Picture South India between the 14th and 16th centuries, when the Vijayanagara Empire flourished as one of its most powerful and prosperous kingdoms. Its most notable king, Krishnadevaraya, didn’t just dream of a fortified capital, but a meticulously planned metropolis. Hampi’s location was no accident, strategically placed along the Tungabhadra River and cradled by natural fortresses of hills and boulders. The architects were true visionaries, seamlessly blending the dramatic natural landscape into the city’s design, creating a harmonious fusion of defense and elegant living spaces. Wide royal roads, bustling markets, and well-organized homes paint a vivid picture of Hampi’s advanced urban life.

The true soul of Hampi is unveiled in its unique Vijayanagara architecture, a beautiful evolution of the Dravidian style. Stand before the Virupaksha Temple, still alive with devotion, its towering gateway (gopuram) adorned with intricate carvings that breathe life into ancient myths. But perhaps the sparkling jewel of Hampi is the Vittala Temple Complex, where artistry reached its peak. Its most famous feature, the Stone Chariot, seems poised to roll, a marvel carved from a single piece of stone. Even more astonishing are the temple’s legendary Musical Pillars, which, with a gentle tap, are said to sing melodic notes – a marvel of ancient acoustic engineering. And don’t miss the graceful Lotus Mahal, a breathtaking blend of Hindu and Islamic artistry, or the expansive Queen’s Bath, showcasing the empire’s refined taste and engineering brilliance.
In a land often thirsty for water, Hampi’s survival and prosperity hinged on remarkable water management. The Vijayanagara engineers were true masters of water. They wove an intricate web of canals and aqueducts, drawing water from the Tungabhadra River to fill vast reservoirs and elegant stepwells, known as Pushkarinis. These stepped tanks, like the one beside the Vittala Temple, were not only practical but also stunning examples of geometric design and masonry. This sophisticated water system allowed the city to thrive, supporting its enormous population and fertile fields.

What truly sets Hampi apart is how its creators didn’t just build on the land, but with it. The enormous granite boulders are everywhere, often becoming natural backdrops, or even integral parts of temples and fortifications. This seamless integration gives Hampi an almost otherworldly feel, a powerful reminder of the deep connection between ancient Indian civilization and its natural world. The sheer scale of the ruins, often requiring you to climb over these very boulders, only deepens the sense of discovery.

Hampi is more than just a historical site; it’s an enduring symbol of India’s rich heritage. It represents a golden age where art, engineering, spirituality, and city planning merged to create something truly extraordinary. For anyone yearning to grasp the genius and artistic soul of ancient India, Hampi offers an unparalleled journey into a lost empire that continues to inspire awe. Its stones truly whisper tales of a glorious past, urging us to protect and learn from these architectural wonders.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Anurodh Das is an aspiring young historian and author. Despite being only 14, he has already written three books, including the non-fiction history work “VISHWAVIDYALAYA: The Lost Knowledge of INDIA,” which focuses on four major ancient Indian universities: Takshashila, Nalanda, Odantapuri, and Vikramshila.

His work on history and culture has been featured on platforms like LinkedIn, Voices Of Youth – UNICEF, and Youth Ki Awaaz. He currently serves as a Student Reporter for Peerbagh’s Bento Magazine and contributes historical narratives for the “SiteLens” project as the youngest member of the NarrAI team at India Lost & Found (ILF).

Anurodh also runs his YouTube channel “RODH’s ZONE” and received an “Honourable Mention” in the RobinAge Bright Sparks Awards 2024-25 for his literary and content contributions. He is dedicated to sparking wider interest in history and culture among youth.

Hearing the cacophonous honking of trucks and altercations between two drivers, in an otherwise peace-filled afternoon, brings a faded memory of my early teenage to light. The memory of my curious observations during the much-loved evening walks with my grandfather. I remember, so clearly, the grimace on his face whenever we encountered such scenes of verbal aggression. He never enjoyed arguments or any form of noisy bickering. In the later years of his life, those walks, and the delightfully curious conversations they held, often ended with him narrating the same kind of stories: stories that on the surface informed me of the transitions in our city after the India-Pakistan partition but in truth spoke more deeply of his personal grief, pain, and a profoundly entrenched feeling of loss and remorse associated with the displacement.

One spring evening, we walked through the sports market of Jalandhar—the hallmark of my city, a place that supplies sporting equipment nationally and internationally, significantly boosting the local economy. My grandfather delved into nostalgia as he told me the tale of his uncle and fellow Hindu entrepreneurs moving across the border from Sialkot (now in Pakistan) along with their workers to Batala to re-establish the sporting industry, under the Government of India’s resettlement plan. However, after meticulous consideration, the industry was relocated to Jalandhar due to easy availability of raw materials such as leather.

I noticed a gleam in his eyes and a sudden shift to softness in his voice as a memory surfaced, a memory tied inextricably to this tale: summer afternoons spent with his cousins, running up and down the terrace stairs until the giggles echoed loud enough to annoy the neighbours during visits to his uncle’s house. They were absolutely unbothered by the scorching heat of the sun; children don’t care much for such obstructions as long as the frenzy continues. He said he missed the fun. The house. The streets. The city.

I loved watching television, even more so when I was younger. The integrated experience of voices and vivid animations astonished me! I would usually tune into music with my grandfather for he shared my love of syncing my heart to the rhythms until I could feel the same ecstatic spirit as the creator, transcend the boundaries of human-created barriers, and experience a feeling beyond our being. It was a feeling that he introduced me to.

One evening, as we walked under the mesmerising violet sunset, we passed through Jalandhar’s All India Radio Station. A conversation struck as he joyously lived through his younger days with radio being the main source of entertainment. All of us know those stories: tweaking the antenna to catch the signal, a bunch of people gathered around to listen to the news commentary, waiting to hear that one beloved song! However, as I got to vicariously live through the time when Jalandhar’s AIR station was established, I was taken aback by the distress induced into the simplicity of people’s lives before its introduction. The reason? Before its introduction, Punjab’s AIR station was based in Lahore (now in Pakistan).
My curiosity piqued as I learned that from 1937 to 1947, Lahore’s AIR served as a central source of information and entertainment for people and continued to do so even post-partition, however, only for Pakistan. While the cities situated between Lahore and Amritsar were flooded with anxious refugees, their hearts pounding to an unsettled and unknown fate, there was no medium of communication to comfort the disoriented. No updates. No reassurance. No voice.

This was when Sardar Kartar Singh Duggal, one of the most accomplished icons of Punjabi literature who served as a senior officer at All India Radio Peshawar and later on at All India Radio Lahore, wrote an appeal to the interim government of India in New Delhi highlighting the urgent need for a radio station in East Punjab. The appeal was met with a positive response and high-powered transmitters were sent to Jalandhar, which was more centrally located and was acting as a stopgap administration centre of East Punjab at that time. Another transmitter was sent to Amritsar and the new combined radio entity came to be known as All India Radio Jalandhar-Amritsar. Its very first task: to repeatedly announce the names, villages, tehsils, and districts of missing individuals.

Our moods switched. The faces of starving children, mourning mothers, and desperate men from the refugee camp struck and swamped my grandfather’s mind. “The rehabilitation of lakhs of people,” he said quietly, “was one of the biggest challenges the government ever faced.”
“It was a horror. My brothers and I saw vultures simply sitting near the carcasses strewn on the ground. They were too full to eat,” he said.
Chills ran down my spine. I looked into his eyes, stunned. My heart sank.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t have the courage to ask any more questions.

About the Author 

Suhana Sharma is deeply moved by the rhythms of human emotions. This curiosity fuels her fascination with the extraordinary spirit that pulses through the heart of India. She draws inspiration from the world around her, which continues to mesmerize her in quiet, powerful ways.

The train chugged sleepily into Jhansi Station, but I was wide awake and excited to begin my Madhya Pradesh adventure! Whilst Jhansi Fort promised to live up to its expectations, it was Orchha that I was intrigued about. A UNESCO World Heritage city, and I, the history buff, a match made in heaven!

Having dumped our luggage at the hotel, I was raring to go… luckily, everything was pretty central and I felt as if I had stepped back in time. The city was quaint and rustic, and walking around this ancient temple town transported me back to what life must have been like during that period.

This 15th-century city was established by Rudra Pratap Singh and thrived till the Mughals captured it. It is interesting to note that the kingdom of Orchha was bestowed upon Vir Singh Deo, a Bundela king, by the then Mughal monarch Jahangir, in recognition of his assistance in fighting Jahangir’s enemies. Under the Bundela rule, Orchha flourished! While mentioning Jahangir, what remained with me was what our guide mentioned about the Jahangir Mahal, which is within the Orchha Fort Complex. The guide said that the palace was built exclusively to host Emperor Jahangir and to showcase the friendship between the two rulers. It is another thing that he stayed there only one night! The palace is crowned with eight Timurid-style domes with smaller domes in between them. Remnants of the turquoise tiles are still visible in some parts of the domes and roofs. The windows of the palace have the beautiful jaali or lattice work, reminiscent of Mughal times.

A part of the Orchha Fort complex is the Raja Mahal. The external facade is austere, almost deceiving with its simplicity, but within its stone walls lies grandeur: Marvellous murals that whisper tales of a grand epic. Walking from one chamber to the next is like walking in a trance. The Raja Mahal exemplifies Bundela architecture, Rajput elegance and Mughal flair. Latticed windows, arched corridors and domed pavilions overlook the Betwa River.

Adjacent to the Raja Mahal is the Sheesh Mahal, as the name implies, the palace of mirrors and light. Though time may have faded much of its original splendour, remnants of mirror work and glass still glimmer, catching an occasional stray beam of sunlight. The Sheesh Mahal overall feels more intimate than the formal Raja Mahal. Though now a heritage hotel, the ghost of the past lingers in every nook and cranny.

Each step taken in Orchha is a step in history. You are surrounded by mystique and royalty. Here, time stands still amidst the remnants of Bundela glory. Other noteworthy mentions: Raja Mahal, Sheesh Mahal ( within the Orchha Fort Complex), the Ram Raja Temple, the Laxmi-Narayan Temple and the Chaturbhuj Temple.

The Chaturbhuj temple itself is a marvel of medieval engineering, and its tall spires seem almost to reach for the sky. It is a Hindu temple with the tallest Vimana ( ornate monumental tower). The name ‘Chaturbhuj’ means four-armed, and it is dedicated to Lord Vishnu. It was originally built to house the idol of Lord Rama( now in the Ram Raja Temple) and designed to resemble a lofty shrine with massive stone towers, the tallest spire being almost 344 feet. The interiors are huge and cavernous, a dramatic contrast to intricately carved contemporary shrines. The temple corridors’ vertical pointed arches remind us of the Gothic cathedrals of Europe, though the detailing is essentially Bundela: floral arabesques, lotus motifs and niches for idols. The view from the top is breathtaking for those brave enough to climb the steep staircase.

The Ram Raja Temple mentioned above is the only temple in India where Ram is worshipped as a king, replete with royal protocols, making it unique. The myth behind this is that the structure was once the palace of Maharani Kamla Devi, the queen of Orchha. She bought the idol from Ayodhya, intending to install it in the nearby Chaturbhuj Temple. However, the idol refused to budge from her palace, hence transforming it into a temple. While the architecture is simple, the treatment is royal. Lord Rama is offered royal meals while guards stand to attention, and people queue up waiting for their turn to see their king and God.

The Laxmi Narayan Temple, sitting solitary on a rocky hilltop, is another stunning piece of architecture. Gazing at it from a distance, it looks regal and sturdy, much like a fort. This hybrid of temple and fortress architecture is recognised for its high walls, angular bastions and fantastic views of the plains around it. If the local guide had not mentioned it to us, we might have mistaken it for a fortress. He also asked us to notice that the entire structure seems like an owl in flight. What makes it even more interesting is that Goddess Lakshmi’s vahan ( vehicle) is the Owl. The temple is renowned for its stunning frescoes and murals, which depict a blend of religious, mythological, and daily life.

No visit to Orchha is complete without visiting the ‘Chattris’ or cenotaphs( tombs). The Chattris make a captivating sight by the banks of the River Betwa. There are fourteen of these palatial funerary monuments. What makes these Chattris unique is that each one is topped with a temple-style shikhara. The cenotaphs reflect an eclectic mix of Bundela and Mughal architecture, whilst they differ in design and size, they share key elements. Square or octagonal bases, multi-tiered pavilions with latticed windows, ornamental domed umbrellas perched on the roof, beautiful arches that frame the river or nearby temples. They stand as sentinels of the once-mighty Bundela dynasty. There is an aura of peace and serenity, and just sitting there is enough for time-travel. If you sit there long enough, you will also notice vultures on the spires of the cenotaphs. We were told they are a rare Indian species. The Chhatris truly are poems in stone.

Orchha was our first stop in the glorious golden crown that is Madhya Pradesh, a land where every stone whispers history and mystery. Our travels took us to Khajuraho’s temples, where passion is carved in stone, the serene stupas of Sanchi echoing with chants of a forgotten era, the much-filmed dramatic Marble Rocks of Jabalpur, where the Narmada River meanders through white chiselled cliffs. The untamed beauty of Raneh Falls and the ancient caves of Udaygiri and Bhimbetka, where prehistoric art is frozen in time.

Yet, it was Orchha that stole our hearts. Call it mystical that Orchha means ‘hidden’, for it remains a place veiled from the typical tourist trail. Orchha isn’t a destination; it’s a sensory experience! A visual treat of temples, forts, cenotaphs, murals and palaces. Orchha, with its hidden charm unfolding slowly like a secret shared only with those who take the time to listen, enveloped us in its magic.

In the golden crown of Madhya Pradesh, Orchha remains its most precious jewel, unpolished and humble but luminous beyond compare.

About the Author :

Karishma Agarwal is a multifaceted individual whose passion for history, mythology, and ancient monuments is deeply ingrained in both her personal and professional pursuits. As an avid reader and artist, she draws inspiration from the rich tapestry of stories woven through the ages.
Karishma’s role allows her to combine her love for storytelling with her expertise in historical and mythological narratives.

From this perspective, I turn my focus to photography as an artistic medium. Within it lies the enduring relationship between humans and nature, where gaze, gesture, and speech form a unique kind of poetry.

Markets, bazaars, souks: we’ve all visited them, perhaps fortnightly. For me, these spaces mark the starting point of the dialogue between art and poetry. I first encountered poetry in its simplest form within markets, through the phrases sung or shouted by vendors to attract buyers. While they may sound like high-pitched cries or even aggression, these expressions are vital — the vendor’s rhythm of survival.

For a silent spectator, observing these exchanges of words, hands, and eyes is a sensorial pleasure. It’s fascinating to witness how such gestures shape our livelihoods. In these chaotic yet patterned settings, observation becomes essential. While personal memories of these moments are fleeting and rarely shared in detail, photographs emerge as a powerful form of communication. They capture that essence of poetry — the unspoken intersection of daily life and deeper meaning.

In the photographs I feature, the body language, hand gestures, gaze, and speech between buyers, sellers, and even their surroundings form a compelling visual narrative. This everyday language — familiar, common — is rendered enticing. Sometimes, it convinces a buyer; other times, a disagreement arises. A rejected offer in the chaos of a marketplace can sting like a rejected love. The seller is hurt, the buyer might feel victorious, and the surrounding air — an invisible audience — absorbs the drama like a moment of catharsis.

In my recent visits to the market, I couldn’t help but notice how a fish seller uses his entire body to engage a buyer. The interaction borders on flirtation: subtle, playful, and strategic. As an observer, I found myself smiling, as if in on a secret shared between seasoned buyer and seller. The fluttering hands, pointed fingers, rising bellies with laughter, nodding heads, intense eye contact, impassioned bargaining, or frustrated demands — each moment is a performance, a revelation of personal choice.

If, amid negotiation, a seller decides to walk away, the mood shifts. The once-live atmosphere becomes heavy with silence, the unresolved tension lingering in the air.

Stillness, too, is part of this world. It’s something we all encounter — those moments of doing nothing but existing. Picture a vendor sitting quietly, at ease with their wares, observing the market as if seeing it anew. In that stillness, they resemble a photographer, absorbing the scene, composing it internally. They may not hold a camera, but their mind captures the image just the same.

If a florist naps beside their blooms, open to the gaze, touch, or even theft of passersby, what does a photograph of that moment signify? Perhaps it speaks of surrender, of peace reclaimed amidst the chaos, or of a silent trust in the world around them.

Photographs, in this context, preserve the subtleties of everyday market life. They document the smallest of actions — the unnoticed, the familiar. While we often reach for our cameras to capture novelty or rarity, we tend to overlook the beauty of routine. Through routine and history, we’ve all contributed to the act of documenting life, whether through developed film, photo albums, digital cameras, phone galleries, or Polaroids. Photographs become a record of the visual language of unspoken words.

To most of us, photographs of a bustling market, a buyer and seller deep in conversation, or a deserted shop may not feel personal. They may seem abstract, detached from context. But every presence in the market carries with it a cultural and demographic story — people enriched by a particular craft or trade. In this way, the market or bazaar becomes more than a space; it becomes a symbol of livelihood and society. Through these interactions, we become interdependent. Our personal histories merge with public surroundings.

If our keepsakes narrate the poetry within the four walls of our homes, then the narrow, crowded roads filled with wares and sounds become poetry for the external world. In capturing these fleeting moments, photography resists the urge to divide the structured from the spontaneous.

Photographs capture the intersection where art meets poetry. In the everyday rhythm of markets and bazaars, each transaction unfolds like a poetic performance, shaped by gestures, gazes, and body language that speak a language of their own.

Author’s Note: 

Sharon Ann Sam 

Sharon is an aspiring art historian, currently pursuing her postgraduate studies in Art History and Visual Studies at the University of Hyderabad. She often finds herself caught between words and visuals, thought and feeling. Most days, she finds comfort in music, quiet libraries, and the familiar warmth of a good cup of coffee.

My journey into the heart of Sikhism began on my sixteenth birthday. We were in Amritsar for my grandparents’ eye surgery, and amid the hospital routines, I found myself stepping into the Golden Temple for the very first time—a place of unmatched beauty, history, and spirit. From the moment I entered, I was enveloped by an energy that seemed to resonate from its walls—a hum of devotion that made me feel as though I was stepping into something timeless.

At dawn, Harmandir Sahib’s golden reflection shimmered over the still waters of the sarovar, the sacred pool encircling the temple. With each step closer, the air seemed alive with the sound of Ik Onkar—“There is only One God”—the opening words of Sikh scripture. This chant, both simple and profound, filled me with a strength and calm I had never experienced before. As verses from the Guru Granth Sahib, Sikhism’s holy text, floated through the temple, they carried an invisible energy that seemed to settle over the crowd like a silent blessing of unity.

As night fell, the Golden Temple transformed once again, standing illuminated under the stars like an ethereal beacon. Its quiet radiance against the darkness was breathtaking. Holding the warm, sweet karah prasad, I felt as though I was holding a small piece of this sacred place—a connection, a blessing wrapped in simplicity.

Years later, after the pandemic, my family and I took a trip to Manali to escape the summer heat and reconnect with nature. During our visit, we stopped by the Gurudwara at Manikaran, nestled alongside the Parvati River and known for its natural hot springs. From the moment I stepped inside, I felt a different kind of energy—equally powerful yet distinctively alive, as though the very air pulsed with positivity. After bathing in the sulfur springs, believed to have healing properties, we entered the Gurudwara for prayer. That day, seva became a shared family act as we washed utensils in preparation for the next langar. Each scrub and rinse felt like a grounding reminder of humility, service, and gratitude. Later, sharing a meal of dal, chapati, and tea, I was struck by the warmth and unity in every bite—a reflection of the Gurudwara’s spirit.

Around this time, my close friend Raman, a devoted Sikh, shared her experience of visiting Kartarpur in Pakistan—a pilgrimage to a Gurudwara deeply rooted in Sikh history. Kartarpur, Guru Nanak’s final resting place, holds immense spiritual significance. For Raman, the journey was not just physical but profoundly spiritual. “There’s no place as peaceful,” she told me. “It felt as if I could sense his presence in every corner.” Her words painted a vivid picture of how sacred sites like Kartarpur bridge time and borders, offering a connection to history, culture, and identity that feels deeply personal.

In June 2022, I had another unforgettable encounter with Sikhism at Gurudwara Pathar Sahib in Leh. Set against the dramatic, snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, the Gurudwara stands as a symbol of resilience and faith. According to legend, Guru Nanak meditated here, even as a demon attempted to harm him by hurling a massive stone, which miraculously softened, leaving the Guru’s impression upon it. Seeing that enduring mark was a powerful moment, a reminder of spiritual strength and protection even in the harshest of landscapes.

Last year, I found myself at yet another Gurudwara—this time in Columbus, Ohio. Thousands of miles from Amritsar, I felt the same devotion, humility, and sense of community. From the familiar hymns to the practice of covering our heads in respect, the traditions held firm. Here, even in a foreign land, the Sikh community preserved its roots, creating a space that felt like a home away from home—a sanctuary of strength and comfort that transcended geographical boundaries.

These experiences—from the Golden Temple to Pathar Sahib, from Manikaran to Columbus—have shown me that Gurudwaras are much more than places of worship. They are sanctuaries of seva (selfless service), equality, and unity, welcoming people from all backgrounds and beliefs. The words Ik Onkar and the hymns of the Guru Granth Sahib serve as timeless reminders of our interconnectedness, conveying messages of love, humility, and compassion.

Each visit has added a new thread to the tapestry of peace and strength within me, revealing the universality of Sikhism’s values. Whether through the humble offering of prasad, the sacred waters of the sarovar, or the shared experience of langar, Gurudwaras create spaces of belonging and resilience. They connect me to my roots, my faith, and a world that feels just a little closer with every step.

Author’s note

Saumya Sachan

She is a budding writer. Homesickness fuels her creativity, and when she is not immersed in the tech world, she finds joy in dancing and devouring books. She considers writing as her sanctuary, a means of reconnecting with the warmth of home, offering escape and catharsis in a world of words.

In the mystical realm of Sufi poetry, where words dance with divine love and verses echo through centuries, stands the towering figure of Bulleh Shah – a poet whose work continues to captivate hearts and minds across generations.

Picture this: In 18th-century Punjab, a young man born into a family of religious scholars makes an unconventional choice that would scandalize his community. This was Bulleh Shah, son of a struggling Paish Imam, who chose to become the disciple of Shah Inayat Qadiri – a spiritual guide from the Arain tribe, considered lower in the social hierarchy. This decision wasn’t just a rebellion; it was a declaration of love that would shape one of the most profound poetic legacies in Sufi literature.

What makes Bulleh Shah’s poetry resonate even today? Perhaps it’s the way he weaves complex spiritual truths into simple, heartfelt verses. His work in the Kafi form – a classical Sufi style of poetry – speaks of love, loss, and longing in ways that transcend religious and social boundaries.

Consider these powerful lines:

“Zeher vekh ke peeta te ki peeta, Ishq Soch ke keeta te ki keeta, Dil de ke dil layein di ass rakhi ve bulleya, Pyaar vi laalach naal keeta te ki keta”

(“What use is drinking poison by seeing, What use is love if done by thinking? After giving the heart, I kept the hope of getting the heart oh Bulleya! What use is love done with greed?”)

The profound influence of Bulleh Shah’s poetry in contemporary cinema is beautifully exemplified in “Ae Dil Hai Mushkil.” The film traces the story of Ayan, an aspiring musician searching for true love, whose unrequited feelings for Alizeh lead him into a state of melancholic creativity. The song “Bulleya” becomes his emotional outlet, with lyrics that cleverly invoke two great romantic figures – Ranjha, the legendary lover from Heer-Ranjha, and Bulleh Shah himself. When Ayan sings “Raanjhan de yaar Bulleya” (Friend of Ranjha, Bulleya!), the lyrics establish Bulleh Shah as a friend and savior of lovers. The song’s structure follows the classical Kafi form, with its characteristic repetitive patterns: “raanjhan de yaar bulleya, sun le pukaar bulleya, tu hi to yaar bulleya.” This repetition, alongside the profound yearning in lines like “Tu hi to yaar bulleya, murshid mera, murshid mera” (You are my friend Bulleya, my guide, my teacher), echoes the spiritual-romantic duality that characterized Bulleh Shah’s original works.

The song “Bulleya” from the film “Sultan” offers another contemporary interpretation of Bulleh Shah’s spiritual legacy. The song captures the essence of self-discovery and rebellion against societal norms – themes that were central to Bulleh Shah’s teachings. Drawing direct inspiration from the 18th-century poet’s philosophy, the lyrics express dedication and surrender to love that mirror Bulleh Shah’s devotion to his spiritual guide. The song’s protagonist declares, “Tu bole toh main ban jaaun, Main Bulleh Shah saudai, Main bhi naachun” (If you say, I shall become crazy like Bulleh Shah, I shall dance), referencing the famous story of Bulleh Shah’s complete surrender to his spiritual guide, for whom he was willing to dance wearing female attire. This modern interpretation preserves the core message of Bulleh Shah’s teachings – that true love requires complete submission and transcendence of social conventions.

These verses aren’t just poetry; they’re a spiritual manual for the heart, teaching us that true love – divine or human – cannot be calculated or measured. In today’s world of division and discord, Bulleh Shah’s message feels more relevant than ever. His poetry speaks to anyone who has ever loved, lost, questioned, or sought meaning. Whether it’s through traditional Sufi music or modern film soundtracks, his words continue to break barriers and build bridges. At its core, Bulleh Shah’s work embodies the essence of Sufi philosophy – the idea that love is the ultimate path to truth. His poetry isn’t just about the love between humans or even between humans and the divine; it’s about breaking down the barriers that prevent us from seeing the unity in all existence.

In an age where we’re increasingly divided by religion, class, and ideology, Bulleh Shah’s poetry offers a powerful alternative. His verses remind us that beneath our superficial differences lies a common humanity, bound together by love and the search for meaning.

As we trace his legacy across centuries, we find that Bulleh Shah wasn’t just a poet or a mystic – he was a revolutionary who used love as his weapon and poetry as his medium. His words continue to challenge, inspire, and transform, proving that true wisdom knows no boundaries of time or culture.

In the end, perhaps that’s Bulleh Shah’s greatest gift – the reminder that in a world of chaos and division, love remains the ultimate truth, and poetry is its most beautiful expression.

Author’s note:

Bianca Sood

A passionate storyteller, she channels life’s chaos into artful prose. When not weaving tales, she finds solace in nature and a love for painting. Writing is her haven, a bridge between the tangible and the imagined, where every word feels like a step closer to understanding herself and the world.

Growing up, the world of folklore was an integral part of my life, woven into the very fabric of my childhood. Every year, my grandparents would visit us during Diwali, and with them, they would bring stories as bright and enchanting as the festival lights themselves. After the excitement of bursting firecrackers and indulging in sweets, we would gather around them as they shared tales from the Ramayana. My dadi’s voice, filled with reverence and wisdom, would transport us to the mythical world of Rama, Sita, and Hanuman.

Each year, she would bring a new perspective to the stories. One year would be the tale of Hanuman’s undying devotion as he carried the mountain of herbs to save Lakshmana. Another time, she would tell us about Sita’s unwavering strength and resilience in adversity. I remember how she would pause and smile, her eyes twinkling as she recounted the naughty exploits of young Shri Krishna during Janmashtami. “You kids are no less, always up to something!” she’d say, and we would giggle, imagining Krishna stealing butter, much like how we sneaked sweets when no one was looking.

These stories were more than bedtime tales; they were lessons in righteousness, virtue, and staying true to one’s beliefs. They connected us to a distant yet familiar past, teaching us about courage, faith, and resilience—lessons that have stayed with me long after the stories faded into memory.

As I grew older, these narratives took on new forms. In school, we were introduced to the poem “Maharana Pratap ka Ghoda,” a tribute to Chetak, the loyal steed of the great Rajput king. I still remember the vivid descriptions of Chetak galloping on, even with a fatal wound, carrying his master to safety. It wasn’t just a poem; it was a story of unparalleled bravery and loyalty, values that were ingrained in us through these verses. Those lines painted vivid pictures of legendary battles fought on the rugged terrain of Rajasthan, of kings and their loyal companions who became immortal through such stories. It was my first taste of how folklore can shape our understanding of valor and sacrifice.

Festivals like Holi brought yet another layer to this colorful tapestry of stories. Every year, as we prepared for the festival of colors, my dadu would sit us down and recount the story of Prahlad and Holika. He would describe the fierce devotion of young Prahlad, who refused to abandon his faith in Lord Vishnu, even when his father tried to kill him. “Faith and goodness will always triumph over evil,” he would say, as we listened, wide-eyed and mesmerized. Later, as we played with colors, I would think of Prahlad and feel a little braver, a little more assured that good would always prevail, no matter how dark things seemed.

One of the most memorable experiences from my childhood was when my nani took me to see the Ram Leela. I must have been around ten or twelve years old. It was an all-night affair, and we were buzzing with excitement. We spent the day resting, our anticipation building as the sunset. By 9 PM, we were dressed in full-sleeved clothes to ward off the mosquitoes, Odomos smeared on our arms, and floor mats rolled up under our arms. That night, I was captivated as I sat under the starry sky, watching the actors perform on a makeshift stage.

It was the first time I saw a live performance of the Ramayana, and I was enthralled. I still recall the scene where Ravana was abducting Sita. But instead of the Pushpak Viman, the actor playing Ravana rode a bicycle. The audience erupted in laughter, and I remember giggling uncontrollably, even as I felt the moment’s tension. Then came the dramatic entrance of Jatayu, the vulture, who tried to stop Ravana. The actor playing Jatayu flapped his makeshift wings and stumbled, and the audience was in splits. It was a mix of reverence and hilarity that only a small-town Ram Leela could achieve, and it left an indelible mark on my memory.

Years later in 2010, I experienced something similar but in a more rural setting during Navratri. We had gone to our village, and the streets were lined with Jhankis, depicting scenes from the epics. Young boys and girls, no older than fifteen, were dressed as deities, sitting on chariots adorned with flowers and lights. One of them, dressed as Krishna, was busy pretending to eat butter, his face smeared with a white paste. Another, dressed as Hanuman, was enacting the scene where he rips open his chest to reveal the image of Rama and Sita in his heart. It was surreal, watching these kids embodying the gods with such innocence and dedication, while the villagers looked on in awe, whispering prayers under their breath. It was a different kind of magic, a reminder that these stories lived on, not just in books or memories, but in the hearts and imaginations of the people.

Not all stories were about gods and heroes. Sometimes, they delved into the supernatural and the eerie. My grandmother often recounted tales of spirits and possessions, stories that sent shivers down my spine. It was one thing to hear them from the comfort of our home, but witnessing it firsthand at Mehandipur Balaji was a completely different experience. I saw people possessed by spirits, their bodies writhing, and their voices changing during the aarti. It was both terrifying and fascinating, providing a glimpse into a world beyond the tangible, where faith and fear intertwined.

In recent years, folklore has gained renewed popularity in popular culture. Movies like “Stree” and its sequel “Stree 2” have brought these narratives to the big screen. Inspired by the legend of Nale Ba from Karnataka, the films tell the story of a spirit who would knock on doors at night, abducting anyone who opened them. To ward her off, people wrote “O Stree, kal aana” on their doors, asking her to come back the next day. It’s a chilling tale, one that perfectly blends horror and humor, much like the stories we grew up hearing. Watching these movies brought back memories of those nights spent listening to my grandmother’s stories, the thrill of the unknown mixed with the comfort of the familiar.

Indian folklore reflects the country’s diverse cultural landscape, providing insights into the values, beliefs, and everyday life of its people over thousands of years. These stories, legends, myths, and traditions form a rich and varied tapestry, deeply intertwined with India’s religious, social, and cultural fabric. Passed down orally for centuries, they have endured the test of time, evolving with each retelling while preserving their fundamental essence. They are not merely tales, but a way of life, a means to connect with our history, and a way to uphold our customs.

I want to pass down these stories to my children and grandchildren one day. Stories teach moral lessons and values, bridging the past and present. I want my children to feel the same excitement and wonder I felt and understand that they are part of something much larger.

“It is through these stories that we remember who we are, where we come from, and what we stand for. They connect us to our roots, to our grandparents, and to the countless generations that came before us. They are a reminder that no matter how modern or disconnected we become, the magic of folklore will always be there, whispering to us through the voices of our elders, waiting to be rediscovered, retold, and relived.”

Author’s note:

Saumya Sachan

She is a budding writer. Homesickness fuels her creativity, and when she is not immersed in the tech world, she finds joy in dancing and devouring books. She considers writing as her sanctuary, a means of reconnecting with the warmth of home, offering escape and catharsis in a world of words.

India is home to myriads of castes and tribes, with their distinct religion, languages, customs, rituals, and traditions, making India a diverse treasure trove of different cultures. Each of these groups has its folklore and legends which add a unique tint to India’s rich cultural tapestry.

Folklore is a collective term that refers to the traditions and cultural expressions of a particular community or group of people, passed down over several generations. It can be categorized into three main aspects – verbal folklore (songs, ballads, proverbs, rhyme), customary folklore (rituals and customs practiced by a specific group), and material culture (folk art, architecture, traditional handicrafts, artifacts). Legends differ from folklore in the sense that the former are semi-historical. Legends are based on historical facts (with the addition of a few fictional details) and revolve around the narrative of a popular figure, event, or place. Both legends and folktales play a significant role in preserving the social and cultural values of a bygone era and often teach moral lessons to the present and future generations.

Folktales like the Panchatantra, Hitopadesha stories, or Jataka tales have been popular in the subcontinent since ancient times. Even before these stories were written down, they were transmitted orally, mostly by bards, who traveled from one village to another, narrating these tales. Apart from national folk heroes, such as Lord Krishna, local folklores often revolve around the cult of a local or folk (or tribal) deity. In Bengal, one of how much folklore and local legends manifested themselves was in the form of Mangalkavyas (“poems of benediction”). The Manasamangal and Sitalamangal are two examples of Mangalkavyas dedicated to the folk goddesses – Manasa devi and Sitala devi respectively.

The Story of Manasa Devi

Among the non-Aryan female deities who found acceptance in the Brahmanical Hindu pantheon, the Goddess of Snakes – Manasa Devi is arguably the most powerful and revered. Despite being the daughter of Lord Shiva, she was not readily accepted as a goddess since her birth was unintentional. She also did not share a cordial relationship with her stepmother Goddess Bhagavati or Parvati, and therefore, decided to reside on earth. Her legend begins with the narrative of an affluent merchant named Chand Sadagar. She tried to influence him to worship her but being an ardent devotee of Lord Shiva, he refused to accept the goddess’s authority.

In a fit of rage, the goddess sunk his merchant ships at sea. His seven sons also died of snake bite, however, he remained firm in his decision to not accept her suzerainty. Behula, the wife of Lakshindar, Chand’s youngest son, was adamant about bringing her husband back to life. She set out on a tumultuous journey with her husband’s dead body and underwent severe hardships. Behula’s sincere devotion succeeded in pleasing the goddess, who also agreed to bring Lakhindar back to life on the condition that Chand Sadagar would worship her. Eventually, he had to give in but turned his face away from the goddess’s image and offered her a flower with his left hand. The goddess restored Chand’s fortunes and thereafter, the cult of Goddess Manasa came to be established in the society.

This legend is more than a tale of Chand Sadagar’s pride and the vengeance of the fierce goddess – it can be termed as a sociological drama that effectively depicts the clash for supremacy between Brahmanical Hinduism and the local, non-Aryan cults that were going on in the contemporary era. Chand Sadagar represents the upper-class Hindu patriarch who worshipped Lord Shiva, a Vedic god, and his patriarchal arrogance is reflected in his rejection of the admittance of a tribal deity in mainstream Hinduism dominated by the Brahmans (priests). However, the goddess’s ultimate acceptance in Sanskritised Hinduism portrays the popularity of her cult. The goddess’s selection of Chand Sadagar as her first worshipper is also symbolic of the growing power and prosperity of the merchant class; if an influential and opulent merchant worshipped a folk deity it would be easier for her to be accepted by the common masses who would emulate the upper-class figure (perhaps to gain social mobility). The tension in the relationship between Goddess Bhagavati and Goddess Manasa also portrays the societal conditions of that age and the bitterness in the relationship between a stepmother and her step-children.

The Legend of Sitala Devi

Another popular (but minor) Mangalkavya is the Sitalamangal which revolves around the legend of the folk deity Sitala – the goddess of smallpox, who also bestows fortune and looks after the welfare of children. Her origin traces its roots back to Vajrayana Buddhism but she later became a deity of Hinduism. The Savara caste of South Bengal initially worshiped Goddess Sitala but her cult gradually expanded and came to be popularised in both villages and cities.

As the goddess was born from cooled ashes, she is cool by nature and constantly seeks coolness. If she gets heated she also heats others and destroys their children or attacks them with the dreaded pox. One of the legends of the goddess narrates a story of how a farmer’s son and a king’s son were suffering from pox but the farmer being a devotee of Goddess Sitala, maintained cleanliness in his house and served cold food to his son, who was cured quickly. Meanwhile, the king’s son was served hot and spicy food every day and as a result, his condition got worse. On hearing of the recovery of the farmer’s son, the king wondered why the goddess had been so unfair to his family. One night the goddess appeared in his dream and advised him not to eat any cooked and spicy food and offer cold food to her and his son. He had this dream on the seventh of Chaitra’s Krishna paksha (dark half) and ordered everyone to worship Goddess Sitala on the eighth day with cold food offerings. The prince’s condition also improved and he was completely cured after a while.

This story highlights the cultural practices and religious beliefs of the society at the time of its composition. Goddess Sitala has been portrayed as both a protector and punisher, which again is symbolic of the ambivalence of nature which can either create or destroy. Through this legend, the practice of eating cold food during the hot season has been taught among the common people to prevent the chances of getting attacked by pox. This narrative also reflects how the worship of local deities was a deeply intertwined practice in the daily lives of the community, and that the spread of epidemic diseases was associated with divine will. However, the people not only sought blessings from deities for health, prosperity, and protection from diseases but also followed a scientific method of taking care of the patients, which would allow them to heal faster.

Therefore, it is evident that Mangalkavyas not only narrates the stories of the process of integration of tribal or folk deities into Sankritised Brahmanical Hinduism but also mirrors the social conditions of the age they were composed in.

Reference

https://www.momentslog.com/culture/indian-folklore-myths-tales-and-regional-legends#the-orighttps://people.howstuffworks.com/what-is-folklore.htm.

https://rupkatha.com/the-sitala-saga/.

https://www.indianetzone.com/manasa_hindu_goddess_snakes.

https://storyarcadia.com/the-significance-of-legends-preserving-cultural-heritage-and-moral-lessons/.

Author’s note:

Deepasree Dey

She is a dedicated postgraduate student specializing in History (Hons.) at Presidency University, Kolkata. From a young age, she has been captivated by the fascinating narratives of India’s history. She is particularly interested in exploring the diverse cultural traditions of India, including the rich tapestry of folklore and legends found in various communities. Through her role at India Lost and Found (ILF), Deepasree aspires to contribute to the preservation of India’s cultural heritage while uncovering and sharing the many untold stories that enrich the nation’s identity.

Have you ever noticed how a single scent can pull you back to a moment, a place, or a feeling long gone but never forgotten? For me, the scents of India are like old friends—familiar, comforting, and always ready to wrap me in a warm embrace. As I sit here, sipping my morning tea, I’m reminded of a journey through the symphony of scents that have shaped my life and memories, taking me from the warmth of home to the sacred spaces of prayer, and the vibrant streets of my childhood.

It all begins in my mother’s kitchen, the heart of our home. I would wake up to the rhythmic sounds of her preparing breakfast, the aroma of dal frying in the pan heralding the start of the day. When mustard seeds hit the hot oil, they would crackle and pop, releasing a sharp, nutty fragrance that filled the room. Soon, cumin and asafoetida would join in, their earthy and pungent scents mingling to create a fragrance that felt like a warm, reassuring hug. Even now, whenever I catch a whiff of that familiar tadka, I’m instantly transported back to those mornings, surrounded by the comfort of home and the love that comes with every meal. As the day moved on, we would often plan a family outing to Sagar Ratna, a restaurant in Lucknow. The anticipation would build as we neared the restaurant, knowing that soon we would be savoring the delightful dosas that Sagar Ratna is known for. I still remember standing outside, waiting for our order, the smell of dosa cooking on the grill wafting through the air. The crisp, golden batter sizzled and hissed, its toasty aroma blending with the tangy scent of sambar bubbling nearby. The anticipation was almost as delicious as the meal itself—a reminder of the simple joys of sharing food with family, where the scent of the dosa brought us together.

And then, there was the afternoon adrak chai, a ritual in its own right during my days in IT, in Bengaluru. This wasn’t just any tea; it was a much-needed break, a stress buster, and the perfect excuse for a bit of gossip among colleagues. The chaiwala at the corner of our office street knew how we liked it. The sharp, invigorating fragrance of ginger boiling in water would drift up as I approached, mingling with the sweet notes of cardamom and the rich, earthy aroma of tea leaves. As I wrapped my hands around the steaming cup, I felt the warmth spread through me, each sips a small celebration of the familiar comfort that marked the transition from day to evening. But, the world beyond my home was just as rich in scents that carried their own stories. On special occasions, we would visit the Phool Wali Gali in Lucknow. The narrow lane, bustling with life, was a sensory feast. The scent of marigolds—bright, sweet, and slightly peppery—mingled with the delicate perfume of jasmine and the soft, romantic aroma of roses. Each step through the market was like walking through a living painting, where every breath drew me deeper into the world of tradition and celebration.

Holi was another time when the air was thick with unforgettable scents. The day would begin with the sharp, almost metallic smell of gulaal as it filled the air, turning everything around us into a riot of color. But it was the sweet aroma of gujiyas frying in ghee that truly signaled the arrival of the festival. The scent would waft through the streets, drawing us all into the heart of the celebration. Even now, the smell of frying gujiyas instantly brings back memories of laughter, music, and the sheer joy of being surrounded by family and friends. As the day passed to evening, the scents of celebration would often be replaced by the more serene, spiritual fragrances that marked our family’s rituals. I remember the evenings spent in quiet prayer, the smell of chandan dhoop filling the air as my father led the hawan. The first curl of smoke would rise slowly, carrying with it the warm, woody fragrance of sandalwood. It was a scent that brought peace and connection, a reminder of the divine presence in our everyday lives.

One of my most cherished memories is of visiting Haji Ali Dargah, in Mumbai with my family. The journey there was always filled with anticipation, and as we approached, the scent of the phool wali chadar would reach us before we even saw the dargah. The air was thick with the fragrance of roses and jasmine, mingling with the salty breeze from the sea. That scent wasn’t just an offering—it was a reminder of the devotion and reverence that brought us to that sacred place. It lingered long after we left, a gentle whisper of peace and spirituality that stayed with me, even as we returned to the bustling life of the city. Even in the simple, everyday moments, some scents became markers of time and place. The press wale bhaiya would come every morning to press our clothes, his old-fashioned iron filled with smoldering charcoal. The warm, slightly smoky smell of the charcoal mixed with the crisp, clean scent of freshly laundered clothes, signaling the start of another day. It was a scent that, to this day, takes me back to those quiet, early mornings, when the world was just waking up, and everything seemed possible.

As the day wound down, we would sometimes visit an old coffee house, a place where time seemed to stand still. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, strong and dark, curling around me like a warm hug. The smell of old books—musty, comforting—added to the atmosphere, making it a place where I could lose myself in thought, the fragrance of nostalgia hanging in the air like a gentle reminder of the passage of time. Then there were those special moments that called for a different kind of scent. The excitement of having Mehndi applied to my hands is a memory I hold dear. The deep, earthy smell of the henna paste was rich and grounding, filling the room with its fragrance as the intricate patterns took shape on my skin. It was a scent that lingered long after the paste had dried, a sweet reminder of the joy and celebration that had brought us all together.

Finally, as the night drew near, I often found myself surrounded by the delicate scent of mogra flowers. My grandmother would weave them into a gajra for me to wear in my hair, her hands gentle and sure. The tiny white buds released a sweet, slightly intoxicating perfume that followed me throughout the evening, making me feel elegant and connected to a tradition that had been passed down through generations. But even amidst all these man-made fragrances, nature had its way of leaving a lasting impression. The first rain of the monsoon was something I eagerly awaited every year. As the first drops hit the dry earth, there was a sudden release of that unmistakable smell—petrichor. I would stand outside, eyes closed, breathing in the fresh, earthy scent as the rain washed away the dust and heat of summer. That smell brought a sense of renewal and hope, a reminder of the beauty that comes with change.

And then there was the Valley of Flowers, a place that took my breath away in more ways than one. As I trekked through the valley, the air was filled with the scent of wildflowers—crisp, clean, and unbelievably fresh. That fragrance was so pure, so overwhelming, that it filled not just my lungs but my entire being. It was a scent that made me feel alive, and connected to the natural world in a way that was both humbling and exhilarating.

As I sit here, reflecting on these memories, I realize that India is a country of scents—each one a thread in the rich assortment of memories and traditions that make up my life. Whether it’s the smell of dal frying in my mother’s kitchen, the sweet fragrance of mogra flowers in my hair, or the fresh, earthy scent of the first rain, these are the scents that define who I am. 

The Scents of India are as diverse and vibrant as the country itself, guiding me through my life journey, one fragrance at a time.

Authors Note

Saumya Sachan

She is a budding writer. Homesickness fuels her creativity, and when she is not immersed in the world of tech, she finds joy in dancing and devouring books. She considers writing as her sanctuary, a means of reconnecting with the warmth of home, offering escape and catharsis in a world of words.

West Bengal, is a land where education isn’t just a pursuit—it’s a legacy. Swami Vivekananda once said, “Educate and raise the masses, and thus alone a nation is possible.’’ Since ancient times, India has been home to renowned universities like Nalanda and Takshashila. West Bengal, in particular, has witnessed many eminent scholars who have studied and taught at the universities in Bengal.  The Bhakti movement led by Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the spiritual teachings of Sri Aurobindo and Swami Vivekananda, the social reforms of Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, and many other significant contributions have solidified West Bengal’s position as a cradle of higher education.

The Torchbearers of Academia

The state boasts various educational institutions, many of which have played pivotal roles in shaping India’s academic landscape. One such institution is the Senate of Serampore College, established in 1818  in a Danish settlement of Serampore by Christian missionaries. In 1829, it was granted a Royal Charter by King Frederick VI of Denmark, making it India’s first institution to have the status of a university. The college’s primary objective was to provide theological training for Christian ministry, but it also played a vital role in promoting education and social welfare.

Almost four decades later another prominent institution, The University of Calcutta, was established in 1857 under the tenure of Lord Canning. This institution, initially a reflection of its London counterpart, has evolved into a unique beacon of learning The university’s campus is a treasure trove of historical buildings, artifacts, and a vast library collection. It has also undergone modernization efforts to meet the demands of contemporary education.

Today, the university’s campus boasts three iconic buildings: Dwarbhanga, Centenary, and Ashutosh. Beyond the academic realm, the University has opened its doors to the public, offering historical tours and educational experiences to explore its rich collection of artifacts, jewel pieces, and crafts. The University’s museum houses over 25,000 artifacts, while its sprawling Central Library in Centenary Hall is spread across 10 floors. It is now home to more than 7 lakh books, including rare volumes that have been digitized. The library’s global reach is evident in its daily average of over 2 lakh hits worldwide. In a nod to inclusivity, it also features a Braille library with over 10 audio systems.

Beyond its academic offerings, the university has a deep connection to the city’s history. Several heritage buildings, such as the Writers’ Building and Town Hall, have been associated with the university throughout the years. These structures stand as silent witnesses to the university’s evolution and its enduring impact on the city.

An Encounter with Genius: My Journey at the University of Calcutta

During my brief journey at the University of Calcutta, I  enrolled in a short course on Buddhism at its iconic College Street campus. There, I had the good fortune to meet one of the university’s gems: Dr. Somnath Mukhopadhyay. As a professor and council member of the Asiatic Society and Indian Museum, his lectures were nothing short of captivating. His ability to weave intricate stories from historical texts, engage students with innovative activities, and help students in academic pursuits made him a favorite among many. His co-authored book Vision & Creation, with Kalyan Chattopadhyay, became my go-to source of inspiration, guiding me long after I left those hallowed halls.

Pioneering Spirits: Bengal’s Educational Firsts

In addition to the Senate of Serampore and the University of Calcutta, West Bengal is home to several other notable universities and colleges. Presidency University, which originated as the “Hindoo College,” has a long and illustrious history. Bethune College stands as a symbol of empowerment for women in India. Founded in 1879, it was the first women’s college in India, and it has played an instrumental role in shaping the future of female education in the country.

Calcutta Medical College holds the distinction of being Asia’s first medical school, to set high standards for medical research and practice. Bengal Engineering and Science University, formerly known as the Calcutta College of Civil Engineering, has been a pioneer in engineering education.

West Bengal’s legacy in higher education is certainly undeniable, it transcends the mere acquisition of degrees. It’s about carrying forward a legacy, about being part of a narrative that began centuries ago and continues to unfold. It’s about keeping alive the flame of knowledge that has burned bright for generations, illuminating the path to a brighter future. As Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar said, “The purpose of education is to create a better world, where every individual can reach their full potential.” 

References:

https://www.caluniv.ac.in/

https://www.google.co.in/books/edition/Hundred_Years_of_the_University_of_Calcu/-lppAAAAIAAJ?hl=en

https://lbb.in/kolkata/Calcutta-University-Library/

https://www.google.co.in/books/edition/The_Cradle_of_Modern_Missions/U-lNAQAAMAAJ?hl=en

https://www.news18.com/news/buzz/did-you-know-the-serampore-college-is-nearly-200-years-old-19-oldest-indian-universities-that-are-over-centuries-old-703751.html

https://www.oikoumene.org/news/wcc-general-secretary-receives-honorary-doctorate-from-serampore-college

Authors note:

Ishani Gupta, an avid archaeology and culture enthusiast, embraces life as an explorer with a profound fascination for historical narratives. She believes that every story from the past is worth discovering. The allure of heritage deeply resonates with her, and she aspires to be a curator of such treasures. In addition to her dedication to research as a profession, Ishani finds joy in reading, writing, yoga, and pilates.