Autobiography of a a River

Introduction:
I am a river. I like to give you an account of my life. You may laugh to think what is the value of the autobiography of a river. You may laugh if you like. Men write their autobiographies. They have importance in their own way. I have importance in my own way.

Birth and early career:
I was born long ago in an obscure place in a mountain. Several very small streams of water joined together to form one bigger stream. That is how I was born. I am that bigger stream. I am restless from my birth. I cannot stay at one place. So I flow down the mountain. I leap from one rock to another. I am full of life and vigor. As I flow down, I gather strength. My current is very strong here. I carry down with me broken rocks. At last I come down to the plains.

My career in the upper plains:
Here I begin to widen in my course. People begin to make use of my water. Here it is as pure as anything. In my upper course, people have built up towns of pilgrimage. They have built temples on my banks. Hundreds of people bathe in my sacred water. They worship the deities in those temples. They regard me as very sacred. There are also several health resorts in my upper course. People from many parts of the country come there for a change. They walk on my banks. They enjoy the natural beauty. They recover their lost health and return home with a happy heart.

My career in the lower plains:
I have said before that I am very restless. I am constantly on the move downwards. Leaving the upper plains behind I flow down through the lower plains. My water increases the fertility of the fields on either side of my banks. Abundant crops grow there. The country become prosperous.

Towns on my banks:
People have built large towns on my banks. Some of these towns are centres of culture. Some have commercial importance. People carry on trade and commerce. They ply boats and steamers along my surface. These carry many important goods for trade. People travel from one place to another in boats and steamers. Hundreds of people bathe in  water. They use my water for drinking and other purposes.



Efforts to control me:
During the rainy season I carry large quantities of rain-water from the mountain. My surface rises. Sometimes I overflow the banks and cause flood. People suffer much. But am I to blame for this ? What can I do if huge quantities of rainwater flow down me from the mountain? Your Government has now tried to control my furious nature in the rainy season. In my upper course sometimes I fall down several hundred feet from a great height. Here your Government has built barriers across me to hold back my water. It has built dams to store up the surplus water to irrigate the land to help agriculture. Electricity is also generated here with the power of my water. This electricity is cheaper. It helps industry in towns and even in remote villages. Thus you may see how I help you.

My career in the lowest course:
In this way I go on. I have no rest. “Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever.” Your Government has tried to control my furious nature. But it is a very difficult task to control me always. Sometimes I play the part of a destroyer. I wash away my banks. I destroy towns and villages. Again I play the part of a creator. I carry down sediments. These are deposited in some places where the current is not strong. New land is formed there. This land is very fertile. This is done near about the place where I join the sea.

Ports at my mouth:
I flow on to join the sea. This is my goal. This portion of my course is called my mouth. People have built ports here. Factories have been built on my banks. This makes the country prosperous. But the factories do one great harm. In my upper course my water is very pure. But here the municipalities of the towns and the factories throw away all sorts of impurities into my water. This pollutes my water. I am not to blame for this.


Conclusion:
This is my life history. There is one great difference between men and me. I am constantly on the move to join the sea. Men are born and they die. I have no death. I will flow eternally. I will do great service to men. They should, therefore, remain grateful to me.

Autobiography of a Banyan Tree

I am a banyan tree. My abode is a small town. It’s developing fast. I am just twenty. You may term me youth. These days’ banyan trees hardly survive for seventy to eighty years. I am telling about the life-span for my variety. We have three types based on place of growing, viz. rural, suburban and metropolitan.
The rural banyan trees are also termed as classical type. They are on the verge of extinction. Their average life-span is four-hundred years. In the countryside, assemblage for market, meeting, musical orchestra, drama, etc. takes place beneath their shadow. You will find their reference in the classics of prolific story-tellers Bankim Chandra, Tarashankar, Prabhatkumar, Sarat Chandra and the like.
I belong to town category. Before I narrate my bringing up, let me add a few words on our life struggle. We live in small town or suburban. Our births generally take place in disputed places. It may be due to human touch or natural reasons. Thus, very often you will find germination of our seeds at places like the cracks of old buildings, decomposed portion or holes in trees, heaps of garbage, etc. It’s needless to mention that we face turbulent and uncertain periods in our childhood. Sometimes, people become ruthless upon us. They don’t hesitate to uproot. Beheading is a common onslaught. Especially, it’s unleashed upon us with fanfare on the eve of Durga Puja. Thus, it’s difficult for us to grow by the side of streets in the town. There is no scope for extending roots underneath as well. The workers of Drinking Water Supply Department do not hesitate to cut our roots on the plea of laying pipes. The onslaughts from other departments like PWD, BSNL, TNGC, etc just add insult to the injuries. Sometimes, activists styled as environmentalists do cry for our save. But, it’s showy; they are biased towards metropolitan sect.
But, there is always an element of natural selection. At times, the Nature favours us to grow even in rocky soils. My comrades feel it lucky if a stone underneath comes out due to exposure in weather. The disciples of Lord Shiva are often found worshipping it. So, a place of worship gradually develops underneath the banyan tree. It gets the share of milk offered to God. The waste of other eatables acts as manure. The local people forms committee for the protection of the banyan tree. So, it survives for a long period.
The metropolitan type of banyan tree was first witnessed in Japan. The Japanese are a bit short in height in general. They find it difficult to climb trees. So, they make us dwarf by trimming our roots and keeping us half-fed. It has an ornamental name ‘Bonsai’. In metropolitans, there is craze for Bonsai. These dwarfs are also spreading to small towns. I am too young to ascertain the life-span of metropolitan banyan trees. Sometimes, the metropolitan people keep them alive through various processes from tissue culture to cloning after clinical death of a dwarf.
Now, I shall narrate the story of my life. I am an inhabitant of a suburban. Let me keep the name of the place secret, as I don’t want get exposed. A crane mother helped me see the light of the Nature. Actually, she swallowed some banyan-fruits. One such seed fell in a hole of a tree with her excreta. The plant was dead and almost decomposed. It allowed me to grow steadily for about one year. One elderly brother helped me to attain my youth hood from my infant. My mentor had his own interest. He owns a grocery shop. It’s first in the row of a series of shops by the side of a road of my native town. There was some open space by the side of his shop followed by drain. The people preferred to use the place for toilet. Sometimes, the ammoniac smell of urine made the life miserable for the inmates and customers who visited the shop. After some calculative thoughts, my brother planted me at the vacant place. Initially he used to pour water upon my roots religiously to ensure my survival. The soil was fertile due to formation of urea from urine.  Within three months fresh leaf appeared on my branches. It gave immense pleasure to my mentor.
The subsequent development was quite fast. One day a procession for immersion of the idol of Goddess Manasha was passing by the road. My mentor joined them joyfully. He then put forward a proposal before the devotees to leave the idol beneath my shadow. By that time, the participants became tired. They agreed to the proposal without hesitation. My association with the Goddess Manasha was fruitful. Gradually people started keeping other idols, especially Goddess Kali, after worship, by the side of Manasha. My mentor also encouraged them as it deterred people from using the place as toilet. In the evening he lighted candles and incent-sticks before the assemblage of God and Goddess. Now, the place has been established as a place of worship. Lord Shani is also worshipped at this place every Saturday.
But, there is a sad note as well. Due to the widening of road my counselor has been evicted. He has to restart his business at another place. I have grown up as well. My head now touches the overhead electric wires. Every year my branches are shaped. I gladly bear with the situation. Fortunately for me, no water-supply pipe has passed close to my vicinity. However, OFC cable of BSNL is passing close to me. It keeps me apprised about the latest technology. I am hopeful that I can live the average life-span of a suburban banyan tree. 

Autobiography of Taj Mahal

I am very happy today as I am able to write an autobiography on my own self. I always wanted to do that. First of all let me introduce myself to you all. I am Taj Mahal, one of the greatest architectures of the world of all time. I am widely recognized as "the jewel of Muslim art in India and one of the universally admired masterpieces of the world's heritage". I am a white marble mausoleum located in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India. I was built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan. Behind my creation there was a history. On June 17, 1631 Shah Jahan’s wife and beloved Mumtaz Mahal died after delivering her fourteenth child Gauharar. Shah Jahan stood dazed, unable to comprehend the situation. She had died leaving all her children, her mother, and relations to his care. But he had promised her never to remarry and to build the grandest mausoleum over her grave. Her body received a temporary burial in the Zainabadi Garden in Burhanpur and within six months it was removed to Agra. Shahjahan had already acquired from Raja Jai Singh a plot of land on the Yamuna riverside. There on the tomb of dead Mumtaz, my foundation was built on a platform of 22′ high and 313′ square, was started in 1632 in a frenzy with thousands of artisans and labourers, toiling ceaselessly.

My building process goes on with excessive labour and cost, prosecuted with extraordinary diligence and took 22 years for my completion. Gold and silver esteemed as common metal, and marble as ordinary stones. Shah Jahan had chosen the best specimen of designs offered by the famous designers of the world. The materials to my construction were collected from different parts of the world like turquoise from Tibet, jade and crystal from China, chrysolite from Egypt, lapis from Afghanistan, coral from Arabia, amethyst from Persia, quartz from the Himalayas, malachite from Russia and diamonds from Hyderabad in India. The water that used in my construction was drawn from the river by a series of purs, an animal-powered rope and bucket mechanism. Over 1000 elephants were used to transport my building materials. It took the labour of 22,000 workers to construct my monument. A board of architects supervised the construction. Lahori is treated as my main designer. About 50 million rupees were spent to build up me.





Shahjahan issued ‘farmans’ to Raja Jai Singh ordering immediate and constant supply of the Makrana marble for the tomb which was situated in the centre of my foundation. An inclined two and a half mile long road ramp was built to carry huge marble slabs to my top. In absence of wood, the scaffolding was of brick. I was being risen higher and higher with every sunset. Within nearly six years, my main edifice of the tomb was complete. In the words of Ustad Ahmad Lahori, chief architect of the project: " And above this inner dome, which is radiant like the heart of angels, has been raised another heaven-touching, a guava-shaped dome…crowning this dome of heavenly rank, the circumference of whose outer girth is 110 yards high flittering like the sun with its summit rising to a total height of 107 yards above the (level of the) ground."

The legendary gold railing of my tomb was subsequently replaced by an octagonal latticed screen (Mahajar-i-mushababbak) of the most marvelous craftsmanship with an entrance fashioned of jasper after the Turkish style, joined with gilded fasteners. It costs over 10,000 rupees but it is the most splendid work of art, well worth its weight in gold. It stands enclosing the two cenotaphs.


  Humayun's Tomb and the tomb of Abdul Rahim Khan-i-Khana in Delhi had served as model for me with their dome-topped structure raised on a high platform. Akbar's tomb at Sikandara lent my dominant four-pillar design. Its splendid calligraphic ornamentation by Amanat Khan inspired Shahjahan to entrust my ornamentation to the same artist. Each tower is 133 feet tall. The tomb is a wide large structure that stands on a on a square plinth and it is the central focus of my entire complex. My central dome is 58 feet in diameter and rises to a height of 213 feet. The tomb of Itmad-ud-Daula at Agra, built by Nurjahan for her father, had the most innovative and grand pietra dura decoration, a mosaic of exquisitely colored hard precious stones inlaid into the white marble. The lyrical rhythm of the floral motifs had an amazing beauty, which I greatly emulated. The crypt and the cenotaphs at my surrounding carry pietra dura decoration of a fabulous unexcelled elegance. In those days the cost of my expenses worked out to 50 lakhs and the annual revenue of 30 villages was earmarked for the regular maintenance of me.




Unwilling to allow the native artisans all the credit for this excellence, Father Manrique in 1641 advanced the preposterous claim of the Italian jeweler Geronimo Veroneo as the architect. But this claim could never be proved and remained a legend only. I derive much of my charm from the sprawling garden laid out in the Persian Char Bagh style. The fountains and canals provide a grand reflection of mine, accentuating the Paradise imagery. In my death-inspired monument rows of cypresses lead the eye to the tomb in white marble standing at the extreme end of the garden, rather than in the center as at other Mughal tombs.

  I was nearly completed within ten years around 1643. Tavernier claimed to have seen the commencement of my work. I had been started in 1632. It did not take 22 years and twenty thousand men for workers in my construction. In fact, Tavernier first arrived in Agra in 1641 when I was nearly finished. Later on the tomb of Satti-ul-Nisa, chief maid of Mumtaz and later on of Jahanara and the mosques built by Sirhindi Begam and Fatehpuri Begam were added to my complex.

  In 1652, Aurangzeb pointed out the leakage in my dome on the northern side. The garden also was water logged during the rains. These defects were immediately attended to by Shahjahan. There is no truth in the familiar tale that Shahjahan had the hands of his chief architect chopped off to prevent building him another building of my same reputation and beauty. Before he met his fate, this architect, it is said, was allowed to take in the last look at me to ensure perfection. At this moment he hammered the dome at the point, which caused leakage. This only adds to my legendary perfection in all details.

  In 1648 Shahjahan had shifted capital to Shahjahanabad. He already had the Peacock Throne and the Kohinoor. He never remarried but his lust for life continued unabated. Bernier, Tavernier, and Niccola Mannuci provide salacious details about the Mughal Emperors private indulgences. As prisoner in the Agra fort during his last days, Shahjahan fell terribly ill. His parched throat could hardly swallow a few drops of ‘sherbat’. Nicola Manucci relates a tale that a faqir in Bijapur had warned Shahjahan that the day his hands stopped smelling of apples he would die. Shahjahan recalled the words and smelt his hands. A sigh escaped his dry lips. He casted his last lingering glance at me from his bed in the Musamman Burj. His tired eyelids closed on a shattered heart forever. And so died on January 31,1666.



Jahanara planned a funeral procession befitting the grand Mughal. She was herself a prisoner. Hence she couldn't order people. A small number of insignificant menials carried the body through the small Watergate to the river. Quietly Shahjahan's body left the fort where he had embellished the magnificent marble palaces and pavilions. In the early hours of the day his body was entered into the crypt. It is rather a poignant end for the fifth Mughal Emperor. It is said that Shahjahan's favorite elephant Khaliqdad sensing the tragedy also died as the burial was in progress.


Nicola Manucci adds a spicy tale of Aurangzeb's reaction to Shahjahan's death. Aurangzeb sent a trusted man to pass a heated iron over his father's feet, and if the body did not stir, then to pierce the skull down to the throat to make sure that he was really dead. Orders were sent to I'tibar Khan not to allow his burial until the arrival of Aurangzeb in person. Once Shahjahan had escaped Bijapur in a coffin to reach Agra. The son remembered the tricks his father could play. But court chronicles mention that Aurangzeb reached Agra 25 days after the burial when all he did was to enact a brief scene of simulated grief, and offer fake condolences to Jahanara as a ploy to snatch jewels in her possession.

  Only Tavernier mentions the beginning of another tomb for Shahjahan, across the river. Historians and archaeologists dismiss this idea. However, the foundations of a mammoth building, deep huge wells on which stood plinth structures now exposed due to erosion of land under water, and lone cupola at the end of a long boundary wall replicating me, are all too evident of the abandoned enterprises. For once


Tavernier could be believed. His Majesty Firdaus Ashvani, (Shahjahan's posthumous title) was buried beside the Empress, the only asymmetrical work at me.

Moving further down the history, it was at the end of the 19th century that British Viceroy Lord Curzon ordered a sweeping restoration project, which was completed in 1908, as a measure to restore what was lost during the Indian rebellion of 1857: I being blemished by British soldiers and government officials who also deprived the monument of my immaculate beauty by chiseling out precious stones and lapis lazuli from my walls. Also, the British style lawns that people see today adding on to my beauty is remodeled around the same time. Despite prevailing controversies, past and present threats from Indo-Pak war and environmental pollution, this epitome of love continuous to shine and attract people from all over the world.



Now more than three centuries have passed and I am seen by millions of visitors every year continues to retain a romantic aura about me. Some women like Mrs. Sleeman would exclaim "I would die tomorrow to have such another rover me". I am still "the grand passion of an Emperor's love," as Edwin Arnold wrote, or as Tagore said of me "one solitary tear… on the Cheek of time." The subtle play of light on the white marble dome creates my own moods to which even the hardest cynic ultimately succumbs. Millions and millions of photographs taken but they fail to capture the quintessence of my inner secret heart.History of immortal love of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal is the integral part of my history. Even today, I symbolize the true love in this ungrateful, corrupted world.

The End