ughal emperor Nur-ud-Din Muhammad Saleem, who assumed the imperial name Jehangir, spent the day of Ashura in 1016 Hijri (1607 CE) at an inn that is now on the verge of annihilation. Although Jehangir stayed there for only a day, the inn holds historical significance as a site that offers insight into the observance of an important day in the Islamic calendar and how the mourning rituals and traditions associated with Ashura evolved and continued in the Mughal court. Today, after hundreds of years of destruction – through both natural and human causes – the inn is in its final throes.

Located near Islamabad’s Tarnol Stop, Serai Kharbooza (Melon’s Inn) is a historical site that has long awaited restoration. It is gradually crumbling into a heap of rubble. Serai Kharbooza is not only the name of a caravanserai. The name also refers to the locality and a large village that is the headquarters of a union council. Architecturally and functionally, this caravanserai is similar to the traditional Persian seraïs scattered across Iran and Central Asia.

The word caravanserai is of Turko-Persian origin. It refers to an inn or a resting place for travellers. Originally developed in Persia, these structures played a crucial role in supporting trade, scholarship and pilgrimage, offering refuge to merchants, scholars, travellers and pilgrims alike. Today, when we encounter the ruins or refurbished remains of these sites, we often romanticise them as hostels, rest houses or hotels of bygone eras. A common misconception is that these sarais were reserved for exclusive use of royalty. They actually served a much wider community.

Another perspective links these caravanserais to the Silk Roads, underscoring their role in facilitating ancient trade routes and passages. An unfounded narrative attributes the construction of all inns to Sher Shah Suri, making it easier for people to assume that Serai Kharbooza was built during his reign. However, this claim remains unsubstantiated.

The origins of Serai Kharbooza’s name make for an intriguing story. Many believe that the name derives from its melon-shaped dome that has not survived. Kharbooza, meaning melon, is certainly an unusual name for an inn, yet few researchers have attempted to explore the connection between the fruit and the serai’s name.

Jehangir himself recorded that the inn was named after a dome that resembled a melon. This statement has been widely accepted without scrutiny. This overlooks an important historical fact: for long, melons were among the most prized fruits at the Mughal court. During Babur’s reign, melons were brought from Central Asia to Hindustan. Mughal art features numerous paintings that highlight the esteemed status of this fruit. Locals have long known that the land where the serai was built had been used for melon cultivation.

In discussions about its name, it is often forgotten that melons were a significant crop in Pothwar and that several regions were renowned for their specialised varieties. These melons were traded and transported widely, making it likely that the serai was named on account of the agricultural connection rather than an architectural feature. If a dome resembling a melon were the sole reason for the name Serai Kharbooza, why do no other domed structures bear similar names? Not all domes in architectural history resemble melons. It is possible that Jehangir was misinformed. Relying on a single source certainly makes for flawed reasoning.

Historical accounts provide limited insight into the serai’s naming, but Jehangir does note in his memoirs: “The Gakhars in earlier times had built a dome here. They used to collect toll from the travellers. As the dome was shaped like a melon, it became known by that name.”

Before history is entirely erased and its last traces disappear, what little remains of Serai Kharbooza should be revived as a significant historical landmark.

Jehangir’s presence at this inn suggests that, in its prime, it was well-equipped with essential facilities, making it a secure stopover with access to food and water. While the dome has disappeared, a mosque still stands, preserving its architectural style, with small minarets and a replacement dome now plastered with cement.

The residents of Serai Kharbooza village, who live within the fortifications of the serai, believe that it was built by Sher Shah Suri. Most of the village’s residents belong to the Khattar Awan tribe. They say that their ancestors settled here during Ranjit Singh’s reign. Geographically, this location marked an entry point into new territory, crossing Margalla, where the Gakhars had significant influence. They would collect toll from caravans passing through the region.

To truly address the historical significance of Serai Kharbooza and reconstruct its past, we cannot rely solely on a celebratory view centred around Jehangir’s stay or that of another king or emperor. Instead, the historical site should be examined in the context of its ongoing, unchecked destruction and its fading legacy. If the serai served as a rest stop, it must have accommodated numerous scholars, pilgrims and diplomats over the centuries. Those accounts may still be uncovered through research.

The study of the serai’s history remains intertwined with the broad understanding of the region’s human and physical geography that has long been misinterpreted. Referring to it as part of Old Rawalpindi would be accurate. The dominant narrative portraying Islamabad as a newly built city, carved out of Rawalpindi’s rural areas and developed in the early 1960s, often overlooks the historical reality of both Islamabad and Rawalpindi.

This skewed perspective affects not only history but also geography, as Rawalpindi is depicted as a distant, separate entity from Islamabad. Popular media has reinforced such perceptions in ways that create unnecessary divisions. A prime example is the frequent juxtaposition of a noisy, chaotic Pindi with calm, beautiful Islamabad, framing them as two entirely distinct worlds.

In recent years, social media narratives surrounding Bappa Rawal have prompted historians and linguists to challenge these myths about Rawalpindi. Among them is Abhishek Avtans, a linguist at Leiden University, who has not only examined the etymology of the word Pindi but has also provided a brief historical overview of Rawalpindi. He writes:

“Rawalpindi is made up of two words: Rawal and Pindi. Rawalpindi means the village of Rawals. The first element (Rawal) in the name Rawalpindi is derived from the name of the Jogi tribe that founded this village. This is recorded in Mughal emperor Jehangir’s autobiography Tuzk-i-Jehangiri. The Rawal clan of Jogis claimed their descent from a royal household or family, hence Sanskrit Rajakula led to Rawal. This is the same Rawal which you find in surnames in India with Rawal or Raul (also Bhojpuri’s respectful ‘you’ word raur). The second element in the name Rawalpindi (i.e. Pindi) is a dimunitive of Punjabi word pind which means village. This sense of pind as a village is not very old. It perhaps developed in the medieval times. Prof Satya Vrat Shastri (1930-2021), a well known scholar of Sanskrit from the Punjab, says Punjabi pind is derived from Sanskrit word pinda in the sense of a collection or cluster and was used figuratively for a group of houses and families. Another etymology of the word could be from the Sanskrit word sapinda which connects the families sharing Pinda i.e. sharing bloodlines and hence allowed to participate in pinda dana for ancestors or dead. Pinda-Dana is a funeral ritual where balls of meal, flour or rice are offered to the spirits of ancestors as an oblation by nearest surviving relatives. So sapinda are the ones who share the bloodline, and hence village.”

Beyond its linguistic roots, there is ample historical literature documenting the presence of the Rawals in the region, leaving no room for fabricated histories to take hold.

Today, only a handful of remnants survive from Serai Kharbooza – a hexagonal tower, an old mosque, a few living rooms, a baoli (stepwell) and portions of burnt-clay brick walls. These bricks, however, are being steadily plucked, one by one, to be repurposed for new construction. Many of the living quarters, which were in relatively good condition just a few years ago, have now been replaced by modern concrete structures.

The medieval Serai Kharbooza should be studied in the broader context of historical linkages between people and places from earlier times. It should not fall prey to caste-based pride, as has been the case with many nearby historical sites. While community engagement is essential for conservation, preservation and restoration, undue tribal involvement – where descendants of those who once built or controlled these sites claim exclusive ownership – can hinder objective historical inquiry. Such caste-based claims over historical sites tend to alienate public interest and undermine collective heritage.

Before history is entirely erased and its last traces disappear, what little remains of Serai Kharbooza should be revived as a significant historical landmark. Doing so would challenge the prevailing narrative that Islamabad’s history began in the 1960s, a perspective that ignores the region’s earlier human geography. Such narratives reinforce colonial frameworks of land occupation. As Frantz Fanon argues, the coloniser portrays colonised populations as ahistorical, denying them a past and any agency in shaping their own history.

The writer is a historian, travel writer and translator. He researches on intellectual history, Persianate world connections and early Indian cinema