkness. Muted, distant sounds began to emerge. Slowly, I start to notice the song of crickets: the fluttering wings of a moth, and an occasional mosquito buzz. I hear the quiet rustling of a staff member navigating the open breezeway, preparing for the day ahead. Behind me, through a closed dining room window, I hear the faint sounds of dishes. An occasional subdued moped or car honks beyond the ivy-covered stone wall, marking the sleepy waking of the city anticipating another busy morning. Sitting in my chair, however, these sounds are so faint that if I were to choose not to listen, they would disappear altogether.

It begins with a soft crackle of static over a distant speaker. A microphone, briefly turned on as if to test, then turned off again. Then, a fragment of a word sneaks through, spoken quietly in a language I do not recognize. I am waiting patiently. Those voices are why I am here this early morning.

Almost without warning, a voice erupts in song through the distant speaker, hidden somewhere beyond the stone wall. Around me, the air becomes alive with an immediate crescendo that engulfs all other sounds. It begins nearby, with one melodic male voice in song, but is quickly joined by three others in the distance. With different pitches and varied timber, the words do not sync, yet they do not feel chaotic. Unrelated voices blend from multiple locations in one hauntingly eloquent expression of invitation and reverence. The morning call to prayer.

For that brief moment, the concerto is all around me, echoing off the structures nearby and reverberating back on itself. Three voices? Five? A hundred? I can no longer tell. The streets also become alive, joining in with horns honking in multiple tones, some short, some long, along with the accompanying acceleration, adding their unique melody which flows into the expansive rhapsody.

I hold a precious ticket for this concert, one which I came by long ago and tucked in my pocket, patiently hoping for the day to redeem it. Woven of torn pictures from magazines, passing wafts of incense, swirls of brightly colored fabric, beautiful sounding phrases in languages I could not understand; my ticket remained unused, almost content to accept the anticipation of the dream in place of the dream itself.

As quickly as it began, the chorus stops, and once more, I am plunged into silence. My ears adjust again, and I realize that in the wake of the completed chorus, the world around me is no longer still. Permission has now been granted to start the day; the traffic increases its fervor, and car horns join the conversation, adamantly expressing impatience. The day has transitioned from a simple presence to assurances of what it should be. Rules are now in play. Expectations are taking their place on center stage. Music has been introduced and is echoing slightly from the speakers in the breezeway. Stiff leaves fall from the tree behind me, and I hear dishes clattering from the dining room. Someone clears their throat, and muffled voices follow. I am no longer alone.

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In 1610, a freed slave by the name of Ambar, designated a small village to become the capital of the Ahmadnagar Sultanate, one of four kingdoms located in an area known as the Deccan Plateau. He named it Khadki, and this city in northwest India was destined to become an architectural and cultural marvel of its time, a legacy that still endures.

Ambar's path to such a choice is as fascinating as the city itself. The Sultanates were Muslim, and Ambar, who was originally from Ethiopia, had been converted to Islam some years before and, upon recognition of his intellect, was also given an education. Eventually, he was taken to India, sold to the Pershwa, or Prime Minister, of the Ahmadnagar Sultanate, where he rose through the ranks. After being freed, he continued to serve the current sultan. Upon becoming an officer, he built a formidable army and was given the title 'Malik,' which means 'king' in Arabic. From then on, he was known as Malik Ambar and eventually rose to become the Peshwa himself, second only to the Sultan.

When I arrived, some 400 years later, the city, now called Aurangabad, had significantly expanded from its humble beginnings. Instead of the 200,000 that had resided there in the late 17th century, the population had swelled to a staggering 1.6 million, slightly larger than San Diego or Dallas. No longer was it a walled, defensive city, but a modern metropolis. However, many of its historical structures remain intact, including a smaller version of the Taj Mahal, a Sufi shrine, an impressive fort and, of course, the formidable gates to enter the city.

Initially having fifty-two gates at its defensive peak during the 17th century, today only thirteen remain. This ‘City of Gates’, as it was known, became a stopover point for countless pilgrims and travelers alike. The gates through which they entered bore witness to the architectural diversity that has become a hallmark of this area.

Like many before me, I also came from a long distance. Following my own pilgrimage of sorts, I did not enter the city through one of the historical gates. That experience was lost to me as a modern traveler, the city is much too large for that now. I arrived, like many others, by highway, traveling from the airport to the southeast. Still, I was humbled, nonetheless.

Although unclear how many gates were built in the city's beginnings, it was planned as a defensive stronghold. Malik Ambar had fought off the Mughal Empire, which had been steadily gaining power through the early 15th century. Shortly after his death, however, the Mughals assumed control of the city, and their soon-to-be emperor, Aurangzeb, renamed it after himself.

One of the things I love dearly about travel is seeing how historical architectural elements have been woven together. This is evident, in part, through the city’s remaining gates and historical records. Some contain Islamic elements with their large, pointed entry arch. Others combine Persian-style domes atop imposing masonry towers, contrasting with delicately carved openings. Some have contained carved flower motifs, reflecting their Hindu roots. Others, calligraphy with Arabic or Persian inscriptions.

Equally fascinating is the religious history and diversity also reflected in architecture, intertwined in its styles of past empires and rulers. All together, these inspirations have driven many of my travels.

Diversity, especially religious diversity, has been a continuous dialogue throughout history and has ignited several personal discussions from those whose countries I was visiting. Always interesting, these topics range from pride in pointing out where diversity is to an equal concern for where it is not; as if we, as human beings, inherently know that diversity, in all of its forms, keeps us both balanced and grounded.

The diversity in India, continuously evident, began long before Malik Ambar would choose his capital city. Elements of Hinduism, the world's oldest religion, can be traced back to 3000 BC, with the sacred texts of the Vedas emerging around 1500 BCE. Buddhism arrived with Siddhartha Gautama, who delivered his first sermon on the Four Noble Truths in Sarnath, India, around 530 BCE. At roughly the same time, Vardhamana Mahavira shared one of his earliest teachings, the "Divya Dhvani" or Divine Sound, which became a key aspect of what would later be known as Jainism. In the 15th century, Sikhism also emerged, developed from the spiritual teachings of Guru Nanak.

Other religions began to flow into India as well. St. Thomas is believed to have brought Christianity to Kerala in the 1st century CE. Documents indicate that Judaism arrived around the 2nd century CE. Zoroastrianism, an ancient religion in its own right, arrived in India via Persian refugees sometime around the 7th century CE. Shortly after, Islam arrived via trade routes and, finally, military conquests.

The Mughal Empire that Malik Ambar had resisted was also an Islamic Empire, descended from Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, but it introduced something revolutionary that the Sultanates had not: religious tolerance and diversity in government. Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, and Christians were all integrated into a multi-religious administration. This was especially evident during the reign of the third Mughal ruler, Akbar, who was committed to secular government and equal treatment of all faiths. Not only did he facilitate religious and philosophical debates among scholars of all religions, but he also built a center to host such discussions. He reached out to Hindus by discontinuing a tax on those who were 'non-Islamic' and created an inclusive religion that attempted to incorporate elements of each prominent doctrine. Although both were eradicated later, Akbar's policy of 'universal tolerance,' known as 'Sulh-i-Kul,' remained, thereby laying the groundwork for India to become one of the world's premier examples of religious pluralism and cultural collaboration.

That was the world I stepped into and it immediately swirled around me, absorbing me in its vibrant, unexpected expressions. From my linear, structured perspective, it initially felt like chaos, leaving me trailing behind in the dust to grasp a few fragments of understanding. It was simply impossible to take it all in at once.

My travel companions and I are heading to the Ellora Caves this morning. Carved into the rock between 600 and 1000 CE, these caves are a further example of the religious diversity in the area. Built as temples for Hindus, Buddhists, and Jains, and serving as rest stops for pilgrims, there are over a hundred caves carved in the basalt cliffs. Currently, thirty-four are open for visiting, including one of the largest rock-cut Hindu temples in the world.

Regardless of the historical structures we would see in the coming hour, the drive itself was fascinating. Along the dusty roads were decorated building doorways, brightly painted buses with Hindu iconography, roadside stalls with Buddhist alters, a mosque scattered amongst vegetable stands and unfinished buildings. Then, an official-looking building appeared, incongruous with its fresh paint and, in front, a Hindu goddess, proudly holding the Indian flag, her right hand extended in a mudra of blessing and protection.

The road was being widened, and many buildings had simply been demolished on the street-side to create space, leaving the broken areas unfinished. What remained of concrete block walls, fragmented and uneven, were still exposed, with the interior door now serving as the entryway to the back rooms. Leftover piles of cement blocks and broken rubble were scattered about and occasionally, large banners, strung from one building to the next, had the simultaneous task of covering up the disrepair while notifying all who passed that the G-20 summit was coming.

Although Hinduism is the predominant religion in India at 80%, in Aurangabad, those numbers shift somewhat. Hinduism, while still dominant, is more evenly distributed with the other major religions in the area - Hindu at 50%, Muslims are at 30% and Buddhism at 15%.

Thus, although my morning started with the call to prayer, I now see Hindu temples, along with mosques, and even a modest Buddhist stupa woven through the landscape. Small statues of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, representing wisdom and the removal of obstacles. Other idols include Shiva, the symbol of energy, and his devoted bull, Nandi, but there are many I do not recognize. Buddhas also have a place, with small altars displaying incense and fruit. Sometimes, both are displayed together, reflecting the cultural overlap and respect.

A Hindu procession takes over the road. A group of about fifteen, chanting as they walk, bearing brightly colored saffron flags. In front, a man carries what I later learn is a fire pot for the altar. We are witnessing a funeral procession.

A truck, with only the framework in the bed, and covered by a wooden dome, decorated with multiple rows of flowered garlands. Two golden lion statues, also wearing garlands of flowers, are placed on either side of the truck bed, face stoically forward, guarding a receiver with many duct-taped cords leading to the speaker playing music.

This truck is slightly in front, and I think it may be part of the procession, but I am not sure. I am not sure of anything in this vibrant, chaotic world moving in such a fast pace around me.

The cattle move slowly as the vehicles and motorbikes wind carefully around them. Cattle are sacred here, and free to wander at will. They are the only beings I could keep up with in this moment.

A man, wearing white robes and an unfamiliar head covering, layered with a dark scarf, sits in the back of an open truck filled with worn grain sacks, leaning against the dilapidated wooden tailgate. That particular attire could signify a Muslim scholar, perhaps? A Sufi, or possibly even the imam who sang the call to prayer this morning? So many things I do not know.

Not knowing, I decide, is ok. As we arrive at the parking lot for the caves and I see wooden pushcarts and vendors nearby, I realize that this day is only an introduction. For now, I am humbled and simultaneously honored to be here, to share in this human experience. As travelers before me have discovered throughout hundreds of years, this city is a worthy introduction into a fascinating, paradoxical land. A brief stop for rest, to converse with history and then continue on a journey, honoring my own sense of pilgrimage; to explore, discover, and connect.