
This Forgotten Agra Inn Witnessed A Bloody Battle That Changed The Course Of Mughal History
On the banks of the Yamuna near Agra lies Sarai Jajau, a forgotten Mughal-era inn that once bore witness to a bloody power struggle following Emperor Aurangzeb's death. On June 20, 1707, it became the battleground for a decisive clash between his sons, shaping the course of the empire's future.
Aurangzeb, who had not named a successor, left a will instructing his sons to divide the empire among themselves. However, the ensuing struggle for power led to a violent battle of succession between Muhammad Azam Shah and Muazzam, who later became known as Bahadur Shah I.
The battle of Jajau, which is historically significant, resulted in the death of Azam Shah and his three sons. Despite the conflict, Muazzam was crowned on June 19, 1707, a day before the battle, and subsequently took over the throne as Bahadur Shah I. Today, Sarai Jajau remains one of the rare inns in India where people continue to live, preserving its rich history.
Sarai Jajau features two grand gates, a mosque with three domes, and a reservoir, which are still in use by the local community. The battle for succession to the Mughal throne was fought at Jajau, which, though an unfamiliar name to many, served as the stage for one of the most decisive confrontations in the empire's history.
According to a report by Firstpost, there is no trace today of the major battle that once took place in Jajau. This historical site, located about 30 kilometres from Agra on the highway to Gwalior, may not bear visible signs of the war, but it retains its medieval heritage.
Although the highway to Gwalior may appear to be relatively new, it is actually a successor to the old road network that once connected various parts of the Mughal Empire. A remnant of that medieval highway still defines Jajau in 2025. During the Mughal era, caravanserais were built along these routes, rest stops where weary traders and their pack animals could pause, refresh themselves, and continue their journey.
Caravanserai Of Its Time
Built like a small fort and guarded by a garrison, it offered both security and a measure of comfort to weary travellers. One such caravanserai still stands in Jajau, and surprisingly, the structure has largely survived the test of time.
Located near the Utangan River, the Jajau serai is constructed in the traditional style of its kind: square in layout, with entrances on the north and south sides. It is enclosed by high fortified walls and features rooms for travellers to rest. On the western side of the complex stands a mosque, elevated on a high platform, where devotees could pause to offer prayers.
Now Home To Dozens Of Families
Despite its historical significance, the inn is in a state of disrepair. Only the entrance and a small mosque remain intact, while the rest of the space is now a residential area for dozens of families, mostly farmers. From the inside, the place resembles any typical village in the region, with agricultural equipment beside most homes and cattle tied nearby. Like other caravanserais of its time, Jajau Sarai had rooms in its inner section to accommodate travellers.
Originally, the inn had about 30 rooms for travellers, but these have been incorporated into the structures of the current homes, some of which have multiple floors.
The Inn Built During Aurangzeb's Reign
The inn was constructed during the rule of Emperor Aurangzeb. Today, the original cells have been absorbed into the structures of the houses within the inn, some even extended to multiple floors. Most residents claim their families have lived here for generations.
An Arabic inscription on a marble slab dates the inn to 1674 AD, during Aurangzeb's rule. Over the years, especially following Aurangzeb's death, the rural community moved into the inn seeking protection within its walls. Its proximity to Agra likely contributed to its survival through the late 18th century. By the 19th century, as the Mughal rule faded, more people settled in the inn.
A Hidden Stepwell In Red Sandstone Lies Nearby
Nearby, a three-storey medieval stepwell, built from red sandstone, now lies in a state of neglect. Once a vital structure, it is currently used by local farmers as a storage space. Nearby stands an old Mughal bridge, another forgotten relic of the past. In its time, the bridge was an integral part of the Mughal highway network, allowing travellers to cross the Utangan River. Today, it must be searched for among the overgrowth and debris. A British traveller once described it as a grand structure with 20 stone arches, while another noted the presence of two minarets at either end.
The heritage of Jajau is slowly crumbling under the weight of apathy. Though the caravanserai is officially listed as a protected monument, its survival depends on serious, sustained efforts to preserve it for future generations.
First Published:
Disclaimer: Comments reflect users' views, not News18's. Please keep discussions respectful and constructive. Abusive, defamatory, or illegal comments will be removed. News18 may disable any comment at its discretion. By posting, you agree to our Terms of Use and Privacy Policy.

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


Scroll.in
an hour ago
- Scroll.in
A 16th-century Chinese writer spoke of workplace burnout, creating a design for radical acts of rest
We are in the middle of a global workplace burnout epidemic — aptly named the 'burnout society ' by Korean-German philosopher Byung-Chul Han. Four centuries ago, late Ming Dynasty scholar-official Yuan Hongdao (1568–1610) shifted from state administrative work to xiaopin – brief, personal essays celebrating everyday pleasures like gardening, leisurely excursions and long vigils beside a rare blossom. Today, his Ming Dynasty-era practice resonates with uncanny urgency within our burnout epidemic. Amid the Wanli Emperor's neglect and escalating bureaucratic infighting in Beijing, Yuan turned away from what today we call a 'toxic workplace.' Instead, he found refuge in Jiangnan's landscapes and literary circles. There he exchanged hierarchical pressures, administrative tedium and cut-throat careerism for moments of unhurried attention. Yuan's xiaopin, alongside those of his contemporaries, transformed fleeting sensory moments into radical acts of resilience, suggesting that beauty, not institutions, could outlast empires. The Ming Dynasty: A literary rebellion The late Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) was an era of contradictions. While Europe hurtled toward colonialism and scientific rationalism, China's Jiangnan region – the fertile Yangtze Delta in today's Jiangsu and Zhejiang provinces – flourished via merchant wealth, global silver trade and a thriving print culture. Bookshops lined city streets like modern cafés. They peddled plays, poetry and xiaopin volumes like Meiyou Pavilion of Arts and Leisure (1630) and Sixteen Xiaopin Masters of the Imperial Ming (1633). The imperial examination system, a civil service written exam – once a path to prestige – had become a bottleneck. Thousands of scholars languished in bureaucratic limbo, channelling their frustrations and exhaustion into xiaopin 's intimate vignettes. In his preface to Meiyou Pavilion, editor Zheng Yuanxun (1603–1644) praised the genre's 'flavour beyond flavour, rhythm beyond rhythm' – a poetic nod to its rich sensory detail and subtle musicality – rejecting moralising orthodox prose by embracing immersive aesthetics. Against neo-Confucianism 's rigid hierarchies, xiaopin elevated the private, the ephemeral and the esthetically oblique: a well-brewed pot of tea, the texture of moss on a garden rock and incense wafting through a study. Wei Shang, professor of Chinese culture at Columbia University, has noted such playful text flourished among late Ming literati disillusioned with the era's constraints. The texts reframed idleness and sensory pleasure as subtle dissent within a status-obsessed society. When doing less becomes radical Long before French poet Charles Baudelaire's flâneur used dandyism and idle promenades to resist the alienating pace of western modernity, Ming literati like Chen Jiru (1558–1639) and Gao Lian (1573–1620) framed idleness as defiance. Drawing on Daoist wu wei (non-action), Gao praised the 'crystal clear retreat' that scrubbed the heart of 'worldly grime' and cultivated 'a tranquil heart and joyful spirit.' For him, human worth lay not in bureaucratic promotions but in savouring tea, listening to crickets or resting against a well-fluffed pillow. Hung-tai Wang, a cultural historian at Academia Sinica in Taipei, identifies xiaopin as a 'leisurely and elegant' aesthetic rooted in nature's rhythms. Chen Jiru, a Ming Dynasty-era painter and essayist, embodied this framework by disallowing transactional logic. In one essay, Chen lauds those who possess 'poetry without words, serenity without sutras, joy without wine.' In other words, he admired those whose lives resonated through prioritizing lived gestures over abstract ideals. In the late Ming's burgeoning urban and commercial milieu, xiaopin turned everyday objects into remedies for social isolation. In the Jiangnan gardens, late Ming essayists saw landscapes infused with emotion. At the time, essayist Wu Congxian called it 'lodging meaning among mountains and rivers:' moonlight turned into icy jade, oar splashes to cosmic echoes. Chen Jiru had study rituals – fingering a bronze cauldron, tapping an inkstone – curating what he termed 'incense for solitude, tea for clarity, stone for refinement.' This cultivation of object-as-presence anticipates American literary scholar Bill Brown's 'thing theory,' where everyday items invite embodied contemplation and challenge the subject-object binary that enables commodification. The Ming Dynasty-era scholar-connoisseur, Wen Zhenheng (1585–1645), turned domestic minutiae into philosophical resistance. His xiaopin framed everyday choices – snowmelt for tea, rooms facing narrow water, a skiff 'like a study adrift' – as rejections of abstraction. Through details like cherries on porcelain or tangerines pickled before ripening, he asserted that value lies in presence, not utility. Wen suggests that exhaustion stems not from labour but from disconnection. The burnout rebellions: ' Tang ping,' 'quiet quitting' Just as xiaopin turned domestic rituals into resistance, today's movements recast the mundane as a mode of defiance. In April 2021, China's tang ping ('lying flat') movement surfaced with a post by former factory worker Luo Huazhong: 'Lying flat is justice.' The message was simple and subversive: work had become intolerable, and opting out was not laziness but resistance. In a backlash against China's '996' work model extolled by tech moguls like Jack Ma, tang ping rejects the sacrifice of dignity and mental health for productivity and casts idleness as a quiet revolt against exploitative norms. In the West, the COVID-19 pandemic sparked similar reckonings. The ' Great Resignation ' saw millions leave unfulfilling jobs. And 'quiet quitting' rejected unpaid overtime and emotional labour. These movements emerged as a soft refusal of hustle culture. As anthropologist David Graeber argues in Bullshit Jobs (2018), the 'moral and spiritual damage' inflicted by meaningless work reflects a profound political failure. Just like the late Ming literati who poured their lives into a state that repaid them with hollow titles and bureaucratic decay, today's workers withdraw from institutions that exploit their labour yet treat them as disposable. Unlike French philosopher Michel de Montaigne's introspective self-examination in his Renaissance-era Essays, xiaopin refuses utility. In doing so, it inverts the contemporary self-help trend critiqued by Byung-Chul Han, which co-opts personal ' healing ' as a form of productivity through neoliberal logic. Xiaopin proposes resistance as an existential shift beyond (self-) optimisation. Its most radical gesture is not to demand change, but to live as if the system's demands are irrelevant. Xiaopin asks: What is progress without presence? Its fragments – on lotus ponds, summer naps, a cat's shadow – prove that resistance need not be loud. Like Japanese writer Haruki Murakami's vision of contemporary literature as 'a space of individual recovery,' the genre shelters us from 'hierarchy and efficiency.' Here, time is not spent but reclaimed. To pause in an age of weaponised ambition is in fact revolt. Tracing a petal's vein, sipping tea until bitterness fades, lying flat as the machinery of productivity grinds on – these are not acts of shirking reality, but defiant gestures against the systems that feed on our exhaustion. They are affirmations of agency: microcosms where we rehearse what it means to belong to ourselves, and thus, to the world. Xiaopin 's revolution awakens in a flicker of attention: a reminder that presence, too, is a language – one that hums beneath the buzz of progress, waiting to be heard. Jason Wang is Postdoctoral Fellow, Modern Literature and Culture Research Centre, Toronto Metropolitan University.


Indian Express
a day ago
- Indian Express
Hidden Stories: How wada architecture united art and science, community and conquest
In Pune, where the soundscape is an endless loop of construction, and jagged high-rises pierce the sky, it is evident that the city is fascinated with buildings. Even as new homes take over the landscape, however, the historic ones are crumbling. The number of wadas, a type of climate-friendly residential structures that are postcards from the past, has been reducing over the years. This is, both, a sign and an outcome of a disappearing way of life. We delve into some of the salient features of wada architecture: A Peshwa-era legacy Wadas have not been a part of the Pune landscape from the beginning. 'The wadas are not known at the time of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj or Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj. Lal Mahal, Shivneri fort, Raigad Fort, Pratapgad Fort and Raigad are the names that are more familiar,' writes Kiran Kalamdani, a Pune-based architect, urban designer and conservation expert, in the essay, The Wada (Manor House) of Maharashtra: A Unique Legacy. It is only in the beginning of the 18th century, that wadas became popular status symbols. Noblemen at the time of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj lived in houses made of stone, mud and lime mortar. The architectural typology of wadas that came in with the Peshwas was based on a grid system that was repeated across the entire area. 'The entire structure was load bearing. There used to be a high plinth built in stone and thick walls. The superstructure was mainly in brick and lime mortar, with a lime wash or lime plaster on top of it,' says Shreeamey Phadnis, Co-founder and Partner at Studio Gestalt. The beams and columns were in cinder or solid teak wood that was, normally, brought from forests or imported from regions that had good quality teak wood. 'The timber was grown like a kind of a crop. The grandson would use the timber that the grandfather had planted 60 to 70 years back,' says Kalamdani, whose firm, Kimaya: The Alchemy, has worked on conserving a number of wadas in and around the city. Kalamdani adds that the tradition of adding a timber frame to the masonry of buildings had travelled from Central Asia where timber was found to offer resistance to earthquakes. A home with a view A courtyard was a fundamental part of a wada, its number depending on the social status, wealth and the requirement of the owner. The simplest wada had a single courtyard, which was open to the sky and where various activities would take place. If the wada was built by an aristocrat, there would be three or more courtyards. The outer courtyard would be for the public, i.e. officials and members of the community who were visiting. 'It was accessible to the public and rooms were built accordingly,' says Phadnis. The middle courtyard would be a transitional space, where some private and some public activities and meetings were held. The furthest courtyard would be private, used only by family members to install the family deities or carrry out special activities. 'Similarly, depending on the wealth and status of the family, a wada owner would increase the number of floors or the stories. The simple wadas would be one or two storeys, but Rajwadas, which belonged to aristocrats, would be three, four, five and, sometimes, like Shaniwar Wada, seven stories,' he adds. Why the wada fulfilled a need for the joint family system, it also became places of diplomacy and meetings for the community. There would be a darbar hall and a diwan khana. When Ganeshotsav began to be celebrated in the late 1800s, the wada became the space to host the city's earliest celebrations. The Muzumdar wada, for instance, would have their Ganpati celebration in their darbar hall because it could accommodate 80 to 100 people at the same time. 'Many times this would be called the Ganesh hall also,' says Phadnis. Ultimately, a wada reflected the family's social status and economic background. 'In case, there is a wada in Ravivar Peth, a bazaar area, we have wadas that have shops in front and the wada at the back. In this case, it was easier to have your work right next to your house. If it is a group of wadas on a street, we would have a tree that was an informal space for people to sit under and socialise. The architecture and planning was very socially oriented,' says Archana Deshmukh of the architecture firm Nasadeeya that has been working on various types of wadas for the last 15 years. A magnet for artisans The wada architecture, which peaked during the tenure of Nanasaheb Peshwa, between 1740 and 1760, attracted a lot of artisans, craftsmen and masons from all over India. A lot of them, from Rajasthan, Gujarat and other parts of North India, belonged to generations of craftsmen who had inherited the skills working in mansions. Wada architecture featured a lot of art in the columns and beams, among others. 'The brackets would be very ornamental, typically with banana flowers. The columns would be shaped like fluted cypress tree trunks,' says Phadnis. There was gold gilding, silver gilding, and false ceiling work. The ornamentation plays an important functional role. The embellishments of peacocks, parrots and stylized floral patterns are related to the longevity of the timbers. 'The unprotected and unornamented edges of beams dry out faster with the wetting and drying cycles and lose their oils at a faster rate. Covering with ornamentation not only prevents such deterioration but gives it a cultural meaning and functional role. The bell shaped stone pedestals (talkhada) that support the timber shafts of columns protect them from termite attacks that are common in tropical situations,' writes Kalamdani. A fixed address As the Maratha power increased and spread, from Delhi or Attock, Afghanistan, in the north to Tanjore in the south, the footprint of Maratha architecture kept pace. Wadas rose outside Maharashtra, many of which can be seen to this day. Phadnis, who has worked in Ahilyabai Holkar's wada in Madhya Pradesh, says that, even after the British crown and the East India company came into India, there were princely states and the Maratha confederacy. 'We had the Holkars in Indore, the Puars in Devas and the Gaekwads in Baroda, among others. All of them had their own Rajwadas. They took certain local elements, materials and artisans but the inspiration or blends was clear,' says Phadnis. He adds that, in the 1800s, a lot of western influence came in with the British. Wadas began to incorporate elements of palace architecture. 'We have been working on a wada in Dewas in Madhya Pradesh, called the Zuna Rajwada. You can see a clear gradation and timeline in the Wada style. The oldest section is from the early 1700s, and is a very typical Maratha style-wada that one can see in Pune. Then, we see the transition spaces. Finally, the last part of the wada is more a palace than a wada,' says Phadnis. While Shaniwar Wada no longer houses a family, Pune has many wadas where people still live. They face issues of plumbing and wiring. Very often, they will see a crack or leakage. In certain, very serious cases, there would be a wall collapse or the floor caves in. 'It takes a lot of upkeep to maintain a wada,' says Phadnis


Hindustan Times
2 days ago
- Hindustan Times
ASI to carry out restoration of Shish Gumbad next month
Shish Gumbad, one of the eighthistoric structures which stands against the serene landscape of the popular Lodhi Garden complex, is set to undergo restoration from next month, to be carried out by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI). Walls of Shish Gumbad have started to peel off. (Arvind Yadav/HT Photo) The Lodi-era tomb houses eight unknown graves. It has been lying in a dilapidated state with layers of wall peeling off and the graves cracking at several spots. The menace that scribbling has also taken over the structure, officials said. During HT's visit earlier this week (July 23), ASI had already started cleaning the area around the Shish Gumbad, uprooting grass and plants from the base of the structure. The core restoration work will see the agency plastering the graves and laying concrete on the floor, said officials. This work, according to an ASI official familiar with the matter, is expected to span from first half of August to October. 'We have sourced most of the materials required. Work is expected to start sometime in the first half of August. The graves will be plastered to prevent them from disintegrating and the floor of the structure will be made concrete,' the official associated with the restoration work said. The inside walls will also be plastered, followed by a layer of lime. 'From the outside, one can see that at the entrance of the structure, a slab of red sandstone had been used to beautify the door but parts of it have broken. We will replace the broken parts with red sandstone. The structure consists of mostly ashlar stone and at places required, we will do pointing work as well,' the official added. 'A layer of lime concrete will also be laid around the base of the structure, to give it preliminary protection. It will be one to one and a half metres thick.' The Shish Gumbad stands 50 metres north of the Bara-Gumbad masjid. According to historians as well as ASI's book, 'Delhi and its Neighbourhood', 'it is not known who lies buried in this tomb, although there exist several graves inside it.' The western wall of the monument contains a mihrab (a niche in the wall), which served as a mosque, according to the book. The other sides have a central entrance set in a projecting frame. The book also refers to decorations on the ceiling and says, 'Inside, the ceiling is decorated with incised plaster-work containing floral patterns and Quranic inscriptions.' Much of these decorations are barely visible due to damage and discolouration. The ASI official said that the ceiling might be cleaned at a later stage. Another significant part of the Shish Gumbad which finds reference in the book is the line of blue tiles, present in two horizontal lines along the outside of the structure. 'This decoration, now surviving in traces, gave it its Persian name meaning a 'glazed dome',' the book mentions. These tiles are now non-existent in certain places and fairly damaged in others. 'We do not want to disturb the original work of the structure. But we will see if anything can be done at a later stage,' the official added. According to ASI's book, the structure was built during the Lodi period, 'perhaps during Sikandar Lodi's reign (1489-1517)'. The protected monuments and structures inside the Lodhi Garden include Muhammad Shah's tomb, Bara Gumbad masjid, Shish Gumbad, Sikandar Lodi's tomb and an athpula (eight piers), which refers to a bridge with seven arches and eight piers.