Agreed this isn’t the way to start a travel article but I don’t think I am left with any other option. Perhaps it is the seething anger that has paralysed my mind from thinking something pleasant because what I had encountered at the magnificent mausoleum, a landmark in the Indo-Islamic architecture, was the foulest smell of my life.

Though when the odour first hit us we had no inkling to its portent. But as we negotiated our way through dense habitation, cratered road, overflowing drains, old men on charpoys, naked children, mangy dogs, goats, ducks, pigs… asking directions it only grew stronger and stronger. If we had known, we could have reached the tomb encasing the mortal remains of one of India’s greatest rulers, Sher Shah Sur, by simply following our nose.

We were coming from the land of Buddha’s Nirvana, Bodhgaya and our driver had taken a different route wanting to avoid one of many tortuous detours on the Golden Quadrilateral’s pride, Grand Trunk Road, the ancient Uttarapath connecting India’s east with the north-west and renamed by ultra-nationalists as Sher Shah Suri Marg to confer honour on the Emperor credited with its first elaborate construction.

The 4-laned smooth carriageway not yet open to the traffic in front of us looked heavenly. On our right was the hellish original, lined up by heavy trucks negotiating the pot-holed dust encrusted slope at snail’s pace. Having already wasted a long time in the jam on bone rattling Son Bridge—the new one is under construction—Satish, the driver, didn’t think twice and stepped full on the throttle.

The jangling old lady, the reliable Ambassador car did surprisingly well for its condition, slowing only occasionally at the mud tracks for earth moving vehicles on culverts under construction. But the joy was short lived. With no sign of traffic we had begun to wonder whether we had made a right choice! (Later we found out that the new road, the one we were on, had been planned to completely skirt the town of Sasaram).

We were weighing the option of returning to the turn once again when a passer by guided us towards an underpass that led into the city. We must have covered only a mile or two when the whiff first hit us. We had entered Sasaram from its behind.

Initially we dismissed it coming from a pond of stale water. Later ascribed it to the overflowing gutters. But what disconcerted us most was that we seemed to be headed towards it. Finally when the car stopped in the parking lot and we surveyed the surroundings, it wasn’t the sight of the superb sepulchre that held us fascinated. Rather what led me to the Eureka moment was the discovery of the source of the incessant assault on our senses and my chest shrank with pride.

Purchasing tickets and complaining about the filthy air to the man at the counter who nonchalantly suggested that we write it down in the complaint book. Later when my friend, Rohit actually did he found pages after pages filled with similar grouchy remarks. Visitors may have come and gone but the smell remains.

Soon we were on the causeway leading to the main edifice. Closer to water the stink was at its worst. I felt like retching and Rohit, who has olfactory nerves more sensitive than mine, already had handkerchief on his nose. Yet there were one or two intrepid lovers, a few families, hangers on and even a teachers’ association holding their weekly meeting on the lawns by the side of the pond.

As we entered the complex I had already begun to wonder what we have reduced Sher Shah Sur, India’s emperor from 1540 to 1545, who had ousted Humayun from the throne of Delhi and occupies a place in the list of India’s greatest rulers, in the league of Samrat Ashok and Akbar, to.

He who is known for a slew of his public welfare measures like methodical land revenue system, elaborate military reforms, restoration of old imperial GT Road and other highways complete with sarais for overnight stay of travellers every 8 km (he had constructed 1700 such travellers’ lodge), relay postal system and an effective policing mechanism, borrowed by the British and introduced first in India and later in England—are we really taking care of him?

The rule of Sher Shah, who had spent his adulthood managing the jagir (estate) of his father, Hasan Shah here at Sasaram, was short lived. He had become the Emperor of India, in his own words, ‘in the evening of his life.’ He was 67.

He breathed his last five years later, injured in a freak gun burst during the siege of Kalinjar, a fort considered to be the gateway to the Bundelkhand region in present South-western Uttar Pradesh. He was buried at Sasaram.

In fact, Sher Shah in keeping with the practise amongst the Muslim royalty had commenced the construction of his tomb when he was alive. It was completed, 3 months later after his death, by his son Islam Shah.

With the help of his master builder, Alawal Khan, he had planned it to be an island tomb situated at the centre of a square artificial lake and connected to the pillared jetty—now half sunk—on the east by a boat ride. (The present causeway on the north is a later construction built in 1881 in place of the dilapidated arched bridge).

Reaching the platform on the water are narrow steps on all four sides of the edifice. Together with high plinth, a massive dome—higher than even the Taj Mahal’s—and surrounded by 24 cupolas, pavilions with smaller domes on all four corners, projecting balconies, crenellated outer square walls, and arched octagonal veranda, the mausoleum exude a blend of robustness and sensuality.

They, notwithstanding the scum the town empties as sewage and effluent in the lake, impart the structure a bewitching charm. In the tomb chamber, Sher Shah’s grave is shrouded in green satin. With few coins thrown in I am amazed how we have reduced a ‘Badshah’ to a ‘Fakir.’ Unfortunately I am unable to take a picture as the ASI (Archaeology Survey of India, the custodian of historical monuments in India) guards strictly enforce the prohibition of photography rule.

From the tomb of Sher Shah the dome of his father’s tomb, 500 metres further east and sandwiched by the marauding city, is easily visible. Though not as elaborate as Sher Shah’s and not frequented by as many tourists it is the abode of daydreamers, sunbathers (I had visited Sasaram in winter), card players and pranksters.

When I get on the narrow steps, urged on by the children, of the southern gateway for a better view, halfway there are turds to block my ascent. Encircling the octagonal passage, looking for a way inside the grave chamber, I find it littered with goat droppings. On top of it, I find the iron gates locked.

The Maulvi Sahib of the Madarsa being temporarily run inside the Mosque within the premises, and Guddu, a tailor, help me find the ASI watchman with the keys.
Inside Hasan Shah has bats and 24 family members for company. The tomb chamber is replica of Sher Shah’s. As in the case of the son’s grave the father’s too is draped in green satin with a wide red border. But there are no coins. Grit like bat droppings spread on the floor. It smelled damp. But I could take photos.

As I kneel on the floor to compose the frame I express, just for chat’s sake, my surprise at the practise of locking the entrance. What came as the answer literally chilled my spine.

“Murder.” It was Guddu. The guard merely nodded. Seeing my gawked expression he filled in details. “The dead man was thrown from that balcony…,” I look in the direction his index finger pointed while Guddu’s narrative became lurid.