The soil of India, if put in an hourglass, is so complete that each grain will flow minute by minute and share a tale of its time. It is harnessed by the sweat of each civilization that set foot on the Indian land and got perished in its soil. It has the footprints of scholars who became the masters of uncontainable knowledge and directed society through their philosophies; it contains residue of kingdoms that ruled in full glory and then dissolved, traces of art and culture that were birthed and brought up by artists.
Itihaas is the Hindi word for history which literary means – that’s what happened – is not exactly what we are taught in school. Even outside academia, history is known in nearly disjointed threads. Interlinked explorations are missing: Ghalib survived Delhi’s siege (1857), its bloody retaking by the British, and a trial after that, but he hardly wrote anything on it, except a few lines on Delhi’s desolation. Did fear of the British stop poets and chroniclers from writing about it at that time, or was a good part of the population indifferent or unaffected by what is called the first battle of independence in 1857?