Fortress of Riddles

 

by Ino Manalo

Stories are told and retold. They can enmesh a place in a net so fine that it becomes difficult to distinguish between what had transpired and what was conjured. One such fabled place is Lahore Fort in Pakistan.  The pavilions and chambers of this Mughal edifice have been the sites of so many encounters that every column seems to hold up a pediment of memories. Every tile is set in a pavement of recollections. There is even a famous Wall of Pictures with scenes of angels in flight and men clashing with swords, an unending mural of narratives. 

A mural of narratives

One person who knows the stories well is my friend Rustam Khan. He had worked with the Fort’s administration for years. So, when he offered to tour me around the vast complex, I happily agreed. During our wanderings, I bit my tongue when I felt the impulse to tell my sagely guide that, back home, his name was widely associated with a more flamboyant character!

My friend and guide Dr. Rustam Khan

A contemporary painting of Lahore Fort

Rustam began by explaining to me that Lahore Fort wasn’t a fortress in the regular sense of the word. It was a sumptuous residence that - just like Windsor castle – was surrounded by huge walls which encapsulated kings and courtiers. It had been expanded through the centuries resulting in an amalgam of different historical styles.

My first lesson was an introduction to the intricacies of brick. We were beginning with the elements that formed the basis for the structures of the Fort’s various sagas. Rustam pointed out the oldest bricks from the time of the Emperor Akbhar . These were robust, somewhat rotund, but full of the strength of earth. Then there were the bricks from the time of Shahjahan. These were finer and more slender, reflective of a ruler whose preferences were for marble embellished with the floral motifs of Persia. Finally there were those from the kiln put up by the British. These were flat and efficient, no-nonsense tools of Empire.

Bricks from the Akbar period on the left and from the Shahjahan period on the right

Bricks from the British period

Every curve and crack had something to contribute. Rustam directed me to shapes in the midst of the shimmering mosaics of the celebrated Sheesh Mahal or Hall of Mirrors which my dazzled eyes would not have discerned. He even shared with me his pet theory that the real Sheesh Mahal was actually located in another part of the palace.

My guide noted how the suns which formed the medallions of the ceiling panels of a particular pavilion were all different, indicating the symbolism of a variety of faiths. This conveyed a conscious effort to project pluralism and tolerance, hallmarks of cosmopolitan rulers.

I was shown stone loops set into the walls for torches to light the palace at night. I also noticed smaller hooks on the perimeters of windows or doorways. These, it was explained, were for curtains. I recalled what another scholar had told me: Indian buildings like the Fort had two layers. The first was made up of stone and mortar. These formed the permanent structures which were immediately observable. But there was also another layer of colorful draperies and canopies, gossamer, ephemeral, subject to the whims of satraps and seasons.

We walked through a large enclosure of lawns and orderly pathways. Rustam clarified that this was originally a huge campsite, a waiting area for the retinues of emissaries. The pavilion where the king would have sat occupied one side of the enclosure.  He would have revealed himself to his subjects from a balcony.

   Interior of the Sheesh Mahal pavilion

One of the pleasures of being with my special guide was that we were allowed to enter areas which were usually off-limits such as the hall behind the throne.  This overlooked still another large space – the great quadrangle of the Emperor Jahangir. I stood there mesmerized by my imaginings. For a moment I could hear the faint strains of music, but of course it must have come from the amusement park outside.

As we descended into the quadrangle, Rustam kept on harrying me with questions about details, about bricks. From what epoch was this wall? He seemed pleased that I was quite game about answering.

   

Ceiling of Chamber in the quadrangle of Shahjahan

The quadrangle of Shahjahan

We soon found ourselves in another courtyard. Rustam asked me what this space reminded me of and then shrugged his shoulders. I suppose this was because the answer was both obvious and somewhat cliché. For the elegance and purity of this marbled expanse pointed to only one thing: the Taj Mahal, built by the grieving Shahjahan as the tomb of his wife, Mumtaz. I must admit though, that the monumentality of such devotion still made me pause.

Even while we progressed from section to section, I was beginning to feel a little anxious. Would I ever get the sequence of this procession of Mughal monarchs straight in my mind? Fortunately, a little mnemonic device that my Asian Civilizations teacher, Professor Oscar Evangelista, had taught us, came to my rescue: BHAJSA. This meant, “Bread, honey, and jam serve all”.  Magically, the dynastic past fell neatly into place. For “B” or “Bread” stood for Babur, revered founder of the line and first of the Great Mughals. His progeny then filed by effortlessly - and in correct order: Humayun was “honey”, Akbar was “and”, Jahangir, “jam”, Shahjahan, “serve”, and Aurangzeb was “all”.

Much later, Rustam brought me to examine what seemed nothing more than a hole in the ground albeit one that was lined with an elegant paving. Again he became inscrutable as he quizzed me about the significance of this area at the boundary between the king’s courtyard and the harem’s quarters. Still unyielding, he nodded in the direction of an imprint on the wall which betrayed the presence of pipes long lost to corrosion. Finally he relented:  we were in the former baths and the hole was actually a tub, a favorite royal locus for amorous pursuits.  Suddenly, the great Mughals were not just fierce warriors anymore. It was heartening to know that after a grim battle of conquest, they too needed a wash and a softer touch.   

The possible remains of a tub

It was, admittedly, a lot to ponder in one afternoon. But I was unperturbed. It was a great honor to have been guided by someone whose focus on detail arose from what was clearly a deep well of insight and devotion. As we walked back to our vehicle, I saw large crowds entering, cheerfully invading what had once been forbidden ground. Rustam again volunteered that it was a holiday and people came to sit on the grass and play. I wondered: what stories did these people tell each other about this place?

That night, shortly before I retired, something more about my tour made me smile.  I recalled how, before we began our walk, Rustam had stood beneath a ceiling bracket carved in the form of an animal. He then demanded to know why similar brackets over the most important section of the courtyard had abstract shapes corresponding to no known beast or plant.

After a long time, I gingerly ventured a guess. I suggested that this abstraction may have to do with the point that the Fort was the product of a civilization which produced immense temples with ornate gates but with innermost chambers void of decoration. My guide smiled and then allowed me to move on.

I never got around to checking with Rustam what he thought about my response. But I was happy that he bothered to continuously test me as we went about our explorations.  After all, guides must always ask questions. How else would their followers figure out the way?

 

 

 

Fusion in a Mountain Sanctuary

 

Fusion in a Mountain Sanctuary

The town of Kiangan in Ifugao is reached after a long drive through landscapes of forested mountains and rushing streams. I had the sense that we were far from everything else, but in truth we were but a few hours outside the bustling cities of the Cagayan Valley. In Kiangan, one has the feeling of sanctuary tinged with a note of sadness. Just beyond are the fabled Rice Terraces, once glorious but now threatened by neglect and erosion. 

Our charming inn

At the very outskirts of the town was our inn, a compound of comfortable houses ran by Toto Kalugdan and his wife, Teresita Habawel. The two are both obstetricians. Though they had a substantial practice in California, they both felt that it was time to come home.

Home would turn out to be in Ifugao from where Teresita’s family hailed instead of Toto’s native Cavite. The couple purchased a piece of land and began to build a dream residence.  The spot had actually been a coffee plantation and a Japanese military camp in previous avatars. Listening to Toto talk about his plans for a school for the deaf or a clinic for snake bites, one can see how much he has come to love his adopted community.

The Japanese probably chose the site because of its location – the river valley was visible for miles around. When the first house was built, curious visitors began to drop by. A relative asked if the couple could take in seventeen foreigners whose reservations elsewhere were botched. Though hesitant, the Kalugdans agreed to play host.  Not long after, more people would show up, referred by the original batch. The dream house was now doubling as a homestay. Throughout the years, though, one rule remained: only those recommended by friends of the family are allowed to stay.

                                                               The Kalugdans and friends

One day, kayak tour organizers Anton Carag and Argel Gerale came calling, referred by their guide Daniel Pitpitunge. They wanted to know if the couple was willing to accept guests who needed showers and food after braving the rapids on kayaks. Lucky for me, the Kalugdans had said yes to what would prove a productive arrangement. This was how I ended up at the compound, having joined a beginner’s kayaking sortie led by Anton and Argel.

Excellent  guides Daniel Pitpitunge and Herbert Perez

We got to Kiangan in time for the mid-day meal. It would be the benediction at journey’s end. The first thing laid before us was a soup confectioned from cornmeal and squash blossoms – a most satiating porridge. On the trip up, I had seen an old woman carrying a bunch of the yellow flowers -  drops of sunshine gleaming in the cold air. It was nice to know that such wonderful incandescence was now warming my stomach!

Next came kare-kare and a salad of tender ferns enlivened by tomatoes, onions, and a lot of salted eggs. As if the saline kick from the eggs were not enough, there were also small bowls filled with sautéed bagoong laced with coconut cream and chili. As most Filipinos know, all these form the perfect complement for kare-kare’s peanut-kissed stew. I dug in, grateful that all our kayaking had been fortuitously accomplished the day before. My vessel would surely have capsized from the weight of what I was ingesting! I barely took note of what our hosts were explaining: lunch was a kind of transition from the cuisine of the lowlands. Ifugao fare was reserved for that evening.

As scheduled, the whole afternoon was occupied with the celebrated Rice Terraces. We headed for Hapao since the terrace walls there were made of stone instead of the more common packed earth. One has seen these agricultural marvels, on television, in photographs. But there was no preparing for the awe which they engendered. The whole world became ziggurats of emerald, each step paved with silver, mirroring the sky. It is Jacob’s Ladder ascending to Heaven, a celestial vision. Someone observed that the grass roofs of the houses had been replaced by shiny metal sheets that looked so harsh and alien. Yet how does one force people to be content with grass which requires constant replacement?

On the way back, we passed a stall selling watercress, freshly picked from the Terraces. In the Philippines, watercress only grows at higher altitudes and is quite the treat. We bought the whole batch for Teresita.

As we drove home there was one more incident: we witnessed an infant plummet from a kitchen counter onto a pail! Out from our van we burst, an incoherent gaggle of would-be helpful tourists, each carrying what they thought could help. Someone brought a bottle of water, someone else a can of soda. The cold surfaces would reduce the swelling, we explained as we waved our offerings wildly. Eventually the grandmother thanked us for our assistance, graciously addressing the women in our party as “Madame”.  All throughout this episode the patient in question kept very still, having quickly silenced her own cries.  Later on it dawned on us:  the poor child was probably more shocked by the explosion of deranged strangers than by her actual fall!

The silversmith of Banaue, Roger Abul

After a brief stop at a silversmith’s workshop, we were back at the hotel. As promised, Teresita prepared duck the Ifugao way. I had never imagined duck as a fixture of Cordillera meals. It made sense, though, given the liquid realm of the Terraces where ancient hydraulic techniques were practiced.

I found the fowl , accompanied by  the broth it was boiled in, too gamey for my taste. But then Victoria, our Spanish guest, made a brilliant suggestion: in keeping with a tradition in her country, we should all pour into our bowls half a glass of baya, the local spirit made from rice. Dr Toto prided himself for having found the perfect baya maker. He liked to serve the amber liquid ice-cold and sweet. It went perfectly with the duck soup, a fusion of Cordillera and Castille.

The theme of fusion continued to the watercress, just so recently flourishing on mountain slopes. Teresita had lavished on it a vinaigrette made more sensuous by the oil of walnuts, the vigor of garlic, and the pampering of Parmesan flakes. This time it was the Terraces meeting up with Tuscany by way of California. There was also breaded fish with a dark sugary sauce as well as julienned sweet potatoes and  carrots,  all cooked a la tempura. The camp’s original occupants would have approved!

I had to interview Teresita: had she ever studied cooking extensively? It turned out that she mostly experimented with the recipes she read in books. It was very clear- this was a woman who was cooking from the heart, weaving together culinary threads from her kitchen atop a valley with a rushing river.

The next day, Dr Toto showed us around the compound. We saw cozy rooms with carved doors made regal by the skill of local sculptors, a stream-fed pool, a traditional hut. But everything was again eclipsed by the food. We couldn’t wait for breakfast: eggplant omelet, slivers of sun-dried and salted fish on a bed of tomatoes, garlicky kangkong and finally, an aromatic coffee coaxed from beans grown on the surrounding peaks.

Changes are coming to the Cordillera. Some changes are lamentable. Young people no longer want to farm the Terraces, understandably leery of the back-breaking work. But some changes can also be for good. Surely one must be gladdened by the knowledge that somewhere amidst the Terraces, there is a home with two people who have returned from a distant country to explore what it means to unite the tastes of many lands.