After the annexation of the Punjab in 1849, Lahore became the administrative capital of a vast area stretching from Khyber to Delhi till 1911. The General Post Office, or GPO, of Lahore and the Telegraph Office opposite to it catered to the communication needs of this entity. The Secretariat, initially established in the Lahore Fort, functioned there till 1934. Later, it was shifted to the building built by a French general during the Sikh rule, next to Anarkali’s Tomb. It was subsequently called Laat sahib da daftar (the office of Lord Sahib).

The haveli of Khushhal Singh was converted into the Governor’s House. The various native rulers, the Nawabs and Rajas from Kashmir, the Punjab and beyond, also built their palatial residences in Lahore to remain in touch with the British rulers. All these were built on the lands bestowed on them by the alien rulers.

These were the earliest of the bungalows built outside the city walls. Typically, they were surrounded by a large garden having ‘In’ and ‘Out’ gates with the driveway leading to a porch where initially a horse-driven carriage and later a motorcar would await the master.

The earliest horseless carriages too resembled a buggy having a canvas roof. The mudguards were protruding and big headlights were of a shining alloy. Wheels had spokes and instead of the later horn, a big brass trumpet-like gadget with a big rubber bulb produced deafening warning sounds. As the native ruler would emerge from his residence, horse mounted guards would follow him. Upon his return he would inspect the imported merchandise and the latest gramophone records on The Mall. The items selected would be delivered to his residence.

Among these various palatial residences were Bahawalpur, Chamba, Poonch, Faridkot, Patiala and Kapurthala Houses, to name a few. These houses boasted a typical style of architecture which was eclectic — that is, a mix of local and foreign. Large quarters for the retinue, tubewells, electric poles, expansive kitchens, garages for the carriages and stables for the horses were all part of them.

There were verandahs all around. These were high-roofed structures that allowed ventilators for fresh air and ample light. These were built with newly introduced British bricks. Circular stairs were in cast iron, and so were the waterspouts with lion heads. High chimneys marked the central rooms’ fireplaces.

Inside, the place was laid out with expensive furniture, carpets and curtains, topped by chandeliers. This pomp and show was in sharp contrast with the subjects of the princely states who suffered in poverty.

The most impressive of these was the Faridkot House that occupied a large chunk of land on the road leading from Jain Mandir to Fane Road. Built in British bricks, it was a mix of the Moghul and Western styles. A tall entrance portal, formed by multi-foiled arch and covered with a half-dome, had crenellations over its parapet. Over its spandrels were rosettes in stucco.

It was surrounded by a huge garden that had a number of date palms and ornamental trees imported from Kenya, Uganda and Tanganyika, as the East Africa was called once. The Banyan and Peepal trees were from the previous centuries when people would dare not cut them for fear of inviting bad omen from the sparrows and other fauna.

The Evacuee Property Board and the Settlement Department set up the Property Claims Office in this vast palace. Hundreds and thousands of destitute old men and women claimants visited it daily, hoping against hope to finally get compensation and some accommodation.

The surrounding walls were torn. The vandals had stolen their bricks. The grass and plants had disappeared. Trees were cut down, forcing the local birds to migrate. Application writers and advocates spread their worn-out wooden tables and benches occupying all the vacant spaces from the main road to the very entrance portal of the once inaccessible palace. This junk furniture used to be chained during off-hours and for fear of rains and summer sun covered with jute tarpaulins. The typists also came with their ancient, faulty machines between the keys of which fingers would slip in; sometimes the ribbon would get caught.

My eldest maternal cousin, Riaz ur Rehman, too came with a rented typewriter. After struggling with his entire 10 fingers the whole day he would manage to earn a few bucks which he obediently gave to his elderly mother. He would even produce carbon copies in those pre-photostat machine days and get attested by a notary public.

He was advised to seek some clerical job as the department was going to close down after settling the claims and he could lose his earnings. But he believed that the process would continue till the doomsday because we have never given the public their rights.

Rehman stuck to his rickety machine, placed over an old table, and an equally rickety chair, stayed unwed, well into his ripe age, and died while on ‘duty’.

Passing by Faridkot House, I remembered him. Seeing bricks lying around, I alighted from my motorbike, holding my camera, and entered the premises. The big hall, which must have been a royal court, was full of sacks containing old files; some scattered around. Destitute, bewildered old people, holding soiled files, were chasing their cases from one table to the other. Unable to bear it anymore, I ascended the wide stairs where in its heydays no ordinary mortal could dare to venture.

I had the horror of horrors of my life awaiting me. Aleppo-type stained glass pieces from the windows lay broken over the marble floors. Wooden members of the high roofs had been mercilessly torn down. All 36 frames of my Ektachrome slide film were exposed in no time. (These dans macabre snaps form part of the House of NANNAs archives now.)

It was in this very hall that my octogenarian paternal grandfather, Akbar Ali, who served in the field post office during both the wars, had chased his files for years. Turned out that the house he was supposedly allotted had been auctioned twice because it had another entrance from the backstreet. The department refused to return his compensation book on the pretext that he had been given the house in auction. After years of struggling, when he was given cash compensation at the rate of 26 percent, he was able to buy a piece of land which was owned by an old man. The man had four sons, each of whom sold it. Thus, it was sold four times. What followed merits to be included in the curriculum of law studies.

FaridKot House was demolished before the people could be compensated. It could have been converted into a museum of the history of Partition and migrants, including Jan Muhammad who had crossed the flooded fields over his father’s shoulders while his grandfather never managed to come out alive from Gurdaspur.

(This dispatch is dedicated to to Riaz ur Rehman)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk